#for now and trying again to get through to him in a week or two instead

[darlingsblackbook]

Zayne × Nurse!Reader - Part Six

The breaking point

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five

Love & Deepspace Masterlist

I | I was already tired, not just the kind of tired after a long shift, but the kind that’s been weighing down on your chest for weeks. The kind you try to ignore by staying busy.

II | I had a stack of paperwork in my arms, folders that needed filing, numbers- just, paperwork. It was not my favourite task to do, but gave me something to do. Something that I could distract myself with.

III | I walk behind the cardiology reception desk with my eyes low, just to pick up the rest of the papers I need to continue. Pretending I do not hear the familiar whispering tones that always seemed to settle when I was nearby. I’ve gotten good at pretending. I pretend a lot lately.

IV | “She’s acting weird,” one of them said. Her voice had that hushed excitement people use when talking about someone just out of earshot. "Don't you think?”

V | "Acting?” The other voice followed like venom wrapped in silk. “She’s always been weird. You remember how she used to stutter around Doctor Zayne? Now suddenly she’s pretending he doesn’t exist? Please.”

VI | I gripped the folders tighter, like holding onto them would anchor me to something solid. My cheeks burned. I knew people noticed, but I didn’t think… I didn’t think it had gotten this bad.

VII | “Maybe she figured out he’s way out of her league,” The same voice said, not even trying to lower her voice anymore. “Smart girl, even if it took her long enough.”

VIII | I didn’t look at them, just took what I needed and left to continue with my work. Or I tried to, but one of them- the one with the snake venom voice, stepped just slightly into my path. Her shoulder knocking into mine, sending every single piece of paper flying out of my arms like leaves caught in wind.

IX | The sound of paper hitting the floor echoed down the hall. My stomach dropped along with it.

X | “Oops,” She said, far too sweet.“You alright? You’re almost shaking. It can't be because of nerves, though. I mean, Doctor Zayne isn’t even around right now."

XI | I just stared at her. For the first time, not with fear. Not even with sadness. Just... disbelief. “What did you say?”

XII | Before she could open her mouth again, another voice cut through - calm, cold, and unmistakably unimpressed. "That is enough."

XIII | I felt a shock, like a lightning bolt struck me, at the sound of that voice. Zayne... I could hear his footsteps as he approached, yet did not dare to turn to face him. He wasn’t rushing at all, but something in his aura made the air shift. The same way it does right before a thunderstorm.

XIV | The nurse paled. “Doctor Zayne- I was just-"

“If I were in your place, I'd be very careful about my next words” Zayne interrupted, his eyes hard. “Do you even get any work done, or do you just sit around and whisper to each other all day?”

XV | She stumbled for a response, but he did not give her a chance to come up with any excuse. "Pick the papers up."

XVI | She blinked, as if she could not believe what she was hearing. How he was talking to her. Ironic, seeing how she had been talking to me. It's not funny anymore when you become the target. "D-doctor Za-"

XVII | "Did you not hear what I said? Pick. Them. Up." Zayne demanded, voice just as cold as the evol he wielded.

XVIII | Everyone was quiet. The kind of silence that buzzes behind your ears. She bent down with shaking hands, gathering papers like her life - or job - depended on it. Maybe, in that moment, it did. When she had gathered them all, she stood up but kept her head down, avoiding everyone's gaze. Then, she tried to hand the papers over to Zayne.

XIX | His eyes didn’t even flicker toward her. “Not to me,” he said, then nodded his head my way. “Her.”

She turned toward me like I was a executioner. She shoved them into my arms with a scowl but I could see her hands trembling.

XX | “Now apologize,” Zayne said, voice still flat. “Like a professional. Not like a child forced to say ‘sorry’ at recess.”

XXI | Again, the bitch started blinking as if they were as dry as a desert. “Doctor Zayne-”

XXII | “Apologize,” Zayne snapped. “Or you will not have a place in this team anymore.”

XXIII | The silence turned deadly. Her mouth twitched. Then, finally, through gritted teeth, she forced out, “I’m sorry.”

XXIV | “For what?” Zayne pushed for more.

XXV | Her eye actually twitched at that. “For- knocking into you. And being… unprofessional.”

XXVI | “There we go,” Zayne said, in a mocking tone as if he was speaking to a child. “Now go back to your desk and do your actual job instead of treating this hospital like a playground.”

XXVII | At that, she fled. And just like that, I was left alone with him.

XXVIII | Zayne looked at me. And the ice in his face shifted, melted. The voice I adored so much lowered. “Are you alright?”

XXIX | I turned and ran. Bolted down the hall, because at that question, with that tone- coming from him - something in me had snapped loose. I couldn’t let him see it, the tears, the pain, the way his concern gutted me wide open - the shame. All kinds of things raced through my mind, but there was one dominant thought- He had heard what she said.

XXX | I flung the stairwell door open and collapsed on the cold steps, pressing my palms to my face. I didn’t want him to follow, but I knew he would.

I felt it the door open. That sudden shift of air pressure. The soft click of a handle that carried more weight than any shout ever could. His footsteps were not rushed, they were decisive. Heavy with something that made my breath catch.

I didn’t lift my head. I couldn’t. I stayed seated on the second step from the bottom, but wrapped my arms around my knees like that could hold me together.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Zayne said. His voice was low again, no ice.

I shook my head, to disagree and because I didn’t know what to say. Because my throat was too tight to let anything out. He thought I ran away because he scared me?

He didn’t sit next to me, not at first. He stayed a few steps above me, towering, but at a respectful distance. Like he knew I was splintering and didn’t want to push.

“This isn’t the first time, is it?” Zayne asked. “The way she treated you. The way she talked. She's probably not the only one either, is she?"

My lips parted, but nothing came out.

“It’s been going on for a while,” Zayne answered his own question. “And I did not see it."

I finally looked up at him. My vision was blurry, lashes wet, and cheeks flushed from the pressure in my chest. “It’s not your fault.”

Zayne flinched. Literally. Like I had hit him.

"You didn’t know,” I whispered. “How could you? You’re not… you’re not supposed to know everything happening in every hallway.”

“But I should’ve seen you,” he said. “You pulled away. You barely even looked at me the last few weeks. I noticed, and I still didn’t-”

“Because I had to,” I interrupted. My voice cracked. “Do you know what they were saying about me, Doctor Zayne?”

He didn’t answer, because he couldn't.

“They said that I was throwing myself at you. That I didn’t deserve to be here, that I was just some pathetic little nurse with a crush who thought smiling at a doctor meant I had a future.”

I saw the way his face twisted, something between rage and heartbreak. It hurt to see that expression on his face, it made me want to scream.

“So, I kept my distance, I stopped speaking unless I had to. I became so fucking small just so I had no way of giving them something to talk about anymore.” I said, my voice breaking.

“They don’t get to talk about you like that,” Zayne said, after a moment silence. “They don’t get to decide your worth. And I don’t give a damn if you were smiling at me or the walls. You earned your place in this department. Every day.".

My eyes welled up again. “You really didn’t know?”

“No,” he said, firmly. “And I hate myself for that. I saw something was off with you but I thought something might've happend in private and I did not want to intrude- I still should’ve asked. I just wanted to give you space- time- to come back to yourself again-"

Zayne took a step closer, slow not pushing. "I sincerely apologize, I can't take back what happened to you but I can make sure that you'll never have to experience anything like this ever again."

AND THEY LIVED A HAPPILY EVER AFTER. Yo, I am no good in romantic scenes, I can't help but cringe at every sentence- angst is my speciality- BUT I tried my best okay. 😗��‍↕️ I finished this while listening to gummy bear and ppap to keep myself awake lmao.

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[wcnderlnds]

back for you ★ hwang jun-ho

・❥・ summary: now that junho is free from the memories that had plagued him for so long, he's ready to start his life over with you. unfortunately, his brother inho has a habit of trying to ruining that for him. ・❥・word count: 2.1k ・❥・warnings: 18+, mdni. fingering in an elevator, swearing. established relationship. SQUID GAME S3 SPOILERS, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. ・❥・authors note: i swear to you this wasn't meant to be smut but i have a lot of junho feelings. im also bad at writing kids so... i'm so sorry in advance for how bad this might be.

Those first few weeks after Junho had finally found the island only to not get the closure from his brother that he had been craving had been eye opening for him. For so long, he had been focused on finding his brother, getting the answers to the questions that had plagued him for years. It had consumed his life, took over every single thing he did but now? Now, he knew he was never going to know and maybe that was okay. He had done his part, he had tried his best. There was nothing more he could do but move on with his life. So, that’s what he did.

It hadn’t been easy at first, it had taken a lot of time for him to find his new purpose but he had you to help him along the way. Being in a relationship with Junho over the last few years hadn’t been easy but through every single thing, you had stuck by him. That had meant more to him than he could even put into words. A future with you – that was his purpose now. You had been together for about five years. Junho had never wanted to commit fully knowing that he couldn’t give himself to you one hundred percent but now he could. That was why two months after everything had happened with the island, he got down on one knee and proposed to you.

Being your fiance was the greatest honour of his life. It was so freeing knowing that he could finally give himself to you so completely, finally.

“I really liked the red velvet one but the strawberry one was so nice, too,” you said excitedly. The two of you walked hand in hand down the street back to your apartment. Wedding planning was in full swing and today you’d been out cake tasting. It had been yours and Junho’s favourite part of the whole planning process so far. Who wouldn’t love sitting down and trying different cakes for an hour?

“I liked the strawberry one, too. Maybe we should book another tasting just to be sure,” he grinned, wrapping his arm around your shoulder instead to pull you into his side. You immediately wrapped your arm around his waist, looking up at him with a smile.

“I like the way you think, Hwang.”

“I’m not just a pretty face.”

You laughed which only made the smile on Junho’s face brighter. There was nothing more precious to you than seeing that smile on his face. For so long, all you had seen was him struggling, a smile a rare oddity as he searched for his brother. Life had taken so much from him but now he seemed so carefree. He seemed like the Junho you had met all those years ago back in high school. The one who laughed at everything, who enjoyed the small things in life. You knew deep down that he still thought about Inho and what could have been. You couldn’t blame him. Inho had been such an important part of his life – he had basically raised Junho but he wasn’t the man that Junho had once known. He was a completely different person now. That was why he had finally decided to move on. The brother he once had was long gone, replaced by a stranger he didn’t know. There would always be a part of Junho that was missing but as long as he had you, he knew he’d be okay.

“Is the elevator actually working today? I don’t want to walk up all the stairs again,” you scanned the lobby of your apartment building, eyes lighting up when you saw that the elevator was actually working. 

“Guess they fixed it while we were out,” Junho pressed the button, the elevator doors opening. He guided you inside, pressing the button to the sixth floor where your shared apartment was. As you rested your back against the cool metal wall of the elevator, Junho grabbed you by the waist, his hot breath fanning over your face as he gazed down at you with adoring eyes. “Have I mentioned how beautiful you look today?”

“Maybe once or twice but it wouldn’t hurt to hear it again,” you rested your hands on the plane of his chest, feeling his muscles tense through his shirt. Junho leaned down, capturing your lips in a soft, gentle kiss.

It didn’t take long for things to heat up. Junho’s tongue traced along the seam of your lips, asking for entrance. The second you parted your lips, his tongue met yours in a heated dance. Each time you kissed, it felt like the first time. The sparks ever present like you couldn’t get enough of each other. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him as close to you as humanly possible.

Junho’s hand danced along the waistband of your jeans, popping the button open and dipping inside. His fingers slowly, teasingly ran along your panties, already feeling the damp spot forming there. It made him groan into the kiss. It never ceased to amaze him how your body reacted to him, just one simple touch made you a complete mess. Intimacy had been far and few over the years but now he was making up for lost time. Any opportunity he could take to show you how much he loved you, he was going to grasp. His fingers rubbed slow circles against your core, a breathy whine falling from your lips. A smirk adorned his face; he had you right where he wanted you.

“Junho, please,” you said breathlessly. You bucked your hips into his hand trying to seek more friction. There were only a few more floors before you’d reach yours and you so badly needed him to finish what he was starting.

As if sensing your desperation, he slipped his fingers inside your panties, his long digits sliding through your folds with ease. Your slick coated his fingers, making him groan, aching for more. He circled your entrance with one of his fingers, easing a finger inside you which caused you to gasp, throwing your head back in ecstasy. He began moving it slowly, his thumb finding your clit. His eyes glanced over seeing you were at the third floor. He had to speed this up so he moved faster, pumping his finger into you with increasing speed. The hand that was on your hip, held you in place, stilling your movements. When he slipped another finger inside you, the moan you let out was louder than you expected. You had never been more thankful that nobody else was in the elevator with you. Junho added more pressure with his thumb, circling your clit as his fingers drove into you. He knew your body better than anyone, he could tell that you were getting close. You just needed that push. So, he curled his fingers inside you, stroking that spot that made you see stars.

“Oh my god, right there, baby, I’m so close,” you panted. The moans falling from your lips paired with how wet you were against his fingers was making his cock throb in his jeans. He couldn’t wait to get you back to your apartment so he could really show you just how much he loved you.

“Come on, baby. Come for me,” he leaned forward to whisper in your ear, the deep rumble of his voice sending shivers down your spine. “We’re almost at our floor. We don’t want anyone catching us, do we?”

It took one more hard thrust of his fingers before your orgasm came crashing over you. A moan of his name echoed through the elevator. He kept his fingers moving, working you through your orgasm. He could feel your release on his fingers, the sensation making him harder than before. When he was sure you were completely spent, he pulled his fingers from you. Just in time because the elevator dinged letting you know you were at your destination.

You took a moment to take a steady breath in. You needed a moment to collect yourself before you could even think about walking. Junho brought his hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing delicately against your skin. “You okay?”

“I’m great,” you said with a dazed smile. “Can’t wait to return the favour.”

Junho just laughed, guiding you out of the elevator and down the hall to your apartment. Before he unlocked the door, you leaned up on your tiptoes, kissing him. He tangled his fingers in your hair, savouring the feeling of your lips against his. It was a miracle that he managed to somehow open the door from behind while you were entangled with each other. He stepped back into the apartment, tearing his lips from yours momentarily. Just as he was about to speak, something caught his eye.

“What…?” He made his way over to the small bundle of blankets. His face paled as he laid eyes upon the last thing he thought he’d ever see in his apartment.

A baby.

“Junho, what’s wr-”

You were stopped in your tracks when you heard the cry of the baby. In his hands, Junho held a small card, the words ‘Player 222, winner’ written on it. Then, he pulled out a debit card, his eyes widening. “....Inho…”

It was almost on instinct that you picked the baby up, holding it against you to soothe it’s crying. You were no expert with kids but you couldn’t leave the poor thing laying there crying. It had been left here for a reason. The sound of his brother's name caught your attention, your confused eyes looking at your fiance with question. “...Inho did this?”

“I… yeah, I think so.” He paused. Never had he felt his heart hammering against his chest so hard before. A sense of panic washing over him. He may not be a detective anymore but it didn’t take one to figure out what this meant.  “I need to… uh, I need to go to an ATM.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“You’re kidding me?!” You exclaimed loudly, the baby safely in your arms as you looked over Junho’s shoulder to see the balance on the ATM.

45.6 billion won.

Junho looked like he’d seen a ghost, all the memories of everything he’d witnessed on the island rushing back to him. He knew what this money was, what it meant. It was dirty money but… it was money that could help. Somehow, some way, he knew that Inho knew he needed this. He had a wedding to pay for and now… a baby to care and look after. Children had been a topic of discussion between the both of you but you had decided that you didn’t want to start trying for a few years yet, opting to enjoy just being together first before you brought a child into the world. Now, thanks to Inho, you had no choice.

Junho leaned against the wall beside the ATM. You placed a gentle hand on his cheek, letting him know you were there. He wasn’t alone – he never would be again. You spoke softly, trying to reassure him. “Hey, it’ll be okay. I… we can do this. I know we’re not ready but you and me, we can do anything, yeah? We’ve been through worse.”

Junho nodded. “Y-yeah.”

“This baby has nobody, Junho. We have to give it the life it deserves. We don’t want everything that happened to be in vain.”

“I just wish he’d have.. come to me in person. Why won’t he just talk to me?” He sounded so defeated. Of course Inho had a way of ruining everything, setting Junho back just as life had gotten good for him.

“Fuck him,” you said. “What matters now is you, me and this baby. Nothing else. We’re in this together, okay? Inho is a thing of a past. It’s his loss that he’s cut you out, not yours. That is not your burden to bear. You tried, baby. You tried so hard and don’t ever forget that.”

“Okay,” Junho nodded. His eyes landed on the baby. “I saw her. All those months ago on the island. She won the games. I don’t know how, I don’t want to know how or why she was even involved in them but… we can’t ever tell her, okay? I don’t want her to ever know where she came from. Not from that place. She doesn’t deserve to live with that.”

“She won’t. She’ll have a good life with us. Now, come on. We have 45.6 billion and a baby to cater for now. We better go shopping.”

Junho had never been more thankful to have you. The way you could lighten a situation and make him feel like he was going to be okay. It was more than he could ever ask for. Raising this baby wasn’t going to be easy but together, you could do it. You could do anything.

taglist (ask to be added!): @ldydeath @infinetlyforgotten @berfgrimm @loveesiren @justsisse @sherrayyyyy @aizshallnotbefound @fleabagspurplewife @gemzyy @bettelaboure @gdinthehouseee @breakmeoff @babyrvis @flymetothexmoon @forevervibezzzz1 @ttturnitup @szonyix6277 @riddlerloveb0t @youlikeex @str8t2video @septywitch @melanatedhorrorqueen @l5byrinth @tabibabib

[ramp-it-up]

I'm On Fire

Summary: He tried to keep his distance. You tried to keep your composure. Neither of you succeeded. And now the line between duty and wanting you is burning away.

Word count: 4.7 K

Pairing: Firefighter! Bucky Barnes x Principal! Reader; The crew x Reader (mostly platonic, except Ari)

A/N: So this new AU. It's the death of me. And @nissaimmortal asked when part one was published just a few days ago so, because I'm obsessed and I have so much to say about them, here is part two. I'm all in with stubborn, angsty, grumpy, burning-for-you firefighter Bucky Barnes. 🫠 This was inspired by an abandoned AU from last year and then this ask from a few weeks ago. I can't get him out of my mind. Bucky is a firefighter and a burn survivor. Tell me how you feel by reblogging, commenting, sending asks, dm'ing and the like. Interaction is life.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. This fic/au deals with fires, burns, burn survivors and recovery. There are graphic descriptions of burns and pain. Bucky and Reader are burn survivors. Grumpy Bucky, burn injury and rehab recovery, reader has to rely on other people, a lil bit of language, mutual pining, idiots in love, Steve, Ari, and Syverson are also firefighters (warning, esp. Ari!) erotic dream, protective Bucky, jealous Bucky, hurt/comfort, dom Bucky if you squint, erotic dreams and fantasies (I feel like suspenders are gonna be a thing), implied masturbation. ALL THE ANGST!

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

------

You were propped on the couch, leg elevated, trying to read through an email you’d already started four times. 

Your concentration was shot.

The burn on your leg throbbed, the skin pulling tight whenever you shifted. You were looking forward to PT, and thinking, more than you wanted to admit, about the handsome firefighter who’d carried you out of the flames.

It would be hard to forget Fire Lieutenant James Barnes.

And you'd tried over the past three days.

He was kind to visit you in the hospital and help you get settled at Amyra’s. The memory of his rough, but gentle hands changing your bandages, and the way he looked at you like you were worth saving, was etched into your mind.

Thankfully, now you had time to forget him.

Amyra stood in the kitchen with her phone pressed to her ear, voice low.

“No, I’m serious,” she was saying. “She knows she can’t drive. She’s being stubborn.”

You closed your eyes, pressing your lips together, wondering who she was talking to.

Don’t eavesdrop, you told yourself. You’d already asked enough of everyone.

But you didn’t have to try hard to hear when she switched it to speaker.

“…I can take her,” Bucky’s voice came out, rough and unmistakable.

“Every day?” Amyra asked. “You’ve got to work, too.”

“I’m off rotation for the next week. After that, the guys will take shifts.”

“Which guys?”

You turned your head just in time to hear another voice in the background, warm and amused.

“Yeah, Amyra, we’ll take turns,” Steve said. “I can take the week after Buck, Levinson can do some days along with Sy. We got you.”

“Jesus,” you muttered under your breath, mortified.

Amyra ignored you.

“She’s going to hate this.”

“She doesn’t get a say,” Bucky replied, no hesitation at all.

You scoffed and Amyra smiled faintly. 

“You’re on speaker. She can hear you.”

There was silence. Then Bucky’s voice again.

“You’re not driving,” he said. “End of discussion.”

“I’m fine,” you snapped, hating how petty you sounded.

“No, you’re not,” he said calmly. “Call it community service.”

Your stomach dipped. Amyra raised her brows at you, like she could read your every thought.

Another voice chimed in, Levinson this time, all lazy drawl, “I’ll bring coffee, Sweetheart.”

Syverson laughed in the background, “And I’ll bring flowers. Make it a real date.”

“Oh my god!,” you hissed, scrubbing a hand over your face.

Amyra bit back a smile as Bucky growled out, “Ignore them.”

“Barnes,” you ground out, “you don’t have to…”

“I know,” Bucky interrupted, voice softer now. “I’m doing it anyway.”

You swallowed hard.

“Tomorrow,” he said, all finality. “Nine sharp.”

The call ended, leaving the room too quiet. Amyra slipped her phone into her pocket.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice gentle.

You didn’t say anything. Just pressed your lips together and looked at the wall. Amyra caught the look on your face and sighed. 

“You don’t have to like it,” she said gently. “You just have to let people help you.”

You couldn’t answer, so you just nodded, a lump in your throat.

—---

You were waiting on the porch when his truck pulled up, because you couldn’t stand the thought of him ringing the bell and Amyra answering with that knowing smile.

He stepped out, and for a second, neither of you spoke. He looked unfairly good in a black t-shirt and jeans, hair still damp from a shower.

His gaze swept over you, from your braced leg to the bag slung over your shoulder, like he was trying to gauge exactly how much you were holding back.

“You need help?” he asked quietly.

“No,” you said, a little too fast.

His eyes flicked down your body, over your leg, back up to your face. It affected you.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I can see that.”

You made it down the steps without stumbling. But when you stopped at his passenger side, you hesitated. The truck sat too high, the step too awkward to get to with your leg. You braced your hand on the door frame, willing yourself to ignore the tightness in your leg.

Then you felt it, his palm, warm and wide, settling on your waist.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, almost gentle. “Let me.”

“I can…”

“You can let me,” he cut in, and there was something in the way he said it that made your heart stutter.

Before you could protest, he bent and lifted you, one arm under your knees, the other bracing your back. 

You couldn’t help it, your hands flew to his shoulders, clutching the thick stretch of muscle there. He smelled like clean soap and faint smoke, and it made something behind your ribs ache.

He set you carefully on the seat, one big hand lingering on your knee longer than it needed to. When he stepped back, he didn’t look away.

“You good?” he asked, voice lower.

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

He nodded once and closed the door.

—----

The cab was too quiet.

You stared out the window, pretending to be fascinated by the city streets you’d driven a hundred times.

Halfway there, you finally spoke.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said, your voice small.

He didn’t look over.

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

He blew out a slow breath.

“Because you almost died,” he said, his voice rough.

“And you think you have to do everything by yourself.”

You looked back at the window because you couldn’t look at him and still pretend you were okay.

“That doesn’t mean you owe me anything.”

“It’s not about owing.”

“Then what is it about?”

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, the leather creaking under his grip.

“Call it paying it forward,” he said after a moment.

Your chest went tight.

Community service.

Paying it forward.

You were a charity case to him. A lump formed in your throat and you turned back to the window so he couldn’t see your face.

You rode the rest of the way in silence.

———

He helped you down again, and when you tried to protest, “I can walk, Lieutenant,” he ignored it, bracing his hand on your elbow and keeping it there until you were steady.

Your therapist was kind but unrelenting. By the end, your muscles were shaking, and you were blinking back frustrated tears.

When you were wheeled back out, Bucky was leaning against the reception counter, arms folded, watching the door. His gaze softened when he saw you.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re always fine,” he murmured, but he didn’t push it.

This time you ignored his remark, but when he helped you up, you didn’t pretend you didn’t need it.

—-

The silence was different now, heavier. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you would say.

When he pulled into Amyra’s driveway, Bucky cut the engine but didn’t move to open the door. He sat there for a second, hands on the wheel.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said finally, voice quiet and rough.

“Even if you want to be.”

You closed your eyes.

“I know.”

When you opened them again, he was already out of the truck, reaching for your door. He opened it, and you started to move, attempting to swing your leg down.

He caught your wrist.

“Don’t,” he murmured.

You looked up at him, ready to argue. But something in his face, something resolute and almost raw, stopped you.

And this time, you didn’t fight it.

When he lifted you, your hands came up instinctively, gripping the collar of his t-shirt and your head went against his chest, familiar now. You could feel his heartbeat against your cheek. 

And you could also feel the way his breath went unsteady.

Neither of you said a word as he carried you up the walk easily, like it was second nature holding you this way.

When he set you down just inside the door, you didn’t step back right away; your hands were still curled in his shirt and his palms were still braced around your waist.

For a second, you just stood there, breathing the same air. Then you looked away and took a shaky step back.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

He swallowed, his voice thick.

“Anytime.”

—-------

You were resettled on the couch, leg propped up, your laptop balanced across your thighs. You’d been typing for an hour, trying to pretend your whole body didn’t feel like a live wire.

You were trying to focus on anything to keep from thinking about the way he’d carried you.

And the way it had felt to let him.

You didn’t hear the door open, and you didn’t realize he was there until his shadow fell across the screen.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Bucky said, scowling as he set the takeout and prescriptions on the coffee table.

Your head snapped up, startled.

“I am.” You gestured at the couch. “Look. Reclining. Very restful.”

His eyes dropped from your face to the laptop.

“Close it.”

“No.”

He stepped closer, and you felt it, how much heat he radiated, how your breath caught even before he spoke again.

“You need to heal,” he said, softer now, like he was trying to be careful.

“I need to work,” you snapped, your voice cracking with exhaustion you couldn’t hide. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

His jaw flexed.

“I’m not telling you because I want to control you,” he said, voice dropping lower, rougher. “I’m telling you because I…”

He stopped, like he’d surprised himself.

“…because working is not resting.”

You stared at him, holding your breath.

He took another step, close enough that you felt dizzy with it.

“And I’m not going to stand here and watch you compromise your recovery."

Then he reached out and closed the laptop. His hand was so big it covered most of it. You watched his thick fingers press it closed, and watched every option you had for pretending you weren’t thinking about him disappear.

You should have been angry.

But you were just…wrecked.

Your pulse thumped everywhere at once. You sucked in a shaky breath because he was still right there, close enough that if you leaned forward, your mouth would brush his shirt.

“I’m not your responsibility,” you whispered.

His hand stayed braced on the back of the couch, close enough that you felt surrounded.

“Too late,” he said, his voice low and rough, and you felt it right between your legs.

You didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

For one dizzy second, you thought he might kiss you.

And God, you wanted him to.

—----

You were going to break him.

He knew it in the way you looked up at him, eyes dark and wide and a little dazed. The way your lips parted when he leaned in. The way you didn’t pull back.

He was still trying to convince himself this was just about keeping you safe. Just about duty. But that lie was wearing thin. So thin he could feel it tearing.

God, he was trying. 

Trying not to imagine how soft your mouth would feel under his. Or how you’d sound if he pushed you back into the cushions and touched you the way he was already dreaming about.

Trying not to remember the heat that sparked up his spine when your eyes flicked to his mouth.

And stayed.

You shifted in your seat like you were restless, like you were thinking about the same thing he was. That look on your face, combined with the way your thighs pressed together, was going to ruin him.

He left before he did something he’d never be able to take back.

Before he asked you if you were wet for him already.

Because he already knew.

—----

It had been a long day.

Therapy. The impossible ache in your body. Bucky’s presence.

It was all too much.

You fell asleep exhausted, but it didn’t take long for your dreams to slide somewhere you didn’t let yourself think about when you were awake.

In the dream, you were standing in your burned-out bedroom. The walls were blackened, the smell of smoke thick in your throat. But you weren’t afraid, because he was there.

Bucky.

He didn’t have a mask. Didn’t have gear. Didn't have a shirt. Just Bucky, in his uniform pants and suspenders, so hot and so close you could feel the heat coming off his skin.

He reached for you, and when his hand closed around your wrist, and you felt it everywhere.

He kissed you like he’d been starving for it, tongue sweeping into your mouth with a low, rough sound. Your hands slid up his arms, over the thick straps of his suspenders, feeling the flex and hard pull of muscle beneath.

When he broke away, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged.

“Say you want this,” he whispered, voice frayed.

Your heart skipped a beat. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

His hand slid up your ribcage, callused palm grazing the curve of your breast, thumb over your nipple, and your whole body shuddered.

“Say it,” he rasped, and then he kissed you again, so hard it stole every thought you had.

You woke with your hand between your thighs, gasping, your skin flushed and your heart slamming so loud it felt like it might jump out of your chest.

It was just a dream, you told yourself. Just your mind filling in the blanks.

But when you finally drifted back to sleep, you hoped, god, you hoped, you’d dream of him again.

—----

Amyra was stirring creamer into her coffee when you walked in the kitchen, face still flushed.

She didn’t look up at first.

“You okay?” she asked lightly, though there was something too knowing in her voice.

You cleared your throat. “Fine.”

“Mhm.” She set the spoon down, turning just enough to smirk.

“Because it sounded like you were having a pretty good time last night.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh my god.”

“Calling Bucky’s name.”

She tapped her finger on her mug.

“Interesting.”

“It’s not…” Your voice cracked.

“It’s not what you think.”

“Sure.” She folded her arms, clearly savoring every second.

“Want to talk about it?”

“It’s common,” you blurted.“To, um. Have dreams about people who are��supportive. It’s just a psychological thing. He’s just …”

“A friend?”

“Yes,” you said too fast. “Just a friend.”

Amyra lifted her brows.

“Uh-huh.”

And when she turned back to the sink, you closed your eyes, because you both knew that wasn’t true.

“It was just a dream,” you mumbled, though the way your heart was still racing said it wasn’t that simple.

-----

Every night that week, Bucky lay in his too-big bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling, cursing himself for wanting you this much.

He tried to tell himself it was just about protecting you.

About doing the right thing.

But in the dark, when he closed his eyes, he would remember exactly how you’d looked that day, your eyes soft, your hands curled in his shirt like you were scared to let go when he carried you.

And then he’d imagine what it would feel like if you didn’t let him go.

If you pulled him closer.

If you said his name in that voice that made him feel like he’d won the goddamn world.

More than once, he’d slid his hand into his boxers, pressing his palm over the thick, aching weight of himself while he thought about your mouth, your body, the way you’d sound when you came for him.

Sometimes, when he was too far gone to stop, he’d let himself imagine more.

Your legs wrapped around his hips. Your nails biting into his back. Your lips parting to tell him he was the only one you wanted.

It was torture.

But it was the only place he could have you. Because he had a duty to help you, not take advantage of you.

And every morning, he’d wake up with your name on his tongue, the sheets a mess around him, and the hollow ache in his chest worse than before.

Because he knew, no matter how hard he tried, he was never going to be able to want you any less.

—-----

The rest of the week continued in much the same fashion, both of you torturing yourselves internally while being painfully polite on the surface.

Except when he kept carrying you into the truck and into Amyra’s house.

And except when you caught each other staring and pretended not to.

On Friday, you’d tried to reclaim a shred of your pride, insisting you could manage the stairs alone.

Bucky just looked at you, unimpressed, before lifting you into his arms anyway.

And god help you, you didn’t protest.

The weekend was supposed to be a break. You’d told Bucky, more firmly this time, that he deserved to relax, that you’d leave him alone.

He went quiet, like he wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words.

“I didn’t ask for that,” he said finally, voice low.

But he backed off, and both of you spent two days trying not to replay every look, every touch, every dream.

You didn’t quite succeed.

—--

Monday morning, you tried to look forward to Steve taking you to therapy. It was his week and he was always so kind.

But when the doorbell finally rang, it wasn’t him.

It was Ari Levinson, leaning against the porch rail with two coffees in hand and an easy smile.

“Morning, Principal,” he called, voice warm and amused.

You blinked. “Where’s Steve?”

Ari shrugged, like it didn’t matter as he handed you a cup. 

“Had an important meeting. I volunteered to cover.”

You swallowed, feeling something you didn’t want to name.

Ari walked you to the passenger side. He wasn’t as big as Bucky, but he was still tall with lean muscle, long legs and casual confidence that made your pulse skip.

“Need a hand?” he asked, one brow lifted.

“I’m fine,” you lied.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning wider. “I can see that.”

When you hesitated, his hand came out, warm and steady on your elbow.

“Easy,” he murmured, guiding you up.

Once you were settled, he leaned in the open door, bracing a forearm on the roof so you had no choice but to look at him.

“You know,” he said, voice dropping, “some people would’ve stayed home and let everyone wait on them.”

You lifted your chin. “I’m not most people.”

His gaze flicked to your mouth.

No,” he agreed. “And I’m very aware of that.”

Your heart thumped as he shut the door and walked around slipping into the driver’s seat.

—--

The silence wasn’t as charged as it was with Bucky, it was just there, with no subtext.

For you, at least.

“Your boyfriend’s very protective,” Ari said eventually, voice casual.

Your stomach tightened because you knew exactly who he was talking about.

Bucky.

“He’s not…”

Ari’s mouth curved slyly. “No?”

“Not my boyfriend,” you finished, too fast.

He hummed, tapping the wheel with two fingers.  “Huh.”

“What?” you demanded.

His grin flashed, bright and just a little dangerous.

“Then you should let me take you out sometime.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, because your brain had apparently short-circuited.

Ari glanced over, amused.

“Just think about it. Couldn’t hurt. I admire you. And I think you’re very attractive.” he drawled, eyes sliding over you, like it was no big deal at all.

Your heart thumped so hard it hurt.

And maybe it was easier to let someone like Ari see you this way. 

Someone you didn’t already dream about.

Someone who hadn’t carried you out of the dark, over and over, until you didn’t know where gratitude ended and something else began.

Because wanting Bucky Barnes felt dangerous. Like if you gave in to it, there wouldn’t be anything left of you he didn’t already have.

But your pulse wouldn’t stop hammering.

—----

That night, Bucky had been finishing paperwork in the station when Ari strolled in, grin lazy, eyes too bright.

“Barnes,” Ari drawled, propping a shoulder against the doorframe. 

“Your principal friend, she’s doing a lot better.”

Bucky’s stomach went tight as he tried to stay calm. “Yeah?”

“She looked good,” Ari went on, like he hadn’t noticed the warning in Bucky’s tone. 

“Said she was feeling strong enough to drive next week.”

Bucky nodded stiffly.

Ari tilted his head, smile widening.

“She also said you weren’t her man.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut but there was no reason why they should.

He wasn’t your boyfriend.

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t let it show.

Ari’s grin sharpened.

“Figured I’d ask. And she didn’t say no when I offered to take her out sometime.”

Bucky’s hands flexed at his sides and his jaw locked so tight it hurt.

“You know,” Ari mused, tapping the doorframe, “it’s not a bad thing, letting someone else step in. Can’t be everywhere all the time, Barnes.”

“Get out,” Bucky said, voice low.

Ari’s grin didn’t fade.

“Sure,” he said lightly. “Just letting you know, you should never leave food on the table.”

When he left, Bucky stood there for a long time, breathing hard.

He knew he had no claim. But the thought of Ari, or anyone else, thinking they could be what you needed made him shake with rage.

—---

When Bucky pulled up to your house, he knew he should’ve called first. Or let Steve take the day like he’d offered.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t stand the thought of you getting close to someone other than him. Smiling at them the way you smiled at him when you were too tired to pretend you didn’t trust him.

He got out and tried to look neutral, tried to look like the professional he was supposed to be. But when you stepped onto the porch, beautiful as ever, proud, that wary look in your eyes, something in his chest twisted up tight.

God help him, he wanted you.

Wanted you in ways that had nothing to do with duty or guilt.

More than he’d wanted anything in a long, long time.

And he didn’t know how much longer he could keep pretending he didn’t.

—-----

You were half-dressed and running late when you heard a familiar engine rumble to a stop out front, and your heart did a stupid little jump.

Steve, you reminded yourself firmly. It’s Steve today.

You grabbed your bag and pulled the door open, only to stop short.

Bucky was leaning against the hood of his truck, arms folded over his chest, black t-shirt clinging to the cut of his broad shoulders.

Your stomach flipped.

“I thought…” you blurted, clutching the strap of your bag.

“I thought Steve was coming.”

“I switched with him,” he said evenly.

You swallowed. “Why?”

His jaw flexed.

“Wanted to see for myself how you were doing.”

Your heart did that annoying skip thing again, and you told yourself it was irritation, not something softer. For a second, neither of you moved. Then he nodded at the steps.

“You need help?”

“I’m fine.”

One brow lifted, skeptical.

You sighed, your voice small. “A little.”

He climbed the porch and set his hand around your waist and you tried not to lean into it.

—---

The ride to therapy was torture.

He kept telling himself he had no right to feel like this. No claim on you.

But he couldn’t stop replaying Ari’s voice in his head: She didn’t say no.

When you finally spoke, your voice was so careful he almost wished you’d just yell at him.

“Ari talked to you?”

His eyes didn’t leave the road.

“Yeah.”

“Bucky…”

He exhaled hard, voice rough.

“I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

And there it was. The thing he shouldn’t have admitted. The thing he couldn’t pretend wasn’t eating him alive.

Your pulse skittered.

“That’s not your problem,” you managed.

His hand flexed on the wheel.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “That’s the thing. It is.”

You didn’t dare ask what he meant, and he didn’t offer to explain.

But the air in the cab felt too close, too warm. Like you were both one breath away from admitting something you couldn’t take back.

—--

The drive home felt longer. You watched the trees blur past, all the things you hadn’t said pressing against your throat. When he finally pulled into Amyra’s driveway, you didn’t reach for the door right away.

“Bucky,” you murmured.

He turned to look at you, blue eyes tired, full of things you didn’t have names for.

“I don’t want to make this harder,” you whispered.

His throat worked.

“You’re not,” he said, voice low. “You couldn’t.”

And you knew he believed it. Knew he meant every word.

That was the problem.

He got out without another word and came around to open your door. When he helped you down, his palm fit too perfectly against your waist, the heat of it sinking through your clothes like a brand.

When he handed you your bag, his fingers brushed yours, and you felt it, that sharp, impossible want you’d been pretending wasn’t there.

“Thanks,” you said softly.

His gaze flicked to your mouth, then away.

“No problem,” he said roughly.

He stepped back and waited until you’d made it up the porch before he climbed into the truck and pulled away. You watched the taillights until they disappeared. 

And you felt emptier than you wanted to admit.

—---

Amyra was standing in the kitchen when you came in, your face hot. She took one look at you and folded her arms across her chest.

“You look like you just got back from a funeral,” she said mildly.

You swallowed. “I’m fine.”

“That’s your favorite lie,” she shot back. “How’d it go?”

“Fine.”

Her eyebrow arched. “Fine, or fine?”

You shot her a look.

“Don’t do that,” she said, voice gentler. “Don’t act like I can’t tell when something’s wrong.”

“I’m good,” you lied, voice shaky.

Amyra tilted her head, studying you.

“You know,” she said quietly, “if you don’t want him to care, you’ve got to stop looking at him like that.”

“Like what?” you demanded.

“Like he’s the only thing keeping you standing.”

You sighed. “We’re just…”

“If you say friends,” she cut in, “I’m throwing this mug at you.”

You looked down at the floor, because you couldn’t look at her and pretend you believed it.

You opened your mouth, then closed it, because you didn’t have anything else, and she let you walk past her to your room without another word.

—---

You were sitting in bed with the lamp off when your phone buzzed.

Bucky: Steve will take you tomorrow.

Your chest went tight as you stared at the message. He wasn’t coming. He was pulling away.

You: Why?

A long pause. Three dots blinked, disappeared.

Bucky: I’ve got a thing.

Nothing else.

You turned your phone over on the nightstand, your pulse too loud in your ears.

And you wondered if this was the part where you were supposed to let him go.

—--

When Bucky climbed back into his truck, he felt like his chest was too small for how hard his heart was beating.

You’d looked at him like you were waiting for something, like you needed him to finish a sentence he didn’t have the courage to say.

It is my problem.

Because I can’t stand the thought of you with anyone else.

Because he can't have you.

Because I’m in love with you.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to get his breathing under control.

He knew he was making this worse. Every time he touched you, every time he picked you up, every time he let himself feel it, he was building something that would hurt you when it fell apart.

Because it had to.

Because you deserved better than a half-broken firefighter who didn’t know how to keep things simple.

By the time he made it back to the station, he’d decided the only thing he could do, the only thing that might save you from the mess he’d already made, was to step back.

Just enough to give you space to breathe.

Just enough to give himself a chance to get his shit together.

When he finally texted you, he tried to pretend it didn’t feel like cutting something vital out of his own chest.

When you wrote back “Why?” he almost called you.

Almost drove back across town to take it back.

But instead he forced himself to type.

I’ve got a thing.

And then he set his phone down, bowed his head and told himself this was the right thing.

He had to believe it.

Because if he didn’t, he was going to show up at your door and tell you the truth: That you were the only thing he’d thought about since the night he carried you out of that fire.

And he didn’t think he could ever stop.

[theemporium]

cece I’m really craving some mirror sex with the f1 boys rn 😩😩

okay this started with the intention of being mirror smut but ended up being more banter-y than smut? i think i just missed writing my f1 boys ngl😭but thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

.

“Well, now I just feel like you chose that dress on purpose.” 

Your eyes shifted away from your reflection to find your boyfriend standing by the wardrobe, staring at the dress you had hung up for later that night. It was new, something you had spotted a few weeks ago when you were out and became instantly obsessed with. You had been itching for the excuse to wear it, and being Max’s date for an event Red Bull were hosting became the perfect excuse.

“I look good in red,” you stated simply, not bothering to hide the smirk on your face when Max raised his brows at your response. 

“Is this your way of telling me you’re choosing another team?” He teased as he wandered closer to you, keeping his eyes on yours through the mirror’s reflection. 

“The colour is in your team name,” you countered as you settled back against him once he stood behind you. “I think that shows my support enough.” 

“Hm, I don’t know,” Max murmured, hooking his chin over your shoulder. “I’m feeling a bit betrayed. I might not make it to dinner. The heartbreak might be the end of me.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Don’t you dare, I’ve been excited to wear that dress all week.” 

Something in Max’s gaze softened as he pressed a quick kiss to the side of your neck. “Yeah? You’re gonna look amazing in it, schat.” 

“No cheesy follow up?” 

“What?” His amusement was clearly written across his face. “You want me to point out that you would look even better with that dress on our bedroom floor? Don’t be silly, babe, it would wrinkle.” 

Max’s grin widened when you let out a loud, shameless laugh. 

“But if you never put that dress on,” Max continued, his fingers fiddling with the belt of your robe. “You would not find me complaining.” 

You watched the way he untied your robe, slipping his hands underneath with no hesitation. “No?” 

“Are you sure I can’t tempt you to stay home?” Max murmured, his eyes finding yours in the mirror once again as his hands continued to wander. “I haven’t had food poisoning in a while. They would never know.” 

You rolled your eyes, though the act was fond. “Nice try but the team would kill you.” 

“At least I would be doing what I love before I go,” he countered, grinning shamelessly when you let out a gasp as he snapped the waistband of your underwear against your hip. “We don’t appreciate this mirror as much as we should.” 

“A tragedy,” you deadpanned.

“It really is,” Max nodded, ignoring the sarcasm dripping from your voice. “It’s unfair I get to see how pretty you look when I fuck you dumb. You should be able to see it too.” 

Your mouth went dry at the bluntness of his words. “Max—” 

“It’s one of my favourite sights,” Max continued, placing one, two, three kisses on your neck before lifting his head again. “It’s only fair that I share that with you.” 

“You’re a menace,” you told him.

“A menace who just wants to make his pretty girlfriend co—” 

“Get your ass in that suit, Verstappen.” 

The boy had the audacity to pout. “No fun.” 

“Next time,” you promised, pretending not to notice the way his eyes darkened. “When we haven’t promised to be somewhere in forty minutes.” 

“I’ll say no to every event from now on.” 

“You will not.”  “Ugh, no fun at all.”

.

[raekensluver]

Hello! Could you do a Spencer Reid oneshot preferably around s1! Where r offers to take Spencer on a date after he asks Elle why he can’t get a date? Please and thank you!

masterlist | main masterlist

contains: fluff, mutual pining, light teasing

season one!spencer reid x fem!reader

“why can’t i get a date?” spencer’s voice floats out from the conference room, and you freeze mid-step in the hallway.

you shouldn’t be listening.

you are listening.

elle’s answering laugh is dry, fond. “spencer, please. you could get a date.”

“i don’t think that’s true,” he says. “statistically- ”

you poke your head around the doorframe just in time to catch elle rolling her eyes. “you’re cute. you’re smart. you just don’t know how to ask.”

“i do know how to ask,” he argues, flustered now. “i just…don’t.”

“exactly.” elle stands, grabbing her go-bag off the chair. “try it sometime.”

they both spot you then. spencer immediately straightens like he’s been caught doing something illicit. elle, though, gives you a knowing little smile and nods once before brushing past you.

you linger in the doorway, hands in your pockets.

“bad time?” you ask.

spencer shakes his head quickly. “no, no. it’s - it’s fine. elle was just…” he waves vaguely. “you know.”

“giving you dating advice?”

the tips of his ears go pink. “you heard that?”

you smile. “just the important parts.”

he groans softly and hides his face in his hands for a second, then peeks at you through his fingers. “i’m never going to live that down, am i?”

“not if you keep asking the wrong people,” you tease. “elle’s great, but she’s not exactly subtle.”

spencer lowers his hands. “and you are?”

“i can be.” you pause, then take a slow step forward. “do you want a date, spencer?”

he blinks. “are you offering?”

“i am.”

his mouth opens. closes. opens again. “like…like a real date?”

you tilt your head. “what do you consider fake?”

“i don’t know,” he says faintly. “lunch that turns into work talk. or coffee that’s actually about case files. or… me thinking it’s a date when it’s actually not.” his voice gets smaller with every word.

your expression softens. “okay, then let’s make it clear. i’m asking you on a real date. one that has nothing to do with work. just the two of us, out somewhere not fluorescently lit, where you can tell me about obscure 15th-century poets and i pretend to keep up.”

that makes him smile, boyish and bright. “you wouldn’t have to pretend.”

“i know,” you murmur.

there’s a silence - comfortable, tentative - and then he says, “you’re serious.”

“i am.”

spencer takes a deep breath. “okay. yes. i want that. i mean - i want to go. with you. on the date.”

you grin. “great. pick a night.”

he’s still a little stunned, staring at you like you’ve just solved a problem he didn’t realize had an answer.

“friday?” he says eventually. “if we’re not called in.”

you nod. “friday it is.”

you turn to leave, but he calls out softly, “wait.”

you glance back. “yeah?”

“why me?” he asks it earnestly, like he really can’t figure it out.

and that’s what does it, really. the way he looks at you like he hasn’t been silently orbiting your attention for weeks. the way he doesn’t realize how often you watch him trace equations in the air or rattle off statistics like they’re oxygen.

“because,” you say, walking backwards out the door with a smile, “you just had to ask.”

[formulafanfics13]

Hi can you do where reader and Oscar are travelling around and they meet a fan and the fan speaks another language as well as English but struggles to find the right words and that’s how Oscar learned that his girlfriend is from another country?

OH… YOU’RE DUTCH? - OP81

Masterlist

Summary: While wandering through Lisbon on a rare day off, Oscar is approached by a young fan — and is stunned to discover, mid-conversation, that the reader is fluent in Dutch. After a year of dating, this is news to him. Chaos ensues as she reveals her Dutch upbringing, secret friendship with Max Verstappen, and a mysteriously long list of hidden talents, leaving Oscar mildly betrayed and wildly obsessed.

Warnings: Fluff, light chaos, identity surprise, multilingual reader, casual mention of fan encounters and fame, playful relationship dynamic, secret backstory reveal, mild language kink implications.

They were in Lisbon when it happened.

It was a lazy Tuesday afternoon.

 No real schedule, no media obligations, just a stolen week between races. They’d spent the morning walking along the river, ducking into bakeries, sharing pastries with flaky sugar still on their fingers, Oscar wearing sunglasses and a hoodie like it actually disguised anything.

It didn’t.

People still recognised him. Not all the time, but often enough. There was a rhythm to it now — fans whispering behind menus, teenagers trying to pretend they weren’t taking photos. Most of it was sweet, and Oscar was always polite. Gracious, even.

This girl, though, she was shaking. Probably seventeen. Maybe eighteen. Backpack slung over one shoulder. Hair in a braid. She spotted him as they left a little side-street bookstore, and her jaw dropped. “Oh my god,” she breathed, eyes wide. “Are you… are you Oscar Piastri?”

Oscar blinked. “Yeah. Hi.”

The girl made a tiny squeal. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I’d- Can I take a photo with you? Please?”

He smiled. “Of course.”

You stepped to the side, used to this dance. Watched as he crouched slightly to be in frame, still holding your hand even in the photo, thumb stroking over your knuckles. The fan looked like she might cry.

“Thank you,” she said, pulling her phone back and blinking fast. “I’m sorry, English is not… my best.”

Oscar shook his head. “You’re doing great.”

“I-I speak Dutch better. It’s easier,” the girl added quickly. “But I can say… I love you, and I love Formula One, and I hope you win.”

That made him laugh. “Dank je wel,” he said clumsily, slow and soft.

You laughed too. The girl noticed and turned toward you, eyes lighting up. “Oh! Are you Dutch too?”

And before Oscar could even react, you answered, fluent, melodic, totally effortless. “Ja, ik kom uit Nederland! Waar vandaan ben jij?”

The fan gasped. “Echt? Ik ben uit Utrecht!”

You grinned. “Dat is niet ver van waar ik ben opgegroeid.”

Oscar just blinked. The two of you chatted for another minute in full-speed Dutch, something about circuits, Max, the weather, and then she thanked you both again, waved, and disappeared around the corner, still glowing.

Oscar turned slowly to look at you. “…You speak Dutch.”

You smiled. “Mmhmm.”

He paused. “You’re… Dutch?”

You snorted. “I am. Born there. Raised there until I was twelve.”

“Why didn’t I know that?”

“I thought you did!”

“I did not!” he laughed. “Jesus Christ, I’ve dated you for a year and just found out you’re Dutch because a fan brought it up?”

“To be fair,” you said, wrapping your arms around his waist and pulling him close, “I don’t have an accent anymore.”

He narrowed his eyes. “But you speak like a native.”

“Well, yeah. And that’s why I get along with Max so well.”

Oscar blinked. “…That actually makes a scary amount of sense.”

You grinned. “He found out ages ago and forced me to be his translator in Monaco. He’s very demanding.”

“I knew you two were secret best friends.”

You shrugged. “We grew up about two hours from each other. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

Oscar shook his head in disbelief. “What other languages do you speak?”

You just smiled. “I’ll never tell.”

[roxilliaana]

Finals & Fingertips

Percy Jackson x Fem!Reader

Smut

Warnings: Mention of exams, stressed reader, dirty talk, neck kisses, kissing, mutual masturbation(f receiving), non-penetrative smut

Word Count: 889

You were spiraling.

Three exams in two days, zero sleep, and the weight of your own expectations pressing down like a storm cloud. Your fingers trembled over your notes as your eyes blurred for what felt like the hundredth time that night.

"Hey."

Percy’s voice cut through the chaos like a knife through fog. You didn’t look up — just rubbed at your temples and muttered, “Not now, Percy.”

He didn’t leave. Thank gods he didn’t leave.

“But baby—” you were overwhelmed, snapping without thinking, “My final is next week, Percy!”

He shushed you softly, sliding behind you on the bed, and he was shirtless. “Alright then, I’ll just touch you a bit. That's okay, baby?”

You didn’t reply, but your body betrayed you — a tiny, shaky exhale left your lips the second his mouth met your neck, finding your sweetest spot.

“You always get so tense here,” he murmured, nibbling gently. “Right where you carry all that pressure.”

His hands were slow, reverent — like he wasn’t just touching, he was studying. His right hand slid upward under your his oversized hoodie, trailing over your stomach before curving over your right boob.

“No bra, huh?” he teased, thumb brushing over your nipple. It hardened instantly under his touch, and you couldn’t stop the sharp inhale that followed.

“Trying to be comfy while you torture yourself with study guides?”

You didn’t answer — couldn’t. His left hand found your thigh, stroking slow and steady, coaxing your legs apart. You let them fall open instinctively, a low moan slipping past your lips when his hand crept up the inside of your shorts.

“There she is,” Percy whispered, smug and breathless in your ear. “My girl’s already soaked, isn’t she?”

You bit your lip hard, eyes fluttering shut. His fingers brushed over your panties — already damp — and he groaned deep in his throat.

“Fuck. Just from a little kissing and touching?” He pressed harder, rubbing slow circles over the wet fabric. “You’re starving for this, honey.”

“Perce, baby—”, oh

He chuckled darkly. “I didn’t know studying had these effects on you, baby. All wet from physics?”

Then his tone dropped, low and commanding: “Then keep studying. Don’t mind my fingers around your nipples. Squeezing them.”

This menace.

“And don’t mind this—” he growled, slipping a finger under your waistband and circling your clit, “—don’t get distracted, baby.”

He leaned closer, lips brushing your ear. “After all, you’re all wet from studying, right?”

You whimpered, hips bucking into his hand. Your body had already given up trying to focus on anything but him.

“Look at me, sunshine,” he said softly. “I’m going to play with your sweet pussy, and you’re going to come for me.”

Before you could protest, he kept going:

“And when you pass your final — not if, when — I’m going to take extra good care of you.”

You nodded wordlessly, leaning into his touch, needing his comfort like oxygen.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he murmured, kissing just below your ear. “Let me take care of you, baby.” 

You should’ve said no. Should’ve kept studying. But when he kissed your neck like that once again — slow, open-mouthed, deliberate — your resolve crumbled. 

He pulled you gently into his lap, back against his chest. “That’s it,” he whispered, lips grazing your ear. “You work so hard. Always pushing yourself. Let me help you relax.” 

His hands slipped under your shirt, palms splaying over your stomach, trailing upward with infuriating slowness. You arched slightly, letting him unclip your bra with practiced ease. "Good girl," he murmured, rolling one of your nipples between his fingers. 

You gasped, body tensing, and he chuckled. “So sensitive tonight. Stressed and aching. You need me, don’t you?” 

“Percy,” you breathed, hips shifting over his. 

“I know, baby.” One hand stayed on your chest, playing, teasing. The other trailed lower, fingers brushing over the band of your shorts. 

“Please,” you whispered. “Touch me.” 

That did it.

He groaned, deep and rough, against your neck. “Say it again.”

“Touch me, Percy. I need it.”

He didn’t hesitate. His hand slipped under your panties, finding you again — soaked, throbbing, desperate.

You were grinding into his hand before you even realized it, back arching into him, needy and trembling. His other hand kept working your nipple, rolling and tugging as your thighs began to shake.

“Bet I could make you cum just like this,” he whispered. “My hand on your pussy, my voice in your ear… You want that, baby? Want to come for me?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Please, oh gods, yes, Percy. I need it.”

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, circling your clit faster now. “Come for me. Just like this. Give in. Let go.”

And you did — body trembling violently as a broken cry left your lips, eyes squeezing shut as everything snapped. Percy held you through it, whispering soft praises and kissing your shoulder, steadying your hips with one strong arm as they stuttered and jerked against his palm.

Your body finally stilled. Your breath slowed. 

And when you blinked your eyes open again, lids heavy, Percy was smiling — warm and smug — as he kissed your temple.

“See?” he whispered. “Told you I’d take care of you.”

[aliteralsemicolon]

I remember when you bragging about the hurt you were gonna cause me by this fic after I came back and I'm so angry that for the first time ever in history you weren't lying to me......

Yet, you're a soul on the ceiling, watching an uninhabited sack of skin walk towards the banging fist, turn the door handle, and let an uncomfortable flood of light into the apartment. 

I wash just shot out in daylight in a street full of people but no witnesses

Well, fuck, Spencer. Guess you know everything there is to know about everything. 

laugh out loud

Your stupid, incessant need to have somebody there at all times. Why can't you sit with yourself? Alone? You grew up alone, right?

Wait I forgot the premise and I'm just now remembering the premise, Lia you know you didn't have to do this right....

So much of your energy is exerted into pounding your fists against his chest, and he just lets you. Every word you spoke corresponding with another hit. He doesn't do anything until you exhaust yourself, and your hands fall limply by your sides again.

NO!!!! NOOOOOOO!!! NO!!!!! 😭 THIS IS ACTUALLY KILLING ME HO!!!! I SWEAR TO GOD

Then, he speaks, in a voice so calm you think you imagined your outburst. "What have you found?" "What?" "What have you found?" 

How about what is he hiding hold awn

What a breathtaking reveal of your expert victimisation. "I'm being mean?" his tone is incredulous. "Me? Coming from the girl who said I'm, what, exhausting to be around? To know? I'm the mean one?" 

I can't explain this but I'm being gaslit, omg he's gaslighting us RUNNNNN

"Did you think I didn't want you anymore? Or when I didn't call you back for two days because I was on a case? Those little things?"

NOOO IT ADDS UP YOU'RE RIGHT OMG READER DON'T FALL FOR HIS BS FIGHT HIM!!!!!!

"Then, I don't understand why you can't just talk to me. Why can't you just talk to me? Why do I have to be insulted before you communicate with me? It feels almost unfair."

They both have communication issues idc idc Spencer shoulda been communicating from the start reader is not crazy guys!!!

Outside of this untouchable blackout, you're apologising to him. Over, and over, and over. 

....

"I'm here because I like you," when you open your mouth to mock him, he cuts you off, "did you know I think about you constantly? Everything I do I think of you. I find books I've rea

Wrap it up bud why is this the first she's hearing of this ???

But I can't reassure you every week that I do like you." You stare at him. "Then you don't really know me. I said really early on that I'm insecure."

He's mad because she's exactly what she said she'd be nawww vote him off the island next

Quietly you murmur, "Then I can't do this." "Yeah," he breathes. "Me neither. You're exhausting too."

beat his ass omg girl stand up !!!!!!!

You pick yourself up off a floor you don't remember falling to, stumbling over feet too fast for your brain, trying to get away from here. Here, where he yelled at you, and you; him. Here, where he told you your brain is too bad for him to deal with. Here, where he left you.

There, through the phone, you can hear him breathing too. 

Reader's not guilty idc idc omg she just needs therapy and love and more therapy and more love and less of this version of Spencer 😂 lia sleep with one eye open 😂

i knew it, i know you ❀ s. reid x reader

in which your boyfriend comes to find you amidst radio silence, and you finally let out all your frustrations and insecurities. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: angst tags: ambiguous ending. certified overthinker reader. effie trinket would hate you for what you do to mahogany. argument. they yell at each other. everyone is angry n mean. :(. word count: 3k a/n: me when fine shyt starts flirting but i've already convinced myself everything he says is a genius manipulation technique that i need to outsmart before he adds me to his list of gullible weak victims. this was a vent piece from like 3 weeks ago. still relevant. love u.

You'd be a very successful magician. Vendors and patrons would move Earth just to see your disappearing act in person, to see if it's as brilliant and mind boggling as people say it is. If you were as talented as rumours say.

You'd say so.

A flickering lamp illuminates mahogany. Mahogany you hadn't cleaned in weeks. Mahogany you hadn't sat at in weeks. A thin layer of dust tells the story of how it sat untouched. Neglected. It's wondering of when you were coming home. If you were. If you'd ever swipe a rag over it again, lay down a tablecloth, set it with silverware you only have one set of. 

You would. You would. You promised you would. You placed a hand on it when you left that odd Thursday and whispered you'd return eventually. A silent deal with yourself you'd never get rid of it. Spoken aloud when you inherited it from grandparents now deceased. Then, swept up in an ill fated fairytale that kept you from coming back to it. Another table, not quite as nice, not nearly as expensive, discovered the lines of your palms amidst debate. The edge of your elbows to hold up forkfuls of food. Your thighs, pressed up against the sides. Attention given to something cheaper, and the dust sprites atop this table taunt you for it. 

You're not staring at it, though. Transfixed, instead, on how the lamp barely provides light for the rest of the apartment. Cautioning on the side of blowing any second now. You'd be thrust into darkness so fast you wouldn't know how to react. Maybe you'd stumble around a bit; try to find your phone for a light. Maybe you'd sit in the black. Let the air still, seeping into your bones until you are as good as air that does nothing. Perhaps you already are. 

You don't get the chance. 

Somebody's fist raps against your front door. You know who. It's politely quiet, but eagerly fast. Seeking you out quickly after seven damp days of radio silence, to find if you've died or not. 

You should be hastier. A soon to follow knock announces that for you. Yet, you're a soul on the ceiling, watching an uninhabited sack of skin walk towards the banging fist, turn the door handle, and let an uncomfortable flood of light into the apartment. 

He must recognise the hollowness in your eyes, because he doesn't say anything as he enters your apartment. A quip about how you didn't invite him in manifests on your tongue, but then you remember he doesn't know there's a problem between you two. 

"What a joyous apartment you have," he says, flicking the light switch to light up the rest of your neglected apartment. The last book you were reading found on the edge of your couch, face down and open, the spine creased beyond repair. A glass once full of water now sits empty — evaporated — on the kitchen counter. A duffel bag of two people's mixed clothes and travel sized shower products on the floor next to your feet. 

"What're you doing here?" you ask him, feet firmly planted in the entryway. You couldn't move even if you wanted to. 

He does, though. He freely moves around and it's as if no time has passed. He is more at home in your apartment than you have been all week. Guiltily, you feel resent well in your stomach. How dare he come in and act as though nothing has happened?

He doesn't know. He doesn't know. You repeat the mantra until he speaks again, for it is not his fault you are upset over something you made up in your head. A narrative only the worst parts of your brain can entertain. 

"Well, you disappeared for a week," he states, palms pressed against your kitchen bench as he leans against it. "I got worried."

"Why?"

What a stupid, stupid question to ask him. 

"Because you disappeared for a week," his words come out tantalisingly slowly, as if he's trying to explain to a toddler. Perhaps he is. As old as you are, you seem to feel like the five year old who resides inside you more often than not. Pathetic sentiment. 

"Forgive me for not being a constant presence in your life," you say. It isn't meant to bite, but your tone of voice comes out too sharp for it to not, and he is all too quick to catch it. 

"Sorry?" 

You freeze. Time stands as still as it has all week. The light bulb of your desired lamp blows, and you distantly hear it pop. It no longer matters; your overhead lights are on, courtesy of the man standing before you. You feel plunged into the dark anyways. 

"I didn't mean that. Sorry," you deflect, and a smile that doesn't reach your eyes is sent his way. Not that you look at him. Too afraid of what his eyes will say to yours if you lock them together, you keep your gaze on your couch. 

"Yes you did."

Well, fuck, Spencer. Guess you know everything there is to know about everything. 

You accept the defeat. "Yes I did."

"Explain, please?"

Wordlessly, you shake your head, and the inside of your cheek finds its way between teeth. "It's mean."

"Then be mean."

"No. I—I can't," you shake your head. "It doesn't really matter."

His lips press together, and you can feel the nausea in your stomach churn. "It doesn't matter?"

Your head shakes again, "Mm-mm."

"Well, great. You've got an issue with me that causes you to disappear for a week, but it's all good because it doesn't matter?"

Oh.

"I don't have an issue with you," you lie, but God forbid you do such a thing in front of a profiler. 

"You do. Clearly, or else you wouldn't be this hostile with me. What have I done?" he's gotten off the kitchen bench. He's closer to you. Or, maybe, he's just risen his voice, and he hasn't moved an inch. 

You're entirely not present enough to figure out which it is. 

"Spencer, you haven't done anything. It's all stuff inside my head," you shake your head, again, and it's done so violently you can feel the contents of your brain shake within your skull.

No you can't. No you can't. You're imagining that to worsen your own feelings. Nobody can feel that. Everything inside of it is so loud, and Spencer is no longer Spencer. Rather, a lifeless, faceless entity occupying your apartment. You don't even recognise him. 

"Then tell me what's inside your head, honey, please—"

He doesn't even sound like Spencer anymore. 

"—It's so mean. I can't."

You don't sound like you.

"Then be mean!"

"You're exhausting to be around!" 

You snap, and he falls silent. For once, he doesn't have something to respond with. You're grateful, somewhere inside of you. The same place the urge to backtrack and try to make things alright again comes from. You're usually ruled by that place. 

Today, you are not. 

"You are so exhausting to know. I am so fucking exhausted. I spend my life jumping through hoops to get you to talk to me, to notice me. I mean, you only care when I'm doing exactly what you want. Naked. You only care when it's convenient. When there is nobody else there to satisfy you, nobody you actually want, you will call for me. Right? You have to fill the hole in your heart somehow. Your stupid, incessant need to have somebody there at all times. Why can't you sit with yourself? Alone? You grew up alone, right?" 

It's such a mean thing to say. For a second, you're outside your ablaze mind, and instead watching you say all these awful things to the man you claim to love. Love. How could you possibly love anyone you speak to like this? "You've been alone before. You can't be alone some more?" he's taken steps towards you, and gentle hands on your waist have you inhabiting your body once again. You're crying. Warm, fat tears falling down your face, but he doesn't try to wipe them away. "Why am I just a piece in a—in a fucking chess game? Does that analogy make it make sense for you now, Spencer? You are playing me like chess. How fucking dare you!"

So much of your energy is exerted into pounding your fists against his chest, and he just lets you. Every word you spoke corresponding with another hit. He doesn't do anything until you exhaust yourself, and your hands fall limply by your sides again.

Then, he speaks, in a voice so calm you think you imagined your outburst. "What have you found?"

"What?"

"What have you found?" 

"Nothing," panic rises in your chest. "I—I don't understand why I had to have found something—"

"—This isn't coming from nowhere," he observes. Then, it clicks. His understanding of your brain coming to the forefront of his mind. "Unless it is. All this talk about my inability to be alone, did I leave you alone for too long? Is that where this is coming from? Are you spiralling and making up a narrative about me and then, evidently, taking out your frustrations at a made up problem on me?"

"No," your voice strains. "I mean, I did find something, but it's stupid now."

"It's stupid now," he parrots, condescendingly. "Stupid as in, you think you're going to be ridiculed for being upset about something valid, or stupid because it is not valid at all?"

"That's—you're being mean," you stammer, but even as you say them, the words sound unjust. 

He must laugh mockingly, or maybe he's belittling you with it. Unkind words being thrown, and now you're trying to make him the bad guy. What a breathtaking reveal of your expert victimisation.

"I'm being mean?" his tone is incredulous. "Me? Coming from the girl who said I'm, what, exhausting to be around? To know? I'm the mean one?" 

Yeah, okay, you deserve that.

"You're invalidating what I'm saying—"

"—I'm regurgitating your own words back at you!" he snaps. "You said it was stupid. You. Not me."

Let me speak. "Spencer—"

"—The latter, then. You're embarrassed to admit that."

Let me speak. "Spencer—"

"—Whatever it is you found, I don't care. I can't imagine you've found anything."

You stare at him, waiting. Waiting for him to continue, to berate you some more, to offend you so deeply you can find a real reason to be upset with him. Right now, there is nothing but overthinking his gestures, and blowing things out of proportion. 

"It's little things."

"Little things," he clarifies. 

"Yeah."

You hear him sigh. He's exasperated. "I'm gonna need more than that."

"Like—like..." you're stammering again, your brain folding over itself to find something you can bring up to him that doesn't sound utterly insane. You aren't insane. 

Right?

"Like when I left early the morning after sex for work?" he cuts in, and your chest tightens. Not because his words are mean — though, they are — but because they are true. "Did you think I didn't want you anymore? Or when I didn't call you back for two days because I was on a case? Those little things?"

"I guess."

"Right," he nods. "So, again, did I leave you alone for too long you spiralled into making up narratives about me?"

"They're not narratives—"

"—You've wholly convinced yourself I am a bad person!" you flinch at how loud his voice is, and for a moment, he pauses. He softens, his tensed arms relaxing, and he's sure to take a comforting step back from you. "You're so sure of this idea that I am using you for sex, and I don't want you for anything else, and only when I am bored, or lonely," still silent, he studies your face for a reaction. Whatever he finds mustn't satisfy him, because he continues. "I don't text you constantly because I don't want to be overbearing. I don't hierarch my friendships by how often I talk to someone. Rather, by what I spend my time with them doing. Being with you is so easy. I love being with you. Yes, I like having sex with you too, because I am attracted to you, and that's something we've established. If that has changed, and this is a long, winding way to tell me that, then please—"

"—It hasn't changed," you're quick to correct him.

"Okay," he nods again, firmer this time. "Then, I don't understand why you can't just talk to me. Why can't you just talk to me? Why do I have to be insulted before you communicate with me? It feels almost unfair."

It is unfair. You know that. The thought appears in your brain every single time an insult flies out of your mouth. 

Yet, you can't stop. 

"You're ridiculing me right now. Why do you think I can't communicate with you? You make me feel small. Like—like my feelings aren't valid, and I'm crazy! Am I crazy? Do you think I'm crazy, Spencer? Do you hear me say all these things I think about you and go, fuck, this girl is a psycho? You must. Or else you wouldn't be here," there's a look of recognition behind your eyes that scares him. Your lips twitching, a sardonic laugh leaving them. "You find it fascinating, don't you? Figuring out my brain. Why I do the things I do, why I feel the way I feel. I have a brain you can psychoanalyse for your sick pleasure, so of course you don't leave!"

"No. That's not why I'm here," he speaks so calmly, and you know you've touched a nerve. You feel bad, somewhere. Outside of this untouchable blackout, you're apologising to him. Over, and over, and over. 

"I'm here because I like you," when you open your mouth to mock him, he cuts you off, "did you know I think about you constantly? Everything I do I think of you. I find books I've read in stores, and think of you, and how you'd love them. I see posters for movies I have no desire to watch, but consider asking you to go see them because you mentioned liking the lead actor in passing. Every case, I am picking up the phone on the first ring in case it's you asking how it's going. I care so deeply for you, and this is confusing me a lot, hurting me a lot, because I didn't realise you weren't aware of that. But I can't reassure you every week that I do like you."

You stare at him. "Then you don't really know me. I said really early on that I'm insecure."

"I didn't think it would be this bad."

This bad. 

"It's not my fault you can't step outside yourself."

This bad.

Your chest aches, and you can feel every single familiar feeling in your body dissipate. Once again, just a sack of skin standing in the centre of your apartment, looking at a boy who has so much distaste for you in this moment, his anger is silent. 

Quietly you murmur, "Then I can't do this."

"Yeah," he breathes. "Me neither. You're exhausting too."

And then he's gone. 

Silence. 

There is so much silence when you are alone like this. His final words echoing in your brain, following your conscience down to the depths of it. Ruminating beneath years — decades — of mistreatment, insults. Every single layered brick that built the person you are today rotting in the pit of your brain, with the last thing Spencer Reid ever said to you, fresh; hot. 

He left, and you're stuck with the silence of your apartment. The door that fell shut taunting you, for it was the last thing you possess to feel the touch of his hands. Gentle hands that used to hold you as you cried like this, letting you soak his skin with tears and then taking you out to the rooftop to watch the stars. Loving hands that used to push buttons you never knew to exist until he pushed them, emitting sounds you didn't know you could make until he emitted them. Kind hands, that would hold your waist when in a crowd of people; your face as he kissed you. 

You pick yourself up off a floor you don't remember falling to, stumbling over feet too fast for your brain, trying to get away from here. Here, where he yelled at you, and you; him. Here, where he told you your brain is too bad for him to deal with. Here, where he left you. 

You find your bathroom.

Uncomfortable, fluorescent lighting blinds you as you find solace in the cold tiling; the chipping painted cabinetry. Trembling hands fish your phone out of your pocket, and you stare at the black screen on the device for so long you must go insane. Burning the barely there image of your teary face into your mind, going over every single thing he said to you tonight. Every single cruel thing you said. 

Guilt creeps up on you, twisting its way through your gut and up to your throat. Choking you, until you're gasping for air, eyes wide. 

"No," you stutter, the word leaving your lips too many times, your head spinning. Fingers burying into your hair, phone clattering to the floor. "No."

At some point, sobs calm down, and tears dissipate. You find your footing within yourself again, furniture becomes furniture again, objects are objects. Your brain is no longer closing in on itself. 

You unlock your phone and find his contact. 

It rings for minutes. Probably only seconds. So loud in the silence of your apartment, and every ring inches open the door of regret. 

The line clicks. Quiet follows.

Quiet, not silence. Though you are breathing heavily to yourself, you are not alone with your thoughts, and it is not the only sound you can hear. 

There, through the phone, you can hear him breathing too. 

[orellazalonia]

Lingering Hope and Doubt

Summary: After slowly reintegrating into the compound, you begin to share quiet, meaningful moments with the rest of the team including Bucky. However, doubt creeps in as you start to wonder if his attention is only because she is no longer around. 

Word Count: 1.9k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

As time passed, the days didn’t feel so sharp anymore.

They weren’t exactly comfortable yet, but the air didn’t bite when you walked into a room now. People looked at you differently. Not in awe, or suspicion, or even pity.

They looked at you like you existed, like you were seen, like you mattered.

And the most surprising part?

You were starting to believe it.

It started small.

Bruce had gently roped you into reviewing logs from his portable monitoring systems. Wanda asked if you’d go on a walk with her when the air was too heavy in her head. Clint dropped by with bad snacks and worse jokes. He always left too fast, like staying longer would make it real.

But Bucky?

Bucky stayed.

Every day that week, he’d stopped by your door. No expectations. No plans. Sometimes with coffee, sometimes with a question, or sometimes with silence that didn’t feel like an absence.

You never told him no.

And by Thursday, you’d stopped waiting for him to knock. You were already waiting by the door when he arrived, and he never said anything about it, just gave a small nod and started walking.

You followed.

That morning, the two of you sat on the south-facing balcony just off the training floor, nursing tea neither of you particularly liked. The sunrise spilled amber light through the clouds, and for once, the compound felt still.

He didn’t ask you deep questions. You didn’t offer any revelations. It wasn’t like the old movies where damaged people stitched each other up in one grand moment.

You were just sitting. Together. Safe, quiet, and alive.

“I never liked this place much,” Bucky muttered after a long stretch of silence.

You glanced over at him. “The compound?”

He gave a small shrug. “It was always too clean. Too… polished. Never felt like it was meant for people like me.”

You gave a soft hum. “I used to think the same thing, like I was some uninvited guest waiting to get caught in someone else’s spotlight.”

He looked at you then. Not hard or apologetic, but the words that followed were full of sincerity.

“You never belonged in the shadows.”

Your heart beat too loud in your ears. You looked away.

“Neither did you,” You whispered.

The silence after that wasn’t awkward. It was weighted and full.

You finished your tea as he did too. Then, as he stood, he glanced back down at you.

“You doing anything tonight?”

You raised a brow. “Is that code for a mission or…?”

He cracked a small smile. “No. Just thought maybe you’d want to join the rest of us. It’s movie night. Clint picked something terrible, and I figured you should suffer with the rest of us.”

You smirked. “That’s the most compelling argument you’ve made so far.”

“So…?”

You nodded. “Yeah, alright.”

“Cool,” He said, stepping back. “See you then.”

And just like that, he was gone again. But the warmth stayed.

Not from the tea. Not from the sunrise. Just from the realization that for the first time in a long time, you were being invited to something.

Movie night was exactly what Bucky promised: a chaotic mess of over-salted popcorn, bad lighting, and Clint loudly quoting every line of the terrible action flick like it was Shakespeare.

You sat near the edge of the couch, half-curled into a blanket Wanda had tossed at you without comment. Bucky sat a few feet away, arms crossed, and trying not to smile at the absurd explosions on screen.

It wasn’t cozy yet, but it was safe.

And maybe that was more than enough.

In the mornings, you helped Bruce catalog long-forgotten samples from the lower labs. In the evenings, you found yourself eating in the kitchen instead of your room. Some nights you’d wander the halls late, listening to the low hum of the ventilation or the sound of distant laughter from the gym.

You saw Wanda, Clint, Steve, Sam, and occasionally Natasha, slipping through like a shadow and offering you a curt nod in greeting.

And Bucky was always steady, always there in small, quiet ways; making room for you. But sometime around the middle of the week, you noticed something.

She wasn’t there.

The woman Bucky had once cared for. The one who smiled with soft confidence and made you feel small without ever raising her voice.

You hadn’t seen her in the cafeteria or during debriefs. Not walking the halls or tending the plants she used to keep.

At first, you thought maybe it was coincidence. Maybe you were avoiding her without realizing it. Perhaps the compound was just big enough that two people could simply… miss each other.

But then three more days passed.

And still, nothing.

One afternoon, you passed by the comms room where she used to sit during rotation and found it empty. The glass teacup she always used was gone from its usual shelf in the lounge. The spare keycard hook on the access board read:

Status: Revoked

You stood in the hallway longer than you meant to, something unsettling turning over in your chest.

No announcement had been made. No debrief. No confrontation. No trial.

Just… absence. At least, to your information.

You didn’t bring attention to it yet, but your brain cataloged it all anyway.

She hadn’t been escorted out publicly. She hadn’t been arrested that you knew of. And yet… her clearance was pulled. Her name was off the board and somehow no one mentioned her.

It was as if she’d been quietly erased.

You didn��t know whether to feel relieved or unnerved.

The hum of the reinforced glass filled the stillness.

Below, two junior agents ran combat drills loud enough to fill the silence with the rhythmic slap of boots and the dull thud of padded hits. You stood at the edge of the wide viewing window, arms folded loosely, gaze drifting.

Sam joined you halfway through the second round.

“Thought I’d find you up here,” He said lightly, passing you a bottle of water. “Word on the floor is you’re the mysterious ‘coffee ghost’ who keeps vanishing before anyone can say hello.”

You offered a faint smile. “I’m easing back in. Stealth mode helps.”

He chuckled, leaning against the railing beside you. “You’re not the only one figuring things out again.”

The agents below reset their stance. Your fingers toyed with the plastic cap of the bottle.

Then you asked quietly, “Hey… do you know what happened to her?”

He blinked. “Her who?”

You hesitated. “The woman who used to be around a lot, close… to Bucky. Smart, kind of always knew what to say and smiled a lot. I think… I think she spoke to me once.”

Sam’s brows knit faintly. He didn’t answer at first.

Then: “Oh.”

That one word told you everything you needed to know.

“She’s gone?” You asked, even though you already knew.

“Yeah.” He exhaled slowly. “Sort of. Officially she’s… being held elsewhere. Off-site.”

“Elsewhere,” You repeated, voice flat.

He glanced at you. “It’s not really public info. But she’s not in the wind, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I wasn’t,” You lied.

He didn’t call you on it.

“She always seemed so…” You trailed off, trying to find the word. “Certain.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. That was the mask.”

You looked over at him.

“She really got to you,” He said, not unkindly. “The way she talked, the way she knew things. But not everything she gave away was free or honest.”

“She only ever spoke to me once,” You said, frowning. “It wasn’t even much. Just… a passing moment, but it stuck.”

“Because she made you feel seen.”

You didn’t answer.

He glanced down at the agents below. “We all missed it.”

“She said she cared about him.”

Sam looked at you again. His eyes soft, but unreadable. “Maybe she did, but doesn’t mean she truly did… or cared about the rest of us.”

You turned back to the window, the weight of that sitting cold on your shoulders.

He didn’t push the conversation further. Just stood beside you as the drills wrapped up and the buzzer sounded.

Before leaving, he added quietly, “Some people… they know how to find the cracks in a place. But that doesn’t mean they’re trying to fix them.”

Then he left you alone again. And the silence left behind felt larger than ever.

After that conversation, you weren’t sleeping again.

Not for lack of trying, but your mind was filled with thoughts. Too many of them, too loud, too persistent. You’d hoped a trip to the gym would help tire them out, but after half an hour of half-hearted pacing on the treadmill, you gave up.

Now you sat on the upper balcony overlooking the empty floor, legs pulled up to your chest with your water bottle forgotten beside you.

Then you heard footsteps. You didn’t look up. You already knew who it was.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Bucky’s voice was soft behind you.

You shrugged. “Something like that.”

He sat a few feet away like always, not too close, not too far. Familiar.

“I figured you’d be on mission rotation this week,” You said, staring out at the dark mats and deactivated equipment.

“Opted out.” A pause. “Didn’t feel right leaving.”

You hummed, unsure what to say to that. You could feel the edge of a question pricking your mind, but you didn’t let it out. Not yet.

He rested his arms on his knees. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

“I’m always quiet.”

He smirked faintly. “Yeah, but this week it’s the kind of quiet that echoes.”

You didn’t mean to ask. But the words tumbled out anyway, raw and too real.

“Would you still be around if she hadn’t disappeared?”

Silence.

You looked away, heart hammering suddenly in your chest. You hadn’t even planned to say it. It just came.

When he finally answered, his voice was slow, careful. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” You swallowed hard. “You used to be close with her and now she’s gone. And suddenly you’re… here, talking to me, bringing me coffee, sitting with me at movie nights…”

You didn’t say caring. You weren’t sure you could handle the answer if you did.

Bucky didn’t answer right away either. The air and silence between you stretched for what felt like ages.

When he finally spoke, it wasn’t defensive. It was low and honest.

“I’m not here because she’s gone.”

You waited.

“I’m here because I should’ve been before,” He continued. “And I didn’t realize it until it was too late to fix what I missed.”

You clenched your jaw, voice quiet. “So I’m a guilt project.”

He turned his head toward you, eyebrows drawing together. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

You didn’t meet his eyes.

“I’m not trying to earn points,” He added. “I’m not here because I feel bad. I’m here because I see you now. And I want to.”

That made something twist in your chest: warm, aching, and uncertain.

“But would you have looked if she were still here?” You whispered.

He hesitated for a moment but he didn’t lie.

“I don’t know.”

The honesty hurt, but so would anything else.

You nodded slowly, biting the inside of your cheek. “That’s what I thought.”

He leaned back, looking at the ceiling now, sighing softly. “I don’t know what that says about me. But I know what it says about you.”

You looked over.

“That you were worth seeing the whole damn time.”

You didn’t answer, but your throat felt tight. And your hands were trembling just a little where they rested on your knees.

You weren’t sure if you believed him, but some part of you wanted to.

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi @viktor-enjoyer @vicmc624 @msbyjackal @winchestert101 @greatenthusiasttidalwave @avivarougestan @saoirses-things @itsmejen @saucysasha2035 @smokescreen1000 @poiscntree @therealh18 @vieenr0se @ravenswritingroom

[xoxolaw]

+ 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗥 𝗗𝗜𝗔𝗥𝗬

in which a quiet visit to her room turns into something else entirely. Hyun-tak finds her diary, and with it, the truth he never saw coming.

+ 𝗚𝗢 𝗛𝗬𝗨𝗡-𝗧𝗔𝗞 𝗫 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥

CH 3 , CH 4 , CH 5

✎ᝰ.ᐟ⋆⑅˚₊

May 3rd, 2023

Dear Diary,

I haven’t written in a long time. Not because nothing’s happened — actually, maybe too much has.

Sometimes I think if I tried to write it all down, it would spill out of me too fast. Like I wouldn’t know how to stop.

But tonight… I feel like I need to. Because I think I’m in love with him.

No — I know I am.

I love Hyun-tak.

I don’t even remember when it started anymore. Maybe it was always there. Tucked between every shared snack and every fight and every hoodie he pretended not to notice I stole.

But lately… it feels different.

He feels different.

He’s taller now. So much taller than me. He rests his chin on my head like it’s a shelf and says things like “you shrunk again” just to see me glare.

But when I sulk, he ruffles my hair so gently it makes my throat ache.

He used to be all sharp corners — grumbling, frowning, teasing until I wanted to scream.

But now… he’s softer. Not with everyone. Just with me, I think.

Or maybe I’m just seeing it more clearly now.

I notice everything.

Like how he always walks on the side closest to the road.

How he taps his fingers when he’s nervous.

How he always makes sure I eat before I study, even if it means sharing the last bite of his snack without a word.

And that day — that rainy day — I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.

The clouds cracked open on our way home, sudden and mean. He didn’t even blink.

He pulled off his jacket and dropped it over my head, not saying anything, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He walked beside me, soaked to the skin, water dripping from his hair.

And when I tried to give it back, he just said,

“You get cold easier than me.”

That’s all.

Like it didn’t matter that he was shivering.

Like I mattered more.

And I just looked at him — really looked at him — and felt something quiet and certain settle in my chest.

I love him.

I went to his Taekwondo match last week.

He didn’t know I was skipping cram school. He didn’t know how fast my heart was beating when he stepped into the ring, or how tightly I held my phone recording every second.

He didn’t know how loudly I screamed when he won.

Or how proud I felt.

So proud I wanted to cry.

And when he looked into the crowd, he found me.

Just me.

He didn’t smile.

But he nodded.

Like I see you. I heard you. You were here.

And that was enough.

Sometimes, I wonder if he knows. If he ever thinks about me like that.

But then I remember how easily he laughs when other girls talk to him.

Like today — that girl from his class gave him a drink and he smiled. Just a little.

And it didn’t mean anything. I know that.

But it still hurt.

And that’s the part that’s the hardest, Diary.

Loving someone so deeply and not knowing if they’ll ever look at you the same way.

Still… I’d rather love him quietly like this than pretend I don’t.

Because he’s still my person.

He always has been.

And if this love has to live only in these pages,

Then I’ll write it again and again —

So it exists somewhere.

— Y/N

(15 years old, in love, and trying not to fall any deeper… but she already has.)

✎ᝰ.ᐟ⋆⑅˚₊

Hyun-tak’s hands were trembling. Not shaking, not fidgeting — trembling.

The diary lay open in his lap, but his eyes hadn’t moved from the last line for at least two minutes.

"Still… I’d rather love him quietly like this than pretend I don’t." "Because he’s still my person."

The words pulsed behind his eyes, too loud. Too bright. The kind of thing you weren’t supposed to read out of someone else’s heart.

His pulse was thundering now — a steady, frantic rhythm that pushed heat up his neck and all the way to the tips of his ears. He sat still, statue-stiff, eyes stuck to the ink like it might burn through him if he looked away.

Love.

She wrote it again and again.

Not in the clumsy, wide-eyed way she had when they were kids.

But now — at fifteen. With the kind of softness and weight that made his stomach twist.

She loved him.

Not liked. Not maybe.

Loved.

He swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry, and ran a shaky hand through his hair.

The pages beneath his fingertips were worn, warm, slightly smudged in places like she’d touched them too many times.

His jacket.

The rain.

That Taekwondo match.

The way she’d looked up at him afterward with eyes brighter than the medals hanging around his neck.

She’d written it all down.

And now—his heart felt like it was too big for his chest.

His phone buzzed on the bed beside him, and he jumped — nearly dropping the diary.

DUMBASS ❤️‍🔥 calling…

He stared at the screen like it was a bomb. For a second, he didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Her name. Her voice. Right now. Now??

He swallowed again. His fingers twitched.

Then — with the slow dread of someone peeling off a bandage — he answered.

“...Yeah?”

“Hyun-tak?” Her voice was cheerful, breathy, casual. Like nothing had changed.

“Did you already reach my place?”

His throat tightened. “Yeah. I’m here.”

“Oh, shoot.” She huffed. “I ran into Baku on the way — he’s dragging me to the arcade. Said I owe him a rematch or something. I won’t be back for a while. You can head home if you want!”

In the background, he could hear Baku’s booming voice:

“Gotak! My man, come on! Join us!! Let’s goooo!”

And her laugh. Light. Effortless. Not heartbroken. Not breathless from writing about someone she loved.

She sounded fine.

She sounded like she hadn’t just… undone his whole world.

“You wanna come?” she asked, pulling him back to the line. “Don’t wanna leave you waiting.”

Hyun-tak gripped the phone a little tighter. His mouth opened, but it took a second for words to come. Usually he might've joined them... But right now, what he was doing felt better.

I wanted to spend some more time with her thoughts. Even though he was invading privacy. But he's come too far into it, to stop.

“...You guys go ahead. I have some work.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

A lie.

“Okay. I’ll call you later. Don’t lose, okay?” Then she hung up — just like that. Her voice faded. Her laughter with someone else hung in the air.

And all he could do was sit there. Diary in one hand. Phone in the other. Heart in neither.

He stared blankly at the ceiling for a beat too long, as if the air might explain what just happened.

Then he looked down.

At the diary.

At the dozens — no, hundreds — of entries pressed between those soft, frayed covers. He flipped one page.

His name.

Again.

He flipped another.

Hyun-tak.

Another.

Him.

Him.

Him.

Every page.

Every memory.

Every little scrap of her day somehow circled back to him — what he said, how he looked, what he did. The snacks they shared. The fights they had. The quiet, in-between moments he never thought twice about.

She’d carried him in her heart like it was the most natural thing in the world. And he never knew. Or maybe he did... But in his own way.

And now—

He stopped flipping.

Because one entry caught his eye. The date scrawled across the top:

January 1st, 2025

That was… recent.

And the first line was written in clean, confident letters — not dreamy or doodled, not flowery or nervous.

Just five words.

“Baku confessed to me today.”

His breath left his lungs like someone had knocked the wind out of him. He stared at the sentence, at the sharp, calm way it sat on the page. Not a crush. Not a maybe. A confession.

His hands went cold. His ears buzzed.

And somewhere, far beneath the static noise in his chest, a single thought clawed its way up from the dark:

He confessed.

And she didn’t start the entry with “I said no.”

The diary slid a little from his lap as he sat there, heart pounding, eyes wide.

Not with a realization.

Not with an answer.

Just silence.

And a name that wasn’t his.

+ 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥'𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 + 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

Gotta add a little bit of spice right? 😋😋

+ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

@keizvn @soobinbunnie5 @chaywkk @l5byrinth @inom17 @randomheyl @coffee-ii @mizxuqii @dna-black-and-blue @kyungjunnies @maxinehufflepuffprincess @deboizzzstay @coolasiangal123 @intoanothermind @satoru2716 @chenlegendj @changbinkisser @xh01bri @jww-sjzyeirie @thebatapex @itzcandy @ryeounistic @ruruyinn @ashayein @bblgeum

[milatiny-xx]

perfect person | k.ys

pairing: kang yeosang x gn!reader summary: yeosang's been MIA all day, and you're worried. when you show up to the studio to check on him, he snaps at you. now, it's late and he's at your place, ready to apologize. (requested) warnings: hurt/comfort, sangie yelling at reader, i think that's it! wc: 1.7k a/n: dang y'all yeosang is getting so much attention on this blog i love it (◕‿◕✿). i also feel like he's such a sweet angel, when he gets upset i imagine he's feeling realllly bad. requests are also open if y'all have needs!

⊹₊⟡⋆ masterlist | taglist ⊹₊⟡⋆

You reach for your phone again, anxiously clicking onto your messages with Yeosang. You swipe down to refresh the screen again, but nothing. He hasn't replied in almost eight hours, and you're starting to get worried. It's not like him to be non-responsive. Even when he's at practice, he usually texts back within an hour or two.

You know he's been working hard trying to prepare for his solo project. It's a single—just one song, but he's poured his heart and soul into it. The single and its corresponding MV are scheduled to drop in one week. He's been spending extra hours at the studio lately to practice the choreo for the video.

You don't want to bother him, of course, but part of you wants to call. Maybe if you just call the studio? No...you shouldn't. You don't want to disturb him or embarrass him by being a helicopter partner.

So, you click your phone off and distract yourself with other things—dinner, shower, tv. But when another hour passes, and he still hasn't answered, it feels like you don't have a choice.

You shove some of the leftover food into containers and grab your keys before ducking out the door to drive over to the studio.

When you arrive, you scan the ID badge Yeosang had gotten for you. It's quiet inside, dark. No one seems to be at the studio. You weave your way around the hallways, careful not to bump into any corners. You've been to the studio countless times before to bring the boys snacks or if Yeosang happened to forget something at your place.

You probably packed too much food. The containers are heavy and a little awkward to carry. You have to stop once to readjust it on your knee.

The faint sound of bass leads you to Studio Room B. You peer through the tiny rectangle window in the door and smile when Yeosang comes into view. He's dressed in grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt. You can see his dried sweat and mussed hair from outside the room.

You knock quietly on the door, not wanting to disturb him. When he doesn't respond, you knock louder. Still focused. You chuckle to yourself and gently reach for the door. You pop it open just a crack.

"Sangie?" you say quietly, peeking your head through the crack in the door. "Yeosang?"

He's distracted, fully focused on the choreography. A camera is set up on tripod across from him. He must be filming a practice video. As quietly as you can, you step into the room. You try to balance the containers of food on your knee while you push the heavy door closed, but a pair of chopsticks slides off the top and hits the floor with a quiet ping.

A scream of frustration escapes from Yeosang's throat. You freeze as he whirls around to glare at you. You grimace.

"Ooh, sorry," you say.

"This is the thousandth time I'm retaking this!" he shouts, voice echoing off the walls and filling the small space completely. "What are you doing here?"

You recoil a little, startled by his tone. Yeosang never yells...like ever. And he's certainly never shouted at you like this. His eyes are narrow and sharp, eyebrows knitted harshly over them. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, and his jaw is clenched tightly. You set the containers down and kneel to pick up the chopsticks.

"Oh, Sangie, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt you. I was just worried. I texted this morning and hadn't heard from you. I thought you might be hungry, so I brought yo-"

"Can't you see I'm busy?!" he snaps. "Now I have to start over. Again."

He doesn't even wait for you to respond, just turns his back on you and walks up to the camera. Your eyes follow his frame as your gut wrenches. You feel the sting of tears but blink them away defiantly. You scoot the containers toward the wall and stand.

"Well, I'm sorry," you repeat, tone soft but firm. Your voice shakes as you say, "I just thought you might be hungry, so I made you dinner. If you have time for it."

You turn quickly to escape out the door. When you lift your head to find the doorknob, you catch his reflection through the mirror on the wall. His eyes are glassy, mouth downturned, eyebrows knitted. His mouth is popped open. His hand is outstretched. It's almost like a movie scene that you paused to go get more popcorn; like he's frozen as he tries to reach for you.

Your face contorts in pain just as you slip into the hallway. As soon as the door snaps shut behind you, you're crying. Your chest aches. You climb into the car and speed home, wanting nothing more than to crawl under the sheets and disappear.

And that's exactly what you do. But you don't sleep. You can't. You just lie awake, long after the tears have stopped falling. You feel a little empty. Guilty, though you're not really sure why.

You have no idea what time it is when the door to your bedroom clicks open. You know that it hasn't been very long. Pale yellow light from the hall streams in through a small crack. You already know who it is. Only one person has a key to your place.

He steps so quietly you almost don't hear it. When his weight dips the bed down, it startles you a little. So gently, as if you were a bird, he reaches toward you and places a hand on your shoulder.

"Jagi...are you asleep?" he asks softly.

You don't know exactly what it is that gives you away—your uneven breathing, the twitch of your shoulder when he touches you—but he continues as if he knows you're awake.

"Can we talk? Please?"

You breathe deeply. Then, you roll over and move to sit up, pulling your knees in tight.

"Can...can you look at me?" he asks, voice shaky. "If not, I understand, but I'd really like to see your pretty eyes."

You hesitate, mind spiraling in circles, but eventually force your gaze up to his. And it breaks you, how sweet and how sad he looks.

"I'm sorry," he says, holding your gaze. "I had no right to act like that. I was horrible. I was selfish and impatient and...mean. And I have nothing to say except that I am so, so sorry."

You can already feel your iced-over heart melting. He looks so handsome, as always. His hair is still stuck to his forehead, his cheeks still pink.

"And that the kimbap you made was the most delicious thing I've ever eaten," he suddenly adds.

You can't help it, you giggle. He releases a sigh of relief, and a small grin tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"You ate it?" you ask sheepishly.

"Mhm."

"All of it?"

"Mhm. Every last grain of rice."

You grin sadly and drop your gaze. A few moments of silence pass before he whispers, "Did you cry?"

You nod, feeling tears welling again as you pity yourself. His expression drops, lips and eyebrows both pushing together. He shakes his head. He leans forward, gently sliding his palms onto your cheeks. He caresses your skin with his thumbs.

"No, no, please don't cry now. Enough of that. I never want you to cry, jagi. And I never, ever want you to cry because of me. Come here. Let me hold my honey."

You eagerly accept his invitation and crawl into his lap. You settle in, and he wraps his strong arms around your body. He kisses the top of your head. You nuzzle against his neck. He smells like sweat and sweet citrus. You breathe him in as he rocks you back and forth.

"What were you working on?" you ask.

"A practice video. KQ asked if I could film one, and my manager said it would be good to promote the solo project. I've been working on it all afternoon. I just...I want it to be perfect."

You tug at his hoodie string.

"Please. Everything you do is perfect, Yeosang. You're perfect."

He chuckles bitterly. You swivel in his grasp so you can look at him, hands braced on his shoulders.

"No. Obviously not," he replies. "Someone who was perfect wouldn't make people they love feel bad, especially not the person they love most in the world."

You smile, feeling heat crawl across your cheeks.

"Hey, perfect people make mistakes sometimes. It's alright, as long as they make up for it."

"Oh? And has your perfect person made up for it?"

You close one eye and press a finger to your lips as if thinking it over seriously.

"Hmmmm...not yet. But he will."

Yeosang smiles, leaning his head against your arm. He presses a kiss onto your skin.

"Ah, I see. Any suggestions for how he could do that?"

"No. I trust him." You smile for a moment. Then, your chest unexpectedly lurches and your expression turns serious. "But, first, I need him to tell me that he knows he can rely on me for anything."

He tilts his head.

"What do you mean? He—I know that."

"Then, you should do it. I just wish you would tell me when things like this are going on. When you feel this way. I can help. Or I can try, at least."

"I don't...I don't want you to worry."

You chuckle, brushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

"Too late. I worry anyway. But that's what couples do, Sangie. That's what love is—worrying about each other, wanting the best for each other. Please, let me be here when you need me."

He closes his eyes and gulps. He leans into your touch and inhales deeply. When his gaze recenters on yours, he looks hopeful.

"I'll try."

He leans forward, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. You melt into him, fingers clutching his muscles for life. When you pull back, he nuzzles your nose.

"Good," you say. Then, a moment later, "But, like, I still want you to make it up to me."

He laughs, kissing you again through a big smile. When he pulls away, his forehead stays stuck to yours.

"Don't worry," he says. "I will."

taglist: @rileylovescats @wooyoungsbrat @estrnrea @strawberrymars98 @elunicornus

[flaminhotlem0n]

𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐲

genre: fluff

wc: ~5400 (don´t get used)

pairing: husband!hyunjin x f!reader

summary: you are pregnant, but hyunjin is the one who got all the symptoms

not proofread!

──────────────────────

the smell of grilled chicken started to spread through the kitchen as i stirred the pan with one hand and cut the rest of the potatoes with the other. i put on a calm playlist in the background just to break the afternoon silence. it was a sunny sunday, the kind that would normally put hyunjin in a good mood, but he was acting strange… again

“hyune, lunch is almost ready!” i called without taking my eyes off the pan

what i heard in response was a dull sound coming from the living room, something between a groan of pain and a muffled “oh my god”

“hyunjin?”

“i can’t even look at chicken today i swear…” he replied in a whiny voice

i walked to the kitchen door and found him lying on the couch, hugging a pillow against his stomach, legs stretched out, eyes closed

“are you feeling sick?”

“nausea. again. seriously just the smell of the chicken flipped my stomach inside out”

“again?” i leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms

“third time this week. i woke up with a headache, heartburn, nausea, and now this. y/n, something’s wrong with me”

“maybe you should see a doctor. it’s been like this for two weeks now”

hyunjin opened his eyes slowly and looked at me like he had just made a huge discovery

“what if…” he dramatically adjusted himself on the couch “what if i’m pregnant?”

i burst out laughing right away

“sure. you’re pregnant. i’ll go mark it on the calendar”

“mocking my pain doesn’t help you know?” he placed a hand on his stomach with a suffering expression “maybe it’s sympathy pregnancy. it happens to some dads. i read about it”

“hyunjin, you can’t get pregnant”

“but what if my body is so connected to yours that it decided to go through the pregnancy with you? like soulmates… but with cramps and heartburn”

i rolled my eyes with a smile tugging at the corner of my lips but part of me froze

wait

my hands automatically went to the waistband of my sweatpants

that crazy idea made me remember something i shouldn’t have forgotten

“what is it?” he asked, raising his eyebrows at me “you look pale all of a sudden”

“nothing… i mean… just trying to remember…”

i went to the fridge and pulled off the calendar stuck with a magnet. i started counting the days

1… 2… 3… 4 weeks

“what are you trying to remember?”

“my period…” i whispered more to myself

“WHAT?” he shot up “you’re late?”

i nodded slowly

“it’s been over thirty days”

hyunjin went quiet for a second, staring at me like he was witnessing a miracle

“you think…”

“i don’t know. but i’m going to the pharmacy right now”

“want me to go with you? want me to buy it? want me to go alone and you stay here resting just in case you’re already pregnant and need to take it easy?”

“hyune, it’s just a test”

“but it’s the test”

i took a deep breath, grabbed my bag and left, feeling my heart beat differently

maybe it was just a false alarm

maybe not

20 minutes later, the bathroom felt quieter than usual

we were sitting on the floor, side by side, hyunjin’s hands tangled with mine

the pregnancy test sat on the sink, face down

time seemed to stop

“if it’s positive…” he began in a soft voice “…i promise i’ll learn to change diapers and never say i’d sell my soul for ice cream at 3 a.m. again”

“you never said that”

“but i thought it”

i laughed nervously

“and if it’s negative?”

“we try again”

“hyunjin!”

“what? it’s true! i’ve already grown attached to the imaginary baby”

i sighed and finally turned over the test

two lines

we went silent for two seconds

then hyunjin’s eyes widened and he covered his mouth, looking between the test and my face

“two lines. two lines. y/n…”

“i’m pregnant”

he started laughing and crying at the same time, completely caught between sobs and giggles

“you’re pregnant… i’m pregnant too! i knew it! i always knew. my body screamed it with every wave of nausea!”

he pulled me into a tight hug, the two of us sitting on the cold bathroom floor, the whole world suddenly too small for that moment

“i love you” he whispered in my ear “and i love this baby. even if it’s the size of a chia seed for now”

“i can’t believe we’re having a baby” i said wiping the tears off my face

he reached out and touched my belly, still flat

“you’re gonna be the perfect mom. and if i keep having symptoms, i swear i won’t complain. i’ll live this pregnancy with you. every single minute”

“ and you’re gonna be the most wonderful dad”

we stayed there a while longer, still a little shocked, but smiling

hyunjin rested his head on my shoulder and let out a dramatic sigh

“now everything makes sense. i felt it. i was pregnant with empathy. literally pregnant with love”

──────────────────────

the office was all white, with a light beige armchair and a little table with old magazines. but what really filled the space was the tense silence between the two of us. hyunjin was sitting next to me, one hand holding mine and the other… clutching a little pack of tissues.

“baby, why the tissues?” i asked, unable to hold back a laugh.

“i’m just getting ready. i know i’m going to cry. i saw those videos on tiktok, love, some dads hear the baby’s heartbeat and just lose it. i’m more sensitive than all of them put together"

he squeezed my hand tighter and looked at me with his eyes already glistening.

“i’m nervous"

“me too"

the doctor entered the room with a gentle smile and a clipboard in hand.

“hello, mr. and mrs. hwang, right?”

“yes, that's us”

“we’ll start with the ultrasound. is that okay?”

i nodded.

i lay down on the table while hyunjin stood next to me, holding onto my wrist like he was afraid i’d run away.

the doctor prepped the ultrasound machine, spread the cold gel on my belly, and slid the transducer over it.

hyunjin was already sniffling before we even saw anything.

“there.” the doctor pointed. “see that little flickering dot?”

“i do…” i replied, barely able to speak.

“that’s the heartbeat. we estimate about seven weeks. everything looks good with the baby.”

hyunjin let out a sound that was half cry, half laugh.

“it’s the most beautiful little bean i’ve ever seen…”

he dropped to his knees beside me, rested his head against the exam table, and sobbed with his face buried in my fingers.

“babe, it has a heart. a tiny little heart beating. like… for real.”

“hyunjin, get up, oh my god”

“i can’t. my knees gave out.”

the doctor had to stifle a laugh, and i stayed there, teary-eyed, holding the hand of the most dramatically loving man in the world.

after the exam ended, he helped me sit up with a gentleness that would make any nurse proud. he wrapped me in my little jacket, grabbed my bag, and led me to the car like i was about to give birth on the sidewalk.

at home, by late afternoon, we were lying on the bed, his head resting against my still-flat belly.

“you know, if you start kicking hard, please be gentle with daddy. he’s sensitive”

“hyunjin…”

“i just want them to hear my voice from now on”

i was running my fingers through his hair, giggling softly.

“are you feeling anything today?”

“today? headache, craving for mango with chili, nausea when i smelled our neighbor’s cologne… and i had a nightmare that the baby was born talking.”

“you seem more pregnant than i do.”

“i know.” he sighed. “but i’m happy. i never thought it was possible to love someone i haven’t even seen. but i do. i’m in love. with you… and our little bean.”

in the middle of the night, i woke up to a soft sound. i found hyunjin sitting on the floor of the bedroom, holding a little box.

“hyune? are you okay?”

“i’m writing a journal for the baby.”

“now? at three in the morning?”

“inspiration hit. i wrote: ‘dear baby, today was the day we heard your heart. the most beautiful sound in the world. your mom is a heroine and i… i’m an emotional potato, but i’ll try to be the best dad in the world. love you. signed: your daddy'”

“it's beautiful husband but come back to bed"

he smiled and climbed into bed, curling up behind me with his hands on my belly.

“good night wife, and good night little one"

i woke up with thin rays of sunlight slipping through the gap in the curtain. it was a warm, gentle light, the kind that feels like it’s hugging you in a calm way. i stretched carefully, feeling the weight of my belly becoming more present with each passing day.

next to me, hyunjin was still asleep. his messy hair had fallen over his eyes, and one of his hands, as always, rested on top of my belly — like he was afraid of losing contact with the baby during the night.

i turned slowly so i wouldn’t wake him, but of course he felt the movement.

“hmm…” he mumbled, voice raspy “already waking up, love?”

“yes” i smiled “someone in here is kicking like they’re in dance rehearsal.”

his eyes opened a little more, and a smile spread across his face even though his voice was still sleepy. he leaned in toward my belly and gently rested his face there.

“you’re growing so well, you know that? and your mom is even more beautiful with you in there.”

“are you asking for breakfast or just flirting with me?”

he gave a silly little smile, but before he could answer, his body stiffened. he sat up quickly, holding his stomach and frowning.

“ugh… oh no. oh no.”

“what is it?” i sat up too, worried.

“i… i think i’m gonna throw up. babe, i feel really sick.”

“again, hyune?”

he ran to the bathroom with one hand over his mouth. i sat there on the bed, listening to him gag and trying to understand how he had more pregnancy symptoms than i did.

a few minutes later, he came back looking pale and teary-eyed.

“false alarm, but the smell of our soap almost made me really throw up” he said, collapsing back onto the bed with a dramatic groan “that lavender one. i’ll never be able to use it again”

“you’re more pregnant than i am”

“and am i being judged for that?” he shot back, closing his eyes.

“no, i just find it funny that even air conditioning makes you nauseous”

“you don’t get it. i’m so connected to you two that i feel it. i really do. seriously. like… my body wants the full experience”

i sighed, laughing, and started running my fingers through his hair.

“let me remind you that i’m still the only person with an actual child growing inside of them, okay?”

he lifted his head slowly.

“for now…”

“hyunjin, don’t start”

he laughed, finally seeming better.

“but hey, this afternoon we need to go out and buy the rest of the baby stuff. remember?”

he sat up straighter in bed.

“today? yeah, of course. but only if i don’t faint from the store smell”

“you’re unbearable and perfect at the same time”

“the perfect recipe for an emotional dad”

──────────────────────

the mall was busy, but the baby store felt like a quiet bubble of cuteness. everything in pastel colors, soft fabrics, piles of teddy bears… and hyunjin, like an overgrown kid, trying to hide the sparkle in his eyes.

“babe… look at this sock. it has little ears. look at this” he practically whispered, holding up a tiny pair of pink socks.

“too cute. but focus, love, we came to get the stroller and the crib set”

but he had already gotten distracted again, this time in front of a little lion onesie.

“our baby’s gonna look like a stuffed animal in this.”

“hyunjin.”

he sighed, resigned, but still tossed the onesie into the cart.

we headed to the stroller section and he froze in front of an ultra-high-tech model that almost looked like a transformer.

“this one has suspension, a camera, and plays lullabies.”

“is it a stroller or a car?”

“what if our baby is a very picky baby? they’re gonna want comfort.”

“our baby doesn’t even know how to open their eyes yet.”

he laughed, but grabbed the stroller anyway. the problem came when it was time to fit it into the car trunk.

“hyunjin… you didn’t check if this would fit first?”

“did you check if your patience could handle dating a guy with empathy nausea?”

“touché.”

in the end, we came back with the stroller in the back seat, a bag full of tiny clothes, and a hyunjin completely in love with every inch of the experience.

night fell with the cool breeze coming through the living room window. hyunjin was already in a baggy sweatshirt, hair tied in a loose bun, and a nearly childlike excitement in his eyes. the shopping bags were scattered on the floor, and he was crouching carefully — not because he was in pain, but because he said he was “syncing with y/n's difficulty to bend down.” dramatic? absolutely. but my favorite kind of dramatic.

“ready to organize the baby stuff?” he asked, opening the first bag with almost ceremonial care.

“ready. i’m just wondering if you’re gonna cry again today.”

“y/n” he looked at me seriously “today we’re building the crib. if that’s not a reason to cry, i don’t know what is.”

i didn’t even have time to answer. he pulled out one of those little bunny security blankets and let out a sigh so dramatic it was like he had just found a lost childhood relic.

“look at this, love… the baby’s gonna hold this while they sleep. it’s gonna have their little scent.”

“or vomit, if they take after you and get nauseous from literally everything.”

he made a face but couldn’t hold back a laugh.

while he started assembling the crib with pieces scattered around the room, i sat on the pouf with a bottle of water and began sorting the clothes to wash the next day. every now and then he’d let out an “ow!” or a “hyunjin, focus!” to himself, like he was on some kind of life mission.

when he finished, the crib was facing our side of the bed. he stood there in silence for a while, eyes shining.

“we’re gonna sleep here and… right next to us will be our baby. here. with us…”

he stopped talking. literally. just opened his arms like he couldn’t put the feeling into words. and then, he ran to the closet and came back with… a doll.

“hyunjin…”

“let me play, just to see what it’ll be like.”

he carefully laid the doll in the crib and stood beside it, gently rocking the mattress with his hand.

“shhh… daddy’s here…” he whispered, acting it out.

“you know this is creepy, right?”

“it’s practice! look how well he’s sleeping.”

“hyunjin, the doll doesn’t even blink.”

“that means it’s in a deep sleep then.”

i was already crying from laughing.

after a few minutes, he sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall, watching the crib with slightly glassy eyes. i reached out my hand to him.

“come here, emotional dad.”

he crawled over and lay down with his head in my lap. i ran my fingers through his hair while i felt the baby move inside me.

“baby’s kicking.”

he stared at my belly, mesmerized.

“it feels like i have it inside me too, you know?”

“i know. you’re the only man who could have such an intense empathetic pregnancy.”

“do you think it’s possible to have cravings too? because i’m seriously craving those sugar donuts.”

“hyunjin, you ate seven yesterday.”

“the baby wants it too, y/n. the baby used me as a messenger.”

i rolled my eyes, laughing, but i was already heading to the kitchen. the truth was, i couldn’t resist him, especially when he looked at me like that, like i was the most beautiful thing in the world with this belly growing more every week.

that night, we laid together and stayed quiet for a long time, just feeling each other’s presence, and our baby’s. hyunjin with his hand on my belly, eyes closed, and that silly little smile still on his face.

“do you think he’ll have my eyes?” he whispered, already half asleep.

“if he does, he’s gonna melt the world just like his dad did.”

and that’s how we fell asleep. him, me… and our little kicker.

──────────────────────

the garden looked like it had come straight out of a dream. baby blue and soft pink balloons covered every corner, in arches above the table, scattered between white chairs, and tied to the ground with ribbons that danced in the wind. hanging from a tree were photos of us since the beginning of the pregnancy, hyunjin kissing my belly, the first ultrasound, me laughing with my hand on my stomach while he pretended to feel sick beside me. it was impossible to look around and not smile.

but hyunjin… he was a walking ball of nerves.

“do you want to sit down? want some water?” i asked for the third time, watching him rub the back of his neck for what felt like the thousandth time in five minutes.

“i don’t even know what i want, babe.” he replied with a nervous laugh. “maybe pass out? can i come back after the reveal?”

“you’re pale!”

“i’m about to find out if i’m going to be the dad of a little girl who’ll shatter my heart with two glances or of a mini-hyunjin who’s gonna drive me crazy climbing on everything. pale is an understatement.”

i slowly stood up from the chair and walked over to him. i placed my hand on his cheek.

“you’re already the dad of anyone’s dreams. whoever this baby is, they’re the luckiest in the world.”

he held my hand against his face and closed his eyes.

“do you think she… or he… can already feel all of this?”

“absolutely. this baby’s going to grow up surrounded by so much love it won’t even fit.”

hyunjin opened his eyes, a glimmer of emotion threatening to spill. then he looked at my belly and bent down slightly, speaking softly as if the world around us had disappeared:

“hey, baby… it’s daddy here. today’s our big day, okay? we’re going to find out who you are. but no matter what… i already love you so much it doesn’t even fit inside me.”

“babe…” i said, feeling my eyes fill too.

he stood up, squeezed my hand, and took a deep breath.

“is it time?”

i nodded. people around us were already calling, guests getting their phones ready. in the center, the big black balloon swayed gently in the wind, with a small golden tag that read in cursive: “girl or boy?”

we stood under the balloon. hyunjin looked at me.

“last chance to run.”

“you run slower than i do pregnant. there’s no escape.”

he laughed.

“i love you.”

“i love you too, hyunjin.”

we grabbed the stick together. one, two… three.

POUF!

the balloon burst with a pop, and for a second, time froze. a shower of pink confetti flew into the sky and started falling around us like flower petals.

everything went quiet. and then…

“is… is it a girl?” he asked, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “pink… it’s pink, right? oh my god, it’s a girl!”

he brought his hands to his head, then let the tears fall, smiling like it was the most beautiful thing in the world.

“it’s a girl… she’s my little girl…” his voice broke completely. he dropped to his knees in the grass. “i’m… i’m doomed.”

i knelt beside him. held him tightly. we were both laughing and crying at the same time as the guests cheered around us.

“i knew it… i knew it was you.” he whispered to my belly, overwhelmed. “i felt everything, every wave of nausea, every fear, every joy. it was you telling me you were here all along.”

“she already knows she has the silliest dad in the universe.” i said, my hand in his hair.

“silly and totally smitten.” he chuckled, eyes still glistening. then he brought his face close to my belly. “you already have my heart, princess. and i promise i’ll protect you forever.”

in that moment, between confetti, promises, and tears, there was no doubt: our daughter was already loved more than words could ever explain.

──────────────────────

“babe, have you seen the pouch with my breast pads?” i asked, rummaging through the dresser with one hand and holding the checklist with the other.

hyunjin appeared at the door, flushed and breathless, holding two toothbrushes, one of my socks, and the makeup case.

“i found this. is this useful? this is useful, right?” he sounded out of breath just from running up and down the room.

“hyun, that’s the eyeliner case. and this is the baby’s sock.”

he stepped closer, eyes wide.

“the baby’s sock?! how did i put the baby’s sock in your pouch?? oh god, i’m going to faint.”

“breathe. you’re not the one giving birth, i am.”

“you think?! because i’m starting to doubt that!” he put a hand on his belly, frowning. “ow… ow. ow. oh my god…”

“hyunjin…”

“it’s like a cramp, babe. it’s coming in waves. it’s coming in waves”

“you’ve got gas”

“i’ve got contractions”

“you’ve got drama”

he placed his hands on his hips and started pacing in circles.

“i think the baby’s going to be born through me. my body absorbed the suffering. i’m the new birth canal. take me to the hospital”

“hyun, grab my blue button-up shirt and stop with the theatrics”

he left the room talking to himself, still clutching his belly and moaning like he was about to have his water break. i laughed to myself, organizing the last things in the hospital bag, when i felt… a pop.

pluc.

and then… the warmth.

“hyunjin…” i called out, frozen in place.

he came running back with the blue shirt, still acting out his contractions.

“what it is babe?”

“my water just broke”

he froze.

“YOUR WHAT?”

“my water broke. the baby’s coming”

panic. silence. eyes locked.

hyunjin let out a high-pitched squeal, stumbled, and nearly fell on his butt.

“oh my god it’s real? oh my god it’s today?!”

“yes! and you need to stop pretending you’re in pain and help me up!”

he rushed over, tripping over his own feet, hands on his head.

“okay, okay! bag! keys! car! you! me! ah no, i’m feeling another contraction!”

“hyunjin!”

“sorry! i’m coming! everything’s gonna be okay! don’t go into labor yet, let me find my wallet!”

“i’m the one giving birth!”

“i know, love, but i’m just as pregnant as you are in spirit!!”

amid the chaos, we finally left the house. hyunjin driving like a rocket, whispering prayers, cursing at red lights, and tearing up every time i took a deep breath.

“if she’s born with this sense of timing, she’s definitely gonna be a drama queen like her dad.” i said, between contractions.

“she inherited the talent and comedic timing, yes. but i hope she gets her mom’s common sense. ow, ow… phantom pain again!”

“you’ll give birth through your mouth if you keep saying that.”

we arrived at the hospital with hyunjin practically skidding into the emergency parking spot. he jumped out of the car, shouting at the nurses:

“my wife is in labor! and so am i!”

“he’s not in labor!” i yelled from the car door. “but i am, and he’s about to pass out!”

it was the most beautiful chaos of our lives. the beginning of the greatest love of all.

──────────────────────

the room was softly lit. the nurse adjusted the equipment, the doctor spoke in a calm voice, but everything sounded muffled. the loudest sound was hyunjin’s heavy breathing and the rhythmic echo of contractions, each one stronger than the last.

he was squeezing my hand so tightly I couldn’t even tell who was comforting who anymore.

“you’re doing so good, baby. so, so good. i’m right here, okay? i’m not going anywhere. not even if i faint. if i faint, just pick me up, but i’m staying.” he spoke fast, his voice trembling, eyes glassy.

“you’ve said that like ten times already, hyune” I murmured, trying to smile between the pain.

“i have to keep reminding you because… you’re incredible. i don’t even know how you’re doing this. and i wish i could take all this pain and carry it for you…”

“you’ve already felt everything for me so far.” I replied, my gaze soft.

he let out a nervous laugh, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. he was pale, hair stuck to his skin from the anxiety. he turned to the doctor:

“she’s almost there, right? you can see the head? the ears? everything’s coming out already?!”

the doctor answered with a patient smile:

“almost there, dad. we just need a little more strength, mama. you can do this.”

I nodded, my eyes filling with tears. the pain was intense, but love overflowed. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and pushed with everything I had left.

“yes! that’s it, baby! oh my god! you’re doing it! she’s coming, you’re bringing her to us!” Hyunjin shouted, voice cracking with emotion, like he was witnessing a miracle.

one more contraction. one more push. and then… the sound.

the first cry. small. fragile. loud.

my eyes opened instantly. and the world stopped.

“did she… is she here?” I asked, breathless.

the doctor held that tiny little being, wrapped in a white and pink cloth, eyes shut and mouth slightly open.

“she’s a beautiful little girl.” she said with a smile. “congratulations, mama. congratulations, papa.”

hyunjin broke down.

tears streamed freely down his face. He fell to his knees beside the bed, resting his head on my legs as he sobbed.

“she’s here… she’s really here… she’s real…” he repeated, broken. “you did this. you brought her to us.”

the nurse called him, and he stood up on shaky legs, clumsily wiping his face, and took the first steps toward our daughter.

“hi…” he whispered, approaching gently. “i’m your dad. you have no idea how long we’ve waited for you.”

he held the little bundle in his arms like she was made of porcelain and brought her back to me.

“look at her, baby… she’s perfect. she has your lips.”

“and your nose.” I smiled, crying too.

hyunjin sat beside me, arms wrapped around both of us, the three of us fitting together like a single heartbeat.

“we did it.” he murmured, kissing my forehead. “she’s here.”

we stayed like that, in silence, while the world outside kept spinning. Inside that room, there was only peace. only love.

──────────────────────

the apartment door closed with a soft click. hyunjin pushed it shut with his foot as he helped me inside. the baby was sleeping curled up in my arms, wrapped in a white blanket with tiny pink bows.

the silence in the air felt strange. After months of waiting, running, pain, tears, and dreams… now she was here. Home.

“i think she likes it here.” I whispered, feeling my heart on the verge of bursting.

hyunjin kicked off his shoes in the hallway like any sound might wake her. Then he ran to the couch and threw all the pillows around.

“wait, wait, sit here, babe. rest your arm on this side. yeah, slowly…” he instructed every move like I was made of glass. “want water? fruit? a pillow for your back? your feet? a massage? the moon? i’ll bring it.”

I let out a soft laugh.

“i want you to sit down next to me and stop spinning around the house like a top.”

he froze, laughed nervously, and collapsed onto the couch beside me.

“sorry. i’m kinda freaking out. it’s just… damn, she’s here. like… really here.”

I looked at our daughter. she was sleeping with her lips slightly parted and her tiny hands balled up like she was dreaming of her own birth.

“do you think she’ll hate the crib?” I asked, stroking the edge of the blanket.

“if she does, she sleeps with us. we’ll manage.” he replied, resting his head against mine. “or i’ll stay up all night with her in my arms. no big deal.”

“of course it is. you’ll fall asleep standing up.”

“not true. i’m a dad now, i’ve reached monk-level self-control.”

“hyunjin, you cried yesterday because she sneezed.”

“and it was the cutest sneeze in the entire world. don’t even deny it.”

i let out a muffled laugh, but quickly went quiet when the baby stirred. Hyunjin held his breath. she let out a tiny sigh… and fell back asleep.

he melted into the couch, relieved.

“okay. we survived her first sigh.”

we sat there for a while, admiring that tiny little face like it was the eighth wonder of the world. after a moment, he whispered:

“can I hold her for a bit?”

I nodded. He gently took her into his arms like he was holding a falling star.

“hi, my love…” he whispered. “it’s your dad. we made it. this is your home now.”

my eyes welled up again.

“you’re gonna spoil her.”

"with love? absolutely.” he said with a goofy smile, kissing her forehead.

suddenly, she opened her mouth and made a soft sound… and then the dreaded little cry began.

hyunjin went pale.

“she’s hungry? diaper? cold? hot? help me!”

I carefully took the baby back and opened her onesie.

“it’s okay. just a dirty diaper. want to change her?”

he jumped to his feet, excited:

“yes! of course I do! I practiced with the training doll! I’m a total profe—”

“she pooped all the way up to her neck.”

he froze.

“okay. copy that. plan b: i’ll grab the wipes and offer emotional support.”

while he fumbled with wipes, a burp cloth, the portable changing mat and a roll of paper towels, I couldn’t stop smiling. even with the dark circles under my eyes and exhaustion dragging me down… my whole world was right there, in two sets of eyes: my daughter’s, and my husband, who was now looking at me with the purest expression of love… and poop on his finger.

“are you laughing at me?” he asked, horrified.

“hyun, the diaper’s on backwards.”

“it’s conceptual.”

“it’s a disaster.”

later that night, once she finally fell asleep in the crib for the very first time, we collapsed into bed, hand in hand.

“i’m scared I won’t be able to handle this.” he confessed quietly, staring at the ceiling.

I turned to face him.

“you already are. every diaper disaster, every kiss on the forehead, every dumb joke that made me laugh these past nine months… you’re the best dad she could ever have.”

he turned his face to look at me, eyes full again.

“and you’re the best mom in the universe. thank you for giving me both of you.”

we kissed slowly, feeling our hearts beat in sync.

and there, on the first night of our new life, we realized:

the chaos had begun…

but we had never been this happy

[tacobacoyeet]

yes | james potter x reader

warnings: mentions of death, mentions of divorce, milk (if you're lactose intolerant), not my best work but it's been weighing on my mind for a while

The night starts with exploding scones.

Which, honestly, is par for the course when you’re dating James Potter. He insists it wasn’t his fault—the spell on the bakery window was already unstable, he just happened to brush it while trying to open the door with his elbow and balance two coffees and a bouquet of something vaguely yellow and cheerfully lopsided.

You stand there in a puff of sugar dust and lemon zest, mouth open, hair full of crumbs, while James grins at you like he’s personally discovered joy.

“Right,” he says, brushing powdered sugar from your sleeve with absolutely no shame. “Not exactly how I pictured this date starting, but I stand by my aesthetic choices.”

“You detonated pastry,” you deadpan.

“I detonated for you,” he corrects, as if that makes it noble.

The witch from the bakery scowls at both of you through the smoky remains of her shopfront. James gives her the most apologetic smile you’ve ever seen. You drag him away before she gets her wand out.

He takes you to a nearby park instead—one of those Muggle ones tucked between rows of townhouses, with cracked fountains and benches that creak when you sit. You’re still brushing flour from your sleeves when he pulls a thermos from his coat and hands it over.

“Peace offering,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. "This isn't just another edible explosive, is it?"

“No promises,” he replies, eyes dancing.

The tea is perfect, of course. Cinnamon and cardamom and just the right amount of milk. You sip it slowly, watching him try to act casual while sneaking glances at you over his cup. He fidgets more than usual tonight—tapping his fingers, bouncing his leg, like he’s waiting for something.

You lean into him, shoulder brushing his. “What’s with you?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re twitchier than a Niffler in a jewellery store.”

“Am I?”

“James.”

He exhales, then turns to face you fully. There’s flour still stuck in his hair, and his cheeks are pink with cold, and his eyes—God, his eyes—are the exact color of the kind of morning that makes you believe in starting over.

“Alright,” he says. “I had a plan.”

“Oh no.”

“A good plan! Mostly. Well. Okay, it involved a bakery and scones and you being impressed, but we all saw how that turned out.”

You laugh. “So what now? We call it a disaster and try again next week?”

He shakes his head.

“No,” James says. “I try again now.”

And then he kneels.

There’s no box. No dramatic music. Just him, and you, and the taste of tea on your tongue, and the way the wind hushes as if it knows this matters.

“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much it scares me. I want every stupid, messy, exploded-scone morning with you. I want the hard parts, too. The quiet. The uncertain. All of it. So... will you marry me?”

Your breath catches.

You don’t mean to hesitate. But your heart stutters in your chest like it’s trying to say something first.

You blink. Look at him. Look at the hands you’ve held. The boy who became a man right in front of you. Who is still somehow both.

“I need to think,” you whisper.

James doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t panic. Just smiles, soft and real.

“Take your time,” he says. “I’ll be here.”

---

Harry was only a few months old when Lily and James sat across from each other at the kitchen table and admitted it: they loved each other, but not like they used to. Not like they needed to. Not in the way that made forever feel honest.

It was quiet. No screaming. No bitterness. Lily held her teacup in both hands and said, “I think we’re better as friends.” And James, exhausted and aching and still tracing little hearts into the condensation of his glass, nodded.

He said, “I think you’re right.”

They divorced gently. Softly. Like people who knew they’d always be in each other’s lives, just not in each other’s arms. Lily moved into a flat near St. Mungo’s. James stayed in Godric’s Hollow with Harry. They traded nights. Stories. Kisses to the forehead. Every Saturday night, they came together for dinner so Harry would always remember what love looked like—even if it changed shape.

You came into the picture not long after. Harry was almost one.

You met James at a Ministry fundraiser you didn’t want to attend. He spilled a glass of elderflower wine down your robes, tried to make it vanish with the wrong charm, and made the stain worse. You should’ve hexed him. You stayed for dessert instead.

He didn’t tell you who he was at first. Not really. Just said he was a dad. A bit of a mess. That he used to play Quidditch and that he still thought about it when it rained.

You fell into something easy and strange with him. You’d owl him about absurd headlines in The Daily Prophet. He’d send back sketches of them with mustaches and speech bubbles. When you met Harry—round-cheeked, giggly, wild—you knew you were already in too deep.

James never rushed you. Never asked you to fill a space. You found your place all on your own. By the fireplace. At the stove. In the soft, silly rituals of bath time and bedtime and mornings where the three of you fit together like a charm you didn’t even know you’d cast.

He kissed you like the world was ending. He held you like it wasn’t.

You love the way he touches you—like he can’t believe he’s allowed to. It’s in the way his hand finds your lower back in crowded rooms. The way his knuckles brush yours when you're walking down a street and he thinks no one’s watching. The way he kisses you when he thinks no one’s looking—pressed into alleyways during errands, behind the bookshop, halfway through a rushed goodbye at the Floo—quick and greedy, like the world might take you from him if he doesn’t hold on.

He brings you terrible poetry scribbled on napkins. Spells out I love you in chocolate frog wrappers. Slips his socks into your laundry just to have a reason to see you again.

He makes tea in the mornings and toast at night. He dances with Harry in the kitchen when he thinks you're asleep. And when you catch them—Harry squealing, James twirling him like a tiny Quidditch player—he doesn't stop. He just smiles and says, “Come dance too.”

He tells you secrets. That he still talks to his dad sometimes, even though he’s gone. That he used to think he’d die young. That he didn’t know love could feel like a quiet house and warm feet under the covers.

He listens when you talk about fear. Doesn’t rush you when you cry. Holds you like you’re both breakable and sacred.

You fall in love with him in pieces, but it sticks all the same. Like honey in tea. Like light behind curtains. Like you were always meant to.

You’ve seen the worst of him—rage and recklessness and war-borne grief—and still, he shines.

And this is why it matters. Why you need to be sure. Because love like that deserves a deliberate yes.

So you take your time.

But the answer is already blooming in your chest like a secret you can't wait to share.

You spend the next few days in London. You stay with Marlene, who doesn’t ask questions but keeps the kettle going and leaves your favorite biscuits out on the counter. Her flat is small and loud and smells like bergamot and ink, and you find yourself grateful for the noise. It keeps you from curling in too tight around the what-ifs.

You walk. A lot. Down the alleyways you used to take to class, past old bookstores and the café that James insists makes the best hot chocolate in the city. You find one of those quiet little parks—iron gate, crooked trees, a bench that groans under you—and you sit there each morning with a takeaway cup, writing nothing in a notebook James gave you for your birthday. It’s charmed to never run out of pages. He wrote that in the corner of the first one: For all the things I don’t want you to forget.

You don’t write in it. You hold it. That’s enough.

You think about him constantly. In the quiet. In the noise. In the way your hand always reaches for his when you cross a street, even though he’s not there. He lives in your body, in your timing, in the exact way you expect the world to feel when something is right.

You spend Friday night curled in a too-small armchair, blanket over your shoulders, writing out what you’ll say. Not a speech, but something like a promise. A messy sort of vow scribbled in the margins of a torn café receipt. You fold it into your coat pocket and trace it with your thumb over and over like it’s alive.

Saturday approaches like a heartbeat.

You know he’ll be with Lily and Harry. That it’s their night. That it always has been. You picture Harry in costume, chasing pumpkin-shaped bubbles around the sitting room, Lily laughing from the kitchen doorway, James ducking behind a cushion like it’s a battlefield. A good night. A safe night.

You don’t hear from him that day. You don’t think much of it.

You take a long shower. You braid your hair back the way James likes. You try on the jumper he left at your flat last month and wear it for the rest of the day like it’s armor.

You go to bed with his name tucked under your tongue. You kiss the inside of your wrist where he once kissed it, and you say his name into the dark like it’s an incantation. You promise the silence that tomorrow will be the day.

You’ll tell him tomorrow.

You’ll say yes tomorrow.

---

November 1st begins gray.

You wake early. The light is soft and dull, filtered through a curtain of fog. London is hushed, as though the whole city is waiting to exhale. You dress slowly, carefully. You wear the jumper again. The one that smells like him. You tuck the café receipt into your pocket, your fingers lingering against the ink like maybe it will warm you.

You stop by the market and buy the flowers he always picked for you—yellow peonies, their heads too heavy for their stems. They look like they might explode out of the paper wrapping if you loved them too hard. That’s what he always said. You smile at the memory. It feels like touching a bruise.

You apparate to Godric’s Hollow with the peonies in one hand and your yes in the other.

You expect the garden gate. The ivy on the chimney. The smell of toast drifting down the path. You expect to see him in the window, hair a mess, glasses crooked, Harry in his arms. Maybe he’d open the door before you even knocked. Maybe he’d say, "Took you long enough," and pull you in by your collar.

But what you get is rubble.

No door. No windows. No roof. Just blackened beams and silence, and the ghosts of everything you were too late to say.

It doesn’t register at first. Your brain refuses it. You take a step forward like it’s a bad dream, like the wrong house, like maybe if you just move slow enough, it’ll come back into focus.

But it doesn’t. It won’t. It’s gone.

You sink to your knees without thinking. The flowers slip from your hand. The stems crush in the grass. You feel the petals give under your knees like an apology.

There, in front of what used to be the garden, is the stone.

James Potter. Lily Potter. October 31st, 1981.

Your lungs forget how to work.

You reach for the stone like it might be warm. Like he might be just under it, curled in the dark, waiting for you to find him. Your hand flattens against the name, and it hits you.

The finality. The enormity. The after.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. No air. No scream. Just a soundless wreck of breath and disbelief.

You whisper his name. Then louder. Then again. Until your voice breaks. Until your throat is raw. You beg for this reality to be temporary, like the plaque before you. But that would be a replaced by a tomb. A statue. The ache in your chest would be there forever.

No answer.

Only wind.

You pull the note from your pocket with trembling fingers. It’s smudged. The ink has bled. The tear down the corner wasn’t there before. You flatten it against the stone anyway. You press it down like a promise.

I said yes.

You curl around the stone like it’s the only gravity left. You press your face into the cold, unyielding surface and pretend it’s his shoulder. His chest. His laugh.

You remember how he held you the night your cousin died. How he ran his thumb over your knuckles and said, “I don’t know how to fix it, but I’ll sit with you until it doesn’t feel like a hole.”

There’s a hole in you now. A chasm. You don't know where the bottom is.

You stay there until dusk. Until your knees ache and your throat burns. Until the wind picks up and the sky goes violet with grief.

You press your palm to the cold granite. You don’t cry. Not yet. Not really. It hasn’t landed. It hasn’t finished breaking.

You just sit there, heart wide open, love unspent.

And you say it again.

“I said yes.”

You say it until your voice cracks. Until your lips numb. Until the world forgets how to hold you back.

And still, he doesn’t answer.

Bonus Scene — Christmas, 1997

It’s snowing lightly in Godric’s Hollow. The flakes settle on the statue's shoulders, clinging to James’s wind-swept hair, Lily’s quiet smile, and Harry’s frozen infancy caught in bronze. The entire square is still. Reverent.

You'd been coming for years. Each one, since 1982, when they first unveiled the memorial and you couldn’t bear to look at the likeness. It had been wrong, then—too clean, too eternal, too unmoving for a man who had danced Harry to sleep with chocolate on his chin and laughter in his chest.

But now, seventeen years later, you stand beneath it once again. The yellow peonies you leave each year feel heavier than usual. The petals are wrapped in brown paper, tied with gold twine. You reach up, place them gently at the statue’s feet.

You don’t say anything at first. Just breathe. Just look. He’s still here, somehow. Still holding her hand. Still holding Harry.

You trace your fingers over the names at the base. There’s your note again. Not the one you left in 1981—but one you rewrite every year. You always write the same words.

I said yes.

Snow begins to gather on your shoulders.

You don’t see them approach.

Not until the boy’s breath fogs beside you.

He’s taller than you expected. Quieter. He’s wrapped in a too-big coat and scarf, but it’s the glasses that stop your heart. The hair. Her eyes.

And then he speaks. “Did you know them?”

You don’t look at him right away. You can’t. You nod.

“I did.”

He swallows. You can hear it. “I’m Harry.”

You nod again. “I know.”

A girl stands behind him—wide-eyed, watching. Her wand is tucked discreetly into her sleeve. She doesn’t speak. But her eyes linger on you—on your face, your hands, the worn ring on your finger. There’s a flicker of recognition there. Like maybe someone told her a story once, in a firelit room, about a woman James Potter had loved before the war took everything. Maybe it was Sirius. Maybe he’d called you the almost. The could’ve-been. The one he waited for.

You kneel again, brush snow from the edge of the base, and set a second bouquet beside the first. You don’t know why you brought two this year. You don't know why you came on Christmas, when you were already there on November 1st.

Harry crouches beside you.

“What were they like?” he asks, voice so young and so old all at once.

You glance at the statue. Then at him.

“Bright,” you whisper. “And brave. And very, very loud.”

He smiles. You do too.

You don’t tell him everything. You don’t say that James had terrible handwriting or how he used to burn toast every morning. You don’t say you loved him, still love him, will always love him in a way that defies seventeen years and the ache of memory.

You just press your hand over his on the base of the statue.

And for a moment, all four of you are here.

Alive. Together.

And then the snow falls harder, and the wind shifts, and he stands. Nods. Disappears down the street with the girl.

You stay behind. One last moment.

One last look.

One more yes, whispered into the cold.

-----

tagging: @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion (UMMMMMM) @glennussy @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @nozhdyved @jesuistrestriste @hangels @peachyparkerr @lov3lylxvender

want to be tagged in the next one? join here!

[wildflowersandbarley333]

Welcome to the Family

ˋ°•*⁀➷ Isagi x reader

what's better than dessert after dinner with your boyfriend and his parents?? getting to see his baby pictures <3

wc: 1093

"Here's Yocchan's first time riding a bike," Iyo smiled as she pointed to the old photo of four year old Yoichi.

"Mom-"

"And here's Yocchan falling off the bike, crying because he scraped his knee," she then pointed to the next photo in the album sitting on her lap. "Oh he cried and cried."

"Mom." Yoichi groaned, sinking further into the cushioned chair that sat beside the couch you and his parents were currently seated on. She didn't pay her son's complaints much attention though as she continued flipping through the old photo album, happy to indulge all your questions about sweet little Isagi Yoichi.

Isagi knew this was coming. Since the moment you two started dating, he knew his parents had been waiting for the day you would be in their living room, letting them show you every picture and share every story from his childhood to ever exist. And here you were, the love his life looking beautiful sitting in between his sweet, loving parents giggling at each one of his baby pictures. He loved his parents dearly but god was this embarrassing.

"Is this his first soccer game?" you asked excitedly, holding the photo delicately as Iyo slips it out the album so you can see it up close. You smiled at the image in front of you showing a little Yoichi whose jersey was covered in dirt, flashing a smile with a few missing baby teeth, hands behind his back as he looked up at the camera. You recognized that passion and excitement in his eyes in an instant, as it's one you've seen plenty times watching his games as he now plays for a professional team.

"It was! He was so happy that day," Issei, who was sitting on the other side of you on the couch, smiled recalling the day all those years ago. "Even though I'm pretty sure I remember he passed the ball to someone on the opposite team in the first half." You laughed upon hearing this, turning to face your boyfriend who was trying to merge into the cushions and never be seen again. You raised an eyebrow at him, giving him a teasing smirk knowing damn well nowadays if a teammate had made an error like that he'd show no mercy.

"I was eight!" Yoichi rebutted in an act to save himself from the embarrassment. You and his mom just chuckled, finding his rosy cheeks and slightly furrowed eyebrows amusing. Though Isagi was enjoying seeing you and his family get along so well over the course of the night, he wasn't sure how many more embarrassing childhood stories he could listen to you and his mom giggle over. He excused himself into the kitchen, deciding to start washing through the dishes you all had previously used at dinner.

Due to the excitement of finally getting to meet you, his parents had prepared a whole feast. The meal featured not only all of Isagi's favorite dishes, but also many of your favorites as his mom had texted him the week before asking for a list of your top dinner picks. The lingering embarrassment had vanished from Isagi's mind as he replayed the night in his head. He spent all day telling you not to worry, that of course he parents will love you. And now seeing that in person had him beaming with joy.

"Want some help? you sneak up behind him, kissing his cheek as you stood beside him at the sink.

"Already had enough of embarrassing Yoichi story time?" he pretended to be annoyed, making you both struggle to bite back a smile.

"Be careful there mister," you played along with him as you began joining him with washing dishes. "Or I might just go back to hanging out with little Yocchan in his lobster onesie." You laughed at the way he groaned, removing your soapy hands from the sink to pinch his cheeks as he pouted. As your laughs died down, a peaceful silence fell over you both as you two kept working through the dirty dishes stacked in the sink. You'd shift to occasionally brush your shoulder against him, a soft smile painted across both your faces. You turned to face him as you wanted to make a comment about how nice the evening had been, but the train of thought immediately left as you were met with him already facing you. The lovestruck expression he always had when looking at you still gave you butterflies to this day.

"What?"

"Tonight's been nice," his eyes sparkled as he smiled and it only made your heart flutter faster.

"It has," you smile back, drying your hands off on a nearby towel before wrapping your arms around his neck. Your hands slide up the back of his neck to begin combing through his hair, enjoying the way he practically melts into your touch. "I"m happy I got to meet your parents, I really like them."

"They like you too," he pulls you closer to him, "just like I knew they would." He leaned in to rest his forehead against yours, lips slowly moving closer to yours. You hummed once his lips finally met yours, pulling you into a sweet and gentle kiss. He kissed you slowly, pouring his heart into the action piece by piece, wishing to stay like this forever. The sunset visible from the window casted a glow over you two as you two pulled away from the kiss to catch your breath. You opened your eyes slowly, shifting your gaze upwards to meet Isagi's sparkling eyes. His cheeks were slightly pink, breathing unsteady, and smiling ear to ear. You found yourself lost in the beauty of the moment and his eyes, forgetting the rest of the world around you as Isagi held you in his arms and leaned in to rest his forehead against yours.

That was until a loud "CLICK" followed by a flash that snapped you two back into reality. You two pulled away from the kiss, turning to face the direction of where the sound and flash came from. That's when you saw Iyo and Issei standing under the door frame, camera in hand as Issei handed Iyo the developing polaroid picture.

"For the photo album!" she cheered, waving the developing photo back and forth. You and Isagi exchanged an embarrassed expression before bursting into a happy laughter that echoed throughout the kitchen, making his parents smiles grow wider as they looked at each other silently agreeing you were indeed the one for their son.

[divider by @/bronzewasp]

[55sturn]

⋆˚꩜｡ what star’s au pairings are up to right now! .𖥔 ݁ ˖

⤷ disclaimers: will include mentions of alcohol, sex, drug use, fighting, pregnancy, hospitals, and basically a lot of angst lol.

⤷ mainly inspired by: @bernardsbendystraws and @sturniphone and their updates for their au’s!

٠࣪⭑ loser!chris & mean girl! reader

⤷ in their timeline, it’s currently 11:40 PM right now, they’re currently getting dressed after showering together! missy initially suggested showering together after a long day that mainly consisted of them fighting and arguing and visiting her dad in the hospital, but it led to the two of them having gentle, apologetic, and slightly emotional sex. as they’re putting themselves back together, they’re talking through all of the issues they had during the day and communicating their feelings in a healthy way, which is new to them but they want to make things work.

٠࣪⭑ “ gadget ” aka loser!matt & “ fidget “ aka academic weapon!reader

⤷ it’s currently almost three in the morning for them, and neither of them are doing well. matt is stumbling home from the bar, drunker than he should be and high off something his friend gave him, and he’s trying so hard not to call fidget, but he misses her and all he wants is her. fidget is currently writing a thesis for one of her classes, ignoring her group chat going off about a party that one of them is going to over the weekend, however a voicemail notification distracts her as she realizes it’s from matt.

٠࣪⭑ wedding date!chris & former best friend!reader

⤷ it’s nearing midnight for them, they just stumbled in the doors from the wedding social, and they’re drunk off each other’s kisses and a few too many tequila shots. they still haven’t sorted their relationship out, but reader is purposely avoiding having that conversation because she’s scared chris is gonna run the second things become serious, again.

٠࣪⭑ single dad!chris & “ tink “ aka childhood best friend!reader

⤷ it’s about six in the evening for them, and olivia gray will not take her bottle. chris is exhausted, he smells faintly of baby barf and formula, and he has no idea what the fuck is stuck in his hair, but every time baby gray curls her fingers in his shirt and nestles closer to him, he realizes he wouldn’t change anything. but sometimes, he catches himself thinking about tink, wondering how she’d fit into this little life he’s made for himself. but tink, on the other hand, has no idea chris is home or that he has a kid. she just got home from her friend’s cabin after celebrating her friend’s engagement over the weekend, she’s desperately hungover and trying to figure where her vape is and why the hell she’s got a hickey on her neck.

٠࣪⭑ best friend!matt & “ babydoll “ aka best friend!reader

⤷ it’s about nine in the evening for them, they just got back to los angeles after spending a few weeks back in boston. things have been pretty steady for them, they’ve just recently moved into their own place and things are starting to become serious, especially with the slightly strange cravings for food babydoll hates that come really late at night, the sporadic morning sickness, and unopened box of tampons underneath the bathroom sink.

٠࣪⭑ ex boyfriend!chris & “ sweetheart “ aka ex girlfriend!reader

⤷ it’s about eleven at night, chris is currently walking around just outside of campus, a joint between the fingers of his left hand, his right one is repeatedly tugging through his hair, and he’s lightly clacking his tongue piercing against his teeth without meaning to. his mind is racing at a mile a minute, and he has no idea what to think. the idea of spending the year living with sweetheart is torturous to say the least. he’s still in love with her, but he’s heard through the grapevine that she’s got a new boyfriend and the thought makes him sick to the stomach. sweetheart is back in their dorm after moving all of her stuff, she feels like her mind is spinning in circles, and she’s decided that once chris gets back, she’s going to ask him to go down to the dorm admissions office and ask if he can switch his dorm, since she’s already caused a scene with the lady who works there.

[444eggnog]

2,950 Miles Away

✍︎: i feel like charles is everyone’s first love in f1, so it’s only natural for me to write an au for him. honestly, i don’t know why i didn’t post this sooner. i have 2 more aus sitting on my drafts, so close! but before all that, enjoy charles, the ever so loving, ever so stubborn boyfriend! ♡

masterlist ! ☻

content: long-distance relationship, stubborn couple, mutual pining, lots of fluff, post-fight reconciliation

pairing: bf!charles x baker!reader

wc: 2.4k

Love isn’t just I miss yous and kisses, it’s showing up, apologizing, and meaning it

Charles adjusts the headset on his ears, the din of the Ferrari garage muffled but not silent. Mechanics bark instructions, tyres screech on the screens overhead, someone slaps the side of the pit wall. He tunes it all out. His phone is pressed close to his mouth, thumb brushing the edge of the case like it’s her skin.

"Mornin’, chérie," he murmurs, voice low and tired.

There’s a yawn on the other end of the line. Rustling sheets. Her sleepy voice is a balm, even cracked and quiet.

"Morning. Sorry, I just woke up."

"It’s okay." He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"Mm. Busy day ahead. I have to check the ovens in twenty minutes and prep the fillings, one of my staff is out sick so I’m doing her shift too. I really need to start my morning now."

He sighs before he can stop himself.

"Y/N—"

"Charles, I’m sorry."

There’s a pause. He hears her breathing, rapid like she’s walking around the flat, already multitasking. He hates it.

"It’s fine," he says too quickly. "Go. Bye."

"I’ll call you tonight, okay?"

"Yeah."

"Bye, I—"

But the line cuts off. She’s gone.

Charles closes his eyes and drops his head back against the pit wall. The murmur of the garage floods in again, radio calls, pneumatic guns, the smell of fuel and rubber.

"I miss you," he whispers to no one. "I love you."

He grips the phone tighter. It shouldn’t bother him. God knows he’s busy too. He doesn’t need to hear her say it every single call.

Except he does.

Lately it’s been weeks of nothing but quick check-ins. Two-minute calls full of I’m sorrys, rushed good mornings, falling asleep halfway through good nights.

Usually he doesn’t mind. He’s not the clingy one. He’s used to distance, to travel, to the grind.

But this time?

This time it feels like they’re fraying at the edges.

And he hates it.

─── 🏁

Hours later, his phone buzzes on the table in the motorhome. He’s slumped in the narrow seat, still in his race suit from free practice, hair a sweaty mess. He hesitates before answering.

"Hi," he says, trying to sound normal, but it’s flat.

"Hey," she replies. Her voice sounds distracted. There’s noise in the background, clanging trays, maybe her oven timer. "How was free practice?"

"Fine."

"Just fine?"

He picks at the velcro on his glove. "Yeah. Whatever."

Silence crackles on the line.

"Okay, what’s wrong?" she finally demands.

"Nothing."

"Charles."

He sighs heavily. "It’s just this morning. You hung up on me mid-sentence."

"Oh my God," she snaps. "I told you, I had to go. I’m busy. I have a business to run."

He scoffs. "Yeah, I know you’re busy. You remind me every time we talk."

"Are you serious right now?"

"Yes, I’m serious." His voice is rising. He can’t help it. "I’m busy too, Y/N. But you don’t see me ending every call the second I feel like it."

"You think I want to be like this?" Her voice cracks, angry and frustrated. "I spent every cent I have on this shop. I don’t get to fail. I don’t get to be distracted."

He clenches his teeth. "I told you already. You don’t have to do this alone. I’d love to help you. Actually I’d be happy to. Because I love you. In case you forgot. Because you’re so busy lately you can’t even say it back."

"Oh, fuck off, Charles. Why are you being so sarcastic about this? What’s wrong with you?"

"What’s wrong with me?" He laughs without humor. "We’re supposed to be partners. We’re supposed to work together. But you won’t even let me in."

"Well I don’t need your help," she fires back. "We’re not married. Don’t act like you get to control my life. And don’t attack me for not saying ‘I love you’ as many times as you want to hear it."

His chest tightens like someone punched him. Not married. Don’t act like you control my life.

He falls silent, stunned.

"Right," he finally says, voice low and cold. "If that’s how you feel about us… then what’s the point of even trying to make this work?"

Her breath hitches. "Yeah. Maybe there isn’t a point."

He grips the edge of the table so hard his knuckles go white.

"Fine."

"Fine."

There’s another awful silence. She sounds like she’s crying, but her voice is hard when she speaks next.

"You know what? Let’s just do our own thing. I bet I’m just another dead weight to you anyway."

His vision goes red. Dead weight? He opens his mouth, what the fuck?? When have I ever made her feel that way? but before he can get the words out she cuts him off.

"Goodbye, Charles. Good luck."

The line goes dead.

He pulls the phone from his ear slowly, staring at it in disbelief.

The buzzing of the garage feels muffled, far away.

He doesn’t even realize he’s shaking until his engineer asks if he’s okay.

He isn’t.

Not at all.

─── 🏁

Charles can’t focus.

Saudi Arabia is hot enough to make the asphalt shimmer like water. He’s strapped in tight, gloves sticky with sweat, visor down, engine screaming in his ears. But none of it helps.

Every time he hits a braking zone, he’s hearing her voice. “Don’t act like you get to control my life.” “We’re not married.” “Goodbye, Charles. Good luck.”

His jaw locks so hard he hears something click in his ear from the helmet. He takes the next corner wide, the car skittering over the curb.

Focus.

His engineer’s voice crackles in his ear: "Charles, reset. Focus on the delta."

"Copy," he grinds out.

But he can’t.

He’s in P7 for FP3. Then he qualifies P9. The team is confused. He can see the worry in their eyes.

He doesn’t want to talk to anyone.

Because if he opens his mouth, all he’ll say is her name.

─── 🏁

Across the world, it’s raining in London.

Y/N is up before dawn, the glow of the oven light casting her face in gold. She’s furious with herself because she can’t stop crying while she creams butter and sugar.

She wipes at her eyes angrily, muttering curses under her breath.

"Focus," she scolds herself. "Come on."

But the batch of cookies she pulls out is burned at the edges. She tastes one, it’s too salty.

She tosses the tray in frustration.

Her assistant hovers at the door. "You okay?"

"Fine," she snaps. "Just...go prep the fillings."

The next tray is cupcakes. She’s piping the frosting but her hands are shaking. The swirls collapse in messy blobs.

She huffs out a breath and throws the piping bag in the sink.

"Perfect," she says bitterly. "Just perfect."

She wipes her hands on her apron, ignoring the way her phone sits silent on the counter.

No call. No text.

Not that she sent one either.

They’re both too stubborn.

Too proud to say I’m sorry. Too hurt to say I miss you. Too in love to say goodbye for real.

─── 🏁

Charles doesn’t sleep that night.

He sits in the hotel bed, phone in his hand, thumb hovering over her name in his favorites.

He types I miss you.

Deletes it.

Types I’m sorry.

Deletes it.

He ends up throwing the phone onto the other pillow and burying his face in his hands.

"What are we even doing," he mutters to the empty room.

─── 🏁

Y/N doesn’t sleep either.

She’s on the sofa in her tiny flat above the bakery, knees hugged to her chest, watching the oven clock tick past 2 AM.

Her phone is on the coffee table. She glares at it like it betrayed her.

She opens his contact.

Closes it.

Tries again.

Types Good luck tomorrow.

Backspaces every letter.

She presses her palms to her eyes.

"Stupid, stupid," she whispers. "I hate you."

But the tears say I love you.

─── 🏁

Race day came.

Not a single message.

Charles sat in the team briefing that morning, fingers drumming against the table, staring at his silent phone screen.

Nothing.

No good luck today. No drive safe. No I love you.

And he’d told himself he wouldn’t be the first to cave. He was too angry. Too hurt.

By the time he pulled on his race suit, zipped it up over his pounding heart, he’d accepted it.

Maybe this is really over.

─── 🏁

But in London, the bakery was quiet except for the rain tapping against the windows.

Y/N stood in the tiny kitchen, hair pinned up, apron tied tight. Her phone sat on the counter, the Sky Sports app open but paused.

She kept walking past it. Over and over. Checking the clock. Muttering to herself.

"Don’t do it. Don’t. You’re still mad."

But when it hit 5:55 PM, she caved.

She pressed play.

The live stream flickered to life, the roar of engines filling the room. She adjusted the volume down, like she was embarrassed to be watching.

As she sifted flour into the mixer, she watched him on the screen, helmet on, visor down, Ferrari red gleaming under the floodlights of Jeddah.

God, he looked exhausted.

Her throat tightened. She scraped the bowl harder than necessary.

─── 🏁

By the final few laps, she wasn’t pretending to work anymore.

The pastry bag sat abandoned on the counter. Batter dripped slowly off the whisk.

She was leaning forward, one hand pressed to her mouth.

"Come on," she whispered, barely audible over the race commentary. "Come on, love. You can do it."

When he crossed the line in P3, she let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

She even smiled. Just a little.

But then the camera panned to the podium celebration.

He was waving to the crowd, champagne spraying. Grinning for the cameras.

And she felt it like a punch in the gut.

Because she should have been the first to say congratulations. The first to say I’m proud of you. The first to say I love you.

Instead, she turned off the stream and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand.

"Stupid," she muttered. "You’re so stupid."

─── 🏁

In Saudi, Charles stood on the podium.

The champagne drying stickily on his suit.

He smiled for the cameras.

Waved for the crowd.

But when he checked his phone again that night, alone in his hotel room, there was nothing.

And it felt worse than any DNF.

─── 🏁

Charles woke up earlier than he needed to.

The sky over Jeddah was still dark, the city lights like scattered embers outside his hotel window. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, phone in his hands.

He was supposed to fly back to Monaco today. Rest. Prep for Miami.

Instead, he opened the airline app.

London.

Fuck it.

If he had to cross the world to fix this, so be it. If he had to be the first one to give in, fine. As long as he didn’t lose her.

─── 🏁

The London chill hit him the moment he stepped out of the terminal.

He was exhausted. Eyes gritty, hair flattened from hours against the plane seat. No sleep.

He didn’t care.

He caught a cab and gave the driver her bakery’s address without thinking twice.

The sun was just peeking over the roofs of the shops, the street wet from overnight rain.

His heart pounded.

He got out of the cab, walked straight to the door and stopped.

Closed.

The sign was flipped. No lights on inside.

"She usually doesn’t close this early," he muttered, frowning.

He tested the handle. It turned easily.

"For fuck’s sake, Y/N, lock your damn door," he hissed under his breath.

He pushed it open carefully, the little bell overhead giving a polite chime.

The bakery was dark but smelled like vanilla and sugar.

"Y/N?" he called softly.

He took a few steps in, gaze sweeping over the counters, the chairs still up, the register dark.

Then he saw her at the foot of the stairs that led to her apartment.

She was sitting on one of her flour sacks, a duffel bag at her feet.

Her head jerked up at the sound of the door.

Their eyes met.

Hers went comically wide.

They both spoke at the exact same time.

"What are you doing here?"

"Where are you going?"

She blinked, swallowed hard, and answered first.

"I was...I was gonna come to you," she mumbled, cheeks hot. She refused to meet his eyes, fiddling with the strap of her bag.

His heart did something stupid in his chest.

Even when she was stubborn, even when she was angry, she still loved him.

He let out a shaky exhale.

"You idiot," he whispered, voice cracking with relief.

She glared at him without heat. "Look who’s talking. You’re here too."

He dropped his bag and crossed the space between them in three big strides.

Without another word, he wrapped her up in his arms so tight her feet nearly left the floor.

She let out a surprised little squeak and then melted into him instantly, arms winding around his neck.

"I’m sorry," he mumbled into her hair. "God, I’m so sorry. I was such an asshole."

"You were," she sniffled, voice muffled against his chest. "But I was too. I was awful. I didn’t mean any of it. I was just so stressed. I didn’t want your help because...because I didn’t want you to think I’m weak."

"You’re not," he murmured, pulling back enough to cup her face. "You’re the strongest person I know. But I want to help. Let me help. Even if it’s just listening."

She blinked up at him, eyes glossy.

"Even if I hang up on you mid-sentence?"

He let out a hoarse laugh. "Especially then."

She cracked a watery smile.

"You really flew here just to yell at me in person?"

"No," he said, pressing his forehead to hers. "I flew here because I love you so much I can’t stand being this far away from you and fighting. I hate it. I hate it so much."

"I hate it too," she whispered. "I missed you."

"Say it again."

"I missed you," she giggled, cheeks pink.

He grinned. "One more time."

"Charles,"

"Please."

She sighed dramatically but she was smiling now. "I missed you."

"Good." He kissed her nose, then her cheeks. "Because I missed you more."

She rolled her eyes and smacked his chest lightly. "Don’t be smug."

"Never," he lied, and kissed her properly this time.

She made a happy little noise against his lips.

He pulled back just enough to murmur, "Je t’aime."

"I love you too," she breathed. "Even when you’re the worst."

"Same," he agreed. "Even when you’re a nightmare."

"Rude."

She laughed, and he kissed it off her mouth.