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prettyboykatsuki · 2 months

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ANOTHER WORD FOR HOMESICK (I WANT TO SAY YOUR NAME AGAIN) | M. BACHIRA

☼ tags ; omegaverse, afab + fem!omega!!reader, alpha!bachira, childhood friends to lovers, established reader backstory, coming-of-age, romance, mutual pining, implicit sexual content (virginity loss to an oc), explicit sexual content ft. bonding, knotting, penetration, oral (f!recieving), fingering, praise, lovey dovey dirty talk, petnames (mostly baby) 18+

++ notes: readers appearance is mostly non-descript but they are shorter than bachira and have several piercings and a tattoo which are explained in story.

☼ content warnings ; lore applicable sexism, sexual harassment of reader as a minor (details in authors note, explained further in extended authors note), lore applicable homophobia, implied bisexuality + referenced mutual queerness queerness, underage drinking, heat / estrus as a symptom of puberty

please thoroughly read content warnings and tags before clicking read more.

THIS IS PART ONE. CLICK HERE TO HERE PART TWO.

☼ ao3 link | extended authors note | fics for gaza

☼ wc ; 16.4k / 33.2k

☼ a/n ; sorry for the incredibly long wait. as always i got extremely carried away. but cheers for fujoneet reader coming after this! written as part of the @ficsforgaza intiative

as mentioned above, there is a scene in this part of the fic that has reader experiencing their first heat as a minor omega during their heat.

they are being sexually harassed underage. if you find this content may be too triggering to you - the scene starts at the the [ THIRTEEN ] subheader and ends indicated with ***.

☼ synopsis ; you can't decide on how you feel about alphas, but your resentment or discomfort around them grows stronger over time as an omega who presented particularly young

maybe that's why you feel so devastated upon hearing the news that bachira, your childhood best friend, had been hiding his alpha status from you your whole life.

PART ONE: MAY THE BRIDGES I HAVE BURNED..

[ NINE]

A car speeds past you when you turn the corner. Too fast, you watch it skid to a stop at a red light and feel your face grow flush. You tuck your chin into the collar of your coat, cold numbing your senses.

The mailman is at your door by the time you walk home. He smiles courteously and hands you the mail directly when you approach your front gate. You bow to him politely before taking it, the cold making your eyes water.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” He says. Nakamura oji-chan has been running mail to this route since you were a little baby. Mama said he has a grandchild now so he works less hours. You’re glad to see him. “You’ve grown so big. What year are you in now?”

You hold up four fingers. “Fourth year. I’m nine,”

“You’re growing up well, then huh? That’s good.”

You’re not tall enough to reach the kitchen cabinets at the highest height and still losing baby teeth but other than that you think it’s pretty okay, so you nod. He laughs before turning to leave, and you make sure to stand in front of the door before he goes to be polite.

You shuffle through the mail as you walk inside. Warm air makes your face tingle. There’s two letters for you today. They’re addressed to your parents, but they’ve got your name on them so you think it’s okay to call them yours. One letter is from the hospital, but there’s another one too.

You don’t know what it is. It’s in a separate black envelope with a raised seal along and government postage. There’s some stuff for nii-chan and mama - plus some coupons that papa gets from a subscription service.

You announce yourself loudly once you’ve looked through it all. Only papa’s brown shoes are in the rack which means he’s the only one home.

Slipping your shoes off, you slide your feet into brand new Doraemon slippers and prop your bag up against the couch in the living room before finally hanging up your coat. Your tummy rumbles after you regain feeling in your fingers, and you decide the nap can be pushed back till after snack time making your way towards the kitchen.

You make sure to take the mail with you. Mama always tell you to leave it on the counter so she can take a look when she’s home. You’re good at remembering this.

Papa is working at the dining table when you come in. He works on a fancy computer from home some days. He smiles when he sees you, bright eyes pointed toward you. You decide to hand him the mail directly.

“Hey, sweetie.” His smile is soft. Ripe oranges sit for you on the counter, cut evenly on your favorite plate. Papa nudges them towards you with a smile. Quickly, you run to wash your hands and sit adjacent to him upon return. You start snacking on your oranges, wondering if he sliced them for you or just to eat. You sit folded up in the dining room chair as papa pats your head per routine. “How was school?”

You look down. “It was okay. We learned about praying mantis bugs. My friends thought they were scary but I thought they were cool, at least a little…”

Papa sits and waits for you to say more expectantly. You shrug, unable to think of anything more to say.

“They are, aren’t they? They’re really important to our eco-system.” Papa says. You nod. He starts to explain more to you about praying mantis bugs and you do your best to listen even as you feel your eyelids start to droop. You get sleepy early in winter because it’s dark so fast.

Even though you’re not listening too closely, you notice papa stops talking half-way through a sentence. You peek at him through your lashes. He’s holding the special envelope from before. Papa is very quiet when he reads it.

“What’re you reading?”

His eyes go wide. You wonder if papa is also tired, since he seems so surprised you’re there. His brows are furrow - putting the letter face down on the dining room table. He’s silent for a long time, though you don’t fuss to ask again.

“We got some important news in the mail,” Papa says quietly. He seems a little different somehow. “We’ll sit down when and talk about it when mama gets home, okay?”

“Am I in trouble?”

He smiles at you like normal this time but he still seems a little sad. “Not at all sweetheart. It’s just an important talk so I think we should be all together. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” You tell him, looking down at your lap trying to figure out what to say so he stops seeming sad. “It’ll be okay, papa.”

Briefly surprised, he smiles again, using his hand on your face to pull you close to him wet kiss on your temple that you take in stride. You’re glad he seems to feel better.

“That’s right, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

When mama comes home, her and papa sit and talk for a long time in the kitchen. They send you to nii-chans room. Predictably, he turns you away when you knock on his door and goes down to complain to your parents. You think that whatever happened must be more serious than you thought, since he comes back up and lets you sit in his room without complain upon return.

Nii-chan rarely invites you to do things with him by yourself, so you’re surprised when he invites you to his lap so you can watch him play games.

Mama always says he’s just going through a phase when he’s being mean. You think that makes sense. You’re happy when he’s nice, though.

After a while, papa comes to get you. Him and nii-chan talk in whispers about something and take not-so-subtle glances.

Papa starts to explain a little to you as you go down stairs, holding his hand. He squeezes it tighter than normal.

“Do you know what an omega is, sweetheart?”

You nod. You’ve got a vague understanding at least. Nii-chan is an alpha, papa is an omega and mama is a beta. It was hard for mama and papa to have you, so they consider you both miracles.

“Well, today, we got news about what you are,” Papa says. He tries to smile. “And you’re an omega like me.’

“Oh,” You say. You look up at him as you walk down the stairs. “Is that bad?”

He shakes his head when you ask, but strangely doesn’t end up saying no directly.

After you find out you’re an omega, nii-chan walks you to school for a few weeks.

You find this to be very strange for several reasons.

For one, nii-chan doesn’t really like school and he doesn’t seem to like spending time with you either. He started going this year, you think - something mama had said about getting his life sorted. Either way, he clearly doesn’t want to be going at all.

So, it doesn’t make sense when he starts accompanying you even a little.

“I can walk to school by myself,” You say, not really meaning anything by it. He stares down at you. You aren’t sure why he’s so mad. Nii-chan always seems a litle bit mad at everything. You wonder if all alphas are like that.

“Don’t be annoying,” He says, harsh. You bite your tongue and turn your gaze to the sidewalk under your feet.

“I’m not being annoying,” You clutch the straps of your bag, because you’re not. He’s the one who suddenly decided to walk you, which makes him the more annoying one. Plus, he’s always causing trouble at home anyway, not you.

“Didn’t they explain to you that you’re an omega?”

You look up at him confused wondering why it matters. He stares at you for a long time, and even gets angry again before scratching the back of his neck. His hand comes down to the top of your head and you flinch, expecting him to mess your hair up but he pats it instead.

“Stupid brat,” He sighs after that. You huff but try not to let it show. “Worry about yourself and shut up.”

[ TEN ]

There’s a playground near your house that’s a few minutes walk. It has a rusty swing set but a nice slide. Most importantly, there’s a patch of concrete you can jump rope and draw on. You like going there most of all with Miki-chan. Not today though. Miki-chan is out of town to visit her granny in Osaka.

Nii-chan offered to take you but you usually refuse him. It’s not to be mean, but just because doing things with nii-chan always makes you a little sad.

He’s moved from home now, but you still feel weird when you see him since he hasn’t liked you all this time. Mama tells you not to hold it against him - and that you’ll understand him better when you’re older. You hope that’s true. You try not to hold it against him.

But it doesn’t mean you want him with you at the park.

(You feel especially dejected when nii-chan acts cold to you but you can’t be sure why. Papa says it probably has something to do with your hormones, since nii-chan is an alpha. Something about packbonding. You don’t quite get it.

It’s starting to feel like every problem you have is because of being an omega, but you try to keep that thought to yourself so you don’t make papa sad.)

You bring your jump ropes and chalk along with you. The sky is half-blue, half-grey. You wonder if it might rain on your way there or if it’ll be blue and warm all over by then. You like the rain, but you’d prefer sunshine today so you can draw with chalk.

You think of things to do. You’ll sit on the swings first then jump rope, thenn draw. Or maybe it will rain and you’ll have to run home. You hope you didn’t jinx yourself.

Your neighborhood is small so you know the names and faces of all the kids there. Even the little ones who are in the grades beneath yours. Mama tells you it’s important to know your neighbors. You aren’t really trying to remember for that reason, though. It’s more like it bugs you not to know. You’re always like that.

Papa uses the word meticulous to describe you. Meh-tick-you-lus. It’s easy to say but hard to spell.

(Nii-chan says you’re just acting like an omega when you do things like that. This makes your parents upset, especially papa. You never take nii-chan seriously when he complains though. He complains about everything.)

When you arrive at the playground, there’s a boy on the grass playing with a soccer ball by himself. You’ve never seen him before. He’s got big wide-eyes and a shock of yellow hair underneath which is super cool. His hair is long, just a little shorter than yours and he even has bangs. You wonder if he’s an omega too, since you’ve only seen omega boys be that pretty.

Your heart beat fasts. It’d be nice to make a new friend, though you’re a bit unsure what to say. You’re a little nervous to approach him but you reason it’d be stranger not to.

“Hi,”

The boy stops playing with his ball, doing a trick to kick it up into his hands. He’s cool. Or at least very interesting. His eyes are bright, dark brown with a touch of yellow like his hair. You wonder if grows like that or if he’s allowed to dye it. He stares at you for a long time wordlessly. You shift your weight on your feet.

“Hi,” He says back.

You smile.

“What’s your name?”

“Bachira,”

He asks for yours and return and you give it to him.

“How old are you?”

“I’m ten,”

“Really? Me too,”

“Do you know how to play soccer?”

You shake your head. “My nii-chan plays it sometimes at his school, but I dunno how. I prefer jump rope. I can do some tricks with a jump rope.”

He lights up when you mention your nii-chan plays soccer, eager to ask you about it. “Is he good at it?”

“I think so,” You reply honestly. You ended up going to a lot of games when you were little. He used to practice lots in your backyard too and stayed after school. The memory makes you a little sad “He wanted to play it more but he got hurt. We went to a lot of matches when I was a baby. He has some trophies and stuff.”

“That’s so cool,” Bachira gushes. You shrug because you don’t really feel like agreeing. “Do you think he would play soccer with me?”

You shake your head dejectedly, eyes cast to the ground. “Probably not. He barely plays with me so I don’t think he’d play with you.”

You feel a little bad telling him that given he seems so excited, but it’s true. Soccer or not. It’d also be a little unfair if he played with Bachira, you think. Bachira visibly deflates.

“Oh,”

“It’s okay. I don’t think I’d be good at soccer but you can tell me about it.” You say, because Bachira seems fun to be around. He doesn’t seem interested but you go on. “The thing you did with your ball earlier was cool.”

He lights up again and you smile softly. “Really? I know a lot of other tricks, too. I’ll show them to you!”

You nod. “Okay. I’m gonna draw on the concrete while you play.”

You sit on the nearby patch of concrete and set your jump rope besides you as you open up your box of chalk - all brand new. You came in deciding to draw a cat or bunny, but decide to draw a soccer ball as a peace offering to your new companion.

“Okay! But you have to look up when I tell you or you’ll miss my tricks.”

“Sure,” You tell him.

As soon as you sit down down to draw, Bachira starts talking a mile a minute about soccer. He took your words to heart it seems like. You think he must really like soccer, maybe even more than you like jump rope and you really like jump rope. But you don’t mind listening to Bachira talk. He kind of reminds you of Miki-chan, who also talks a lot. It’s good since you prefer not to talk much.

“So the tricks and cool stuff you do with your feet is called dribbling?”

He brightens at the fact you put it together without him saying “Yeah!” following it up with “You’re really nice.”

Your brows raise in surprise as you shake your head. Embarrassed, you direct your gaze down towards your lap.

“Not really. I’m just normal.”

He doesn’t say anything else, just grins as he keeps going. You decide to keep drawing instead of talking, listening to Bachira ramble. He tells you to draw for a while he practices his tricks, so he can show you the best ones and you agree without any hassle.

You look through your plastic box of chalk, smiling as you choose a color. You decide to draw with dandelion yellow.

Bachira brings you home to meet his mom after he runs out of tricks to show you.

On the way there, he tells you more about her and himself. She’s his only parent, and she makes art so he thinks you’d like meeting her. Mama usually tells you not to follow strangers, but Bachira doesn’t feel like a stranger. He’s your friend and you find you really like him.

When you get there, Bachira’s mom seems very happy to meet you. She’s pretty and smells like paint. She asks you if you know your parents numbers, since they might be worried about you disappearing and you give it to her, even though you know you’ll get scolded.

It takes mama and papa twenty minutes to come over. Mama scolds you about doing something dangerous by yourself. You tell her it wasn’t dangerous because you were with Bachira and you really like Bachira.

They don’t scold you again after you say it.

(Bachira becomes apart of your daily life as easy as breathing. Despite going to different schools, you always walk to and from school together after meeting. You’re close friends, maybe even closer than you and Miki-chan who you’ve known since you were a baby.

Bachira always comes to pick you up anyway, and you walk home from school together every single day. He always has one hundred things to tell you but you like to listen to each and every one. You like how much Bachira has to say about everything.

On the way home, you play rock-paper-scissors on who’s house to go to. You like it best when Bachira comes over, but if nii-chan is home, you normally go over to his. Sometimes, you wish you went to the same school. Being with Bachira is always fun.

It’d be nice if you could be together all the time. You think if you were always with him, you’d never be bored. You wonder if it’s too much to hope Bachira feels the same. )

“So, you’re an omega?”

Bachira and you are playing in the yard today. Your room is getting renovated. According to otou-san, it should’ve been done a while ago to accommodate your nests but it’s getting done now instead. You’re in the backyard with a book, staring up at him as he joins you under the shade. It’s the end of summer break and everything is too hot.

You look at him. “Uh-huh. Otou-san is too.”

He stares at you for a long time before joining you in the grass. You feel weirdly self-conscious of the space he occupies next to you. You’ll be eleven soon enough. Bachira drapes his head in your lap as you sit, staring up at you. You don’t bother moving him. He’s always like that.

He puts his hands up and shades his face from the sun. His eyes glow yellow gold just like always.

“Does that mean you like alphas?”

The question is embarrassing somehow. Makes you feel weird because you can’t answer right away. You cast your gaze away and shrug, pretending to read your book but finding it hard to focus with Bachira’s eyes on you.

You read in a book that alpha and omegas fall in love most naturally. Sometimes they like betas. But you’ve always felt sure you like omegas, and you don’t want to lie to Bachira so you don’t.

“I don’t know,” You say truthfully. “I’m supposed too,”

“But do you?”

You can’t answer him right away. You scrunch your nose and think of nii-san, the only alpha you know personally. The idea of dating someone with any similarities to him troubles you, even though you know he’s not a bad guy. You shake your head.

“I don’t know. Alphas are too much,” You say after some time. That feels like the right choice. Sometimes, you see older kids and alphas and they all feel that way. “And they’re scary.”

“Then what about omegas?”

That feels easy to answer. Bachira stares at you intently and you flush, turning away and covering your face with your hand. “I like them…they’re pretty and smell nice.”

“Hm,” Bachira says. His expression is hard to read. You make a face at him, head tilted asking the same thing. “I think I might like alphas. I dunno though. I don’t know what I am,”

A pang of disappointment makes your chest ache but you bury it and smile at him. Just barely, corners of your lips lightly upturned. “That means we’re opposite.”

“But in a way it means we fit together right?” Bachira says, same as usual. Expectant. Content. Like it’s not a big deal at all. You nod and cast your gaze down to your lap again.

“Yeah. Right.”

[ ELEVEN ]

Fifth year students have special lessons for secondary sexes, before a secondary health examination.

In your fourth year, you learned about the characteristics of your primary sex which is most important for betas. Most people are betas, so you guess it makes sense they spend so much more time about it. Still, it’s a little surprising how little your teacher really discusses…anything at all.

You try to pay attention to the lesson but keep tuning out, finding it boring and most of all - not very useful. Otou-san had this conversation with you already. It’s not anything new.

You don’t mean to sound like a know-it-all of course, but with the way otou-san quizzes you on it, you’re pretty sure you know more than most of your classmates and maybe even your teacher.

You find your teacher leaves out a lot of important details about alphas and omegas, though you don’t feel you can or should correct her. During your lesson, you start to understand why Otou-san insisted on making you learn at home.

Reflecting on it, you think being an omega is a hassle. Sometimes it seems scary. Most times though, it just feels inconvenient. When people find it out about you, they always act like they know you. But they only know you’re an omega, so you doubt that’s true.

Your first heat hasn’t come yet since you’re on lots of medicines but you get all the same growing pains. New, tiny fangs are already forming in your mouth and your scent is stronger than most kids your age. Your body is already changing, growing and you have to get more check-ups than other people.

Okaa-san says that’s normal. That you’re normal. But it doesn’t really feel that way. You notice otou-san never uses the word normal, only says that you’re perfectly healthy.

You wonder if it’s something so strange that you’re teacher can’t discuss it. If your disposition is something so offputting. Omega’s are uncommon but not unheard of, right? So why does everyone seem so hush-hush?

You don’t know how to explain the feeling. It’s lonely. People know you’re an omega, but you don’t even know what that means. Don’t know what it means to feel like an omega either. But supposedly it dictates so much of your life.

You keep yourself from sighing as to not disturb your class. The led of your pencil snaps from pressure as you write in your work-book.

[ TWELVE ]

You return to the classroom early after health examinations.

It’s the start of the sixth year of your elementary. Most people are finding out their secondary sex for the first time today, but since you already know yours - you’re given a pass to go back and read quietly in the classroom until it’s over. Some people have already developed with strong, obvious scents but getting the official results require a medical check up.

You want to linger a little more so you can talk with all of your classmates but your P.E. teacher shoos you out of the room before long.

After you change out of your gym clothes and back into your uniform, you traverse down the hall and take the long way back. It’s April. The sun is out, peeking through the leaves as warm shades of spring bloom outside your schools windows.

The hallway is unusually quiet. You try to keep your steps light so the hall monitor doesn’t write you up for making noise and causing a disturbance.

You haven’t been able to shake the strange feeling since morning. Such an important day, met with anticipation - but you exist entirely outside of it. You almost feel noting towards it at all.

You’ve known you were an omega for nearly three years now and you’ve already heard rumors about you in relation.

It is isn’t all that important to you. But it is, at the same time since it seems important to other people.

Maybe it’s because you already know yours, but it makes you kind of uncomfortable to hear how your classmates talk about it.

You’ve never liked talking about being an omega, even though it’s not a secret. You pretend not to hear them when you’re in earshot but you always do.

Omegas are weaker, more annoying, too emotional. The only thing they have is attracting alphas, and most people want an alpha to take care of them. Alphas are bound to be successful, and they’re good at sports. It’s great that they have easier chances of seducing them and betas, too. They’re easy and weak so naturally an alpha will want to take care of them.

You’re used to hearing it, and rarely bother to correct them no matter how wrong they are. Sometimes, you want to point out to them you’re one of those things at all - but then, you wonder if that makes you weak and emotional so you never do. You’re not weak, nor annoying, and you rarely show your feelings to anyone.

You can’t make sense of whats expected of you and why your classmates laugh you off when you mention you like omegas, either. You’ve always preferred omegas and their company. They’re comfortable, understanding, easy to be with and smell nice.

There’s something exhausting about the idea you need to be with an alpha. All of it is tiresome. You can’t help but get the impression that from here on, it’ll only get harder to deal with and you don’t want that. You don’t want it to matter. You just want to be yourself.

Lost in thought, you arrive at the classroom. One of your friends seems to have arrived at the same time. Your heart skips a beat at the sight of her.

Akemi-chan is one of your good friends. She’s beautiful. She has long, straight hair and cut-across bangs and always smiles. There’s a mole under her eye and her scent is ripe and summery like peaches. She smiles when she sees you.

She’s so pretty and she stands to close to you - an arm around your waist with a comfortable laugh.

“Guess what!”

“Did you find out your secondary sex?”

She grins, brightening several degrees. “I’m an omega. And,” Her voice drops suddenly. “Chiyo-san is an alpha!”

“Ah,” Your voice drops.“Did you like Chiyo-san?”

She nods. “Now that I know she’s an alpha, I like her more, I guess?”

You try not to look sad, and try to quiet your heartbeat at the way she shows you affection she wouldn’t had you not both been omegas. She doesn’t pull away from you despite knowing you like omegas, so you still feel grateful. Akemi draws her cheek against yours gently. Scents you in the way friends do with her wrists.

You nod listen to her. The listless melancholy of whats forward draws your attention outside.

You notice storm clouds coming in as Akemi looks alongside you. It feels different.

It feels a little too early in spring for such stormy rain.

“I didn’t get the results of my secondary sex exam,”

You’re on your way home back from school when Bachira blurts this out to you. Your eyes widen slightly in surprise, turning to look at him so you can understand his feelings better. Given how quiet Bachira’s been today - you figured something was wrong.

You look at him, unsure of what to make of it.

“Does that bother you?”

Your question surprises him in return. It’s not unheard for people to present later. It manifests in everyone eventually, even betas. You don’t remember all the terminology though it has something to do with a specific hormone.

Bachira thinks on your question before looking down at his shoes. He shrugs. “Mm. Dunno. Guess it just makes me feel even more different.”

You think about what Bachira seems to go through at school and feel your heart tug. That makes sense you think.

You shake your head, with new and sudden resolve. “I think it’s fine. It kinda makes sense. I got mine early so you get yours late. We’re always like that, right?”

You hope the attempt to comfort him reaches him. When you look over and see him smiling, you feel unimaginable relief. The world feels more colorful when Bachira smiles. He pauses in the middle of the street, throwing an arm around your neck with a grin that feels like himself again.

“Yeah. Right.”

[ THIRTEEN ]

You can’t tell it’s your heat right away.

A fever breaks along your skin in a cramped train car. sweat clinging to your skin underneath your middle school uniform, a heat rash making your whole body itch. The noise around you becomes static, cottony as your heart starts thudding against your ribs.

Your ears are ringing. Time slows down around you as the speed of the subway seems to double underneath your feet. Your knees buckle as you try and hold yourself upright as the intense and unfamilar feeling of desire violates your senses. Too intense for your body. It doesn’t feel like you. You’re not in your right mind.

It’s too early. Most people’s heats don’t come for another year or two at least. You feel so unlucky as the pain flares, mixed with something burning between your legs.

You try to focus your thoughts elsewhere. You take the same train home every single day at the same time. Plenty of students take it, but clubs keep you later than most.

Bachira often comes with you just like he has today, so you focus on him. His middle school is a short-distance from yours so you try and walk home together when you can. A small promise that means the world to you. If you can’t go the full way, you always meet up at the intersection and walk the short distance together instead.

You focus on Bachira as he stands next to you. He’s watching a game of soccer on his new phone, turned sideways with a single headphone in. You watch it over his shoulder. You try too. Your skin scorches, hot like something crash-landing through the atmosphere as a tension grows between your legs. Sweat breaks out around your collar and the small of your spine. You feel out of your body - floating just outside of it. Your neck throbs, scent glands suddenly aching. Both wrist and neck, all of you—aching.

You can barely make any sense of your surroundings anymore. Your breathing is erratic as you grip onto the metal pole tight and try to make sense of your surroundings. You want to hold out until you can get to a stall. You’ve had a plan for this for as long as you can remember.

You just need to keep it together until the train stops.

There’s a man behind you. You don’t notice him until you do. You’re still wearing your uniform - short skirt rolled up to combat the heat of the season. A calloused hand reaches underneath the fabric. You think it’s an accident until it sticks between your inner thigh. It slides up slowly, getting closer to where it shouldn’t be. Your breath hitches. You shiver. Your body is hot.

“Are you an omega?” An older man, the one behind you murmurs. His voice is crass, grating and dark against your skin. Your stomach twists with fear as your gaze freezes you into place. Unable to find your voice as he touches you, you try not to recoil. Disgusted at your body reacts to the involuntary arousal that spikes in result of it. He’s an alpha. The acrid, overbearing nausea of an alphas scent drives itself into your center like a stake. You hate it so much it’s unbearable but every is so hot.

You have no control. Over anything. You’re terrified and barely there.

Fear makes you jump. Your conscious mind slowly loses its grip as you feel your skin dampen with increasing heat, skull throbbing. Your heat is coming and it’s coming fast. You breathe heavily in a pant, trying to ignore the sensation. Trying to ignore everything, just to drown out the oppressive scent of alpha invading your lungs as you tuck your chin.

“You’re a little young to be presenting like this. Having your heat on a train like this,” His voice weighs down on you oppresively. Your heart is so loud, clamoring noisily behind your ears as tears prick at your eyes. His hands go further and further and you flinch. Brushing where you don’t want to be touched you jolt.

our jolting makes Bachira look up from his phone.

“Are you trying to tempt an alpha?”

You’re not very conscious. You’re disgusted. You know this is normal but it feels wrong. You feel wrong. The horror is grounding in it’s own right. Fog clouds your mind, makes your senses sharp. You feel split at the seams. Fighting with your own consciousness, you can’t think of anything except trying to suppress your instincts. But it’s painful, so painful - and something sticky is running down your legs. It’s not you, it’s your body. It’s violating.

Your instincts want an alpha. Your body wants something you can’t understand to the point it aches inside of you, aches between your legs and makes you want to throw up.

Before the man behind you can get any further, your shaken awake by the sound of him practically shrieking. Bachira appears in the corners of your vision.

You’ve never seen him so angry.

You can see his hand reaching behind you. Your eyes gloss over as you stare at Bachira. The hand touching you is gone and you feel immediate comfort. You ground yourself in the warmth of his eyes. You try to find his face amidst your tears.

“Bachira-kun,” Your voice is a whimper. You tuck your head against his shoulder. “I’m scared, I’m so scared, it hurts,”

He stiffens and then his voice comes. It’s soothing, sounds just like him. High and soft. He hums a lullaby to you like nothings wrong. When his hand rests on your lower back, it doesn’t make you feel like crawling out of your own skin.

“It’s okay,” He whispers. “It’s safe. You’re safe. I’ll protect you, promise.”

It’s weird to see him this calm. The loud Bachira you know is never so poised, but he holds you steady. You whimper as he pushes you against his scent glands. He smells sweet. You huff it involuntarily. Bachira doesn’t tell you to stop.

When the train comes to a slow, you let him move you through the station and take you to the bathroom. Your knees are weak. He’s not the type to worry but you’ve made him so concerned.

He opens a stall and sets you gently on the toilet. The cool linoleum sobers you enough to look at Bachira. His worry, his concern, his care. You whimper.

“Hug me,” You practically beg. He hesitates, clicking himself into the stall alongside you as you let yourself drape around his waist. It’s not very different from how you usually are, is it? Bachira is always so affectionate, yet it feels so different.

He rubs the scent glands on his wrist on your neck.

Above you, Bachira is on his phone. Your brain is too hazy to make the details, but you think you hear your fathers voice on the other side of the line.

“Ji-chan will be here soon,” Bachira says. You clutch the back of Bachira’s uniform. It’s the first time he’s ever felt so broad. “Don’t worry.”

“Meguru. Thank you,” You say in a half-sob.

“Anytime,” He says, his voice small and high and so familiar. “I’ll always protect you. Promise. No alpha will touch you again.”

***

The reality of your first heat should be what you expect. You know these things happen. Otou-san has told you to be cautious everywhere you go for the last four years without fail.

But when it happens to you, it’s the first time you feel resentful about your secondary sex. Anger towards your body first, for not being able to control itself. Angry at the world next, for making you feel as if it’s your fault.

You grow averse to alphas in the after math. You try not to be. You try not to let your discomfort show and try not to become the sort of person who makes judgements on secondary sex - but for a long time, just the thought of being around them makes your bones chill.

The only thing that keeps you from being all negative is Bachira. His anger for you when discussing that day is enough to ease the burden. Bachira bears your hurt like its his.

You start calling Bachira, Meguru when you call him after he stays with you during your heat. It’s the last bridge of closeness to cross - the last barrier between you. He calls you by your first name too, sometimes a nickname if the mood suits him.

You find yourself so thankful to be his friend some days it makes you want to cry.

You find yourself even more grateful when he tells you he’s an omega. It comforts you. You think, he’s too good to be an alpha and too goo to be with one but you never tell him. It’ll happens someday and you think you’ll be sad.

But for now, you’re happy being by his side a little while longer.

[ FOURTEEN ]

Miki-chan invites you to celebrate her fourteenth birthday with a visit to the mall.

There’s a huge mall a little over half an hour away from Chiba that she’s been dying to visit since forever agp. Her nee-san takes all of you in her nice car, even letting you spend money on her card within reason. She’s a lot older than all of you, twice your age with a big girl job in Tokyo. She’s stylish and kind and always has fun nail designs because she works for a famous fashion magazine.

Otou-san has also given you an excessive amount of pocket money after you told him about your day-trip. You really weren’t planning on getting anything, but you’re glad to have something in case Bachira wants to make a purchase.

You’re stopped in for frozen yogurt, following Bachira as Miki-chan and another mutual friend, Sasaki-san wait for you to come up front. You watch amusedly as Bachira piles his frozen yogurt with more toppings. You’re pretty sure he’s not even going to finish it.

You peer at his cup from over his shoulder, watching him pile gummy bears onto his already loaded cup of frozen yogurt, wrinkling your nose in distaste.

“What flavor of froyo did you get this time?”

“Sea salt chocolate. For balance,” He says, dead seriously.

You smile involuntarily before brushing past him, spooning yogurt chips into your own cup. You get different things depending on your mood but always keep it simple. Since it’s hot and humid, you’re getting a coconut flavor with shaving, yogurt chips, fruit and strawberry sauce and sprinkles for good measure.

“You’re too much,” You move past him and wait for him to finish up at the counter. “But if you’re happy,”

“I’m always very happy. I have no place for sadness!” Bachira replies.

You give him another crooked smile, turning to where Miki and Sasaki are chatting.

“I’ll pay for Meguru-kun,” You announce. His frown is instant.

“Eh? No way, I brought money though? That’s why I put so much stuff,”

He’s pouting. You wonder if all omega boys are that cute naturally or if it’s just Bachira.

“Buy something with it later.”

He pouts, swallowing his complaint as he knows it’ll fall on deaf ears.

“Fine,” He huffs, placing his alongside yours on the weight. The cashier gives you two a knowing smile that you miss as she rings up, sticking a color-changing spoon in each before passing it back along with your change. “I’ll get you back for this.”

You don’t say anything as you watch the weight counter.

“Over one thousand yen…. you’re such a glutton,”

“I’ll split it with you as thanks,”

You make a face of disgust that makes him cackle as you both sit down and join your other friends. Bachira drags his chair to sit as close to you as possible, fully inserting himself into your personal space per usual. You eat a spoonful of your frozen yogurt, unconcerned. Sasaki stares at you for a bit. Your eyes meet and you tilt your head in confusion but she turns away.

“Miki-chan, is there anything else you want to look for?”

“New shoes, maybe.”

You glance at her then shake your head. “Pick something else.”

“…Okay. Thank you in advance, I guess,” Miki-says with a laugh. You smile a little.

You look over at Bachira who’s very enraptured in his fro-yo.. You lick your thumb as reach over and wipe the corners of his mouth - stained with chocolate.

“You eat like a kid,” Fondness unmistakable in your voice.

He shakes his head sagely. “Eating something delicious is supposed to make you eat like a kid, you know? And we are kids. This is what it means to be free citizens of the world! Of this great nation!”

“Uh-huh. I’ll take your word for it, but clean your mouth at least.”

Bachira looks at you with smeared mess of chocolate, worsened by another sugary bite. “Why should I worry about it when you’re here to do it for me?”

You give him flat look. Despite yourself though, you use a napkin from the middle of the table to wipe his mouth off. Miki scoffs at you both.

“If you’re too spoiled, she’ll get sick of you,” Miki-chan says bitterly.

“She’d never get sick of me. You on the other hand,”

You shake your head as the two of them hiss at each other. You’ve been friends for years and they still argue. It’s hard to say they’re oil and water. If anything, they’re so similar it baffles you why they don’t get along better then they do you. After a minute of glaring, she sighs and goes back to thinking of her shopping trip.

“Well if shoe’s are out of the question, maybe some new earrings. Oh! And we should get you some makeup you can wear at school.”

You shake your head. “I told you I’m not interested.”

“You’re wasting your beautiful omega looks. I won’t allow it,” Miki pouts at you even as you shake your head. “I promise it’ll be easy stuff. I just think it would look nice on you.”

Bachira doesn’t even look up. “You’re pretty the way you are.”

“Don’t say something that embarrassing,”

“It’s not embarrassing if it’s true,” He voices, sing-songy. His insistence only worsens your frown.

Sasaki glances between you again, you think. It’s too brief for you to catch but the weight of it lingers even when she pulls her gaze.

“Please? Just a little? I’m buying it for you so it’s fine right.”

“I know you said you want to practice on me but it’s not just that, right?”

Miki smiles at you, coy. “Eh… maybe? I want to max your potential more like. You’re not seeing my exquisite vision but I will make you.”

You shake your head, and sigh - pretending to be more troubled than you are. “Fine. We’ll go after. I want to go to another store too. For stationary,”

“You’re too much of a bookworm. Boring. Nerd!” Bachira says automatically.

“The one time we agree on something,” Miki replies.

You frown at both of them. “It’s important that the world has boring people. How else would we have laws?”

“Even you thinking about laws is so boring,”

You shake your head, displeased.

Conversation flows more steadily between you, Miki and Sasaki. Bachira tunes out, draping himself all over you once he’s done eating. He fidgets with your hands, resting his head on your shoulder. You adjust so you can eat while letting him.

“Pee,” Bachira announces abruptly. He stands up, arms over his head as his shirt slides over his belly, exposing skin. “Need to pee really bad. Pee time,”

“Do you want me to come with you?” You ask.

He looks down at you and smiles widely before shaking his head. “Mm, no. I’ll be fine. I can do it by myself. I’m no longer a kid!”

You give him a raise brow in reply to say can you? that makes him stick his tongue out. You chuckle at that. “Go pee then. Don’t get lost.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Bachira does a salute before scurrying off to find the closest bathroom. Sure that’ll occupy his time, you smile to yourself as take a spoonfuls of your melty frozen yogurt - careful not to spill any as you put in your mouth and go back to conversation.

Sorry about that. What were you saying, Sasaki-san?”

She stares at you for a long time. “Are you two… like… together?”

You blink.

“Sorry?”

“You and him,” Sasaki reiterates. Besides her, Miki snorts.

“What a good question,”

You shoot her a unimpressed look. “Ignore her. No, we’re not.”

“What?” Sasaki says. The genuine disbelief shocks you a little. You’re used to Miki teasing you but not this. “Seriously? Even though he’s like that?”

“Oh, what? Like touchy?” You reply, starting to understand. Miki interrupts you.

“Don’t bother, Sasaki. It’s a lose cause.” She shakes her head.

“Again. Ignore her,” You emphasize, shooting her a glare. “Anyway no. We’re just childhood friends and he’s always been sort of clingy like that.”

“With everyone?” Sasaki says pointedly. “Or is it just because it’s you…?”

You pause.

You’ve never… considered that. You rarely have time to feel overly conscious about what Bachira does or doesn’t do with you. In the first place, he’s not the sort of person that’s easy to predict. He’s got more quirks than you can keep track of but all of it is Bachira. It makes no sense to question his idiosyncrasies this far in. There’s nothing he could do to make you think of him differently. Bachira doesn’t have many friends outside of you to begin with.

You blink a few times, considering it. “No, I’m…sure it’s just with anyone he feels very close too,”

“But to that extent? He was letting off his—“

Miki shoots her a look and shakes her head. You catch it but find yourself unable to ask, lost in thought. Too hung up on what feels like the edge of an epiphany.

There’s a long bout of silence until you shake your head.

Even if it’s only you, it doesn’t make a huge difference.

“Bachira is only interested in alphas,” You reply, remembering. Sasaki seems surprised by that for some strange reason. “It really doesn’t mean anything,”

Before long, Bachira returns to the table. He takes as long as you predicted, but you find you’re a little relieved to see him acting the same. He drops down and places his chin on your head, waiting for you to look up at him.

“Didja miss me?”

A sweet, familiar scent. A soft, high voice. A wild look. You look up at him, reassured by your own reminder of his sexuality. You grin mischievously.

“Not at all,” You say with fake nonchalance. He gasps.

“Rude!”

Yes, it’s fine. Still the same old Bachira.

[ FIFTEEN ]

“Oh,” You can’t mask the surprise in your voice as your older brother sits at the dining room table. “Nii-san.”

Your oldest brother has recently started at a real office job. It’s closer to your childhood home then his apartment, so some nights if he’s too exhausted - he’ll drop in and sleep in his old room. It’s rare you come across him though, since he’s usually home and asleep as soon as it’s night time.

He must’ve come from the office. He’s still wearing his dress shirt and tie, though he has the suit jacket he wears to the office laid over the back of a dining room chair. You try to get used to him looking like that, but the version of him most strongly in your head is all the years he spent as a delinquent.

His straightened out appearance is unusual for you no matter how often you come across it now. You mostly keep in touch through socials and sparse texts, and he sometimes calls you. His hair is dyed a natural color now and he only has his piercings in on days off. The few tattoos he used to show off are now well hidden under his clothes.

But his manor and demeanor are largely the same when he’s relaxed. The way he spreads out when he sits makes him look like the average delinquent. The familiarity of it is comfortable albeit funny.

“You’re home late,”

“I had student council,”

He taps his fingers against the table, a silent gesture for you to sit.

“You’re in student council? Since when?”

You shrug, setting your bag down to join him in the kitchen. “Since school started. I was roped into it,”

“Then are you in other clubs?”

“I’m in a volunteering club. We help the elderly and read with younger classes and help out around school.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, tipping his head back. “We’re complete opposites somehow…”

You purse your lips, faintly amused as you open your fridge up. There’s more pudding then when you left in the morning, but you decide against asking as you take one and open a drawer for a spoon. “You were already skipping class and stuff by then, right? I remembered because you and kaa-san used to argue while I was doing homework.”

“You heard all of that?”

You open the plastic peel off lid and dip into the flan-like texture, nodding indifferently as you sit in the dining room chair across from him. “Uh-huh. Kinda hard not too.”

“It didn’t scare you?”

“Nah,” You tilt your head. “You glaring at me whenever you saw me did though. A little.”

His eyes go wide before sighing. “Sorry. I was a knucklehead back then.”

“It was fine. It made me a bit sad but I’m fine now. And I hope you don’t hate me any more?”

He gives you a half-hearted laugh, still feeling guilty. You’re mostly teasing. Nii-san has only grown increasingly over protective, though you still don’t know what he’s thinking. He also gives you allowance now, which is nice.

He leans back. “Nah, course not. How could I hate such a good kid?”

He reaches over to pet your head as you eat your pudding, giving you a smile you can’t really read. “Your birthday is soon right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Got any plans?”

“I’ll probably drag Meguru-kun around to the bookstore.”

He makes a face at you. “That brat,”

“Don’t call him that.” You frowb. “I don’t get why you hate him so much anyway.”

“Because he’s always hanging around you and he’s—“ He shakes his fist aimlessly, unable to find the words. They’ve had arguments with each other for as long as you can remember. “Whatever. Fine. Just. Don’t marry him,”

“He likes alphas,” You say with ease. He looks at you incredulous, before shaking his head.

“Sure. Even if that changes don’t marry him. Don’t date him either. Settle down with someone nice,”

“No offense, nii-san but that’s not really a lecture I wanna hear from you,”

“See? He’s already rubbing off on you.”

“Huh? The two of you already broke up?”

Bachira lays on your bed on his stomach while you sit at your desk, his legs swinging up in the air. Predictably, he’s watching videos about dribbling on his phone.

You haven’t seen him in a few days but it makes sense that he wouldn’t have heard about it. Your relationship with Inoue wasn’t very public to begin with, at least not on her end. Aside from that, you always got the impression that things would turn out this way.

You’re sure that your own pessimism and detachment is part of the reason.

You busy yourself with the derivatives taunting you on your graphing paper, making an affirmative noise. “A couple of days ago,”

“Ehhh? Wasn’t she totally clingy with you, though?”

You shrug indifferently.

Inoue-san was the only other omega in your grade who likes other omegas. There’s rumours about Suzuki-kun who’s a second year and some other third years you don’t really know. Of them, Inoue was the only one you knew personally. You sit next to each other in class and joined the same clubs coincidentally.

A conversation in the club room making flyers devolved into one about secondary sexes and sexuality. Eventually, you landed on the topic of being an omega. You commiserated about it then, shared some words of camaraderie about the social woes of being the perceived weaker sex and became a little more comfortable with each other. You aren’t sure what thread of conversation exactly led to the talk of you both mutually preferring omegas.

Inoue-san confessed too, that unlike you who couldn’t figure out what you felt towards alphas, she knew with some certainty she didn’t like them at all.

Another few weeks of friendship and the steadily closing distance between you, one thing led to another. Inoue-san confessed to you first in a sort of abrupt and out of the blue way. It was a semi-impulsive decision to date her, but you thought she was pretty and nice. A puppy crush worth something, a youthful love affair.

So after summer break, the two of you started dating.

It was a short lived relationship. A break in routine. You dated for three months and broke up just this last week. The first month of your relationship was nice. You ate lunch together and texted a lot. The second month you went on dates. The third month had been fine for a little before everything seemed to rip at the seams and fall apart.

Inoue-san was nice to be with when you were alone. In the sanctity of storage rooms or her childhood bedroom - where there were no eyes to leer at either of you, she was everything you liked about being with an omegas. Soft skin, pretty eyes, an intoxicating scent that made your brain go alight when you touched her. She was comfortable to be with during your pre-heat, easy to touch and hold and caress.

It made sense to be with her in the way you always thought it would.

Fundamental differences in your feelings about being omegas in a relationship would appear sooner rather than later though. You’re sympathetic, which is why you don’t think you’re as hurt as you should be.

“I kinda knew. In the back of my mind, I guess,” You click the end of your pencil to push out more led, scribbling out some more numbers. “She always avoided crowds. Seemed paranoid about people finding out in general. So I thought it might be something like that.”

“You don’t seem very sad,” Bachira points out. You give him an amused smile from the corner of your eye.

“What kind of best friend would want me to be sad?”

“Nooo,” He whines at you, tossing a stuffed toy at you that you reflexively duck a way from. “I was just worried about you, jeez. Plus, I didn’t really like her, you know?”

There’s no way you couldn’t have known. Bachira being hesitant towards people in your life isn’t anything new. He’s never been fond of any new friends you’ve made, always openly jealous and always asking for assurance that he’s still your number one. Sometimes he’d go as far as doing it in front of them, which you reprimanded him for.

Sometimes.

You roll your eyes. “Oh I know,”

He grins. “I was being so nice this time,” He pouts, rolling onto his back with his arms crossed over his chest. He turns his face to your bedroom wall instead of you. “You should praise me. I wasn’t even mean to her face! Not once,”

“Pfft,” You laugh behind your hands. “Yeah, good job. Still, I didn’t think Inoue-san was that bad. She didn’t do anything to me,”

“She was ashamed of you,” Bachira says. It’s weird. A strangely serious sentiment that makes your eyes go wide.

“Not of me,” You correct. “Of us, maybe. I think she was being sincere when she said she liked me but I mean. I get it. It’s not something I go around telling people either, though I’ve been out for a while,”

There’s some impulse he bites down. It’s not like you’re defending her, but Bachira takes it as such and takes it personally as he does most things. You give him a small smile as you notice, so attuned to his moods. Even his petulance doesn’t shake you. Selfishness comes as naturally to Bachira as breathing.

“I wouldn’t be ashamed to be with you in public,” He bites his tongue again and you want to ask what could be on his mind. He’s intending the words to be lighthearted, but there’s weight there. You aren’t sure how you’re meant to hold it. “If were ever to fall madly in love with each other, I would tell the entire world.”

You try not to let it mean anything. The numbers on your page blur together so much you have to start a problem over. It takes you a second to pull the shake out of your voice.

“If you like something, don’t you usually tell the whole world anyway?” You say sardonically. Bachira frowns, huffs, turns his head away. His ears are pink.

“Yeah,” He says back and leaves it there. “Usually keeping it in makes me feel like I’m gonna explode into a million little pieces. Bleh,”

He slumps back onto one side of your bed and keeps watching his game. The sound of your pencil scratching along the paper makes up for the empty space.

[ SIXTEEN ]

On the field, Bachira shines brighter than any star in the night-sky.

You’re the only one here for todays game. His mom usually comes to whichever one she can, but she has an important exhibition on the other side of the country today. Bachira didn’t show any disappointment about it. You’re not sure how he feels but you doubt it affected too much.

When it comes to soccer, he becomes completely single-minded.

The soccer Bachira plays is a reflection of him. Golden yellow and free, like a shade only he can color with, that touches everything and makes it shine in its path.

The Bachira you know—the Meguru you’ve known your whole life is different when it comes to soccer. Soccer is the precedence of his entire existence. For Bachira, who enjoys being completely and entirely uninhibited, there’s nothing as freeing as the square PVC frames of a net.

He splits his life in two ways. Soccer and everything else.

The field are still mildly damp today. It lingers in the air, cooling on your skin as you watch him from the stands in utter awe. Rays of light spill through gaps in the thick clouds over head, shining down on the field and making each move vibrant.

The game goes on around you bustling endlessly. Noise from all sides. Whether that be in the stands with people talking amongst themselves, the shouting of coaches, or the players talking to one another. It’s loud all around, blurry movements of team mates passing the fall back and forth make up the scene. Guarding and passing, taking each other into consideration as all team sports encourage.

The soccer that Bachira plays is different from the soccer everyone else plays on the field. Selfish, ego-centric, enigmatic - you find that you can’t take a single breath or you might miss something. It’s antithetical how team sports are played. Eye-catching and flashy as he dribbles the ball along with his feet in a movement like a dance.

He’s mesmerizing. Despite all the things happening around you all at once, your gaze is fixated completely and utterly on Bachira. So bright it outshines everything else, everyone else, without feeling apologetic. Without reason or rhyme, without strategy. A soccer that demands to be seen.

This is a game with many players, but to you - it is simply the stage in which Bachira shows off his talent in it’s rawest form. Even in a place not well suited for it, Bachira shines. You’ve never seen anything so brilliant. It’s been years since you last attended a game and seen this applied version of himself.

It’s the first time Bachira has ever felt so close while feeling so far. It’s the first time you can’t hide from him, pinned underneath the honey-viscous weight of his presence.

He dribbles the ball between his feet and kicks hard into center stage, scores a goal so beautifully unpredictable the whole crowd roars in cheers and Bachira laughs like he’s delighted.

You love Bachira. You realize this as he stands like a center piece in the field.

Like the moon loves the sun. Like the sand loves the tide. Like shadows love light. Bachira is more beautiful playing soccer than you’ve ever seen him, and it occurs to you it’s taken you sixteen years to find this out.

He’s so beautiful you can’t tear yourself away. Can’t run from the realization.

His eyes find yours in the crowds of people, elated with his brows raised. You can practically hear him where he stands, lips curled around the words. Did you see that? Did you see the goal I made?

You break the neutrality of your face and grin wide, uncharacteristic as you chant his name. “Go, Meguru!”

Bachira laughs again as the game goes on. Your shining star, your ego-centric sun. Your heart is beating loud enough to crush your ribs.

What an incredible view.

(Namikaze highschool wins that round of their inter-high bracket. The team goes to celebrate. They never invite Bachira.

Today, though, Bachira has you. After the game, Bachira wraps you in a hug so tight it could break you. You wonder when he got so strong. His scent, overwhelming and sweet, mixes with the scent of sweat and deodorant. You like it. You hug like that for a while, suddenly aware of your lack of proximity.

A comment Sasaki-san made about you two years ago pops back into your head but you still don’t think to let him go.

After he showers and changes back into his usual attire, you and Bachira walk to the 7/11 around the corner of his house.

You sit on the curb, legs out stretched. The sun is in full bloom, sky painted an pastel orange melting into pinks and blues. You hand Bachira his soda water from your bag, and split the melon flavored popsicle you bought in two halves.

You give him the bigger half. Unusually, it’s very quiet between you two.

“I’m going to become the best striker in the world,” He says. A repeat of a dream you’ve heard before, but said with amazing conviction. You look at him for a long time. Wet hair and brown eyes. You tuck a piece of hair behind his ear to look at him better then smile.

“I know you are,”

His grin brightens. “Right! Right, so when that happens,” His voice drops, feather soft. “When it happens, make sure you’re watching me. Don’t look away or you’ll miss it. ‘Kay? You gotta promise.”

He holds out his pinky for you. Were his hands always so calloused? Were they always so big, you wonder. You look at Bachira and suddenly he seems so much older. You nod your head.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Meguru.” )

[ SEVENTEEN ]

“Come over,” Bachira demands on the other side of the line. His voice is nearly a screech. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him so excited in your entire life and that is saying a whole lot. “Come over, now. Like right now! You have too, you absolutely must,”

You pull your bag up on your shoulders as you pull the phone away from your ears. “Jeez, jeez - alright. I just got back from my supplementary lessons, so give me a second.”

“Are you on the street in front of my house?”

“Huh? Yeah, I am.”

The phone line cuts off, going completely silent as you stare at your phone in a mix of confusion and disbelief. Your fingers hover over the call back icon for a second before a tremendously loud shout and even louder footsteps sound in your ears.

You’re too surprised to laugh as Bachira comes barreling towards you in minutes flat. You steel yourself preparing to catch him if he lands face-first, but he manages to pull back in record speed skidding to a halt. You blink at him rapidly. He feels like an illusion.

“You ran here,”

“Yes. I did. Because,” He grabs both of your hands and starts to tug you into some kind of spinning dance in the middle of the sidewalk. “I. Have. News!”

“News? What about?”

His eyes widen and shine brilliantly. “Bluelock!”

The act of disappearing requires a lot more work than you could’ve imagined.

You’re being dramatic. Bachira isn’t disappearing. Not forever, at least. He’s just going away for a while, abruptly doing the thing that he would’ve done regardless because it’s not like he can become the best striker in the world in Japan alone. It’s something that was bound to happen eventually.

And, it’s not like you didn’t get any warning. The letter came months beforehand. Bachira was set to leave towards the end of November, which meant he about a month to prepare. Which means you’ve had about a month to be with him.

It’s not a big deal. You have other friends. Other people. It’s good that Bachira is going to be in a place that he can play the soccer he’s always dreamed. Even as his best friend, there’s some things you can’t do for him. It’s the happiest you’ve ever seen him, which is saying more than you ever could.

Rationally, you know there’s nothing to worry about. Emotionally, you’ve found out that you rely on Bachira more than you thought. Even the thought of him leaving temporarily is making your heart wrench. You’ve asked him a million questions.

It’s not like you to be so anxious about anything. You ere on the side of calm. But it’s Bachira. Your Meguru, so you can’t help but worry.

Bachira, dense as he is about other people, sympathizes with your concerns without asking and doesn’t get mad when you answer. It’s easy for you to forget that he understands you in his own way.

Bachira depends on you because he cares about you and you take care of Bachira because you are about him. It fulfills a mutual sense of purpose.

This is a normal part of growing up. You’ve been repeating it to yourself constantly. It’s not like you won’t see him ever again. You’ll see him afterwards, at least for a little while. You won’t be able to call or text him while he’s in the facility but that’s not forever. And even while he’s in there, he wants to hear about your boring life. So he says, anyways.

Rationally, you know it’s fine. Emotionally, you’re growing a keen sense of awareness about this being the end of your so-called youth. It’s not you’re adults, but you’re not kids either. You’re going to be eighteen next year. You have to think about entrance exams. You have to think about life and where Bachira will go without you.

Time is passing by you whenever you hesitate. Eventually, it’ll catch up to you and Bachira will be somewhere so far out of your reach. There’s no one you can think of more perfect for center stage. No one’s soccer will every shine as brilliantly as Bachira’s.

But it’s lonely. In it’s own right. To think about how far he’ll go. He’ll dribble himself to the ends of the Earth eventually.

At least for another week though, he’s within your reach. You have so many pictures together in your room per his request over the last few years, but looking at him now you kind of wish you had more.

“Aren’t you wanting to practice?”

“Ehh?” He frowns. “I can practice later. But I can’t be in your room all the time you know. I want to burn it into my brain. I thought we should do something special to commemorate but I couldn’t figure anything out.”

You hum. A thought strikes you. It’s incredibly out of character, but maybe that’s why it does. “We could drink together.”

Bachira laughs at first, definitely assuming it was a joke. When he realizes you’re dead serious though, he gasps, scandalized. Your lips quirk up at the corners.

“Who are you? An impostor? A shadow clone?” Bachira grabs your shoulders and shakes you lightly. “What did you do with my uptight best friend?!”

You laugh helplessly. “Don’t act like that. I just know where my parents keep bottles of shochu cold in the basement and thought maybe. I’ve never touched it before. It’s the weekend right? So if we get too drunk, you can sleep here.”

Bachira dramatically places a hand over his mouth in shock. “Have you really been replaced by alien clones…I can’t believe my ears.”

You shake your head. “Do you want to drink together or not?”

“Ehhhh?? Of course I do!” Bachira says, absolutely enthused at the idea. “We should get so drunk together.”

You consider it. “My parents are visiting relatives. I guess I can text and see if nii-san is coming home.”

“Are you saying it’s okay to get drunk if he isn’t planning on coming?”

You nod. “He’d probably be easy on me but I don’t want him to lecture you,”

Bachira squishes his face to yours, rubbing his cheek on yours with unabashed affection. You try not to laugh. You can feel him so close, smell him so close it makes you a little dizzy. Bachira doesn’t let out his scent more than necessary, but he is now just barely - scent glands brushing against your skin.

He smells sweet, but in a strange way. It was comforting and familiar. A little unusual for an omega given how strong it was but it’s not like Bachira is very usual in general.

It’s a little intimate for friends, but it’s Bachira and who knows when you’d see him next. You let him do as he pleases.

“Hurry and text your brother,” Bachira huffs, then brightens back up again. “Then lets drink! Yay!”

You bring the bottles of shochu back up to your bedroom as a pre-caution. Nii-san is is a couple hours away for a work trip, but you can’t get over the lingering paranoia of him appearing back home and trying to fight Bachira as a result so you figure it’s probably better to drink in your room.

You bring two glasses up with you along with juice and soda water, unsure about the taste. Bachira likes soda water as is so maybe he can use it as a chaser.

You sit across from each other at the small table close to the floor in the middle of your room. It took a while to get the bottles open.

You’ve smelled it before but it’s a little weird having it available to drink.

“I can’t believe you’re drinking with me. Underage. You, of all people.”

You pour a little shochu into each of your cups with a roll of your eyes. You’ll save the mix-ins for later, but you’re interested in tasting it on its own. You’re sure your parents have other stuff too, sake, beer and wine but you don’t know where they keep it. You read the labels of the bottle before drinking it.

You brush past what Bachira has said. “Fourty-three percent seems like a lot.”

“That’s basically half right? Doesn’t that mean this is gonna make us super drunk? Ohh, think I’m gonna throw up in your room? I haven’t done that since we were ten!”

“Please don’t throw up in my room.” You say, shaking your head. “I don’t know actually. It seems like a lot. Guess we’ll just have to drink and see.”

You shrug. You pick up your glass, signaling Bachira to do the same. He lets out a loud kanpai as you do, making you laugh a little as you bring the glass up to your lips. The scent itself sort of burns, you can’t imagine what drinking it is gonna be like.

You watch aghast as Bachira knocks the entire glass back and nearly hacks up his lungs coughing. His eyes are wet when he recovers with a fit of laughter that he can’t seem to get control of.

“Ahhh, it burns! It burns so much and it tastes weird. But it was easier to drink at once.” He says dramatically laughing, nearly retching in the process.

You stare at him in disbelief before taking a sip of your own drink refusing to partake in the same foolishness. He’s right that it burns. You always heard that but feeling the acidity in your mouth is different. It feels like all the moisture from your mouth is going along with it. You try it a few more times in short sips.

Are you some sort of masochist?

“I kind of…” You blink. Your eyes water as you look up at Bachira. “I kind of like it…?”

Bachira takes the bottle into his own hands that time and pours more of it straight into your glass and less into his. You’re sitting but you feel woozy. He pours soda and juice along his own before picking it up again, smiling with a friendly cheers.

Hours pass.

You and Bachira drink two entire bottles and talk to each other about nothing in particular. Mostly, it’s Bachira telling you how excited he is to go to Bluelock and you listening. You like listening to him. You love his voice.

You’re not sure when exactly the distance between you had disappeared entirely. You’re used to Bachira. To his body heat, to his presence, to his weight. You know how to carry him. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the drawn out feeling of loneliness making you feel self-conscious.

You don’t know what it is exactly. But there’s something about him at this proximity you’re having a hard time with. Wrapped up together, tangled on your bedroom floor while you both reek of liquor. He smells like burnt honey and he’s… handsome. More than he is pretty, you think. Still pretty though too.

He’s so unusual in every way. Your love for him sort of simmers underneath you in a pleasant but difficult way. You blink. Your eyes are bleary. He talks so much, but it’s the first time you really think about kissing him. The first time you wonder about how it feels.

You’re staring. Bachira pauses halfway as you’re tucked against him and stares back, mouth curled into familiar chesire grin. He drops his voice down to a whisper.

“What?” He says. He’s being teasing. He does that occasionally.

“Nothing,” You say and want to shut your eyes. “Keep talking. ‘s fine.”

“It’s not nothing,” He whines petulantly. “You’re not listeninggggg,”

“Sorry.”

He hugs you, an arm slipping under you and squeezing you. Was he always so strong? You figured his legs might be but there’s muscle in his arms too. “I’m not actually mad, dummy.”

“I was sorry, though.” A beat of silence. A heartbeat. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“Really?”

You look at him incredulous. “Of course. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“You’re hard to read sometimes! Even for me.”

You decide not to apologize again. Bachira would complain. You desperately want to tell him you love him. They’re the only words on you mind. But even this wasted, you can’t bring yourself to do something that pointless.

“You’re the most important person in my entire life,” You opt for instead. “And I hope you find someone who can play the kind of soccer that’s fun for you.”

Another minute of silence passes before you hear the familiar huff of Bachira crying. He cries often but he hasn’t done it in front of you for quite some time. He tucks himself against your neck and shoulder, shifting to press against your scent glands.

“I was doing a good job not trying before this,” He mutters. You rub his back soothingly, smiling a bit. “Gosh…don’t be so sappy like that randomly. It’s bad for my heart!”

Your own throat feels thick but you keep it down. Manage to swallow the tears away. You want to tell him so badly it’s making it hard to breathe.

Bachira looks up after a while. You do him the courtesy of wiping his tears away with your thumb, brushing them away from his face.

You don’t realize how close your faces have gotten until you nearly brush against his nose.

You think the alcohol is making you hallucinate when you feel a kiss.

Your eyes are still open for it. It’s not clumsy but it’s not smooth either. You blink. And you feel it again, and it lingers a little longer until you close your eyes and kiss back.

You kiss him so hard it feels like you forget how to breathe.

You don’t talk about it.

When Bachira wakes up the next day thoroughly hung-over and much in the same condition, treating you exactly the same - you assume he’s forgotten about it unlike you. You try not to let it weigh on you by writing it off as one of Bachira’s many quirks. Maybe you’ve gotten practice at repressing your emotions better than you thought since it works perfectly.

The week passes by easily. At the end of it, you see Bachira off along with his mom and the rest of your family who insisted on waving him off. The thought of not knowing the next time you’ll see him is painful but you manage it with the feeling you’ll see him eventually.

Though you don’t know how long it’ll be.

The next time you see Bachira’s face is on T.V.

It’s the first time you’ve ever sat in your living room to watch a game of soccer. You had wanted to attend, but tickets had only been alloted for family. You settled on watching at home, though Bachira’s mom had promised she would relay any messages she could from Bachira to you through text and otherwise.

You’ve never been into soccer. Despite your many years spent along side it for one reason or another, the sport itself has rarely ever been of any interest. You’re sure this is partly to blame on the fact you are hilariously unathletic albeit perfectly healthy.

When the U-2o match gets announced and you hear Bluelock will be playing, your ears perk up like a dog. You’re glad Bachira isn’t around to see how you announce to your entire house and tell them the T.V. and living room will be totally occupied during the duration of the match. You invite Miki-chan who pretends to want to refuse but comes over to watch anyway. Your nii-san joins you, which isn’t a surprise since he liked soccer to begin with.

You know whats happening well enough since you’ve had it explained to you hundreds of times.

You see several people on the screen during the match. Bachira’s team mates. Team mates he gets along with. There’s another player named Isagi on the field and him and Bachira have such tangible chemistry you feel a little jealous watching them.

In the short few months Bachira has been away at Bluelock, you can see how he’s changed. How much his soccer has transformed and improved in so little time.

Most of all, you can tell that Bachira is having the best time of his entire life. You can deal with the mild envy if only he gets to be that happy forever.

The U-20 games end in a victory for the Bluelock team and several interesting characters appearing. That guy, Isagi, announces to the world that he’s going to be the one to lead the team to victory. You think to yourself that you understand exactly why Bachira likes him.

The next time you see Bachira in person is not long after that. Apparently as a reward for their win, they’d been granted two weeks of free time.

It was only a few months, but it’s easy to tell how much Bachira has changed. It was all over him. He carried himself with more confidence, more electricity, more buzz.

He was still himself while being completely unrecognizable at the same time.

You were happy Bachira was happy, elated to hear all about his life and new friends. You couldn’t keep track of all of it, but you’ve been spending the last few days attached at the hip now that he was back in your hometown.

He’d had another day to visit friends already out in Shibuya that you couldn’t attend. Not that you really wanted too. You were happy he extended the invite but being around that many athletes and no doubt many alphas sounded like a nightmare.

You figured he would have another day or two like that as is, so when he texts you again that he’ll be meeting with some Bluelock friends, you’re content to let him go and not tag along despite yourself. As much some whiny part of you wanted to monopolize him completely (an omega part of you, you can admit) you feel it’s more important for Bachira to nurture his newer relationships on his own.

And again, being around that many alpha athlete teenage boys is mildly nightmarish to you in particular.

So you invited Sasaki to the mall to talk about this and that to keep your time occupied. She’d started dating some guy at school and you have yet to know the details.

You weren’t expecting to run into Bachira with his friends at the same mall.

You catch Bachira’s eye from across the way in the middle of the mall, along with a group of boys you know to be his new team mates. You honestly think it’d be better to avoid them for now. Not that you’re not happy to see Bachira, but there’s no way this won’t be incredibly awkward for you.

Sasaki nudges you though, not caring in the slightest at your visible distress. “Isn’t that Bachira-kun?”

“Yes,” You hiss, trying not to be obvious. “Let’s go the other way.”

“Huh? Why?”

“Because—“

You turn around to leave but don’t really get a chance as you hear a voice shout your name.

You flinch as you turn around. Sasaki gives you an amused look that you elbow her for immediately, feeling yourself jolt. After she makes fun of you, she holds your hand with an affirming squeeze and comforts you in a way only betas can - a soft citrus scent washing over you. You squeeze her hand back sighing, thankful as the group of boys stalk over to you.

Bachira runs more than he walks, skidding to a halt in front of you. “Ehhh? What are you doing here?”

“Came to gossip and walk around with Sasaki-chan,” You say with a shrug, pointedly ignoring the three pairs of eyes on you as you talk. “And buy books.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t come,” Bachira pouts at you, giving you a pointed look. You smile lightly.

“I didn’t say that,” You reply softly. “I didn’t want to intrude, that’s all.”

“You’re not intruding! Even if you were, I wouldn’t really care.”

“But you should,” You insist, shaking your head. You turn to his friends, getting a better look at them. Two alphas and one beta if your nose is right. You look at them apologetically. “Sorry about interrupting your outing.”

The one of them with pink hair and the prettiest features you’ve ever seen talks first. You’re sure people mistake him for an omega, but his scent is too alpha like for that to be the case. It’s strong enough and distinct enough for you to identify from this distance. “Not at all. I’m Chigiri. This is Nagi,” He says, introducing the other alpha next to him. “And I figure you already know of Isagi,”

You smile a little at that. “Ah, yeah. I do, actually.” You glance at Isagi. He’s a beta in the way he feels like the pinnacle of peace and safety off the field. It’s a little funny how different he seems. They all seem, really.

“Stop getting so buddy-buddy with them,” Bachira bemoans. You frown at him.

“Sorry about him,” You introduce your name first, then Sasaki. “We’re all childhood friends. It’s nice to meet all of you. Sorry to disturb your day off.”

“You’re not disturbing us,” Isagi says serenely. You think he seems a touch smug but can’t tell if you’re imagining it.

“You’re welcome to hang out,” Chigiri says next. He and Isagi share an unreadable but obviously conspiratorial look. Your eyes widen at the offer, shaking your head with your hands up.

“Ah. No, we don’t want to intrude seriously.”

“Why are you deciding for me?” Sasaki cuts in, making you shoot her a very sharp glare. “Shouldn’t you at least ask?”

“You’re not intruding,” Chigiri assures, an incredibly disarming smile on his face. “We’d be bound to see each other again if we’re both here anyways. May as well, right?”

You feel yourself sink, glancing at a very Bachira and thinking of the complaints you’re going to receive as soon as the two of you are alone. Your shoulders slump as you reluctantly smile, lips pressed into a flat line.

‘That’s true. If you’re sure you don’t mind, then alright.

For alphas, you think Bachira’s friends are pretty nice.

Nagi barely speaks, but he’s weirdly been engaged in conversation for the entire duration of you knowing him. He’s got the imposing looks and vibe of an alpha but precisely none of the aggression - at least from where you’re standing. He’s been considerate of you in his own way, especially after Bachira had announced the general discomfort you had felt towards alphas over all.

Chigiri is similarly nice. You can tell he grew up around omegas and are not surprised at all when he informs you he has omega sisters in his house. He’s extremely friendly for an alpha, and you’re sure another omega would be foaming at the mouth at how polite he is.

Of his friends though, you still take preference to Isagi. He is a beta through and through. Adaptable, friendly, easy going while having a sort of snark you find incredibly entertaining. Him and Bachira get along like a house on fire, but not in way that’s entire negative. You do feel a little envious seeing how close they’ve gotten in such a short period of time, but you’re mostly happy for him. Their bond is obviously special.

The rest of your group left a few moments ago, leaving you and Isagi to a much bedgrudging Bachira. You’d gotten food from the food court but it wouldn’t require so many people to go wait so you and Isagi have been securing a spot. You aren’t sure how to be alone with him, never been all that good with strangers.

Isagi is good at making conversation though, so you haven’t had to do much leg work.

You end up at the topic of Bluelock and Isagi practically beams at the chance to talk about it. It’s kind of cute in it’s own right. You know some stuff about it, but the logistics have been lost on you. Bachira tends to talk about these things more with onomatopoeias than with words.

You fiddle with something on the end of your bag as you engage in conversation.

“How does the facility manage like… having omegas and stuff in there?” You wonder. You voiced the concern to Bachira before leaving too but he had assured you it’d be fine. You kind of feel nosy asking.

Isagi shoots you a confused look. “Hm? Bluelock doesn’t have any omegas. It sucks but they considered it too high risk so only betas and alphas were admitted.”

Your turn to look confused. “Sorry? But Bachira is enrolled in it no…?”

Isagi stares at you. “Uh,” He scratches the back of his neck. “Bachira is an alpha, though? Like, a pretty strong one too. It’s hard to tell from his scent from what I hear but he’s prescribed the really high dose medications that the other alphas take. Part of the rut management and everything.”

You blink.

“…That’s…” And then you look up, completely unsure of what to say. “..Are you sure? Like… really sure?”

Isagi looks at you sympathetically. His voice is soft and comforting. “Yeah. I’m sure. Sorry,”

You shake your head. “No it’s,” You feel your eyes start to well up, chest feeling especially tight. “It’s okay. It’s not like you did anything wrong.”

“You’re a nice girl, huh?” Isagi says, voice tender and easily sensing your sudden distress. It makes your lip wobble. You want to cry into a strangers arms even though you absolutely can’t. “I’ll scold him for you.”

You give him a thankful look. “I’m gonna uh,” You swallow. “Go to the bathroom. When Sasaki comes back tell her to text me. And Bachira, uhm. I guess just tell him I went home.”

Isagi smiles. “Sure.”

You thank him again picking up your few things hastily and bolting in the opposite direction.

You don’t really know what you’re supposed to do or how you’re so suppose to receive the information. It’s not a sense of betrayal you feel welling up inside of you, but something closer to a sudden deep remorse and regret. And so much shock you can barely make sense of anything. You feel the sorry in your bones, and you feel the paved memories of your entire lifetime begging to shake under your feet.

Bachira is still Bachira.

But he’s an alpha. An alpha who likes other alphas, in the same way you’re an omega who likes other omegas. He’s like you. You shared this your entire life, but you never knew not once. You didn’t even have any idea.

What kind of friend does that make you? What kind of friend have you been to him all this time? Was it bad enough that he couldn’t share it? When you’ve depended on him so much?

You don’t know how you end up in a bathroom. It’s in such a far away part of the mall. You feel out of body, moving on autopilot as you shuffle into the empty stall and sit on the toliet with your bag and your things.

You’re reminded of your first heat on the train back from middle school. An old memory but not old enough you easily forget. Hesitance turned to frustration and disgust towards alphas. You’d avoided after that for years and still do now. Was it then?

Despondent, you aren’t sure what to do with yourself. The echo of stalls, the noise of people loudly outside, the forceful beat of your heart. A reminder that you’re really living through this realization so late. It’s weird. It hurts so much you can barely think through your thoughts and come upon any answers on how to go on.

It’s not hard to understand why. Bachira is selfish but he’s also loyal. You’re sure that sometime ago, to protect the vulnerable version of you who was already so distrusting of alphas, Bachira had kept it from you as to break your perception any further. You can’t blame him for that, especially when that distrust towards alphas yet to dissolve completely. Of course he wouldn’t be comfortable telling you.

You can’t bring yourself to hate him over it and never would. You’d spend the rest of your life trying to unglue the fused parts of yourself with him, the memories and you’d never see the end of it if you attempted.

What hurts you is that he never told you. Not ever. Not even when you voiced your worries about his heats in Bluelock. Not even as you drank together. Not even when he kissed you.

Was he never going to tell you?

Did he never trust you enough to tell you?

That hurts most. You only have yourself to blame. The thought makes your heart wrench. Your eyes water as you focus in on the ground and try to breathe.

The door of the bathroom itself opens and shuts all of a sudden, familiar footfall making hundreds of alarm bells go off at once. You already know it’s Bachira, but for the first time you don’t know what you’re meant to say to him. The feeling is so complex you can barely put it in words for yourself. How were you meant to face him?

“Meguru,”

You can hear him whimper on the other side of the stall door, fists hitting it in a dull thud.

“I’m sorry,” He’s crying. You want to open the door and comfort him so badly but shame stops you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry - it’s all my fault. Don’t hate me, please don’t hate me.”

You hate hearing him cry. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to keep your voice steady. “I don’t hate you at all.”

“You’re lying. You won’t even open the door to look at me.”

“I just can’t,” You say, not really know how else to explain it. “But nothing could make me hate you.”

“But you hate alphas, don’t you? You’re uncomfortable with me now. We can’t be close anymore, right?”

You don’t say anything to that. You want to deny it. You want to tell him nothing could make you want to stop being his friend.

But then, you remember that Bachira is destined for unimaginable greatness. Bright like the sun and even more interesting, more talented, more cool than you could ever be. He’s an alpha to boot. You think of the future of your life and how you’ve always pictured it to be quiet and functional, because that’s who you’ve always been. Bachira is—was a star crash landing in your life, anyhow. You think of all of that, along with everything else - and all the ways you’ve betrayed him unintentionally.

You’ve used up all of your luck. Inevitably. Eventually, it was always going to end with a gradually forming distance. You knew that before he left just like you know it now. And nows as good a time as any to put it to rest.

“Meguru,” He’s your first friend. You’re sure that’s why he’s so shaken up. Distance would be better. “You have to focus on becoming the best in the world, right? I’ll uh,” You try to breathe. “I’ll be watching from a distance no matter what,”

“Please don’t leave me,” He whimpers. You wince.

“It’s not like that. There’s a lot of people who are beside you now.” You say warily, trying to comfort him. If you were a more selfish person, you would want to be friends. You love Bachira. You’ve loved him your entire life. You probably always will. But you think if he’s had to keep this secret from you so long - you don’t deserve any of that. “It’s fine. You’ll be fine,”

Without me. You’ll be fine without me. You want to tell him that, but can’t bring yourself to say it.

You won’t be, you don’t think. Not for a while. But this is the least you can do for your relationship. For your best friend who you haven’t paid enough attention too.

“I’ll stay with you until you stop crying,” You offer. “And when your eyes aren’t red, we can both just go home. Okay?”

Bachira sniffles on the other side of the door and doesn’t reply.

[ EIGHTEEN ]

On your eighteenth birthday, Bachira’s mom calls you at midnight.

Yu-san is like a third parent to you, so you pick regardless for the reason she calls. She sounds relieved when you answer despite the sleep in your voice. You’re up late studying for your driving license exam which you’ll finally be eligible to take starting now.

“Ah. Hello?”

“Hey, kid. Thanks for picking my call,” She sounds like she’s doing something. It’s a Sunday so she’s probably painting. “Don’t sound too confused. I just called to wish you happy birthday. Meguru always called you at midnight, didn’t he?”

You look down at the papers on your desk, twirling pen in fingers. “Yeah, he did.”

“You two still aren’t talking, right? But knowing Meguru, he’ll feel sad later on when he realizes he didn’t wish you because he was upset,” She hums, nonplussed. You smile a little. Yu-san is just like that, you think. Even after being aware of you and Bachira’s fights, the way she’s treated you hasn’t changed. “So I thought I’d do in his place.”

“It’s alright, Yu-san. But thank you,”

“Of course,” She says. You hear the faucet running and the familiar clicking of paint brushes on the other side of the line. “Come over when you have some time. I brought ingredients for your favorite. We can go pick up a cake together, too. I bet you’re too busy studying and forgot to make plans, right?”

You flush. “…I did.”

She laughs good-naturedly. “Right? I thought so. I know it’s just you in the house, but feel free to invite Sasaki and Miki-chan, alright? And don’t stay up too late studying.”

You feel tears well up in the corners of your eyes. “Thank you for always taking care of me, Yu-obasan,”

“Oh, don’t be silly. That’s a given right?”

“Right,” You sniffle. “But still, thanks.”

“Of course. Oh! And, happy birthday.”

#bachira x reader #bluelock x reader #bachira smut #bluelock smut #writing tag #fics for gaza #bllk x reader #bachira meguru x reader #omegaverse cw

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piggycyberwarrior · 1 month

Text

Summary: After Task Force 141 got a hint that you gave important information to their enemy- the boys do not hesitate to chain you up and give you a taste of hell. You on the other hand are innocent but they do not believe you

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Platonic Task Force 141! x Fem!Reader (Simon Ghost Riley x Fem!Reader)

a/n: part 3‘s probably gonna take a while- oop.. enjoyyyyy

Warnings: uhm this whole fic is basically a warning. Torture; Blood; Mental Health; Angst angst angst not proof read CURSING!!! (Like always ngl). Being extremely drunk in a funny way(?) idk never been drunk before

genre: ANGST

+ 1,7k words

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6

Base. Last Year. Warm summer night.

A memory so stupid yet so sweet you often thought back to it. Still fresh, lingering in your brain like a welcomed cloud. Nothing special- still, like a upbeat song- making you happy- feeling fuzzy.

Just a night spent with your people. People that understood you. People that were aware of your fears just like you were aware of theirs.

Time slowed down when you dived back into the memory. Happiness flooding your senses every time.

Crickets chirping late at night- warm air coming through the opened window of the community area- making you feel fuzzy and warm.

Johnny was drunk as hell back than- just like you have been. Ghost- was clearly amused- having a softer look on his face- as you and Soap emotionally sung 'let it go'- feeling every second. Soaps loud voice combined with the scottish accent made you laugh uncontrollably- finding it hard to breath.

Everything was just so much funnier that night.

Making up lyrics at some point- too drunk to remember every line- and even Ghost had to admit the next day that the freestyle parts weren't even that bad.

Price was in a good mood as well- leaning back and watching two of his three Sergeants almost crying while singing a stupid song and dancing to it.

And Gaz? That man was deep gone in his slumber- beer still in hand whilst he snored the whole time- drool dribbling down his chin and pooling onto the table where his head crashed onto half an hour ago.

'Kids'- Price just thought- chuckling while shaking his head slightly in disbelief. His Fingers shortly ran over moustache- giving Simon a knowing look as his liuetenant switched your drink with cold water- not wanting you to throw up your organs the next day. Even if Ghost didn‘t admit it- Price knew how fond the liuetenant was of you. He saw it in the way he let you near- how he carried you when you dodged that bullet for him.

Price never mentioned it but he saw the tears that brimmed in Simons eyes back then- frantically carrying you bridal style to the medics- never leaving your side for days. Just waiting and praying for you to recover

You took a sip of the water- now too busy to paint Kyle's nails with a hot pink Nail polish named 'Babygirl kiss' or something of the sort- not even noticing the switch of your drink- too drunk to care.

Soap was also busy distracting Price before the man finally saw what you did to Kyle. "Y/n- no" John only tutted like a parent- as he saw Gaz' now pink nails. "Whaaaa'? shi' loogs good" you slurred with a loopsided grin- hiccuping after your words and earning a gentle pat on your shoulder

"Maybe a little punishment for passing out.. its not even permanent" Ghost shrugged- same unreadable expression on his face even tho you finally abandoned your artsy task and were sprawled over his lap on the couch- fiddling with his mask like a child- feeling tired out of the sudden.

Soap just nodded his head furiously at Ghosts words- just like you- liking the polish on your friends fingers. „Ya dinnae fink tha‘ thad lass hs a broblem wih‘ tha, did a?“ the man with the mohawk slurred while stumbling slightly to take another shot.

Price sighed with a nod- taking a big gulp of his Whiskey befor he closed his eyes- feeling the burning sensation trailing down his esaphagus. Still suprised that Ghost even let you so close to him. Touching him so often.

"Uhhg" Soap moaned in pain as he laid on the cheap carpet floor- holding his belly.. "May'be- goo mally jelly jots" he bitched- curling up to a ball to immediately pass out- earning a chuckle from his Captain.

It was a silly memory- just funny when remembered- thats what you liked. Something that feels normal- comfortable.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Now it wasn't anymore.

Far from it actually.

You dreamed often times down here- memories that normally made you laugh- now making you cry. Wishing to just forget everything you ever witnessed with them. Even if it made your day back then.

You had to admit that you sometimes wished to travel back in time. Make everything right- but what did you even done? Right.

Nothing.

You could feel yourself getting weaker. Little to no food, the wetness and cold temperatures of the room crawled up your bones- making you shiver almost all the time- legs and arms turning painfully cold- almost like dead meat.

It was quiet most of the time. Too quiet. Too dark. The cell was made to torture- to confuse- to limit your senses. And it did.

You shook your legs in the darkness of the room. Feeling them getting weaker again. You didn't sit down for almost 2 weeks. Trying to move your fingers- hissing softly as the cuffs scratched uncomfortably at your already raw rubbed wrists. You couldn't feel your arms- just hoped that your fingers really did move.

„Fuck“ you hissed- vision getting blurry with tears of frustration- and pain- and all the fucked up stuff that clouded your brain down in this shithole.

Slamming your bare foot behind you against the wall- definitely scratching it up during the process. „Fuck- I am going to kill everyone of you dirty fuckers!“ you yelled in agony- pulling at your chains- they did not budge a millimeter- just clinking under your movements.

Everything hurt. You had to admit that. Your eye was almost swollen shut, you could feel that. Broken nose, maybe also a black eye on the other side. Cuts adorning your Belly as well as your back-

You could swear that your toes and fingers were turning blue due to the coldness

You sighed into the silence. If it were any other occasion you would have probably thought about killing yourself? But now? Hah.

You will fucking live. Fucking spit in their faces Make them fucking bleed their hearts out and Scream.

Simon.

oh you were going to make him weep like a baby when all of this is done- destroying his tough shell with hateful words. Something that hurts him the most. Being Abandoned.

You were fucking Angry.

angry wasn‘t even fitting- you were furious, boiling with hate, wanting to see them destroyed.

Yeah. Your mother probably would say something like "Anger and revenge is no way out- its an unhealthy coping mechanism". You loved your Mother- didn't even know if she got informed what was going on here- probably not- you thought.

Still you wanted to throw a middlefinger at that statement. Yes. revenge isn't always a good answer. But here? Right now?

It seemed like a fucking good plan.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

"Just tell us, sugar" Gaz spat at you with a venom laced voice. Looking at your quiet and beat up frame. Painfully squeezing your chin inbetween his fingers to make you look at him.

"What? Cat gotcha tounge?" he asked with a bloodthirsthy smile. "Didn't think we would find out, eh?" he asked staring at you with a clenched jaw- he was seething.

No need to be a pro to see that.

Your feelings matched his expression perfectly - you didn't show him though. Staring into his eyes with a dead look- not bothering talking to him. "Maybe I should cut your tounge off, huh? Liking that idea, sweetie?" holding up his knife and cocking his head towards it to prove his point.

You rolled your eyes at that gesture, earning a quick stab into your shoulder, grunting at the sudden attack- not expecting it. Breathing getting heavier as you comprehended the pain that passed through your veins like a wildfire. Spreading its painful heat into every tissue of your body.

"fucker" you chocked out- getting kicked into your stomach for your words- your whole body cramping at the forcefull impact.

Body crumpling together as much as you could- still chained to the bar at the ceiling. "Just tell us the truth!" Gaz sneered angered- fist tightening as he pulled the sharp dagger out of your shoulder- an ugly squelching sound emitting during the process- making you shudder, even though you heard it pretty often during your career.

You huffed angrily- cold sweat forming on your body. Mixing with the dirt and dried up blood- sticking to your skin in an uncomfortable way.

"I. Didn't. Do. SHIT!" you yelled at him- a fire errupting in Gaz eyes, his mouth clenching shut- jabbing you into your throat with his hand out of nowhere-

And everything turned black.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Gaz sighed at your unconscious self. Fist clenching and unclenching around the hilt of the bloody dagger- other hand coming up to wipe away the sweat that formed on his face.

"Fuck, just please.. tell us the truth" he whispered before turning around.

he quickly left- Room turning dark again. The singular lightbulb getting dimmer and dimmer till the light completely vanished.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Your shoulder stung like a bitch after you gained consciousness. Groaning in pain- the warm liquid still slowly trickling down your shoulder, over your chest- trailing further down.

„Fucking bitch“ you moaned in pain- curses- all directed at Kyle flooded your mouth

„Motherfucker!“ you whimpered- shoulders trembling- making you wince even more. Feeling the tightness in the back of your throat- accompanied by the bitter taste and burning sensation in your eyes- frustrating you even more. tears falling free- creating small streaks on their way down- contrasting with the dried up blood on your beat up face.

A sob was the first thing that broke the silence for a long time. Then another- and another. All drenched in pain. Hurt. Betrayal.

Sobs wrecked your body- coughing after some minutes of crying your soul out. Too much Saliva or mucus in your nasal area. You pleaded into the cold air. Missing your family. Missing your happiness. Missing the old times.

old times..

Hours passed. Exhausted look on your face. Eyes shallow. Trying to drift off into sleep again.

You didn‘t care that you were probably ignoring the advice from your Mother that she taught you since you were little.

Fucking making them die on the inside it is.

Die on the Inside.

Fuckers.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

!please do reblog!

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join the Taglist here (Taglist post)

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forlix · 7 months

Text

"better, now."

words・749 / pairing・hyunjin x gn!stylist!reader / includes・fluff, established relationship, alcohol consumption / note・an extremely self-indulgent kinda emo take on hyunjin @ vfw. takes place in the crying lightning universe.

Hyunjin is gone.

He stopped walking and started floating about five drinks ago, bode farewell to coherent sentences and his eyesight not too long after. Simply kept plucking flutes of champagne off trays carried around by kindred waiters and let himself bask in the glorious evening.

When his stylist shows up in front of him, he mistakes them for the moon.

Gentle hands push strands of sweaty hair out of his eyes, then move to cup his cheeks fondly, protectively, as if imprinting final touches into a snow angel. He watches your lips form his name from mere centimeters away, but the sound of it seems to travel underwater.

“Hyunjin,” you repeat, more audibly this time, a lick of crisp night air cutting through the afterparty’s steamy throng.

He proceeds to melt into you in ways he cannot currently control, sliding a hand over the one you have on the side of his face, fingertips dipping in the slots between yours. Bringing you close enough to him that your chest moulds right against his. Grinning at you with a sickening sweetness that he can taste on his own mouth.

“Hi,” he replies.

“You okay? How are you?” You inquire. “Do you need anything?”

“Hi,” he says again, because he can’t really think of anything else, and that seems to be answer enough.

Before he knows it, he’s walking somewhere, guided only by the arm that he has slung over your shoulders and your silhouette, just barely discernible in the dim venue, which he would follow to the ends of the earth.

An indeterminate amount of time later, he’s standing in the doorway of an unoccupied lounge. The tables of polished mahogany and gold foil have become graveyards of empty wine glasses, but the couch in the middle of the room has been left pristine.

Only after he sits down does the lightheadedness hit, and it hits hard, hard enough to shut his eyes and furrow his brow. His brain swings around the inside of his skull like a pendulum.

There is a delicate brush of your finger against his chin, your quiet request for him to lift it up, and then something hard and cold comes to rest on his lower lip. Water surrounds his tonsils and slips down his throat. A few stray rivulets escape down the side of his neck, then disappear into the napkin that you have pressed upon the skin.

By the time he’s downed the whole glass, he can feel his wits beginning to return—with them, the rest of his senses. His eyes crack open again.

“Hot,” he whispers. “It’s hot.”

You move your hands to his shoulders. Moments later, his jacket is a leather mass over the back of the couch, and he feels his dizziness subside, his oxygen return.

“Better?”

With the music so far away, he hears the concern in your tone with crystalline clarity. He leans over to press his lips to the underside of your jaw, conveying a silent message: better, now.

He didn’t have plans to spend the night backstage, but the premise seems riveting where he comes to lie. His head nestled in the plush of your lap, the rest of him stretched across the sofa, your hand carding through his hair with the soporific lull of a mellow tide.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles suddenly, and you look down at him, confused.

“For?”

“Getting so drunk.”

If your hand is the tide, your laugh is the sand, warm and ubiquitous and all-consuming. “You had a good time, yeah?”

A good time. What an understatement for the maelstrom of feeling still raging on within him, the happiness and disbelief and pride and gratitude to himself, to you. To us.

“The best,” he answers.

“That’s all that matters, then,” you hum, your thumb dusting over his hairline. “You deserve to celebrate.”

He’s still too drunk to really think, but he doesn’t have to think when it comes to you—just knows in the very wellsprings of his soul all the love you’ve woven into the thing you’re about to say, by the infinitesimal softening of your eyes alone.

“You deserve everything, baby.”

He lifts your wrist to his lips, presses a kiss to your pulse. Above him, your features blur, then come back into focus. His answer is so soft that he almost can’t hear it over the warble of his heartbeat and the descent of his tears.

“I’ve got it right here.”

🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe・@seungminsapuppy・@vivisoni・@moon0fthenight・@sweetpickledjins・@svintsandghosts・@nhyunn ・@ur-boyfiend・@liknws・@hotgorloikawa・@randomwimp・@automaticpersonabatpaper・@aceofvernons・@linos-kitten・@newhope8・@weedforthoughtz

#hyunjin x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids imagines #hyunjin imagines #skz x reader #stray kids scenarios #k-labels #skz imagines #stray kids fluff #skz fluff #hyunjin fluff #skz scenarios #hyunjin scenarios #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin x you #stray kids x you #*writing #*drabble #*d: hyunjin

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boydepartment · 9 months

Text

hot tea with honey- nishimura riki x reader

a/n: hi :3 this was requested from one of my anons <3 it was super cute and a nice write especially after one 8 page final essay and another 1.5 page essay so this was a nice breath of fresh air

warnings: fluff, they fall down a snowy hill lolz, reader described as cute and bubbly

MASTERLIST

wc- 400-550

you were absolutely positively not good with the cold. you loved winter though. you absolutely adored the snowflakes falling and watching it from inside

your boyfriend on the other hand, loved to go outside and play games.

so here you were looking at your boyfriend putting on his jacket and whipping around to look at you.

“y/n…. pleaaaaaaase just go take a walk with me!!! that’s it!”

you looked at him, “baby i don’t know… i’m really bad with the cold…” you mumbled and looked down at your feet. riki walked over to you, his boots making loud noise, with little jingles signaling he already had his keys on him. he cupped your face and made you look up at him.

“i pinky promise i will keep you warm.” how could you say no to him?

you felt yourself smile before rushing off to get your jacket and winter wear. you found your jacket, scarf, and boots and put them on quickly.

when you skipped back riki was already giggling and opening the door for you, after readjusting his your hat and scarf.

you guys walked along the river together swinging your hands back and forth. the snow stopped falling for a little bit and you could hear soft chatters from people farther away. distant cars and water from the river sloshing could be heard in the background too. the scene was peaceful, even if it was freezing.

“what was with the wild hair that made you want to go outside today?” you asked, looking up at your boyfriend. riki was extremely bundled up, he had his big hat and jacket on and you could see his breath through his mask. his boots still clinking against the cold pavement.

“hmmm i dunno…” riki’s eyes were crinkled meaning he was smiling.

you looked at him, “what? you’re smiling!” you lightly shoved him, giggling, “you’re thinking about something mischievous!”

riki looked down at you, “nothing your winter clothes are just cute.” he thought everything about you was bubbly.

you looked at him, “shut it- no way that’s what you were thinking!” you laughed and bumped into him again, riki was feeling mischievous and ‘pretended’ that he was falling- taking you down with him.

before you knew it you were being pulled down to the snow with him. falling down a small hill near the riverbank.

“riki!” you shrieked when you both stopped falling. he started laughing uncontrollably. you both laid in the snow, you on top of him.

“you are so…” you shook your fist back and forth before laughing. he was still laughing when he softly grabbed your fist and pulled down his mask so he could kiss your hand.

“your hands are so cold…” he mumbled, “i’m sorry i broke my pinky promise.” riki frowned, part of him did feel a little bad.

you looked at him with fake sympathy, “awww baby it’s okay…” you leaned down to kiss him, “i don’t blame you…”

but before your lips met, you grabbed a handful of snow and dropped it on his face before getting up and trying to run up the hill you both previously fell down.

riki sat up and watched you try to get up the hill. he started giggling and you whipped around.

“what??” your brows were furrowed and you put your hands on your hips.

he got up and started to help you up the hill, “nothing you’re just cute like i said. let’s get back inside, your hands are still freezing.” he smiled down at you and you kissed his lips softly before putting his mask up. grinning up at him, riki took a moment to process you. he felt his chest bubbling up, riki knew he was in love with you he just hadn’t told you yet. dating was one thing, but love! that made him nervous.

“yeah you owe me a hot drink now.” you spoke while riki was lost in thought.

“oh do i?” riki asked as you both started walking back, the snow started to fall softly again. landing in your hair where it peaked out of your hat.

you nodded, “i want a hot tea…” you perked up, “with honey!”

riki was grinning underneath his mask, he looked down at you, eyes full of love and adoration, “hot tea with honey… noted…”

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jut-and-dae-enthusiast · 1 year

Text

Behind Closed Doors {k.s.m}

Kim Seungmin x gn!reader, established relationship, seungmin brain rot, my bias wrecker of all bias wreckers, kinda proofread but im sure there's errors pls just ignore them thanks.

“Are you sure everything is okay with you and Seungmin?” Your friend asked carefully over coffee one day.

“Uh, yeah, everything’s great?” You looked at her with confusion before setting your drink down to fully understand what she was trying to say.

“It’s just…” She hesitated. “We’re just worried about you y/n. We all know you deserve someone who’s absolutely obsessed with you, but I don’t think we’ve even seen the two of you kiss yet. And you’ve been dating for well over a year now.” You sighed and looked down into your drink. “I mean, the most contact we’ve seen between the two of you is that you sit semi-close to one another and occasionally hold pinkies.”

What she didn’t know was that it was always like this with him in public, shy minimal touches but eyes filled with adoration. There was the rare occasion where he would even hold you a bit closer, but that was on days he was feeling extra clingy. PDA was something that made both of you a little uncomfortable, so your public excursions usually consisted more of longing gazes and flushed cheeks. You had tried to explain this many times, but your friends wouldn’t have it.

What they don’t see is the fact that the second you are securely behind the closed apartment door, you can’t seem to get rid of him. Like a golden retriever thinking it’s a lap dog, he will fully lay on you while reading or scrolling through his phone. He’s so extremely clingy, following you around just about anywhere (he lets you have your privacy for the toilet but even that is a stretch).

He has to be touching you in some way, whether it’s your feet in his lap or his hand on your thigh. He’ll never admit it, but physical touch is very comforting for him and he tries to fill up on it as much as he can when the two of you are alone.

It was a point of conflict early in your relationship, mainly because your friends (continuously) expressed their concern about how cold he seemed. The way he would tease you mercilessly (but they didn’t see the heart eyes he had when he called you an idiot). They would also make passive aggressive comments to him and you had no idea it upset him. You found out on a seemingly random day when you got home from work, excited to be mauled by him. However you were greeted by silence, Seungmin laying quietly on the couch with his hood on and headphones secured over his head.

“Hey, Minnie, I’m home.” You called softly, setting your bag down and gently patting the top of his head. He looked up at you and nodded, flashing a tight smile and looking back down at his phone. You smile softly, assuming he’s tired and decide to just go get changed out of work clothes.

Once comfy, you come back and squeeze yourself beside him on the couch. He sighs and moves away, making your heart drop a bit. “Are you… upset about something?” You ask, leaning forward to try and look at his face.

“I’m just acting the way your friends think I do.” He mutters, standing up from the couch. You furrow your brow, looking up at him.

“What are you talking about?” He scoffed at your response, walking into the kitchen. You follow after him, watching as he grabs a bottle of water from the fridge.

“Your friend said the other day that I must not show you a whole lot of affection.”

“Min, she was just teasing. She didn’t mean it.”

“Yes she did. She says out of pocket shit like that all the time. All of them do.” He sighs, pulling his hood off his head to make eye contact with you. “And you just laugh it off every time. It’s like you agree with them.” His expression is serious as he holds steady eye contact, keeping his tone level and calm. Your chest tightens, realizing that your friends had been hurting the one you love all this time and he just took it without saying anything.

“Seungmin, I… I don’t agree with them at all I swear. I know you’re so full of love and I am so sorry I didn’t realize their words hurt you.” You feel your eyes begin to water, turning your head to try and hide it. “I’ve tried explaining to them how much pda kinda freaks us out but they just have these preconceived ideas about what a relationship looks like… I’ll talk with them.” You promise, swiping the stray tears from you cheek. “I’ll, uh, give you some space then. I’m gonna head to bed. Love you.” You smile assuringly and pat his arm on your way past him. You’re only about two steps away when you hear him murmur,

“Dumbass.” Before you’re engulfed in his arms from behind. “I wanna hold you even if I’m upset with you. It’s annoying.” He sighs and rests his chin on your shoulder. You silently stand in his grasp, holding back the tears that are trembling in your eyes.

“Min, I really am so sorry.” You whisper, leaning forward to kiss whatever part of his arm was closest to your mouth. You can feel him hum against your back and his hug tighten ever so slightly.

“You’re the person I love the most in this world. I hate the idea that you might doubt that just because I’m a private person.” He nuzzles his face into your neck, sighing softly.

“I have never ever doubted you, Seungmin.” You smile softly, turning to look at his face. He nods, smiling back.

“Good. Now give me a kiss before I die.” He chuckles, leaning in with a wide smile.

#stray kids #skz fluff #skz #stray kids fluff #skz drabbles #skz seungmin #seungmin #kim seungmin #seungmin x reader #seungmin fluff

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jjkamochoso · 4 months

Text

Imagine… Making Lemonade for Levi on a Hot Summer Day

Fluff

Postwar!Levi Ackerman x gn!reader

Warnings: none

The summer heat was scorching down on you as you stretched out on a lounge chair in your backyard, soaking up some sun. You were enjoying your lazy day, getting some much needed Vitamin D. You flipped through a magazine, your mind still blown by the fact that the glossy pages had entertained people for much longer than you had even known they existed. There were many things in Marley that were completely new to you and every trip to the market was filled with enchantment as you learned of all the wonders that had been held from you in your previous life in Paradis. Now, you and your boyfriend Levi were living it up together in your cottage and you couldn’t be happier. Speaking of Levi, you had a fantastic view of the raven haired man while he was hard at work, tending the garden. His white shirt was clinging to his sturdy back as he dug the spade into the dirt, his arm muscles flexing with each movement. When he was finished planting, you saw him lean back a little as he wiped the sweat that had accumulated on his forehead. The extra moisture made his whole body glisten; he looked absolutely divine and you couldn’t tear your gaze away from him. He cocked his head, finally acknowledging your unbridled interest in his figure.

“Didn’t your parents teach you that it’s rude to stare?”

“There’s no harm in admiring the spectacular view in front of me,” you said, cheekiness apparent in your tone. Levi scoffed and rolled his eyes, getting back to the task at hand, but you could tell that you flustered him a bit with your flirting as the pink tinge that now graced his face wasn’t just from the heat. You tried putting your focus back on your magazine but you started to feel quite parched. You decided to go inside and make some lemonade for yourself and your handsome boyfriend. You gathered everything you needed and began to squeeze the lemons. When you got enough juice, you made a simple syrup on the stove, then poured both of those and lots of water into a giant pitcher, mixing it all up. Taking out two tall glasses, you filled them up to the brim with ice and the lemonade, enjoying the relief of the cold that seeped onto your hand. You left your glass inside so you had an empty hand to open and close the back door and headed into the warmth of the outdoors.

“I got something to cool you down, hottie,” you greeted Levi, this time earning a groan and an eye roll.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” he chided, shaking his head when you attempted to wink at him. Though he found your antics silly, he also thought you were completely adorable with the way you showed your affection toward him. Putting words to his feelings was never his forte so having a partner like you, comfortable in expressing your attraction to him, was something he was extremely grateful for. You reached out your unoccupied arm to help steady Levi as he stood up from the ground, his legs shaky from exertion. You held up the glass of lemonade for him to take a sip from, hoping he wasn’t dehydrated from his time under the sun. He put his lips around the straw and took a long drink, eager to quench his thirst.

“Y/n, that’s really good. Thank you,” he said, giving you a close lipped grin.

“Of course,” you replied, brushing a stray piece of hair from his face. He suddenly got shy from the intimacy of your gesture, opting to study the ground instead of your face, though he still leaned on you as you helped him walk over to the patio where a chair in the shade was waiting for him. You sat him down and retrieved your own drink from inside the house before sitting in the chair next to him.

“Thank you for all your work,” you told Levi, a kiss lovingly placed onto his cheek. “The garden is beautiful. The flowers are going to look phenomenal this year.”

“Not as phenomenal as you look now,” he observed, meeting your eyes once more as you gasped.

“Levi! How uncharacteristically suave that was!” you exclaimed, playfully holding a hand over your mouth in faux shock.

“Tch. I can be romantic, you know.”

“Wow, I can’t believe I got the Levi “Loverboy” Ackerman to fall for me. How lucky am I?” you asked, swooning. “Ooh, maybe next time you can garden shirtless and give me a real show. It’ll be like those romance novels Hange always told me about.”

“Just drink your damn lemonade,” muttered the man, failing to hide the tenderness that appeared on his facial features at the sound of your laughter. You couldn’t contain your giggles, trying your best not to choke on your drink and Levi wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer and enjoying this carefree moment with you. The lemonade was the perfect drink for the perfect day with the perfect love of your life.

#levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x reader fluff #levi fluff #levi ackerman #levi x reader #captain levi #snk levi #snk x reader #snk fanfiction #aot x reader #levi aot

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nishimuraazr1zzkiii · 3 months

Text

You big baby ༘⋆p.js

🍝

༘⋆Genre: fluff

.ᐟWarnings: nothing too extreme.

❅WC: 0.6k

ᝰNotes: got inspired since someone I know cries everytime they get a fever and their suitor took care of them(made me feel single istg)

๋Thinking about how jay would take care of you when you have a fever especially if you cry when you have a fever.

On the first day of you fever, waking up to an afternoon sun shining directly in your already watery eyes and a cold towel on your forehead. Feeling around the bed, you don't feel jay next to you, already guessing that he must have left for work already.

Not having enough energy and you feel sluggish than usual, you stayed in bed for a few hours trying to fall back asleep since your fever was getting worse by the hour. Eventually your fever got worse to the point that tears started to well up in your eyes threatening to fall.

Just as you tried to sit up, you hear the front door open and quickly close, you figured it'd be jay since you weren't expecting any visitors but it was to early for him to be home.

The door to your creaks open, jay peaked from the door checking if you're awake or not. Seeing that you were sat in bed with tears in your eyes.

"Y/n! My love, what's wrong? Why are you crying?" Jay rushed next to you and put down the plastic bag he was holding and cupped your cheeks while tears fell from your eyes as you sob quietly in jays arms. "I-i...don't k-know *hic* but m-my fever is ge-getting worse... " your voice trailed off by the end of your sentence, hearing this, jay immediately grabbed the plastic bag and took out a packet of pills, popping one out and grabbing the glass of water on your bedside table.

He gave you the pill and the glass of water, but you pushed it back to jay knowing you wouldn't be able to swallow the pill smoothly. "Ok y/n, I'll cook some soup for you and once I finish the soup, you can use it as a substitute for the water so you won't taste the pill" he got up from the bed and kissed your forehead, "get some rest while you wait, I'll leave the water and pills here if your thirsty" jay tucked you in bed and put a back the wet towel that was on your forehead and went out of the room.

You wake up a few hours later, you still felt like you were burning in a fire since your fever hasn't still cooled down, you hear the door open, showing jay holding a tray with a bowl of soup, a glass of water and the pills you still needed to take to make your fever go down.

"Is your fever still high Princess?" He put down the tray on the bedside table and checked your temperature and took the towel from your forehead away, "you should eat up and take the pill so the fever won't be so high tomorrow, do you need anything love?" You shook your head, indicating that you didn't need anything.

"alright then love, if you need me, I'll be down stairs cleaning all the dishes" but before jay had gotten a chance to stand up, you grabbed his hand, pulling him towards you on the bed "what is it love? Is there something wrong? " jay checked your temperature again "no... Can you.. Stay here with me for a while?" Your voice so quiet and soft that jay almost couldn't here you, he didn't say anything but he laid down next to you cuddling you to sleep, his face on your neck, your legs tangled together, his arm wrapped around your waist while the other one is under your head, jay softly caressing your hair, humming a soft tune lulling you both to sleep.

That's how the rest of your sick week has been. Waking up to jay cooking you breakfast and dinner, drinking your medicine, sleeping while waiting for jay to come back from practice, and cuddling to sleep.

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once-upon-an-imagine · 9 months

Text

Always On My Mind - Steve Harrington

A/N: omg! I have no idea how this happened 😊 I finally got this out and I really, really hope you like it as much as the first one! thank you so much for all the love (and for the patience!)

Warnings: reader is hurt (like badly hurt) but it's only mentioned at the beginning, I think that's it but let me know if I missed anything. also, this is a sequel to You Keep Me Hanging On so I would advise you read that one first (link at the bottom)

Disclaimer: I don’t own Stranger Things :) gif isn’t mine :D

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Always On My Mind

If I made you feel second-best I'm so sorry I was blind You were always on my mind You were always on my mind

You were trying extremely hard to focus. It was over. You had made it. You were back at Hawkins and you made it to the hospital. Max was hurt. And so was Eddie. Although his injury wasn’t as bad because you ran out to help him. You saw the nurses take Max one way and Eddie the other way. You turned around and saw Robin comforting Erica and making sure they would check her as well since that idiot Andy basically attacked her. And on the other side, you saw Steve. He was trying his best to calm Lucas and Dustin down. You blinked a few times and you tried to make your way to them but…

“You’re bleeding!” you heard Nancy’s voice next to you. You opened your mouth to say something but blood came out. “Oh my God!” Nancy grabbed you when you were about to hit the floor. “STEVE!”

You tried to stay up with Nancy’s help and you saw Steve, Dustin, and Lucas look your way. Steve felt his heart drop the second he saw you. You had blood on your stomach and you were trying to hold yourself up. You heard him screaming your name as he ran over to you, to help you keep you up.

“Sweetheart, look at me!” he said, placing his hand on your cheek while you heard Dustin and Lucas screaming for someone to help them. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt? I asked you if you were hurt!” he said with a few tears rolling down his cheeks.

“I’m s-sorry” you before your eyes rolled to the back of your head and you almost collapsed on the floor but Steve quickly held you, screaming for a doctor to help as you passed out in his arms.

“HELP!”

Steve jumped awake on his bed and felt he was sweating cold. He placed his hand on his chest and he could feel his heart beating incredibly fast. He sat down on the bed and grabbed the glass of water on the nightstand to calm himself down.

It had been a few weeks after they came back from the UpsideDown. Max was still at the hospital, and you and Eddie had been staying with him. Mostly because Eddie was still kind of lying low since a lot of people still thought he was a murderer. And you, because your parents were out of town with his parents and cared about just as much that their daughter was in the hospital. He ran a hand through his hair and got out of his parents’ bed. He walked over to his room where you were staying and silently opened the door, sighing in relief when he saw you peacefully asleep. He closed the door and walked downstairs to the kitchen, where he found his other guest.

“Munson-”

“Jesus H. Christ!” Eddie jumped a little, turning around to see Steve. “You scared the shit out of me, man” he said, placing his hand on his chest as he held his crutch on his right hand.

“Um, what are you doing?” Steve asked confused.

“Well… I was just… a bit hungry” Eddie explained.

“Are you high?”

“Uh… would you be upset if I was?”

“No” Steve shrugged.

“Then yes, I am very much high, Harrington” he smiled politely at him. “You want some?” he asked, pointing at the joint on the counter.

“You know what? Yes” Steve said, grabbing it and taking a hit.

“Alright, now it’s a party” Eddie chuckled when Steve coughed a little. “You okay there, man?”

“Yeah, it’s just… been a while” he said. “Let me grab those for you” he said, walking over to the cabinet where Eddie was trying to reach for the chips.

“Thanks” Eddie said grabbing something to drink too and the brownies you had made earlier before the two of them walked to the living room. “So, what’s up?”

“What?” Steve asked, confused.

“Why can’t you sleep? Did you have another nightmare?”

“Yeah” Steve said, drinking his soda. “You?”

“Yep” Eddie said, grabbing the chips. “Those fucking bats really made a number on my leg man” he said, looking at the cast on his right foot. “You know… I may have not made it if it wasn’t for her, right?” Steve silently nodded. After you were taken by the doctor, Dustin confessed that you had gone out to help Eddie and the bats attacked you instead but you kept insisting he had it worse. “Was your nightmare about her?”

He had never talked about that moment after it happened. He had been glued to you the entire time, never leaving your side and taking care of your every need. He didn’t speak while you were out, which was about a day. And when you woke up, he yelled at you. He was so angry for you running out to help Eddie and he told you how reckless and careless you were. The two of you hadn’t spoken since, except for Steve letting you know you’ll be staying with him and asking every now and then if you needed anything.

“She fainted in my arms, man” Steve said. “There was blood coming out of her mouth and… her body and…” he closed his eyes. “I thought she was dead” he said, with his voice breaking a little. “I didn’t notice” he continued. “When we got to you and Dustin, she just said to help you and that you were bleeding horribly and that we needed to bring you back and then Max was even worse and…” he sighed. “And I didn’t see she was in pain” he said, sitting back. “How could I have been so stupid? And then when she wakes up instead of being glad that she’s gonna be okay I yelled at her!”

“Yeah, that was probably not your best move” Eddie chuckled as Steve placed his hands over his face and rested his elbows on his legs.

“She probably hates me now and I wouldn’t blame her” he said, brushing a hand through his hair.

“Seriously? You have to be dumber than I thought, Harrington” Eddie laughed. “She doesn’t hate you” he insisted and Steve looked at him. “Do you honestly think she’ll still be here if she hated you?”

“Well she’s hurt and-”

“And she doesn’t give a fuck about that. You and I know her well enough to know that she does whatever she wants. I told her to stay back and she didn’t listen to me. You told us to stay on the boat when we were at the lake and she didn’t care. Do you think she would stay here just because you told her to? She could go to Wheeler’s or Robin’s-”

“Maybe it’s because you’re here too. She’s worried about you-”

“Yeah, because that’s who she is. She would rather help get me and Max to the hospital before saying she was hurt too. Trust me, Harrington, that means nothing, man” he said, taking another puff of the joint.

“Well, since you seem to know so much and I don’t, why don’t you enlighten me, Munson, and tell me why you think she’s here” Steve glared at him a little.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he said, letting the smoke out. “Because of you” he simply said.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Well, maybe, and I’m just thinking out loud here, she was waiting for you to tell her that you love her back?” he said, making Steve choke on the soda he was drinking.

“H-how do you-?”

“Know about that? She’s my friend, man. Unlike you, I didn’t yell at her and told her she was stupid for doing what she did. I thanked her for helping me and we talk all the time” he explained. “Unlike you, who has been avoiding her like the plague” he laughed.

“I have not!”

“Seriously, dude? Other than, ‘Do you need anything?’ and ‘Are you hungry?’ you’ve barely spoken to her” he explained.

“I was… trying to give her some space” Steve tried to reason with him.

“She doesn’t want space, man! God, you are so stupid!” he said, getting closer to him and hitting the back of his head.

“Ouch!”

“Snap out of it, man! I mean it! We went over this I told you when we were on the UpsideDown. For some reason, which, believe me, for the life of me, I still do not understand, that girl loves you. She loves you, man! She told you even though she thought you still loved Wheeler, do you understand how brave that shit is? And you still haven’t told her? You’re running away dude, and, do you know who never, ever rushes into anything and instead runs away from shit?”

“Cowards” Steve said, feeling even worse.

“Exactly. And whatever I’ve called you in the past, Harrington, you are no coward. So, what the fuck is it? Are you seriously still hung up on Nancy Wheeler-?”

“No! I am not in love with Nancy, okay?” Steve snapped.

“Then what the fuck is your problem, Steve?”

“Ugh!” he grunted. “I can’t believe I’m discussing this with Eddie Munson” he sighed.

“I’m gonna choose to take that as a compliment” Eddie smirked.

“Why do you even care? Wouldn’t you want me to screw up so you can be with her?”

“Whoa, dude where did you get that idea? We’re just friends” Eddie insisted.

“Really? Because the two of you seemed really close when we were on the UpsideDown, and you said ‘If I were you, I would not take her for granted, man. 'Cause that was as unambiguous a sign of true love as these cynical eyes have ever seen. And if you let her go, someone else might not be so stupid’” he said, mocking Eddie’s voice.

“Okay, now I do take offense. I don’t sound like that” Eddie glared at him. “Look, I’m not blind. She’s pretty and she has a kickass personality. If she weren’t totally hung up on you, I might even think that I may have a chance and go for it. But it’s useless. She wants you for some reason. And it’s not like I’m in love with her like you are” he shrugged.

“Stop saying that!” Steve complained.

“Why? Aren’t you?” Eddie smirked. Steve took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair again.

“Look, the last time… I said that to anyone” he started. “It just… it didn’t go well” he told Eddie. “Like at all” he said sadly. “And I guess I’m just… scared that… she’s also going to realize that she can do a lot better than me and the same thing is going to happen” he said, sadly. “Maybe that’s it. I’m not meant to be with anyone. I don’t really deserve it-”

“Alright, stop being so dramatic” Eddie said, rolling his eyes. “First of all, I’m flattered that you think I’m a lot better than you” he smirked.

“I didn’t necessarily mean you-”

“And secondly, as much as you know that I hate to admit it… Dustin’s right man. You are a good dude. Trust me, I experienced first class of the asshole that was King Steve” he said, making Steve glare a little at him. “But, I don’t really see that guy anymore. I mean, you even took me in” he said. “You drive the kids every day to see Max. You drive Robin wherever she needs to go. You helped at the whole donation thing Mrs. Wheeler asked you to. You’ve come a long way, Stevie. And trust me, I’m not the only one who’s noticed” he said, making Steve smile just barely. “Stop being so hard on yourself, man. You deserve to be happy. And so does she” he told him.

“Thanks, man” Steve said, putting his drink up so Eddie would toast with him.

“Sure” he said, getting back to his seat. “Also, if you screw it up, I’m waiting a few months to make a move. Just letting you know now” he chuckled, making Steve glare at him but he laughed a little. Who would thought that King Steve and Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson would have ended up being friends?

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“Hey” Steve heard your voice as you walked into the kitchen where he was making breakfast. He smiled when he saw you were wearing his yellow sweater.

“Good morning” he smiled nervously.

“Um, I hope you don’t mind I borrowed your sweater. I got cold in the middle of the night” you explained, sitting on one of the counter chairs.

“Let me help you-” Steve said, noticing your pained expression but you stopped him with your hand.

“I’ve got it” you smiled a little. “Thanks” you said. “So, where’s Eddie?” you asked, confused. He was usually up by now.

“Oh, he’s still asleep” Steve informed you and you simply nodded.

Not only were they up very late last night, Eddie said, he would give them some space so he could finally talk to you. He was exhausted but there was no way he wouldn’t be there to help you.

“You know, I had no idea you knew how to cook” you said, all of the sudden. He had been mostly ordering food for the three of you. And you had cereal or frozen waffles for breakfast, unless Eddie was in the mood to cook, who was actually not that bad.

“Um, full disclosure, I have no idea if they’re gonna be any good” he laughed nervously.

“Would you like some help?”

“No-!” he quickly said, turning to you. “Um… you should be resting. I’ve got it” he insisted. “Do you need anything?” he asked, going back to the food and cursing himself for repeating the same question he asked you all the time as Eddie pointed out.

“Um, I’m okay” you told him. “I was actually wondering if um… maybe you can take me to my house later today?” you asked, making Steve drop the spatula in his hand and he turned to look at you.

“Y-you want to go home?” he asked, feeling his heart breaking. Had he missed his chance?

“If you can’t take me is fine. Is not that far. I can probably walk-”

“No!” he said, walking over to you and grabbing your hands in his.

“No?” you asked, confused. Steve looked like he was about to cry. Or throw up. Or both. “Steve, are you okay?”

“Okay. Here it goes” he said, looking away. “I’m sorry” he blurted out. “I am so sorry about everything I did. I am the stupidest man on Earth for making you feel like you didn’t matter to me” he continued. “I am so sorry for yelling at you when you woke up. I was just so angry at myself because I didn’t notice you were hurt. And you didn’t feel like you could tell me and I am so sorry for that!”

“Steve-”

“No, please, let me finish” he interrupted you. “Look, I know that you were upset about the whole Nancy thing and you have every right to” he said. “But, I need you to know that I don’t have feelings for Nancy. Not anymore. She’s just my friend” he insisted. “And…” he sighed. “D-do you remember the first time I called you? And asked you if you could come get me and you stayed with me?”

“I remember” you nodded.

“I wanted to call Robin” he admitted and you frowned, confused. “I have no idea why but I dialed your number and… I felt really embarrassed because I didn’t want you to see me like that. But you came and… you stayed with me and… I knew then” he said in a serious tone.

“Knew what?” you asked, still confused about this whole speech.

“I knew that I was falling for you” he admitted, making your heart flutter. “I know that I was an asshole in high school and that you didn’t like me, even if we’ve known each other our whole lives. And then, I finally got the chance to actually get to know you, and… you were the best person I met. You were there when I broke up with Nancy and when Billy Hargrove beat the shit out of me. You were always there. You stayed with me after the Starcourt thing because you didn’t want me to be alone and you helped me whenever we had job interviews and… you always make me feel like I am worth something and I am so sorry if I ever made you feel otherwise because… you are the most important person in my life. And I am so sorry that I didn’t tell you this sooner” he kept going, not noticing the small smile that was forming on your face. “I’m sorry I yelled at you when you woke up. I know I already said that but… I was just so scared, I thought I had lost you and… I honestly don’t think that I could live without you in my life” he said, with a few tears running down his face.

“Steve-” you said, placing your hand on his face.

“I love you” he finally said, feeling an enormous weight being lifted off his shoulders. “I love you so much, sweetheart. And I am so sorry it took me so long to tell you I was just being a coward because…” he sighed. “You know what happened when I said that to Nancy” he said, looking down at your linked hands. “It destroyed me and… if it’s possible, I love you so much more but… I didn’t think that I was deserving enough of you so… I was running away” he said, looking back at you. “I love you so much and I am so sorry. If you’ll still have me, I would love to be with you, but… if you still want to go home, I respect that too” he said, smiling sadly.

“What? Steve, I was just asking if you could take me home to get more clothes” you explained with a sweet smile, making Steve widen his eyes.

“W-what?”

“But now that I know that you love me” you smirked a little at him and he laughed a little, throwing his head back and you saw him blush.

“Well, I don’t care. I said it. I love you” he repeated.

“I would like to jump over this counter and kiss you right now, but I’m pretty sure you would get mad and say that I’m hurt and that I shouldn't-” you were cut off by Steve walking over to you and leaning down to kiss you.

You had kissed Steve before but it wasn’t like this. Something was different. You didn’t know how it could but it was even more perfect. His arms wrapped carefully around your waist, bringing you closer.

“I love you so much” he repeated, smiling when he saw the look on your face.

“I love you too” you said before he kissed you again. “And, for the record, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was hurt” you admitted. “I didn’t think it was that bad” you told him.

“You still should have told me” he said, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

“I know” you smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry I scared you” you told him. “And that it’s making you have nightmares” you said.

“How did you-? Did Eddie tell you?”

“No” you smiled. “I know you, Steve” you said, as if it was obvious.

“How have you been sleeping?” he asked, worriedly.

“Well, if I’m being honest… I think it would be better if… maybe… you could stay with me?” you asked with a small smile. “If that’s okay?”

Steve hugged you closer to him and kissed your temple. “Whatever you want, sweetheart” he said, kissing you again.

“Not that I’m not loving this moment, but I think the food is burning” you said, making Steve let go of you instantly.

“What?”

“Are you two still figuring shit out or are you together already? I’m hungry!” you heard Eddie’s voice coming from the stairs, making you laugh.

“You can come down, Eddie” you said, as he hopped over to the kitchen with his crutches. “Although as for the food, it doesn’t look good” you said, as Steve tried to salvage what was left of the breakfast he was making.

“Aw, Stevie, you went through all this trouble for me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Munson” he said, tossing the ruined food. “So… who’s in the mood to go out to eat?”

“This is who you really wanna be with, princess?” Eddie asked you, making you laugh as Steve glared at him, and punched his arm.

“I think it’s sweet that he tried” you said, smiling at Steve.

“Thank you, love” he said, kissing you.

The End

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

[Part 1]

A/N: sooo, I really hope you loves like it, and there is a tiny chance that I might do another version where the reader chooses Eddie, but no promises! xD

tags: @nerdygamingartist , @booksandlighters , @vilentia , @plk-18

#stranger things #stranger things imagine #steve harrington #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington oneshot

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rachalixie · 2 years

Text

stray kids reactions | when you’re sad

how the boys act when you are experiencing depression/depressive symptoms

warnings: stray kids x gender neutral reader, depression/mental health, mentions of food

genre: hurt/comfort

word count: < 3k

a/n: for my love @ moonacholy. i love you baby :( feel better real soon, okay? also this is a broad spectrum of depression symptoms, nothing too extreme! mostly comfort than anything else.

chan

you don’t move as you hear the front door open and close; the thought of shifting from your curled up form on the couch sounded more exhausting than it was worth. you normally loved greeting chan at the door, loved kissing him hello and dragging him to bed when he gets home late but you can’t unglue your limbs from one another enough to even sit up, let alone walk all the way to the door.

your eyes drift to the clock on the wall as you take in the time and realize that you should have already been in bed hours ago. you never wait up for chan when he gets home past midnight, and yet you are wide awake at 3 in the morning, having laid here since noon after he left to go to the studio. your phone lays dead on the table in front of you, untouched for hours, and you just now notice how tired your eyes feel.

“sweetheart?” chan’s voice floats to your ears, loosening your tightened muscles a bit. chan’s here now, he can take care of you, your tired brain supplies. you hum as he approaches, closing your eyes when his hand runs through your hair and whimpering softly when it leaves. the couch dips by your head as he sits next to you, his warmth already reaching your cold heart and thawing the edges a bit. “you’re not in bed yet?”

“can’t,” is all you can say. you don’t have the words or the energy to tell him that you didn’t even realize you should have been asleep, you didn’t realize how many hours had passed as you just laid there staring at nothing.

but he understands.

he pulls you up, catching you when your sore limbs buckle under your sudden upright weight, and he leads you to your bedroom, depositing you on your side of the bed. he leaves and comes back with a bottle of water before you can blink, pushing a straw into your mouth and coaxing you to drink, praising you when you take a few tentative sips. you feel a little silly by how good it feels, him telling you how good you are just for drinking water, but you let it drape over you like a comforting blanket as your mind finally loses the battle against sleep and you drift off in the comfort of his voice.

minho

“hi honey,” minho’s voice floods your brain from where you’re still curled up in bed. it’s well past noon, past the time where you were supposed to meet him at your favorite coffee shop in town during his lunch break. you feel a pang of guilt that makes you curl up even more, soft despair settling into your bones. you want him to leave. you want him to never leave you alone again.

his hand finds the nape of your neck, massaging there gently before his fingers run up to your scalp. the action soothes you, and you can’t help but find comfort in him even though you’ve just let him down. you don’t even know why he’s here, taking care of you when he should be out doing something else-

“whatever’s going on in that pretty head of yours, stop it.” he orders, sitting next to you on the bed and tilting your chin up so he can meet your eyes. “i love you, okay? i want to be here with you. i want you, during the good times and the bad.”

it’s like he’s read your mind.

next thing you know he’s easing you into a seated position and massaging the feeling back into your fingertips. you hadn’t even realized they had fallen asleep until he started, and you wince as the pins and needles sting against his touch. he’s pulling you up then, waiting a moment for your eyes to adjust to the shift before tugging you into your bathroom. before you know it, your clothes are off and you’re under a hot steam of water, his hands on you in the most comforting way as he massages shampoo into your hair and rinses the day off of your body. he’s humming idly, his soft voice echoing off the shower tiles and absorbing into your brain. you feel like a sponge, taking all of his love and keeping it inside of you like it’s the one thing that’s keeping you upright.

as he dries you off with a fluffy towel, you lean in to press a soft kiss to his cheek, causing the tips of his ears to burn pink; it’s silly that such an innocent gesture makes him blush like that, but you think of it as an physical imprint of your love on him, your gratefulness, everything you want to say but can’t.

changbin

“we’re going outside,” changbin suddenly announces, his voice deep under your ear from where your head is snuggled into his chest. you jump a bit, peering up blearily at him.

“outside?” you ask, voice slow and confused. you had been content laying there with him all day. you preferred that, in fact. you had no desire to move, no energy to make your muscles work, no motivation inside of you to do anything other than lay and hope the day passed soon so you could go to bed.

so why is changbin saying that you’re going outside?

“yes, outside. up, up!” he’s too enthusiastic, his voice is too loud in your mushy head, and you glare up at him with squinted eyes.

“have to?” you say, knowing that you’ll lose this battle against a man who can physically pick you up and make you go outside if he wanted to.

“have to.” he nods, interlacing his fingers in yours and yanking, bicep flexing, wrapping his arms around you tight when you stand up on wobbly legs. he holds you there for a second, letting you breathe him in before he pulls you through your house, out the back door and into the backyard.

the worst part was that the air felt good. the soft breeze on your face felt so refreshing, washing over you like a brand new day. the soft grass felt nice under your feet, your toes curling into the cool blades. his hand was warm in yours, guiding you around the perimeter of the fence, walking and walking until you begin to feel the band around your temples loosen, the furrow of your brow unwind, the tenseness of your muscles deflate, like you’re a puppet whose strings were loosened just enough for you to garner some control.

“better, yeah?” he said, soft and satisfied. you him in response, squeezing his hand as you keep walking.

hyunjin

you sigh as you enter through the front door, body weighed down and leaden and each step feeling like a mile from the way they made you exhausted. you immediately collapse onto your couch and click the TV onto the kdrama you’ve been using as background noise for the past few weeks. the episode continues from where you left off, and your eyes don’t leave the screen even though you’re not absorbing any of the content. its just swirling colors and words in a box to you right now, your brain is not comprehending anything, but it’s a nice distraction from the swirling thoughts that were there before.

even when hyunjin leaves your room to pad over to you, draping himself beside you on the couch and wrapping an arm around you, your eyes remain on the screen.

and you sit. and sit. the minutes were ticking away, slow as ever, and you just sit.

until hyunjin turns the TV off, and you don’t even complain because it had gotten to the point where your eyes hurt. you relax into him, startled when he moves to stand up instead, leaving you slumped into the cushions instead of him.

“dance with me,” he says, putting a song on his phone and setting it on the side table. you blink up at him from where he’s standing, hand outstretched waiting for you to take it. he tilts his head a bit when you don’t move, smile encouraging and eyes in crescents, and you sigh and take his hand. you let him pull you up and move your hands around his shoulders as he takes your waist, and he leads you as you both gently sway and step to the beat of the song.

with each step, you felt lighter and lighter, the lead weights you were feeling before disappearing with each breath you can feel on your neck from where his face is pressed. the music he has playing is swirling around you both in a flurry of notes and chords, the rhythm you’ve set with your steps is soothing, and you feel more content in this moment than you’ve felt in days.

jisung

“baby?” you hear from outside your bedroom door, stirring you out of your fitful nap. you never fell into sleep, you’ve been lying there for hours with your eyes closed and you couldn’t sleep. you’re so tired.

you hear him knock again and a whimper leaves your throat when you try to answer. the words won’t come out, they’re stuck, trapped down deep. he opens the door anyways, closing it gently behind him before walking slowly over to you and kneeling by you. his hand brushes your hair back, stopping in surprise when he sees that your eyes are open.

“thought you were asleep?” he says, voice soft and timid in the darkness of your room. you shrug, lips twisting into a frown. is it bad that you were awake? that you were awake and hadn’t left your room, even though you knew he was home for hours? “well, if you’re not, then-”

he cuts himself off as he climbs right into your bed, slithering under your covers and plopping himself right on top of you. his chest covers your back, his legs tangle with yours, and he presses his head into your neck, fluttering small kisses there until he can hear your breath catch on a laugh.

“get off of me, jisung,” you croak out, the first words you’ve muttered all day. the smell of his shampoo is invading your senses, his cologne is seeping into your skin.

“if my baby gets to stay in bed all day, they i get to stay there too.” he declares, squeezing you tight, better than a weighted blanket, trapping all the bad things inside and replacing them with his good.

“can’t breathe,” you choke out in another laugh, the noises you make sounding foreign to your ears. has it really been so long since you’ve laughed? smiled like this?

he rolls off of you suddenly, pulling you along so you were trapped on top of his chest instead, the blanket rolling along with you and wrapping you both in tight.

“better?”

“yeah, sung. i’m better, now.”

felix

he passes you a whisk, looking pointedly at you when you don’t move to the counter where he’s standing. you roll his eyes at him before finally moving your feet, standing from where you’ve been sitting at the kitchen island on a barstool watching him work. he has dinner ready on top of the stove, and a bowl of brownie ingredients on the counter waiting for you to mix together.

“c’mon, love,” he says, perking up a bit when you finally get the whisk inside of the bowl. “we can’t have dinner without dessert, hmm? and we can’t have dessert without you. the most important ingredient in the recipe.”

“lix,” you whine, voice tired and a little furled around the edges. i’m not important, you want to say. “i’m not an ingredient,” is what you say instead.

“oh, really?” he said, reading right through you. he arches a delicate brow at you before moving behind you while you’re whisking to wrap his arms around your middle. he presses his cheek to your shoulder, nuzzling it there like a cat. his lips find your jawline, where he lays a few wet kisses there. “then why do you taste so sweet? sweeter than chocolate. and you’re tough, like unmelted butter. and don’t forget sharp, like cocoa powder.”

his words dig into your brain, battling against the negative thoughts that have been living there for weeks. your self doubt, your insecurity, your low mood fight against them, trying to tell you that he’s lying, he’s just saying that, he doesn’t really mean it. but the longer he stays there, his skin right up against yours, the more those thoughts get beaten down, slayed by the blades of sugar in his voice.

he dips his finger into the finished batter, sliding it into his mouth and swirling it off with his tongue.

“mm, i was right. you taste much better than this.”

seungmin

your feet drag as you walk to your apartment, exhausted from just the one class you had today for no reason at all. it was fine, but even getting out of bed this morning was almost impossible. you felt absolutely drained by the time you got to your lecture, and you don’t think you absorbed a single piece of information for the entire hour and a half you were there.

when you finally made it through the front door, you felt as if there was a pile of bricks in your bag weighing you down, and you quickly dropped it to the floor in favor of collapsing onto the couch next to seungmin. he looked cozy, dressed in an overside hoodie and sweatpants, glasses perched high on his nose and a smart looking novel in his hands. you wiggle your head underneath his arms and press your head to his thighs, feeling bad about taking up his reading time but not willing to stand another second being alone. you’ve been so lonely, all day. he made you feel lighter already, just by his presence, the pressure on your shoulders and around your temples beginning to fade already with his touch.

“bad day?” he asks, not drawing his eyes away from his book but moving one hand to card through your hair, fingers light on your scalp. you hum, not wanting to explain to him that this was just one bad day in a series of bad days, that it wasn’t any better or worse than the last yet you felt even more exhausted by the end of it than you had the day prior. you didn’t want to tell him that you felt tethered to him like he was your lifeline, the one think keeping you afloat in a sea of helplessness.

“read to me?” you say instead, wiggling a bit as you get comfortable in his lap and looking up at him with wide eyes. he looks down finally, expression softening when he takes in your face, and he nods with a soft smile before beginning the chapter again just for you.

jeongin

when he finds you spread over the couch, arm hanging limply over the edge and eyes glazed over from looking at the ceiling, you don’t even realize how much time has passed since he left for work. he’s already home? you swear it had only been an hour, or two max.

“did you eat?” he asked, walking over to you and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, letting his lips linger for a moment, a stamp of compassion.

“no,” you said, only realizing now that you hadn’t eaten all day. the sun was setting outside, bathing the room in a golden glow, and you couldn’t bring yourself to be hungry, let alone make food and eat it. he clicked his tongue, fox eyes narrowing before leaving your side completely. you sigh at his absence, knowing that he was going to get a snack that you simply wouldn’t want to eat.

“ramen, soup, or grilled cheese?” he asks, materializing in front of you, holding a pack of noodles and a can of soup in one hand and a bag of week-old bread in another. you’re honestly surprised it hasn’t molded yet; probably helps that you haven’t even opened it since you bought it.

“none. i’m not hungry,” you say, crossing your arms and curling up into yourself. you’re sure that you’re pouting, making the picture of an angry toddler with your bunny slippers on your feet and your hoodie swathing your frame. you don’t care. he leaves the room with a sigh again, making you deflate into the couch cushions; you thought he would have fought a little harder, but it’s not his responsibility to make sure you feed yourself, is it?

he startles you out of your pity when he sits next to you, the sofa dipping under his weight and the warmth of his thigh feeling nice next to your head.

“up,” he instructs, nudging at your shoulder until you sit up simply to stop him. he’s holding a half-eaten tub of your favorite ice cream in one hand, two spoons in the other, and he’s wearing a big smile on his face. “i know we’re not supposed to be eating ice cream for dinner, but it’s not like chan hyung is here to say no, is he?”

you grab a spoon wordlessly when the thought of ice cream doesn’t make your stomach turn. one bite couldn’t hurt, right?

the encouraging smile he gives you when you tentatively take one bite doesn’t hurt, either.

masterlist

taglist: @daceyena @isilentprincess @woahfruity @chvnnie @katieraven @agustd-essert @chanssmiles @sweetestcherrywine @foivetimesacharm @sstarryoong @bakugossanity @skzho

#stray kids imagines #stray kids fic #stray kids fluff #bang chan fluff #bang chan imagines #bang chan x you #lee minho fluff #lee minho x y/n #hyunjin fluff #changbin fluff #jisung fluff #seungmin fluff #lee felix fluff #jeongin fluff #stray kids x gender neutral reader

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little-miss-dilf-lover · 2 years

Text

Tangerine headcanons/ imagines

tangerine x female reader

tw: none! just cute stuff that makes us sad

okay so I love analysing people and ive been in love with him since march/april, so this was a piece of cake- also im obsessive and lonely so was super easy lmfao

these are just things that I think (kinda self indulgent) but if you disagree that’s fine too

princess treatment- he’d treat you like royalty

huge softie at heart

love language wise:

physical touch- I feel like he’s quite handsy, he always has to be touching some part of you

acts of service- he’d always be willing to help you, does things for you. makes you snacks and drinks throughout the day- like if you’re busy, he’d pop in and give you a tray of stuff you may need

quality time- he’d value the time you spent together, even if you weren’t doing an activity together (both in the same space, doing your own things) he’d designate certain days for just you

gift giving- he’d spoil you like crazy, he’d remember certain little things about you and get you a thoughtful gift based off that (like if you mentioned something you wanted to try for just one second midway in a conversation you had months ago, he’d remember it)

words of affirmation- he’d call you tonnes of pet names, I feel like he’d say ‘my’ in front of it to make it more special. he’d tell you he loves you, how special you are and how much he adores you etc

----

hates everyone but you vibes- he’s standoffish to everyone, but when it comes to you he’s the complete opposite; he speaks very soft and kind towards you

he treats you like the most valuable thing on earth

very patient with you

protector x protected energy- he just always wants you safe

nose and forehead kisses

lots of thumb stroking on your cheeks

lots of intense eye contact- he admires your eyes

feel like he’s a hip and thigh kinda man

I feel like you’d be very close to Lemon, and sometimes it’ll wind him up. Lemon would tell you embarrassing stories about Tan- you’d love it while he’d hate it

I get ride or die vibes- kinda like romeo and juliet, just minus all the death

he secretly loves your chick flicks, he pretends he hates them but watches them with you every time

he also pretends he hates when you call him sweet things but he definitely looks away to smile

he’s very slow to warm up, takes a bit of time to crack him open. on the outside he’s a doberman but on inside he’s like a ragdoll

gets a bit possessive, not in a scary way- but I do think that sometimes it could be

feel like he’s the kind that will literally worship you

you clean his cuts and wounds after missions

he runs warm but you run quite cold, so he’s always trying to warm you up

I feel like you’re the first person he’s actually loved romantically

drinks black coffee and ofc tea

definitely a whisky drinker, he loves a good whisky by the fire

I feel like he’s very clean, likes to keep everything organised. maybe a bit of a perfectionist

always smells good

very romantic and extremely charismatic- a natural charmer. funny and lots of inside jokes

he’s a great caretaker- looks after you really well. if you’re ill he’d be with you at all times, not caring if he got sick too. and when it’s your time of the month he’d get you hot water bottles and you’d get lots of back rubs etc

he loves it when you use your fingers to trace over his tattoos, same goes for his chest hair too

also loves when your stroke through his hair

he gets really irritated in hot temperatures- and starts swearing a lot more

I feel like he’s kind of set in his ways about things/ he knows what he likes, and that you help open his mind about trying and doing new things. you help keep things fresh and exciting

some reason I feel like you’d have daddy issues idk why, (sorry if you do, also sorry if you don’t lmao)

he might follow you like a lost puppy, he’d literally do anything you say

you’d be best friends as well as a couple

he’s very reliable and would drop anything for you

if you needed to rant or vent, he’d be there lending you his ear. he’d be an incredible listener

very attentive

feel like he’s a fast driver, but never when you’re in the car

if someone flirts with you or someone was mean to you at work he’d say “where are they? I will fuckin kill em”

private but not secret relationship

definitely a homebody

whenever he goes past the florists or to the shop, he’d always bring some flowers back for you (more often than not- it’ll your favourite type of flower)

leaves you sweet notes around the house

that’s it for now, hope you liked

#bullet train #tangerine #tangerine bullet train #bullet train fanfic #tangerine x reader #tangerine x you #tangerine fanfiction #aaron taylor johnson #imagines #tangerine headcanon #tangerine imagine

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darlingdarkly · 7 months

Text

New Year, New You Part 7

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x f!reader

Personal Trainer AU

4.2k words

CW: dubcon!, dark fic, dark content, obsessive behavior, dirty talk, explicit language, E rated, NSFW, smut, 18+, mature themes, gaslighting

Part 1, 6, 8

You begin to drift up from a deep slumber, your head hurts and the room is too bright, you can tell even through your closed lids that the room is filled with an ungodly amount of sunlight. Had you forgotten to close the curtains before bed? Very unlike you but not an impossibility. You sure as hell were regretting it now though.

You were also still very drowsy, you can’t ever remember waking up this sleepy. Maybe you’ll rest your eyes for a bit longer.

You stir in your sleep, tongue moving over the roof of your mouth, it’s dry as sand. But you don’t want to get water, you’re still so tired and your head, Fuck! Your head kills. Maybe you could get up and get some water, close those damn curtains while you’re at it.

Your eyelids feel like they’re glued closed. One hand comes up to shield your eyes while the other rubs the crustated sleep from the corners of them. Your vision clears, and you're squinting but your eyes are open. You lift your head just slightly and examine the room.

It’s not your room, but it’s familiar. Like a room you’ve seen in a dream. Were you dreaming? Had to be. This wasn't your room. Everything blurs and you blink your eyes, your dream eyes, to clear your vision. It helps. You’re lying in bed, not your bed but the dream bed. The duvet is dark blue, it’s familiar but from where is far from even the tip of your tongue.

The room is neat, there's a dark wood dresser in the corner, a pull up bar and a stand with dumbbells progressing in weight off to the side. You turn your head to see a digital alarm clock, it reads 9:48. Fuck! 9:48?!? You’re late for work. That gets you moving, you sit up but it’s too fast and your headache triples as the world begins to spin. The dream bubble pops. Not a dream after all, but still not your room.

You recover but slowly as the room gradually stops spinning. Where were you? It looked familiar, but you still couldn’t place it. What happened last night? It’s very hazy. Nancy, you can remember that much. You had gone out with Nancy, everything else might as well had been a dream for as much as you could recall of it.

Someone was in this house with you, you could smell something delicious in the air and your stomach growled its approval. You groan and put a hand to your forehead. You needed water immediately. You stare down at the bed, dark blue, a deep navy shade. A memory, hazy, begins to come forth. Your pounding head is slow processing it, it rises to the surface from the depths of your murky brain. Your dry mouth falls open just as the door swings inward and just as your recollection had summoned him, here he was, huge grin on his face and a glass of cold orange juice in hand.

“Bonnie!” You wince at his volume and he tenses up, quieting down and even stepping lighter, trying his hardest to not pain you. “Sorry, lass. Ye might be a bit woozy. Had a helluva night last night.” You must be dreaming, but you’re not. You know you’re not.

You start to say his name but all that comes out is croaky garbles. “Here, drink this.” He hands you the glass and you’ve never coveted a glass of orange juice so hard in your life. You take huge, greedy gulps and when the juice runs over the dried strip of leather that had become your tongue you nearly cry from the joy of it. You downed half the glass and heard him from beyond it. “Easy, hen. Drink slow. Ye can have as much as ye want.”

You reluctantly pull the glass from your lips and lick them, the saliva that had burst forth from your mouth now that you’d had something to drink was overflowing and you wondered how you could have produced so much in such a short amount of time if you had been so extremely parched just moments ago.

With it under control you made another attempt at speaking. “Johnny? What’s going on?” He took the glass from your hand and set it down on the nightstand next to the bed. “Well lass, ye had a bit too much tae drink I’d say. I’m no doctor hen, but if ah’m nae mistaken I’d have tae say maybe there was a bit more to it than jus’ that.”

You definitely had had too much to drink last night. But had you? You certainly don’t remember drinking in excess but then again you couldn’t really remember much of anything about last night. Wait, what did he just say? “What do you mean Johnny?”

“Well hen, I’m no expert, but I’d say maybe ye weren’t watchin’ yer drinks too closely and I’d say maybe someone might’ve spiked ye.” What? Spiked you, like roofies or something? That can’t be. Can it? But fuck your head did hurt something unnatural.

“Ahh fuck, Johnny. I’m late for work, I’ve gotta go.” You begin to pull back the covers and get up when you notice you’re naked from the waist down. “Johnny! What the fuck! Where are my pants?”

“Jus’ slow down there, hen. First of all ye dinnae need tae worry about work, I’ve already called in tae say ye won’t be comin’ in today. Yer in no condition fer it and as yer personal trainer I took it upon mahself tae take care of ye in yer time of need. Dinnae worry, Johnny’s gotcha.”

You groan as the headache throbs back into focus with a vengeance. You have sooo many questions, like how did you get here? How did he find you? What happened? How does he know where you work and how did he call into your work and use one of your sick days for you? They swirl behind your eyes, pulsing in time with the throb of your head and instead of asking all of them like you should, you just don’t. There’ll be plenty of time for questions later.

Instead you grab again for the glass of juice and down it. With it empty he takes it from you and stands. “I’ll get ye some more, are ye hungry?” The question reawakens the grumbling earthquake in your belly and you look up at him and nod. He smiles and says nothing just turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

You sit in place for a moment, staring down at the bed and trying to get a grip on your memories of last night. You remember Nancy suggesting the two of you go out, you remember not wanting to, you remember getting ready and getting in the cab anyway and then it all takes on a fuzzy, unreal feel, like a dream instead of something that actually occurred.

You remember drinking and dancing but not much else. The watch on your wrist vibrates and it surprises you, you’re not sure why, you’ve only taken it off a handful of times to charge it but there’s something about it, a piece of knowledge floating on a cloud above you, refusing to grace you with its enlightenment.

You have a look through it, see the text notifications from Nancy.

“Where are you!” 12:29 am

“Are you alright?” 12:35 am

“Ok well, Thanks for coming out tonight, it was fun!” 12:44 am

“See you tomorrow ☺️” 12:47am

“Sure, you have like a dozen of them, I’ll let Mrs. Magna know. don’t worry about it.” 6:45am

All of her replies were there as notifications, but with only her half of the conversation at your fingertips you could only imagine what was said. You assume you told her something about leaving and then the last text was about not coming into work today but you certainly weren’t up at six in the morning, you didn’t feel like you were working off of only three hours of sleep.

You had to find your phone and see the rest of the texts. You got out of bed and remembered you were naked from the waist down. In all your confusion you’d forgotten to make him explain that detail, you’d have to ask him again later.

You stood and made your way over to the dresser, pulling the top drawer open and found a neatly folded stack of boxers and socks, not what you were looking for. The next was full of shirts, also of no use to you. The third drawer down you found what you were searching for. Pulling out a pair of sweatpants you pulled them up and around your waist.

Ok, that’s one thing taken care of, now you need to locate your clutch. You look around the room, on the other side of the bed, open the two other doors in the room Johnny didn’t leave through to find a bathroom and a closet. It’s in the closet you find it but still not your pants, they must be somewhere else. You pull the phone from it and immediately begin to go through your messages.

Nancy is the only person you’ve messaged in the last twenty four hours and the conversation is foreign. The first text is from Nancy asking where you are and you had replied

“Goin’ home.” 12:32 am

That’s it? That’s all you said? That doesn’t sound like a text you would write, you’d add more detail and reassure her that you’re ok. You decide to read out the whole thing.

“Where are you!” 12:29 am

“Goin’ home.” 12:32am

“Are you alright?” 12:35 am

“Fine, just had too much to drink.” 12:42am

“Ok well, Thanks for coming out tonight, it was fun!” 12:44 am

“Oh yeah, so much fun!” 12:45am

“See you tomorrow ☺️” 12:47am

“Nancy, I won’t be coming in to work today. Can’t stop getting sick. Feel so bad. Just can’t get out of bed. Can I use one of my designated sick days?” 6:30am

“Sure, you have like a dozen of them, I’ll let Mrs. Magna know. don’t worry about it.” 6:45am

???? You don’t text like that? It’s all so short hand and formal. Did Nancy really not notice how unlike you these texts were? Of course she didn’t, she was as drunk as you were.

You lock your phone as you hear him approaching the door and slip it into the pocket of your sweats. He walks in and stops in the doorway, a plate in one hand and a mug in the other. You think for a moment he may drop them but he seems to recover and sets them down on the nightstand and rushes over to you.

You are immobilized with shock as he grabs you, hands sliding down your legs, planting his firm palms on the globes of your ass and lifting. You can feel the pure strength he possesses as he pulls you up his body and into his arms with no assistance from you whatsoever. Your mouth parts in surprise and he takes the opportunity to seize your lips with his, tongue slipping inside and melting to yours.

It felt good, his lips against yours after so long, you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it until they were upon you again and for just a moment you let yourself be lost to it. Your watch beeped and you felt him smile against your lips before you pulled away, embarrassed at being ousted once again by it.

You wanted to slip out of his arms but he held you steady, his mouth moved to your ear with a slow trail of kisses. When he reached it he whispered into it. “Did he miss me, hen? Cause I missed you.” He gently lowered your body down his until your ass nudged something hard, his erection prodding you eagerly.

“Jus’ cannae help it, hen. Saw ye wearing’ mah sweats an’ just about took ye right there against the dresser. Gonna give a man a heart attack surprisin’ me like that.” You let out a surprised little gasp as he nipped at the shell of your ear. “But there’ll be plenty of time for that later. My lass is hungry isn’t she?”

You nodded, the angry pit that had become your stomach crying out at the mention of food. He let you down and followed you back to the bed, the surface dipped as you both sat onto its plush surface. He reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the plate he’d carried in.

Sitting atop it were two round things, they looked sort of like huge meatballs. You looked up at him curiously. He simply picked one up off the plate and handed it to you. “Try it.” Hesitantly you picked yours up. It was crisp to the touch and smelled faintly like oil. Definitely deep fried whatever it was. You looked up at him once more and he nodded encouragingly. You brought it up to your mouth and took a small bite.

The rich, savory flavor of sausage floated over your tongue and you welcomed it. You chewed and swallowed and went back for a second bigger bite, this time biting into the core and getting hard boiled egg along with the sausage and you looked up to see Johnny smiling and digging into his own breakfast.

“Johnny, what is this? It’s delicious.” You took another bite as he explained. “Scotch egg. Mah mum used tae make em’ when I was wee. They’re a personal favorite. Do ye like it?” You nodded, and munched on the egg appreciatively.

“You're a good cook, Johnny.” He beams under your compliment, cheeks reddening, eyes bright and gleaming you barely catch a glimpse of as he quickly looks away to try and offset the effects. “S’nothing, hen. Cookings jus’ chemistry an’ I’ve always been good at that.”

This sparks a memory, the jumpstart of a thought just like the first that just refuses to reveal itself fully, there and gone, like someone hit you with the forget it stick.

Before you can think about it too hard he picks up the mug next to him and hands it to you. It’s warm and fragrant, a nice hot cup of coffee and as you took a sip your face puckered up a bit as the bitter twinge hit your tongue, it had a distinct pungent aftertaste, there was definitely alcohol mixed in.

He laughed and you scowled at him a little. “S’just a nip, Bonnie. It’ll help with yer hangover.” You grumbled a little and took another swallow, it went down easier the second time.

Eating made you feel a little better you had to admit, but then those questions you had made themselves evident again, circling your mind and trying to push past your lips. Before you could voice them he began asking questions of his own.

“How have ye been, lass?”

“Fine.” You lie immediately, it’s first nature. What were you supposed to tell him? You’ve been moping for a week? Just trudging through life like a lost puppy since you'd seen him last? Your watch starts to beep, indicating a tick up in your heart rate. “Lass.”

You can’t look at him, you avoid it even though you can feel the icy stare of his baby blues chilling you and you have to suppress a shiver. “I’ve been fine, works just been… hard on me.”

The watch stops as your heart rate slows. “Have ye been doin’ yer homework still?” Easy question, you answer honestly and the watch stays quiet. “Yes.” He doesn’t say anything for a moment and you think the interrogation is over but then he drops the hard one.

“Why haven’t ye come back to the gym, bonnie?” You tense a bit in your spot. What would you say? That you can’t? Does he not know your trial is up? That you can’t possibly afford a membership? What would he say if he knew you’d been by, everyday for a week but have just been too chicken to go in?

You force yourself to relax and answer nonchalantly over another bite of your egg. “My trial ended.” You prayed that he’d leave it at that, but he didn’t. “So ye havnae come back because yer trial ended.” You nod to avoid speaking but the watch on your wrist says it all for you, it beeps against your words, turning your truth into lies. “Bonnie.”

The stupid thing won’t stop. Why? Why do you keep this thing on? Yet another errant memory tries to come to the surface. Something about that watch but it’s not clear, you just can’t remember. It hurts almost, the strain of trying to remember things that just won’t disclose themselves so you let it go and give him a piece of the truth. “Ok, so I’ve been by once or twice, but I didn’t go in, I just was passing by.”

You stuff the last of the egg into your mouth to quiet yourself. He scoots closer and pulls the plate from your hands, setting it down on the nightstand as you swallow and take a sip of your coffee. He takes that from you too and there’s nothing left to hide behind.

“Why did ye nae say anything tae me, ye didnae text me or anything, jus’ disappeared.” You felt hot all over, guilty and shamed, you can feel it pulling at you, tugging you with ropes, go to him they say. Push yourself into his arms and promise him you’ll never leave. Atone.

You can’t. You have questions of your own. You take your watch off, eyes locked with his as you undo the clasp and you can see the panic in his eyes but it turns to confusion as you wrap the gadget, in all its golden beauty around his wrist. He furrows his brows but doesn’t pull away, just sits and lets you.

“What happened to me last night?” He shifts a bit but you hold his arm steady, the sensors pick up his vitals and perhaps it’s dawned on him what you were doing, but if he did he didn’t fight it. “I was comin’ home late and I ran into ye outside of the club. Ye were hanging ontae the wall, couldnae even walk, hen. I tried talkin’ tae ye, tried tae find out who you’d been with but ye were out of it so I brought ye home tae sleep it off.”

The watch stayed silent the whole time, not a beep out of it. “Practically had tae carry ye if ah’m honest. Pretty lucky I came by I’d say. Ye were right sloshed.”

You didn’t know what to say, you should be thanking him but there’s still a rift between what he’s saying and what feels like truth. He just happened to be walking by just as you just happened to be outside of the club. Did you go outside by yourself? Really?

Why would you not be with Nancy? Why would you not have talked to her first? Clearly you hadn’t because she’d texted you and asked where you were. And if you’d been too drunk to walk, how could you have texted Nancy to tell her that you were going home? You were supposed to believe you could text intelligibly but not stand upright without gripping the wall? Why can’t you remember anything?

You wished you could remember more but you can’t and your little mock lie detector test hadn’t indicated he was lying to you, it sure as hell had ratted out your lies. You decided he had to be telling you the truth, as odd and coincidental as his story was, it wasn't impossible.

You sigh, accepting his account of the night before as valid, despite your inconsistencies and you felt him slip the watch off his wrist and drape it carefully over yours, he secures the clasp and lifts your hand up to his mouth and kisses the pulse point just below where the clasp sits. A soft press of his lips in a kiss so tender you feel your face heating up at the gentleness of the gesture.

He climbs up your arm in kisses, outside looking in it would have been comical to watch him treat you like Pepe Le Pew. The sheer affection in it almost cheesy but all you could do in the moment was relax into his touch. He’s reached your neck and your head dips to the side automatically, giving him more access and he takes it. Lips parting as they skim your jaw until they’re over your lips and you lean into his kiss, anticipating it, you want it, crave so very badly to be swept up by it, but he stops and leans back.

“How do ye feel?” It’s a simple question really and you find that somewhere between breakfast and your recount of last night your headache had subsided and you had a whole day ahead of you with nothing to worry about, no work to do, just you and Johnny. You felt exalted, after a week of trudging through your love sick blues you now somehow had everything you really wanted right at your fingertips.

But you couldn’t tell him that. So you just told him that you felt better and smiled, the first genuine smile you’ve had all week and it must be enough because he leans back in like he’s read your mind and gives you what you were wishing for.

His lips are soft but demanding, urgent in their press against yours and you have no choice but to succumb to their will. You lean back and he follows, chasing your lips until you’re pressed back against the pillow and he’s straddling you, strong arms stationed on either side of your head as his tongue pushes into your mouth and dominates yours.

You want more, want to roll him over and mount him, spend the rest of today alternating between riding him until your legs quivered and being flipped over and ravaged but he has different plans as he pulls away from you and backs off the bed. You stare at him in disbelief as he gathers up the dishes, smiling that gorgeous toothy grin as he does it.

“Dinnae look at me like that. We’ve got work tae do, hen.” You can’t believe he’s actually walking away from you until he does it, leaving you to stew in your arousal and stare after him. He’s gone for a bit and when he comes back you've already gotten up, made the bed and now sit on the edge watching him expectantly. He rifles through his drawers for clothes, setting out an outfit for him and then disappears into his closet, he comes out with a very familiar bag.

“What work?” He smiles and flexes, biceps bulging as he shows off his guns, you’re lost a bit at the sight of them. If he wasn’t anything else he sure was handsome, strong and lean just like you’d always fancied men to be. It’s like he’d appeared from your teenage dreams and you took him as sort of obsessed with you on top of it, an intoxicating combination indeed. “Why, our next session a’course. What else, hen?”

He hands it over to you nonchalantly and begins to strip. You recognize it immediately, It’s your overnight bag. You pull the bag close and try not to stare as he pulls his shirt off. Rummaging through it you find your workout clothes, garments you’ve worn around him multiple times, nothing shocking but you find more than just that, the bag is practically overflowing, stuffed full.

In the bag are also sets of clothes that you usually lounge around the house in, comfy things that no one ever sees you in. There’s also a few outfits that you’d normally wear to work, business casual folded neatly in the bottom. There's underwear and bras and even a couple pairs of shoes. There’s a smaller bag of toiletries tucked in the side pocket. It looks like a bag you’d pack yourself when planning to be away from home for a weekend or maybe a whole week by the sheer volume of your wardrobe stuffed into it.

“Johnny.” You look up from the bag and catch his gaze as he pulls his shorts up around his waist. “Aye, lass.”

You don’t even bother asking him the first few questions that come to mind like when did you pack this? And how? How did you know where everything was? How did you so perfectly root through my clothes and pack me a bag so thoroughly accurate of what I’ll need while I’m away? You could even see your soap, shampoo, conditioner and toothbrush. Everything you could possibly need he had grabbed.

But you don’t know how to ask him those things, don’t even know if you’d want the answer to them if you could so instead you ask the one question you don’t think you already know the answer to.

“Why is there so much?” He looks up at you like the answer is obvious and you’re stupid or perhaps just playing coy. “So ye could stay.” And he says it like it’s a concrete thing, as sound as the sea, the decisions already been made. Signed. Sealed. Delivered.

“What are you talking about?” He looks at you and his eyes are piercing and serious. “Ye cannae go home. S’nae safe.”

#cod #call of duty #cod mw2 #john soap mactavish #cod x reader #johnny soap mactavish #johnny soap mctavish x reader #cod soap #twdubcon #dark!johnny #darkfic

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moondirti · 1 year

Text

13. A CHALLENGE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter twelve / chapter fourteen ⇀

summary: you ask for a challenge. miguel gives you one worth your salt

mature | 10.2k words warnings: praise kink, mentorship with benefits, sparring, sexual tension, loads of banter/flirting, mild angst, sexual fantasies (including blowjobs), insecurity, blood and injury, mentions of death, dirty talk, arousal notes: i know y'all hate me after that end

Sunday, 14:45

“How long’s it been?” You urge, voice strained with thinning breath.

Miguel – for all his insistence that you push yourself beyond normal measure – doesn’t seem to hear you, gazing off into a distant corner. His forehead looks especially flickable from this angle, in this particular moment, and you have to curl your fist to quell the urge as it arises.

“Hm?” He hums, finally snapping out of it when you walk to the stretch of ceiling above him, intruding on his eyeline. The conditioned air of the gym itches the parts of you that are damp with sweat, particularly that exposed by your drooping shirt, draped under your bra to reveal your abdomen. Gooseflesh pocks your skin.

“The time.”

“Right.” He blinks, lifting his wrist to pause the stopwatch he’d set, then makes a small noise. “Double the last. You’re getting better.”

“Yeah, well–” To dispense the effects his praise has on you, you turn to make your way over to the pull-up bars at the back. They were your means of getting up on the ceiling, and they’re your way off. “S’not really difficult. I’m just hanging, trying not to throw up.”

“You could start practising on walls. It’d make the whole ‘getting down’ process easier.” He says, almost admonishes. As good as you’ve gotten at defying gravity upside down, you’ve stayed clear of testing your luck by doing so perpendicularly. “Not to mention, accessible. You won’t always have conveniently placed support to help you.”

“I don’t quite trust it yet.” Because you don’t, and it’s hard to imagine you will. The whole idea feels like a big fuck you to every physics lesson you’ve ever digested. “It makes no sense.” Swinging off the bar, you make sure to land on a wide stance to prevent your tumble. Your extremities have long since numbed, and you’ve already learnt your lesson on how that generates a lack of stability for the first few seconds until adjustment. “If everything in the universe operates on the same laws, I won’t be the exception.”

“You’re right.” Miguel ducks to fetch the bottle you left beside him, handing it over before you can ask. “You wouldn’t be. Several spiders manage it just fine.”

“Several spiders also have several one-ups on me.” The cold slice of water cuts through your thirst, tamping the headache you could sense starting at your sinuses. Recovery, in absolute contrast to your endurance, has cut by half. You’re recuperating from exertion a lot quicker than before.

“Like?”

“Failsafes in case they fall. Web-shooters, assistive gear.” You neglect to broach the topic of your own infallible; him, never too far out of reach. Not only would its mention go against your point, you’re still unsure of the nature of his aid – whether he would catch you if the severity of the situation did not call for it. If he’s here because you need him, or in commitment to a duty beyond your understanding.

(Tallying what you know about Miguel, you’d bet on the latter.)

“Everyone starts somewhere.”

“Very helpful, thanks.” You’d offer him your drink, but even the thought of his lips touching where yours once did makes you flush with molten heat. Late at night, tucked on your bed as you watch the highway leading to Second Base, you strain to remember what they felt like, mashed to yours in a laser confined cell. If you knew back then how things would end up, maybe you would’ve savoured it for longer. “Experience too. With the constant danger they face, they pretty much have to equip every skill at their disposal.”

“Is that what you want, then – danger?” He teases, mouth curling in a downwards smile. You’re too quick to shake your head. That word, want, still haunts you.

“You’re missing the point.”

“Am I, now.”

“I’m just saying,” Biting your cheek, you scramble for a fitting sentiment. Nothing quite encapsulates the crux of your little tangent, and you can’t help but compare yourself to Miguel. No matter how far the conversation strays, he always finds a link to tie it altogether. Unshakeable, poised. Like the sun, pulling comets into its orbit until they shine brilliantly, their tails forged under the radiation pressure. “A challenge might hit your lessons closer to home. Y’know, thrill, adrenaline – forcing me to resort to lengths I wouldn’t typically go to, instilling in me all the marks you want me to land on.”

(But if he’s the sun, what would that make you? Pluto, far on the other side of the solar spectrum, barely doing enough to keep its cosmic status? Even dwarf planets have their pull, some force strong enough to accrete nearby matter, and so it seems ill-fitting.)

Your mentor accepts your argument regardless, nodding minutely.

(Perhaps you’re the comet itself – coming from nowhere, heading nowhere, meant for the one, singular event that could give your existence meaning. That crossing paths with a star, to burn brightly in its influence before dissolving into nothing.)

“Similar to the planking exercise we do. Up the stakes and simulate something real for you.”

We. Your stomach lurches to your chest and you have to swallow it back before speaking. “Y-Yeah.”

“Te entiendo. Alright.” He agrees. “If that’ll get you to make progress. Come.” You follow him to the centre of the room, stumbling over hurried strides until you reach the combat training mat. “You remember our first day here.”

“Feels like centuries ago, but yes.” You respond, assuming he means the premiere lesson of yours, betiding this very spot. You’d christened it by letting him fuck your throat, and that’ll forever be the memory that occurs to you so long as you keep returning to this gym. It’s hard to forget.

“What did I ask you to do?”

“Er– Pin you down.” Your pitch drops an octave in an effort to mock him. “Three seconds, and you’ll have proved your point.” His inflection is tough to nail down, though – unique to the broad-shouldered form that affords his vocal folds more space, subtly curled where his accent comes through. You end up sounding like a parched frog more than you do him.

He shakes his head, nose twitching. It’s a vague quirk that says nothing about his amusement.

“As I recall it, you couldn’t.”

“As I recall, I was kept quite busy.” You, of course, are referring to his cock and it’s wedging into your mouth. And if he didn’t get the implication on word alone, then your lewd miming of the act fills in what gaps remain. Miguel sighs, waiting for your redolence to subside to continue. Though his weight shifts from one foot to the other, like he’s ridding himself of the tension that swells at your suggestion, and the small action speaks louder than what he likely intends. To think that you might have the same effect on him as he does you, however physical, is a tempting thing.

“Before that.”

You acquiesce, arm flopping uselessly to your side. “Sure. Though to be fair, I’ve no knowledge on how.”

“Good.” He crosses his arms. “We’re going to try again.”

“Right now?”

“No.”

“Well don’t keep me in suspense,” Rolling your eyes, you start to fold your sleeves to sit above the elbow. “Or next thing I know, I’m trapped in a cage with Rhino and a knife for defence.”

That drives a chuckle from him. It’s warm and coarse and low, and with the way your stomach churns at the sound, you hardly care that it’s at your expense. “Proper spectacle that would be. You wouldn’t last ten minutes. The best I’d give you is a weaponless Vulture.”

“Are you forgetting that I took down a symbiote on my own? Where your first instinct was to throw punches at it.” You huff. “They’re regenerative!”

“An oversight on my part. ‘Course, I didn’t want to get involved in the first place.” His chin practically sits on his chest now, tipped down to look you face-to-face. It’s the way through which you realise how close you’ve gotten, nose millimetres away from his forearm. He smells infuriatingly clean – fresh patchouli aftershave, soap, clothes fragranced from the laundry, familiar only because you use the same detergent. “Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately for you, your opponent continues to be me.”

“And you want us to wrestle.”

“Given a few caveats.” He shrugs when your expression pinches. “To make it more real.”

“Okay…”

“Today will continue as is. I’m going to teach you the basics of taking down a larger opponent and we’ll drill it until you understand.” You cut his explanation into small fragments for better digestion – takedown, larger than you, drills – and show your attendance with wide eyes, following as he circles you. “Pinning me down in a static setting is simple enough. Your challenge is to do so unexpectedly, somewhere outside of this gym. Within the next week, I want you to sneak up on me and staple me to the ground for upwards of three seconds. Anywhere, any time of the day; so long as you aren’t following me on missions, it’s all up to you. Take me by surprise, use it to your advantage. But remember–”

You cock your head, earnest. As he speaks again, it’s seven trumpets to armageddon, deep punctures to the anticipative silence you’ve built.

“When you come for me, I won’t be holding back.”

Ribs echoing with the rattle of your rapid heartbeat, you wipe your palms on the loose fabric of your sweats and take longer than you perhaps need to register his dare. He wants you to act much like a hero would on a stealth operation. That’s fine. You can do that. You’ll be taught on how to disable him and all that’s left is the matter of covertness, in which you have an advantage given your newfound ability to walk on the overturned pathways of HQ. Except–

“Wouldn’t your spider-sense–”

He shakes his head. No. And though he doesn’t state it explicitly, you’re reminded of his claws and how divergent they are to the standard spider-power. It seems, then, that he differs in more ways than one. No enhanced intuition. You couldn’t imagine.

But it’s new. Exciting. It’s exactly what you needed, and again, you’re left wondering how he’s gotten so good at reading you. If in place for his deficits, he’d been granted a supernatural knowledge on body language. Even now he’s looking, studying your restrained appearance for a hint of your feelings on the subject. You give it to him with a devilish smile.

“That the best you got?”

“Big talk.” He winds around you, positioning behind your back. “We’ll see how you feel in seven days.”

“Glorious, having kicked your ass ‘n’ all.”

“Okay, sparks. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Miguel says, before patting your hip. His hand is heavy, and you brace yourself against the urge to shiver under it. “Most people are left leg-leaning. Not always, but it’s a statistic you can count on for learning. Put it forward. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

You do as he says, adjusting to an open posture, slanting your torso so your head faces the same direction as your left foot. The man appears in front of you after making a few corrections, mirroring your effort.

“Because I’m anticipating what leg you’ll resort to, I’ll bring my right leg forth. Always match same side foot. It’ll give you leverage towards your opponent’s vulnerable areas.” You sway a bit when his muscles stretch the taut material of his shirt. As you try to picture what more is hidden by his civilian clothes, it occurs to you that you’ve never seen him nude enough to make that a possible feat. “Assuming you’re shorter than them, aiming for their lower half is your most efficient bet. But you want their focus away from it when you make the jump.”

Blinking, you reorient yourself away from your tangent. “Right.”

“So you’re going to reach.”

“Rea–”

Suddenly, he’s grabbing for your face. It’s swift and done with enough aggression that you don’t process what you’re doing until your arms come up to defend it. Split second instinct, your spider sense combing through the hairs on your neck. And he takes the obliviously-given opportunity to duck, hooking his foot behind yours, back hand wrapping around your knee to grip onto his other. His head pushes up on your ribs to stand you on one leg, off balance, and faster than it started, it stops. The attack throws you backward, slamming you onto the cushioned floor. Air syphons out of your lungs.

“When they’re down, you don’t hesitate to straddle them.” He adds. “The blow will probably knock their limbs to the side.” He bridges over you, lowering so that his knees touch the surface above your shoulders and his feet anchor onto the bits below. His weight rests on your upper arms now. You, despite the loss, can’t help but flick your gaze down to his crotch. If he notices, he doesn’t comment on it. “The technique’s called stapling. Pressing down on two points to completely immobilise.”

“Feels awfully familiar.” You grin, only to choke on the spit accumulating by the back of your throat when he not only acknowledges your innuendo, but reciprocates.

“Used to being on the bottom?” Huffed sardonically, with all the constituents of a flirt yet none of the sticky-sweet charm. And he doesn’t give your stunned-self a chance to quip back either, rising and gesturing that you do the same. You scramble off your back, rubbing the sore spots left by his grip, watching him warily. It’s facile to convince yourself that it didn’t really happen at all. “Your turn. Right foot forth this time. Remember, reach and duck.”

You stay locked onto him when you throw your fist up at his face, stopping shy of his jaw. He isn’t as ignorant as to believe you, but his elbows draw away from his hips to allow space for your consequent assault. Squatting, you step forward to completely embrace his left leg. Quick calculations tell you that his weakest point is at his knee, so you lower your clutch around it, cheek squishing onto his stomach, before lifting the appendage off the ground. It isn’t heavy on you, all his mass directed to the back leg he now has to balance on.

And then–

And then… what?

He’d done it so briskly that you completely missed his method.

“Tell me what you did wrong.” Miguel examines. He’s got your head scissored in one strong arm, and if you weren’t struggling to comprehend how he gained the upper-hand, you’d be salivating with how potent his cologne is from this distance.

You mutter a faint “Agreeing to this.” and hope your bowed pose muffles it enough.

“Overcommitting. If I wanted to, I could shove your neck downward and take you on from behind.” He shakes you off his leg. “Don’t put your chest on my thigh. Lace your right shoulder over it so that your crown hits my ribs. Yeah, that’s it.” He smooths his hand over your back. It’s merely a graze and almost enough to have you collapse out of position entirely. “See how your head is preventing my arm from leaning on you? Good. Now use that, knoc– oomf.”

You don’t let him finish, driving him up until he tips backwards. The gratification stalls you for a split-moment, pride trembling up your frame, knocking your bones together. But he raises an eyebrow at you from the ground, and you remember the second part of the expectation.

(If this were the real thing, you’d be squashed by now. He’s holding back, guiding you semi-gently through this practice round.)

With no further ado, you seat yourself on his abdomen. His biceps are too large to pin your calves to while keeping both your knees and toes to the ground, so you spread until you can do so over the bends of his arms. Your pelvis aches with the near-split, and you find you couldn’t care less, shivering in high delight.

“Huh. Would you look at that.” You wiggle to reinforce your point. “And how did I do for my first time?”

(Admittedly, it’s a much milder line than what you had in mind; but even you have your limits, and congratulating him on taking your wrestle-victory virginity is just out of bounds.)

“Everyone starts somewhere.” He says, purposefully echoing his earlier attitude, recognizant of how it irritated you so. The answer pops your ego before it could begin to surmount to anything. “But you wavered, don’t pretend I didn’t see that. Get off. We’re going again.”

Tuesday, 22:00

Your first attempt at his challenge comes late.

The logic felt elementary; wait a day before trying anything so he’s caught further off his guard. It was a plan born with sights on his warning – when you come for me, I won’t be holding back – and, admittedly, your anxiety to it. This new equanimity you find yourself within is fragile, a compromise held up on couth alone. You’ve fought Miguel at his best, with claws reared and fangs snarled right at you. It never ended cleanly. And if either of you lose sight of the labour that is keeping it civil – away from that exact past – you’re terrified that things will shatter in pieces that tear you apart.

(There also remains the knowledge that you’d lose, sorely, should the match be equal.)

So, you didn’t want to give him the opportunity to resist at all. To your sleep-deprived self, there were a few steps in ensuring that:

Find him late at night, following a presumably long day, having just been lulled into faux comfort by his last meal before retiring. Beyond the fact that you skipped a day since his initial proposal to act on it – with a belly full of food, the lights of HQ dimmed low, and a drowsy filter cast by work, he’ll grow lax. Complaisant. At least, that was your theory, based on patterns you’ve observed in yourself. And it had been solid enough to ground your hopes on, especially when all that was required of you is to disarm him.

Only as you wait for him to emerge from the cafeteria do you realise the various other factors you forgot to take into account. Ones that complicate your lattermost objective.

The bridge is still, a thick cover of quiet befalling the sector. Bobbing outside the asymmetric windows is a waning gibbous moon, its luminescence casting lurid shadows onto the carpets and columns surrounding you. You sit, crouched behind a bench on an offside seating area, tracing patterns onto an adjacent palisade with your eyes. The moulding on it is triangular, like everything else in this building, and the task is mind-numbing enough that it hits you, then and there. Entirely too late.

He only taught you the one way of tackling your opponent.

Head on, with no room for stealth in your approach. Unless Miguel comes out of the cafeteria with a blindfold on, he’ll see you running towards him and squander the endeavour with ease. It’s like you to resort to your worst suspicions when cornered, so you can’t help but believe he did that on purpose. Either to test your ingenuity, or for some other convoluted reason you’ve no mind to get to right now.

Fuck. That bastard.

Should you back down now, you won’t trust yourself to face him tomorrow. Already, you’ve stalled for far too long, prudent to the approaching deadline. A week's time. Seven days to prove you’re worth your salt, to overcome the obstacles he’s thrown your way. Unlike your other exercises, you weren’t guaranteed anything in return for mastering this. He probably expects you to want it so bad that you become motivationally self-sufficient. And he’d be right. You do. Christ, you’d asked for it – this much needed intervention on the monotony you’ve been living in. It’s given you something to do beyond your lessons, and a victory might encourage him to design more like it. So–

You’ll stay. Work something out – an alternative plan. He hasn’t been in the caf for long. Given the chance he chose to have a sit down meal, you’ll have time.

“Lyla.”

The artificial intelligence flickers into being above you, hovering at your shoulder. She appears wildered, blinking owlishly at the source of her summon. You’d never called on her before – until now, you didn’t think you could. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and your throwing caution to the wind seems to have paid off.

That is, if she’s willing to proffer Miguel’s position.

“Upgraded from haunting worlds to our very own HQ?”

You shrug, blaisé to the jab you’ve heard so often. “Promise I’m on my best behaviour.”

“My, my.” She belly flops onto a nonexistent surface, still level with your nose, to shelf her chin onto her hands and kick her feet behind her. A small smile worms its way onto your expression when you notice her attire; a silk set of pyjamas, bunny slippers and a heart-shaped sleeping mask, pushed back to keep her bangs off her forehead. “Wonder what the boss has to say about that.”

“The boss can’t know I’m here.”

“My lips are sealed.” After miming the action, she glitches onto the ground in front of you, peeking from behind the bench to spy on the automatic doors leading into the cafeteria, much like you’re doing. “What’s with the secrecy? Please tell me this is a proposal. You’re certainly underdressed, but we can work what we’ve got. Oo!” She straightens to a ram-rod posture, alongside the exclamation mark that pops above her head, clothes returning to normal and a clipboard materialising in her hand. “We can add a little jeuje to the space. What’re we thinking? Flowers–” An orange array of digital peonies projects onto the bridge, fat and blossoming with accelerated speed. “Or streamers?” The petals are soon replaced by banners and curled ribbons, drooping from overarching beams.

Face molten with panic – and a hint of mortification – you wave through her incorporeal form to hurriedly interrupt her tangent. You can only hope that none of the commotion gave away your primacy.

“No!” Whisper shouting, you bow your head to the floor to look her in the eye. “Nothing like that. Listen, I just need you to watch Miguel and report back to me on his status. Preferably, before he exits the cafeteria. It’ll help me anticipate his approach while I think of what to do next.”

“Hmmm.” The lifeform approximation takes her sweet time considering it. Your gaze oscillates anxiously between her and the door, your body in perpetual flight or fight. Any longer, and you’re afraid quick-trigger reflex will have you jumping regardless of whether he emerges or not. “Don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I gotcha. Double agent Lyla, at your command!”

And then, she disappears.

Her aid does not reassure you. Baby hairs tickle your nape, matted with sweat. The condition persists, extending to your palms, which lay pressed to the tiled floor to tamp the perspiration seeping from them. Adrenaline – the very response you’d predicted – makes you sick and dizzy despite, bubbling up your gut in violent bursts. For all that you should be focusing on a course of action, her words claim a monopoly in your mind.

Double agent.

Do you want to know?

No, you decide. Not now. Whatever it is, it’s bound to hinder your performance. You settle back down.

Moments later, she crops back up.

“He’s on his way. If I were you, I’d up and turn around. He looks hangry.”

“Thanks, Lyla.” It’s about the worst thing she can say to you right now. “Go back to… sleep.”

Giving a final bow of her head, she departs. Her exit marks the milliseconds before Miguel’s entrance – sacred suspense stretching, spreading, only to implode by the schwip of the automatic door. It unlatches, layer by layer, to reveal a wide silhouette, framed by the bright fluorescents of the still-open cafeteria.

She’s right. Based on posture alone, you can tell he isn’t in the best of moods. It’s the only clarity you’re afforded as the entryway closes off, plunging him – and you – into the void of your surroundings. You strain to see where he begins or ends now, navy-suit obscuring his edges, punctuated only by the red accents on his chest. They become your indication on how and where he moves, the angling of the lines informing you that he’s headed straight towards you.

In complete contrast to the plod he takes on, your internal dialogue is a tangled mess of stray worries. An old, feral part of you – the girl who had to fend for herself for a year, untreated to the woes and safeties of regular food and board – claws out with a vengeance. She’s scared, she has nothing to lose, she’s plump with horror at the sight of a prowling hero, which had only meant one thing for her – and the sheer force of it all crushes you into choked submission. Perhaps it’s foolish to think you’ve moved on from your past when old habits return so easily. So she is still you, and it takes a good bit of convincing – of spotting and counting backwards from ten and breathing real slow – to prioritise your objective in face of the sudden regression.

By the time you manage it, in fact, he’s already a few paces away.

There goes your plan.

Frantically, you spring off your haunches, shooting to the side to hinder his track in an bid to salvage what’s left of it. It’s clumsy, lacking all the grace necessary for you to have even the chance of success, and when he stutters short of stepping on you, you make matters worse by curling around his ankles, striving to destabilise him by tugging at the roots of his support.

It fails. Obviously.

(In a rather anticlimactic way.)

He releases an exasperated sigh, staring down at your writhing form with what you can only imagine is regret at having ever agreed to this. “What are you doing?”

“Um–” You stop, glancing at him with one, hesitant eye. “Tackling you.”

Miguel blinks. Once. Twice. His foot bounces, pushing you off. Then–

“Up, before you hurt yourself.” Unphased. Strict.

You clamber to a stand. He gives you a once over, shakes his head, and brushes past you to continue his route. As he walks off, you catch a quiet huff, followed by a mutter – the reflection meant only for himself to hear. “Tackling me. Honestly.”

Wednesday, 10:20

Your second attempt finds you asleep under his desk.

Not deliberately, of course. You didn’t drag a pillow and comforter to his lab like an impromptu nap would lend you an upper hand. The position that brought it forth is hardly even a comfortable one – tucked under a squat table that has you bending your neck to fit, raised high off the ground on a hovering platform, in a cavernous office whose only lightsource seems to be the overhead aperture and orange monitors. They beep multiversal jargon and blare the occasional alarm, which never fails to send your heart rate sky-high – and if you hadn’t at all been convinced in your plot, then you would’ve left after the first couple minutes wait.

It’s torturous. Depressing. How he’s able to think, let alone work here, is beyond you. It can only be an optimal environment for what you set out to do – and perhaps that’s a point you should take up with him, should he care about being snuck up on by a more competent threat.

But you dozed off anyway, made weary with all your fretting, legs pressed close to your breast, cheek slotted upon them. It was cold, and he hadn’t arrived yet – off being the responsible spider-hero that he is, conducting city patrol while you tarry for the opportune – and Hobie’s gifted cardigan is snug enough around your frame that it serves as a blanket of sorts. Your course of action, set on an unremitting loop in your mind, was the last straw – a lullaby, cradling you down onto security. Fully drafted, practised, with no room for mistakes given the lessons you learnt last time.

Even submerged in sleep, it’s all you think about.

On account of an oversight, you’d panicked. Lept at him with no regard for the tactics you’ve learnt, instead of rerouting an alternative or preparing for contingencies. He’d taught you to tackle him head-on, and while that isn’t ideal for the covert-component of this challenge – like on that bridge, where he would’ve seen you coming from miles away – you can still make do with what you’ve got. That’s why you’re here, early in the morning, waiting for him to come to you, all while remaining oblivious to your presence under his desk. Not only does it grant you cover while he stands mere centimetres away, it ensures his hands are too busy to defend him when you strike, raised to tap away at his screens.

Those are the foundations you worked out on your chagrined walk home last night. The logistics – intricacies you have to calculate spontaneously – can be dealt with as they come up. Like sneaking in undetected. (Accomplished successfully.) Or whether space will allow you to lunge out onto him when he appears. (You practised it first thing – one eye on the door in case he comes in – and established that with a bit of improvisation, it’s possible.)

Your fingers twitch, triggered by muscle memory into acting the attack out on a smaller scale. It’s odd that you recognise it – still somewhat unconscious, suspended in an hypnopompic state where both your dreams and reality intersect. Elements of both topple over one another, porcelain dominoes that splinter on impact. You feel your fingers twitch, yes, and the scrape of your chapped lips – things you abstractedly assign as real – but they’re strewn between memories that run like worn film, singed at the edges.

A warm hand cupping your neck, callused fingers rubbing lightly over the curve of your shoulder. Shallow breaths, fanned across your lashes, struggled in keeping still.

Multi-coloured motes, flipping through a catalogue of colours in dark corners.

A headache, nipping the nerves leading to your brain. Pain, excruciatingly itchy above your elbow, up the back of your arm. Whiplash, smouldering agony across the junction of your shoulder.

A voice, hummed from the depths of a broad chest. Resonant, rugged. ‘Don’t move’ – the demand so steady it could’ve been gospel. Him, keeping you stable. Him, the only constant you know.

For a moment, you believe you’re still there. Buried under mounds of grey rubble, nestled on his lap. Oxygen depleted, injuries severe. No hope of escaping or checking in on the population of Earth-15, whose fate you screwed by merely existing on the same plane. The past number of weeks were fable, then, conjured by your sick mind to help you die easy. Creating a story besides the one that ended you; where you and Miguel worked something out.

And if it’s true – if you truly imagined it all – then that’d entail you never grew out of your hatred. You never got to rest on a bed, or take a shower, or bask in a filling meal again. It’d mean you didn’t leave any legacy beyond that of Wraith; destroyer of worlds, bane of his existence.

(And that you never counted as anything more to him than just that.)

Gradually, the pseudo-dream morphs into a nightmare born of stressful thought, and at its peak, it shakes you so hard you wake up. Bones jolting out of your skin, legs ready to kick outwards; raptured in fight-or-flight until you remember where you are, why it’s so cramped – because his desk is obnoxiously short and not because a building toppled over you – and how you got here.

You’re thankful you’re able to collect yourself so swiftly. Had you smacked your head on the belly of the table, or otherwise panickedly flailed about, then you would have alerted the man currently standing in front of you. His upper body is cut off from your sight, but you’d recognise those muscled thighs anywhere. Clad in his digital suit, little patterns shimmering on its surface. You see them clearer in your proximity, correlating them to the figures you’d observed on his monitors. Parallel lines and concentric circles, like maps of the spider-verse projected onto a navy backdrop.

How long were you out?

Despite your semi-awareness to your surroundings, you hadn’t heard him come in. Nor did you feel the platform drop to allow him to step onto it. You brush the confusion off, figuring it’d do you no good, and rub the drowsiness from your eyes while catching yourself up to speed.

You’re here to tackle him. The voice in your head begins chanting the plan again; leap out, grab his forward leg, ram his ribs with your head and pray it’s enough to tip him over. That’s one.

Two: you’re a quiet sleeper. You can’t imagine the embarrassment had you not been – if he were to catch you napping in his office by following the sound of your groans. You suppose it’s a frivolous thing to get hung up on, but you remember how your college roommate would talk during her nightmares. It never failed to capture your attention, even with headphones clasped tightly to your ears.

Which leads into your third remark–

He doesn’t realise you’re here; the most important thing considering. You’re still in the clear to go ahead.

Right now, Miguel is a smidge too far away for it to work out. You knead the sore flesh of your nape, stalking his feet for the slightest movement. They stand on the other side of the platform, verging near its brink, tapping in cogitation. Then, when he swipes a screen away from his direct view, his weight leans onto the back one. The manoeuvre brings his pelvis lower, cut-off rising to his midriff. It’s all you can do to remain dignified, gaze locked on anywhere except his hamstrings and where they round out to form a pronounced behind.

Would it be wrong for you to abandon your objective on justification of lust? It strokes some primal part of you seeing him so dedicated to his work. You’re instantly overwhelmed with the urge to crawl out and service him like this, on your knees, while he maintains his concentration. To give him a soft mouth, soft hands, maybe elicit an iota of pride over how well you behave. It’s depraved – you won’t deny it – but in your darkest moments, nothing consoles you like the thought of his unequivocal praise. Acceptance. There’s no one it would matter more from.

(No one it could matter more from. It’s true that he’s the only constant presence you’d ever had, even before your world went to ruin. Though you’re unsure of whether it’s in good providence, or if you’ll ever fully accept the fact.)

Miguel steps closer. You repress the reverie, slapping yourself softly to land back on target. A bit more to his left– yes, that’s it. He’s in front of you now.

When you’d practised, your head had to be out from underneath the desk for the manoeuvre to work. Pushing up into a squat, you shuffle forward. All you need is a distraction so he doesn’t catch you peeking out in his peripheral, and it comes in the form of child laughter.

Distant, as though it’s been passed through a speaker. With the way it repeats, incessant like that of a fond video playing over and over, you can appreciate that it isn’t happening live. Perhaps it’s a subject he’s keeping his eye on, or he’s slacking off with a movie. Not that it matters, of course – so long as he’s honed in on anything other than you.

His knee is at your eyeline. You scoot further. The low metal of the desk slips over your head. Now or never.

Pouncing, you wrap a gable grip around the bend of his leg, using the momentum of your squat to spring upwards. It’s bull-like when your forehead slams onto the exposed expanse of his ribs, toes skidding for acceleration as you force him to balance on the one limb, driving onward. The force could’ve concussed, had he not been cushioned by brawn. It’s certainly enough to almost throw him over, in any case. He stumbles backward, arm slipping across your back, and the scuffle is so promising that you let yourself relax slightly.

That’s your fault, you admit.

He exploits the slip-up to wrench your arms off from around his knee, using the appendages to pull you out from underneath him. With a frankly painful tug at the wrists, he twists you so your back is facing him, before pinning them in one strong grip. You’re shoved onto his desk that way, unceremoniously bent at the hip, nose ramming into the reinforced durasteel. Warmth trickles from it. A metallic taste fills the back of your mouth.

“¡Maldita sea! What the hell?”

Pain crackles up your nose, where ichor continues to bloom and slip from your nostrils. His aggression perhaps shouldn’t surprise you – he did say he wouldn’t be holding back – but it’s parallel to the treatment you received as Wraith, and you can’t help but assume that he resorted to what he was used to in all the adrenaline.

“That hurts.” Groaning, you wiggle your fingers in a plea for release. His pelvis flattens on the plump of your ass, and it burns the longer he continues to press into you. The situation is almost reminiscent of the fantasies you create when alone; rough-treatment and all.

“Christ.” He hisses, backing off at once. Despite asking for it, you mourn his absence, rubbing the brand left by his clothed crotch, sheepishly turning back to look at him. The instant he sobers up, he’s opening the drawer to his left. “I didn’t realise it was you.”

“Who else...” You murmur, ducking to shield your bloody nose from his attention. It’s done in vain, though – he already has a towel in hand, heading towards your face. Erroneously, you think he’s passing it to you and reach out to grab it – only to brush across his knuckles when he instead presses the white cotton to your lip. “Security that big of an issue?”

“You got in, didn’t you.”

“Har har.” As the red is wiped off your skin, he steadily lets you take over, dropping the towel to allow you to tamp the flow on your own.

“How long have you been under there?”

“Ah–” You pretend to occupy yourself with the task at hand, waiting for the heat to diffuse from your cheeks before you speak again. “Depends on what time it is.”

“Half past ten.”

“Two hours then.” You’d come in at eight. “Give or take.”

“I’ve been here for one.” He adds, prodding for a more satisfying explanation.

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t snooping for intel or anything.” A necessary preface and not at all a bid to steel yourself for your confession, the prospect of doing so filling you with shame. “I fell asleep.”

“You–” Like his stutter, his brows spasm at a rapid pace, creasing together in a flash before smoothing out to form a more pleasant expression. With eyelids fluttered shut and lips quirked at the edges. Amusement. Your stomach cartwheels. “You fell asleep.”

“Sure.” In complete contrast, you imagine your expression is solemn. Loss is an ugly and hopeless beast, roaring in your gut. You place the towel on his desk, starting to make your way out with a petulant march. “Like this place isn’t built for it, you gloomy jerk. I mean, where are the lights?”

(If he managed to overpower you despite doing everything correctly, then what chance have you got?)

The universe has a sick sense of humour too, it seems. Your argument is interrupted by the border of the platform, where you teeter over a fifteen foot drop. Fear blazes through your nerves, suddenly awake with the knowledge that you’re hovering mid air, no fence or handrails to hold you in.

Miguel chuckles from behind you, sounding way too pleased with himself when he asks. “You need help getting down?”

You throw a dirty glare over your shoulder, hoping it compensates for the humility you have to succumb to. “Yes.”

His arms stay crossed over his chest, holding out.

Fucking fine.

“Please.”

Thursday, 13:05

You plonk the heavy bag of scraps onto your table, sighing in relief as the weight redistributes off of you.

All morning, you’ve snooped around HQ with a nimble hand. It’s vast, after all, with many winding halls and unfrequented corners, of which you’re probably the only person to have walked through in weeks. Accompanying you, a makeshift pouch and a cover-up story; if any outsider should inquire – then you’re exploring the building that’s been your home for the last month. It would be suspicious, if the venture could not be so easily misconstrued.

No. You’re not worried. Far from it, in fact. You’re sure that the gadgets you pilfered won’t be missed. Some even had a thin coating of dust when you picked them up, their uses long neglected in favour of newer technologies. You’re merely giving them a new purpose, reshaping bits and bobs to suit your goal.

(A far-fetched one, for certain. But it’s wild enough that he won’t expect it.

That’s what you need. To stop playing by his rules.)

“Lyla.”

The AI glitches into translucency at your beckon, saluting as though you were a general and she a cadet. “Lyla á la espionage, reporting for duty!”

“No. Not this time.”

“Theeeen…”

“Can I count on your discretion?” Squinting, you stare straight through her pink-heart glasses, like lying is an expected part of her programming. Her last remark occupies a small portion of your mind. Double agent. You still haven’t asked, and you’re running at a speed too fast to jump over that hurdle now.

“Perhaps.”

Shaking your head, you do away with the ambiguity. “I’m hoping you’re good with tech.” You say anyway. “I need help.”

She only grins, wickedly, skipping over to peer into your bag. You spread it open for her, laying out the stolen paraphernalia. Then–

“Wraithy.” She adjusts the moniker so that it rhymes with baby. “I am tech.”

Saturday, 2:00

Nueva York streaks past you in blurs of blue and purple.

The sky lifts its buildings from the top up, spires pierced into its inky surface. You count the panels that pose a stark, golden contrast to the night-drenched landscape, lit up by residents whose lives are framed in the tiny windows. It’s a worthwhile distraction from the vertigo damaging your systems – all your efforts directed in looking forward, not up, as the ground shrinks farther and farther away above you. Yet with every metre, your distress worsens, distending to become a ferocious force.

Eventually, not even city gazing is enough.

You’ve trained on ceilings. On balconies. But the bottom-side of an elevator is another matter entirely, especially as it moves with zipping speed. You’re terrified that, at any moment, it’ll wobble and send you plummeting to your untimely death. And Miguel, who currently stands on the flip-end of it, won’t be able to process your presence or scream for help by the time you hit the ground.

That’s the calculated risk you convinced yourself into making when you sought him out today. It’s evolved beyond the point of learning a lesson, or whatever prompt you’d initially proposed to get him to agree to this. Now, or in the way it has been for the past two days, it’s personal. Your ego is bruised but not battered yet, and if the cuffs on your forearms have any sway in it, then you’ll get your solatium soon enough.

The apparatus is impressive, by standards of the day it took to hurriedly construct it. A smooth fit to your wrist, with narrowly hammered metal and a small compartment designed to hold your personal, synthetic formula. Lyla had pulled schematics from a large archive, handing you one she deemed ‘friendly for beginners’. You begrudged the coddling, if only because you yourself were worried about your competency with it.

You tested it, naturally. It’s functional. The fluid is durable, if not sticky. If worse comes to worse, you can rely on the prototype to catch yourself. That’s what you tell yourself, at least, all the way up to the top floor of HQ, which comes at a gradual halt of the lift.

Eager, you hook your fingers over the brim of the platform before flipping over to the right side up. You somersault so your landing isn’t as heavy-footed, and blood bursts down to your numb legs as you reorient yourself with gravity. It’s all you can do to wait until you regain feeling in them, before following the man out the door.

He’s multiple steps ahead already, traipsing with a tired gait. You match it, careful to set your toes down first so as to not make noise. The floor isn’t one you’ve been to – and it isn’t so much a floor as it is a singular hallway, lined with tilt-and-turn glass windows that gleam like all futuristic things do. The aesthetic is juxtaposed by a frankly retro carpet, shades of yellow and brown cut into a pattern you recognise from the bridges in the lobby.

Plastered to the edge, away from the subjection of the spotlights down the middle, you wonder where he’s going. It’s gotten late – you’ve been shadowing him for the better half of a day, since Friday afternoon after your lesson. The plan was to tackle him on his way out, right as he was about to leave to go home, but it’s two a.m. now and he’s at work. Still in hero attire. Wandering a corridor you’ve no reference to, with sight set on the door at its end.

If he waited this long to get to it, then it must be important. That’s what you argue against, anyway – that he likely arranged to complete this task at night when he would be ensured total privacy. How questionable is it, then, that you’re violating that?

You could turn back now, find him later instead. Yet today marks your final day before the deadline he set expires, and you want at least one more chance to try should this attempt turn to shit.

The right glove of Miguel’s suit disappears, digital projection flickering to white as the nanotech retracts into his palm. You notice the act only because his fingers soon flick out, a key pinched between them. It’s red and patterned with the same arithmetic lines as his ensemble.

Smart.

Once he arrives at the door, he uses the pass to unlock it. It comes open with an effortless swish, sliding completely open to allow him access. He lingers for too long, though, and you press closer to the wall in case he suspects your pursuit. He doesn’t turn around though, instead hitting a setting on his watch that causes the entryway to slip shut.

Before you can catch up. Before you can sneak in.

Your heart drops.

Floundering, you run to pull at the lock. It doesn’t budge. Nor are there any other ways in, the narrow hall composed solely of this door at one end and the elevator on the other. You can’t go in by any manner except pass through, and with every slap of your hand on the wall, it becomes increasingly apparent that your powers won’t miraculously emerge like they have before.

Nails digging into a fist, you reassure yourself that not all is lost if you give up now. It’s an unofficial loss, made outside the scrutiny of anyone besides yourself. And though you’ll kick yourself to sleep over being so inept in your own abilities, at least he won’t come to the same conclusion. That’s what matters – doesn’t it? His opinion of you.

Giving a final, aggravated sigh, you’re about to relent when you catch sight of it – a silver lining, adjacent to you. Levelled on the same plane as the door, separated only by the right wall of the hallway, opened to the high atmosphere air – a casement, hinged to a window much like the one you ogle at it through. Leading into the room he just entered. Just a short jump and swing away.

You shiver at the notion, first instinct loud and conclusive. No. Absolutely, positively not. It’s a ‘jump’ over a hundred-story fall. Even if you manage to crawl out of the first opening with your sanity intact, you’re nowhere near experienced enough to make it to the second. Unless–

Your belly lurches with pre-emptive nausea, and you sink to your knees to massage it without retching. You can’t believe you actually consider the reckless idea, sitting with your poor excuses for web shooters, triggers flat on your palm, looking far flimsier than anything you could trust. Your refusal to walk on walls comes back with a vengeance, laughing in mocking echoes at the simple obstacle you can’t overcome.

Whispering, you try your last alternate. “Lyla.”

There’s a lag before she appears, glasses skewed upon her nose. “Huh.”

“Do you…” You rasp, swallowing the bile surging up the back of your throat. “D’you think you could, y’know–” When words fail, you gesture to the locked door with the cock of your head.

“Oh-ho-ho. No can do. I’ve done a lotta favours for you sister, but this is crossing the line.”

“Okay. Okay, sorry for asking.” Your chest tightens. The corridor narrows. The shapes on the carpet warp to resemble the plunge off the end of a skyscraper. You have to ask to abate the panic. “What’s in there, anyway?”

“Find out on your own accord.” She doesn’t take the bait, fur coat rising with a brief shrug of her shoulders. “Good luck.”

And in a blink, you’re on your own again.

You must sit like that for half an hour, rocking back and forth in anxiety that refuses to settle. It gnaws on your energy until the passion depletes, draining out, leaving you to wallow as an empty husk. Every so often, you press your cheek to the cool glass spanning the side of the hallway, wishing the problem had magically amended itself since the last you checked. But the ground remains where it is, bottoming endlessly down below, and so does the window to the room, built just out of reach.

Of your concerns, there’s a resounding question that doesn’t quite fit. Its edges and curves search for a spot to click into place, but you aren’t able to find it – not until you give the piece further contemplation.

Why haven’t you left?

If you’d given up hope, then why haven’t you gathered your wounded pride and salvaged the rest of your night? You could’ve been in bed by now, cosy under a heavy comforter, ruminating over your failure in a safer setting. Yet you’ve chosen to stay and prolong your torture, egged on by the reminder of what you couldn’t do.

You’re not waiting for him to emerge. That hadn’t even occurred to you.

(And a tiny part of you already knows the answer, keening by the base of your skull. It just takes some work to admit.)

It’s that stupid, idiotic, dangerous philosophy he’s instilled in you. The ideology that gets heroes killed. The conviction that marks scars on their body or gives them the peace of mind when walking on walls and swinging across heights that could permanently ruin them.

What had you spread out underneath him, cupping your knees while his tongue lathered your wet cunt. Or when his fingers shoved into your pants, scissoring you open to the seconds on his stopwatch. The thing that’s kept you coming, fighting, over and over again despite receiving the brunt end of your endeavours every time.

Resilience.

You’ve internalised it. You’re here, where you wouldn't have stayed a month ago. And it’s forcing you to face the second lesson he’s been trying to teach; a value impossibly scarier. Courage.

You know you won’t rest until you embody that too.

Rising, you take your first step towards it by unlatching the fastener to the window in front of you. The pane upturns, pitching open like a gluttonous mouth. Frigid wind rushes in, biting at your cheeks. You breathe in the crisp freshness of it and ignore the threat it might pose to your welfare. Pessimism is a hulking burden. It’ll only weigh you down.

The rest follow in a clumsy sequence.

You sit on the edge, sticking the soles of your shoes onto the wall outside. It fixes in that newly familiar way, like how it does when you’re upside down, sucking onto the perpendicular surface. You don’t stand up despite the mild relief that washes through you, though – you understand now not to let your guard down until the task is done.

Keeping a firm grip around the window for stability, you scoot off the support it provides your bottom. You’re hanging out, posted on the external side of the hallway. There’s nothing but air underneath you. You don’t linger to process it, moving on to the next operation before dread knocks you out.

Tapping the button on your free hand, you test your web shooter one last time. Once to equip, twice to release. Once to equip, twice to realise.

When you sling it to the adjacent slot, your gaze is bolted forward. Never, ever down. Nothing exists, you cry to yourself, nothing exists but this small jump. And the web holds firm when you tug on it. You’ve tested the fluid against your own mass. It’s held strong. You’d have to be a novice scientist to have overlooked that; and you’ll be fine.

Nothing exists beyond this small jump.

(Except for maybe the cosmic forces you pray to. You invoke God, the sun, the stars. Even the moon, who gently glows down on you. It hits you, then, that you’re the closest you’ve ever been to any of them.

That verity reassures you just enough.)

You jump forward.

Tears bud on the corners of your eyes, scleras burning with the whip of air, sinuses scorching alongside it. Your organs hurtle to your feet, and your heart beats like bullets to your chest. It’s a vile, sickening sensation – akin only to the paralysing disbelief after finding out you’d brought an early apocalypse to your world. Nothing has required more bravery from you than enduring it, but…

You don’t fall.

In fact, your angling is so flawless that you glide into the space between the window frame and casement. The grace ends there, however, as momentum throws you hard onto a piece of furniture, toppling over it to smack head-first on the tiled floor. Pain blazes up your shoulder, jerked back by the web you forgot to release. You blink to diffuse the black dotting your vision, slowly coming to terms with the havoc you’ve wrought. The commotion had made way more noise than intended, and it seems you aren’t the only one who thinks so.

Sure enough, the light in the next room flicks off. It’s a choice made with the careful contemplation of a trained hero; if Miguel suspects an intruder, then he knows that he’d have the upper hand in the dark, within this space he’s far more familiar with. You feel around for the seat you tripped over, crawling behind it for cover.

As your vision adjusts, you’re able to make out the advent of his faint silhouette. His pants are looser than that of his suit, his arms bare – judging by the fleshy colour, hardly illuminated by the ambient lighting outside. The change would confuse you had you not been honed in on your challenge, reconciling stealth as you calculate your next course of action. The pound-force per square inch of your splitter-web function isn’t high enough to shoot across the distance you want – that being the expanse between you – so either you move closer, or he does.

The circumstance mirrors how things played out in this lab. Although this time, he creeps away, cautiously navigating the space with a prowess that can only be explained with night vision. Perhaps it’s a part of his spider-granted abilities, or otherwise he frequents the foyer often enough to know when to side-step to avoid incoming furniture.

Unfortunately for you, you don’t have either luxury. Thrill rockets within you, striking every nerve like a pinball game gone wild, fuelled by the fortitude your indiscreet stunt afforded you. He’s taking far too long to search his surroundings; at the rate it’s going, you’ll have lost your will before he comes close enough to wrestle onto the floor. You decide it’s much too intoxicating a sentiment to sacrifice, then, settling on the former bet.

Move closer it is.

You don’t run at him like you’re inclined to do. That hadn’t resulted in your favour the last time. Instead, you stay on all fours, bound inching in the opposite direction he takes on. You use the bulky chattels surrounding you to escape his notice, ducking behind the shaded shapes until you’re mere inches away.

The web shooters practically hum on your flesh now, mimicking your excitement as you point them to the angles intersecting his arms and torso. You hope your aim is as good in this less perilous scenario, the ploy contingent on your initial shot. Binding his extremities together would reduce possible scrimmages to zero, which buffs your chances of pinning him down to a pretty percentage.

And you make sure he spots you before you fire.

(Nothing satisfies like the slight widening of his eyes when he realises it’s you.)

The bombardment allows him no room to escape, discharged in every possible way as you run a three-sixty around his thrashing form. Your webs secure his arms, yes – but also his legs to one another, and his hands flush to his hips. For extra measure, you even go so far as to switch into long-form shots to wrap the final product once, twice, thrice, so he’s adequately swaddled and cuffed.

You don’t know how he’s still standing once you’re done. It can be seen as rubbing it in at this point when you tip him onto his back – but really, you just want to hit every aim he’d set out for you.

Within the next week. Check.

Sneak up on me. Check.

Anywhere, any time of day. Check.

Staple me to the ground for upwards of three seconds.

As you crouch down to straddle his abdomen, you count. Check. Check.

Miguel’s face is hard to read, shrouded and pursed in an indecipherable lour. You bite your lip with the appreciation that, despite his vague disapproval, your pride is still wholly valid.

“I won.” You croak, voice hoarse with misuse.

He shakes his head, slowly, then quicker when you combat it with an eager nods.

“I won. I won. I wo–”

“Web-shooters were never part of the challenge. ”

“Call it ingenuity,” You smirk, tapping on the metal contraptions. “You should add it to your list of traits befitting a hero.”

“Let me go.” He growls.

“Not until you admit it.”

“Let me go.” Firmer. It's smouldered by a fire you can’t locate the source of, for all that his tone rings familiar.

“C’mon, O’hara. I can see how badly you want to cut me the credit.” Arching down, you only mean for your next bribe to be heard more clearly, yet your chin brushes against his and his cologne hits you like a brick wall. Tension crackles in the same way it did then – when you’d been at the wheel of a cop car, hurtling towards a fate that’d always been coming for you. Promising ruin. Promising change in the sense that things could never be the same again. “It’s as much of a victory for you as my mentor, I think.”

“Hardly, seeing as you followed me home.”

(Home.

Of course it doesn’t go in the way you expect, though. Nothing ever does.)

“Wh–” All of a sudden, things start to make a whole lot more sense. You look around like the revelation will paint your setting in new colours. “You live at work?”

“I own the building.”

Your bravado shrivels to a minute thing, becoming a fraction of what it was. Just like that, he captures the upper hand again, all the while still dormant underneath you. The sun – you remind yourself. Always the sun to your comet.

“Alright, well.” You mumble, nipping the soft tissue of your cheeks. “I still won.” Though the proclamation holds foolish meaning now; not at all worthy of the lengths you went to.

Miguel’s hips thrust up, jostling your thighs, which remain pressed on him. Your core keels with the movement.

“Let me go.” He emphasises again. You shift to do exactly as he says, succumbing to the crushing pressure of your diffidence – only to be interrupted by his continued warning. It’s tricky. Devastating. It stops you right in your tracks, tearing the fibres of your chest apart with mad violence. Yet the implosion is only as powerful as the various fantasies that’ve gone into this very moment, and you can only attribute your reaction to your depraved self and not the filthy words that exit his mouth.

In truth, you have to hold on to his leg to make sure you heard him right.

“Lest I change my mind about fucking you silly, you bold little thing.”

chapter fourteen

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ginnsbaker · 1 year

Text

In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships (9/22)

Chapter summary: Several weeks later, an unfortunate situation drives Wanda to seek you out, only to be met with someone she least expects.

Chapter word count: 9k

Pairing: Wanda x Reader, Yelena x Reader (heavy in this chapter)

Author's note: And we start the second phase :)

Next chapter: Ten

AO3 | Masterlist

Nine

Five Weeks Later

“By the power invested in me, by the State of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The minister reads from his pamphlet without as much as a glance to the enamored audience.

Wanda hadn’t known that she was going to attend a wedding near the start of autumn; if she had, she’d have been more than ready with an ensemble that’s appropriate for both the event and the cold season. To be fair, Pietro hadn’t known either. Just a week ago, Shannon surprised him with a date, a venue, and a business card of some designer that she commissioned to provide Pietro’s suit for the ceremony. Wanda might have considered it a trap if it hadn't been for the fact that Pietro was the one on his knees with a ring a year ago. Shannon had simply grown tired of his excuses and took matters into her own hands. Wanda still thinks it’s a colossal mistake but his history with women and commitments tracks. She just wants to know how many more of these she’ll have to attend for the rest of her life.

“You may kiss the–”

The minister is cut off by Pietro diving in for a sloppy kiss, and the small crowd of thirty people cheer the newly weds. Wanda claps for the sake of being a good attendant. She almost feels sorry for Shannon, but if she wanted this, she probably wanted it for the wrong reasons.

And, well, karma is a bitch.

Having been sober for exactly thirty-two days, Wanda’s been nursing the same mocktail she’s had before the start of the program, and she finds it difficult to enjoy anything that’s watered-down. A longing to light a cigarette tugs at her, but the establishment's strict no-smoking policy extends even to the outdoor gardens. Pietro asked that she stays until the party’s over, and knowing how much her presence means to him, she reluctantly agreed.

“Stop brooding at my wedding, for god’s sake.”

It’s Shannon, dressed in her second gown, a simpler one that makes it hard to tell her apart from her bridesmaids.

"Hi, Shannon," Wanda drawls, swirling the tiny ice left in her rocks glass.

"It's Mrs. Maximoff now," Shannon mutters proudly, displaying both her wedding and engagement rings.

Wanda hides her grimace behind her drink. “Try not to get used to it though. I’m pretty sure you’re aware that there had been two other Mrs. Maximoffs in his past.”

“Don’t sass me on my wedding day, it’s just disrespectful.”

“Point taken. I’d offer to get you a drink, but I think that’s just gonna push the stick further up your ass.”

Shannon sourly responds with one of her signature fake smiles, but Wanda can see through the facade. She takes pride in having hit a nerve.

Taking the seat next to her, much to Wanda's dismay, Shannon changes the subject. "Anyway, your ex-wife is doing exceptionally well at our company. She's managed to turn around all the bad practices that have been going on for ages."

Wanda’s brows stitch together in confusion. “Your company?”

“Stark Industries.” Shannon says, taking a sip of Wanda’s untouched water.

The revelations throw her off. You didn't appear too thrilled when Wanda saw you right after your interview, so she had assumed you either didn’t get the position or you passed up on the opportunity. But what surprised her even more was discovering that someone like Shannon held a high-ranking position at a popular tech company–which now explains where the extreme confidence comes from.

Shannon smirks. “Don’t look so surprised that I work for the number one company in the world.”

“Number one?” Wanda scoffs, rubbing her nose with her middle finger. “Hardly. And why are you keeping tabs on her?”

“She works in my department and I interviewed her. She was a disaster, by the way,” Shannon says. “But her references were solid. I mean, Scott Lang? I hired her solely by his recommendation.”

Wanda can't help but smile at the mention of Scott, reminiscent of the old days when she used to host dinners for your boss and your co-workers. She doesn’t, however, dwell this time about the people you’ve brought with you when you walked out of her life. The reality is, people take sides, and rightfully, they have chosen yours.

"I'm happy for her. She's brilliant and hardworking. You won't regret having her on your team," Wanda says softly, her voice a little bittersweet; she remembers a time when she used to be the first one to know every little thing about you, and it's a feeling she misses.

“Why do I get the feeling that you’re hearing this just now?” Shannon smacks her lips together and then fixes her lipstick that has stained the rim of her drink. “I thought I saw you at our lobby right after her interview.” Shannon gives her a knowing look, her eyes filled with a mix of satisfaction and malice. It's as if she's perfectly aware of the unspeakable things you did to Wanda that day.

"Y-You did?" Wanda stammers, her blood rushing to her face.

“I assumed you were seeing each other again. You looked like a lost little housewife in your little jeans and little shirt.”

“I stopped by to bring her food. I didn’t know I had to dress up for that.”

“How sweet,” Shannon says, though her tone is barely mocking. “Well, if you’re not back together, then I have a piece of information you might find useful.”

Wanda leans back on her chair and crosses her arms in front of her. “And what makes you think I’m interested?”

“Because despite my wrong assumptions earlier, it’s clear that you’re still head over heels in love with her,” Shannon says. “Or am I wrong?”

Wanda looks away and takes a sip of her watered-down mocktail and tries to hide the displeasure on her face.

Shannon takes this as her cue to continue. “She recently changed her address in our database. I know because those things usually undergo my approval.”

You moved out? Wanda hadn't attempted to contact you, but while running errands for her cafe, she had found herself in your area a couple of times. Each time, she observed that your curtains were drawn and the lights in the living room were always turned off.

Wanda looks on quietly as Shannon reaches into her purse, retrieves an eye pencil, and grabs a napkin from the table. With deliberate movements, she begins to scribble on the napkin.

“Here,” Shannon hands Wanda the napkin with your address scrawled neatly on it. “You’re welcome.”

Wanda hesitantly accepts it, and then asks, “Why are you doing this?”

"Maybe I'm a hopeless romantic," Shannon shrugs, though the glint in her eye betrays her nonchalant demeanor. It almost penetrates Wanda’s defenses, but then she says, “Or I’m supporting your unhealthy obsession knowing it won’t lead anywhere.”

Wanda finds herself laughing. Unlike Pietro, Shannon had never treated Wanda delicately, even after her hospitalization. She finds it oddly refreshing and, in a peculiar way, endearing.

Shannon adopts a small, awkward smile herself.

“Fair enough.” Wanda says, folding the napkin carefully before putting it inside her bag.

Shannon gets up and runs her palms over the creases on her gown. “Good luck, Wanda. I’m sure you’ll be needing a lot of it.”

Pietro finds her in the gardens, rubbing her arms to keep herself warm. The nighttime breeze isn’t particularly chilly, but Wanda’s always been susceptible to the cold regardless of the season. He looks particularly dashing in the dark blue suit that Shannon picked for him; and with his hair back to its natural brunette color, the similarities between them have become uncanny once again.

“Sorry about that.” Pietro mutters as he approaches.

Wanda tilts her head at him, a playful smile dancing on her lips. "Sorry about what?" she quips, her voice laced with humor. "You mean this wedding?"

Pietro laughs and then shakes his head. “I saw you talking to Shannon and I could tell you weren’t having the best time.”

Wanda doesn't hold back as she speaks her mind. "She's still a bitch," she says bluntly, not mincing her words. "No offense."

“Do I hear fondness in the way you said ‘bitch’?”

“Not a chance.”

“Between me and her, you forget I’m actually the asshole, right? I know she told you I cheated on her countless times.” Pietro says, somewhat seriously.

“You are,” Wanda says. “But I stand by what I said.”

Pietro sighs. “Anyway, I’m not here to negotiate how you feel towards my wife. I’m here to say goodbye.”

Wanda sobers at that. She’s been so used to having her brother in the same city, a call and a cab away.

“You’re returning to LA?”

“The day after tomorrow.” Pietro confirms with a nod.

“Doesn’t she work at Stark Industries?”

“Oh, did I tell you that?”

“She told me a while ago.” Wanda says.

“She can work remotely,” Pietro explains. “And she prefers doing that from our home in LA.”

The wind begins to pick up, its gentle breeze evolving into a stronger gust. The air becomes alive, stirring the surroundings and causing leaves to dance and swirl in a mesmerizing display.

Wanda sweeps her hair back from her face, and asks, “Tell me, honestly, why did you stay here for so long? Even before the–” Wanda finds herself having difficulty naming the accident she had more than a month ago.

But if there’s something she’s learned from therapy so far, it’s that confronting her inner demons requires acknowledging their existence.

“Before my overdose.” Wanda finishes, managing to keep her tone even.

Pietro regards her with a tender look that conveys his immense pride in her recent growth and progress.

“At first, I just wanted to check in on you,” he says, fiddling with the cuffs of his suit. “And when I saw you and the cafe, I thought ‘see, she doesn’t need you’. But at the same time I also realized it was me–I needed you.”

Pietro pauses and rubs the back of his neck–something he does a lot when he’s trying not to be emotional.

"I missed you, Wands. These past few months, I've felt more like myself than I have in years. I know I'm free to visit you anytime, even when you and Y/N were still together, but it's just not the same when–"

“–when it’s just us.” Wanda finishes for him, her voice thick with emotions that her brother is trying so hard to hold at bay.

“Yeah. I had a really great time with you here, it was good to be home after so many years.”

“LA is your home.” Wanda reminds him.

"You're my family, Wands," Pietro says, wrapping an arm around her and giving her a warm side hug. "You're my home too."

“I love you, Piet.”

“I love you too, sis,” Pietro says. “I’m rooting for you–your happiness. Whether it’s with Y/N or someone else or no one. You deserve to be happy. You have a big heart–I know this because you love me just as I am.”

“Then why don’t you just stay here so we can be close to each other all the time?” Wanda sniffs. So many losses. So many changes. Wanda craves normalcy and consistency–things you used to provide in her life with your steady presence.

“Shannon’s family lives in LA, and we’ve already talked about settling there once we’re married.”

Wanda shakes her head, smiling in contempt.

Pietro notices the change in her demeanor and starts rubbing her arm in comfort. “Don’t blame Shannon for this. I suggested it because she’s more comfortable living there if we’re going to start a family.”

“You’re already talking about babies? Piet, that’s a huge step.” she says.

Pietro falls into a thoughtful silence, weighing the decision of whether to share the news with Wanda now or wait a little longer. However, the anticipation and joy of becoming a father soon overpowers his doubts.

With a burst of excitement, he finally speaks up. "Actually, she's pregnant."

"Wow," Wanda exclaims, embracing him tightly, more than thrilled at the news. But as suspicion creeps in, she pulls away abruptly. "Hold on, is that why you rushed into marriage? Because she's pregnant?"

“No. She actually just told me last night, as a wedding gift.” Pietro says.

“I’m going to be an aunt?” Wanda giggles. “I mean, congratulations! You’re going to be a dad!”

"Thank you, Wands," Pietro says, returning the hug.

Wanda pauses for a moment, a realization dawning on her. "I should stop being mean to her," she admits.

Pietro chuckles. "My advice is to take everything she says or does with a grain of salt."

Wanda's expression softens. "I'm going to miss you, you know? Your future kid, and, fuck it–even Shannon. I'll try to visit this Christmas, okay?"

"You better. I already got you plane tickets."

“Oh, and Piet?”

“Yep?”

“I’ll cut your balls off if you cheat on your wife again this time. Not because she’s having your child, but because it’s… not normal. It’s fucked up. We’re fucked up. The stakes are higher for you now, but even if it wasn’t, it just ruins everything in its wake. it's the biggest regret of my life," Wanda states firmly. Although she feels like a hypocrite as the words escape her lips, she feels compelled to express her feelings in the hope that it carries some weight.

“I know,” Pietro says, looking down at his feet. “I’ve been seeing a professional for two months now.”

“You are?”

Pietro smiles and takes Wanda’s hand, leading her back inside the reception. “Where do you think I got your therapist from?”

***

"You've really nailed it with this restaurant choice," Natasha exclaims at you, her fork stabbing into the juicy medium-rare steak. Her mouth waters as the meat releases its flavorful juices. She’s sitting to your left and Yelena’s right, and when you haven’t developed a psychic link with your partner yet, navigating a delicate situation feels like a sailor and a pilot has come together to figure out how a tractor works.

Natasha had phoned you earlier today, informing you that her flight from Washington D.C. was scheduled to depart in a mere two hours. This left you with approximately three hours to prepare for her arrival, as well as to have a conversation with Yelena on how you’re both going to break the news to her unsuspecting sister. However, due to Yelena's demanding work schedule, it was difficult to abruptly pull her away from her assignment and so you took it upon yourself to organize this impromptu dinner.

Your girlfriend, in a state of panic, had only just read your texts an hour ago and arrived late. Since then, there has been absolutely zero opportunity to discuss what your relationship entails for Natasha.

Delaying the inevitable, you focus on other topics.

“So, how was your flight?” you ask Natasha.

“Quick.”

“When did you find out you’re coming home?” you inquire, eyebrows wiggling at Yelena, attempting to seek her support in engaging in the conversation

“The other day.” Natasha says.

“How do you like your steak?”

Natasha gives you a funny look.

Shifting in your seat uncomfortably, you try to think of more questions to ask, but Yelena beats you to it.

“We’ve been seeing each other.” she announces over her plate of untouched meatballs.

Your eyes widen in alarm as you look at Yelena, but she nonchalantly shrugs at you, then whispers, "I thought that's what you were trying to tell me with your eyes."

Natasha serenely savors her steak, taking a graceful sip of wine before responding, "Yes, I'm aware."

Surprised, you murmur, "How did you...?"

With a hint of amusement, Natasha replies, "If I were to reveal my skills, I would be violating at least ten pages of a non-disclosure agreement."

"Right," Yelena huffs, a feeling of ease finally settling over her. She indulges in her own plate, eagerly digging in and savoring each bite.

“You know,” You start, shoulders dropping and feeling some of the tension leave your body. “I thought I’m used to what you do, but it’s still weird that you disappear for several weeks and then you come back like,” you snap your fingers. “And we can’t ask you questions.”

“It’s why I love my job so much. People are literally not allowed to ask questions,” Natasha says with a satisfied smirk, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “But I can. So, how did this happen?” she says, motioning between you and Yelena with her finger.

“Didn’t you already know?” you say with a teasing smile.

Natasha fixes you with a piercing gaze, the kind she typically reserves for her job, making you retreat but not before a nervous gulp catches in your throat.

"Yelena?" she prompts, noticing the uncharacteristic silence.

“I, uh–”

"Hotdog sandwich," you blurt out abruptly, interrupting Yelena's non-existent train of thought, while your mind drifts back to the night when you and Yelena officially started dating. Two pairs of eyes fixate on you, their faces a mix of surprise and bewilderment, as if questioning your sanity. Realizing the awkwardness of your outburst, you quickly clear your throat and gather yourself to continue, "I asked her out one night, shortly after I started my new job, and we kind of just decided to give it a shot while eating a hotdog."

When you look up, Yelena’s eyes carry a fondness, effectively deepening the blush on your cheeks.

“That’s a nice story, Y/N, but I didn’t mean literally. More like… how did you arrive at the decision to be together?” Natasha says, her gaze on you unwavering. You avoid her eyes, suddenly determined to finish the remaining vegetables in your dish.

“It came to us organically, Nat. I don’t know how to explain it without sounding a bit cheesy.” Yelena says.

“I don’t mind cheesy. Cheesy is good. Love is often cheesy, right?” Natasha says, her gaze directed at you. The mention of the word 'love' catches you off guard, and you almost choke on your peas. Although you feel it deep in your heart that you love Yelena, neither of you have actually said those words to each other.

Yelena nods, her expression serious. "Okay, then. It happened because we still have deep feelings for each other, and we felt it was necessary to give it a chance."

You smile, fully understanding and appreciating Yelena's sentiment. "I agree."

“Can I speak to Y/N in private?” She tells Yelena, who just shrugs, and then turning to you, Natasha says, “Is that okay?”

“Sure.” you reply, rising from your seat.

You and Natasha emerge from the cozy Italian restaurant, deciding to take a leisurely walk through the neighborhood. The rain has just subsided, leaving behind glistening streets and puddles that dot the pavement, making each step a bit precarious. The dampness in the air seems to mirror the tension in your chest, and you can't shake off the feeling that this walk holds more weight than just enjoying the post-rain atmosphere. The droplets on the ground reflect the streetlights, creating a mesmerizing shimmer that momentarily distracts you from your unease.

Yet, as you walk alongside Natasha, the silence between you only heightens your anticipation for the impending "sister talk."

You value your friendship with Natasha deeply, and the prospect of jeopardizing that bond fills you with uncertainty.

Just as your pulse falls into a steadier rhythm, Natasha breaks the silence, her voice filled with a sense of pride. "I'm proud of you," she declares. "Honestly, I half-expected to return and find you still unemployed, living in my apartment. But look at you now: a new job, a new place... and a new girlfriend," she adds, without a trace of animosity in her words.

“I was the crutch you had to get rid of after all.” Natasha says.

You laugh nervously at the ‘girlfriend’ remark, appreciating the genuine support from your best friend. "I suppose I relied on you heavily after my divorce," you admit. "It was easy to succumb to self-pity and a meaningless routine because you were there to take care of me. Eventually, I knew I was rotting away no matter how indulgent these Netflix shows are,” you laugh a little. “And well, things simply worked out, you know?”

“Yeah, I can see that it worked out pretty well with my sister.” Natasha quips.

"I care about her, Nat. I always have." you say, coming to a stop to face Natasha and properly look her in the eye.

Natasha nods and takes hold of your elbow, urging you to continue walking. "I know," she acknowledges, a knowing smile touching the corners of her lips. "She may not have shown it earlier, but she’s giddy as fuck. Kind of grosses me out seeing her eyeing you like a piece of candy.”

“But kidding aside, you have my blessing.” Natasha says, and you give her a soft smile in return.

A slight pang of guilt tugs at your heart as you decide not to mention your encounters with Wanda. You understand why Natasha requested this private conversation, and you don't wish to complicate matters by bringing up the brief rupture caused by your connection with Wanda. You and Yelena had reached a mutual understanding regarding Wanda, recognizing that your current relationship should not be overshadowed by your past with your ex-wife.

Besides, you haven’t talked to Wanda since you and Yelena entered into a relationship. Things have been going well; consequently, you see no justifiable reason to stir up any unnecessary complications or rock the boat.

But nobody reads you the way Natasha does, as she brings up the person you’ve been trying to forget all this time.

“And Wanda? Is that over?”

Lying to Natasha is akin to attempting to deceive a lie detector machine; there’s just no way out of it but the truth–or at least some of it.

“We were briefly in touch,” you admit, carefully filtering the story in your mind as you speak. "Coincidentally, she happened to be at the same club where Clint organized your going-away party."

Natasha raises an eyebrow; you read her well enough too, and it tells you that she hadn’t had an inkling that Wanda had reentered your life at one point.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Natasha asks, the level of her tone masking how she feels about that new information.

“Because you hate her?” You say, daring her to deny it but Natasha only rolls her eyes. “And, uh, I don’t know… Maybe because I knew you’d be disappointed?”

Natasha takes a deep breath, the crisp evening air filling her lungs as she gathers her thoughts. "Did I," she begins, "did I push you into making choices in the past that you weren't entirely comfortable with?"

"Why would you say that?" you inquire, puzzled by Natasha's question.

Natasha's gaze softens, and she replies with earnest sincerity, "Because I never wanted you to feel like you couldn't be completely open with me about anything. I never wanted you to fear my judgment regarding your decisions."

You wonder if Natasha would say the same thing if she knew you had fallen into Wanda’s bed post-divorce. You think about how Natasha urged you to file for it in the first place, how she helped in preparing everything from finding a suitable lawyer to ironing out the details of the agreement. Despite your emotional state during that period, you acknowledge that you made those decisions and chose to take responsibility for them.

“You’re like family to me, Nat. Of course your opinion of me will always matter.” you say.

“I’m happy you stood by your decision without me,” Natasha says. “I was worried you’d go back to her as soon as I was gone.”

A nervous smile tugs at the corner of your lips as your eyes flit to anywhere but your best friend; the weight of deliberately concealing a significant portion of the story makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Now more than ever, you regret being with Wanda that way. It had every potential to jeopardize your friendship with Natasha.

“How about you and Bruce?” you say, taking the spotlight away from yourself.

Natasha’s smile is sad as she shakes her head. “That ship has sailed. For good.”

“I’m sorry.” you say.

“Don’t be. He can finally allow himself to be happy. He’s a good man. He deserves more than I can give him.”

“What about you?”

“I’d like to believe I deserve more than he’s willing to give,” Natasha says, her voice not harboring any resentment; but it’s clear that she has accepted the fact that their desires and needs diverged, leading them down separate paths.

“Are you happy?” you ask suddenly, widely curious.

Natasha takes a moment to reflect, her eyes scanning the surroundings. "As happy as I can be," she contemplates. "I've learned that life shouldn't solely revolve around falling in love, you know? I have my work, my sister, my friends, and well, you're not that bad either," she adds with a light-hearted chuckle.

Turning the last corner back to the restaurant, you both bump into Yelena who’s wearing a frown after being left for so long.

“You were both gone for a while already so I thought I’d settle the bill and join you guys for a walk.” Yelena says. “You guys are okay, right?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t we be?” you say, taking her hand and interlacing your fingers together.

Natasha ignores Yelena’s question and says, “How much do I owe you for the food?”

Yelena pushes the receipt in her sister’s hand and says, “Everything.”

Settling beside Yelena on the bed, you reach for the lamp on your nightstand and switch it off. The room is cast in a soft, bluish glow, as the moon's radiance filters through the blinds. It hasn’t been too long since you and Yelena started sharing this room, and despite initially intending to take things slow, the pace of your relationship accelerated naturally. With busy careers, it felt right to embrace the opportunity to spend more time together without the added complexities of planning and scheduling dates.

“It was weird introducing you to Nat as my girlfriend,” Yelena says, turning on her side to face you as soon as your head hits the pillow.

"I think you handled that quite smoothly," you say with a quiet chortle, the sarcasm failing to come across as strongly as intended.

"You were absolutely perfect though," Yelena whispers, her hand gently cupping your cheek as she pulls you in for a kiss. It begins with a slow, tentative pace, reminiscent of the other kisses you have shared since becoming a couple.

Tonight, however, there's an undeniable intensity in Yelena's kisses that sends a fiery sensation rippling through your body. Her touch, tracing the skin below your belly button, ignites a rush of heat that intertwines with the passion of the moment. With your hands threaded in her hair, you boldly deepen the kiss, your tongue exploring the depths of her mouth, eliciting a surprised moan that you eagerly swallow.

As Yelena's fingers venture past the waistband of your underwear, a sudden jolt of surprise shoots through your body, causing you to abruptly sit upright. In the process, Yelena loses her balance and falls back onto the bed.

“Y/N?”

"Sorry," you stammer, attempting to calm your nerves and the racing of your heart. "I just remembered I have an important work email I haven't sent yet and..."

Yelena nods understandingly. "Yeah, sure. Go ahead. I've got some editing to do anyway."

You offer a grateful smile and lean in to press a tender kiss on her forehead. Then, you trail another moist kiss just below her ear, eliciting a soft sigh from Yelena's lips.

“I’ll wait up, okay? Hurry,” Yelena purrs against your neck.

“I’ll be back.” you say.

At half past midnight, you return to a snoring Yelena, her arm sprawled over the empty spot where you’re supposed to be. It was one email and you got carried away. And even if Yelena’s awake, you’re too exhausted to continue earlier’s steamy exchange.

Carefully, you remove her arm from your side of the bed and mold yourself to Yelena’s sleeping form.

You haven’t had sex with her yet. The desire is there–a hot burning coal of it–and you have entertained the thought numerous times, but each time the moment draws near, you find yourself hesitant and not quite ready to take that step. It's a decision you have consciously made, respecting your own boundaries and wanting to ensure that the timing feels right for both of you.

Kissing the back of Yelena's head, you savor the softness of her hair against your lips. With a contented sigh, you nuzzle your nose into her locks, finding comfort in her presence as sleep gradually envelops you.

***

“Ms. Maximoff? Over here.”

Wanda looks up to find Sparky’s doctor motioning for her to come inside the check-up room. She gets up and hurries to where Sparky has disappeared into for almost twenty minutes now, and sees him hooked up to an IV, dozing off on his side.

“Is he going to be okay?” Wanda asks immediately.

“The results of Sparky’s blood test don't look good. His liver is significantly higher than the normal range, and that could be the cause of his recent vomiting. For now, we’ll keep him confined here for one or two more days, depending on his condition, and if he’s responding to medication, you can continue giving them at home.”

“And what if he doesn’t respond to his medication?”

“We will conduct further tests to see what’s going on there. Surgery could be an option, depending on the outcome. While liver diseases in dogs can be treated and managed, there is always the possibility of expiration, I’m afraid.”

Expiration. Dogs have significantly shorter lives; Wanda knows this. But hearing it spoken so soon directly shatters Wanda’s heart. “W-What could have caused this?” she asks.

This is her fault, Wanda makes the conclusion, even before the doctor is done explaining the common causes in detail. She successfully fucked up another important thing in her life.

In the absence of a little furry baby wagging its tail to greet her, Wanda returns home to a dark and empty apartment. Seeking solace, Wanda clings to the hopeful possibility that Sparky may return home in the next few days.

Without bothering to turn on the lights, she kicks off her shoes and curls up into a ball on the couch. Her eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, eventually focusing on the small desk where the potted chrysanthemums you gifted her rest. The faint light casts a peculiar shadow on the wall, capturing her attention. Yet, it is the piece of napkin discreetly slipped beneath the pot that her mind is apprehensively fixated to; a thin, fragile thing that would ultimately lead her to you.

It has remained tucked away in Wanda's study, for a month now, as she couldn't bear to disrupt your life once again. She imagines that you are likely doing well, leading a quieter and less tumultuous existence without her. As for Wanda, she has been diligently working on herself, taking each day as it comes. However, the passage of time hasn't diminished her feelings for you, not even in the slightest. The void in her heart, shaped by your absence, remains steadfast, but she has learned to adapt and coexist with it, allowing herself to grow while carrying its weight.

And she wouldn't—not even for a moment—consider disturbing your peace if it weren't for the dog. If your roles were reversed, and you were the one keeping him, Wanda would undoubtedly want to be informed if his brief existence was endangered by an illness.

But then again, you've made your choice. You didn’t want anything to do with her. It was evident in your absence, when you stopped your visits to her apartment, her café; when Wanda's phone could no longer detect any recent online activity from you. You had simply vanished without a trace.

It would be unjust to intrude on your decision when you clearly didn't want to be found.

…And she’s still, quite literally, debating it when she finds herself at your doorstep an hour later.

Your new building looks lavish, Wanda can only imagine how much you’ve spent on the deposit alone. It was a little intimidating when she was asked to leave an ID and the receptionist had to ring your unit to inform you that you had a visitor–dropping her name to you in the process. More interesting than that, however, is that she gave Wanda the go signal to proceed to the elevators, meaning that you gave your consent for her to see you.

There's a sense of relief in realizing that you wouldn't go to the extent of turning her away just to avoid her altogether. She sets aside the questions that her heart desperately wants to ask, knowing they would only thwart the initial intention she has of seeing you.

She is fully aware of how guarded and cautious you were the last time; memories of her well-crafted plans to lure you and get close to you for the obvious reason of winning you back are still fresh in her mind. Wanda understands that she needs to approach this meeting with sensitivity and genuine concern, keeping her intentions clear and focused on Sparky's well-being.

But as she’s about to knock, the door swings open.

“Hi, I–” Wanda’s words die on her tongue and the nervous smile on her face fades into uncertainty.

Standing there, clad in nothing but a t-shirt (which she recognizes having bought it for you) that goes past her thighs, is the woman from the club. The woman who drew the curtains for you in your living room. Her blonde hair cascades in messy beach waves, framing her face and reaching her shoulders.

She is breathtakingly beautiful.

But what strikes Wanda the most is how effortlessly the woman seems to blend into the space, appearing more like a tenant than a mere guest who just happened to visit you at this particular time.

Does she live with you?

“Is Y/N home? I’m Wan–”

"Wanda. I know. I’m Yelena," Yelena interrupts, her tone firm yet not unkind, like she’s struggling as much as the brunette. "She's still at work. Is there something you need from her?"

“You’re Yelena? Natasha’s sister?” Wanda asks.

Yelena nods tentatively, her eyes studying Wanda's reaction; she was surprised to get a call from the reception that a certain Wanda Maximoff wanted to come up to her unit. Despite the nagging question of whether you've been seeing Wanda all this time behind her back, she makes a conscious effort to maintain her composure in front of your ex-wife.

Meanwhile, something in Wanda's mind clicks. It's Yelena, not you, who allowed herself to go up to your floor. It's her, not you, who wanted to meet her. Wanda's mind races with questions. Does Yelena know about her? Did Yelena feel the need to introduce herself to your ex-wife?

"Uh..." Wanda's voice trembles with the onset of a panic attack. It turns out, coming here was a mistake, and she’s just grateful you’re not around to witness it. "I'm sorry. Please forget that I came here. Don't let her know I was here, please? I'm really sorry. I'll just go."

Yelena sucks in her cheeks as she reads into Wanda’s sudden panic. "Sure," she replies before softly closing the door on Wanda.

The nights are longer at Stark Industries. You knew what you signed up for when you accepted the job, but now you're starting to feel the repercussions. The stress is taking its toll not only on your work-life balance but also on your relationship with Yelena. You haven’t had dinner together recently, much less a conversation that lasted longer than a few exchanges of “how are you” and “I’m fine”. There’s a lot to make up for, but no date in sight to actually start doing so.

The office is empty except for you and the maintenance worker assigned to the night shift, so when your ringtone cuts through the stillness, the sound of it reverberates off the walls of the empty room, making it too loud for you to ignore.

With your eyes concentrated on a formula on your spreadsheet, you answer your phone without looking at the caller.

“Hey, I’ll be home soon.” you say, assuming it’s Yelena on the line.

“Y/N.” A vaguely familiar voice that’s definitely not Yelena greets you. That’s when you remove your phone from your ear and notice the unknown number on the screen.

“Who’s this?”

The caller doesn’t answer right away. Instead, you can hear rain pouring heavily in the background, something you haven’t been aware of due to the thick windows of the office blocking out outside noises.

“It’s Vision,” The voice cracks over the speaker before you can decide to drop the call. “Wanda needs your help.”

The rain had been relentless throughout the day according to the weather app on your phone. You’ve just been too busy to notice, and so you find yourself without an umbrella. Thankfully, by the time you arrive at the location Vision instructed, the downpour has subsided into a gentle drizzle.

“Jesus, it’s freezing.” you mumble to yourself, wrapping your jacket tighter around your body.

You recognize this part of the city, having gone here numerous times in the past to visit your favorite dive bar where you, Natasha, Clint, and Wanda would hang out for hours just talking and having a good time. Although Natasha and Wanda don’t really talk, they engage in group shots, and Wanda would always challenge you to a game of pool, and you would win one or two matches in a best of seven, because your wife–ex-wife–is just so gifted in just about all kinds of sports.

However, it's not the same bar where you find Wanda. Instead, it’s near a dead-end street and you stumble upon her slumped against a light post in a sorry state. It's obvious that she has consumed a significant amount of alcohol, leaving her almost blacked out. It makes you suspicious if this happens often–Wanda getting shitfaced in random places with Vision in tow.

The sight of Vision doesn’t bother you as much as before, but it still leaves a bitter taste in your mouth to see them together in the same place. Vision, to his credit, keeps a respectful distance, yet the yearning in his face is unmistakable. It's a familiar look, one you've witnessed on Wanda's previous boyfriends when they believed you weren't paying attention.

As you draw closer, Wanda's head tilts back, and her intoxicated eyes, heavy-lidded and unfocused, widen ever so slightly in recognition as they lock with yours.

“Y/N? Is that really you?” Wanda drunkenly slurs, her struggling eyes attempting to focus on your face. “If you’re not, please tell Y/N that I’m not with him,” Wanda says, pointing her thumb in his direction, refusing to even look at Vision. “He just showed up out of nowhere and I told him to stay away. I swear, I’m telling the truth. Vision, tell her, please. Tell her to tell Y/N.”

The street lights become too much for Wanda to bear, and she buries her head into her arms, her knees drawn to her chest. She looks so small and insignificant against the backdrop of a vibrant metropolis.

Steeling yourself against her sorrowful pleas, you turn to Vision instead. “How did you find her?” you demand.

“I was out with my friends, and happened to pass by this area on our way back,” Vision recounts. “I saw two men trying to take her home, and we intervened. I tried asking Wanda where she lives so I can take her home myself, but she refuses to tell me. I tried calling you using her phone, but I think you blocked her number, so I tried calling you myself.”

You’re inclined to believe him, but there will always be bouts of suspicion lingering on the surface when it concerns Wanda. Though as your eyes return to Wanda’s shivering form, you can’t help but wonder if she would truly rather die in the ditches than accept help from him. For the first time, you find yourself contemplating the possibility of believing her, although a part of you wonders if it's simply your enduring soft spot for her attempting to sway your judgment.

“Thank you,” you say to Vision, surprised to find a little sincerity in your voice.

“If I find out you’re the reason why she’s this miserable, I’m putting everything on the line to make sure you stay away from her.” he declares, igniting a cigarette as you support Wanda, draping one of her arms over your shoulder and lifting her up. In that moment, she feels noticeably lighter than before, and your hand can discern the protrusion of her ribs as you secure her against your side.

“Is that a threat?” you say, clenching your jaw, your own clothes getting soaked fast, not realizing early on just how drenched Wanda is from the rain.

“It’s a warning,” Vision answers coolly. “As far as I know, you haven’t atoned for anything. And it’s not because you don’t deserve it. It’s because of her.”

He’s right–you walked out of that bloodied room unscathed from the law. All along you thought the consequences of what you’ve done to Vision just miraculously resolved on its own with the help of Natasha, but if Wanda had anything to do with how you’re not being served with at least damages for physical assault, what price did she have to pay in return?

It’s a conversation for later–you don’t need Wanda to protect you, especially if it means being coerced into complying with Vision's demands.

“I’m ready for anything,” you tell him, goading him with a smirk as you feel Wanda nestle closer to you, seeking your warmth. “Now, get your jacket off her and I’ll take it from here.”

As Vision gently takes off the garment from Wanda's shoulders, your eyes catch sight of a distinct mark on her finger, a faded indentation left by a ring that she no longer adorns.

Upon arriving at Wanda's place, there is no sign of Sparky. You feel a twinge of disappointment, as you had been somewhat anticipating him despite the circumstances. However, your attention swiftly turns to Wanda, who appears even worse now that you have brought her home: her lips are dry and pale, the flush all over her face down to her neck is still there, and she feels excessively warm to touch, almost as if she is–

“Shit, you’re burning up,” you mutter as you place your hand on her damp forehead.

Then all of a sudden, Wanda forcefully pushes you away, her hand covering her mouth, as she rushes towards the bathroom. In her haste, the straps of her sandals snap, breaking under the pressure. Swiftly, you trail behind her, conscientiously removing your shoes along the way to prevent leaving any dirt tracks on her pristine floor.

When you enter the bathroom, you find Wanda hunched over the toilet, emptying her stomach. Grimacing at the sight, you kneel beside her and carefully gather her dark hair, holding it up while you wait for her to finish. Once she's done, you flush it down for her. Wanda, seemingly drained, rolls away from the toilet and crawls towards the shower where she simply sits in one corner, closing her eyes with the clear intention of settling down for the night right there.

Faced with a decision, you find yourself contemplating your next course of action. You weigh the responsibilities you had undertaken which was to get Wanda to her apartment safely. What happens to her thereafter should no longer be your concern. After all, Yelena is most likely still waiting for you back at home.

Home. A year ago, the extent to which your definition of it has changed would have been unimaginable.

“Y/N,” Wanda’s weak voice draws your attention away from your thoughts. “You should g-go.” she says hoarsely.

Your fingers close around the doorknob, silent and unmoving, as anger wells up within you; Anger at Wanda for getting herself into this mess. Anger towards Vision for asking you to come to her rescue. Anger at yourself for feeling unable to leave Wanda behind, despite everything.

"Did she tell you about me? I told her not to, Y/N. I'm so sorry..." Wanda's whisper reaches your ears, her eyes remaining shut and her head tilted back, revealing the graceful column of her neck. You instinctively avert your gaze.

“What are you talking about?” you ask.

“I-I went to see you. But she said you were still working. I didn’t mean to intrude, I just wanted you to know about Sparky…”

She? Yelena? You didn’t think Yelena would allow Wanda to go up to your apartment just like that.

"He's not well," Wanda continues, her gaze focused on your face as she takes in every detail of it, as if trying to capture the memory of you in case this is the only opportunity she gets.

Your grip on the doorknob tightens. So that explains why Sparky is nowhere to be found.

“I’m sorry to hear that. What happened? Is he okay?”

Wanda hiccups, thoughts too jumbled to put together anything coherent. "Liver–not normal," she manages to say, her voice trailing off. She had convinced herself that she wanted to see you for a legitimate reason, but as she gazes at you now, it becomes painfully clear that it was her deep longing for you that has ultimately prevailed.

"Is there anything I could-" you start to offer your help, your concern for Sparky overriding whatever tension lingers between you and Wanda.

"You should leave, Y/N," Wanda interrupts, mustering the strength to open her eyes and meet yours. The shame and despair swirling in those green orbs are hard to ignore, but you try to remain steadfast. "She's probably worried about you."

You chew on your lower lip for a moment, and then, instead of doing as she says, you close the door behind you. Silently, you begin removing your own clothes, stripping down to your underwear.

"I have to dry them anyway," you mumble after feeling the weight of Wanda's stare. "Come on, let's fix you up and get you ready for bed."

Wanda reaches for the hem of her shirt, her hesitation evident as she refrains from removing it. Sensing her struggle, you take the initiative, hoping to expedite the process so you can attend to her needs and leave soon. With gentle care, you lift her shirt up and over her head, exposing her trembling form.

That's when you notice it–her wedding ring that Wanda used to wear on her finger, even after your divorce. But now it has taken on a new form, transformed into a pendant hanging delicately from a chain around her neck. It rests there, nestled between her breasts, a symbol of a past chapter in her life–and yours–that she carries with her, in a different way.

Wanda notices where your eyes are lingering and removes the necklace herself when you remain passive and unmoving.

The next task is unclipping her bra, and as your fingers reach for the hooks, Wanda's hand covers yours, halting your actions.

“Is this–I mean, do you think should…?” she stammers out, and you’re unsure if the blush on her face is still from the alcohol.

"It's nothing I haven't seen before," you say, feeling your own face heat up. "I think you have a fever. I need to get you out of these wet clothes, is that okay?"

Wanda nods meekly, giving her consent.

A few seconds later, Wanda is naked except for the pink she wears on her cheeks. You help her get up and move under the shower. You twist and turn the knob of the shower until you find the desirable temperature, and then start shampooing Wanda’s hair.

As the water cascades over her and rinses away her self-loathing, Wanda finds herself surrendering to your care, allowing her to cherish this rare, tender moment she never knew she’d get to experience again. She is grateful for the water, realizing how weary you must be of seeing her cry; it’s just not possible to restrain herself from it when you’re this gentle with her.

“Can you handle the rest?” you ask Wanda, putting your hands under the shower to get rid of the soap.

“Yes,” she answers.

“Okay. I’ll go get some towels.”

Collecting both yours and Wanda's clothes from the floor, you quickly step out of the bathroom before you can start processing what you’ve just done.

Don’t think, just do, you say to yourself as you put the clothes in the dryer.

Don’t think, just do, you repeat as you get fresh towels from the cabinet.

Don’t think.

When you’re both dry and you’re back in your work clothes and Wanda in her pajamas, you accompany her to her bedroom. You tuck her in and touch her forehead once again to check her temperature. The heat still radiates from her body, and it becomes clear that her fever isn't letting up soon. It won’t go down unless she takes something, but with alcohol still in her system, you don’t think that’s a good idea.

Here, drink this," you offer, extending a sports drink to Wanda.

"Thank you," Wanda murmurs, taking a generous sip before returning the bottle to you.

"Try to finish it. You're likely dehydrated," you suggest. Wanda, acknowledging your advice, obediently continues to drink.

“Better?”

Wanda nods with a small smile. “Thank you, Y/N. I’m sorry you had to go through all that trouble. I didn’t think Vision would–”

“You’re welcome,” you interject as soon as she mentions his name. “We’ll talk soon.”

Wanda's gaze remains fixed on her folded hands in her lap. "You don't have to," she whispers. "You don't have to talk to me or see me if you don't want to. I'm sorry. This doesn't happen a lot anymore—not as often as you might think. Just something happened, and... I didn't mean to involve you, Y/N. I'm really sorry."

Something? What exactly happened? Regardless, you don't think it's healthy for Wanda to subject herself to such a high level of intoxication, no matter what the circumstances may be.

"We'll talk soon," you repeat, keeping your tone firm but gentle. "Take care, Wanda. Good night."

Yelena is wide awake in the living room, her attention focused on a book resting on her lap as you arrive home. The soft glow of a lamp illuminates her features, casting a gentle light on her face. There's a stillness in the room, interrupted only by the turning of pages and the sound of your footsteps.

You hesitate for a moment, taking in the sight of her.

"Hey," you greet her wearily. "You're still awake?"

“I couldn’t sleep without you,” she says, somewhat bashfully. "There's salad in the fridge if you haven't eaten." she offers.

You pause for a moment, and then meeting her gaze, you ask, "Do you have something to tell me?"

Yelena levels you with a look, putting her book down, she says, “No. Do you?”

Taking a deep breath, you tell her you do. “I took Wanda home,” you declare, bracing yourself for Yelena’s reaction but her face remains stoic. There's a flicker of something in her eyes, almost as if she had been anticipating your words.

“Can you clarify?” Yelena finally speaks up when you make no further effort to elaborate.

"In the office, I received a call from Vision," you explain. “He said Wanda needed my help. She was in no condition to go home on her own so I took her.”

“Why didn’t he take her home himself?”

You shrug slightly. "Wanda refused to go with him.”

There's a quiet intensity in her eyes, a depth of emotions that she holds back, yet you can sense them lingering beneath the surface. And then, she asks, “And nothing happened?”

“I helped her get change and manage her fever,” you say. “Nothing else happened.”

Yelena's gaze softens, and any trace of her being bothered by your confession finally reveals itself in the form of a soft sigh that escapes her lips.

"Thank you for telling me," Yelena says, wrapping her arms around your neck. "In that case, I should have mentioned that Wanda came by, and I let her come up here."

"Why didn't you say anything?" you ask curiously.

"She told me not to let you know," Yelena reveals quite casually. "And I didn't think it was important anyway."

You hum in response, grateful for her honesty and openness at least. Although, you sense that there might be more to the story than meets the eye.

"Aren't you going to ask me if I've been in touch with her?" you inquire, unable to ignore the nagging curiosity in your mind. Yelena's seemingly mild reactions in response to her encounter with Wanda is slightly unsettling.

“I wasn’t going to,” Yelena confesses, lowering her gaze before they come back up with a vulnerability that wasn’t there before. “But have you?”

You shake your head in response, indicating the truth. Yelena’s shoulder slackens and she steps closer to you. “I don’t want to talk about her anymore. I missed you,” Yelena mumbles the words like a secret, before capturing your lips in a short, sweet kiss, effectively stealing you away from your thoughts.

"Me too," you whisper back, feeling the day's events weighing on you, you take her hand and guide her towards the bedroom. "Let's go to bed."

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