#Vulnerability Testing Company

[full-stackmobiledeveloper]

Cyber Security Services Company | Data Security Solutions

In today’s fast-paced digital world, businesses increasingly rely on technology to store, process, and transmit sensitive data. As companies across industries harness the power of the internet, the need for robust cybersecurity services has never been more crucial. Data breaches and cyberattacks are growing threats from small startups to large corporations that can have devastating consequences. That’s where a cybersecurity company specializing in data protection services and cybersecurity management comes into play.

This blog explores the importance of cybersecurity management, the types of services offered by a cybersecurity services company, and how data protection services and endpoint security services can help businesses protect their sensitive information.

Understanding the Growing Importance of Cybersecurity

The digital transformation that businesses have undergone in recent years has revolutionized operations, providing significant benefits like improved efficiency, better customer engagement, and more streamlined processes. However, this transformation has also opened new doors for cybercriminals who exploit vulnerabilities in systems and networks to steal data, launch attacks, and disrupt operations.

With data breaches and cyberattacks on the rise, organizations must safeguard sensitive information from unauthorized access, manipulation, and theft. Whether it’s customer data, intellectual property, or financial records, securing these assets is paramount to maintaining trust, compliance with regulations, and protecting brand reputation.

Cybersecurity solutions providers play a key role in defending organizations from these threats. Cybersecurity isn’t just a technical need—it’s a business priority that can help prevent costly disruptions, legal ramifications, and loss of customer confidence. This is where the role of a cybersecurity consulting firm becomes indispensable.

What Is a Cybersecurity Services Company?

A cybersecurity services company specializes in identifying, mitigating, and preventing cyber threats. They provide tailored solutions to ensure businesses’ information and infrastructure are well-protected from a wide range of security risks. These companies are essential partners in safeguarding businesses from cyberattacks and ensuring the security of sensitive data and systems.

Key Services Provided by a Cybersecurity Services Company

Cybersecurity companies offer a range of services designed to safeguard businesses from evolving threats. These services include:

Threat Detection & Prevention Services: Cybersecurity companies deploy advanced monitoring tools and techniques to detect vulnerabilities, anomalous activities, and potential threats before they cause harm. This includes setting up firewalls, intrusion detection systems (IDS), and intrusion prevention systems (IPS).

Risk Management: Cybersecurity firms assess vulnerabilities and design strategies to safeguard businesses from both internal and external threats. A cyber risk management company helps ensure that businesses are prepared for any potential cyber risks.

Cybersecurity Audits & Assessments: Regular security audits and penetration testing are vital for identifying weaknesses in a company’s infrastructure. These audits ensure no part of the system remains unprotected.

Compliance Support: For businesses in regulated industries, cybersecurity compliance services help ensure adherence to standards like GDPR, HIPAA, and PCI DSS. Companies in these industries can also benefit from IT security services companies that provide guidance and support for meeting compliance requirements.

Incident Response & Disaster Recovery: Even with robust security measures, breaches can still occur. Incident response services help businesses respond quickly and effectively to limit damage. Additionally, cybersecurity audit services and vulnerability assessment companies help identify and prevent potential attacks before they materialize.

Employee Training & Awareness: Cybersecurity management companies often provide training programs to raise awareness about phishing, password hygiene, and safe online behavior, reducing human error and improving security.

Types of Data Security Solutions Offered by Cybersecurity Companies

At the core of every cybersecurity service is data protection. Cybersecurity solutions providers offer several key solutions to help businesses secure their information:

Encryption: Encryption ensures that even if data is accessed by cybercriminals, it remains unreadable without the decryption key. Cloud security companies offer encryption solutions to protect data stored in the cloud, safeguarding sensitive information during transit and while at rest.

Access Control & Authentication: Multi-factor authentication (MFA) and role-based access control (RBAC) are implemented to ensure only authorized personnel can access sensitive systems.

Data Loss Prevention (DLP): Data protection services monitor data transfers and emails to prevent unauthorized sharing or leakage of confidential information.

Firewalls & Network Security: Firewalls act as the first line of defense by filtering traffic and blocking harmful activities. Network security services providers ensure that your network is properly configured with firewalls, VPNs, and network segmentation to protect data from external attacks.

Backup & Disaster Recovery: A comprehensive backup and recovery plan ensures that lost or compromised data can be restored with minimal disruption to business operations. Cloud security companies play a key role in providing reliable cloud-based backup and recovery services.

Endpoint Security: With more employees working remotely, endpoint security services are becoming essential. Cybersecurity firms implement solutions to protect mobile devices, laptops, and tablets from threats.

Why Partner with a Cybersecurity Services Company?

Businesses of all sizes can benefit from the specialized expertise of a cybersecurity consulting firm. Here are some reasons why partnering with one is essential:

Expertise and Experience

Cybersecurity is a complex field requiring in-depth knowledge of emerging threats and security solutions. A cybersecurity services company brings years of experience and expertise to the table, ensuring best practices and cutting-edge tools are used to protect your data.

Cost Efficiency

Building an in-house cybersecurity team can be costly. By outsourcing to a cybersecurity solutions provider, businesses gain access to expert resources and advanced technologies without the need to invest in full-time staff.

Proactive Protection

Rather than waiting for a breach to occur, a cybersecurity management company helps you adopt a proactive approach by identifying and neutralizing potential threats before they can impact your business.

Regulatory Compliance

Staying compliant with regulations like GDPR, HIPAA, and CCPA can be challenging. A cybersecurity services company ensures your business complies with relevant data protection laws, avoiding legal complications and fines. These companies provide cybersecurity compliance services to meet the highest standards of data protection.

Business Continuity

Cybersecurity services also encompass disaster recovery planning, ensuring that your business can continue to operate smoothly after a cyber attack or natural disaster. Security operations center services ensure continuous monitoring, offering peace of mind that any security breaches are quickly detected and neutralized.

Conclusion: Protect Your Business with a Cybersecurity Services Company

As cyber threats continue to evolve, businesses must take proactive steps to protect their sensitive data and maintain customer trust. Partnering with a reputable cybersecurity consulting firm ensures that you have the right tools, expertise, and strategies in place to prevent cyberattacks, secure your data, and maintain regulatory compliance.

Whether it’s through penetration testing, endpoint security services, or incident response services, a cybersecurity services company plays a crucial role in keeping your data safe and your business running smoothly.

Investing in cybersecurity solutions today can help prevent significant financial and reputational damage in the future. Don't wait until it's too late—reach out to a trusted cybersecurity services company today to protect your data and your business's future.

[blacklocksecuritynz]

5 Tips for Selecting a Penetration Testing Company in 2025

As cyber threats continue to grow in sophistication, businesses must stay proactive about securing their digital assets. Penetration testing, a critical part of a robust cybersecurity strategy, involves simulating cyberattacks on a system to identify vulnerabilities before hackers can exploit them. While many organizations recognize the need for penetration testing, selecting the right penetration testing company can be challenging given the range of options available.

With the market expected to reach $4.5 billion by 2026 , businesses must make an informed choice when investing in these services. This article outlines five key tips for selecting the right penetration testing company in 2025, ensuring you get the best value and protection for your investment.

1. Evaluate Experience and Industry Specialization

Not all penetration testing companies are created equal. When selecting a provider, it's crucial to look for one that has a proven track record and experience in your specific industry. Cybersecurity needs vary significantly across different sectors—what’s critical for a healthcare provider may be very different from a financial services firm.

Track Record: Look for a company with a solid history of providing penetration testing services. Ask for case studies, client testimonials, and references that can vouch for their expertise. A reputable firm should be able to demonstrate successful projects similar to what you need.

Industry Expertise: Ensure that the provider understands the regulatory and security challenges specific to your industry. For example, in 2023, 83% of healthcare organizations reported being targeted by ransomware attacks , underscoring the need for specialized knowledge in handling patient data. Similarly, financial services companies often need to comply with stringent regulations like PCI-DSS, which requires expertise in securing payment systems.

By choosing a penetration testing company that understands your industry’s unique risks, you can ensure that their testing methodologies align with your security needs.

2. Verify Qualifications and Certifications

Penetration testing is a specialized field that requires specific technical knowledge and skills. When choosing a penetration testing company, it’s essential to verify that their team is well-qualified and holds industry-recognized certifications.

Certifications to Look For: Common certifications that indicate a high level of expertise include Certified Ethical Hacker (CEH), Offensive Security Certified Professional (OSCP), Certified Information Systems Security Professional (CISSP), and CREST. These certifications ensure that the testers have undergone rigorous training and possess a deep understanding of the latest hacking techniques.

Accredited Companies: Look for companies that are accredited by industry bodies like CREST, EC-Council, or ISO 27001. These accreditations signify that the company adheres to industry standards in penetration testing methodologies and data security.

Why This Matters: According to a survey by (ISC)², 70% of cybersecurity professionals believe that the skills gap in the industry is a significant concern . Partnering with a company that has certified professionals helps ensure that you’re working with skilled experts who can identify and address vulnerabilities effectively.

3. Assess the Methodology and Approach

The approach a penetration testing company takes can greatly impact the effectiveness of their service. Understanding their testing methodology helps you gauge their thoroughness and how well their approach aligns with your needs.

White Box, Black Box, or Gray Box Testing: The types of tests conducted vary based on the level of access the tester has to the system. White box testing involves full access to the application code, black box testing is performed with no prior knowledge, and gray box testing combines elements of both. A good penetration testing company should explain which approach is best suited for your needs.

Compliance with Industry Standards: Ensure that the company follows recognized frameworks such as OWASP (Open Web Application Security Project), NIST (National Institute of Standards and Technology), and MITRE ATT&CK. These standards ensure that the testing process is thorough and aligned with best practices in the industry.

Reporting Quality: A comprehensive and clear report is a key deliverable of any penetration test. The report should not only list vulnerabilities but also provide a detailed risk assessment, impact analysis, and actionable remediation steps. Some companies also offer dashboard-based reporting, which provides real-time insights during the testing process, making it easier to track progress and understand risks.

Statistics to Note: In a 2024 survey by Gartner, 65% of businesses cited the lack of clear reporting as a major frustration when working with third-party cybersecurity providers . A clear, actionable report can make the difference between understanding your risks and merely being aware of them.

4. Consider the Use of PTaaS for Continuous Security

Penetration Testing as a Service (PTaaS) is becoming increasingly popular, providing a flexible, on-demand model for businesses looking to conduct regular security testing. PTaaS platforms offer continuous testing and real-time vulnerability scanning, making them an attractive alternative to traditional penetration testing.

Benefits of PTaaS: PTaaS platforms provide access to a user-friendly dashboard where you can monitor vulnerabilities as they are discovered, track remediation efforts, and collaborate with testers in real-time. This approach is particularly useful for businesses that deploy regular updates to their web applications and need to ensure that each release is secure.

Cost-Effectiveness: Traditional penetration testing can be costly, with one-time tests ranging from $10,000 to $50,000. PTaaS, on the other hand, can offer continuous testing for a more manageable monthly fee, starting at around $1,500 per month . This makes it more accessible for small and medium-sized businesses that want to maintain a high level of security without a large upfront investment.

Why This Matters: The frequency of updates and changes to web applications has increased, with DevOps practices enabling faster releases. In this environment, PTaaS helps maintain continuous security and avoids the gaps that can occur between periodic tests.

5. Review Their Post-Test Support and Remediation Guidance

The value of a penetration test extends beyond identifying vulnerabilities—it lies in the guidance provided for fixing them. A good web application penetration testing company will offer post-test support, helping your development and IT teams understand the findings and implement effective remediation measures.

Remediation Guidance: Look for a company that provides detailed recommendations on how to address each identified vulnerability. This may include guidance on code fixes, configuration changes, or suggestions for improving security practices.

Availability for Re-Testing: After the vulnerabilities have been fixed, re-testing is essential to verify that the issues have been resolved properly. Some companies offer re-testing as part of their package, while others may charge additional fees. Make sure to clarify this upfront.

Training for Your Team: Some penetration testing companies also provide training sessions for your in-house development or security teams, helping them better understand the vulnerabilities and how to prevent them in the future. This can be especially valuable if your team is new to security best practices.

Statistics Highlight: A report by Forrester in 2024 found that 78% of organizations improved their security posture by working with penetration testing companies that offered comprehensive post-test support . This underscores the importance of selecting a partner who is committed to helping you address vulnerabilities, not just identifying them.

Conclusion

Choosing the right penetration testing company is a critical decision that can significantly impact your organization’s cybersecurity posture. By evaluating the provider’s experience, qualifications, methodology, and post-test support, and by considering the flexibility of PTaaS models, you can find a partner that aligns with your specific needs.

With the ever-evolving threat landscape, it’s more important than ever to invest in robust security measures and partner with experts who can help you stay ahead of potential risks. As you navigate the market in 2025, these tips will help ensure that you make an informed decision that supports the security of your digital assets.

[douwatahima]

also ohhhhhhhhhh lumon running a fertility clinic (their logo is in the corner of the intake form) that they use to find vulnerable people to be their potential victims and then sending them cryptic psych evals (those cards gemma was looking at at the kitchen table look a lot like the ones o&d was making last season) to further test out if they would be right for their fucked up little schemes

irving was right when he said they should burn that place to the ground that company is straight up EVIL

[robo-writing]

Logan with a virgin reader, expecting her to be this shy nervous little thing only to be met with a woman who’s spent too much of her life with only her imagination to keep her company. Suddenly he’s the one nervous because you’re so eager to fuck him and you’re begging him so nicely that it’s hard for him to remember you’ve never actually done this and he has to be responsible. You whine the entire time he’s stretching you out with his fingers, hands grabbing at him and pleading with him to replace his fingers with his cock and god damn it, you’re making it really fucking hard for him to focus.

You’re both bare, losing your clothes somewhere between the living room and the kitchen. The feeling of skin against skin drives you wild, makes you plead for the cock that’s throbbing against your thigh. You know he wants this just as bad as you do, you can feel how bad he wants this, but he settles for spreading you apart on his fingers.

You know you’re testing his patience but you don’t care; not when you grind against him, not when his cock glides against your bare pussy, not when he pins you to the bed as your back arches off it.

“Stop moving,” he begs, over and over. “Stop it, stop—stop fucking moving.”

You’re killing him; every time you look at him with those darling little doe eyes he can feel what little self-restraint he has left crumbling apart, every whine and moan and please Logan, gimme more testing his resolve.

“You need to stop,” he begs, head falling forward as your cunt wets his dick, sliding against his length but refusing to push forward and take you. You shake your head, pull him in for a kiss that’s anything but demure, lust pouring from your tongue as you lick at his mouth.

“Don’t wanna,” you gasp, pulling him closer by his shoulders. Between each kiss you see his control waning, feel his hands bruised your skin, taste the depravity between his teeth. Slowly but surely you see his mask slipping away, a beast in disguise of a man, one that desperately wants to claim you as his.

A sick part of you wants that; to submit yourself, bare your neck against its fangs and beg for more when its teeth pierce your skin. You want to give yourself to Logan—all of him, even the parts that he himself doesn’t want to show you. You want your first time to be just as enjoyable for him as it is for you—which is why you bring his hand to your stomach, to where his dick would leave an outline. You hold his hand firm as he stares with lust-blown eyes just imagining how full of him you’d be, in awe at just how willing you are to submit.

“I can handle it, you whimper, voice sweet like sin. “Fuck me, please.”

And like that, you’re no longer faced with your loving boyfriend. You’re now face to face with the Wolverine.

He pushes inside your velvet walls, still conscious enough to give you a moment to adjust. The feeling is new, full. Your voice wobbles when his thumb reaches down to circle your clit, just enough to get you to relax as he feeds your greedy pussy inch after inch.

“Y’gotta breathe for me baby,” he rasps into the side of your neck, releasing a breath you never knew you were holding. He rewards your obedience with more of his dick, slowly rocking against you as you start to adjust to the feeling.

“Feels good,” you whisper, stroking his hair. Your eyes are locked with his, lost in his pretty emerald eyes. “You can move.”

“Are you sure?” He asks. “Not sure I’ll be able to stop once I do.”

You know he’s telling the truth, it’s written all over his face. A need to possess you in body and soul, his eyes glued to where you’re both connected with a sickening fascination. You know the actual question he's asking, even if he can't bring himself to say it. Are you sure you want me? You realize he's just as vulnerable as you are, unsure of himself. It's a rarity that Logan ever talks about himself, always focused on you above all. You want to give him a break, want to make him feel as good as he makes you feel, want him to finally stop holding back and let go. So you kiss him, long and deep, and hope that gets the message across. His answer comes in the form of hands on your hips, the deep timbre of his voice radiating from his broad chest. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

[joonsytip]

Beyond the Transcripts || Wonwoo [Teaser]

Pairings: Ceo!Wonwoo x Legal Head!Fem!Reader

Genre: Angst, Smut, Fluff, exes to co-parents to lovers au, second chances au.

Synopsis: Jeon Wonwoo, the calmest and untainted CEO to ever exist, gets his world shaken up when he finds you as the legal department head at his own company and your only registered family is a little guy who resembles him a bit too much.

Alternatively, you are smooth in onboarding Wonwoo into your son's life but problems arise when he tries to slide back into yours.

Warnings: Themes of co parenting, mentions of past difficult pregnancy, misogynistic slurs being used at workplace, minor accident, profanities, heartbreak, secret identity, workplace jargons.

Drop Date: Anyday next month.

Check out the masterlist for THAT'S SHOWBIZ, BABY! Please support all the amazing writers white putting up so much effort!

Thanks to @lovetaroandtaemin, Ally for coming up with this beautiful banner (even after I ate her ears off and made her do several banners for this one), I'm really grateful!

TAGLIST is open, send an ask/comment to be added.

At the sound of the door closing, your gaze lifts.

Wonwoo walks towards you, in large but steady strides, just as you have remembered. He stands in front of you, at a distance. Your gazes meet and the time stops.

Wonwoo hasn't changed much, his eyes hold the same depth. He, you assume, still likes his hair side parted with locks clipped so they don't fall on his face. The scent of the same perfume lingers in the air, the one which he had always claimed as his signature. The frame of his glasses aren't geometric anymore, he goes with pilot nowadays.

And before your mind could trace back on the memory lane deeper, you decide to slip into the momentum.

Because, he's the man, who had broken your heart, had left you alone to pick up the pieces on your own.

“Mr. Jeon”, you bow to him, giving a small smile. Your heart beats erratically, as you continue to speak, “You must be busy so I won't take much of your time.”

The title you call him by is foreign to Wonwoo's ear. It always used to be strings of sickly sweet nicknames.

He watches the changes time has brought upon you. You no longer seem like the carefree law major from back then. You, no longer are the girl who'd cry over smallest things, speak the first thought that comes to your mind.

While Wonwoo loses touch with the current predicament, you line up several documents on his desk in specific order.

It's exacting because you used to know him so well, maybe even now if he hasn't emerged entirely as a different person. You see the way his eyes are on you but the dilated pupils give away the fact that he's running miles in his head.

So you wait, wait for him to come back to the present, to this moment.

And he does, a few minutes later. You can tell it by the way his gaze locks into yours right away, his lips curling down in slightest.

“How have you been, Y/N?”

His voice strikes a chord in your heart, before it reaches your ear. The voice that you used to love so much, the voice that sung you to sleep on restless nights, the same voice which called when your name, it summoned your soul.

Years of preparation goes down in the trench as you're about to break down at the first set of words you hear from him.

But you can't, you're not the same vulnerable Y/N, who used to strip bare in front of her lover.

“I think we have more important matters to discuss, Mr. Jeon.”, you speak through your gritted teeth.

“But you promised you'd answer all my questions.”, Wonwoo reminds you calmly.

“And this is what you want to know?”

“Out of all things, first and foremost, yes this is what I want to know.”

You find it ironic. Trapped in by his words, you answer truthfully, “I just can't sum up everything but I have been holding it in, thanks to Wonjae.”

Wonwoo perks at the mention of your son's name, well his as well.

“The first document is about me as Wonjae’s legal guardian, consenting to you conduct a DNA test.”, your gaze is gentle as you point at the bunched papers, “I don't want any questions, any fingers raised at my son in future.”

“But I don't–”

“I request you to conduct one.”

Your sharp tone shuts up Wonwoo completely, though not willing, he nods.

His gaze sweeps across the rest of the document which promotes him to ask, “What are the rest of these documents for?”

Your eyes turn somber. You've studied law, practised it. You know all the nooks and crannies and you're a mother who is raising her son against all odds.

“The second document is a contract that states that if you don't want to be associated with Wonjae then the fact that he’s your son will be concealed and never brought up by me. If I ever do so”, you turn the pages and show him the space left blank, “You can fill up the breach statement and penalties in this section, I have left it blank.”

Wonwoo gapes at you in disbelief, “What do you think you're trying to pull here?”, he speaks in a low tone but you can hear the agitation ringing in it, “What do you think of me, Y/N?”

You don't deem it necessary to answer his questions and proceed further to explain the contents of the last document.

“If you have any concerns about me working in your company and see me as a threat or identify me as someone who has the potential of stirring up trouble then you can ask me to resign but under the conditions that I work here until I find another job.”, your attitude has shimmered down from being hyper to nonchalant, now that you have done your part.

Wonwoo observes you in disbelief and at himself in distaste because he's the reason behind the version you are currently showcasing.

“Also, I have prepared the clauses for custody just in case you're willing to share responsibilities in future. I'll bring it to you if you decide to be a part of Wonjae's life.”

You say terms, speak things all in legal language and Wonwoo just listens.

“I would have suggested you to run these documents by your legal team to cite any negotiations or catch any flaws but unfortunately, it would mean that I'd be the person you'll need to work with.”, you smile sardonically, “So it would be better if you contact someone who's not affiliated to this company.”

He wonders if things would have been different if he stayed and in the midst of the storm that whirlwinds in his head, he asks, “Why didn't you tell me that you were pregnant?”

What a simple question to ask. But are all questions meant to have an answer?

“Would you have stayed?”

Silence falls upon.

You give him a knowing smile, “Just when you were leaving, I asked you something, do you remember?”

Yes, he remembers, all of it. The way you had chased him to the station, your face wet, eyes bloodshot from crying. The way you just stood in front of him, mumbling the last question you had as the train entered the platform.

“What if I have something important to tell you, something that could change our lives? Would it make you stay?”

“There’s nothing left to salvage. Nothing's gonna stop me from leaving. This is the end for us.”

It answers his previous question. It makes sense now, he didn't only leave you, he had abandoned his unborn child as well.

Some fences cannot be mended, some bridges can't be cemented. Just like this relationship, which once bloomed beautifully, is now wilted.

→ Do not copy, re-post, translate, or share any of my works on other platforms! All stories are copyrighted, joonsytip. ©️

[securiumsolutionscompany]

Power of VAPT Services with Securium Solutions

In today's digital landscape, where the risk of cyber threats is ever-present, safeguarding your organization's sensitive data and digital assets is paramount. That's where VAPT (Vulnerability Assessment and Penetration Testing) comes into play. As a leading VAPT company, Securium Solutions offers top-notch VAPT services that empower businesses to identify and mitigate potential vulnerabilities before they are exploited by malicious actors.

VAPT services encompass a comprehensive approach to cybersecurity, combining meticulous Vulnerability Assessment and in-depth Penetration Testing. This dynamic duo allows Securium Solutions to not only pinpoint weaknesses within your systems but also simulate real-world attacks to gauge their actual impact.

Are you curious about VAPT and its significance? Our experts at Securium Solutions have you covered. Whether you're looking for an in-depth explanation of VAPT, seeking answers to common VAPT interview questions, or exploring the array of VAPT tools, we provide a wealth of resources to satisfy your curiosity.

With an impressive track record, Securium Solutions employs cutting-edge VAPT tools and methodologies to ensure a robust defense against cyber threats. Our VAPT services are tailored to your specific needs, whether you're a small business or a large enterprise.

In the dynamic realm of cybersecurity, staying ahead of threats is imperative. Securium Solutions' VAPT services offer a proactive and strategic approach to protect your digital assets. Partner with us to fortify your defenses and ensure a secure digital future.

[aleksatia]

✨Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Xavier.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🎨 Rafayel | 🏍 Sylus | 🍎 Caleb

CW/TW: Divorce / Post-divorce emotional trauma, Emotional suppression / avoidance, BDSM themes (consensual, explored through metaphor & mechanics), Restraint / bondage, Power exchange, Surveillance intimacy, Emotional vulnerability, Reconciliation themes, OOC (arguably — Xavier shows unexpected sides).

Pairing: Xavier x ex-wife!you Genre: Psychological intimacy wrapped in red velvet and cold steel. Trust tested through touch, control unraveled by confession. Slow-burn tension, mechanical honesty, sensual restraint. Lovers to estranged to exposed. Summary: You signed up for a curated escape room. You got Xavier — your ex-husband, your mirror, your unfinished sentence. As each room pulls you deeper into physical vulnerability and emotional truth, you’re forced to confront the version of him you never dared ask about. The one who still knows how to touch you like a memory and undo you like a lock. Word Count: 6.7K 🤓 A/N: I swear, I have no idea how I ended up writing this kind of story — but everything just fell into place so naturally, and even Xavier, surprisingly, felt right in this role. That said, I’d genuinely love to hear your thoughts — even (or especially) if they’re the complete opposite of mine.

You hadn’t meant for it to be anything.

No fresh start, no stitched-up romance, no symbolic gesture to “finally move on.” You just loved escape rooms. The logic, the tension, the quiet way a puzzle waits to be understood. And lately, there had been no one to go with.

So when the email popped up — Experimental Couple’s Room. 60 minutes. One blindfold. One chain. One way out — you said yes without thinking too hard.

The description was vague. Something about "sensory challenges" and "collaborative vulnerability.”  Whatever that meant.

You weren’t looking for anything serious. Not even company. But the idea of spending an hour in a space designed for intimacy — manufactured or not — felt… curious. And curiosity was more than you'd felt in months.

Now, someone was tying the blindfold just a little too tightly, fingers brushing behind your ears. A low, pleasant voice gave the instructions — stay calm, stay together, follow the prompts. You and your mystery partner would remain close. Intentionally close. You wouldn’t see him until the signal.

You hadn’t cared. 

But you’d also worn your favorite perfume, just in case. Not for him— for yourself.

The world went dark.

You hadn’t even stepped into the room yet when the air shifted — sharp and immediate, like static before a storm. There was someone just ahead. You couldn’t see him, couldn’t hear him move, but your body knew. A flicker of heat bloomed low in your stomach — tight, inexplicable. Not fear. Not quite. More like the moment before something fated. Something that knew your name before you said it aloud.

The organizer’s hand found yours, steady, and guided you toward the threshold. A subtle gesture, a nudge forward. The door hissed shut behind you.

And in the stillness — you felt him.

Not through sound or contact, but through something subtler. Atmosphere.

A silent weight, like gravity that only applied to your skin. A warmth pulsing beside you, not quite breath, not quite body, but unmistakably there. You had the sudden, irrational urge to tear off the blindfold and look. To see. To know.

You waited. Then came the beep.

You exhaled — sharply, unprepared — and reached for the blindfold.

Pulled it free. And turned.

Your stomach dropped.

The shock hit you like a slap of cold air across bare skin.

He was standing just beside you — still, composed, unmissable even in the low light. That posture. That precise, deliberate alignment of shoulders. And the eyes. Clear, bright, steady.

Xavier. Your ex-husband.

He didn’t flinch. Not outwardly.

But you’d known him once the way lungs know breath — instinctively, automatically. And something flickered beneath the surface.

Not surprise. Not confusion. Impact.

He looked at you like someone looking at an old photograph. Not just with memory — with weight.

You froze, mid-breath.

“…Hi,” you said, and your voice sounded like it didn’t belong to your body.

Xavier tilted his head slightly.

“Your perfume hasn’t changed,” he said.

His voice was calm. Too calm. As if the past year hadn’t happened. As if this was nothing more than an awkward meet-cute in a bookstore aisle.

You blinked at him. Your mouth moved before your brain caught up.

“Of course,” you said quietly. “You always show up where I least expect you.”

His expression didn’t shift much. But something flickered behind the stillness — an old tension, a familiarity laced with heat.

“I don’t plan it,” he replied. “But I don’t fight it either.”

You hesitated. Searched his face.

“You knew it was me?” you asked.

He paused. Then, “Only when you reached for the blindfold. You still hesitate on the inhale.”

You wanted to say something clever. Something cutting. Instead, you just stood there, staring at him. The room around you was silent, waiting.

“Shall we?” he asked.

And the way he said it — gently, plainly — made you want to cry and laugh and scream all at once.

You took a step forward. And stopped.

Red.

It hit you like a blush that spread across the entire room. Crimson velvet lined the walls. Leather — lots of leather — wrapped the furniture, the fixtures, the frames. A swing hung from the ceiling, too artfully constructed to pass as gym equipment. Stirrups. Padded cuffs. A mirror angled too deliberately toward the bed. And the bed — don’t even start with the bed — was a cathedral of implication. Silk sheets, gold trim, four posts, ropes coiled neatly at the corners like they were waiting for instruction.

“...Well,” you said.

Xavier stood beside you, hands calmly folded behind his back, as if they were in a museum exhibit titled ‘Repression Through the Ages.’

You turned your head, slowly.

“Did you know it was going to be this kind of game?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just looked around, calm as ever, like he was scanning for weak points in the architecture — not taking in what appeared to be a decorative wall arrangement made entirely of whips, a shelf lined with sleek, gleaming objects shaped like sins, and what looked suspiciously like a collection of tails. Where those were supposed to go, you didn’t want to guess. Not out loud, anyway.

“I assumed it was a trust exercise,” he said finally.

You blinked at him.

“Xavier, there are cuffs on every surface, a mirror aimed like a camera crew forgot to pack up, and what looks like a decorative whip display curated by Satan himself. This isn’t trust. This is foreplay reverse-engineered by a sadist with a God complex.”

He took a single step forward and gestured casually toward the nearest installation.

“Technically, that’s a fisting horse.”

Then he looked at you.

Not quickly. Not sharply. But with the kind of slow, analytical attention people usually reserve for blueprints. Or confessions.

There was no grin. No lifted brow. Just that unnerving steadiness you remembered far too well.

Whatever he saw on your face, it didn’t rattle him. 

It rattled you.

You stepped back instinctively —

And ran full-body into something that looked medically questionable and hydraulically ambitious. 

“Oh my god.” You rebounded with a startled breath and a nervous laugh. “You’re disturbingly calm. You do realize we used to have sex in silence with the lights off?”

He glanced at you, his tone perfectly even. “I didn’t want to morally traumatize you.”

That stopped you cold.

“I’m sorry — what?”

He finally looked you full in the face. “You seemed fragile about contrast.”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

Fragile.

Contrast.

You suddenly needed air. And distance. And possibly therapy.

You pointed vaguely at the velvet swing in the corner. “So that’s been in you this whole time? Quietly judging my candle collection while fantasizing about harnesses and impact ratios?”

He didn’t flinch. “Not judging. Just choosing.”

You stared. “What does that even mean?”

He tilted his head. “You were already everything. Turned out I wasn’t that hard to please.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

And hot.

Not temperature-hot. Not yet. But something had cracked, and you weren’t sure which side of it you were standing on.

You stared at him, jaw slack.

What.

Was.

That.

“Who are you in here?” you asked.

He looked around the room like it was the most natural environment in the world.

“The same person I always was,” he said. “You just never asked the right questions.”

You shook your head — sharp, as if the motion could scatter the static building behind your eyes. Whatever questions wanted to form, you shoved them down. They could wait. Until they came out cleaner. Or at least… printable.

The clock was already ticking.

So you moved. Toward the first station.

Carefully. 

As if the rope might strike first.

A thick silk cord lay coiled on a velvet-lined pedestal. Next to it — a screen glowing softly with scrolling instructions. A stylized animation of binding points on a human body flickered in slow, deliberate motion. 

Ankles. Wrists. Hips. Chest.

"The Knot of Trust."  Of course.

You crossed your arms. “Absolutely not.”

He glanced at you. “Then bind me.”

You stared.

“If you’re confident you can follow the pattern,” he added smoothly, “without compromising circulation or breath control.”

You squinted at him. “Are you seriously challenging me to a bondage competition?”

“I’m offering you agency.”

You exhaled. “God, I hate when you weaponize consent.”

Still, your fingers twitched toward the rope. You knew full well you had no idea what you were doing. You were not about to kill your ex in a place that looked like Freud and the Marquis de Sade co-designed it.

You shoved the rope toward him. “Fine. Just — make it quick.”

“I never do,” he murmured.

You stiffened. But he was already reaching for the cord, the movement so fluid, so gentle, it felt like it had already begun before you’d agreed.

He guided you backward — light touch on your elbow — and sat you down on a padded bench angled toward the mirror. You didn’t mean to glance at your reflection, but you did.

Still you.

Jeans, soft tee, slight flush to the cheeks. But as the rope slid around your arm, looped with exacting care beneath your ribs, you saw something change.

The tension of the knots drew your body into sharper lines — curves lifting under pressure, breath held just slightly shallow.  Everything still covered. Everything suddenly... obvious.

His fingers worked in silence.

Loop. Pull. Anchor. Glide.

He kept a palm pressed at the small of your back — not for balance. For calibration. Each new knot adjusted the way your body curved under his touch, the way your shoulder tilted or your neck stretched in compliance. He didn't grip — he guided, always with that maddening calm.

When he reached your waist, he leaned in — not to touch, but to read. His breath skimmed against your throat, unhurried, like he was studying your pulse by feel alone. His hand slid behind your knee, lifted, pressed — your thigh rotated outward, aligning you to the diagram like a mannequin in a boutique window.

He stepped back, and you met your own gaze in the mirror. That wasn’t just pressure. That was poetry.

Your shirt clung to your chest from where the rope framed you, perfectly emphasizing shape where before there’d been softness. One knot sat low on your pelvis, right at the seam of your jeans, cinched just tight enough to make you swallow.

And still — he hadn’t done anything wrong. Just... precise. Devastatingly precise.

He circled you once. Twice. Studied the pattern like an engineer checking for fault lines. Then bent low again — his lips inches from your collarbone, his voice barely a whisper:

“Dot.”

Another knot.

“Dash.”

A third.

He continued tapping the code into the panel, murmuring part of the sequence aloud — low, rhythmic. You barely registered the pattern until the last few. He leaned closer to your chest, his fingers grazing the fabric just above your heart.

“Dot. Dash. Dot.”

Silence.

You swallowed.

“What is it?”

Your voice came out thinner than you meant.

He didn’t look at you at first. He looked at the mirror. Then back — steady, unreadable.

“Bench,” he said.

You blinked. “I—sorry, what?”

“That’s the word,” he replied simply. As if it wasn’t the most loaded syllable in the room.  “It’s the keyword for Station Two.”

And before you could say another word, he reached behind your back, caught the tail of the rope —

— and with two swift pulls, every knot slipped loose.

You gasped as the whole structure dissolved around you like silk falling through air. He stood calmly, re-coiling the rope with clean, quiet efficiency.

Your limbs felt like water. Your throat, dry.

He looked at you over one shoulder, utterly composed.

“Shall we?”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you nodded, rising on legs that didn’t quite feel like yours. The ghost of the rope still lingered across your skin — your ribs remembered the shape even as your shirt settled back into place. You could swear your breath still caught on the knots that were no longer there.

The next station was impossible to ignore.

A curved bench upholstered in oxblood leather, smooth and gleaming under the low golden light. At first glance, it could’ve passed for an avant-garde lounge chair — until you noticed the straps at the base. The stretch of space between the floor and the arch. The deliberate placement of the interactive mirror directly in front of it.

As you approached, the mirror flickered to life. A voice — soft, sultry, genderless — spoke from hidden speakers.

“Synchronization required. Match the forms. Mirror will confirm accuracy. Full sequence reveals your key.”

A ghostly figure appeared in the glass: androgynous, stylized — fluid as ink in water. It moved into the first pose. You blinked.

“Oh,” you said, voice flat. “This is a yoga class now?”

“No,” Xavier replied, eyes already fixed on the display. “That’s the Yawning Lotus.”

You turned slowly. “That’s the what?”

He was already stepping onto the platform, holding out a hand for you like this was completely normal behavior.

“Xavier —”

“We’ll be faster if you follow my lead.”

“I can’t even tell where the legs go in that one — wait, how do you know this?”

He paused. "Reading."

You stared at him. “You read Kamasutra?”

“I read a lot of things.”

“Since when?”

He met your gaze with that same unbothered neutrality that made you want to scream and kiss him in equal measure.

“Since always,” he said. “You never asked.”

Heat crawled up your neck.

You climbed onto the bench because there was nowhere else to go.

The first pose had him kneel behind you, one knee between yours, his arms sliding under your arms and around your ribcage. Then — he lifted. Just enough to draw your spine flush to his chest, your thighs parted by the pressure of his leg.

The mirror caught it. Glowed green.

One down.

The second had you straddling him face-to-face, his hands low on your hips to stabilize the balance, your forehead nearly brushing his. He didn’t blink. You wanted to.

The third… well, the third was no longer pretending.

You were angled back over his arm, one leg lifted, your shirt riding just slightly too high, and his breath ghosting across your neck as he adjusted your position with slow precision.

He was quiet. So, so quiet.

Which is why it hit harder when he said, almost absently:

“I always wanted to try this one. With you.”

Your breath caught.

Your eyes snapped open. “With me?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Yes.”

“As in, specifically?”

“As in, exclusively.”

You tried to laugh. It came out shaky. “When? Somewhere between bleeding out in the field and writing mission briefs?”

He didn’t smile, but his hand slid slightly higher on your back, grounding you.

“Not everything I wanted fit into the version of me you liked.”

That landed like a slow detonation in your chest.

The next pose required you to lean forward over the bench, elbows braced on the leather, hips slightly raised as he adjusted your legs with clinical grace. Except it didn’t feel clinical. Not at all.

Not with his fingers curling under your thigh to reposition it. Not with his palm brushing the small of your back like it remembered you.

The mirror chimed — another ping.

You turned your head, catching your reflection.

Fully clothed. And yet you had never looked more undone.

The tension in your core. The arch of your back. The way his frame fit behind yours with unshakable precision. Your body looked sculpted into wanting.

Your mouth opened to say something — anything —

But he leaned closer, breath warm against your ear.

“Spreader bar,” he said.

“What?” you whispered.

“That’s the keyword.”

You blinked.

He stepped away. You didn’t even feel him untangle from you — he just... vanished from the contact like he’d never been pressed against every inch of your back. The mirror dimmed. The bench cooled.

You sat there for a second, still catching up. Still shaking.

He turned, already walking toward the next station.

You hated him. You hated him so much. And your body ached with the memory of his hands.

The bar gleamed dully under the golden light. Polished metal, black padding at the ends, a hinge like a secret waiting to snap shut.

You frowned at it, arms crossed. “Okay, but… how is this even supposed to work? Like in the real world.”

You regretted the question instantly. Because he turned to you like he’d been waiting for it.

He stepped in. Close enough that your breath hitched on reflex.

“It holds the legs apart,” he said softly. “Keeps control of range. Of motion. Of access.”

Your heart thumped.

“Access to what, exactly?”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t have to.

Instead, he lifted the bar and held it, weightless, between you. “Sit.”

You didn’t move.

“Now,” he said.

And your knees obeyed before your brain caught up.

The mattress dipped beneath you — soft, cool silk under your palms as you steadied yourself. He stepped forward and knelt, positioning the bar with clinical ease — one ankle, then the other.

It clicked into place. Spread you open.

Not uncomfortably. But deliberately.

He looked up once, just once, as his fingers grazed your calf on the way down.

Then, still crouched between your legs, he rested one palm on the inside of your thigh, just above the knee.

Not moving. Not asking. Just letting you feel it.

Where you were. What you were. And how easily he could choose what came next.

“Still curious?” he asked.

You opened your mouth — something witty, maybe even flippant, already rising to the surface —

But then his hands moved. Not again. Just... continued.

Sliding from the bar, up along your calves with maddening patience — like he was drawing the outline of control, one inch at a time.

By the time he reached the back of your knees and pressed — gently, deliberately — your breath caught, and your body arched without asking for permission.

He watched that reaction. Closely. Quietly. As if memorizing it.

Then leaned in and placed his palm low on your stomach.

“And here,” he said, voice low, “is where you start to feel the shift. Where control becomes awareness.”

You swallowed. Hard. He didn’t move quickly — he never did.

His hand slid up, slow and flat over your ribs, the heat of it bleeding straight through the cotton of your shirt. His fingers paused just beneath the edge — not beneath the skin, but close enough to make you forget the difference.

“This,” he murmured, “is how it works.”

His thumb dragged lightly across the curve where your bra pressed through the fabric — just enough to remind you it was there.

Just enough to make your breath hitch in your throat.

Then he withdrew.

Not all the way. Just enough to leave a ghost where his hand had been.

You shifted, testing the bar between your ankles. It gave only slightly, the metal groaning in protest.

“This is… uncomfortable,” you muttered, looking away from him. “Like I’m not sure what part of me belongs to me anymore.”

He didn’t move. Just watched.

“That’s the point,” he said.

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Discomfort sharpens presence. Makes you conscious of everything — every inch of skin, every breath. You stop pretending you’re in control.”

You looked at him, suddenly colder. “Is that what this is to you? Control?”

“No,” he said simply. “It’s honesty.”

You opened your mouth to argue — but the words caught somewhere behind your tongue.

He stepped in again, slower this time, as if the conversation required a physical counterpart. His fingers brushed the inside of your knee, lightly. Not sensual — just… grounding.

“You asked what this is like in real life,” he said. “It’s like this. You agree to the rules. You consent to the dynamic. And then, sometimes —” his hand grazed your thigh, just enough for you to feel the tremor it left behind, “— you realize you hate the feeling of being stretched open, but it’s too late to change the game. You’ve already given it your name.”

The silence between you trembled like a taut string.

“I felt like this,” he added, lower now. “When you left.”

You looked at him — sharp, sudden. But he didn’t stop.

“Caught in something I agreed to. But didn't know how to move inside. Didn’t know how to shift without making it worse.”

You let out a shaky breath. “That’s not fair —”

“It wasn’t,” he agreed. “But it was accurate.”

You dropped your gaze. The bar was still between you, keeping you open, exposed, utterly unable to close the space between your knees  —or between the two of you.

“It’s not that I hated you,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I hated that you didn’t try.”

His voice stayed quiet, but firm. “I thought not pulling was a form of respect. I didn’t want to fight you like an enemy.”

“But you didn’t love me like someone you couldn’t lose.”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he shifted back on the bed, fingers sliding along the length of the bar still locked between your ankles. He reached beneath the padding with calm precision, found something — pressed.

A soft click.

The bar extended. One clean, deliberate notch wider.

And from within the central hinge, a slim panel popped open — silent and smooth. A curled slip of paper slid out, like breath exhaled from between clenched teeth.

He took it. Unfurled it. Read the single word on the card.

He didn’t say it yet. Instead, he looked back at you.

“You can move,” he said gently, reaching for the cuffs.

But as he unlocked them — slowly, deliberately — his fingers lingered just a little longer than necessary against your skin.

And in the space where the bar had held you open, nothing filled the void. Only the awareness that you’d been there, and he’d seen everything.

You swallowed, pushed to your feet — weak-kneed and sore in places you couldn’t name. He handed you the card without a word. It read: Cross.

You both turned at the same time. And there it was, against the far wall.

Black leather. Polished metal. Straps. Angled restraints like an invitation no one sane would ever send.

You stared. Then turned your face toward him, expression flat. “Absolutely not.”

He tilted his head, unreadable. “Why?”

“Because first you have me spread wide like I’m about to compete in erotic gymnastics, and now you want me to pass the qualification for a depraved crucifixion?”

His brow quirked—just barely. “You're exaggerating.”

“Oh really?" You gestured toward the cross. "You're seriously going to stand there and pretend this isn't the BDSM version of execution?”

He said nothing.

You sighed and pointed at the console next to it. It lit up the moment you approached.

“Find the five. The body will tell you what the mouth won’t. The sensors know. The threshold is yours.”

You turned to him. “Please. Be my guest. The chances of injuring you on that thing are slim, even for someone as much of a novice as I am. I’m sure I can handle it without breaking anything important.”

He didn’t argue.

Just began unbuttoning his shirt. That — somehow — was worse.

No fanfare. No drama. Just quiet hands and clean movements, until the fabric slid off his shoulders and revealed everything you'd spent the last year trying not to think about.

He stepped up to the cross with that same calm, meditative certainty. Turned his back to you. Offered his wrists.

You stared for a second too long. Then fastened him in  — tight. He didn’t flinch. Not once.

There was a small table beside the console. On it: tools. Leather paddles. A soft flogger. A thin cane. A wand-shaped massager. Some objects you knew by name. Some you didn’t. And one you were afraid might actually buzz if you breathed on it too hard.

You raised an eyebrow. “Helpful suggestions?”

He glanced toward the table, just enough to take in the tools, and let a crooked half-smile play on his lips.

“Try memory,” he said. “You’re capable of more than you realize.”

You hated that that sent a shiver down your back.

You stood behind him, eyes tracing down the line of his spine. The muscles there were sharp and patient — coiled like a held breath.

You chose your hand first. Just fingers. Because you wanted to know where the heat lived now.

You started at the nape of his neck. No reaction.

Downward. Shoulder blade. Stillness.

Lower—ribs.

Then, on the left side of his waist, just above the hip —

A flicker.

His breath hitched, so subtle most wouldn’t notice. But you knew him. You always had.

You pressed there again, softer this time. Watched his fingers twitch against the leather.

One.

You moved around him, slower now. Let your hand trace a lazy line across his chest.

Nothing.

Until the edge of your palm grazed just under his collarbone — his left side again.

Another breath. Sharper.

Two.

He still didn’t speak. But his body was no longer neutral. The muscles along his stomach had gone tight. His lips pressed together.

You felt a strange triumph twist under your skin.

You reached for the soft flogger, testing the weight. Not to hurt. Just… to contrast.

A slow drag down his back. The leather strands whispering along his spine.

Then a light stroke across his inner thigh.

There. He tensed, full-body, the chain at his wrist clinking once.

Three.

You circled back in front of him. His eyes were closed.

You raised the wand vibrator — not on, just pressed it flat to the hollow above his pelvis. He inhaled sharply through his nose. Head tipped back for just a second.

Four.

And then, finally, you used your hand again — bare skin, palm pressed low and firm just over his heart.

It wasn’t even sexual. It was something else entirely.

Intimate. Final.

He opened his eyes.

You looked into them and realized — his mask was gone.

Every expression he’d ever hidden lived in that one look: grief, heat, guilt, surrender, longing so sharp it cut both ways.

The console beeped. The restraints clicked open.

He didn’t move. Neither did you.

And somewhere, far behind your sternum, you felt something come undone.

He stood there for a second, unmoving. Breath steady, but only barely. His chest rose with more tension than air. You could see the muscles in his stomach locked — as if holding still was the only thing keeping something inside.

Then — he moved.

One step forward. Deliberate. Weighted.

And then another.

You didn’t back away.

His hand came to your waist — not gentle, not rough, just decisive. His grip closed like memory.

You sucked in a breath.

He stepped into you, one arm sliding fully around your lower back, the other bracing the space between your shoulder blades, fingers curling around your spine with impossible accuracy.

And just like that, he turned you, pressed you into the cross, your body against the leather that still held the heat of his skin.

You gasped.

His hand moved from your waist to your hip, gliding, slow, unapologetic, as though mapping pressure points. His palm settled at your side. The weight of it grounded you more than the wall behind your back.

And then — his face was inches from yours.

His breath grazed your cheek. His nose brushed yours.

His lips hovered. So close.

Not touching. Just… there. Waiting.

And you — God — you tilted your chin, parted your lips, reached for something you weren't sure would even happen.

And then — his hand slid back up to your sternum, pressed you into the cross again, firmly.

“Don’t move,” he said.

Soft. But unignorable.

His eyes locked on yours. Not blinking. Not speaking. You weren’t even sure he was breathing.

It was like standing inside a held storm. If you moved — even a breath — it would break.

And then —

A voice shattered it.

“Please retrieve the clue to proceed.”

The mechanical voice came from the console beside you. Cheerful. Empty.

He stepped back immediately. Too fast. Too clean.

The warmth of his body vanished, replaced with air that felt… wrong.

He reached into the now-open compartment. Pulled out the slip of paper. Read it.

Then glanced at you.

“The Cage.”

He buttoned his shirt without hurry. Every movement too composed, too precise. And then turned toward the next zone.

You followed, still silent. Only when you were sure he couldn’t see, you reached up and wiped the sweat from your temple.

The hallway narrowed as you moved forward, swallowing sound with every step. The walls were darker here — brushed steel and cold stone — and something in the air made your shoulders tighten before you even reached the next chamber.

The room opened abruptly.

It was colder. Starker.

No velvet. No red. No warmth. Just gray metal, deliberate silence, and in the center — a cage.

Not decorative. Functional.

Iron bars, floor to ceiling. Smooth locking mechanisms on the hinges, a narrow entry, barely wide enough for two. Inside — two small seats facing each other, and above, a recessed light that flickered low, almost like a heartbeat.

Xavier didn’t pause.

He stepped in like this was nothing more than the next square on a board game.

You followed — one beat behind — and the moment your foot crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut with a heavy metallic finality that echoed through your spine.

A chime. Mechanical, hollow.

Then the voice:

“Apply the sensors. One on each wrist. The cage will read your truth. Five questions between you. Only honesty will unlock the door.”

Two thin wristbands extended from a hidden panel near the floor. Sleek, black. Unassuming. They might’ve passed for wearable tech in any other context — except for the way your heart dropped when you took them.

You fastened yours. Quietly. Slowly. Felt the hum beneath the surface — a subtle, pulsing heat, like it was waiting to catch your pulse.

Xavier mirrored you, wordless.

He didn’t sit. Neither did you. The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore.

It was expectant.

He met your eyes.

“Ask,” he said.

Not a suggestion. A beginning.

You stared at him for a second too long. The way the dim light caught the edge of his jaw, the fine tension in his throat, the steadiness in his eyes that always made you feel like he could wait forever.

It made asking the first question harder. But you did it anyway.

“Why were you never… with me?” you asked. Your voice came out thinner than you expected. “I mean, you were there. But never really. Not fully. I always felt like I was living beside you, not with you.”

He didn’t blink.

He just breathed once, slowly, and answered like the truth had already been waiting at the back of his tongue.

“Because if I let myself fully be with you,” he said, “I was afraid I’d lose control of it. Of myself. That if you ever saw all of it — everything inside — you’d run.”

He glanced down, just once, jaw tight. “You loved my light. I know that. But I didn’t know what you’d do with the dark.”

The band at his wrist pulsed. A low green flicker. A mechanical lock clicked behind you, out of view.

You didn’t speak right away.

The space between you wasn’t wide, but suddenly it felt harder to cross than ever.

He watched your expression carefully, like he was trying to track if the words had hurt you. Or reached you.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Then said, quieter, “You could’ve just… told me.”

His silence held the weight of a thousand chances he hadn’t taken.

You exhaled, chest tight. Let your palm graze the smooth metal at your side, grounding yourself, before lifting your gaze again.

He studied you, brow furrowed — but not from defensiveness. From restraint.

Then, quietly, he asked:

“Why did you leave?”

There was no heat in it. No edge. Just raw, open space.

You looked at him — and this time, didn’t look away.

“Because our marriage stopped feeling like a home,” you said. “And started feeling like a task. A duty.”

Something in his expression shifted, just barely — like a muscle tightening beneath skin.

“It became another assignment to you. One more system to manage. A routine to optimize.” You laughed once, without humor. “We were efficient. Structured. Strategic. But not… alive.”

The sensor at your wrist blinked green. Another lock clicked loose behind you.

He didn’t speak. So you kept going.

“You fought beside me like the perfect partner when we were out there. You covered me, you trusted me. But at home?”

You shook your head, voice softening. “I didn’t know where the hunter ended and my husband began. I started waking up next to a uniform, not a man.”

And still — he didn’t interrupt. So you went deeper.

“And the nights you disappeared into the no-hunt zones,” you said, more steadily now. “Without warning. Without even a message.”

Your eyes didn’t waver.

“I got used to it. That was the worst part. I learned how to move around your absence like it was furniture — just another part of the house.”

He flinched then. Almost imperceptibly, but it was there — the barest recoil in his shoulders, like your words had landed somewhere that still bruised.

The sensor at your wrist blinked green. Another lock clicked free behind you.

You shifted your weight, one hand curling reflexively around the edge of your seat.

“And then there was that day,” you said. “That stupid quiet day, walking past the park. That little kid on the scooter almost ran into us.”

He nodded, barely. You could tell he already knew where this was going.

“You looked at him like he was noise. And then said — ‘I don’t really like kids. They’re chaotic. Pets are simpler.’”

A silence stretched between you.

“I smiled. Said something meaningless. Laughed, maybe. You didn’t even notice. But I couldn’t unhear it.”

You felt your throat tighten — not with panic, but with grief so old it had been carved smooth.

“I didn’t cry then. I didn’t even react for weeks. But later… later I realized that in the back of my head, I’d always seen us — somewhere in the future — with children.”

You looked at him now. Really looked.

“Not because I was desperate to become a mother. But because I wanted to build something with you that felt permanent. That breathed. That belonged to us.”

Your voice cracked then, and you hated it, but you didn’t stop.

“And that day? I realized you hadn’t pictured it. Not once. And I couldn’t make myself ask. I didn’t want to hear you say it again.”

His eyes shimmered — but he didn’t speak.

So you did.

“I wasn’t mourning the idea of children. I was mourning the fact that you didn’t want them with me.”

The sensor blinked, steady and green. The fourth lock disengaged.

He hadn’t looked away once.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was different. Low, rough-edged — but soft in a way that sounded like something inside him had finally broken free of the armor.

“I would’ve loved them,” he said.

You blinked.

“I would’ve loved our child,” he repeated, slower. “Even if we’d had ten — I would’ve loved each one like the breath in my lungs. Because they would’ve been part of you.”

His gaze lowered for a second, almost reverent. “You should’ve told me. Not held that alone.”

His voice was warm, not blaming. No sharpness in it — just sorrow. Like he was grieving something that had never had a chance to be real.

The light above flickered, just once — casting his face in fleeting gold. For a moment, it looked softer than you remembered. Younger, somehow. Or maybe just open.

You let the silence hold for a beat. Then said, quietly, “And you should’ve told me what scared you.”

He looked back up. You didn’t stop.

“I wasn’t asking you to be perfect. I was asking you to be present. To tell me when you didn’t know how. To say, ‘I don’t think I can be a father yet.’ Or ‘I’m afraid I’ll get it wrong.’ That would’ve been enough.”

Your hands curled in your lap.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be ready. I just didn’t want to feel like I was the only one imagining them.”

His eyes glinted — moisture or light, you couldn’t tell — and the cage felt tighter now, not from space, but from everything unsaid finally rising to the surface.

He shifted slightly. Not closer, not further. Just... aware.

And then, gently — so gently you nearly didn’t register it —

“Do you regret it?” he asked. “Leaving.”

The question didn’t land like a blow. It landed like gravity — pulling something out of you you’d been carrying too long.

You let your eyes close for a second, let the breath fill your chest.

When you opened them again, the words came without hesitation.

“I regret it every day.”

A pause.

“I regret walking away from what we built. I regret not knowing how to reach you. I regret that I let silence grow roots where there should have been hands.”

You looked at him fully now, and your voice trembled — not from fear, but from truth that had lived too long in shadow.

“I replay it constantly. What if I had stayed. What if I’d said the right thing. What if I’d stopped listening to all those people who said, ‘If it doesn’t feel good, just leave.’ As if that’s wisdom.”

You laughed once, dry and small. “It’s not wisdom. It’s cowardice, dressed up in self-help quotes.”

Another breath.

“If something breaks,” you said, “you don’t walk away. You go back. You find the place it cracked. And you fix it.”

The last sensor on your wrist blinked green. Final click.

A hiss of compressed air broke the silence, and the cage door swung open — but this time, the lights in the room shifted.

Not toward another chamber. Not toward the next trial.

Behind the bars, through the now-open door, you saw it clearly: the exit.

Not a trick. Not a simulation. The end of the line. The threshold between the game and the world beyond it.

The voice didn’t speak. No instructions. No congratulations. Just silence, cool and final.

But the air between you didn’t move. The distance stayed.

He looked at the opening. Then at you. His expression unreadable, but his hands — his hands weren’t clenched anymore. Just open. Steady.

You thought maybe he’d turn. Maybe he’d nod and walk out. Instead, he stepped toward you.

One slow pace. And then another.

When he stopped, you were close enough to see the softened pulse in his throat.

“I know I wasn’t good at asking for things,” he said. His voice was rough again. Careful.

“I told myself I didn’t need to. That if I stayed steady, you’d stay. But that’s not love. That’s control.”

His hand lifted, hovered — then settled at your side.

“And I don’t want control. I want us back. If you still want it too.”

You swallowed, too fast. But didn’t pull away.

He took a breath.

“So if pride is the only thing keeping you from trying again... I’ll set mine down first.”

He held out his hand. Palm open. Nothing performative.

Just... him. Finally reaching.

Your own fingers closed around his before you even realized they’d moved.

And the second they touched, your body folded forward, gently, into his chest. Your forehead found his shoulder like it remembered the way there. His arms pulled you in, quiet, strong, grounding.

“When it comes to the heart,” you whispered, voice muffled against his shirt, “there’s no room for pride. Only honesty. Only love.”

You paused. Pulled back just enough to meet his gaze.

“Do you still love me?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“More than I ever have,” he said. Then softer, into your hair: “More than I ever thought I could.”

The sensor on his wrist blinked once more. One final green pulse. Like the truth was finally complete.

You lifted your face to his. Tilted slightly, searching — but just before your lips reached his, his hand came up, warm and firm, fingers resting along your jaw.

He smiled, just barely.

“Not here,” he murmured. “Not like this.”

He leaned in — kissed your temple with aching care.

“I don’t want to love you in passing. I want to love you properly.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said.

He smiled again, fuller this time. The kind of smile he hadn’t worn in a long, long while.

Hand in hand, you turned.

And stepped through the open door—  not out of the game, but toward whatever came next.

Together.

[4linos]

fractured silence.

yang jeongin x idol!reader

synopsis: when your pregnancy complicates your secret relationship, the emotional distance between you and your boyfriend grows, leaving you unsure of where you stand and what the future holds.

warnings: pregnancy, angst, hurt/comfort, miscommunication.

wc: 5807

[fractured silence part 2]

The fluorescent lights above buzzed softly, casting a cold glow over the pristine bathroom tiles. Your hands trembled as they gripped the edges of the sink, the single test staring back at you with undeniable certainty. Two lines. A result that changed everything. A result that confirmed your deepest fear.

Your breath hitched, chest tightening as an overwhelming wave of emotions crashed over you fear, confusion, love, guilt. You covered your mouth with both hands, as if you could muffle the sobs that were threatening to break free. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not now. Not like this.

You had worked too hard, sacrificed too much to get where you were. You were an idol, a member of a four-member girl group under HYBE, standing at the peak of your career. Every step had been meticulously planned, every move watched, scrutinized, dissected by the public and the company. And now? Now you were pregnant.

The reality of it made your knees weak, and you sank to the cool tiled floor, arms wrapping around yourself in a feeble attempt to hold it all together. You weren’t just scared, you were terrified. Of what this meant for you, for your career, for your group. But more than anything, you were terrified of telling him.

Jeongin.

You had met him years ago casually, in passing, during award shows and music broadcasts. Back then, it was just polite greetings, stolen smiles, the occasional lingering glance that neither of you had acknowledged. But two years ago, everything changed.

A late-night conversation in a quiet corner of a backstage hallway turned into something more. A fleeting moment of vulnerability became the catalyst for a secret whirlwind romance, one that had started as a casual fling but had quickly spiraled into something deeper, something real.

At first, you had kept it hidden from everyone your members, his members, your companies. But secrecy had its limits. Eventually, the truth slipped out, first to your respective groups, then to your companies. You had braced yourself for backlash, for strict ultimatums, but instead, you had been met with quiet acceptance. They allowed you to be together under one condition: the world could never know.

And you had been okay with that. Because you loved him. Because he loved you. Because even in the shadows, your love had been enough.

But this? This was something no amount of secrecy could contain.

A soft knock on the bathroom door made you flinch, but you were too frozen in your panic to respond.

“Hey, are you okay?”

It was Jinae, your leader’s voice soft, concerned. Another knock followed, firmer this time. “We saw you come in here a while ago. You’ve been quiet ever since.”

You swallowed hard, trying to force the sobs back down your throat, but it was useless. The moment you tried to answer, your voice cracked, and that was all it took.

The door creaked open, and in an instant, they were there. Your members. Your sisters.

Their eyes widened at the sight of you on the floor, cheeks streaked with silent tears, shoulders trembling. No words were needed, they rushed to your side, arms wrapping around you in a protective cocoon, grounding you in the way only they could.

“What happened?” Minsu whispered, her hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

You squeezed your eyes shut, clutching onto the fabric of their hoodies like a lifeline. And then, in a voice so fragile it barely felt like your own, you confessed the truth.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence. A moment of pure, stunned silence.

And then soft shushing, gentle hands holding yours, arms tightening around you in silent reassurance.

You had expected judgment, disappointment, fear. Instead, all you got was warmth.

“We’re here,” Jinae murmured against your hair. “No matter what, we’re here.”

Tears spilled freely now, but they weren’t just from fear. They were from relief.

But even with their comfort, one thought still lingered at the forefront of your mind, a gnawing dread you couldn’t shake.

You had to tell Jeongin.

And you didn’t know if you were ready to face what came next.

Jinae, Minsu, and Chae were all huddled around you, their warmth the only thing keeping you from completely unraveling. Your breath hitched between sobs as you clung to them, your words tumbling out between gasps of air.

“I—I don’t know how to tell Jeongin,” you choked out, your fingers digging into Minsu’s sleeve. “I don’t even know how the company will react, or the fans, God, the fans. What if..what if they hate me? What if this ruins everything?”

Your voice cracked on the last word, the weight of your fears suffocating. This wasn’t just about you anymore. It was about Jeongin, your career, his career. It was about the life growing inside you.

Jinae, ever the leader, was the first to respond. She cupped your cheeks, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to look at her. Her expression was firm, unwavering. “Listen to me,” she said, her voice low but fierce. “You are not alone in this.”

Chae tightened her arms around your shoulders, resting her chin on your head. “She’s right. We’ll fight for you.”

Minsu squeezed your hand, her touch gentle yet steady. “No matter what happens, we’re here. We’ll stand by you, we’ll stand with you.”

Their words, their certainty, it should have eased you, but your heart still clenched painfully. You let out a shaky breath, shaking your head. “But what if Jeongin—” You hesitated, your worst fear clawing at your throat. “What if he doesn’t want this?”

The thought made your stomach twist. You loved him. He loved you. But this? A baby? It was something neither of you had planned. Something that could change everything.

Jinae didn’t hesitate. “Then we’ll handle it. We’ll figure it out. But you need to talk to him first.”

Chae nodded against you. “And we’ll be right here, no matter what happens.”

You let their words sink in, let yourself believe in them. Because despite everything the uncertainty, the fear you knew one thing for sure.

You weren’t alone. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to give you the strength to face what came next.

Jinae’s hands remained firm on your shoulders, her thumbs brushing away stray tears as she met your swollen eyes with quiet determination. Her presence was grounding, just like it always had been. She was your leader, yes, but she was also your closest friend, someone who had seen you at your highest and now, at your most vulnerable.

She hesitated for a second before asking, “Do you want us to be there when you tell him?”

The question sent another wave of emotions crashing through you. The idea of having them with you, of not having to face this moment alone, was tempting. More than tempting. But this wasn’t something Jeongin needed to hear from a group. It was something he needed to hear from you.

Before you could answer, Minsu let out a dramatic sigh, folding her arms over her chest. “Just say the word, and we’ll be there for backup,” she said, puffing up her chest like a soldier preparing for battle. “And if he says the wrong thing—” She cracked her knuckles in exaggerated slow motion. “He’s gonna have to deal with us.”

You let out a choked laugh, half a giggle and half a sob, burying your face in your hands. “Minsu,” you sniffled, voice muffled, “you’re not going to fight my boyfriend.”

“No promises,” she muttered, crossing her arms.

Chae, who had been silent, reached up and wiped at your tears with the oversized sleeve of her hoodie, her touch delicate as if she were handling glass. “She’s just saying we’ve got your back,” she murmured. “No matter what.”

Your heart clenched painfully. How had you gotten so lucky to have them? These girls, your groupmates, your family were the only reason you weren’t completely falling apart right now.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your voice. “I need to do this alone. At least for now.”

Jinae studied you for a moment, making sure you weren’t just saying that out of fear. Then, with a small nod, she squeezed your hand. “Okay. But if you change your mind—”

“We’re just one call away,” Chae finished.

Minsu placed a hand over her heart dramatically. “Or, you know, one emergency text away from storming in like we own the place.”

You smiled, really smiled, even if it was small and shaky. “I know.”

For the first time since you saw those two lines on the test, you felt like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as lost as you thought.

Now, all that was left was to face Jeongin. And that was the part that scared you the most.

The drive to Jeongin’s place was quiet, save for the occasional hum of the car engine and the soft clicking of Minsu’s nails against the steering wheel. She didn’t press you for conversation, didn’t demand answers you weren’t ready to give. Instead, she simply offered her presence, her silent support, exactly what you needed.

As she pulled up in front of his apartment complex, she shifted the car into park and turned to face you. “You sure you don’t want me to come up?” she asked, her tone casual, but the concern in her eyes betrayed her.

You exhaled shakily, fingers twisting in your lap. “I’m sure.”

Minsu didn’t argue. Instead, she reached over and squeezed your hand, tight and reassuring. “Alright,” she said. “But if you need anything, anything just call me, okay?”

You nodded, your throat too tight to form words.

She watched you for a moment longer before sighing and ruffling your hair playfully. “You got this.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you gave her a small, grateful smile before stepping out of the car.

As soon as the door shut behind you, your nerves skyrocketed. Your feet felt like lead as you made your way through the familiar hallways of Jeongin’s building, your heartbeat loud in your ears. You hadn’t even told him you were coming. You had no idea how he’d react.

Would he be excited? Confused? Would he… be upset?

The thought made your stomach twist painfully.

Before you could psych yourself out any further, you found yourself in front of his door. Your hands were trembling as you raised your fist and knocked.

A few seconds passed before you heard footsteps approaching. Then, the door swung open, revealing Jeongin in a loose hoodie and sweatpants, his hair slightly messy as if he’d just been lounging around.

His brows furrowed in surprise. “Hey, what are you doing here?” he asked, but before you could answer, he was already pulling you inside, pressing a sloppy kiss to your forehead, and wrapping his arms around you in a tight, familiar embrace.

The warmth of him, the scent of his shampoo, the way he immediately melted into you, it almost made you forget, just for a second.

Almost.

When he pulled away, his smile faltered. His gaze dropped to your face, taking in the red puffiness around your eyes, the lingering dampness on your cheeks. His hands came up to cradle your face gently, his thumbs brushing against your skin with concern.

His brows knit together. “Hey… what’s wrong?”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out.

“Did something happen?” His grip on you tightened slightly, his worry only growing. “Did the company say something to you?”

You shook your head, still unable to speak.

Jeongin exhaled sharply, his mind racing. “Did you go reading those stupid comments again? You know you’re not supposed to do that—”

His voice was a mix of frustration and worry, not at you, but at the world that always seemed to weigh too heavily on your shoulders. Because that was who he was. He always worried for you, always looked out for you in ways you never had to ask for. That was what you loved about him.

And that was what made this so much harder.

Because now, you had to tell him something that would change everything.

The dam you had been desperately trying to hold together finally shattered. The sobs came suddenly, violently, your shoulders shaking as the overwhelming fear and uncertainty you had been bottling up for days erupted all at once.

Jeongin’s eyes widened, his hands squeezing your arms in alarm. “Hey, hey—” His voice was urgent, frantic, yet unbearably gentle. “What happened? Please, talk to me.”

You tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat, lost between ragged breaths and the crushing weight of your emotions. You felt like you were drowning.

Then, with a broken gasp, you forced the words out, barely above a whisper.

“I’m pregnant.”

The room fell silent.

You could feel Jeongin freeze, his entire body going rigid, his breath hitching. His hands, which had been holding you, suddenly stilled.

For a long, agonizing moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t say anything.

And that silence was enough to make your heart drop into your stomach.

Panicked, you quickly looked up at him, your eyes wild with unshed tears. “I’m sorry,” you choked out. “I—I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t know how to tell you, I was scared—”

Jeongin’s head snapped up, his brows knitting together. “Why are you apologizing?” His voice was soft but firm, like he couldn’t understand why those words were even leaving your mouth.

You swallowed hard, tears still spilling down your cheeks. “Because..because your career is on the line. Mine too. If this gets out, if the company—” Your voice broke. “I don’t want you to lose everything because of me.”

Jeongin inhaled sharply, his jaw tightening.

Then, before you could spiral any further, he cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away your tears with slow, careful strokes. His eyes, which had been filled with shock just moments ago, were now filled with something else entirely, something fierce, something unwavering.

“None of that matters,” he said, his voice steady, unshaken. “Not my career, not the company, not the fans, none of that matters more than you.”

Your breath hitched.

“We’re in this together,” he continued, his grip tightening ever so slightly as if to make sure you felt every word. “I don’t care what happens next, I don’t care how hard it gets. I love you. And I love our baby. Nothing, nothing is going to change that.”

A fresh wave of tears welled up in your eyes, but this time, they weren’t just from fear.

They were from relief.

Before you could even process it, Jeongin pulled you into a tight, almost desperate embrace, his arms wrapping around you like he was trying to shield you from the world. His lips pressed against the side of your head as he whispered against your hair.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured. “I’ll stay by your side. I’ll take care of you. Of both of you.”

You clung to him, burying your face into his chest as you sobbed, your fingers fisting the fabric of his hoodie like you never wanted to let go.

For the first time since you saw those two lines on the test, the fear didn’t feel so suffocating.

Because you weren’t facing this alone.

Jeongin held you for what felt like forever, his grip never loosening, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. He didn’t let go, not even when your sobs quieted into soft sniffles, not even when the weight of your exhaustion settled into your bones. He just kept whispering reassurances, grounding you, reminding you over and over again that he was here, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

When he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands stayed firm on your waist, as if he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go completely. His gaze softened as he took in your tear-streaked face, his thumb brushing against your cheek once more.

“You’re exhausted,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Have you eaten today?”

You hesitated, suddenly realizing you couldn’t remember the last time you had. The past few days had been a blur of anxiety, and the thought of food had barely crossed your mind.

Jeongin sighed, already knowing the answer just by the look on your face. “Alright,” he said, taking your hand in his. “Come on. You need to eat something.”

You blinked up at him. “Jeongin, I—”

“No arguments,” he cut in, his voice firm but gentle. “You’re not taking care of just yourself anymore, okay? And if you won’t do it for you, then at least do it for them.” He squeezed your hand before placing it over your stomach, his eyes flickering downward for the first time.

Your breath hitched.

It was the first time either of you had truly acknowledged it, the life growing inside of you.

Jeongin swallowed, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, slowly, his fingers brushed over your hand, over the space where, one day soon, there would be a noticeable bump. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but the words never came.

Instead, he just let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “I still can’t believe it,” he admitted, his voice tinged with wonder. “We’re having a baby.”

The way he said it, with so much tenderness, so much awe, made your chest tighten.

You nodded, biting your lip as you looked up at him. “Yeah,” you whispered. “We are.”

Jeongin smiled then, soft and real, before leaning down to press a lingering kiss against your forehead. “I’m gonna take care of you,” he murmured. “Both of you.”

Tears welled up in your eyes again, but this time, they weren’t from fear.

Jeongin pulled back, his usual playfulness creeping back into his expression. “But first, you’re eating.”

You let out a small laugh, sniffling as you wiped at your eyes. “Okay, okay.”

He grinned, pressing another kiss to your temple before leading you toward the kitchen, his fingers still laced with yours.

And for the first time since you had found out, the crushing weight of uncertainty didn’t feel so heavy anymore. Because no matter what happened next, you weren’t facing it alone.

-

Jeongin had always been sweet, thoughtful in ways that made your heart swell, but ever since you told him about the baby, he had become something else entirely.

Attentive. Overly concerned, even. But in a way that never suffocated you, never felt like too much.

He was always checking in.

Did you sleep well?

Did you eat?

Are you feeling nauseous today?

How’s practice? Don’t push yourself too hard, okay?

If you’re tired, tell your manager. Please.

At first, it had been through texts, constant little reminders that he was thinking of you, making sure you were okay even if he couldn’t be there physically. Then, he started sending things, small gestures that quickly turned into something your members refused to let go unnoticed.

It had started with food.

One day after rehearsal, you walked into the practice room to find neatly packed meals waiting for you, nutritious ones, carefully thought out, clearly not just random takeout. The delivery receipt had Jeongin’s name on it, and when you checked your phone, there was a simple message from him:

You need to eat well. Take care of yourself, okay?

The girls had pounced on that immediately.

“Ooooh, look at this!” Minsu had grinned, holding up one of the food containers. “Our girl is getting spoiled.”

Jinae smirked as she leaned over to inspect the meals. “Looks like someone’s boyfriend is taking this whole ‘taking care of you’ thing very seriously.”

Chae, the quietest of the group, had just nudged one of the bowls toward you. “You should eat,” she said, completely bypassing the teasing, but the small smile tugging at her lips gave her away.

You’d rolled your eyes, cheeks burning, but you couldn’t fight the warmth that spread through your chest.

Then came the flowers.

A few days later, a bouquet arrived at the company. Soft pastel roses, carefully arranged in a delicate wrapping. No extravagant note, just a simple card tucked between the petals:

For my love, just because.

Minsu practically screeched when she saw them.

“Okay, that’s it, he’s setting the bar way too high for every other man on this planet!”

Jinae snorted, plucking the card from the flowers and reading it aloud in a dramatic voice. “For my love. God, he’s such a romantic.”

Chae just smiled, watching you with knowing eyes as you shyly hid your face in your hands. “You deserve it,” she said simply.

And maybe that was the part that made your chest tighten the most. Because for so long, you had been terrified, terrified that this pregnancy would ruin everything, that it would push Jeongin away, that it would complicate your already messy, hidden relationship beyond repair.

But here he was.

Taking care of you in ways you hadn’t even asked for. Checking on you, making sure you were eating, sending flowers just to remind you he was thinking of you.

The girls were right.

You did deserve it. And Jeongin was sweet, thoughtful, proving day after day, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

No matter how many times Jeongin reassured you, no matter how supportive your members were, the anxiety never truly left. It sat heavy in your chest, a constant weight pressing down on you, whispering every worst-case scenario into your mind.

Telling Jeongin had been terrifying, but telling the company? Telling your manager? Telling the world? That was something you still couldn’t even begin to wrap your head around.

What would happen to your career? To his?

It was one thing to be secretly dating, it was another thing entirely to be expecting a baby.

Every time you thought about it, your stomach twisted, and no amount of Jeongin’s sweet gestures or your members’ reassurances could fully push that fear away.

And today, that fear nearly swallowed you whole.

It was just another fitting session, something you’d done hundreds of times before. Your group was preparing for another stage, and the stylists had brought in new outfits, fresh off the racks, tailored specifically to your measurements.

Except, when you stepped into the dressing room and slipped on the stage outfit, something felt wrong.

The fabric was too tight, pressing uncomfortably against your stomach in a way that made your breath hitch. You tried shifting, tugging at the seams, adjusting the zipper, nothing helped.

When you stepped out to show the fit, the head stylist immediately frowned.

“That’s… strange,” she murmured, tilting her head as she eyed you. “It shouldn’t be that tight. I triple-checked the measurements.”

Your stomach dropped.

Panic set in instantly, your mind scrambling for an explanation. The stylist had been working with you for years, she knew your size down to the millimeter. If something didn’t fit, there had to be a reason.

You forced out a small, awkward laugh, waving your hand dismissively. “Ah, yeah, I’ve just been eating a lot more lately,” you said quickly, hoping the excuse would be enough.

For a second, the stylist just looked at you, her brows furrowing ever so slightly.

Then, before she could say anything else, your members jumped in.

Minsu was the first to speak, her voice light, casual, but firm. “Yeah, she’s been snacking nonstop lately,” she said with an exaggerated grin. “Seriously, it’s like she’s making up for all the times we’ve been on diets.”

Jinae nodded along immediately, crossing her arms. “Not to mention all the meals her boyfriend has been sending her,” she added with a pointed look in your direction, smirking when your cheeks flushed. “She’s being spoiled, that’s all.”

Chae, ever the quiet but effective one, simply gave a small shrug. “We’ll just need to adjust the fit a little, right?” she said, looking at the stylist expectantly, as if daring her to push the conversation any further.

The stylist blinked, her suspicion still evident, but after a beat, she sighed and nodded. “Yeah… I’ll loosen the waist a little.” She gave you one last glance, eyes flickering with something unreadable, before jotting down some notes. “Let me know if anything else feels uncomfortable.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, nodding quickly. “Thank you.”

As soon as she walked off, Minsu turned to you and nudged your side playfully. “You owe us for that one,” she teased, but her eyes were filled with understanding.

Jinae raised an eyebrow. “You might wanna start thinking about when you’re gonna tell the company, though,” she murmured, low enough that no one else could hear. “We can only cover for you for so long.”

You knew she was right.

But the thought of it made your stomach churn all over again.

-

The city lights flickered softly as you walked home, the cool night air wrapping around you like a quiet embrace. After the long day of rehearsals, fittings, and dodging suspicious glances from your stylist, all you wanted was to crawl into bed and let the exhaustion take over.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and when you pulled it out, Jeongin’s name lit up the screen. A small smile tugged at your lips despite the tiredness settling deep in your bones.

You answered on the second ring. “Hey.”

His voice was warm, filled with that familiar affection that made your heart ache in the best way. “Hey, love. Are you on your way home?”

“Yeah, just a few more minutes,” you replied, shifting your bag on your shoulder. “How was practice?”

Jeongin groaned dramatically. “Exhausting. Hyung is being a tyrant again.”

You giggled at that, already picturing the way Chan must have been pushing them to their limits. “Sounds like him.”

He huffed. “But enough about me. How was your day? Are you feeling okay?”

You hesitated for a second before sighing. “It was… fine, mostly.”

Jeongin didn’t miss the slight edge in your voice. “Mostly?”

You chewed on your lip, debating whether or not to tell him, but then decided there was no point in hiding it. “The stylist got suspicious today.”

There was a pause. “What do you mean?”

You took a breath. “During the fitting. The stage outfit was too tight, and she knew it wasn’t supposed to be. She looked really confused.”

Jeongin let out a low hum. “Are you..are you showing?”

“Not yet,” you admitted. “But I’ve gained weight. I know I have.”

The words tasted bitter on your tongue, the reminder that your body was slowly changing in ways you couldn’t hide forever.

But Jeongin only chuckled. “Of course you have, love. You’re growing a whole human in there.”

You rolled your eyes at his teasing tone, but your heart softened. “The girls covered for me, though,” you continued. “Minsu, Jinae, and Chae. When the stylist looked suspicious, they jumped in and made up excuses. They really had my back.”

“They always do,” Jeongin said, and you could hear the gratitude in his voice. “I need to thank them properly.”

You smiled to yourself. “They’ll probably make you buy them dinner or something.”

“That’s a small price to pay,” he said, and you could hear the grin in his voice. Then, after a brief pause, he sighed. “I, uh… I told Chan.”

You stopped walking.

Your grip on your phone tightened. “You told him?”

Jeongin exhaled. “Yeah. I had to, love. He’s my leader, he’s like my older brother. And I just… I couldn’t keep it from him.”

Your stomach twisted. “What did he say?”

Jeongin hesitated. “He was… upset.”

Your heart sank.

“How upset?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

There was another pause before Jeongin sighed again. “Upset enough that he sent me home early from practice.”

That made your chest tighten with worry. Chan was one of the most patient, level-headed people in the industry, if he had reacted that strongly, it meant he was seriously shaken by the news.

“I don’t want this to cause problems for you,” you murmured. “I don’t want him to be mad at you because of me.”

“Hey,” Jeongin said gently, his voice immediately soothing. “This isn’t your fault. And he’s not mad at you, he’s just worried. About me, about the group, about everything. But he’ll come around. He always does.”

You swallowed hard, still feeling uneasy, but you nodded even though he couldn’t see you.

Jeongin’s voice softened even more. “I know this is scary, but we’ll figure it out, okay?”

You closed your eyes briefly, letting the warmth of his reassurance settle over you. “Okay.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just the quiet sounds of the city filled the space between you.

Then, Jeongin chuckled. “I love you, you know.”

Your heart stuttered. “I know,” you whispered.

“And I love our little bean, too,” he added, his voice full of something so tender it made your throat tighten.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but this time, they weren’t from fear. “We love you, too.”

Jeongin sighed happily. “Get home safe, love. Call me if you need anything.”

“I will,” you promised. “Goodnight, Jeongin.”

“Goodnight, my love.”

As you slipped your phone back into your pocket, the lingering warmth of his words stayed with you.

Maybe things weren’t easy. Maybe they wouldn’t be for a long time.

But at least you weren’t facing them alone.

For a while, everything had felt like it was settling into a new rhythm. You and Jeongin were figuring things out, navigating the challenges of your secret pregnancy, the unspoken tension of keeping things hidden, and the overwhelming pressure of your careers. The balance felt fragile, but you were managing.

He had been so incredibly supportive, texting you every day, sending sweet messages, checking in on you multiple times a day. Every night, you’d call him, sometimes just to talk, other times to vent, and sometimes to simply hear his voice after a long, tiring day. You felt safe, loved, and more than anything, supported.

But then, without warning, things began to shift.

It started slowly at first. You’d notice he wasn’t replying to your messages as quickly as he used to, or his responses seemed a little more distant, a little more curt. You chalked it up to stress from his own schedule, knowing how grueling idol life could be. You didn’t want to jump to conclusions, especially since he had been so caring up until then.

But the signs kept adding up, and eventually, you couldn’t ignore them anymore. His nightly calls were less frequent, and when you did talk, the conversations felt different. He was still kind, still affectionate, but there was something off. It was like he was holding something back, something he wasn’t saying to you.

You tried not to worry, but the doubt lingered in the back of your mind. What was going on?

Then one night, after you had sent him a text asking how he was doing and reminding him to rest, you called him, hoping to get a chance to talk and maybe figure out what was wrong.

But when he picked up, there was a coldness to his voice that you hadn’t heard before.

“What’s up?”

“Jeongin, hey,” you said, trying to sound casual, but the knot in your stomach made it hard. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Are you okay? Something’s been off lately. Have I done something wrong?”

You hesitated, waiting for his answer, but the silence on the other end felt like a thousand miles.

When he finally spoke, his tone was sharp. “You’re being really annoying lately. Why can’t you just let me be? I’m fine. Just... leave me alone for a bit.”

The words hit you like a punch in the gut.

“Wha—what?” Your voice trembled, unsure if you were hearing him correctly. “Jeongin, what’s going on? You’ve been distant, and I—”

“I said leave me alone,” he snapped, his voice suddenly laced with frustration. “Just stop. You don’t need to keep asking about everything. You’re annoying me.”

You stood there, frozen, the phone pressed to your ear as his words sank in.

“Jeongin—” you started, but he didn’t let you finish.

There was a soft click, and then the line went dead.

He hung up.

You stared at the screen in shock, your heart pounding in your chest. It was like the ground had been ripped out from beneath you.

What just happened?

The Jeongin you knew, the one who had been nothing but kind and loving, who had been so understanding, so supportive during everything, would never say something like that. You had expected him to be the one person who would never shut you out, but now it felt like he had just completely turned on you.

Was he angry? Had you done something to upset him? Or was it something else entirely?

The more you thought about it, the more the panic set in. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed, something big that you weren’t seeing.

But what?

You sat there, staring at the phone for what felt like an eternity, trying to make sense of the conversation, trying to understand where it had all gone wrong. But you couldn’t.

Your heart was racing, your hands trembling as you replayed his harsh words over and over in your mind. Annoying?

You had never heard him sound like that before. Not once.

The longer you thought about it, the more worried you became. What if he was pulling away from you? What if it was the stress of everything finally breaking him down, and now he was distancing himself because he didn’t know how to handle it? Or worse, what if something else was going on in his life that he wasn’t telling you?

You tried texting him again, your fingers shaking as you typed out a message:

Jeongin, please. I’m worried. What’s happening? Can we talk?

But you didn’t get a reply.

The silence that followed was the loudest thing you’d ever experienced. It felt suffocating.

You didn’t know what to do. You didn’t want to bombard him, but at the same time, the uncertainty was killing you. You couldn’t just leave it like this, not when it felt like the foundation you had been building together was cracking.

You stared at your phone again, feeling completely lost, unsure of what had just happened or how to fix it. All you could think about was how suddenly, everything had felt so right, and now, it felt like it was slipping through your fingers.

Why was he shutting you out? What had changed? And more importantly, could you fix it before it was too late?

//

masterlist.

❌proofread

[luvvixu]

lipstick experiment / k. bakugo

trying new shades of lipsticks on your boyfriend! (spoiler: he loves it so much)

last week, you received a package from a known lipstick brand that you once saved from their company's headquarters against the villains. so as their thank you gift to you, they sent you a box containing about fifteen different shades of lipsticks.

and right now, the lipsticks were scattered across your vanity as you gleefully unpacked your new treasures. meanwhile. katsuki bakugo sat on the bed behind you, arms crossed, pretending not to care—but his eyes kept flicking toward you in the mirror.

an idea popped in your head as you turned at him with a grin. “katsuki…”

he glanced up with suspicion. “what now?”

since you already prepared your lips with your moisturizer, you popped open a rosy pink lipstick and carefully applied it on your lips. “since they sent me so many shades and i really want to test them all out…i was hoping if i could test these out…on you.”

his brows furrowed. “the hell does that mean?”

instead of answering, you lay all of the lipsticks on the bed as you marched over and climbed onto his lap, straddling him with a smile that was wayyyy too sweet to be innocent.

then—mwah—you kissed his cheek, leaving a perfect pink print.

“what the hell—” he started, but froze as you pulled back to admire your work.

you beamed as you wiped your lips. “hmm…too pinkish for me. let's try another shade.”

“don’t you da—”

pop. new lipstick. a bold red this time.

“katsuki,” you said sweetly, cupping his face, “look at me, baby.”

he tried to look anywhere but you, but you gently turned his face back. now, his half-lidded eyes are now looking at you quietly. then, you smiled at him and kissed his nose.

a red mark. right on the tip.

his eyes twitched.

“you’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” he muttered, his hands going on your waist to support you as you're literally straddling his lap.

you giggled softly, already reaching for another shade. “yes. but you’re letting me do it, so you’re enjoying it too.”

“tch.”

still, he didn’t stop you.

not when you kissed his forehead in coral. not when you pressed three peony-pink kisses across his jaw. not even when you left a nude kiss mark on his neck.

by the end of it, his entire face was covered in different lip prints—each one messier than the last, because you were laughing so hard and he was definitely holding back a smile.

“you look adorable, kat.” you teased, wiping a tear from your eye.

“shut up,” he muttered, eyes flicking to your lips.

as you were still sitting in his lap again, lipstick in one hand, amusement in your smile, and katsuki…well, he looked like he was trying to stay annoyed. keyword: trying.

you kissed his cheek for the fifth time, the soft press of your lips leaving another mark—this one a warm rose shade that looked kind of perfect against his skin. you leaned back to admire it, grinning.

he didn’t say a word. he didn’t flinch. he didn’t pull away.

you caught it then—a flicker. the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips, like he was fighting off a smile and losing.

your heart fluttered.

“katsuki…” you whispered teasingly, “you sure you're not enjoying this?”

he scoffed. “you’re makin’ a mess.”

but his hands were still on your waist—gentle, possessive, like he didn’t want you to move. his red eyes darted to your lips every time you reached for a new shade, and when you kissed the tip of his nose?

that’s when you saw it.

the softness in his face.

his whole expression cracked for just a second—no scowl, no sarcasm. just him. completely vulnerable, eyes warm, like he forgot the rest of the world existed and could only see you.

your breath caught.

you weren’t even sure if he knew how he was looking at you. like every kiss was a promise. like he was trying to memorize the shape of your smile. like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

and still—he let you keep kissing him.

cheeks, jaw, forehead, nose, lips

you were leaving prints everywhere, and he didn’t stop you once.

when you kissed his jaw again, he muttered under his breath, “you’re such a damn menace…”

but his voice was rough. soft around the edges. like maybe he didn’t want you to stop.

you pulled back and whispered, “you look even more pretty with my kisses.”

he didn’t answer.

but his hands held you tighter.

and that look in his eyes? yeah. that was all the answer you needed.

fast forward, you are now finished testing out all of the shades and his face was literally colorful and full of your kiss marks. surprisingly, katsuki stayed quiet as he just kept on looking at you and his eyes would close whenever you land a kiss on his face.

you reached for a makeup wipe, giggling softly as you hovered near his cheek. “okay, let me clean you up before the color stains your skin.”

but before you could touch him, katsuki grabbed your wrist—gently, but firmly.

“don’t.”

you blinked. “huh?”

he looked away, ears tinged red. “leave it. just for a while.” he mumbled softly.

you stared at him in disbelief. “you wanna walk around looking like you got attacked by a lipstick-loving ghost?”

he gave you a half-hearted glare. “i like it, alright? it’s…proof.”

“proof of what?”

he tightened his grip on your waist, pulling you flush against him. “that you’re mine. and that i let you get away with this kinda shit.”

your heart skipped, and suddenly the urge to tease him vanished into something softer, warmer.

“…you’re such a sap when you try to hide it,” you whispered, pressing your forehead against his.

he grumbled under his breath but didn’t deny it.

you pulled back just a little—just enough to grab your phone from the nightstand. bakugo immediately narrowed his eyes but didn't question you.

you opened the camera and set it on selfie mode as you fit your faces on the screen. you hugged him close, making your cheeks smashed to each other.

“look at the camera, kat.” you said as you smiled, then clicked the button. katsuki just looked at the camera but didn't smile. he saw his face all covered with your kisses, and if he would be honest, that made him feel oddly giddy in his chest.

“okay, one more.” this time, you placed a kiss on his cheek and snapped the picture.

you took more photos and when you're finally done, you set your phone down and formally looked at your boyfriend. you cupped his cheek as your thumb grazed over his lower lip.

“thanks for letting me test these shades.”

“even though i looked like a damn lipstick experiment, have you finally picked out your shade yet?”

you nodded and showed him your top three lipstick shades. “these suit me better.”

“how about you? what do you think is the best shade for me?”

“anything as long as it's your lips.” he said.

you couldn't help but to crackle a laugh. “is that a flirting attempt or what?”

he glared at you but there's no hostility in those eyes. “shut up.” he mumbled as you continued to laugh.

his arms wrapped around you tighter.

and for once, bakugo katsuki didn’t feel like he had to be explosive or loud or strong to be loved.

he just had to be here—with you.

lipstick stains and all, he's glad to do this lipstick experiment with you.

masterlist

©luvvixu2025

a/n: AHHH I LIED GUYS, THIS HAS TO BE MY MOST FAVORITE BAKUGO KATSUKI FF I HAD WRITTEN CUZ HUHUHU CAN U GUYS IMAGINE HOW GIGGLY I AM WHILE WRITING THIS???

no mind over matter update today, but here's your daily dose of katsuki once again hahah i think i have serious hyperfixation about writing this dude...

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #21

Tony Stark had a lot of regrets in life. Most of them involved tequila, a few bad tattoos he had paid to laser off before Pepper found out, and one especially haunted incident involving a mechanical bull, a congressman’s wife, and the phrase “I dare you.” But none—not even Ultron—could have prepared him for the living, brooding, wall-punching cryptid that was Dante “Dan” Masters.

Dan was technically human. Probably. No one was brave enough to check. He stood 6’7”, made of nothing but scarred muscle and menace, had jawlines sharp enough to commit tax fraud, and wore an expression that screamed “I bench press semi-trucks for therapy.” His hair was raven black and permanently tousled like he’d just walked away from an explosion—which, considering the fact he had actually walked away from an explosion that morning, tracked. His eyes were the kind of ice-blue that made AI go glitchy and interns cry.

Also, he was Tony’s bodyguard.

“I didn’t hire him,” Tony said the first time the Avengers saw Dan.

“You absolutely did,” Pepper replied, not even looking up from her tablet. “You drunkenly told Happy to ‘get me someone who looks like a Greek tragedy and hits like daddy issues.’”

And so Happy had found Dan. Or, more accurately, Dan had found Happy—by appearing in his passenger seat uninvited while Happy was getting a cheeseburger.

Dan never explained how he got there.

“Didn’t open the door. Didn’t break the lock. Just was there,” Happy muttered for the next three weeks. “I looked down to grab fries, looked up, boom. Bodyguard. Demon. Something. He just nodded and said, ‘I eat souls of cowards.’ Then asked for curly fries.”

Tony loved him instantly.

“Look at him,” Tony whispered one night, wine drunk and emotionally vulnerable. “He’s like my own personal murder puppy.”

Steve thought he was horrifying. Natasha called him “the Babadook with a gym membership.” Bruce kept trying to blood test him, but the last time he tried, Dan snapped the needle with his eyelid.

No one knew much about Dan, other than that he was the estranged heir to DALV.CO, the global tech giant run by Vlad Masters, a man whose Wikipedia page had to be locked due to repeated edits claiming he was “the literal Antichrist.”

“Why don’t you go back to your dad’s company?” Tony asked once, halfway through their fourth bottle of scotch, lounging on the penthouse balcony like rich, emotionally constipated divorcees. “You’d be the richest guy in the world.”

“I’d rather castrate myself with a melon baller,” Dan replied.

“Hot.”

Dan just grunted and stared moodily into the skyline, brooding like Batman’s taller, angrier cousin.

There were… signs that Dan wasn’t quite normal. Like the way he phased through walls when he thought no one was looking. Or the time someone tried to stab Tony during a charity gala and Dan grabbed the knife mid-thrust, crushed it into dust with his bare hand, and said, “You missed his heart. Want a second try?”

Tony had to excuse himself for five minutes and blame it on the shrimp cocktail.

Also: Dan never slept. Ever. Tony caught him once at 3 a.m., levitating midair in a meditative pose above the workshop floor, glowing faintly green and whispering what sounded like Latin but angrier.

“Cool trick,” Tony said, filming it for Instagram.

Dan’s eyes snapped open, glowed neon, and he growled, “Delete that or I’ll haunt your teeth.”

Tony deleted it. Reluctantly. But saved a copy in a secret drive labeled “hotboy_shit_DO_NOT_OPEN.”

The first time Dan met Thor, he sized him up for half a second and muttered, “Nice hair, Renaissance frat boy.”

Thor blinked. Then grinned. “I like this one.”

The first time Dan met Loki, he pinned him to the wall with one hand, sniffed once, and said, “You smell like lies and lavender. I don’t trust you.”

“I’m flattered,” Loki purred.

“I wasn’t complimenting you.”

Loki avoided him for two weeks. Claimed it was allergy season.

Dan did not talk. He growled. He glared. He loomed like a death omen in leather jackets. And still—still—every villain who tried to attack Tony ended up launched through a wall, disarmed in under two seconds, or knocked unconscious with a flick of the wrist.

“Are you sure he’s not a meta, or like, a ghost, or something?” Sam asked one day.

Tony blinked. “Ghost? That’s oddly specific.”

“I’m just saying. I saw him walk through a vending machine yesterday and pull out a pack of gum.”

“Maybe it was broken.”

“He reached in, grabbed the gum through the glass, and said, ‘I don’t pay for artificial happiness.’”

“…Okay, that’s just poetry.”

Dan, as it turned out, was a ghost. Sort of. Not the Casper kind. More like the “cursed anomaly spawned from grief and rage after a catastrophic supernatural meltdown in a parallel dimension” kind.

But he didn’t talk about that. Ever. Unless it was to threaten someone into shutting up. Which he did often.

Tony once asked if “Dan” was short for something other than Dante. Dan deadpanned and said, “Damnation.”

Tony laughed. Dan didn’t.

The Avengers all had bets on what Dan really was. Bruce thought he was a failed gamma experiment. Natasha swore he was an eldritch entity in disguise. Steve thought he was “just a really intense guy with trauma.” (Steve was wrong.)

The truth came out, as these things do, during an alien invasion. A random Tuesday. Buildings were exploding, civilians were screaming, and Tony—stupidly, heroically, idiotic as always—got cornered by a space hydra in a burning alley.

“Dan!” he shouted through comms, panicking. “I need backup! Big slimy bastard, eight mouths, hates sarcasm!”

The hydra lunged.

Then Dan exploded out of nowhere in a swirl of black and green fire, his body wreathed in spectral energy, eyes glowing like apocalypse lanterns. He opened his mouth—and screamed.

Not like a human scream. No. Like a banshee from the ninth ring of hell having a breakdown.

The hydra disintegrated. Vaporized into cosmic ash.

Dan turned to Tony, eyes still glowing, hair on fire, his voice doubled and demonic: “You okay?”

Tony, covered in alien guts and halfway to fainting, whispered, “Okay? Okay? I think I just came.”

Dan dropped him.

“Deserved.”

From then on, everything was chaos.

SHIELD tried to recruit him. He burned their files.

HYDRA tried to kidnap him. They didn’t survive the attempt.

Someone from a ghost-hunting organization named G.I.W. showed up once, claiming he was a danger to the world. Dan stared them down and said, “I’ve killed gods for fun. You think I’m scared of a man in khakis?”

They ran screaming.

Tony, of course, was obsessed.

“You’re my new favorite thing,” he declared one night, flopping dramatically onto the couch while Dan watched reruns of Iron Chef in silence. “Like, my favorite. Sorry, Pepper.”

“Don’t drag me into your kinks,” Pepper replied from the hallway.

Dan never officially moved in. But his things started appearing—a toothbrush here, a punching bag in the gym, a fridge filled with nothing but protein shakes and hot sauce. Eventually, Tony just gave him a keycard.

And maybe a second suit in case he ever wanted to try flying. Dan declined. He could already fly. Casually. Like it was no big deal.

Also: he could turn invisible. Tony found this out when he walked into his lab naked at 2 a.m. and muttered, “If there’s anyone here, speak now or forever hold your—”

“I’m here.”

Tony screamed. Dan was perched on the ceiling.

“Why are you like this?!”

“Because I hate peace.”

Eventually, the world found out. A viral video. A fight gone wrong. Dan going full phantom mode on live TV and decapitating an alien with a manhole cover.

Headlines exploded.

“Heir to DALV.CO Is a Literal Ghost.”

“Tony Stark’s Bodyguard Is an Interdimensional Specter, and Honestly, Same.”

“Dante Masters: Hot, Haunted, and Horrifying.”

Vlad Masters showed up. Tried to reclaim Dan.

Dan answered the door shirtless, covered in blood, holding a spatula. “I’m cooking pancakes. Leave before I use you as syrup.”

Tony peeked from behind him. “He means it.”

Dan shut the door in Vlad’s face.

“I hate that man,” he muttered.

Tony smiled dreamily. “I love you.”

“…Stop.”

“Nope. Too late. Suffering together forever.”

Dan groaned. But he didn’t leave.

He never did.

[full-stackmobiledeveloper]

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[kikiiswashere]

Four to Tango

As promised, part two of Waltzing for Three!!!

Thank you for helping me reach 200 followers for this little ol' blog of mine 🥰 And welcome to all the newcomers!

The idea for this ficlet was born of watching my bestie @sand-sea-and-fable help out a pregnant friend by lifting her belly off her hips, and it just sort of spiraled from there.

It's also worth noting that I myself am not a mother, nor have I given birth, nor do I wish to be a mom (husband got the ol' snip-snip). So why this fic? Good question 😅

That being said, I did my best to write about the labor process relatively accurately without getting into the super nitty-gritty of it 😂 So, please enjoy this weird little fever-dream of a fic, and please comment and reblog 💗

Tags for the interested parties: @luhmoon, @legendaryflowercheesecake, @thebeserkvernid, @miffysoo

Pairing: Established Silco x AFAB!Reader

Rating: Teen/Mature (brief reference to oral sex)

CW: Non-graphic descriptions of pregnancy and labor

Insistent cramping had woken you up in the wee-hours one morning, swelling and ebbing in a slow rhythm that sent your heart tapping, a loop of nerves coiling around your gut – little room that there was for it.

Silco had been a terribly light sleeper ever since Vander’s betrayal, ever since those early years on an under-tested Shimmer variant that left his brain unable to fully settle. So, the moment you shifted into a sitting position, he shot up as well.

“What’s wrong?”

Words got gummed up on fear and excitement in your mouth. There was a slight tremor in your fingers as they grazed over your belly. You had noticed it sitting even lower on your hips these past several days. While you were very done with being pregnant, you were still nervous and surprised to say –

“I think it’s time.”

With comical amounts of speed, but awe-inspiring grace, Silco flung himself from the bed, divesting himself of his eyepatch and pajamas. After changing into a simple set of trousers and an old button-up shirt, he fetched the stopwatch Jinx had invented to easily time your contractions, and wrote a tube prompting your midwife that she was needed. It had been decided early on that the babe’s delivery – barring any complications – would happen at The Last Drop. You, nor Silco, were willing to venture outside to a clinic when your family would be at its most vulnerable.

Too nervous to lay down, much less fall back asleep, you began pacing the large bedroom in your large sleep shirt. Every time a contraction locked up and spasmed through your lower belly and back, your fingers pressed the stopwatch’s clicker. And you breathed as the midwife had instructed. Silco kept you company, walking with you up and down the length of the bedroom, holding your hand and becoming an anchor to squeeze when contractions rolled through. Together, you both noted and kept track of their intervals. Their spacing  and length suggested that the little one’s arrival was not imminent, but the consistency indicated that this was indeed labor.

The midwife arrived, ushered in by a half-asleep Sevika. You’d bribed her with an absurd bonus and several pre-paid sessions at Babette’s for her to crash in one of the Drop’s private guest rooms during these last days of your pregnancy. She was needed for security, and to stand-in for Silco when his attention and priorities would be elsewhere.

“Good luck,” she’d grumbled, barely glancing at you before shutting the bedroom door, and trudging back down the hall.

The midwife was a petite, wizened Vastaya who’d been selected for her services not only because of her field prowess, but because she was staunch loyalist to you and Silco. Shimmer had helped save more than one of her clients when the birthing process had begun to go sideways, and that was enough for her to hitch her wagon to your agenda.

She was also direct to the point of rudeness – a personality trait that was wholly welcome given the slippery, hidden, self-serving rhetoric you were used to having to deal with.

“Time?” she asked, setting her medical bag down on your dresser with a heavy thunk.

“Forty-five seconds to a minute, about every seven minutes,” you answered. Then gasped and doubled over as another contraction bent you.

The midwife hummed. “How long?”

“About an hour,” Silco said. He squeezed back at your hand as you rode out the current wave rolling through.

Clucking her tongue, the midwife shook her head, long ears slapping lightly against her horns.

“Early.”

Silco frowned. “You are being more than thoroughly compensated to show up whenever we ask.”

“Indeed. To the bed, miss. Let’s have a look.”

Once your legs were freed from the lock of the contraction, you shuffled to the bed. Silco helped you into position, and the midwife closed in. Her fingers were warm, but the tools were cold. The combination, along with your nerves, caused your lungs to shudder.

“Five,” she declared, drawing her head from between your thighs.

“That’s halfway,” you chuckled weakly. Silco brushed his thumb over your knuckles

The midwife hummed in agreement. “True. But as discussed, this process is not linear. And being your first delivery, it is very likely this will take a while. How is the pain?”

“Fine. Manageable.” It came out as a grit, but she didn’t seem to doubt you.

“You should eat and drink while you can. Is there anything else you want or need right now?”

Together, you and Silco walked to the small kitchen in your private quarters. You rested your forearms on the counter as the length of your spine hammocked behind you, hips gently swishing side-to-side. Silco kept the breakfast blissfully simple: toast with a light slather of butter, and a mug of warmed water with lemon.

Eating was slow going. Between the jitters and contractions, your appetite was seriously curbed. When you finally made it to the second piece of toast, Jinx shuffled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and bed-headed. Her bedraggled demeanor did not last long though, as her whip-quick senses tuned into the energy of the space. Big, blue eyes tracked between Silco – unusually underdressed – and your strange posture. One could nearly hear the cogs in her head clicking and whirring.

“Is it time?!”

In a flash, she clambered onto the stool next to you, bright and tittering. Her exuberance washed over you in a relieving breeze. Reaching over, you ran a hand through her unkempt hair.

“Sure is, kiddo.”

“When will he be here?”

“Could be a while yet, Jinx,” Silco answered. He set a glass of juice in front of her. “What would you like? Toad-in-the-hole? Porridge? Pancakes?”

“Make ‘em have a face!” she crowed.

A hook of a smile pulled at Silco’s mouth as he turned back toward the stove.

Jinx settled onto the stool; legs kicking merrily beneath her as she sipped her juice.

“What does it feel like?”

“Like intense menstrual cramps.”

Her small face squished in a ponder. While you had had that conversation with her, Jinx had yet to broach into that aspect of puberty. Thus, she had no point of reference.

“Kinda like when you roof-run after eating, and your abs cramp up,” you offered. “Kind of.”

A contraction swelled upon you, and you grit your teeth, face pinching, head dropping. Silco stepped away from the stovetop, and placed a grounding hand between your shoulder blades. Jinx watched, eyes wide and worried. Timidly, she shifted toward you, pressing her forehead to your shoulder.

The pain continued, but was temporarily numbed by the overwhelming love and gratitude for the two people on either side of you.

Your family.

It was never part of the plan when it came to your Silco’s ideas to lift Zaun up, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. And in a few hours, three would be four. Your heart beat big, tapping against your throat as the contraction passed. You clicked the stopwatch.

“That seems worse than roof-run cramps,” Jinx said suspiciously.

You chuffed. “Like I said: Kind of.”

Silco rubbed his hand up and down your spine a few times, before kissing your temple and returning to the stove.

“You remember what we talked about?” you asked Jinx.

She fiddled with her hair, nodding. “I can come and go as I please.”

“Right. If you want to be with us, I want you to be there. If you don’t, that’s fine, too. You get to decide, and it doesn’t have to be right now.”

Jinx nodded again, eyes staring into the middle-distance. Reaching over, you brushed your fingers through her hair again. Her eyes snapped back to yours.

“Are you scared?”

You gave her a reassuring smile.

“No. I’m happy.”

It wasn’t a lie. But a few hours later, your happiness was thoroughly overshadowed by the pain of labor. It was staggering how it had intensified. How it was becoming near non-stop as the space between contractions shortened and shortened. Gravity felt impossible to contend with on top of everything else, so you sank onto your bedroom floor with a low, guttural growl.

Silco had been attentive throughout, anticipating your needs before you even voiced them. Ever your anchor, your source for steadiness. Even now, on your hands and knees, his own wide palms settled onto your hips and pressed in. It pulled an appreciative groan from your throat.

“You’re doing so well, my love.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

Your eyes flicked to the bathroom door where Jinx was helping the midwife prepare a warm bath. You were proud of your girl. Admittedly, part of you doubted she would choose to stick around once labor became loud and more intense. When you could no longer keep yourself from crying out, hesitancy had flickered in her eyes, and her brows pitched in concern. But instead of dashing away, she’d reached for your hand and held tight.

“Is there anything you can give her?” she’d asked the midwife incredulously.

The female had smirked, impressed and moved by the girl’s protectiveness of you.

“I have mild pain relievers, but nothing that will fully numb – “

“Shimmer?”

The midwife’s black lips thinned. “That is only to be used in emergencies,” she explained. “It is too potent and powerful to be used for anything other than the most extreme circumstances. Which – “her eyes looked up at your haggard form on the bed – “does not seem probable. Her labor is progressing as it should. There is nothing to worry about.”

Jinx frowned, doubtful, and hunkered closer to your side.

“Seems like a dumb design that it hurts so much.”

“Agreed,” you wheezed.

“Come,” the midwife said, “let’s check you.”

She declared you’d progressed to eight centimeters. That had been three hours ago. And the pain just continued to climb and build.

A small sob burst through your teeth. Silco knelt at your side, quietly saying your name.

“I’m scared, Sil,” you admitted in a whisper. You were thankful Jinx wasn’t near to hear you back-pedal. Your breath hitched and words tumbled out: “I don’t know if I can do this.”

He took your warm and tear-streaked face between his hands, and repeated your name.

“Look at me.”

Reluctantly, your tired and wet eyes focused on his face. He looked at you with fierce earnestness, thumbs sweeping across the apples of your flushed cheeks. Suddenly, part of you grieved that the baby would never know Silco without his scars. Or yours. Outside and in.

Silco called your name again.

“Look at me,” he repeated. Your eyes slid back to his. Blue and red pinned you in place. “You can do this. I’ve not met anyone more tenacious, nor strong, nor as spirited as you. Those are but a few of the reasons I fell in love with you so long ago.” His eyes softened now; his adoration made plain. “You’ve absolutely no reason to doubt yourself.”

A small hiccup bubbled from your mouth, and you pressed your face into the warmth of his palm, breathing him in deeply. Not having properly dressed for the day, he hadn’t put any cologne on. The natural terra-sweet scent of his skin filled your nose. You were grateful for his support, respect, and belief in your abilities. A sudden, silly thought flitted across your mind.

“Not my dance moves?”

A single amused breath huffed from his throat. That infinitesimal smirk – one of the reasons you’d fallen in love with him – appeared on his lips. His blue eye flashed; as it often did when an idea struck him. Silco lifted to his feet, and used a strong grip to pull you to yours. He guided your arms to loop around his shoulders and neck, while his went to your low back. A weary chuckle left you as you understood. Your cheek was a relieved, heavy weight against his shoulder. It had to be a strange sight, this dance configuration: with your body slouched against his, massive belly hanging between you two. Slowly, your feet began gently shifting side-to-side.

“Admittedly,” he murmured against your crown, “your dance moves leave something to be desired right now.”

You laughed, even as another contraction swelled within you. Silco’s hands firmed up on your body, holding you upright as it moved through your body.

“I’ll make it up to you,” you hissed as most of the pain subsided. It was such now that there was no longer any real relief.

“A dance and a suck job? Lucky me.”

Your fingers pinched Silco’s upper back, and you felt the tremor of silent laughter in his shoulders.

“Tub’s ready!” Jinx sang as she flounced out of the bathroom.

Managing to smile at her, despite another great, contracting swell that threatened to bring you to your knees, you took her hand. Silco kept a strong arm wrapped around your middle, and you followed Jinx into the humid warmth of the bathroom.

The water helped. Its heat soothed your pained muscles and aching bones. The irony was not lost on you that you found peace in it. After a few minutes of settling into the tub, you gave Silco a look that to anyone else may have seemed like nothing. But he caught the message in your eyes, and tucked himself close to the tub’s edge, taking your hand. Jinx huddled herself into his lap, nervously fingering the buttons on his shirt.

About an hour later, the midwife’s large ears flicked in your direction as the quality of your breath shifted, as the sounds leaving you turned deeper and more animal. Her deft hands slipped into the water and between your legs.

“Something changed,” you gasped, hunching slightly. “It feels like – “

“It’s time,” she said, pulling her hands from the water. Somehow, she’d also stripped your underwear off in the same movement without you noticing. “It’s time to push.”

Push. The word settled into your body with a deep, innate knowing.

Yes. That’s what you were feeling. The near uncontrollable need to bare down. An old, predetermined instinct washed over you. You could do this.

But you did not want to do it alone.

“Sil.”

The grit of his name and the way you shifted yourself forward spurred your partner into understanding. Swiftly, he stood, deposited Jinx onto the stool he’d vacated, and then stepped into the tub, sliding in behind you. Settling against his chest, your hand ferociously intertwined with his. His heart beat firmly against your back.

“You can do this,” he whispered into your ear.

“Give me your other hand, dear,” the midwife said. You did so and she guided it under the water, preparing you to feel and catch. “Push.”

“Push! Push!” Jinx cried, her little fists pumping and bopping in the air madly.

Gritting your teeth, you did just that. A sound you didn’t know you were capable of making burst from your lungs. When the air ran out, you slumped against Silco’s chest.

“Breath in,” the midwife demanded. You did so. “Push!”

You did again, a roar ripping from your chest. A roar that ended in a surprised yip as something into your hand.

“Again,” the midwife demanded.

And you complied, baring down with everything you had. With all the might and tenacity and power your body could exert. Another battle cry echoed off the bathroom tiles, and a solid weight slid into your hand. You ripped your other hand from Silco’s grip, and pulled a wriggling newborn from the water.

“It’s a boy!” Jinx yelled, bouncing up and down in her seat.

Her brother’s face squidged, and his pink mouth opened in an announcing wail. You joined in and pulled the babe to your chest. Silco went very still behind you, scarcely breathing. Then his hands appeared over yours, cradling the baby at your chest. Like on the night you’d taken in Jinx, he pulled his legs up around you both and held tight.

Later, once the placenta had passed (something Jinx was equally horrified and enthralled by) you were helped out of the tub, and cleaned. The midwife tied off the babe’s umbilical cord, and once some time passed, you watched with an incredibly full heart as Silco severed it.

You weren’t sure if you’d ever seen the expression on your partner’s face. A soft, careful, wonderous thing. Then it hit you all at once. You were watching Silco fall in love. The notion took your breath away and fresh tears welled in your eyes. Jinx clung to you, and you to her.

“Thank you for being with me, Jinx. It helped.”

The girl beamed up at you, holding on tighter.

“I think it is your turn for a shower, sir,” the midwife said, twisting off the umbilical nub.

Silco watched her hands like a hawk as she did. He slid in once she finished, and wrapped him in a blanket Jinx had decorated. It was a small thing, but you caught the tremor in his hands. Keeping Jinx tucked against your side, you came to stand next to him.

“He’ll be here when you get out of the shower,” you whispered, voice hoarse.

“Yeah! Go get the baby juice off you!” Jinx ordered.

Silco’s expression of awe turned to one of bemusement as he glanced at your daughter.

“Yes. I suppose I should.”

Your own hands shook a bit as you gathered your son – your son! You wondered if the shock would wear off – and ushered Jinx to follow the midwife out of the bathroom.

With no small amount of effort, your body, beyond sore and exhausted, climbed into bed. The baby cooed and nuzzled and fussed against your chest as you settled into the pillows and duvet. Jinx climbed in on the opposite side, and snuggled close.

“He’s already sleeping!”

“It’s hard work being born. Don’t you remember?” you chuckled.

Jinx laughed, “No!”

A small smile curled the midwife’s mouth as she snapped her bag shut. She turned to you and bowed her head.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” you said, eyes on your boy. Then you lifted them to hers, and said again, “And thank you.”

She nodded again, horns catching the light in the room.

“It was my honor.”

She gave you and the baby one last cursory check over, and took her leave.

A few moments after she left, there was a knock on the door, and Sevika stuck her head in.

“Ogre!” Jinx cried. “I gotta brother!”

Even Sevika’s presence couldn’t dampen Jinx’s mood.

Silco’s lieutenant grunted, and stepped over to the bed. She stayed at a distance though, craning her neck to peer down at you and the baby.

“Yep. That’s a baby. Congrats.”

“Thank you, Sevika.”

Behind her, Silco emerged from the foggy bathroom in a fresh pair of slacks and an unbuttoned shirt. Sevika tilted her strong chin in his direction and he nodded back.

“I’ll leave you all to it then,” she said.

Her poncho twirled as she spun back to leave. As she and Silco crossed paths, a metal finger tip whipped out from beneath the red fabric, and poked his bare belly. He jolted and shuddered. He sneered at her, but she just snickered and slipped out of the room.

Silco shook his head, damp hair beginning to curl at the ends. He rounded the bed, and climbed in, sandwiching Jinx between your bodies. He leaned over the girl’s head and kissed you.

“What’re we gonna name him?” Jinx pipped.

You and Silco exchanged a look.

“I’m not sure,” you admitted.

“I’m sure we’ll come up with something.” he added.

Immediately, Jinx began rattling off all her suggestions.

Before a name could be decided, you fell asleep. Jinx followed shortly after; her plump cheek pressed against your shoulder. Gingerly, Silco lifted the baby from your arms, and brought him to his bare chest. The boy tensed, and then melted, a small wispy sigh leaving him.

Silco melted, too; a foreign, near indescribable softness filling him up. He brought his hand to the boy’s back, its length and width nearly covering all of him. His son was so small.

His son. His son.

Emotions gripped him so intensely he nearly choked.

Elation, love, fear.

Grief.

There was grief that his child was born technically as a citizen of Piltover. But that anguish was small compared to the other one that had been tucked away in the scar tissue of Silco’s heart ever since you had told him of the pregnancy. A pain that he hated he harbored.

The secret grief was that Vander wasn’t here to see this. The grief that his Brother had ruined any chance of participating in this milestone. The grief of Vander’s death (justified though it was) was scratched open as Silco’s son lay on his heart. The grief that, had things gone differently, Silco would’ve named the boy after his Brother.

“Sil.”

Silco’s head whipped around at the sound of your voice. Your beautiful, exhausted, beautiful face shone up at him. There was a smile on your lips that he wished to taste, so he leaned over Jinx’s head again and pressed his mouth to yours. 

“I told you you could do it,” he whispered leaning back. You smiled and nodded wearily.

The baby grunted and shifted against Silco’s chest, and he pet the back of his head so, so softly. It broke your heart into a million pieces, and then they jumped right back together. Your eyes slid back up to your partner’s profile.

You felt his grief, because it was yours, too.

“I know, Silco,” you whispered. He looked over to you. Jinx snored softly between. “I wish it had been different, too.”

Silco’s eyebrow dropped, and his lips softened. He glanced down at the baby on his chest, and chuckled ruefully.

“I truly don’t know what to name him.”

You shrugged. “We’ll figure it out.”

He nodded. You sat in silence for a while, listening to your children breath. Jinx’s raspy breaths and the baby’s snuffling. It was music to your ears. You would never tire of hearing it.

Just as you were about to doze again, you felt Silco’s energy shift. Eyes sharpening onto him, you watched as he first gently ran his fingers over Jinx’s freckled cheek. Then, so carefully, he lifted the baby from his chest so he could look at his small face.

“You and your sister will have better than we did,” he promised. “Me and your mother will give you a nation.”

Your son’s eyes fluttered open and closed, the bud of his mouth stretching into what looked like a small smile. Your throat tightened horribly, and you tucked your nose into Jinx’s crown.

When you were sure you could speak without choking, you lifted your head and said, “We promise.”

I hope part two scratched the itch <3 If you enjoy my work and would like to support me (firstly, THANK YOU!) check out my Ko-Fi page!

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[mywhisperingwords]

am i what you wanted? | fred g. weasley

summary: casual. no strings. just something to forget the loneliness. right? word count: 7.6k masterlist

The air at the party feels heavier than usual, like everyone is trying too hard to pretend they’re having a good time.

You’ve spent most of the night nursing a drink you don’t particularly like, offering polite smiles to people you barely know. It’s not your scene, but you came anyway because that’s what friends do—they drag you out, convince you it’ll be “fun,” and leave you regretting it by the second hour.

You’re just about ready to slip away when you spot him—Fred Weasley.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, casual and effortless as always, but there’s something different tonight. The usual spark in his eyes is dimmer, his smile not quite as wide. He’s talking to someone, but his gaze keeps drifting, like he’s only half paying attention.

You consider leaving without a word. After all, you’ve spent years perfecting the art of avoiding him. Not because you dislike him—quite the opposite.

Your stupid schoolgirl crush on him hasn’t quite fizzled out, no matter how much time has passed.

And of course, there was the matter of his latest relationship, a whirlwind romance with someone you considered a friend, Leah.

It would be wrong to approach him now, wouldn’t it?

But then Fred’s eyes land on you, and there’s no escaping. He gives you a faint smile, a shadow of his usual grin, and lifts his drink in a lazy sort of greeting. It’s an invitation, subtle but unmistakable. Against your better judgment, you cross the room.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, his voice low enough to cut through the background noise without effort.

You shrug, trying to seem unaffected. “Alicia dragged me out. Said I needed to get a life or something.”

Fred huffs a quiet laugh, looking down into his glass. “Sounds like something she’d say. George said the same to me, actually. Guess misery loves company.”

The comment surprises you. Fred doesn’t usually talk like that—so openly, so vulnerable. It’s enough to make you pause, to glance at him more carefully. “You don’t seem miserable,” you say, testing the waters.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes a long sip of his drink and stares past you, like he’s trying to find the right words. “You’d be surprised,” he finally says, his tone softer now.

It’s an opening, one you hadn’t expected but can’t ignore. “What happened?”

Fred glances around, his expression unreadable, before gesturing toward the balcony. “Do you mind? It’s a bit loud in here.”

You follow him outside, where the night air is cool and quiet compared to the chaos inside. He leans against the railing, staring out at the city lights, and you stand beside him, unsure of what to say.

“She left,” he says abruptly, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s talking about her—his ex.

“Oh.” It’s all you can manage.

Fred smiles faintly, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah. Not the dramatic kind of leaving either. No big fight, no slamming doors. Just… stopped caring, I guess. Said it wasn’t enough for her.”

The confession stirs something in you, a mix of sympathy and something sharper, harder to define.

You’ve never known Fred to be anything but confident, self-assured. Seeing him like this—guarded, almost uncertain—it’s disarming.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, and you mean it.

He glances at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment, it feels like he’s seeing you for the first time. “It’s funny, isn’t it? How loneliness sneaks up on you. One day you think you’re fine, and the next, it’s like you can’t breathe.”

You nod, because you understand more than you’d like to admit. “Yeah. It’s awful.”

Fred studies you for a moment longer before offering a faint, almost wistful smile. “You get it.”

The words settle between you, warm and unspoken, and before you can overthink it, you say, “Maybe we’re just terrible at choosing the right people.”

Fred laughs then, a soft, genuine sound that eases some of the tension in your chest. “Maybe we are.”

It feels like an unspoken agreement, a quiet acknowledgment of shared pain. And when he leans just a little closer, his shoulder brushing against yours, you don’t pull away.

&

The door slams shut behind you both, barely closed before Fred’s hands are on your waist, pulling you closer. His mouth is on yours again, urgent and consuming, and the world outside this moment ceases to exist.

You’re not sure how it started—or maybe you do—but you’re too caught up in the feel of him, in the way he kisses like he’s unraveling a part of himself he’s never shown anyone.

Your back hits the edge of the couch, but Fred doesn’t stop. He moves with you, stumbling through the dark like neither of you can think beyond each other.

You barely make it to the bedroom. A trail of discarded shoes and jackets marks the path, forgotten in the haze.

He pauses only briefly, just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours. “This…” he begins, his voice rough, barely a whisper. “This is what I needed. Something… easy. No expectations.”

The words are quiet but land with a weight that sticks somewhere in your chest. You know what he means—casual, uncomplicated, something to dull the ache of loneliness he spoke of earlier.

Your heart lurches, but your mind, clouded with want and the intoxicating proximity of him, nods before you can think it through. “Yeah,” you murmur, barely above a whisper. “Me too.”

The lie tastes bitter even as the kiss resumes, as his lips trail down your neck, as his hands find your skin. You tell yourself you’re fine with this. It’s Fred, and it’s what he wants. Isn’t it better to have this than nothing at all?

When morning comes, he’s gone.

You’re not surprised—he doesn’t strike you as the type to linger—but the silence in the room feels deafening. The sheets are cold where he was, and you stare at the ceiling, replaying his words in your head.

Something easy. No expectations.

Your agreement, muffled and uncertain, rings louder now. You agreed. This is what you signed up for. So why does your chest ache? Why does it feel like you’ve made a mistake you can’t undo?

You sit up, the mess of the night scattered around you—a shirt draped over the chair, an overturned glass on the table. It’s all so mundane, yet it feels like the air has shifted in your room, like the walls are pressing in.

You bury your face in your hands, letting out a slow, measured breath. Maybe this wasn’t the right decision. But you can’t change it now. Fred was what you wanted for so long, wasn’t he? Maybe this is all you get.

Maybe this is all you’re allowed to have.

You hope you can convince yourself of that.

&

The pub is buzzing, laughter and conversation spilling out from every corner as you sit wedged between Alicia and George.

Fred is across from you, casually leaning back in his chair, a pint of beer balanced between his long fingers. His laughter blends with the noise around you, effortlessly charming, as always.

It’s easy to forget, in moments like this, that this is supposed to be casual. Easy.

You catch yourself watching him longer than you should, noting the way his hair falls into his eyes when he laughs, the way his smile lingers just enough to make your stomach twist.

You remind yourself to look away.

The conversation circles back to someone’s recent breakup, a natural segue into a casual remark about Fred’s ex.

It’s Angelina, sitting two seats down, who says it without malice—just an innocent mention of the girl who was once by his side.

“You were so into her, Fred. Thought you two were endgame, honestly,” she says with a smile, tipping her glass toward him.

Fred’s expression flickers, just for a second, but it’s enough to change the energy at the table. The easy grin falters, his fingers tightening around the glass. “Yeah, well,” he says, voice light but guarded, “things don’t always work out the way you think they will.”

The group catches on quickly, steering the conversation elsewhere, but you can’t take your eyes off him. There’s something in the way his shoulders tense, in the way he avoids eye contact, that makes your chest tighten.

The rest of the evening is a blur of noise and small talk. You find yourself gravitating toward the bar, needing space, needing air. But you don’t get far.

Fred appears beside you, leaning on the counter with a quiet sigh. His eyes are darker now, shadows of something unspoken behind them. He doesn’t say anything, just glances at you, and suddenly the air feels heavier.

“Come with me,” he mutters all of the sudden, so low you almost don’t hear it.

You hesitate, your heart skipping, but you follow.

He leads you down a narrow hallway, past the kitchen, until you’re standing outside the bathroom door. He checks once over his shoulder before pulling you in, locking the door behind him.

“Fred, what are you—”

He cuts you off, his mouth crashing into yours with a force that takes your breath away.

It’s messy, hurried, like he’s trying to drown something out. His hands find your waist, pressing you against the cold tile wall, and you can feel the tension in his grip, the desperation in the way he kisses you.

It’s different this time—more frantic, less controlled. There’s no room to think, no space for words, just the heat of him against you and the quiet hum of the pub muffled beyond the door.

When it’s over, you’re both catching your breath, the silence settling around you like a weight. Fred’s forehead rests against yours, and for a moment, it feels like he might say something—something real, something vulnerable.

But then he steps back, adjusting his shirt, his eyes not quite meeting yours. “Thanks,” he mutters, almost too softly, and the word hits you like a slap.

You blink, trying to find something to say, but he’s already unlocking the door, slipping out like nothing happened.

You’re left standing there, the cold tiles against your back, your pulse still racing. You stare at the empty space where he was, your mind replaying the moment in vivid detail.

Something about this feels wrong. But then again, wasn’t this what you agreed to?

&

It’s late. Later than late, really, with the kind of stillness in the air that only comes when the rest of the world is sleeping.

But you’re wide awake, perched on the edge of your couch with a half-empty glass of wine in your hand, listening to the faint hum of the city outside.

You don’t know why you’re waiting.

Or maybe you do, but admitting it feels like giving it more weight than it deserves.

It’s been a few days since you saw Fred—since he showed up at your door for the first time, with that crooked smile and a cocky, unspoken challenge in his eyes.

You hadn’t known what to expect then, and you still don’t know now. But when you hear the knock at your door, your chest tightens in anticipation anyway.

You set the glass down and cross the room, opening the door to find him leaning against the frame, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket.

“Bit late for a social call, don’t you think?” you tease, though your voice wavers just slightly.

Fred grins, that easy, practiced grin that always feels like it’s hiding something. “Thought you might say that. But then, you’re still awake, aren’t you?”

You roll your eyes and step aside, letting him in. He walks past you, his steps slow and deliberate, like he’s taking his time to assess the space.

It’s not the first time he’s been here, but he looks around like it is, his gaze lingering on the small details you’d never think to notice.

“You always keep it this tidy?” he asks, turning to face you with a smirk.

“I knew you were coming, didn’t I?” you shoot back, closing the door behind him.

Fred laughs, the sound low and warm, and suddenly the room feels smaller.

It’s always like this with him—this electric push and pull that leaves you feeling off-balance and exhilarated all at once.

He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the back of a chair, and then he’s sitting on your couch like he’s been doing it for years.

You join him, keeping a safe distance between you, but it doesn’t matter. The tension fills the space anyway, a quiet, unspoken thing neither of you is willing to address.

“So,” Fred says, his eyes flicking to the wine glass you left on the table. “Drinking alone, are we? Rough night?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Not rough. Just… quiet.”

Fred hums, leaning back and stretching an arm along the back of the couch. His fingers are close enough to brush your shoulder, but they don’t.

“Well,” he says after a beat, “I’m good at making noise. Want me to liven things up?”

You turn to look at him, arching a brow at his choice of words. “That depends. What exactly do you have in mind?”

He grins again, wider this time, and before you know it, you’re caught up in one of his ridiculous stories—something about a prank that went wrong back at Hogwarts and ended with George covered in soot and screaming about cursed cauldrons.

You’re laughing so hard your sides hurt, the kind of laugh that feels like it’s shaking loose all the tension you’ve been carrying for days. Fred is laughing too, his head thrown back, his shoulders shaking.

And for a moment, it’s easy to forget the doubts gnawing at the edges of your mind.

But then the story ends, and the laughter fades, and the room feels too quiet again.

Fred’s laughter dies in his throat first. He turns his head toward you, the space between you charged, his expression softening as his eyes flicker to your lips.

“You’re staring,” you whisper, trying to keep your tone light, but your pulse betrays you.

“Am I?” he murmurs back, his voice low and teasing, but there’s something in his gaze that makes it hard to breathe.

You don’t know who moves first—maybe it’s him, maybe it’s you—but suddenly, the space between you disappears. His mouth meets yours in a rush of heat and hunger, and your body reacts without thought, your hands tangling in his hair as he pulls you closer.

He tastes like mint and something else, something unmistakably Fred, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

It starts like it always does—feverish and desperate, hands searching, breaths stolen. Fred’s hands find the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head, and your back hits the cushions of the couch before you even realize you’ve moved.

But somewhere in the middle of it—between the hurried kisses and the whispered curses—something shifts.

His touch slows, his fingers trailing along your skin with an almost reverent softness. He presses his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your lips, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like there’s more to this than just a casual arrangement.

Your chest tightens, and you open your mouth to say something, anything, but the words catch in your throat.

Fred pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours like he’s trying to figure out if you feel it too.

But then the moment passes, and he closes his eyes, shaking his head like he’s dismissing some unwelcome thought. He presses a lingering kiss to your collarbone before shifting his weight and standing, grabbing his jacket from the chair.

“Leaving already?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Fred hesitates, his back to you. “Yeah,” he says, his tone lighter than the moment calls for. “Gotta keep you wanting more, don’t I?”

The grin he throws over his shoulder is forced, you think, but you don’t call him on it.

You watch him leave, the door clicking shut behind him, and you’re left alone again, your chest tight and your mind racing.

This is what you signed up for, you remind yourself. Casual. Fun. No strings attached.

So why does it already feel like so much more?

&

The party isn’t much different from the last one. A haze of laughter and music hangs in the air, the dimly lit living room thrumming with energy as bodies mill about. You’re leaning against a wall, clutching a drink, when you spot him across the room.

Fred.

Your breath catches—not because you didn’t expect him to be here, but because it’s the first time you’ve seen him like this since everything began.

In the few weeks since that night, he’s always shown up at your door under cover of darkness, a secret that slips away before the world wakes. Now, he’s here, among friends, out in the open. It feels… surreal.

His eyes catch yours, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he looks away. You should probably do the same, pretend he’s just another person at the party, someone you barely know outside of shared jokes and casual conversations.

But something about seeing him here, the same Fred everyone else knows, tangles in your chest.

The game between you feels different now. Riskier.

You manage to avoid each other for most of the night, though you’re painfully aware of him. The way his laugh carries over the music. The effortless charm in the way he leans against the kitchen counter, surrounded by people.

But it’s when you least expect it that it happens.

You’ve slipped into the quiet hallway, hoping for a moment to breathe. He appears from nowhere, leaning casually against the wall a few feet away. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, low enough that no one else could hear.

You swallow, refusing to meet his gaze. “You’ve been avoiding me too.”

A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Fair enough.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence stretches, filled only by the distant hum of the party, the bass thudding like a heartbeat. Then he shifts closer—too close, considering the thin walls and prying eyes just a room away.

“This is risky,” you murmur, though you don’t move away.

“Since when do you mind risky?” he counters, his voice teasing but quiet. There’s a flicker of warmth in his tone, a reminder of those moments when he’s let his guard down just enough to let you in.

You should push him away, but you don’t.

Instead, you glance up, and for the briefest second, he looks at you like he’s about to say something important. Something real. But he doesn’t. He’s Fred, after all.

Instead, his hand brushes yours, a fleeting touch that sends a shiver down your spine. “You know I shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You hesitate, your chest tightening. “Then why are you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers graze your wrist, light and hesitant, before he steps back, creating a distance that feels far too wide.

“I shouldn’t be,” he says again, as though repeating it will make it true. Then, softer, “But I am.”

The air between you feels heavier than it should. He’s pulling away again, retreating into the shell of secrecy he’s so carefully built. It frustrates you more than it should.

“You don’t have to make this so complicated,” you say, surprising even yourself.

Fred’s jaw tightens. He glances at the door leading back to the party, his gaze distant, before his eyes flicker back to you. “You think it’s that easy?”

You don’t answer, because you don’t know how to.

Instead, he leans in, his voice a whisper. “Careful. Someone might see us.” His words are teasing, but there’s an edge of something sharper beneath them.

And then he’s gone, disappearing back into the crowd as though nothing happened.

You’re left standing there, your heart racing and your thoughts tangled in ways you can’t quite unravel.

The rest of the night passes in a blur. You don’t see him again, but his presence lingers like a shadow, like a secret you can’t escape.

And when you finally leave the party, stepping out into the cool night air, you can’t help but wonder if this game you’re playing is one you’ll ever win—or if it’s one you’ll lose before it even truly begins.

&

It’s been days since the party.

Days of wondering if Fred will show up again, if you’ll hear that familiar knock on your door in the dead of night. He doesn’t call, doesn’t send any owl—not that you expected him to. But his absence still gnaws at you.

When the knock finally comes, it’s past midnight. You hesitate for a moment, standing barefoot in the hallway, staring at the door like it might vanish if you blink. Then, as if on instinct, you reach for the handle.

Fred is there, leaning against the frame, his hair tousled, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t say anything, just steps inside, his hands finding your waist almost immediately.

It’s fast, like always. A trail of kisses down your neck, murmured words you can barely catch, and then you’re stumbling toward the bedroom. It’s almost routine now—the way he knows exactly how to pull you apart, the way he leaves before the sun comes up.

It’s the same pattern, the same urgency, like he’s trying to chase away whatever’s haunting him.

Only this time, he leaves without saying much of anything. A quick glance back, a muttered “I’ll see you,” and then the door clicks shut behind him.

The quiet that follows feels heavier than it should. You sit on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the empty doorway, wondering why the familiar ache feels sharper tonight.

&

Alicia’s offer couldn’t come at a better time. “You need a reset,” she says, twirling her straw in her iced tea. “Seriously, this guy is perfect. Smart, funny, normal. Give it a shot.”

It’s not like you have anything better to do, so you agree.

The date is fine. Fine. Paul is nice—charming, even—but there’s no spark. By the end of the night, you’re both laughing about how you’d make better friends than anything else.

It’s late when you finally get home, the streets quiet and dimly lit. You’re fishing for your keys when you notice the shadow near your door.

Fred.

He’s leaning against the frame, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He looks up as you approach, his gaze flickering to the key in your hand before settling on your face.

“You’re out late,” he says, his voice casual.

“I had plans,” you reply, matching his tone as you unlock the door. You don’t elaborate, and neither does he.

Inside, the tension follows you, crackling in the air as you set your bag down and turn to face him. He’s watching you, his expression neutral but his shoulders taut, like he’s holding something back.

“How were the plans?” he asks, his voice steady, but there’s an edge to it you can’t quite place.

“They were fine,” you say. “We’re better off as friends.”

He nods, his lips pressing into a thin line, and for a moment, you think that’s the end of it. But then he’s stepping closer, his hands finding your waist like they always do.

This time, it’s different. His kisses are rougher, his grip firmer, but there’s something else underneath it—a quiet desperation, like he’s trying to claim something without admitting it. His hands linger longer, his lips move slower, and you let yourself lean into it, pretending not to notice the shift.

Afterward, he’s quiet again, lying beside you in the dark. The air feels heavier, and you can sense the walls going back up before he even moves to get dressed.

As he pulls on his shirt, he pauses, standing by the door with his back to you. For a moment, it seems like he’s about to say something, but instead, he runs a hand through his hair and exhales softly.

Then, just before he leaves, he glances back over his shoulder, his gaze flickering to yours. “Let me know when you’re too busy.”

It’s barely a whisper, so quiet you almost miss it. But there’s something in the way he says it, something unsaid lurking beneath the words, that lingers long after he’s gone.

You sit there in the dark, replaying the moment over and over, wondering why it feels like he just said goodbye.

&

Angelina’s birthday party is already in full swing by the time you stumble through the door, only half-committed to being there. The laughter, the music, the clinking of glasses—it’s all too loud, too bright, too much.

But you came anyway, maybe out of habit, or maybe because part of you hoped you’d find a distraction in the chaos.

Fred is here. You noticed him immediately. He’s impossible not to notice, leaning against the bar, his easy smile tugging at something in your chest you’ve been trying to ignore. He hasn’t come near you, hasn’t even spared you more than a glance. But that glance—it felt like it saw too much.

You bury your feelings in your drink, letting the bitterness of it settle the knots in your stomach. It doesn’t help.

“Alright, what’s with the face?” Alicia’s voice cuts through the noise as she drops onto the couch beside you. “You look like someone just ran over your cat.”

“I’m fine,” you lie, swirling the last of your drink. “Just…thinking.”

“About your nonexistent love life again?” she teases, nudging your shoulder. “Seriously, you need to loosen up. Or at least stop picking all the wrong people.”

You force a laugh, but it feels hollow. Alicia doesn’t know. No one does. You’ve kept Fred a secret, just as he asked. The weight of it presses heavier tonight, threatening to spill over as you down the rest of your drink and reach for another.

As the night goes on, the alcohol blurs the edges of everything. Faces blend together, voices turn to static, and you’re left moping in the corner, the ache in your chest louder than any song playing.

Fred’s there, somewhere. You’ve caught glimpses of him—his easy posture stiffened, his smile more strained than usual. But he doesn’t approach, and you don’t give him the satisfaction of looking too long.

By the end of the night, most people have left, and the crowd has thinned out. You’re sitting on the couch, staring at the bottom of your empty glass, when a shadow falls over you.

“Let’s get you home,” Fred says, his voice low but firm.

You look up at him, the alcohol dulling your usual instincts. “I don’t need your help.”

“Yes, you do.” His tone leaves no room for argument, but there’s something gentler in his gaze, something that makes your chest tighten.

You don’t resist when he helps you up, his arm steady around your waist as he guides you out the door. The walk home is quiet, the chill of the night air biting at your skin. Fred doesn’t say much, and neither do you, but the silence feels heavier than usual.

When you finally reach your flat, he helps you inside, sitting you down on the couch as he disappears into the kitchen. He returns with a glass of water, kneeling in front of you.

“Drink,” he says simply.

You take the glass, your hands shaking slightly as you bring it to your lips.

“Fred,” you start after a moment, your voice barely above a whisper. “Stay.”

He looks at you, startled by the request. “I—”

“Please.” The word spills out before you can stop it, raw and pleading. “Just for the night. I don’t want to be alone.”

He hesitates, his expression flickering between something unreadable and something achingly vulnerable. Then, finally, he nods. “Alright.”

Relief washes over you as he helps you to your feet again, guiding you to your bedroom. He’s careful as he tucks you into bed, his hand lingering briefly on your shoulder before he steps back.

“You’ll stay?” you ask again, your voice softer now.

“I’ll stay,” he promises, his voice low and steady.

You don’t remember falling asleep.

When you wake up, the room is quiet, the sunlight streaming through the curtains. For a moment, you lie there, disoriented, the haze of last night still clinging to your thoughts.

Then you notice it—the bed is empty.

Your stomach drops, a hollow ache blooming in your chest as you sit up. The other side of the bed is cool to the touch, and for a moment, you wonder if he left as soon as you fell asleep. The ache sharpens, and you feel foolish for believing he’d actually stay.

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you bury your face in your hands. Of course, he left. Of course, this is what it always is with him—half-hearted promises and fleeting moments that never mean as much as you want them to.

It’s only when you lower your hands that you notice it.

A glass of water and a small packet of painkillers sit neatly on the nightstand.

Your breath catches as you reach for the glass, the pieces falling together in your mind. The bed might be cool now, but the faint warmth lingering on the pillow tells a different story.

And then you hear it—the faint click of your front door closing.

Your chest tightens, your heart pounding as you realize the truth: Fred stayed. He kept his promise.

The ache in your chest softens, replaced by something you can’t quite name. It’s not relief, not entirely. It’s something more fragile, more complicated.

He stayed.

And for now, that’s enough.

&

The pub feels suffocating tonight, the air heavy with laughter and music that’s a touch too loud. You’re sitting at the edge of the booth again, nursing the remnants of your drink while the conversation at the table flows around you. Fred is there too, only a few feet away but worlds apart, as always.

At least, that’s how it’s supposed to be.

But tonight, something is different. You’ve caught him looking at you more than once, a flicker of warmth in his gaze that lingers just a moment too long before he turns away.

And then there are the little things—how he slid the drinks menu your way when you couldn’t reach, the casual way his hand brushed yours when passing the salt, and the faint smirk on his lips when you dropped your napkin, like he found your clumsiness amusing.

It’s maddening. These small, almost imperceptible gestures that would mean nothing if it were anyone else, but with Fred, they feel like everything.

You glance his way now, trying not to linger. He’s leaned back in his chair, his long fingers drumming lazily against the table, his attention seemingly on George, who’s telling some animated story about a prank gone wrong. But then, as if he feels your eyes on him, Fred looks up.

The corners of his mouth twitch, and there it is again—that fleeting, private smile that feels like it’s meant just for you.

It’s a cruel kind of softness. The kind that makes you want more.

“Leaving soon?” His voice pulls you back, low enough that it barely cuts through the noise, and you realize he’s speaking to you.

Your heart skips. You shrug, trying to feign indifference. “Maybe. You?”

His smirk deepens, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Not yet.”

The words hang between you, unspoken but understood. The plan forms, unspoken as always. You’ll leave first, and he’ll follow.

When the clock creeps toward midnight, you push yourself up, offering the table a vague excuse about an early morning. Fred doesn’t look at you, but you can feel the tension, the way his fingers still against the table as you grab your things and step into the cool night air.

The sharp contrast of the quiet street is a relief at first, but it doesn’t last. Your thoughts churn, the familiar mix of guilt and longing rising to the surface. You shake your head, trying to focus on the walk home when you see her.

Leah.

She’s leaning against the wall just outside the pub, her arms crossed, the faint glow of a cigarette in her hand. She looks up when she hears you, her face illuminated by the streetlamp above.

“Hey,” she says, her tone casual but her gaze sharp.

You freeze, your chest tightening. “Hey.”

Her lips quirk into something that’s not quite a smile, and she takes a slow drag of her cigarette before exhaling, the smoke curling into the air between you.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” she says, tilting her head slightly.

She must’ve watched you—you hadn’t even noticed her in the pub. Had Fred?

You force a shrug, your voice tight. “Long day.”

She hums, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Fred seemed to have been distracted too. Must’ve been one of those days for everyone, huh?”

The mention of his name sends a jolt through you, but you keep your expression as neutral as you can manage. “Yeah, maybe.”

Leah watches you for a moment longer, her gaze unsettlingly calm. She takes another drag before flicking the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under her heel. “You two seemed friendly tonight.”

Your stomach twists, but you don’t falter. “We’re all friends, aren’t we?”

Her lips press together, her expression unreadable. “Sure.”

The pub door swings open, the sound spilling into the street, and your heart sinks as Fred steps out. His hair is a little messy, his face flushed from the warmth of the pub. He glances around, his eyes landing on you almost immediately.

“There you are,” he says, his tone light as he steps closer. “What’s taking so long? I thought you’d—”

His words die as his gaze shifts, landing on Leah.

His smile falters, and for a moment, the easy confidence he always carries slips. “Leah.”

“Fred,” she says smoothly, her tone neutral but her eyes sharp as they flick between the two of you.

He straightens, shoving his hands into his pockets as the tension thickens.

“What’s going on?” he asks, his voice tighter now.

You feel like the air has been sucked out of your lungs. You glance between them, your chest tightening. You can’t do this. The weight of the secrecy, the guilt, the unspoken accusations—it’s too much.

“I was just leaving,” you say quickly, your voice steadier than you feel.

Fred’s gaze snaps to you, his brow furrowing. “Wait—”

“I’ll see you later,” you cut him off, stepping away before either of them can stop you.

You won’t see him later, you’re sure of it.

The last thing you hear as you walk away is Fred’s voice, quieter now but still tinged with something you can’t quite place.

“Leah, we should talk.”

You don’t look back. You can’t.

&

You’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The faint hum of the city outside is no comfort tonight. It’s too quiet, too still, and your mind refuses to stop racing.

You picture them together—Fred and Leah. You imagine their conversation, her calm but sharp gaze and his uneasy expression. Maybe they’re sitting close, voices low and familiar, smoothing over the jagged edges of their breakup. Maybe they’ll work things out. Maybe they’re already back together.

The thought is a knife to the chest, twisting deeper with every passing second. You roll onto your side, pulling the blankets tighter around you, but it doesn’t help. The ache is relentless, carving itself into every corner of your heart.

Hours pass. The clock on your nightstand glows faintly, marking the time you’ve spent wide awake. 2:47 a.m. Your body is heavy with exhaustion, but your mind won’t let you rest.

You try to reason with yourself. Fred never promised you anything. This was always supposed to be casual, meaningless—a fleeting distraction for both of you. You knew that. You agreed to it.

And yet.

A sharp knock cuts through the silence, jolting you upright. For a moment, you freeze, your breath catching in your throat.

Another knock.

You stumble out of bed, heart pounding, and shuffle to the door. When you open it, Fred is standing there, his hair disheveled, his shirt wrinkled like he’d left in a hurry. The faint light of the hallway casts shadows across his face, but his eyes are clear, intense.

You can’t speak. You just step aside, and he walks in without a word.

The door closes behind him, the lock clicking softly into place. He turns to you, his gaze searching, but whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t say. He just steps closer, his hands brushing against your arms before they settle on your waist, pulling you toward him.

There are no questions, no explanations. Just his mouth on yours, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the way you feel.

It’s different this time.

The usual rush of urgency is gone, replaced by something quieter, softer. He touches you like you’re fragile, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he’s not careful. His hands linger, tracing patterns on your skin, and his lips trail down your neck with an almost reverent slowness.

When he lifts you, carrying you to the bed, it’s not hurried or thoughtless. He lays you down gently, his weight pressing into you as his lips find yours again.

It’s almost too much. The tenderness, the quiet intensity—it’s overwhelming in a way that makes your chest ache.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder if this is goodbye. If this is Fred’s way of ending things, giving you something to remember before he walks away for good.

The thought makes your throat tighten, but you don’t stop him. You can’t.

When it’s over, you lie there in the dark, the sheets tangled around you, his arm draped loosely over your waist. His breathing is steady, his body warm against yours, and for a moment, you let yourself pretend that this is enough. That this could be enough.

But then he stirs, pulling away.

You turn to watch him as he sits on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. He doesn’t look at you as he stands, gathering his clothes and pulling them on with quiet efficiency.

Your chest tightens, but you don’t say anything. You just watch as he moves to the door.

He hesitates, his hand on the knob, and for a moment, you think he might say something. But he doesn’t. He just turns back to you, his expression unreadable, and steps closer.

He leans down, pressing his lips to your forehead in a soft, lingering kiss.

It’s the kind of tenderness he’s never shown before, the kind that makes your heart break even as it swells.

When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours for a brief moment. There’s something there, something unspoken, but before you can grasp it, he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him, and you’re alone again.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling, the ache in your chest heavier than ever.

This is goodbye, you think.

You close your eyes, but sleep doesn’t come.

&

The weeks without Fred are a blur of emotions, each one more exhausting than the last. Some days, you manage to feel like yourself again, like the world might not actually end without him. Other days, the grief hits you like a wave, dragging you under with the weight of all the unsaid words and the things you wished could’ve been.

Your friends help, of course. Alicia keeps you busy with plans you don’t want to make, and Angelina sends you pep talks at odd hours of the night. But there’s a hollow ache they can’t touch, a space inside you carved out by Fred and left empty when he walked away.

You try to fill it with distractions—new books, long walks, even the occasional half-hearted date—but nothing works. Because no matter what you’re doing, your thoughts always circle back to him. To the warmth of his hands, the sound of his laugh, the way he looked at you that night before he left.

The worst part is the silence.

For weeks, there’s no word from Fred. No knocks at your door, no teasing notes slipped under the frame. He’s just… gone. And while you tell yourself that’s what you wanted—that it’s for the best—you can’t stop wondering where he is. What he’s doing. If he’s with her.

And then, one day, the silence breaks.

It’s mid-afternoon, and you’re home, though you have no memory of how you spent the morning. The hours have blurred together in a haze of restless pacing and half-formed thoughts, none of which have brought you any peace.

When the knock comes, you almost don’t hear it. It’s soft, tentative, like the person on the other side isn’t sure they’re welcome.

Your heart stutters.

You tell yourself it’s probably Alicia or Angelina, or maybe even Leah. But when you open the door, it’s Fred.

He looks different in the daylight. There’s no mischievous grin, no late-night bravado. Just him, standing on your doorstep, his shoulders tense and his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“Hi,” he says, his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

You stare at him, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or slam the door in his face. “What are you doing here?”

Fred shifts, glancing past you into the flat before meeting your gaze again. “Can I come in?”

You want to say no. You want to tell him to leave, to take all the chaos and heartbreak he’s brought into your life and walk away for good. But instead, you step aside, letting him in.

Fred moves to the middle of the room and stops, his eyes scanning the space like he’s trying to memorize it. He doesn’t sit, doesn’t relax, just stands there, his weight shifting from foot to foot.

“I didn’t know if you’d let me in,” he admits after a moment.

“Why are you here, Fred?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest.

His eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place—guilt, maybe, or fear. “I needed to see you. To explain.”

“Explain what? That you left? That you couldn’t give me what I wanted? What I needed?” Your voice wavers, betraying the anger you’ve been holding onto for weeks.

Fred flinches but doesn’t look away. “Yes. All of it.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

“I was a mess when we started this,” he says finally, his voice low and steady. “Leah and I were over, but I wasn’t okay. I told myself I didn’t want anything serious, that I couldn’t handle it. And then you…”

You hold your breath, waiting for him to continue.

“You made me feel like I could handle it,” Fred says, his gaze dropping to the floor. “And that scared me. It made me feel wrong, like I was moving on too fast. Like I didn’t deserve it.”

You blink, his words sinking in.

“I pushed you away because I was scared,” he admits, meeting your eyes again. “But that doesn’t excuse what I did. I hurt you, and I hate myself for it.”

You swallow hard, your throat tight. “And now? Are you still scared?”

“Yes,” Fred says without hesitation. “But I’m more scared of not being with you. Of letting you slip away because I was too much of a coward to fight for this.”

Your breath catches, your chest tightening with a mix of hope and fear. “And what happens when it gets hard again? When you start to feel like it’s too much?”

Fred takes a step closer, his expression earnest. “Then I’ll tell you. And we’ll figure it out together. Because I’m done running, and I’m done pretending this doesn’t mean something.”

The sincerity in his voice is almost too much. You look away, your hands trembling as you try to keep your emotions in check.

“What are you asking for, Fred?” you whisper.

He hesitates, and for a moment, you think he might not answer. Then he reaches out, his fingers brushing yours. “I’m asking for a chance. To do this right. To give you what you’ve always deserved.”

You close your eyes, his words washing over you like a wave.

“Okay,” you say finally, your voice barely audible. “But we take it slow. No more secrets, no more running. We do this the right way.”

Fred nods, a small, relieved smile breaking through his tension. “Slow. Got it.”

He steps back then, extending a hand like he’s meeting you for the first time. “Hi. I’m Fred. Nice to meet you.”

You laugh, the sound a little shaky but genuine. “Nice to meet you, Fred.”

For a moment, you let yourself smile, the tension in your chest loosening just a little. Then you glance at his outstretched hand, raising an eyebrow. “Though I have to say, you look a lot like this guy I used to know. Total pain in the arse, but surprisingly charming when he wanted to be.”

Fred grins, his eyes lighting up in that way that always makes your heart skip a beat. “Well, I’m hoping I’m nothing like him. He sounds awful.”

“He was,” you say, shaking his hand firmly. “But I think you might be an improvement.”

Fred laughs, the sound warm and unrestrained, and for the first time in weeks, you feel like you can breathe again.

[catscidr]

// the fatui's alcohol tolerance and drinking habits //  

i. note — after writing this post i started thinking about how the other harbingers would tolerate alcohol and then.... but this is also because of a lovely commenter on ao3, thank u pookie for enabling me ♡ ii. includes — all of the harbingers + pierro and the tsaritsa. gn!reader iii. cw — not proofread, alcohol, various fuckery and headcanons. crack. that's it iv. wc — 1,2k

丑角/Pierro, The director. 

-> tolerance: 8/10, high.   -> habits: has an entire wine cellar in the zapolyarny palace and owns a vineyard southern of snezhnaya. one of his hobbies consist of wine-testing; he’s the kind of person to cleanse his palate with a small sip that he swooshes in his mouth, then swirls his glass to observe the coat, sniffs the wine, takes another sip- you get it. if you asked, he would recommend you a wine based on your taste. you want something sweet but not dry? try dessert wines. want something a little more on the bitter side? get yourself a malbec from argentina. 

he hates anything that isn’t wine. don’t even try to give him a beer, he’ll look down at you with the most vicious glare you’ll feel sorry for being born. 

队长 /Il Capitano, The first. 

-> tolerance: 10/10, very high.  -> habits: doesn’t see the point of drinking so he never has a glass in his hands from his own volition. if he’s drinking it’s either because some coworkers managed to get him to come out for drinks, because he caught one of his agents drinking on the job and decided to have a drink as well, or because you convinced him to drink with you. 

his drink of choice is literally just any hard liquor, he doesn’t really care for taste. everyone is under the impression that he can’t get drunk, but some people just take it as an invitation to try to get him shitfaced (it never works out). 

博士/Il Dottore, The second. 

-> tolerance: 3/10, very low.  -> habits: never drinks and doesn’t see the point in it anyways, because it’ll only hinder his cognitive functions (you tried convincing him that he can get different perspectives that way. you were swiftly rewarded with a flick on the forehead). on top of that, he just can’t really handle alcohol so why purposely leave himself vulnerable like that. he didn’t care enough to give himself a higher tolerance for it when he modified his body, apparently. would probably be the designated driver if he went out to a bar (if he were invited in the first place. if he accepted the invitation, second.) 

the kind of person to get weirdly tipsy after two white claws. 

少女/Columbina, The third. 

-> tolerance: ?/10. What.  -> habits: o̴̻̒f̴̭͋f̵̣͝ė̵͎r̴̻̄ĭ̵̙ñ̶̥g̸͙͋ ̵̦͆ḫ̸̏e̷̺̊r̶̳̈́ ̴͖̓ä̷͖ ̷͓͆d̴̜̆r̴̡̄i̷̪͝n̵͕͂k̵̠̄ ̴͈̈́ŵ̵̭ȉ̶̺l̸̩̃l̵̲̈́ ̵͖͝ö̸̪n̸̘͝l̸̺̈ỹ̷̹ ̴͑͜ṡ̸̞p̵̪͆e̶͈̊l̵͈͌l̶̜͗ ̵̣̌y̵̢͒ŏ̴͔u̴̹͐ŗ̶̀ ̶͎̈d̶̥͑ö̷̧o̶͓̕m̵̘̃.̷̡̽ ̵͙̐ý̴̟o̸̻͝u̵̳͘ ̶̙́s̴̠̿h̶̡͋a̴̫͊l̶̮̾l̷̳̃ ̷͓͝n̶͕͝o̶̢̓ț̵̏ ̶̞͋w̷̹͝i̶̦̚ṫ̴̪n̸̖̉e̶̢͝s̸̝̕s̸͉͒ ̵̗̈́h̸͜͝ě̵̝r̷͙̉ ̶̭̃h̵͍͒o̶̠̅l̸̗͂i̴̞̕n̷͚̓ẽ̴͙s̵̙̀s̵̖̄ ̷̟͐ć̵͈ó̴̭n̴̙̾s̶̠͋ũ̷̙m̷̬̈́ì̷ͅn̶̯͛g̸̯̔ ̴̨͝t̶͙̕h̴̢͝e̵͔̋ ̵̖̀d̵̖͛ë̷͖́v̵̯͂ii̵͖̿q̵̯̽ŭ̴̺o̶͖̔r̵̠̒.̶̺͒ ̵̙͘l̵͑͜e̸̖͗a̷̞͝v̷̉ͅe̵̮̕ ̸̦̎h̸̩̎e̴̪̐r̸̰̀ ̷̩͠b̷̛̥ĕ̸ͅ ̸̪͒e̴̜͂l̸͖̄s̴͖̆ẽ̷̝ ̸̘͘y̸̹̋ô̴̺ṷ̷̓r̸̭̈́ ̸̜̅l̶͖̾i̵͇͘f̵͉̔e̵̜̚s̷̖̏p̴̫̈́ä̷̬́n̷͔͌ ̴̰̑w̵͝ͅȋ̶̫l̶̛̯ḷ̸͒ ̸̡̊s̷̹͠h̶̭͋o̶̹͆r̵̮͂t̵̥̽é̴̡ṉ̷͌ ̶͕̑ĉ̸̰ǫ̶̈́n̶̔͜s̸̺̃i̷͌͜d̸͚̂e̵̺͊r̸̺̄ą̸̆b̷̲͘ḻ̸̎y̶̠͂.̴̣̉ 

in her free time, she likes to practice her bartending skills, like making fresh piña coladas! 

仆人/Arlecchino, The fourth. 

-> tolerance: 8/10, high.  -> habits: likes to unwind with a glass of wine in her office while overlooking a multitude of paperwork. never drinks enough to get tipsy, but she could if she were surrounded by the right company...? if she wanted to, she could probably enter a drinking competition and win, though. whatever that means 

has let some children of the house of the hearth try wine. finds the grimaces they pull after a sip very amusing 

公鸡/Pulcinella, The fifth. 

-> tolerance: 6/10, moderate.  -> habits: the kind of man to drink wine with his meals, but he won’t have more than one and a half—two if he’s feeling particularly pent up. his tolerance isn’t that good because of his weight, unsurprisingly.  he doesn’t get invited to go out for drinks because he always ends up indulging just a bit too much. he then acts like a disappointed dad to everyone in the vicinity.

0/10 don’t bring him to a bar unless you want to be scolded for breathing.

国崩/Scaramouche, The sixth. 

-> tolerance: 4/10, low.  -> habits: hates alcohol but is weirdly competitive when it comes to it, if he’s with the right people. sort of. although alcohol doesn’t affect him in the same way it does regular people, it still makes him feel gross enough to not want to be near it. if he had to pick a drink it would be something like an aperol spritz. he’d wait like thirty minutes before drinking it, letting the bubbles fizz out a bit. hates the “taste” of carbonation with a passion.

don’t even try to get him to try give him a beer, he’ll turn it into a molotov cocktail 

木偶/Sandrone, The seventh. 

-> tolerance: 4/10, low.  -> habits: similar to il dottore, she hates drinking because it impairs her genius mind, but she’ll go out if only to make fun of drunk people (it rarely ever happens anyways). if she’s stuck with a drink in her hands for some reason, she’ll make the dapper ruin guard that’s at her side dispose of it for her. 

will it literally throw it away or will it dispose of it in a less destructive way? don’t stick around to find out. 

淑女/La Signora, The eighth. 

-> tolerance: 8/10, high.  -> habits: similar to arlecchino, she enjoys a good red wine occasionally. the only difference is that she needs to have it while bathing in the most expensive bath salts accompanied by so many candles it would be a hazard for her lungs. the queen of being a diva, has perfected the art of swirling wine in a glass while listening to jazzy music. 

absolutely adores dandelion wine; she always buys crates upon crates despite the ridiculous import fees. has one from so long ago you’re surprised the bottle hasn’t disintegrated yet—the name Rostam is engraved into it. 

富人/Pantalone, The ninth. 

-> tolerance: 7/10, moderate.  -> habits: probably the only normal one out of the bunch (which says a lot). whenever he drinks he always ends up tipsy, and when he’s tipsy, that façade he wears crumbles at the speed of light. gone are the strained fake smiles for politeness’ sake, in are the loud, angry rants about annoying clients. he won’t stop until his voice starts straining from usage. 

his go-to drink is literally whatever expensive wine he can get his hands on; he’ll drink with pierro and analyze wines, on occasion. don’t join them, you’ll die of boredom. 

公子/Tartaglia, The eleventh. 

-> tolerance: 9/10, very high. Debatable.  -> habits: you wouldn’t believe that he can handle alcohol better than most people because every time he drinks, he always gets shitfaced. he’ll insist he’s just testing his limits and building a higher tolerance. don’t bring him out for drinks with il capitano, he’ll inhale 5 shots of fire water in a couple of minutes to “convince” the first that he’s strong. it never works. 

probably the best person to go to a bar with, if you manage to go on a day where he didn’t wake up with the urge to get so stupidly plastered that he’ll try to fight every single man in the building. don’t let him try to show off, there aren’t many bars left that haven’t banned him yet. 

Царица , The Tsaritsa. 

-> tolerance: ?/10. What²  -> habits: ṯ̵̿ḧ̸̤́i̷̹͊s̴̠͐ ̷̧̍i̵̦͝ṡ̴̼ ̵̪͛ä̶̙́n̵͙͆ ̴͆ͅȃ̶͓s̵̜̅s̴̫̀a̵͑ͅs̵̡̓s̷͇̈́í̷̹n̷͕͠a̷̛̱ṱ̴͘i̷̡̕ō̴̻ń̷ͅ ̶͍̃a̵̧͝ṭ̶͝t̶̮̏e̴͉͑m̵̮̈p̵̰̕t̶̼̔.̸̯͆ ̵̗̔y̵̖͝ó̶̡u̶͇͑ ̵̜͌ẁ̶̘ï̵̢l̶̥̈l̶̲͐ ̴̩̔b̴̪͋e̸͎͌ ̷̲̑p̷̲̋r̴̦͐o̷̙͐m̵̟͝p̴͔͛t̷͔̂l̶̪̏y̶̖͂ ̶͊ͅd̵͉̓ỉ̵͔s̵̩̕p̴͖͐o̶͈͘s̵͌ͅḛ̴͂d̶̺̊ ̴̯̓ơ̵̺f̶̠́ ̵̈́͜a̴͙̎t̵̠͋ ̵̲̈ō̵͉n̴̨̒c̸̭͛ê̵͎.̶͓͘ ̵͇̃y̷̡̆ő̵͍ű̸̮ ̸̙͌c̶͈̔ȧ̷̳n̴͍̎ṅ̵͖ŏ̷̪t̵͉͝ ̸̩̇r̷͈̈́u̷͍͝n̷͔̿.̵̮͘ ̷͕̈́w̸̼̄h̴̥̏ý̵̘ ̷͇̀d̶͉̋ii̷̭̎n̶͙̎k̷̢̀ ̵̢̐c̷̣̀o̴͖̍ḿ̵̹i̵̥͘n̵̲̈g̸̫̒ ̵̠̏iͅií̷͎ť̴̻t̷̛̠y̴̟͝ ̴͖̑c̶͔̎o̴̮̽r̷̬̐ñ̴͖e̶͙͒ŕ̵̥ ̴͈̾s̶̙͊t̶̛̫ò̸̲r̶̺͊e̶̮͆ ̶̣̃b̷̰͘ḙ̴͘e̸̖̕ṛ̸̏ ̵̖̓ẃ̷̞a̷͕͐s̶̳͆ ̵̘̾a̶͔̓ ̵̣͛g̴̰͐o̴͕̊o̵̲̾d̸̦̔ ̴͓͗i 

drinks wine with la signora and arlecchino sometimes! their girls' nights only happen once in a blue moon and she doesn’t drink much, but she enjoys the slight buzz from a good red wine nonetheless. 

[luveline]

hey jadee! How are you??

could you write a next part for the coworker James au?? Maybe something like them going on a date or Sirius and remus suspecting that they are more touchy with each other <33

coworker james | ty for requesting!! fem

Remus Lupin is a long list of things, and nowhere on that list is idiot. Nor gullible, nor unobservant. He sees exactly how you and James are touching one another these days, but he’s decided to keep it to himself for now. 

After all, if James had cottoned on to his first tryst with Sirius there probably wouldn’t have been a second, and then a date; love is vulnerable in the beginning to embarrassment. 

Still, you both must know how ridiculous you’re being where James has taken your hand under the table. You’re struggling to hide the shyness in your smile, and James is all too brash as he pulls your hand further toward him. Your desk chairs squeak in sync. Whenever Remus gets up for a drink, he can see James pressing your hand to his knee as he leans against his desk to hide it. He’s just a second too slow, because Remus is suspicious of you to begin with. 

Remus gets up. Watches in gentle ridicule as his best friend of more than ten years thinks he’s convincing as James yawns and rests his head on the desk, sandwiching your hand between his knees. 

It’s adorable but stupid. Remus turns back as he walks off to watch you laugh in your seat. “Stupid,” Remus thinks you’re saying. Apt. 

Remus abandons James and his new sweetheart to find his own. 

Sirius is a salesperson, a rare role at their water testing company, but he does it well when he’s not messing around. Remus watches from afar as Sirius readies the elastic band-pen catapult with a mento, aimed at the side of their unwitting coworkers head. 

Remus creeps up behind him. “Don’t.”

Sirius flinches, his catapult suddenly aimed in the wrong place and set loose. The mento hits his computer with a thunk and bounces back into a steaming cup of coffee. 

“Remus,” Sirius says, turning to him with a frown, “we talked about this.” 

“You talked about this and I listened without accepting the terms. Can we go out for lunch?” 

Sirius’ facade of arrogance disappears. “Well, of course we can. Is there something wrong?”

Remus would like to have Sirius get up and hug him. Like, to grab him tightly and kiss him as he would at home, only both of them might die from embarrassment, and so he’ll have to ferry him to a restaurant for a half an hour of their knees pressed together, enough touch to get him to the end of the day when he can make Sirius climb into bed with him early. 

“You’re making that face,” Sirius says. “Like I’ve done something wrong. What did I do? I feel a distinct sense of injustice about this one considering we haven’t seen each other since I brought you your coffee this morning.” 

Sirius is nice to look at. As they get older, there are some marked changes in their appearances no one was expecting, Remus would wager. Sirius’ hair seems to get finer, his eyes darker, where Remus’ hair is better kept shorter, his middle softer. James has turned to muscle. He’s lean, still, but solid. All these changes, and yet no love is lost. 

“I’m sorry,” Sirius says, gently now, his eyebrows crinkling with confusion. 

“No,” Remus shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. You didn’t do anything. I’m just thinking about something.” 

“Something important, it looks like.” 

“It might be.” Remus puts his hand to Sirius’ neck. His hand is very familiar with Sirius’ neck and his soft hair, in the same way Sirius’ neck knows every callus of Remus’ fingers. “Lunch now?” 

“Sure, my darling.” Sirius puts on his jacket and takes Remus’ arm. “Let’s grab your coat.” 

“Not sure we should go back my way.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“I think something is actually, properly going on with James and Y/N.” 

“He clearly fancies her.” 

Remus slows their pace as they approach the doorway leading back toward the finance nook. “It’s a bit more than fancying,” Remus says under his breath. 

James is playing with your fingers. It’s hard to see, underneath the desk is dark, but it’s like what Remus tends to do with Sirius’ hands at the cinema, two hands holding your one, twiddling your fingers without purpose. Remus stands extremely still. 

“Can you send that to me?” you’re asking. “I can’t keep track of all these files. Who’s managing the account?” 

“It’s Cory, I think…” 

Mundane conversation, and then, “What are you doing?” 

“Nothing. Maybe it’s my fault. We need better organisation on our end, the shared onedrive is always changing, that’s not easy for you, or anyone.” He hums to himself, a breath. “You have lovely hands.” 

“Don’t say that.” 

“You do, you have… They’re really soft.” 

“I think you’ve rubbed the top layer of skin off,” you say, though your voice is lightening, almost thin. 

“If they weren’t so nice I wouldn’t have to.” 

“My fault again.” 

“Isn’t everything?” James asks. 

Sirius turns to Remus with a shake of his head. “What sort of indecent exposure is that?” Sirius whispers. 

Remus yanks him backward just as James’ head turns their direction. They hold their breath, grinning at one another —hiding in alcoves isn’t something they’ve had to do together in years. After a few moments, they peek their heads around at the same time. 

James has gotten up from his chair to stand behind you. They watch as he curls forward, wrapping and arm around your front, his lips at your ear. No clue what he’s said, but Remus can guess. You laugh and move away from James like he’s tickled you. 

“Come on, no one’s here,” James says, pulling you against his chest again with visible tenderness, “Remus must’ve gone to lunch.” 

“Or he’s making tea, and we’re about to be caught.” 

“He left his mug.” 

“But not his jacket.” 

“Oh, so smart,” James croons, his nose dipping into the curve of your neck. 

“And on company time,” Sirius says. “Well, you can wear my coat, handsome. Let’s leave them to it, should we?” 

Remus beams. That’s why he likes his Sirius as much as he does, besides a great many shoulder rubs and gifted first editions. He’s thoughtful, and kind, and not many people suspect it of him. 

Remus looks pointedly away from James where he’s tipping your head back to hold Sirius’ hand. “What do you want for lunch?” he asks. 

Sirius squeezes his fingers. Somewhere in the nook, James kisses you with your face upside down. 

[marsmarvel02]

I have no idea how to begin this post. I’m shocked no one else on Tumblr has made it before me, since this news came out February.

But…

Starting “later this year” (no explicit date), Google will begin using AI to detect “minors lying about their age” (accounts that claim to be 18+ but aren’t.)

This is based on what you search, and the videos you watch on YouTube.

If you are an adult who watches things aimed at teenagers on YouTube- your account will be incorrectly flagged as “lying” and you will be, immediately and automatically, locked down. Restricted Mode on YouTube with no way to deactivate it, SafeSearch always on full force, privileges suspended.

It gets worse. If Google thinks you are under 13- the minimum age to have an account- it will, after a brief delay, DELETE YOUR ACCOUNT.

If you are a fan of a children’s show- say Thomas the Tank Engine, Super Wings, or Handy Manny- or even one aimed at “older” kids like Big City Greens- YOU ARE IN DANGER.

So… what can you do?

As far as anyone knows, the tracking is account-based, so if you browse or watch children’s content while signed out you should be safe.

WRITE TO GOOGLE. Tell them how displeased you are. Do not use “nice” words- they do not deserve them.

Search for alternatives to Google Chrome, Google Search, and every function an account can provide. Type these queries into the search engine a few more times than usual, to give them a little heart attack. They deserve it.

SPREAD THIS NEWS. Not just on Tumblr- spread it on every platform you have. And real life is a platform, too.

If you speak more languages than just English, translate this warning- this is coming to the US first, but that doesn’t mean it won’t eventually spread to the rest of the world.

And finally, WARN YOUR FRIENDS WHO MIGHT BE VULNERABLE TO THIS. To that extent, I’ll be tagging:

@ll-the-biohazards-ll @kylievershion @smashedatoms @roxyteal @hexamoron @nintendonut1 @agathazinha2009 @octoariadneeeeexoxo @dischiantoaster @rocket-powered-socket @tiffanyelectricity @castorfell @kittyundercover1 @joezworld @mean-scarlet-deceiver @funky-boat-zone @bogleech @great-green-hunslet @choc-ice-on-wheels @thosesillytrains @just-another-miserable-prick @bruhstation @6lovelytenders @kidlit-queen-competition @projectanimations @ladymiraclewings @stormvanari @object-obsession @vroomizing @missd476 @masterj @spaceboid @number1spongebobfan @ohmystarrynight @rouxipanda @thomasthetankengine-1 @ask-the-tool-gang @colorfullaudino @darkcrafter @solarbeingash