#i need. to write something with them. its terminal.

[abyssal-ilk]

i miss. ranni and zevran.

[100vern]

while he's gone | ksy & hvc

𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒉𝒆'𝒔 𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒆 // 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒏𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓.

★ pairing: vernon x f. reader; established hoshi x f. reader ★ genre: open relationship, fwb to lovers au; smut, fluff, lite angst ★ summary: your boyfriend's on tour, but vernon's still in town. ★ rating: explicit. minors do not interact with this or any of my work. ★ warnings: i am reiterating that this is an open relationship so there is NO CHEATING!! i don't wanna hear it!! soloist hoshi, producer vernon, i wax way too poetic about music and interior design, swearing, alcohol, use of pet names, one miscommunication, one tiny argument that gets resolved, discussions about polyamory. everyone being in love and down bad for one another. ★ smut warnings: mentions of threesomes, voyeurism (over the phone), dirty talk, oral sex, dry humping??, protected vaginal sex, marking/biting, multiple orgasms, sex toys, cuckolding, recording (photos/videos), masturbation, teasing, cum play/eating, lingerie. please tell me if i forgot anything! ★ wordcount: 12.6k ★ credits: cam (@highvern) for spreading the "hoshi holding vernon's head down" agenda far and wide. bee (@imnotshua) for telling me when my words don't make sense and fixing them. jess (@starlightkyeom) for reading this over. ★ author's note: more cursed thoughts thanks to a conversation about monsta x with @aeristudios. i've been wanting to write a fic based off "got my number" for ages, so here we are! a lil treat dedicated to @sailorsoons for girlbossing her ass off these last few weeks (and pulverizing her knee). i would also like to apologize to all the hansol truthers. i typed it out once and had a visceral reaction, much like i did using hoshi's government name, so he's just vernon.

Your boyfriend’s flight departed from Incheon just shy of four p.m., though he’d left the apartment long before that.

Needed time to make the hour and a half drive. Fix his hair and makeup before he hopped out and posed for Dispatch. Push his way through the horde of fans and to security, get his face scanned and passport checked. Needed time to make it to the privacy of his terminal lounge where he could catch his breath and lock himself in the bathroom. Needed time to send you a mirror selfie: hoodie unzipped to the middle of his bare sternum, hat pulled low to cover his eyes, tongue just barely peeking out from between his lips.

Made it 😘, it said.

Beneath that, even though the two of you have been through this exact scenario more times than you can count—even though it’s the same every time and he said all the same things as he was fucking you into the mattress last night and again this morning, as he was kissing you goodbye at the door hours ago:

Soonyoung: Love u babe. Gonna miss u sooo much~ I’ll text u every chance I can !! Soonyoung: Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do ㅋㅋㅋ just kidding don’t u dare behave Soonyoung: Send me pictures tho. What if I get lonely 😔

There was a thought: your boyfriend on tour, all alone between the cold, crisp sheets of his hotel bed, no one to occupy all that extra space. You’d snorted at that. Replied with the eye-roll emoji and wondered, privately, if he was going to meet up with the same old flames; if he was going to send you pictures with faces and bodies you recognized. Anticipation clawed its way up your spine and settled in your gut, left behind an insurmountable want.

Saying goodbye was always hard, but this part? It felt like Soonyoung held the forbidden fruit in his hand, sliced and fed to you on the point of a paring knife.

Delicious, in other words.

Whatever you and Vernon have fallen into can best be described as a foregone conclusion: Soonyoung leaves, Vernon arrives, and there’s no need for the discretion or the habit, but you can’t deny there’s a certain allure to it. It feels scandalous, dirty—something that only happens in a dark corner away from prying, garrulous eyes—even though it isn’t. Not really.

Soonyoung will be in Japan, Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand; he’ll be in Berlin, Paris and London; he’ll go across North and South America. In every one of those places, someone will keep him company until he comes home to you. And, after every single time, you’ll have something in your inbox to mark the occasion—a text, some pictures, a video—because your boyfriend is nothing if not a pervert.

So no, the discretion isn’t necessary. You and Soonyoung are free to do as you please, both separately and together, which is how all of this started, anyway: his album release party, prod. by VERNON in the credits, you safely sequestered on the other side of a velvet rope. Not a secret, just… not out in the open, either, which was both a little embarrassing and difficult to explain to Vernon over the deafening, teeth-shattering background noise as he unabashedly hit on you.

He’d known, of course, that Soonyoung had been writing love songs about someone, but he hadn’t known it was you he’d helped him write about.

Not that it mattered much in the end. Soonyoung had slunk over, drunk on the spotlight and the status it afforded him, the most important man in the room, and looked Vernon dead in the eye. Pushed his tongue into the fat of his cheek, looked like a real sleazy piece of shit, and said, “You wanna fuck my girl?”

He did, admittedly, and Soonyoung had rewarded him for his honesty. Took both of you home and held Vernon’s head down as he told him how to eat you out, wet and messy and filthy. You came in record time, and a man that made you come in record time was not one you were itching to get rid of.

Vernon fucks you right and doesn’t ask a lot of questions you don’t have answers to. Doesn’t mind your unconventional relationship and definitely doesn’t mind recording the way you suck his cock: the way spit pools in the corners of your mouth and glistens under the flash; the way you moan around him as he rasps out husky praise; the way he says shit—fuck, baby, just like that, cock’s so far down your fuckin’ throat, huh; how wet your eyelashes are and the tears tracking down your cheeks.

Vernon fucks you right and doesn’t ask a lot of questions and calls Soonyoung hyung even though they’re colleagues, but that’s the sort of relationship you naturally fall into after you have a threesome and fuck said colleague’s girlfriend, you suppose, and Soonyoung doesn’t mind it. Because he’ll go away for whatever it is he gets called away for and Vernon will come over and tell you to ride him as he pulls out his phone and says shit like, “God, hyung, she’s about to come all over my cock. I don’t think she’s thinking about you at all. You aren’t, are you, baby? You’re not thinking about Soonyoung-hyung at all, are you? Only me,” between gasping, fractured moans.

And Soonyoung knows how that feels, is the thing. Knows the feeling of being suffocated in your tight, wet heat and how it can drive a man nearly to madness, and all he feels is pride. That’s his girl, bringing another man to his knees.

Hence the routine.

Normally you’d go out—a swanky new rooftop bar, a nightclub owned by a friend of a friend. Your drinks would glow neon blue under the blacklights, skinny red straw stuck in a plastic cup that matched the cherry at the bottom. Your skin would glisten with sweat as one of your friends twirled you around, kaleidoscope shapes behind your eyelids, both of you laughing breezy and sweet.

At some point throughout the night, Vernon would text you. You’d send him your location. He’d show up in an outfit contradicting the exclusivity of wherever you were, shower-soft, Sauvage on his wrists and neck, and he’d lean in close, ask if you wanted to stay or get out of there. Discarded on your bedroom floor, pooling at his feet in the club bathroom—it no longer mattered what he was wearing, because it never stayed on very long.

So here you are. While Soonyoung’s 800 kilometers away, undoubtedly trying to charm someone into his bed, you’re at home biding your time until the inevitable, no urge to go out. Instead, you indulge in yourself, work yourself up. Soonyoung, Vernon, both of them together—regardless of who you think about, the results are the same: you pinpoint the anticipation in your stomach and press, let your body sink beneath the weight of it.

Your boyfriend has only been in Osaka a handful of hours when the inevitable happens.

Vernon’s name lights up your screen. Transforms the slow simmer of expectation into full-blown wildfire. Has you squeezing your thighs together, bottom lip tugged between your teeth, when you open the text thread. Before tonight, the last time he’d texted you was three months ago: two o’clock in the morning, a video with a completely innocent thumbnail belying its content, already sent this to hyung but figured u might want it too written underneath.

Vernon: heard soonyoung hyung’s out of town for a while Vernon: what are u doing tonite

You exhale a soft laugh. As if Vernon just happened to stumble upon this information. As if he doesn’t already know what you’ll be getting up to tonight. As if he also isn’t falling victim to the desire. As if his lowercase letters and disregard for his ego with a double-text aren’t feigned nonchalance.

But just because you both know exactly where this is heading doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun.

So you pull your shirt over your head and toss it aside. Open up your camera and angle your body the way you like: glossed lips parted, the bruise Soonyoung sucked into your skin this morning just beneath your collarbone, cleavage framed perfectly, curve of your ass center frame, both covered in cheeky forest green lace. You snap a photo and another one with a painted-on pout; snap a third as the tips of your fingers delve beneath the waistline of your panties.

You: [Attachment: 3 Images] You: Hopefully you?

At the receiving end, Vernon swears, drops his phone. Of course you’re bathed in his favorite color. Of course you’re wrapped in sheets he’s lucky enough to know the feel of. Dizzy, his breath catches in his throat; tries to stave off feeling like he’s in free-fall. He’s no stranger to this kind of insatiable hunger—becomes reacquainted with it every few months, in fact—but it always catches him unaware. Always comes back with such a vengeance, as if all the times before had simply been the prefix.

He grabs his jacket.

Vernon’s barely been at your place twenty minutes when your phone rings.

You groan as he rolls his cock against you, jeans undone but still sitting low on his hips, zipper biting into your skin every time he presses you further into the mattress. The next sound you make he swallows with his mouth. Moves his lips to the column of your throat, the underside of your jaw, the spot just beneath your ear. Takes your lobe between his teeth, asks, “Is it him?” and lets you feel the way he smirks.

Blindly, you reach toward the sound, that horrible scattering across your nightstand that makes your teeth ache. It must be Soonyoung because it’s relentless, another call just as the first one ends, and you’re trying, you really are, but Vernon’s relentless, too. Abandons your space, takes your common sense and all his heat with him as he sits back on his haunches and moves his hands beneath your ass; drags you closer until your cunt—still covered in that dark lace and growing darker the wetter you become—is back against his cock and ruts.

You’re speechless, head thrown back against the pillows, the synapses of your brain misfiring and coming up empty. Both of you are still clothed and Vernon’s still having his way with you; still smirking dirty and arrogant out of the side of his mouth. Almost looks like he’s sneering a little as he asks again, “What’s the matter, baby? Not gonna answer him?” At your continued silence, he amends, “Oh, or maybe you can’t?”

You want to roll your eyes, shut him up with some sharp retort, but he’s got you exactly where he wants you. It’s a place you don’t mind being, either, because whether it’s the way his thick cock feels rubbing against your clit or the result of months of waiting, it doesn’t matter, it all feels divine. Has your breathing labored and heavy, has sweat pricking at your skin, has Vernon staring down at you with a gaze so pointed it cuts through the haze.

So he makes the decision for you. Reaches over and grabs your phone, tucks it between his ear and his shoulder. Keeps his hands free so he can keep moving you against him and greets your boyfriend with a, “Sorry, hyung, she’s a little busy right now.”

You can hear Soonyoung’s bark of laughter from where you’re laying, and then more muted chattering. He must give Vernon instructions, because Vernon puts the phone on speaker and tosses it somewhere on the bed. “Hello, princess. Are you having fun?” All you can manage is an uh-huh that’s fractured in the middle, punctuated with another roll of Vernon’s hips. “Mm, you sound so good, baby. Miss hearing you like that already. Can I see you, too?”

Vernon catches your eye as he reaches for your phone again. Waits for your nod before he points the camera at you and switches it to FaceTime. You hear Soonyoung suck in a breath. Wonder what he looks like. If the low light of his hotel room casts amber shadows across his face that intensify his stare, sharpen it to a point. If he’s got his arm tucked behind his head, laissez-faire in that way that drives you crazy, sensual without having to try. You almost ask Vernon to see, but then Soonyoung clicks his tongue and says, “That set is your favorite, isn’t it?”

The man he’s addressing looks down at you, eyes full of stars. “Yeah, hyung,” Vernon says, and it’s breathy, barely counts as separate words. Through the camera, Soonyoung watches as Vernon runs his fingertips over the hickey he’d left, over the swell of your breast and the space between each rib. Watches as Vernon grips at the meat of your thigh; as his hands flex before he grabs at you again.

“You want to touch her, don’t you? Properly.” He watches as Vernon nods, the camera wobbling with the intensity of it. “Put your mouth on her, Vernon-ah—she loves that so much.”

You can hear the shit-eating lilt to his tone and you know he’s enjoying this. That he loves watching you. Loves that Vernon’s always so fucked up over you and that he gets to direct these scenes. Loves what he gets to experience with you: something enduring and impenetrable, something that grants him freedom and indulgence. Loves you, most of all, but there will be time for that later.

Right now, he wants to watch Vernon make a mess of you. Wants to watch him pull those little lace panties to the side and eat you out, fervent and messy. Wants to hear it when he starts sucking at your clit and you keen high in your throat. Wants to watch the way you grab at his hair and force him closer as you roll your hips and seek out your own undoing.

Right now, Vernon hands the phone to you. “There’s my pretty girl,” Soonyoung says, and your face grows hot—as hot as the hands that skim over your skin and move to take off your panties. Soonyoung loves this part—loves watching someone unwrap you like a present; loves the tension even when isn’t there for it—so you flip the camera so he can see. “Leave them on,” your boyfriend instructs. Vernon’s brows pinch together. “You know she wore that set just for you, so leave it on when you fuck her. Make a mess of it. Cum all over it and ruin it, and then maybe I’ll let you take my card to buy her a new one.”

Vernon’s eyes flutter closed, long lashes fanning across his ruddy cheeks, so fucking pretty.

Anticipation sinks its claws into you again. Feels like an eternity passes before Vernon’s hands start moving again. Before he presses the pads of his thumbs into your hips and the contact makes both of you gasp. Before he leans in closer and kisses all the places he’d left fingerprints. Kisses your stomach, hips, the tops of your thighs and down, down, down until he’s where you want him—until you can feel his breath against your cunt, goosebumps rising from the warmth.

You only tear your eyes away from him to look at Soonyoung. Even through the screen you can tell he’s growing restless: pupils blown wide, teeth worrying at his bottom lip, breathing unsteady. You reach for Vernon, thread your fingers through his hair and tug, and at his resulting whine Soonyoung flips his own camera. What greets you is an expanse of familiar tan skin, his defined abs, legs spread wide, cock curved and hard.

There isn’t an ounce of shame to be found as he palms at himself. Just a ghost of a touch before he squeezes at the base and groans. All the times you’ve watched him do this… you can imagine the way his head rolls back, lips parted, muscles tensing.

“You look so good,” you murmur, and there’s no telling who it’s directed at—because Soonyoung looks good, just as he always does, but Vernon is a vision.

Especially when he’s between your legs.

There’s a glimpse of a half-cocked smile before he flattens his tongue and delves between your folds, stealing the breath from your lungs. One stripe and then another, all parallel lines as he works you over. Wraps his arms around your hips and pulls you closer to his mouth, doubles his efforts, doesn’t pay any mind to the mess he’s making, both of the sheets and of you.

You tug harder at Vernon’s hair. Roll your hips in time with his tongue, both of you endlessly noisy. Vernon groans as he sucks at your clit and you feel the sparks like lightning. Feels like he’s making a mockery of you. Feels like all he knows is your pleasure. Feels like an eternity has passed since he’s worked you over like this, and Soonyoung must agree because he almost sounds whiny as he says, “God, I missed this. Missed seeing you two together.”

You dare a look. Soonyoung jerks himself slowly with a loose fist, drags it out, savors every second and shiver that dances up his spine. Hisses through his teeth when he gathers the precum at the tip and spreads it along the length of his shaft. You want to see his face. Want to see the way his dark hair falls into his eyes when he shudders and curves into himself, the crease that forms between his brows, his eyes when they’re glassy and unfocused.

But then Vernon does something with his mouth that has you crying out—a strangled sound halfway between shock and gratification. Has you mirroring the exact image you expected to see on Soonyoung’s face. There’s poetry in that, you think, and that’s the last thought you have before Vernon drags your orgasm from you and your world tilts on its axis.

When you come to, vision still out of focus and fuzzy around the edges, you’re covered in a thin sheen of sweat, your phone is lost somewhere in the duvet, and Vernon’s still between your legs.

You choke. Feel around desperately for your phone and can barely hold onto it, weak and trembling, all your energy drained. Try to clamp your thighs around Vernon’s head for some reprieve but he knows you too well, knows you can take it, so he forces them back open.

Bliss spreads like wildfire. Starts in your toes and works its way into your bloodstream. Feels like you’ve been carved out of kerosene and matchsticks. It’ll be Vernon, you know—he’ll be the catalyst, light the spark that consumes and overwhelms you.

Especially when he’s like this.

When you’re the only thing that exists to him. When he’d forego pleasure for the rest of his life if it meant drowning in your pussy and getting you off. When he pays no mind to your boyfriend’s obscene goading—“Can you taste me, Vernon-ah? Did she tell you I filled her up this morning? That it was so much it was leaking out of her?”—and stays focused on you. When he runs two fingers through your mess and presses them inside, right against the spot that nearly folds you in half, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, pressure mounting.

“Oh my god. Vernon, please, it’s too much, I’m gonna—”

You feel him smile against your cunt. Pulls back only far enough to bite at the juncture of your thigh and say, “I know you can take it,” in his hoarse voice. With lips that are covered in you. “You’re gonna come again, aren’t you, baby? And you’re gonna be a good girl and soak through these fucking sheets while your boyfriend has to jerk himself off.”

That’s exactly what happens.

The cord inside you snaps. Soonyoung swears as he watches you come again, body pulling taut, Vernon’s name spilling from your lips like a mantra. Vernon’s on you immediately, setting the phone on your nightstand and kissing you senseless. Lets you taste yourself and the way you claimed him. Slots his body between your legs, careful as he presses against you because he knows how oversensitive you get. Waits until the tremors subside and he can feel you tracing shapes against his back before he murmurs a quiet okay? into your ear.

It takes a second for you to nod, but you do.

Vernon looks to his right at your phone. “Still want her fully dressed, hyung? She’s made a pretty big mess already.”

Soonyoung laughs, breathy and a little disbelieving. He loves this part, too, when Vernon dishes back as good as he gets. Both of them know it’s not a competition and would never treat it as one, but Soonyoung can’t help himself sometimes. Loves to stir shit just because he can—because Vernon is younger and looks up to him, but also because you like Vernon and he enjoys teasing you just as much.

So Soonyoung laughs. Asks, “How are you feeling, pretty girl? You want him to fuck you?” and continues stroking himself, pace leisurely, cock glistening with spit and precum, balls tight.

He’s always affected.

And so are you. You nod. Readjust your body beneath Vernon’s so he can press in tighter, so you can wrap your legs around his waist and delight in the sounds he makes—first like the breath’s been punched out of him, then more intentional as the electricity ebbs away and settles into his bones. His fingers grip at your thigh, movements fluid as he rocks his hips, unconcerned with the stickiness seeping through the fabric of his briefs.

Vernon wants you every second of every single day, and he doesn’t care who knows it.

You move your hands to his face. Let your thumbs rest on the high points of his cheekbones and settle into the contours there. Press your lips to his and lick into his mouth, all teeth and tongue and no savoir-faire. Vernon responds in kind. Starts moving frenetic and mindless, vehemence making up for his lack of composure, swallowing everything you give him.

Fucks you up a little that he still tastes like you—that you’re not all that easy to rinse out.

“Shit,” he swears, slurring the word against your mouth, lips bitten red and swollen. “Need you so bad, baby, please.”

Your vision swims, the raw urgency in Vernon’s tone making everything look like television static. All you can do is nod, spread your legs wider, press your body into him and hope he knows what to do with it, but he needs you to say it. “Tell me,” he says, settling a hand around your throat. Not tight—just so he can feel your words, just so he knows they’re there. “Tell me you want me. Tell me how you want me to give it to you.”

“Want you. Wanna ride you,” you answer. “Wanna be able to look at you. So pretty, Nonie—you look so pretty when you cum, I wanna see it.”

Vernon swears again. Sits back and has his jeans and underwear pulled off before you can process what’s happening, rolls on a condom, and that’s where you meet him, in the center of the bed. You move into the space between his spread legs, drape your arms over his shoulders as your knees bracket his hips, spit into your hand and work it over his cock, thumbing at the head just to make him whine.

“Babe—”

And then you’re pulling your panties to the side and sinking down on it.

The stretch is overwhelming. Steals the air from your lungs. Has Vernon pressing his forehead to yours, sharing your breath, dimpling your hips with bruising fingerprints. “Slow,” he pleads, and you’d give him anything, so you kiss the spot just beneath his eye, say okay, okay, and turn your attention to Soonyoung.

Not far off from how you’d left him: touching himself with reverence, not an ounce of shame to be found; sounds spilling from his lips that sound like home. He doesn’t notice you watching, but it doesn’t matter, he’s a performer in every aspect of his life. Thrives when he’s under the spotlight, demanding everyone’s attention, all eyes on him. Sex is no different. Always goes into it with eyes wide open, so you’re not surprised when he feels yours on him. When he says, “What’s the matter, princess?”

Beneath you, Vernon’s starting to gather his bearings. Thrusts slow and shallow and groans. “Did you bring it?” you ask Soonyoung, trying to keep your voice steady as Vernon fucks into you.

“The—”

“Yes,” you interject, already knowing what he was going to ask. Shit, Vernon feels so good. “Get it out. Use it. Wanna see you cum that way.”

Soonyoung swears. Says, “Fuck—god, yeah, I’ll get it,” and disappears from the screen. Vernon’s lips move to your chest, your neck, your mouth. He’s moving in earnest, now—doesn’t care what he sounds like, that he’s devolved into staccato whines and half-syllables. Doesn’t care about the mess between your legs.

Doesn’t care that when Soonyoung comes back onto the screen, you’re wholly focused on him, grinning pleased and wicked. If you want him to work for it, he will. If you want him to give it to you so good you’re not even thinking about your boyfriend, that’s what he’s going to do. If you want him to fuck you so hard you can’t even speak, well, that’s the goal.

So he doubles his efforts. Plants his feet on the bed and uses the leverage to bury himself as deep in you as he can. He’s done this enough to know his angles, know how to have you dripping and shaking, but he wants to savor this. Wants to drag it out for you. Some sick, selfish part of him wants this to be the fuck you’re thinking about later as you’re about to drift to sleep even though you aren’t his to claim. Not like that, anyway. He can still paint you in bruises that match Soonyoung’s, undecipherable from one another. No telling what’s his work and what’s Vernon’s.

“Tell me what to do.”

Vernon glances sideways. Watches as his hyung dribbles lube all over his cock, slicks himself up. Glances at you and sees you watching. Sees the way your jaw ticks, your eyes darken. Can feel how endless your love is for Soonyoung and he wants to burn up.

But then you say, “Fuck yourself the way Vernonie’s fucking me,” and the words soothe over him like a balm. Even more so when Soonyoung listens; when he grabs the pocket pussy and works it slowly down his shaft, moaning long and drawn out the entire way.

“God, I’m about to fucking bust.” Soonyoung laughs. “Tell me how he’s fucking you, pretty girl. Bet it feels even better than this, huh? Bet he’s making you feel so good.”

Everyone’s about to make an early exit at this rate. Vernon tells (begs) him to shut up in so many words. Tries to focus on himself, thinks about every terrible thing in the world to stave it off, but the way you’re nodding along with Soonyoung’s words are hurtling him towards the end at record speed. The way you look at Vernon with constellations in your eyes. The way you’re reduced to mindless babbling, all your words slurring together as you say, “It’s so good. So good, Soonyoungie, he’s so deep, fucks me so good, god I’m gonna come again—”

Vernon panics, bites at your collar bone, knows he wouldn’t survive feeling you clench around his cock. Tells you, “Not yet,” even though he’s barely able to choke out the words; even though he can barely endure you now, cunt spasming, walls fluttering around him. The unbelievable white-hot heat, the vice grip. Fuck, he wants to do this every day. Wants to do this for the rest of his life.

And you must be able to tell. Must see how spaced out he looks, because you move your hands to the center of his chest and dig your nails in, urge him backwards until he’s propped up on one elbow. This is what Vernon sees when he closes his eyes, when it’s been months since he’s seen you and he’s cumming all over his fist: the lines of his own body, the coarse strip of hair that leads from his stomach to where your bodies connect; you on top of him, hips sinuous and sinful as you circle them.

You put on a show of your own. Move your hands to his knees and spread your legs wider. Vernon’s cock looks obscene inside of you, trapped beneath your lace panties, so he grabs your phone, makes sure Soonyoung can see what he’s seeing. Makes sure Soonyoung can see the sheen your wetness leaves on his skin as you grind back and forth on him. Makes sure Soonyoung can hear the slapping of your and Vernon’s skin, the way your pussy squelches, how lewd everything sounds in the still air of the bedroom the two of you share.

“Jesus—fuck,” Soonyoung says down the line, voice metallic and fucked out. “You two are so goddamn hot together. Make her come, Vernon-ah, and then I wanna see her covered in you. Wanna see you ruin my pretty girl.”

Vernon shudders and nearly folds in on himself. Grabs your hip to slow your movements, refusing to get off before you, but you’re determined. Your grin is devilish as you move his hand to your clit and tell him to get to work. As you lean forward briefly to kiss him before you’re moving in earnest again, more intentional than before, and it’s all Vernon can do to stay conscious. All of it’s too much: the way you look above him, head thrown back, the marks he’d left on your throat; the way you’re able to handle both of them at once, riding Vernon into the mattress while you talk Soonyoung over the edge, the most filthy words spilling out of your mouth.

The way you gasp as Vernon thumbs circles against your clit and reach for his hand, trying to ground yourself as your pussy clenches, as you barely have time to stammer out the words before you’re coming on his cock.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Vernon pulls out, almost cries at no longer being enveloped in your heat, pulls off the condom and fists his cock once, twice, and then watches, entranced, as he does what his hyung said and covers you in cum.

Your tits, your stomach, the fabric of your panties.

For a moment, everything is quiet, everyone still coming down and trying to catch their breath. You’re spent, exhausted and satiated in ways you haven’t been in months. Every muscle in your body feels overworked. Your throat feels raw. Every inch of skin that’s bruised feels like a branding iron, and it is, you suppose.  Soonyoung’s, Vernon’s, it doesn’t matter—you wear them both.

“Don’t wash those,” comes Soonyoung’s voice.

It takes you a second to realize what he means. “My panties?” you ask, shock apparent. You’d known he was a freak, of course, but the depths of his perversion continue to surprise you. “Soonyoung…”

“Don’t kink shame me, princess, I’m covered in my own jizz and I need another shower. I came so hard I think I had religious visions. How’re you feeling, Vernon-ah?”

The man in question doesn’t answer. You’d think he was asleep with his eyes open if you knew he was capable of it, but that’s not what’s going on. Vernon’s fixated on you. Can’t tear his eyes off of you and the cum that’s drying into your skin, and you know you shouldn’t, that you should give him a break, but there’s no fun in that, so you trail your fingers through the mess on your stomach and suck them into your mouth.

“Yeah, don’t need to ask after that. Goddamn. I’m gonna go shower before you get me hard again. Good luck with her.”

The call disconnects. In the aftermath, the silence is almost stifling, almost makes you feel a sense of guilt that’s entirely undeserved, but then Vernon’s sitting up and crowding your space, hands behind your back as he works at the knots he finds there. Pulls you in closer. Presses a spun-sugar kiss to your forehead that makes your heart skip a beat.

The thing is, though: he doesn’t stay.

It’s not a rule. It’s not something Soonyoung requested to keep some semblance of boundaries in your relationship. He doesn’t care, and neither do you, but Vernon does. Doesn’t want to overstep and muddy the lines. Doesn’t want to make it seem like more than it is, and you’ve always been fine with that, but something about this time feels different. Strikes you someplace deep, hidden away, tucked behind your ribs. Vernon runs you a bath and changes the sheets while you’re soaking your aching muscles and when you’re tucked into bed, he presses another kiss to your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth. Promises to text you later in the week.

And then he lets himself out.

You’re still awake an hour later when your phone lights up with a string of texts, and you force yourself not to think about what it means that you’re disappointed it isn’t Vernon.

Soonyoung: Going to sleep. The two of u wore me out ㅋㅋㅋ Soonyoung: I’ll text u in the morning. Got an early day tomorrow 😭 Soonyoung: Love u baby. Sleep tight ❤️

With Soonyoung in Paris, it’s hard to make the time difference work.

Seven hours usually isn’t a problem—it’s worse when he goes to the Americas, for example—but it’s been weeks since your technological ménage à trois and you aren’t feeling any less unsettled. All you want to do is talk to him. Ask him what the hell is going on with you, why you can’t seem to shake this, what it all means, but it just never works out.

Not the right time. Not enough time. Soonyoung often has his own plans that keep him occupied until the early hours of the morning wherever he is, and by then he’s too exhausted and you’ve been awake for hours, already well into the monotony of your day.

Still, it eats at you. Makes you feel guilty in ways you can’t rationalize. You know you haven’t done anything wrong. Haven’t done anything you haven’t done plenty of times before; haven’t done anything Soonyoung isn’t also doing when he’s not around to answer your calls. And that’s fine—even though it’s unconventional to most, you love the dynamic the two of you have. Wouldn’t change it for anything except Soonyoung himself, so you know he’s not the point of contention.

No, it’s you—you’re the problem here.

Something’s changed, but whatever it is isn’t all that keen to let you in on the secret yet.

So you do your best to push it down and swallow it. You go to work. You meet your friends for dinner and drinks. You suffer through your gym sessions just to give the anxiety and jitters someplace to go. You clean your and Soonyoung’s apartment top to bottom until there’s not a speck of dust to be found and all the countertops start to squeak. You go shopping and charge whatever you want to Soonyoung’s credit card because he’d want you to.

None of it works.

It’s no wonder, then, that you break by the time Soonyoung gets to Paris. That you’re sending up flares and paying little attention to the time difference. That you text him—

You: Can you make some time to call me today? You: I don’t care about the time. You: It’s nothing bad, I promise. Just need/want to talk to you.

—and expect something, anything, in return: the familiarity of his tone, his overuse of emojis, the way he always calls on FaceTime and always greets you barefaced and with a relieved smile, like you’re the only thing he wants to see at the end of a long day. You expect him to say anything for my girl—or, at the very least, can’t today baby 🙁 I’m so sorry, but I’ll have time tomorrow and I’ll call first thing, ok ??

You don’t get any of that.

What you get is silence.

Your texts go unanswered. He doesn’t call. You double-check your calendar just to confirm you hadn’t gotten the date confused, but he doesn’t have a show tonight. Rehearsal and a team dinner, maybe, but nothing that should make him so unavailable to you.

Well, except one very obvious thing.

There’s a flashbang of hurt you immediately try to tamper down. Soonyoung can’t read your mind. He’s never ignored you when you’ve needed him or given you reason to believe he’d do something like this intentionally and maliciously—not to mention that the arrangement the two of you have has never been an issue before, so it’s nothing to get upset over. You know it’s nothing to get upset over, but knowing doesn’t suck the poison out.

A temporary lapse in communication is all this is. You’ve survived worse.

It’s just—

This shapeless, undefinable thing that’s clawed its way inside of you isn’t going anywhere. And you can deal with the stopgap emotions until you’re able to put a name to it—the anger and confusion, the abstract betrayal—but it’s always easiest to carry burdens with two sets of hands, is all.

Hours tick by. What was two hours without a response turns into four; four turns into six turns into you readying yourself for bed and spending the night tossing and turning, checking your phone every time you awake in the middle of the night. When your alarm goes off at eight o’clock and there’s still nothing, all those ugly feelings come swimming back to the surface.

Your first call rings and rings until it goes to voicemail.

So does the second.

Soonyoung answers the third out of breath, voice gravelly. A woman’s laughter greets you before he can, and for the first time ever, it makes you sick to your stomach. Makes you wonder what the fuck you’re doing. Has your hands trembling, all your words stuck in your throat, frustrated tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

Another twinkling laugh that your boyfriend responds to with a husky one of his own. “Hello? Hi, baby, I’m a little—”

Busy, he’s going to say. You’ve gathered as much. Busy is laughing in your ear, probably has her hands all over him, and it’s always been like this, the sharing and the nonexistence of possessiveness, but you come first. That’s the rule. Both of you come first to one another, so busy isn’t acceptable. Busy has resentment biting at your heels. Has your blood pressure spiking, your skin flushing hot.

Has you cutting him off, saying, “So busy you couldn’t answer my fucking texts?” with so much animosity all noise at the other end of the line immediately ceases.

You hear footsteps and the shutting of a door, the turn of a lock. “Okay, I’m alone,” he murmurs softly; you wish it did anything to comfort you. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

A laugh of your own, derisive and disbelieving. “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been trying to do.”

You’re not about to spill your guts when Busy is in the next room over touching herself so she’s primed and ready to go when your boyfriend ends the call, goes back into the bedroom and says, sorry about that, and climbs back on top of her. You’re not about to spill your guts and feel like an inconvenience.

So you scoff and shake your head, say, “You know what, Soonyoung? Don’t even worry about it. Go back to fucking whoever the fuck she is and forget I even called.”

“Baby, come on, wait—”

You’re not about to spill your guts, so you rewrite the script.

You end the call. You ignore the texts that follow.

You text Vernon and ask if he’s free after work.

He is.

Vernon gets done work a little after ten.

You get off the train a few stops early and decide to walk the rest of the way. It’s been so long since you’ve done this. Since you’ve breathed in the smell of the samgyaetang and dakgalbi restaurants, the tteokbokki and bungeoppang from the street food vendors. Since you’ve thought the neon lights of Hongdae Street were going to blind you and shielded your eyes. Since you’ve walked by groups of friends posing for selfies in the middle of the sidewalk, apple cheeks from wide smiles pressed together; couples doubled over in laughter as they try to jump on one another’s backs. Since you’ve watched patrons stumble out of bars and clubs with queues to get in, faces flushed from the alcohol they’ve already consumed.

Vernon lives in Mapo, in an artsy high-rise in Seogyo-dong. New construction that’s meant to look much older, meant to resemble the industrial loft apartments found in older American cities, warehouses made irrelevant as the 21st century moved in and took hold. They’re all exposed brick, twenty-pane windows, concrete floors, neo-expressionist paintings hung in the lobby.

A block away, a bingsu restaurant is closed until the next afternoon, but it’s what lies beneath that piques your interest: a basement rock bar, show flyers plastered all over the door, live music pounding the pavement and spilling onto the sidewalk.

You’re in the lungs of the city, and it’s every bit as alive as you expected—and hoped—it would be.

You feel at home here, surrounded by people and nightlife and unrelenting noise. Where you and Soonyoung live isn’t dissimilar, just different—more refined and inhibited, more concerned with appearances than letting loose. You’ve gotten good at rubbing elbows with those types of people, as necessary and inevitable as it is, but sometimes you just miss the unpolished grime of ordinary people.

Vernon’s outside waiting for you when you reach his building.

Hat pulled low over his eyes. An oversized black hoodie that drowns his lithe frame, makes him look smaller than he is. Face lit up by the glow from his phone. A lollipop stuck in his mouth that he presses into the fat of his cheek when he looks up, sees you, and smiles.

“Hi,” he greets you, arms twitching at his sides, unsure of what to do—what’s okay, what isn’t. If he’s allowed to be affectionate with you in public. If anyone can know, even though you’re no one to these people and he’s as out of the spotlight as you are.

So you make the decision for him. Place a hand on his waist, lean in and press a kiss to his cheek. When you pull back, his cheeks are the same shade of cherry red as his lips and tongue. He ducks his head, tries to hide it, but there might as well be a flashing sign above his head to signal his embarrassment. “Oh,” he says quietly, touching the spot where you’d kissed him.

You swallow. The Vernon standing in front of you is a stark contrast to the one you fall into bed with. This one is all soft, rounded edges: shy, chivalrous, almost self-conscious—the kind that wouldn’t bruise if you bumped into him. You try to ignore the way your heart is hammering away in your chest, but the duality is making your head spin.

“Do you want to grab a drink first, or should we just…” He trails off, coughing to cover himself when all you do is quirk an eyebrow just to see if you can get him to blush again. “There’s a pretty cool LP bar down that way, if you’d be into that sorta thing? But I also have vinyl at my place, so I guess it doesn’t—”

You know laughing will only mortify him more, but you can’t help it. “Are you nervous?”

“No,” comes his automatic response.

“Are you sure?” you tease, watching as his fingers—covered to the second knuckle by his sleeves—worry insistently at the fabric of his hoodie. He flushes again, mouth opening and closing around words that don’t materialize, and it’s almost painful how endeared you are by him. “Come on, then,” you say, deciding to put him out of his misery, “show me this pretty cool bar.”

It’s a short walk, only a few blocks, but Vernon sets a slow pace and holds your hand anyway. Neither of you acknowledge that his is sweat-slick, and you can tell he’s thankful for this bit of reprieve. Must help him settle, because it isn’t long before he starts yapping away, animated and buoyant. He talks about work, about the album he’s mastering and how he hasn’t yet gotten the sidechain compression on the bass where he wants it. Tells you about a group the company recently put together that he’s excited about and thinks could be really successful.

“I don’t see them much since they’re always at practice,” he explains, slowing further as you approach a convenience store, “but when they have free time some of ‘em like to sit in the studio and watch me work. This GS25 gave me a black eye once.”

“What?”

He sounds straight out of a nature documentary as he tells you the story. How he’d wanted convenience store ramen because they had a 1+1, and on the way decided he needed a Yonsei bread, too, except he was piss drunk and didn’t realize the doors weren’t automatic, so yeah—hence the black eye. And it’s not particularly funny, but you laugh until your stomach hurts anyway; laugh until both of you are off-kilter from it, shoulders knocking into one another, tears blurring your vision and making the city look crystalline.

You laugh all the way to the bar, and Vernon only lets go of you to open the door and help you inside, hand reassuring and warm when it moves to the small of your back.

A two-seater table is open in the far corner. You sit with your back to the wall and a Blondie poster above your head, content to take in the view. Vernon’s content to let you. Asks what you’d like to drink and doesn’t bat an eye when you request a midori sour. You throw him an exaggerated wink as you say, “If you ask them to put a cherry in it, I’ll show you a magic trick.”

Vernon nearly cums on the spot.

But he does as you say. Returns to the table with two drinks and a pencil and paper. “For your song requests,” he explains when he sees you eyeing it.

“Thank you,” you say, taking your midori sour from him. “What are you gonna request? And what are you drinking?”

“It’s a Coke and something,” he answers, “but I’m not telling you what.” You roll your lips to keep from laughing. As if you couldn’t smell the coconut from across the bar. As if you can’t smell it on him now, when all you can think about is if you’ll be able to taste it on him later when he’s licking into your mouth. “I think you promised me a magic trick.”

A group of American girls taught you this in university, back when you were a starry-eyed freshman completely out of your comfort zone, friendless, more wallflower than functioning human. You just need a party trick, one of them had said, something to break the ice, and that’s how you learned to tie a cherry stem with your tongue.

Just like all those impressionable, hormone-riddled college boys, Vernon is stunned when you stick out your tongue to present it to him. Gets that dazed, faraway look in his eyes; has to clear his throat to get his lungs working again. Turns the tables on you when he reaches out and grabs it, putting it in his pocket for safekeeping, and then it’s you who feels like they’ve been punched in the chest.

It’s maddening, how oblivious he is to the effect he has on you.

“Did I ever tell you I was born in New York?” He drums the pencil against the table. Looks around the bar that’s grown steadily busier. “I moved here when I was five so I don’t really remember much, but it’s always felt like this huge part of me, so I went through this phase a few years ago—read a ton of books on the history of the music scene there, listened to all the albums they said were influential.”

You jot down some songs. “And? What was your verdict?”

He takes a sip of his drink. Laughs a little as he scratches at the back of his neck. “I got really into Tom Tom Club,” he answers. “You know Talking Heads, right? Tom Tom Club was the side project of the drummer and the bassist of that band. Husband and wife.”

Over the speakers, a bluesy folk song starts playing, soft and melodic. You’re not as musically inclined as your boyfriend or the man across from you, but you’re still able to be moved by it. Still able to appreciate in others when they love something so much it becomes tangible. When a bluesy folk song starts playing in a bar and it brings a smile to Vernon’s face. When he talks about artists and albums he’s discovered and speaks with all the reverence of an archaeologist digging up ancient riches thought to be long-forgotten. When you glance at the songs you’ve written down and don’t have to worry that they won’t be cool enough, because everyone here just loves music, no matter what form it takes; are able to find something to appreciate everywhere they look.

“Talking Heads had already put out, like, four or five albums I think by the time Tom Tom Club formed,” Vernon continues. His drink is almost gone. “But David Byrne had released some solo stuff by then with Brian Eno, so they wanted to do something, too, and what they made was this really funky, kind of unexpected new wave album.

“They did some really weird stuff production-wise—103 bpm when everyone else was doing 120, deliberately tuning Tina Weymouth’s bass to 150 hertz, using a really crunchy synth. I find myself going back to it every time I get stuck, mostly because it’s the sort of thing you can listen to and feel how much they loved making music.” He pauses. Almost looks horrified when he sees there’s nothing left in his glass but half-melted ice. “I—oh my god, I’m sorry, I can’t believe I’ve been talking your ear off about this.”

Head tilted to the side, you smile. “We’re in a music bar,” you deadpan. “I’d go so far as to say we’re in the perfect place for you to talk my ear off about this.”

“Yeah, but—” You give him a look that has him holding his hands up. “Okay, okay! I’ll go refill our drinks since it’s the least I can do. Do you have your…?”

That aforementioned smile morphs into something more mischievous when you hand him your slip of paper. You watch as he looks it over, nods at the picks he thinks were in good taste: “Dreams” by The Cranberries, “Don’t Push It Don’t Force It” by Leon Haywood, “Smalltown Boy” by Bronski Beat, “When I Come Around” by Green Day just to take the piss out of Vernon, who seems to have an endless collection of faded, worn Green Day t-shirts with loose necklines. Then, you watch as he gets to the last song on your list and his brows furrow.

He looks up at you. Even against the dark backdrop of the bar, against the red green blue lights casting technicolor shapes across his forehead, his cheeks, you can tell Vernon is stunned. Can see how wide his pupils have blown.

There, at the bottom of your list, is “Fantasy” by Mariah Carey.

Arguably the most well-known song to sample “Genius of Love” by Tom Tom Club.

Vernon’s apartment has three bedrooms.

One is used as a home studio, with a massive L-shaped desk that nearly takes up the entire room. In the middle, a laptop hooked up to a massive curved monitor with immaculate resolution, flanked on each side by monitor speakers. Stereo receiver. Preamps and input patch bays. A midi controller and a drum machine.

The rest of the room is taken up by instruments. An upright piano against one wall, clearly purchased secondhand; beside it, a two-tiered stand containing a keyboard and analog synthesizer. Two electric guitars, one acoustic, one bass. More microphones and over-ear headphones than you’ve ever seen in a single room.

Another resembles the LP bar: two walls of floor-to-ceiling built-ins that house his extensive vinyl collection, sorted first by genre then alphabetically. More records sit in milk crates on the floor, waiting to be catalogued and put away. To the right, on the only remaining wall that isn’t fully windows, sits a vintage credenza, most likely Japanese mid-century. You don’t have to ask—just by looking at it, you can tell Vernon’s hi-fi setup is top of the line, each item carefully chosen after hours of research and trial and error. Two plush armchairs, angled toward one another. Colorful shag rug.

His actual bedroom contains none of those things, but there are still touches of him everywhere.

Framed prints from his favorite artists and films. A concerning number of plain white t-shirts hung on a chrome clothing rack. On his nightstand, a well-used Replica candle (Jazz Club; smells like him) sits atop a stack of books with neon spines: Virgil Abloh. Nike. ICONS, Sofia Coppola Archive, Yoshitomo Nara. There’s a lamp on his dresser meant to look like entrance beacons of the New York City subway. Above his bed hangs a neon sign of Basquiat’s Beat Bop album cover, and on the floor, a black and white checkered rug.

As for the rest—well, you hadn’t been given much time to admire it before Vernon was laying you in the middle of the bed and kissing you breathless.

(It does taste like coconut when he licks into your mouth.)

And it isn’t like you needed a reminder—you never do with Vernon—but it serves as one anyway. That the two of you spent the last few hours of a Friday night drinking together in a bar, laughing at one another’s song requests, laughing at Vernon’s drinks mixed with coconut rum, laughing in general. That it’d taken a few rounds, but after the laughter faded and he plucked up the courage, he asked about your and Soonyoung’s relationship: how you met, how it started, how it works. That you answered all his questions because there was only curiosity beneath them.

That he paid your tab and held your hand as you left, giddy and eager to get back to his place. That when the two of you reached an intersection, no walking sign lit up, he pressed his chest to your back and wrapped his arms around your shoulders, pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

That when you passed the GS25, you cracked a joke and asked Vernon if he wanted to stop and get ramen and Yonsei bread.

That he’d clenched his jaw and sent you a look that was pure heat; grabbed you by the waist and leaned in close, whispered in your ear, “I’ve been ready to bust in my fucking pants since you decided to torture me with that cherry, so I’m not doing a fucking thing that isn’t taking you back to my place and making you come over and over.”

Now here you are.

Vernon’s pace is bruising. It’s frenzied and unpredictable, like he’s trying to prove a point. What it is, you don’t know, but you find it hard to care when he’s like this. When he sheds his shyness like a second skin and is brazen in the way he wants you. When you’ve crossed the threshold of his bedroom and he makes it clear selfishness doesn’t exist here—that all you have to do is lay claim to what he’s willing to give.

And maybe that’s the thing: you can’t put a name to what you want. “Everything” feels too heavy, too much. When it’s exactly what’s on offer, it feels like the weight of the world. I couldn’t possibly ask for that, you think, and Vernon is right behind you asking, Why can’t you?

So you’ll take it, for now. You’ll let Vernon’s deft fingers undress you with reverence and you’ll claw at his back and help him pull his hoodie over his head. You’ll revel in his proximity; how it never, ever feels like he’s close enough. You’ll steal the breath from his lungs and wrap your legs around his waist to keep him draped over you like chiffon. And the first time your phone vibrates you’ll ignore it. The second and third times, too.

When it doesn’t let up, Vernon pulls back. Asks, “Is that…? Should I grab it?”

You only have a split-second to decide how things are going to play out—not only this, right here, but everything that comes after. You and Soonyoung come first to one another, but you still feel scorned. A bit petty. Hi, baby, I’m a little busy, still feels like a bruise; has hurt coursing you like it came from a blood bag.

So you thread your fingers through his hair—impossibly soft; the color of molten chocolate—until they’re resting at the back of his neck. Bring his mouth back to yours and let the taste of him transport you someplace else. Vernon groans as he fits his hands to the curve of your waist.

Your phone is still ringing. Vernon opens his mouth and you shake your head. “No,” you answer, voice unwavering, “this one’s just for us.” He stares down at you. Everything he’s feeling shows clearly on his face, but it’s still undecipherable: the push and pull of the tide, always changing. “Kiss me.”

He does. Whatever fire had consumed him earlier has cooled off considerably, replaced only with the need for closeness. Every press of his mouth against your body is delicate. Every brush of his fingertips and knuckles against your skin is tender. When he kisses down your body and makes you come with his tongue, it isn’t booming fireworks but a quiet gasp into the crook of your elbow.

When he rolls on a condom and presses into you, he twines your fingers together again, and they aren’t sweaty. When he rests his forehead on your shoulder, the words he speaks against you are full of velvet praise. When he moves his hips, the sound of his skin against yours reminds you of a symphony: adagios bookended by scherzos, culminating in a shared finale that leaves you both glowing and euphoric.

Four a.m. looks different from Vernon’s apartment.

More down to earth, not as deep into the clouds. You’ve called Seoul home for the entirety of your adult life, but you’re still learning its secrets. Here, on Vernon’s side of the city, it’s more lively. Sleeps less. You watch as dot-sized people duck in and out of 24/7 shops; as groups of friends converge and separate like starling murmuration. You watch through bleary eyes as the city lights start to blur together.

This is where Vernon finds you, sitting on his living room floor, knees tucked against your chest.

Wordlessly, he sits beside you. Stretches his legs out, hands planted on the rug behind him. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth still stuck to his skin, see every breath he takes from the corner of your eye. And you think you should say something—maybe apologize if you woke him—but four a.m. is built for silence.

Minutes pass. The traffic signals go through their sequence, green yellow red green yellow. The stream of dot-sized people remains steady. The man beside you is steady, too, but he’s also perceptive, and usually it’s a perception that lets you initiate, come closer once you’re ready, doesn’t push. Not this time. This time, he turns to face you and studies your profile. Must notice something, because his eyes narrow, perfect brows pinching in the middle. “You okay?” You nod. Give him a smile you hope is convincing. Four a.m. is a lot of things, but it doesn’t feel like the time or place for this kind of revelation.

Because you like him.

Something of this magnitude should feel world-altering, you think, but it doesn’t. Even if it was subconscious, you’ve known this, so it feels the same as when you look at the sky and see it’s blue, when you look at the grass and it’s green—the universe as advertised and in perfect working order. The way things are meant to be.

But you aren’t sure where the lines are drawn anymore, or if there’s anything left of them at all. Both you and Soonyoung have been here before: feelings that came out of nowhere, hookups that left a more lasting impression than others, the occasional short-term fling. All of it was within the boundaries of your relationship, but something about this—about Vernon—feels different. Feels like something you don’t want to lose.

You suck in a deep breath. “I’m okay,” you confirm, “I just… there are things I need to talk to Soonyoung about, I think.”

Vernon nods. “I figured as much with all the phone calls.”

And because it feels like something you don’t want to lose, you need to be honest. “We got into an argument yesterday morning, before I texted you. It wasn’t—I don’t even know if I’d actually call it an argument, really, because I just got pissed and hung up, but.” You sigh. Place your chin on top of your knees. “I needed to tell you that, because I don’t want it to seem like I used you. It’s not like that for me with you, but I also can’t lie and say I’m not still stung about it.”

Vernon hums. Asks, “Did you want to hurt him?”

“No,” you answer immediately, because it’s true. You never want to hurt him. “I know the relationship me and him have doesn’t make sense to a lot of people. Most people, probably. It works for us, though, and because it’s always worked, I’m not always sure what to do when it doesn’t.” A sigh. “I’m not jealous, you know? I love him, and I love that other people love him. I don’t want someone else’s normal.”

A half-smile ghosts across Vernon’s face. “I’m sensing a but coming.”

“No but.” You laugh. “Well, maybe a but—ever since you left a few weeks ago, I’ve just felt… off? I couldn’t put my finger on it. I couldn’t shake this feeling I’d done something wrong, and I tried talking to Soonyoung about it but we couldn’t make the time difference work, so I texted him and asked him to make time, but he never responded, so I called him yesterday morning. I’m sure you can guess where this is going.”

“Mm, yeah,” comes his simple reply.

“I overreacted, and I need to apologize for it, but I wasn’t ready to have the conversation until I figured out what was weighing on me.”

“And?” His fingers inch closer to yours. “Did you figure it out?”

You place yours over them. “Yeah, I did.”

Vernon had gotten called into the studio just after eleven.

Both of you had tried holding onto the last dregs of excitement of waking up together for the first time. Tried blinking the exhaustion out of your eyes and showing some semblance of life as you danced around one another, brushing your teeth and getting dressed. Vernon paid for your ride home and kissed you goodbye at the door, but not before promising it’d all get figured out.

The drive takes you down streets lined with cherry blossoms in full bloom, petals covering the asphalt, blowing in the breeze. Morning doesn’t often find you philosophical, but there’s something comforting about the changing of the seasons. Winter will always give way to spring in the same way everything will always work out, just like Vernon had promised, and it makes you feel light, finally unburdened, so you dig your phone from your bag.

You: I’ll be home soon You: I know it’s early where you are, but I’m around if you’re up and want to talk

Soonyoung doesn’t answer, but this doesn’t surprise you—the message just sits there, undelivered.

So you thank the driver when he drops you outside your apartment. Without much else to do, you stop into the grocery store to grab a few things, including a bundle of yellow and pink flowers, and the café next to your building after that, where you order something strong and not watered down. You soak up the sun on your skin, let it warm you from the inside out, and after half your coffee’s gone you start to feel human again.

This only lasts as long as it takes to get to your apartment and open the door.

Because there’s your boyfriend asleep on the couch. Soonyoung, whose mouth is hanging open and is snoring lightly. Soonyoung, who’s supposed to be in Europe. Soonyoung, whose phone is laying on the floor, halfway under the couch. Soonyoung, who startles awake when you call his name and punctuate it with a question mark.

Soonyoung, who realizes it’s you and crosses the living room in milliseconds. Who pulls you into his arms before you can breathe life into another question. Who peppers kisses all over your face and sighs when you thumb away the tears beneath his eyes simply because you’re touching him. Who presses his forehead to yours, content to hold you, and you, who fists your hand in the fabric of his shirt, content to let him.

Once the shock wears off, you realize you’re still holding the flowers. Say, “Let me just…” as you gesture at the bouquet. “Then we can talk?”

He’s reluctant to let you go, but he nods anyway. Doesn’t say a thing about the dozens of flowers already covering the kitchen island. When you spin around, his cheeks are dusted pink, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. “I ordered them to be delivered first thing this morning,” he explains. “Well, no—I ordered them yesterday, but they couldn’t deliver that many on such short notice. They also thought it was fake, since I was ordering them from France, so I had to call them, but—”

“They’re beautiful,” you whisper, rubbing a rose petal between your fingers. “Thank you.”

“I panicked. I thought you were breaking up with me.” You don’t mean to laugh, but one tumbles out anyway. Soonyoung pouts around a smile he tries to tamper down, doesn’t take any offense because he, too, knows how absurd it sounds.

“Why would I ever do that?”

He nods his head in the direction of the couch—his favorite place to have these kinds of talks. Says having serious discussions standing up gives him heartburn. Really, you suspect it’s so he has pillows within grabbing distance for when he inevitably starts crying and needs to cover his face in embarrassment, but you’ll give him this. You’ll sit in your usual spot and wait as he sits in his, and then you’ll stretch out and place your feet in his lap like you always do. And he’ll try to apologize first like he always does because he can’t stand things being tense between you, even when it’s your fault.

Today, though, you don’t let him.

“I owe you an apology,” you say, and you want to laugh again at the shocked look on his face, that he can’t believe you beat him to the punch, but you don’t. “I shouldn’t have reacted that way. It was out of line and I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve it.”

“I did a little,” he snarks, all self-deprecation. “I am never, ever too busy for you, and I made you feel like I was.”

“I know.” He moves to protest; you hold up a hand to stop him. “Just let me try to explain this. After Vernon left a few weeks ago, everything felt really off. I had this overwhelming sense of guilt, like I’d done something horrible and I couldn’t figure out what it was, because it’s not like I’d crossed any boundaries, you know? Everything was above board. But I wanted to talk to you about it in case you knew something I didn’t, and then we couldn’t—”

“You like him.” Soonyoung says this as a declaration rather than a question. He says this with a shit-eating grin on his face. He says this as if he’s an old philosopher imparting ancient wisdom upon you, like he’s predicted historical events and has yet to be wrong. “You do, don’t you?”

“I—yeah, but how did you know that? How long have you known that?”

He laughs. “Baby, it’s been obvious to everyone except the two of you since that first night.” You sputter, ready to defend your own honor—Soonyoung’s album release party feels like ages ago now, so surely you would’ve been able to put two and two together before now if what he’s saying were true? “I know you,” he adds, tone far more serious and gentle. “I know what you’re like when you have feelings for someone, remember? I’ve watched you fall in and out of love; not only with me, but—”

You gasp and nudge him in the ribs with your foot. “First of all, I have never fallen out of love with you. Don’t even joke about that—”

“Yes, ma’am.” Soonyoung salutes you sarcastically. Captures your foot and acts like he’s going to tickle you just to get a rise.

“Soonyoung, don’t—you know how ticklish I am! I won’t be able to control my body and I’ll kick you in the ribs or the dick or whatever and hurt you and you’ll get all upset! Also, we are in the middle of a serious conversation here! Stop derailing!”

“I’m not even doing anything,” he lies. “Please continue.”

With a groan (and a very deadly stare), you convince him to stop fucking around. He doesn’t release you entirely, but he forgoes the threats of tickling to press his thumbs into the arch of your foot instead. It works. In an instant, you’re calm, half-melted into the fabric of the couch.

“I went out with him last night.” You swallow, feeling the guilt creep in again. Soonyoung digs in deeper. “I texted him after I hung up on you. I didn’t intend for it to be one, but it very much turned into a date. I slept there.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Yes,” you answer honestly. Soonyoung pulls you closer, moves his hands to your calf and works at the muscle there. “I didn’t tell him.” You don’t know whose sake you’re saying this for—if it’s for Soonyoung or you or even Vernon—but it feels important to admit. To acknowledge that Soonyoung still comes first to you; that, as chaotic as things feel, one thing hasn’t changed. “Wanted to talk to you first.”

“Okay,” he replies breezily. “Let’s talk, then, pretty girl. Let’s figure it out.”

And you do.

The two of you talk for hours. Mostly apologies and promises to do better, but Soonyoung wants to hear all the perverse details of your night spent at Vernon’s apartment. Can’t help himself. Laughs when you scold him for getting hard, but you’re laughing, too. He asks if you want to date him—properly, not only when you’re feeling spiteful—and you ask if it’d be okay if you did. Briefly, you wonder if such a question is presumptuous. After all, you haven’t talked to Vernon, haven’t put your feelings into plaintext, but then you think back to the way he’d touched you last night and come to the conclusion it isn’t.

The two of you talk about the future. Soonyoung makes a point to revisit the original agreement; needs to make sure the two of you are on the same page. “It’s okay if you don’t want this anymore,” he assures you. “I just want you to be happy.”

There’s something in his tone that has you eyeing him. “Do you still want this? You’ve never floated the idea of closing the relationship before.”

“I had a near-death experience,” he jokes. “You know how they say your entire life flashes before your eyes right before you die? That’s all I could think about on the flight home—that it’d be my fault if you left and I’d deserve it because I was selfish; that no one I’ve been with could ever come close to you and none of it would’ve been worth it.”

Everything’s starting to sound waterlogged again. Soonyoung takes you into his arms when you crowd his end of the couch and fit yourself against his side. “If you just want it to be the three of us, that’s more than enough for me.” You press a kiss to his shoulder. “Or we can decide later when I feel less like a deer about to get destroyed by a car.”

You snort. Say, “You can decide. Whatever you want is okay with me. I know it’d be a big adjustment for you.”

“Don’t say what you think I want to hear.”

“I’m not,” you affirm. “I’m really, truly, one-hundred-percent okay with whatever you want to do, even if, like, fifty-five-percent of that is because I’m way less enthusiastic about butt stuff than you—”

“Hey!”

With another shared laugh, the air is cleared. Together, the two of you erase the existing lines and draw new ones. Talk about what it would look like for two to become three. Has another moment of self-doubt and apologizes that he is who he is, that he can’t love you in public the way he desperately wants to, the way you deserve to be loved out in the open. “You love me in the ways you can,” you tell him, “and they’re more than enough because they come from you.”

You talk until the sky begins to darken and the conversation devolves into nonsense. Until Soonyoung realizes he never plugged his phone into the charger and his team’s probably in a panic. Until his stomach rumbles and he suggests ordering a ton of food for delivery, except he really does mean a ton, and when you ask him who’s possibly going to eat it all his cheeks redden and he says, sheepish and a little nervous, “I thought we could invite Vernonie over?”

Another playful groan. “You’re back home for—what, barely 48 hours?—and your main concern is having another threesome?”

“And if I say yes?”

You text Vernon and ask if he’s free after work.

He is.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! Sharing and reblogging my work is the best way to show you enjoyed it, but I also accept any and all feedback and screaming in my inbox. <3

[fluffyfluffytime]

Look Up In The Sky! Is It A Bird? Is It A Plane? No It's... (Part 1) | Bob Reynolds x fem!Reader

Chapter summary: Bob's choice of outfit makes Yelena and Ava suspicious. What better way to find out than to follow him

Author's Note: The idea for this series has been haunting my head. I need to let it out. If there are any writing errors please do let me know, I'm sloppy when it comes to editing... Anyways, enjoys

The TV screen flickered to life, the evening news blaring through the Watchtower’s common room. A newscaster, lips painted red, smile wide and voice joyful, quite a dichotomy given she was speaking over footage of a burning building down in Queens.

“New York, home to the marvellous sights such as the Statue of Liberty, Empire State, and Avengers Towers, may have its astonishing sight yet– a guardian angel.” The reporter said, “Just ask Mrs. Lockheart, who says an angel rescued her from a burning building”

The screen cut to a frail old lady sat on her wheelchair.

”There was fire everywhere”, her elderly voice trembled “I wanted to escape, but I couldn’t, the door were stuck. I passed out, and when I had awoken, I was outside, on a bench. And just as vision started to become clearer, there she was, her wings fiery red, an angel. I was about to thank her, but then she flew off.” Tear-welled in her eyes as she dabbed them with a floral handkerchief ,“If you’re watching this right now, thank you, thank you so much”

Yelena snorted from the couch. “Senile,” she muttered, as she wiped down the blood from her knife, her tactical gear slightly unzipped, the grime from the week mission covered her collar.

“Reaistically speaking” John said, slouched beside her, tossing his dirt covered shield onto the floor, “If there was truly an angel flying around New York, there’d at least be CCTV footage” Ava huffed, peeling her gloves and dropping them onto the coffee table, “This joke of a news is what valentina so urgently wants us to watch” she rolled her eyes “she didn’t even give us time to change” 

“Yeah” John said, reaching for the remote, “she just loves wasting our time”

Alexei lounged across the recliner, not caring that the filth on his uniform would stain the chair “Put on something realistic, like Terminator. I’m done listening to this fairytale bullshit”

The sound of approaching footsteps turned all their heads.

Bob stepped in, dressed in a white shirt, a pair of blue jeans and a leather jacket— an unusual choice for him. 

“Did you mix up your laundry with Bucky’s” John asked, pointing at him

“Uh- no”, Bob responded, awkwardly adjusting the jacket.

“Then why are you dressed up like him?” Ava eyed his choice of fashion.

Bob shrugged, “I just wanted to try something new” 

“What kind of monster wears leather and denim just to leisure?” Yelena raised an eyebrow.

“No, I’m actually heading out for a bit”, Bob casually announced

Ava raised a brow. “Where?”

“A diner”

Alexei bolstered. “Why? We have perfectly good food in the fridge”

He got up from his seat to the fridge, with a dramatic swing of the fridge, inside showed a pathetic sight. Inside sat a half-empty carton of milk, mould-flecked broccoli and a lone chicken leg with a suspicious bite mark.

Ava turned to John and smacked his shoulder. “Weren’t you supposed to do the groceries before the mission?”

“Ouch” he winced “Look i was preoccupied!”

Yelena slapped his other shoulder. “You left Bob with an empty fridge”

Ava slapped his shoulder again “We’re suppose to have spaghetti tonight, how are we suppose to cook if there is nothing in the fridge”

John threw his arms up and groaned “Okay, okay! I’ll go now! Just let me change!”

As John stomped off to his room, Bob awkwardly pointed to the elevator, "I'm gonna head out now”

Yelena sighed, the mission did leave her feeling abit peckish. “Since there’s nothing in the fridge, maybe i’ll come too– ”

“No!”

Three heads turned towards him in surprise

Bob stammered, waving his hands. “It’s just that…um…the food there’s is kinda bad. I only really go there for the milkshakes. They’re great. But not like, worth the 30 minutes walk great, and… you guys just got back from the mission, so must be exhausted”

“But–”

“Right! See ya!”

With that, Bob bolted into the elevator, mashing the button as if it would make the doors close faster.

WIth the elevator now shut, Alexei let out a huff, plopping himself back on to the recliner, “Ha! Always blushing and stuttering that one. Whatever will we do”

Ava and Yelena exchanged a glance

“Oh, he’s definitely hiding something, let’s follow him”, Yelea muttered

“Still have that tracker on him?” Ava asked

“Oh yeah”

Ava cracked her neck and stood “Let’s change first. My suit stinks” 

Alexei with his eyes shut, grunted “Bring me back a milkshake”

—

Walking through the diner’s door, the bell jingled above him, drawing the attention of a few patrons. The diner had that old school vibe��� checkered floors, red vinyl booths and an old juke box that was mainly used for decorative purposes.

It was 2.37 p.m– perfect timing. The aftermath of the lunch hour rush left only a few patrons. An old man sipping his coffee near the entrance, a mother entertaining her baby in one of the booth, a pair of teenagers at the counterseat with their textbooks out. 

Bob exhaled in relief. His favorite booth—tucked into the back corner—was still free. To him, it was the perfect spot: private, with a clear view of the whole restaurant.

Sliding into his seat, Bob felt his heart pounding against his chest. Trying to relax, he closed his eyes and used those breathing exercises he found online.

Breath in 

Hold. One, two three.

Breath out 

“You got this” he murmured.

“Got what?”

His eyes snapped open. Across from the table sat Yelena and Ava, now dressed in their casual wear with eyebrows raised in near-identical expression of amusement.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, stiffening.

“Well food here may be crap” Ava said, stretching her arms out across the booth, “but we’re also craving for some milkshake” 

“Please leave I—“

“Why? Do you hate us?” Yelena tilted her head with a playful frown.

“No, I—“

“Oh hey, Bob” a waitress called, walking over. Her messy (y/h/c) hair was bundled into an updo, and her thick rimmed glasses slid a little down her nose. Just like the dinner’s retro interior, her uniform fit with the aesthetic- A red button up tucked into a black skirt with a white apron tied around her waist. The nametag on her chest read (y/n).

“Hey”, Bob replied, trying to play it cool as he tucked his hand under his jaw.

“Glad to see you again” She smiled brightly, then glanced at the two women across from him “And who do we have here?” 

“Friend! Just friends!” Bob quickly blurted.

“Oh! Bob mentioned you guys before– Selena and Eve, right?”

Yelena and Ava chuckled. 

“Yelena” Yelena pointed to herself, then to the brunette “Ava”

“Sorry, my bad” the waitress said, lightly smacking her forehead with her pen. “I’m just really bad with names. First few times he came in, i kept calling him Todd instead of Bob”

Pulling out a notebook from her apron, pen on the paper, “Anyways, what can  get you guys”

Yelena and Ava buried their faces in the menu, but really, their attention was focused on Bob, particularly the way he was looking at the waitress.

“Hey,” she leaned closer to Bob, lowering her voice, “I just finished the book you lent me”

Bob perked up. “Yeah? What do you think of the ending”

“Oh, i loved it!”

“Right?” he let out his typical bashful smile.

“The audacity of the people of Goodreads to say that the ending was too complicated”

“I know, right?”

They both laughed, sharing a look that was definitely more than just waitress and customer.

Yelena clear her throat, loudly.

The waitress blinked, remembering the other guest. “Right! Orders! What can I get you?”

“I’ll have the BLT sandwich” Ava said.

“You know what, since I skipped out on breakfast, I’ll have the all-day breakfast spread. Oh, Ava, don’t forget the milkshake– Bob would not shut up about it"

“Strawberry for me”, Ava added.

“Vanilla,” Yelena said.

The waitress nodded and jotted everything down. “And you, Bob?”

“Yes?” he asked, blinking out of his thoughts

“You wanna try something new or…”

“No, just the usual please”

The waitress walks away, heading to the kitchen with the order slip.

Bob eyes followed her, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly– probably unaware just how goofy his smile looks. 

A pair of stifled laughs broke his train of thought.

“What are you really doing here” Bob asked, in a hushed tone.

“When Yelena mentioned she wanted to follow, you were a bit too anxious” Ava shrugged, tone playful “We just wanted to make sure you were all fine and dandy” 

Yelena’s blue eyes shifted sideways “And it seems that you are more than dandy”

Bob followed his gaze, which landed back on the waitress, who was now taking orders at another table. She let out a laugh, head tilted back slightly, it seemed like the customer had a good sense of humour, or you probably just wanted to be as hospitable as possible. 

“How long have you fancied her?” Yelena asked casually.

Bob raised his hand up in defense “No– it’s not like that”

“Then why are you blushing?” the blonde pointed out, smirking.

Bob grabbed the spoon on the table and stared at the distorted image. Yelena was right– his face and ears were practically red. Flustered, he tugged at the collar of his leather jacket, trying to cool himself. But it was futile. He was red because he was caught red-handed, no amount of cooling could fix this. 

“Sooo… how long” Ava tilted her head, grinning.

Bob hesitated, then mumbled, “I realised I liked her about a month ago”

Both girls made an exaggerated and simultaneous hmmmmm

“And the outfit?” Yelena gestured to his getup.

“She once mentioned that she thought guys who can pull off a leather jacket are hot”, Bob muttered.

Ava tilted her head sideways, with a confused face, “But you're not really pulling it off” 

“Ava”, Yelena scolded.

“What? Just look at how uncomfortable he looks in that thing, he keeps adjusting it”

“I mean, she does have a point”, Yelena agreed with a sympathetic wince

Bob looked down at himself “Do I really look that bad?

“Not bad” Yelena said “it's just that you just don’t look…”

“...like yourself,” Ava finished.

Bob opened his mouth, but was cut off by the waitress returning balancing two trays with ease.

“Okie Dokie” she chirped. “A breakfast platter for Yelena, a BLT for Ava, for Bob his usual and milkshakes all around. Enjoy!”

But just as waitress was about to walk away, she paused and tilted her head, concern flickering across her expression.

“Bob, are you okay? Your face is super red. Can you not feel the AC for here?” She looked up and raised her hands to the ceiling vent above them. “Should I move you guys to a cooler spot?”

Before Bob could answer, Yelena jumped in. “Oh, no it’s just the jacket. Leather. A bit too hot for him– he’s suffering for fashion”

Bob opened his mouth to protest. “I’m fine, really”

“Awww, you should totatlly take it off” the waitress broke into a teasing grin “Show off those strong biceps of yours. It’s a better look on you”

Bob nearly choked on his saliva. Meanwhile, Yelena and Ava were given each other side glances, as if they were telepathically communicating with one another.

“Right?” Yelena added, smirking at him. “Would be a shame to keep those arms hidden”

The waitress simply chuckled. “Well let me know if you need anything” and with that she walked off to collect another order.

Bob groaned, his face even more redder, buried into his hands. “I hate all of you”

“No, you don’t” Yelena responded as she took a sip of her milshake. Her expression shifted “Okay, that is really good”

Ava proceeded to take a sip from her milkshake, her eye widen. “Damn”

Bob lifted his head just enough to glance at them, pride sneaking into his voice “I know right?”

Ava nodded thoughtfully with a sly grin. “Alright, I get… her milkshakes really do bring all the boys to the yard”

Yelena tilted her head. “What yard? There is no yard. We are in diner”

Bob burst into laughter, shoulders shaking as he covered his face again. “Yelena—no–”

His laugh was just to contagious, Ava couldn’t help but to giggle as well.

Yelena sat there, with her arm up in confusion. 

Their meal together was relatively calm, trading bits of conversation between bites. Nothing deep, just idle chatter about the movies Bob has been watching, Ava’s newest training regimen and Yelena complaining about Alexei gratuitous purchase of Wheeties. Eventually, they were down to their last bite of their meals. Finally, they washed it down with thick sugary sips.

Yelena was the first to bring it up.

“So are you gonna ask her out?” She asked as she lived the whipped cream clean off her straw

Bob nearly choked. He set down his glass, coughing into his hand. “I don’t know… is now even the best time?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Ava asked brow furrowed.

Bob hesitated, twiddling his thumbs, his eyes on small amount of shake left at the bottom of his cup. “What if the other guy comes out”

Yelena’s face sobereed. “It’s been over eight months since the incident. He hasn’t shown up since and we’re not giving him any reason too”

“Yeah, but what if he did” Bob said, his voice quiter now. “And what if next time next time, we’re unable to stop him”

“Hey, now,” Ava cuts in gently. “I’m hearing a lot of ifs here. These are all hypothetical situation. You’re letting all these made-up scenarios get the best of you”

“It isn’t also the what ifs” he rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s also what happened. She doesn’t know that the black-out event happened because of me. I’ll eventually will have to tell her, what if she doesn’t take it well”

Yelena leaned in “You’re asking her on a date, not to marry you. See how the first date goes, then we can worry about the what-ifs”

Bob looked at the both of them, still unsure– but the weight in his shoulder had lessened just a little bit.

“Alright”

Yelena clapped her hands together. “Great! When you pay, you ask her out on date”

Bob blined. “Wait–”

“No waiting. No backing out. We will wait outside,” Yelena said, already sliding out of the booth.

Ava followed suite. “You got this,” she whispered to him.

Before Bob could say anything, they were both already out the door, the bell above the diner jingling behind them as the left.

Outside, Yelena stuffed her hands into her pocket, eyeing a pair of birds sitting on the window’s ledge. “ So when do you think we’ll start getting wedding invites. I say six months”

Ava chuckled. “Wedding? Marriage would be awfully too soon wouldn’t it”

Yelena shrugged, “Bob always striked me as someone who’d get married as soon as he found the one”

Ava glanced at the diner's window, trying to peek in, but from where they stood neither waitress or Bob was visible. “What makes you think she’s ‘the one’”

Yelena chuckled. “She is very much woman”

Ava furrowed her brow, “What does that mean?”

Just as Yelena was about to elaborate, the bell of the door had jingled.

Bob stepped out, and yet their smiles faded.

They expected him to walk out with a goofy grin. Instead, his eyes were rimmed red and his lashes damp.

Yelena stepped forward. “What happened”

Bob kept his eyes ahead, jaws tight. “She said she couldn’t. Not that she didn’t want to” he muttered, “She’s got club activities, classes, that and her part time job. She said she doesn't have the time to date”

Yeleba’s voice soften. “Bob, I’m sorry”

“It’s fine. Really” he said quickly, too quickly.

But they both saw it, the way his throat bobbed as if he was trying to swallow down the pain. The way his brows twitched. The tears in his eye were swelling. He turned, walking ahead of them 

“Let’s just go”

His steps were longer now–purposefully so. 

It wasn’t just about wanting to get home asap. It was so that they wouldn’t notice the tears that slipped down his cheeks.

The women didn’t say anything. 

They just followed 

[breakmeoff]

Spell On You │The Boy Next Door (drabble)

pairing: bang chan x fem!reader

warnings: none!

word count: 800 ish

synopsis: little do you know, chris stole something of yours the last time you were together in hopes of feeling your presence with him no matter where he is. and his bandmates are starting to see the signs that their leader may be distracted.

NEW!!!

drabble sequence: falls between The Boy Next Door chapters 9 and 10

note: because this series is going to take place over an extended period of time and i don't want to use too many time lapses, i decided i am going to start writing drabbles that fall into the same storyline.

each drabble will be able to be read as a stand alone one-shot should you not want to follow the whole story, but they will fall sequentially in between certain chapters. some will be sweet and fluffy, others will be downright filthy so stay tuned!

i would LOVE your input on these, and would be happy to take any suggestions for other fun scenarios i can throw into the mix.

thx for reading :)

Masterlist

Chris made sure you had fallen asleep before he decided to leave late that night - well, rather early that morning.  He knew he needed to get back to his own hotel and room before anyone realized he was missing.

After silently redressing and tying his shoes, Chris lifted his gaze just before he was about to stand when something pink caught his eye in the dim light of your room.

Pushing himself to his feet, he crept over to where you had laid your suitcase open, its contents spilling out all over the place.  He peered over his shoulder to your sleeping frame, and with quiet ease, picked up your small, travel sized bottle of perfume.  

Louis Vuitton - Spell on You.  How aptly named.

Tucking the mini bottle in his hoodie pocket, he walked back over to you and bent down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. Hearing the softest, sweetest little sigh from you, he couldn’t help but grin like an idiot.

Wordlessly, Chris watched you sleep for a few more seconds, practically holding his breath as he made a promise to himself.

“From here on out, I will do whatever it takes to prove to you that I am yours, and that I can be exactly the man you need and want me to be.”

Gentle fingers reached for the top of the comforter, and pulled it up to cover your shoulders. A moment later, Chris softly stepped towards the door and walked out of your room.

A couple of days later, you had already taken an early morning flight back to Australia, and later that same afternoon, Stray Kids and their team headed to JFK off to the next tour destination.

With a heavy yawn, Chris filed through the security check point last, always keeping up the rear to make sure everyone was safely accounted for. After grabbing his bag from the end of the baggage scanner belt, he smirked, coming right up behind Minho who was bent down tying his shoe.

Winding his hand up likely more than necessary, Chris left a stinging slap on Minho’s clothed ass, causing him to jolt forward and almost fall on his face. Standing up straight, Minho glared his eyes over his face mask, shooting visual daggers at his hyung.

“Oh shit,” Chris saw the venom in his eyes and moved to rush forward but was pulled back by the shoulders roughly, causing him to bounce sideways into Hyunjin. The taller man side eyed both of them with a look of pure disdain, but caught a whiff of something… floral?

Upturning his nose in confusion, Hyunjin looked around to see if a woman had just passed by, but saw no one. Shrugging it off, he readjusted his headphones and strode down the airport terminal.

Meanwhile, Lee Know was out for revenge. Reaching forward to Chris’ bag, he tugged the older member back, knocking him off his balance and essentially bumping back into him too.

“What the hell…” Minho mumbled, letting go of Chris’ bag, but lowered his mask to get a better sniff. Leaning closer to Chris, who saw the younger man coming towards him awkwardly, he tried to back away.

Finally getting close enough to Chris to get a stronger whiff from his clothes, he furrowed his eyebrows and looked back to Chris’ face.

“You smell like a girl.” Lee Know deadpanned.

Chris felt the blush creeping up, starting from his ears and then across his cheeks. “I do not,” he said defensively.

Starting to quicken his pace, he walked swiftly past Changbin and Felix, trying to get away from the accusations. Lee Know shouted past them, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Yes you do! You smell like a damn garden!”

Hyunjin, with his bat-like hearing, agreed. “Jasmine maybe? Versace had a perfume with jasmine notes recently.”

Felix looked between his older members, and curiously stepped right behind Chris who has slowed down just a little. Taking a long inhale from the back of Chris’ shirt, Felix piped up. “It’s Louis… I recognize it!”

With a loud groan, tipping his head back as they continued through the terminal, Chris tried to justify himself. “I must’ve bumped into someone or walked into something…”

Wishing he had something like a mask or hat or hoodie to hide behind, Chris kept his head down and silently promised to be more careful about when he sprayed himself with your stolen perfume.

Seungmin, ever the instigator, quickly piped up while walking straight past him. “Okay Christina.”

tag list: @angel-writes-skz-here @idkimobsessed @queenofdumbfuckery @mfcherry @downingmorphine @pixie-felix @d3kstar @lveegsoi @ebnabi @nebugalaxy @babystay724 @mmarusa @imagine-all-the-imagines @erisuna @beabidoobee @hanniesbubuwife @bbykaixx @riri53 @jinniesgirl @alx-wyjsr @skzswife @hwangjoanna @stephanieeeyang @minnysproutgriffinteddy

[dippindaz]

in the mood for some angst/fluff pretty plz nobody else writes like you🥹 maybe eddie’s little sister getting pregnant by billy and eddie flips out on her and hurt reader’s feelings ? she thought eddie would be supportive and telling him would go better after billy freaked out walked out on her when she told him the news (he comes back ofc ) add some defensive Wayne in there ? a happy ending where the baby arrives and we get some uncle eddie and grandpa Wayne and dad Billy ?

Oh my goodness, so many different dynamics I love it!! Also thank you thank so much 🥰🥰 I hope you enjoy it!!

6.6k words

Warnings: Pregnancy, unplanned pregnancy, Mentions of terminating a pregnancy, Eddie and Billy have very negative reactions to the news, angst/fluff, hurt/comfort, mentions of childbirth, mentions of being someone up, (I think that's it).

You wished you had paid more attention to your period and how you felt on it. Maybe you would’ve realized something was off sooner. It wasn’t until you noticed your stomach had looked bloated for the past few days that you felt something was wrong.

When you took the pregnancy test you were certain it would be negative. It had to be right? It wasn’t like you and Billy ever had unprotected sex… well maybe once. Or twice or another couple times after that, but it wasn’t like you planned to do it unprotected.

You had to wait an ungodly amount of time for the test to give you a positive or negative. And by that, you had to wait five minutes. And you spent each second of those five minutes kneeled over the toilet, feeling like you were going to vomit up your stomach.

When a second line began to form on the test you got so lightheaded you fell back on your ass. Most everything after that had been a blur for you. Bouts of disbelief, crying, and an almost constant irritability. Billy knew something was wrong with you, especially once you started avoiding him.

You decided to tell him at his place. You figured if things went badly—which, let’s be honest, they probably would—you could just leave. You didn’t want to be stranded somewhere after getting your heart ripped out.

Billy sat on the edge of his unmade bed, shirtless, running a hand through his damp hair from his post-shift shower. He looked at you with mild curiosity, the usual smug glint in his eyes dimmed by exhaustion.

"You look like you're about to puke," he said, lighting a cigarette. "What’s goin' on?"

You took a deep breath, fingers twisting the hem of your sweater. "I have to tell you something,"

His eyebrows furrowed. "Alright, spill."

For a moment you were quiet. You had to look away.

“I’m pregnant.”

Billy froze. The cigarette hovered just inches from his lips before he set it down in the ashtray, exhaling sharply.

“No, you’re not.”

“I am.”

His jaw clenched, a bitter laugh forcing its way out of his throat. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking, Billy.”

Silence.

Then he was up, pacing the room, hands gripping his head like he could squeeze the reality out of his skull. “No. Nope. That’s not—No. That’s not happenin'.”

Your stomach twisted. “Billy, I—”

“How the hell am I supposed to afford a kid?” He snapped, turning on you. His voice was sharp, but underneath it, you could hear the panic creeping in. “I can barely afford rent. My car’s a piece of shit, I don’t have any savings—I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing tomorrow, let alone the next eighteen years.”

“I know,” you said, voice cracking. “I didn't plan for this anymore than you.”

He shook his head, scoffing. “Jesus. A fuckin' kid? With me?” He let out a hollow laugh, but there was nothing amused about it. “I can’t do this.”

Something in your chest cracked. “Billy, please—”

“No!” He cut you off, hands flying up like he needed to physically push the thought away. “I’m not cut out for this shit. I’m not—” His voice caught, and he let out a frustrated breath. “I can’t be a dad.”

Tears blurred your vision, but you blinked them away. “So what? You’re just gonna leave me?”

Billy didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, something tortured flickering behind his eyes. For a second, you thought maybe—maybe—he’d change his mind.

Then, with a slow shake of his head, he grabbed his hoodie from the chair and shoved past you toward the door.

“Billy,” you choked out, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t stop.

The door slammed behind him, leaving you standing there in his empty room, your heart breaking into pieces.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eddie had been watching you like a hawk for days. Every time you flinched at loud noises, every time you pushed your food around your plate without eating, every time you avoided his eyes when he asked what was wrong—it all added up. And now, after cornering you in your shared trailer, he had finally had enough.

“You’re gonna tell me what’s going on,” he said, arms crossed as he blocked the doorway to the tiny kitchen. “I don’t care if I have to sit here all damn night, but I’m not letting you keep acting like a freak without telling me why.”

You swallowed hard, feeling cornered. There was no getting out of this. If you lied, he’d see right through it. If you refused, he’d pester you until you cracked anyway. So, with your heart pounding, you took a shaky breath and forced the words out.

“I’m pregnant.”

The silence that followed was so heavy it felt like the whole trailer sank under the weight of it. Eddie just stared at you, his lips parted slightly, his face completely unreadable. Then he let out a sharp, breathless laugh—one with absolutely no humor in it.

“No,” he said flatly. “No, you’re not.”

Your throat tightened. “I am.”

Eddie shook his head, stepping back like you had physically hit him. “You’re not,” he repeated, voice rising. “Because you wouldn’t be that fucking stupid. Right? Right?”

Tears burned in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “Eddie—”

“No!” He raked his hands through his hair, pacing in a tight circle like he couldn’t stand still. “You’re—you’re serious? You’re actually serious right now?”

You wished the floor would open and swallow you whole. You don't say anything, but that's answer enough.

Eddie let out a humorless, almost crazed laugh. “Oh, great! That’s just fucking great! My little sister knocked up by fucking Billy Hargrove? Are you—have you completely lost your goddamn mind?”

You wrap your arms around yourself. “I didn’t plan for this to happen, Eddie.”

“That’s the problem!” he shouted. “You weren’t supposed to let this happen! You’re supposed to be the responsible one, the one who actually has a future! And now you’re tied to him forever? Jesus Christ.”

His words hit like a punch to the gut. You had thought about all of this already, of course you had. But hearing it from him—hearing the disgust in his voice, the disappointment—it was heart shattering.

Eddie pressed his hands to his face and let out a slow, shaking breath. When he finally dropped them, his eyes were burning with something sharp and unforgiving. “Tell me you’re not keeping it.”

Your stomach twisted violently. “I—”

“Tell me you’re not keeping it.” His voice was lower now, almost pleading.

You looked away.

Eddie let out a strangled, bitter laugh. “Unbelievable. You’re throwing your whole life away for him? You think he’s gonna stick around for this? Hargrove? That asshole? You really think he’s cut out to be a dad?”

You flinched at the venom in his voice. “You don’t know him like I do.”

“Oh, right, because he’s just so different with you, huh?” Eddie sneered. “That’s what they all say, sweetheart. And then one day, you wake up and realize you’ve ruined your whole fucking life.”

You turned away, tears beginning to escape from your eyes. “You don't have to be such a dick.”

“Yeah? What did you expect? A fucking baby shower?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “God, I can’t even look at you right now.”

Eddie stormed past you, shoving open the trailer door so hard it nearly came off its hinges. He didn’t even look back before disappearing into the night, leaving you standing there.

After that, you crumbled to the floor in the kitchen, bawling your eyes out. The two people who were always there for you, the two you counted on the most. Suddenly, weren't there.

The hours passed in a blur.

You sat curled up on the couch in the trailer, staring blankly at the dark television screen. The weight of everything pressed down on your chest, making it hard to breathe.

It had been a whole day and you barely moved. Eddie hadn’t come back. Billy hadn’t called. The two most important people in your life had walked away, and now you were left with nothing.

But the familiar rumble of a truck engine outside made you stir. A few moments later, the door creaked open, and Uncle Wayne stepped inside, shaking the chill from his jacket.

The second he laid eyes on you, he stopped short.

“Sweetheart,” he said slowly, setting his lunchbox down on the counter. “What’s wrong?”

You swallowed hard, blinking up at him. He looked exhausted from work, but his brows were furrowed with concern as he took in your red-rimmed eyes, your trembling hands clutching the blanket around you like it was the only thing keeping you together.

“It’s nothing,” you tried, voice hoarse from crying.

Wayne didn’t buy it for a second. “Bullshit.” He sat down beside you, resting his forearms on his knees. “Talk to me.”

Tears welled in your eyes again, and this time, you didn’t bother holding them back. “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. He just sat there, letting the words settle between you.

Then, to your surprise, he nodded, rubbing a hand over his scruffy jaw. “Well, shit.”

A watery laugh bubbled out of you, but it died just as quickly as you choked back a sob. “Eddie lost his mind. Billy—Billy just left.” You sucked in a shaky breath. “I think I’m alone in this.”

Wayne let out a slow breath, then shifted so he was facing you fully. “You listen to me, kid. You are not alone in this. Not now, not ever.” His voice was steady, firm—the way it always was when he was making sure you really heard him. “Eddie… he’s... emotional. He don’t always think before he speaks, but he loves you more than anything. He’ll come around.”

You wiped at your face, shaking your head. “And Billy?”

Wayne sighed, running a hand through his hair. “That boy’s got a lotta demons.” His gaze softened. “But that ain’t your fault. And it sure as hell ain’t this baby’s fault.”

A fresh wave of tears spilled over, but this time, they weren’t just from hurt—they were from relief. Because at least someone was here. At least someone wasn’t leaving.

Wayne reached over, pulling you into a firm, warm embrace. “I got you, kiddo. No matter what.”

And for the first time since seeing those two pink lines, you felt like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t completely alone after all.

For the next day or two, Wayne was in and out of the trailer. You weren't really sure why and you didn't want to bother asking. And he didn't bother to tell. Things felt a bit awkward, but he was mindful. Asking if you were okay and what he could do for you or if you needed anything. It was nice just to have someone there. At this rate you were thinking Eddie and Billy would never talk to you again.

At least, you thought that until you heard a vehicle door being shut. You knew it wasn't Wayne, he was already inside. You couldn't help but perk up, feel a little hope.

The door swung open, and Eddie stepped inside. You stood there, frozen, heart pounding in your chest as Eddie finally met your gaze.

He didn’t say anything at first. His eyes scanned the room, not meeting yours immediately, but there was a tension in the air. When he spoke, his voice was rough, as if he’d been holding something back for too long.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I… I was an asshole. I don’t know what got into me.”

You swallowed, not sure if you could trust your voice. “Eddie…”

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he admitted, sounding smaller than you’d ever heard him. “I was scared. And I acted like a dickhead.”

You blinked back more tears, the relief washing over you so fast it almost made you dizzy. “It’s okay. It’s just… it’s a lot to process.”

Eddie took a deep breath, stepping closer. “I know it’s a lot. But I’m here, alright? I’m here for you. I’ll help with whatever you need. We’ll figure this out together.”

Your heart eased at his words, but it still felt like there was a distance between you—like he wasn’t sure yet how to fully step back into the role he had always held in your life. But you could see it in his eyes, the regret, the hope.

You nodded quietly. “We’ll figure it out.”

Wayne, who had quietly stepped back into the room during Eddie’s apology, smiled at the two of you. “That’s what I like to hear,” he said with a low chuckle. He clapped Eddie on the back, his voice warm but firm. “Now, I’m gonna let you two talk. But you remember what I said. We’re all in this together. Don’t go thinking you’re on your own, kid.”

Eddie nodded, looking more like himself again as Wayne walked back to the door. “I’m gonna grab a drink at the bar, let you two sort through things. I’ll be back later.”

Once Wayne was gone, the trailer was quiet again, but it wasn’t heavy this time. Eddie sat beside you, and for the first time in days, you felt like maybe things weren’t as broken as they had seemed.

A couple of days passed, and the silence hung in the air like a thick fog. You’d spent most of that time holed up in the trailer, barely venturing out. Eddie kept an eye on you, but you knew he was worried. He didn’t say much, but you could see it in his eyes—the concern, the frustration, and maybe even a little guilt. The two of you weren't vulnerable with each other often, but you knew he was carrying a lot on his shoulders.

It was late afternoon when Eddie finally spoke up, setting a glass on the dish rack. “Where’s Billy?”

You blinked at him from the couch, your fingers absently tracing the edges of the blanket. “I don’t know,” you muttered. “He hasn’t called me. Haven’t been able to get a hold of him.”

Eddie’s jaw tightened, his gaze darkening. “What happened? You guys get into a fight or something?”

"When I told him about... it..." You trailed off, swallowing back the lump that had formed in your throat. “He... he just freaked out. Said he couldn’t afford a kid. And then... then he just left. I haven’t heard from him since.”

Eddie clenched his fists, his eyes narrowing. “Fucking asshole,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

You knew that tone. Eddie was about to go off, and honestly, you didn’t blame him. But you didn’t want any more drama, not right now.

“He’s just scared,” you said quietly, not sure if you were trying to convince yourself or Eddie.

Eddie’s expression softened slightly, but there was still a simmering anger underneath it. “Scared or not, he can’t just walk away from this.”

You sighed, glancing at the door. “I just wish I knew where he was.”

Eddie didn’t say anything for a moment, as if mulling over his thoughts. Finally, he made up his mind. “I’m gonna find him.”

"Eddie, please, don't." You protested.

But Eddie was already grabbing his keys off the counter and heading for the door. “I’ll be back soon,” he said, a little too curtly. “Stay here. Don’t go anywhere.”

You didn’t have the energy to argue. Instead, you nodded, watching as Eddie left.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The smell of oil and gasoline was thick in the air as Eddie stepped into the garage, eyes immediately scanning the space. A few mechanics were scattered around, working on different cars, but it wasn’t hard to find Billy.

There he was, leaning over the open hood of a car, grease smeared across his forearms. His denim jacket had been tossed onto a nearby workbench, and his usual cocky stance was gone. He looked tense, shoulders stiff, face set in a grim line.

Eddie wasted no time marching up to him. “Hargrove.”

Billy barely glanced up before going back to work. “Not in the mood, Munson.”

“Yeah? Well, neither is my sister, seeing as her boyfriend abandoned her.”

Billy’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond.

Eddie let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You know, I really should be kicking your teeth in right now. Really should.”

Billy finally looked at him, eyes flashing. “Then do it.”

Eddie’s nostrils flared. He wanted to. Hell, part of him needed to. But he didn’t—because as much as he wanted to beat the shit out of Billy, that wasn’t what you needed right now.

Instead, he took a step closer, lowering his voice. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Billy exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “I can’t do this, Munson.”

“Bullshit.”

Billy let out a bitter laugh. “You think this is easy for me? You think I don’t know I fucked up?” He shook his head, stepping away from the car. “I don’t know how to be a dad. I don’t even know how to be a good person, for Christ’s sake.” His voice was quieter now, but no less intense. “I barely got my own shit together. What the hell am I supposed to do with a kid?”

Eddie studied him for a moment, really looked at him. And beneath all that bravado, beneath all that anger and fear, Billy just looked… lost.

Eddie sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, man… I get it. It’s scary as hell. But you think she isn’t scared? You think she’s not sitting at home right now, wondering how the hell she’s gonna do it alone?”

Billy flinched.

“You think you’re not cut out for this? Fine. But guess what? Neither is she. And the difference is, she doesn’t get to leave.” Eddie took a step closer, voice firm. “So you need to decide, Hargrove. Are you gonna keep being a coward, or are you gonna man the fuck up?”

Billy looked away, jaw clenched so tight Eddie thought his teeth might crack.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Then Billy muttered, “I don’t know how to fix this.”

Eddie sighed, shaking his head. “Step one: go back. Step two: apologize. Step three? Stay.”

Billy swallowed hard, nodding once. He still looked uncertain, but there was something in his eyes now—a flicker of resolve.

Eddie huffed. “And for the record? If you ever run out on her like that again, I will beat your face in.”

Billy let out a breath of a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. Got it.”

Despite his dislike for Billy, Eddie felt a bit of relief. “Good. Now go fix your shit, Hargrove.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You stayed in your usual spot as of late, on the couch, watching whatever came on TV. The couple hours that passed since Eddie left were some of the slowest in your life. A thousand thoughts ran through your head; What if Billy couldn’t be found? What if he didn’t want to fix what happened? What if he didn’t want to come back? Or be involved at all? How could you handle it without him?

You sat up as the front door opened, and in walked Eddie.

“Hey,” he greeted, voice softer than usual.

You frowned, eyes scanning him. There was something different about him—like the fire that had been burning in him the past few days had settled into something steadier.

You sat up straighter. “Where’ve you been?”

Eddie sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Had to go have a little chat with someone.”

Your breath hitched. “Eddie—”

“Relax,” he cut in, dropping onto the chair across from you. “I didn’t kill him.”

You swallowed hard. “So… you found him?”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah. At work. Had to knock some sense into his thick-ass skull, but… I think he’s finally getting there.”

You blinked, heart stuttering. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, he knows he screwed up,” Eddie said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “He’s scared. Like, really scared. Not just about being a dad, but about messing it all up. About messing you up.”

You looked down, hands twisting in the blanket. “That doesn’t excuse what he did.”

“No,” Eddie agreed, voice firm. “It doesn’t. But… I think he wants to fix it.”

Your throat tightened. Part of you wanted to believe it, wanted to hold onto that tiny shred of hope. But another part of you— the part that had spent the last two days wondering if you were really going to do this alone—was terrified to trust it.

Eddie leaned back with a sigh. “Look, I’m not saying you should just forgive him and move on like nothing happened. He’s got a lot to prove. But… I figured you should know.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 You sat on the couch, curled up with a blanket, staring blankly at the muted TV. The flickering light cast shadows across the small living room, but you barely noticed. The past two days had been a haze—filled with endless worrying, exhaustion, and that aching, hollow feeling in your chest every time you thought about Billy.

He hadn’t called. He hadn’t shown up. Nothing.

Eddie had been out more than usual. You weren’t sure what he was doing, but you didn’t mind it, it saved you both from the awkward stretches of silence between the two of you. Which had been mostly your fault, you’d had a terribly short fuse. But you were just sad, and you missed Billy.

Uncle Wayne had been a steady presence, checking in on you when he could, but you could tell he was worried, too. He’d gone out earlier, saying he had something to take care of. Now, you were just left with the quiet.

A knock at the door shattered the stillness.

Your heart lurched.

For a split second, you thought maybe it was Eddie—maybe he was back for the day. But something in your gut told you otherwise.

Slowly, you pushed the blanket off and stood, your hands shaking slightly as you approached the door. You hesitated, just for a moment, before gripping the handle and pulling it open.

Billy.

He stood there, hands shoved into the pockets of his denim jacket, his shoulders tense. His hair was messier than usual, like he’d run his fingers through it a hundred times. His eyes—those sharp, piercing blue eyes—looked tired.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Billy let out a breath and looked away for a moment, like he was trying to gather his words. Then, finally, he met your gaze again.

“I fucked up.” His voice was rough, strained. “I—” He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know what to say. I just—” He exhaled sharply, frustration bleeding into his tone. “I panicked, okay? And I handled it like a goddamn idiot.”

You swallowed hard. “Yeah,” you murmured. “You did.”

Billy flinched. He shifted on his feet, looking like he wanted to say more, but for once, he didn’t seem to know how.

You crossed your arms, trying to keep yourself together. “You left, Billy,” you said quietly, voice thick with emotion. “I needed you, and you left.”

His face twisted, like your words physically hurt him. “I know.” His hands curled into fists at his sides. “I know, and I’m—shit, I’m sorry. I regret it, baby, I swear, I didn’t—” He cut himself off and shook his head again. “I just—I didn’t know how to handle it. I don’t know how to handle it.”

Tears burned behind your eyes, but you forced yourself to hold them back. “And now?”

Billy took a step closer, hesitating before reaching for your hands. He held them gently, his grip uncertain, like he was afraid you’d pull away.

“I don’t have all the answers,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to be a dad. I don’t know if I’m gonna be any good at it.” He squeezed your hands lightly, voice dropping to something softer. “But I want to do this with you.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and this time, you didn’t wipe it away. “Do you mean that?” you whispered.

Billy nodded, eyes searching yours. “Yeah.” His voice wavered slightly. “I mean it.”

Billy squeezed your hands a little tighter, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles. His touch was hesitant, uncertain, but warm. You could feel the tension rolling off of him, see the way his jaw clenched like he was holding back more words—more apologies, maybe.

You swallowed thickly, and before you could think too much about it, you stepped forward, pressing yourself against his chest.

For a moment, he didn’t move. He just stood there, stiff and still. Then, slowly, his arms wrapped around you.

His grip was strong, almost desperate, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t hold on tight enough. You could hear his heartbeat, steady but fast, and when he buried his face against the top of your head, you felt the way he exhaled shakily, like he was finally letting go of everything he’d been holding in.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured again, voice muffled in your hair. “I was a dick. I—I should’ve been here.”

You closed your eyes and held onto him just as tightly. “Yeah, you should’ve.”

Billy let out a rough, almost bitter chuckle. “You’re not gonna make this easy on me, are you?”

You shook your head against his chest. “Not a chance.”

He huffed a breath but didn’t argue. Instead, he just held you closer.

After a while, you pulled back slightly and looked up at him. His expression was softer than you’d seen in a long time.

“Can we-,” you said quietly, taking his hand in yours. “Can we just… lay down for a bit.”

A small smile crept onto his lips, and he leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss against your forehead. “Yeah, I’d like that, princess.”

You led him into your room, flipping on the dim lamp by your bed before crawling in. Billy toed off his shoes and shrugged off his jacket before settling in next to you.

The second he was under the covers, you curled into him, resting your head on his chest. He hesitated for only a moment before wrapping his arms around you, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns on your back.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just listened to the quiet hum of the trailer, the steady sound of Billy’s heartbeat beneath your ear.

Eventually, Billy exhaled and pressed a hesitant kiss to the top of your head. “I really am sorry,” he murmured.

You sighed, snuggling in closer. “I know.”

And for the first time in days, you felt like maybe—just maybe—everything was going to be okay.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next few months were a whirlwind—difficult, emotional, and exhausting, but also filled with moments that made it all feel worth it.

Moving in together wasn’t something either of you had really planned, but Billy knew you wanted to be, even before this happened. So one day he surprised you, made you keep your eyes closed for a whole car ride, helping you out of the car, before you letting you open them to see a slightly rundown apartment building in front of you.

At first you didn’t understand, but after he explained you could’ve cried from happiness. It was nicer than his old place and in a safer area. Maybe it wasn’t a dream house, but it was yours. Together.

Billy worked his ass off to make sure you both could afford it. He took every extra shift he could at the auto shop, coming home covered in grease and smelling like motor oil. Some nights, he was too tired to do much more than collapse onto the couch with you, but he never complained.

He was still Billy—still rough around the edges, still had his bad days where he shut down and pushed people away—but he was trying. He was learning how to be there for you, even when things got overwhelming.

The rest of the first trimester wasn’t easy. Morning sickness hit you hard, and the exhaustion was unlike anything you’d ever experienced. Some days, just getting out of bed felt like a chore. But Billy was there—maybe not always knowing what to do, but trying. He would bring you crackers and water in the mornings, rub your back when you felt sick, and hold your hair when things got really bad.

As the weeks passed, the reality of the pregnancy settled in. Doctor appointments became a regular thing, and hearing the baby’s heartbeat for the first time nearly broke you. Billy had gone quiet afterward, gripping your hand a little tighter than usual, but when you asked if he was okay, he just kissed your forehead and nodded.

By the time you reached the second trimester, things got a little easier. The sickness faded, your energy started coming back, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to feel excited. The first time you felt a tiny flutter in your belly, you had grabbed Billy’s hand and placed it there, waiting. When it happened again, his eyes widened slightly, and his lips parted in quiet awe. He didn’t say anything, but later that night, when he thought you were asleep, you felt his palm resting gently on your stomach again.

Finding out the baby’s sex was nerve wrecking for both of you. You weren’t sure why you so anxious, it’s not like it mattered, but you were.

The ultrasound room was quiet except for the soft whirring of the machine and the steady thump-thump-thump of the baby’s heartbeat. You squeezed Billy’s hand as the doctor moved the wand over your belly, watching the grainy image on the screen.

Billy had been tense since you got here, sitting stiffly in the chair beside you, arms crossed like he was trying to act like this was no big deal. But his grip on your hand was firm, and every now and then, you felt his thumb rub small circles against your skin.

“Alright,” the doctor said, smiling as she adjusted the screen. “Do you want to know the sex?”

You nodded eagerly, glancing at Billy. He swallowed hard but gave a small, tight nod. You knew he had been hoping for a boy—not because he wouldn’t love a daughter, but because he didn’t know how to be the kind of dad a little girl needed.

“Well,” the doctor continued, “congratulations. You’re having a baby girl.”

For a moment, there was silence. You turned to Billy, expecting some kind of reaction, but he just stared at the screen. His lips parted slightly, brows furrowing like he was still trying to process it.

“Billy?” you murmured, giving his hand a small squeeze.

He exhaled a shaky breath and nodded. “A girl,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

You couldn’t tell what he was thinking at first, but then his fingers twitched, tightening around yours. His free hand came up to his face, rubbing over his mouth, and when he finally turned to look at you, there was something raw in his expression—something vulnerable.

“You sure?” he asked the doctor, his voice rough around the edges.

She chuckled. “Pretty sure. See right here?” She pointed at the screen. “No doubt about it.”

Billy let out a breath, shaking his head slightly. Then, to your surprise, he let out a soft, breathless laugh. “A girl,” he repeated, like he still couldn’t believe it.

You grinned. “You okay?”

Billy turned to you, and for the first time in days, there was something soft in his eyes. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, I think I am.”

He hesitated for a second before leaning down, pressing a small, hesitant kiss to your forehead. His hand slid from yours to rest gently on your belly, thumb brushing over your skin.

“She’s gonna have me wrapped around her little finger, isn’t she?” he mumbled, almost to himself.

You giggled. “Absolutely.”

Billy sighed dramatically but smiled. “Shit.”

But even as he pretended to be put out by it, he never moved his hand from your belly.

Eddie had come around faster than you expected, but it hadn’t been easy at first. The first few weeks after your confession had been tense, with him flipping between being protective, anxious, and outright pissed off at Billy. But once he saw that Billy had stepped up, his anger dulled, and he started acting more like himself again.

He was still your big brother, still made snarky comments about Billy, still worried about you constantly—but he was excited, too. The moment you found out you were having a girl, Eddie nearly tackled you in a hug.

“This kid is gonna have the coolest uncle in the world,” he’d bragged, grinning ear to ear.

Eddie still spent a lot of time at the trailer with Uncle Wayne, but he visited you and Billy often, sometimes crashing on the couch when he was too tired to drive home. And when Billy was working late, Eddie was the one bringing you food, making you laugh, and reminding you that you weren’t alone.

Uncle Wayne had been your rock through everything. He never pushed, never questioned, just supported you in every way he could. When you and Billy moved out, he gave you an old crib he had found at a thrift store, spending an entire evening helping Billy put it together.

He and Billy had formed an unspoken understanding—Wayne didn’t tolerate Billy’s usual bullshit, and Billy respected him too much to test it. It wasn’t the warmest relationship, but it worked.

Billy and Eddie would never be best friends, but over time, they reached an uneasy truce. Eddie still gave Billy hell, and Billy still rolled his eyes at nearly everything Eddie said, but they stopped fighting outright.

One night, after a long shift at the auto shop, Billy had come home to find Eddie in the kitchen, making you a grilled cheese because you had been craving one. Instead of picking a fight, Billy just sighed, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and muttered, “Make me one too.”

Eddie had looked at him for a long moment before nodding. “Yeah, alright.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The contractions had started in the middle of the night, sharp and insistent, waking you from a restless sleep. At first, you tried to tough it out, thinking maybe it was just a false alarm—but when the pain started coming in waves, stronger and closer together, you knew.

Billy had nearly lost his damn mind trying to get you to the hospital. He was wide-eyed, cursing under his breath as he grabbed the hospital bag, tripped over his own boots, and nearly forgot his keys. The entire drive there, he kept one hand gripping the steering wheel and the other gripping yours, alternating between telling you to breathe and muttering, “Shit, shit, shit.”

The next several hours were a blur of pain, exhaustion, and Billy snapping at nurses when he thought they weren’t moving fast enough. He didn’t leave your side once, his fingers laced tightly with yours, even when you nearly crushed his hand during the worst of it. He murmured soft reassurances, brushed damp hair from your forehead, and let you yell at him when the pain got unbearable.

And then—after what felt like a lifetime—you heard it.

A cry. Sharp, high-pitched, and brand new.

Your head lolled to the side, body drained, but when they placed her in your arms, everything else faded away. She was so tiny, her little face scrunched up, fists balled as she let out a wail. Tears burned in your eyes as you traced the curve of her cheek with your finger.

Billy had been silent since the moment she was born. You turned to look at him, finding him staring at her like he didn’t know how to breathe. His lips were parted, his hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for her but was afraid to.

You nudged him gently. “Billy…”

His blue eyes flicked to yours, and you could see it—the way he was feeling this, all of it, in a way he hadn’t expected.

“C’mere,” you whispered.

Hesitantly, he sat on the edge of the hospital bed, still looking a little shell-shocked. When you carefully handed her to him, his hands were so careful, so gentle, like he was afraid he might break her.

She was still fussing, little whimpers escaping her lips, and Billy instinctively started rocking her, brows furrowing as he swallowed hard. “Hey, baby girl,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “It’s okay. Daddy’s got you.”

The sound of those words made your heart ache in the best way.

Billy let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “She’s real,” he muttered. “She’s really here.”

You laughed softly. “She is.”

He stared at her for a long moment, tracing his thumb over her tiny hand. When her fingers curled around it, gripping him tight, Billy let out a shaky breath.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I’m so screwed.”

Not long after, the first person through the hospital door was Eddie.

He had been pacing the waiting room for hours, much to the annoyance of the nurses, and the second he was allowed in, he practically burst through the door.

“Where is she? Let me see my niece.”

Billy rolled his eyes from his seat beside you, but he didn’t protest when Eddie hovered over him, staring down at the baby in his arms.

Eddie’s face softened instantly. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “She’s so small.”

You smirked. “Babies usually are, Ed.”

He ignored you, too focused on the tiny human in Billy’s arms. Carefully, Billy passed her over, watching closely as Eddie cradled her. For a guy who spent most of his time causing chaos, he held her with a shocking amount of tenderness.

“Hey there, little lady,” Eddie murmured. “You have no idea how cool your uncle is, but don’t worry—I’ll teach you all about it.”

Billy groaned. “Jesus Christ.”

Eddie smirked. “Don’t worry, Hargrove. I won’t corrupt her too much. But I’m teaching her D&D.”

A knock at the door interrupted them, and when Uncle Wayne stepped inside, you felt warmth bloom in your chest.

“Hope I ain’t interruptin’,” Wayne said, removing his hat as he stepped closer.

Billy shook his head. “You wanna hold her?”

Wayne gave a small smile, reaching out to take her from Eddie’s arms. He gazed down at her with quiet awe, his calloused fingers brushing over her soft cheek.

“Well, ain’t you somethin’ special,” he murmured. His eyes flicked to you, full of warmth and pride. “She’s perfect, sweetheart.”

Tears stung at your eyes again, exhaustion making you more emotional than usual. “Thanks, Wayne.”

Billy reached for your hand again, squeezing it tight as you watched Wayne sway gently with the baby, a small, knowing smile on his face.

Yeah. This little girl was going to be so loved.

Taglist: @deesparticus @unknownroooose @kielelezo @avengersz-biotch @dprweganggang03 @perpetualyscarred @al33naaa @rowynbriarsalix @tomurasneverusedlipstick @strangerthing93

[mihii-i]

Hi love 💕 May I request comfort/fluff one shot Arlecchino x fem Reader who developed a terminal illness a few years back and is now often bedridden but is getting better however Arlecchino is still super overprotective of her

white light.

Pairings: arlecchino x fem!reader

CW: sfw, female reader, terminally ill reader, angst, but there’s comfort yay I know yall love this, LOTS of mentions of death, like a ridiculous amount, dw reader doesn’t die but grim reaper bullies us every chance he gets like damn, or is the grim reaper a she, that means my friend is immortal since if death is a woman it’ll never come for them, sorry off topic, very soft arle, yes we love our soft king walskskfj, why is the shower so cold help me, not proofread.

A/N: THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE AND IT TURNED OUT SO NICE HOLY also, school is starting soon so I might have to go on break in couple months but no worries I can find some time to write and it’ll be a while into the year until i actually need a break yk <3 🕯️

The fluffy layered clouds hovering in the sky slowly parted themselves to reveal illuminating gleams of sunlight pouring into the room through the window curtains situated to the right of your bed. Slow gusts of wind began to join the warmth of the gold light, brushing along your skin and causing an array of goosebumps to bloom along your arm. You were lucky. Not too long back, your immobile body was enveloped into the same bed, a sickly hue painting your face as your pale tinged lips could only part to cough out a few strained noises.

Perhaps the gods had took pity on you? You supposed you’d never figure out the answer as to how your body curved back from a terminal illness in its final stage. It was supposed to be incurable, and your body back then seemed to agree with what should have been. You were dangerously dangling right above the realm of death, only a hair apart from succumbing to your imminent demise. The doctor who noted your worsening state only had a strike of pity in her voice whenever she’d inform Arlecchino of your current condition, shaking her head as the words: “she won’t make it.” muffled through the door seperating your room from the outside.

It hurt to hear. Not for you per say, but more to hear the emptiness in Arlecchino’s voice when she attempted to dismiss the doctor’s words coldly. She didn’t want to hear that. She didn’t want to hear that your condition was only drawing you closer and closer to death, she wanted to hear that you atleast had a small chance of surviving. As much as she tried to choke back the bitter pain in her unwavering voice, she always clung onto that small sliver of hope deep down, internally calling out to a sea of nothingness in hopes that something would come help you.

Sudden news of your recovery, or rather your condition suddenly improving one day was nothing short of a miracle. It shouldn’t have been possible at all. You were around the final month mark, your entire body burning with an agonizing rush of soreness as you wanted to plead for death to take you away from the unbearable discomfort searing every limb of your ghastly and thin form. That night you had gone to bed, hoping to escape the aching pain of your illness eating away at you. That was when you saw it. You dreamt of a faint glow of white light—or was it a slight pale yellow? The dream was vague and confusing, and held no meaning at all. The light simply danced in circles before you as your life trajectory seared across your eyes.

However, the dream must have meant something.

The next morning you had awoken, your body feeling much lighter all of a sudden, as you had the strength to now sit up completely. Hands carefully massaging the thick blanket draped over your lap, you blinked in confusion upon realizing that you were indeed alive and able to sit up. Sure, you were still incapable of moving around or sitting up for long, but originally, you weren’t even able to raise your body a quarter of the way up, as it would simply result in your spine slamming back into the sunken, comfortable mattress.

When the doctor made her way into the room, performing her checkups which she believed to be futile and tragic, her initial expression of sorrow shifted to one of quick shock. This shouldn’t have been even the slightest bit possible. Arlecchino’s reaction was all the more endearing the moment the newly discovered news made its way to her. You’d never forget the rare smile of pure relief and happiness crossing her usually stoic front, seeming as if Arlecchino was glowing in that moment.

She had attempted to clear her throat and position herself upright, concealing the internal delight bubbling in her mind at that moment. The door had softly creaked open, the sway of the old hinges on your bedroom door being the only noise, along with the quiet howls of wind, resounding within the cell of a room that held your life by a mere thread.

You simply sat there, your scrawny form nearly engulfed by the heavy blankets cascaded onto your lap as the light livened the hue of your face. And when that sweet smile made its way onto your lips weakly upon seeing the harbinger hover before your bed, Arlecchino had to suppress every urge of hers to hem you between her arms in a tight hug and never let go. She wanted to embrace you with every drop of love and affection lingering in her heart as her blackened hands tightened into your back, like a promise to never let you go. Since then, your condition had steadily improved. Months passed, and then years. At this very moment, you now had the ability to walk around and perform minor tasks adequately, yet you still remained bedridden for the majority of your time.

A light pain slowly overtook the side of your chest abruptly, drawing out a few heavy coughs from your throat as your palm pushed against your left breast in an attempt to soothe the throb pushing and pulling against your heart. Quiet ticks of the clock seemed to inch in sync with the rugged beats of your heart, both echoing throughout the room in a sort of twisted harmony. Although your condition had gotten better, storms of weakness and coughs would still persist through, as this was quite a serious illness you suffered from.

The silk white blankets enveloped your limp frame, cascading over your body and situated slightly below your chest, while the back of your head burrowed into the pillows to bask in the favorable comfort enshrouded around every outline of your lounged body. Your chest rhythmically rose and fell as you choked out a few labored breaths, still clenching your fingers against the fabric of your loose shirt covering your chest.

Your vision suddenly started a gradual spin, objects within your range slowly drawn out of focus, and not taking long for the spin to pick up the pace as your vision suddenly shifted to a bleary mess of the room. Head tilting back, you rasped out a line of shaky breaths as the frightening episode of dizziness quickly subsided as soon as it began, causing a sense of panic to rush through you briefly while your chest rose and fell in uneven motions from your initial fright. In that very moment, a small screech of wooden hinges caught your attention, your head carefully raising as to not incite any possible negative reaction from your sensitive body.

Swift and heavy clicks of heels prodded across the room, a sound you’d recognize anywhere even if you were miles away. You raised your head barely even level to the headboard, delivering Arlecchino a feeble smile as her eyes softened upon meeting yours. Slowly, you took her hand into yours, palm resting over the top of her defined knuckles as your thumb circled along the cursed gradient of her hands gently. She could only breathe out a grateful sigh, her head dropping in a restful state as she rested herself onto your shoulder affectionately.

“Are you feeling any better?” She almost immediately questioned, her usually composed eyes having a flicker of concern dashed across them. Her eyes wandered along your frail body, the hints of worry still subtly etched onto her face as her grasp on your hand below hers grew increasingly taut and stiff as she awaited your answer. As much as you wanted to chuckle and tell her you were okay, you clearly couldn’t even say that much.

“Hm. Same as usual. Can’t move my legs well today, but I’ll live.” You casually answered, not taking in the impact your words might have placed onto Arlecchino.

Live.

She was so glad you were able to live.

Arlecchino suddenly dragged her teeth along each other, her mouth remaining closed as the grit of her teeth quietly bounced off of her cheek into her eardrums. It took everything she had to swallow back that wretched feeling boiling up to her throat, her heart wrenching and flooding with discomfort upon hearing the way you threw your life around so casually in your words. She had always been extensively protective over you ever since your condition deteriorated, yet it grew exponentially once you began to recover over the years. She’d always tend to you, sometimes never leaving your side for hours on end as she’d just sit there, head lowered and lips pushed against your frail hand.

Her grip on your hand tensed noticeably, making you shift your eyes up to her lowered dark gaze, staring off into an endless abyss as her expression just seemed…soulless and empty at the mere thought of your passing away. She was afraid. Afraid that just when she believes that her beloved would live despite being in poor condition, she’d walk into your room one day to discover your heart dead still, body completely limp and deceased.

The thought of that made her hand noticeably quiver between yours, disturbing images of your possible sudden death plaguing her mind like a broken subliminal record trying to shatter her soul by tearing away the one person she loves most in this cruel world. It was indeed cruel, as this very world had targeted the reaper to loom over the side of your bed at all times, carefully awaiting the moment to take you away from Teyvat. Arlecchino internally cursed herself at the idea that perhaps this punishment was because of her. She wanted you to be spared. You weren’t the one with blood on your hands, she was.

Despite her agonizing thoughts gnawing at the back of her mind, your sudden firm grip on her hand made her head snap back up abruptly, eyes locking onto your thin fingers cupping her shaky hand in place. If she could, Arlecchino would cry at this very moment, allow herself to shed a couple tears. Yet she knew she couldn’t. She didn’t want to worry you any further, especially in your current state.

“Arle, I’m staying. Please, don’t worry about me. I am better now, right?”

“I know. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t around.”

It was evident that Arlecchino had a difficult time a few years ago, when you were announced to die in under a couple months. She had to mentally prepare herself to lose you soon. She was used to it, you were just another person in her life that slipped away too soon, right?

But she couldn’t.

She couldn’t bear losing you. It was too much even for her.

Arlecchino needed you in her life, and she’d wipe out the entirety of the world just to keep you safe.

Your hand reached up to graze along the skin of her cheek, smiling as she instinctively leaned into your touch. Her eyes fluttered shut as she held your hand in place against her cheek, opening her eyelids once more to gaze at you lovingly with red x-marked eyes.

“Hey Arle, I’m still not feeling the best today…so do you think you could-“

You didn’t even get a chance to finish your hesitant sentence as she lowered herself onto the side of your bed, squeezing herself next to you as her arms gently circled your torso and grasped you against her. You only hummed out a content sigh as you felt your slouched back press to her upright chest, the difference in your postures just making the moment oddly romantic and sweet. Arlecchino’s face buried into your shoulder, intaking a soft inhale as if she missed your scent clouding her senses every time she was close to you.

It didn’t take long for you to drift off to sleep in Arlecchino’s arms as you curled up into the warm blankets piled over both of you. Arlecchino, still awake, quietly shifted her weight onto her side to glance down at you, smiling softly upon seeing your peaceful rested expression. Maybe finally, she rinsed the lingering blood splattered on her hands that led you to this awful fate. She’d rinse it a thousand times if it meant that you would remain safe like this for as long as you lived.

However in this very moment? Arlecchino had forgotten every sense of dread clawing at her constantly, instead focusing on your huddled up form engulfed between her protective grasp.

She swore that she would never let you go again, and she would treasure every inch of you. Not even death can do you two part.

A/N: omg I kept switching between being proud of this and being not so proud bc I had to stop midway through and I lost my train of thought AUUUSHSHDBFN anyway yayayayashshdhd I loved writing this so much AND CALM DOWN ON THE ARLE REQUESTS HOLY SH-

ok bye I’m gonna go on character ai cause I can’t sleep to bed

[pinkaditty]

Love Type (Tokyo Debunker Ghouls)

hey me again i said id be back quickly and i did mean that.

this will have been queued for an hour at least by the time u see it. rn as i type this im debating using the taglist. i think ill use it. sorry 4 so many tags in a day, i bet ur sick of me

anyways! i had this idea while i was writing the perv!sho x reader thing. i thought about the differences between the ghouls and how they all love differently. at first i wasn't gonna post this, but then my brain wouldn't stop thinking about it so now this exists. its not meant 2 be a useful organization tool 4 the ghouls it's just something i had a little bit of fun with.

note that not every single ghoul is going 2 match the category he was put in exactly. for example, ghouls like luca, yuri, romeo, and even haru could probably fit in more than one of these categories, but i put them in the ones i thought suited them best. wanna discuss? leave a comment or an ask! ill be happy 2 talk it through with u <3.

yes i DID put in hcs about how long they last sexually. no i do NOT regret it. im speaking my TRUTH!!!

The Lover Boys:

Haku, Haru, Sho, Luca, Zenji, Rui

do not last long but recover fast and can go multiple rounds 

prefer switching up their roles (dom→sub, sub→dom) more often 

they love like it's an incurable chronic terminal disease. it's never leaving them.

all-consuming, takes up most their time, they're drowning and falling and losing their minds 4 u

You like to tell yourself you're prepared, but is that ever really true? No, not really. The way his voice drops several octaves into a low purr just from seeing you should've been warning enough as to what you were in for. You didn't expect the all-consuming, suffocating love he'd trapped you in, but were you really complaining? As far as you were concerned, you were also convinced it was meant to be, and if he was a little crazy about it, that was a small price to pay. Of course, you eventually learn why he's crazy about it - he's never had it. The truest feeling of connection, the ability to just let it all go in one person's presence, the time to really feel another person. It's eluded him for so long, and now he has it, but it's threatened by a curse, something he cannot control. It's frightening, and though he tried not to, he ultimately buries you in his love, trying to find a way to make it last. It's okay though. As the threat wanes, so will his suffocation. The love will always be intense, but he will learn how to do it right. 

The Lost Boys:

Towa, Taiga, Jiro, Ed

they last so unbelievably long u don't know how they do it

love in more subtle ways bc 2 them, true love is quiet 

they will do loud and bold professions of it, but the real love is displayed quietly 

prefer 2 stick 2 one role (either dom or sub), not super flexible 

The occasional huge flower bouquet, expensive jewelry set, or new bag were thoughtful, but mostly just for show. He reveled in the attention, the jealous stares, the sucking of teeth, the eye rolls - all of it. Because he had you, not them. But that, of course, isn't all there is to it. While he may be relatively distant in public despite the extravagant gifts, he's rather sweet and attentive in private. He hides it better than a LoverBoy, but in truth, his heart bleeds just like theirs, and he feels the need to consistently strive to win your affections. You're amongst great people, after all. How can he make sure he stands out, all the time, just for you? You understand this, of course, and you're always quick to reassure him. He will give and give and give and give, in so many ways. You almost think he's bottomless, what with how much of himself he offers up, nearly all the time. But it's alright. He will learn to remind himself that he need not give himself away to bits simply to keep your attention, especially when he's already the apple of your eye. The gifts never stop though, and neither does his obvious enjoyment in the attention it gets you. He will never stop showing you off.

The Tragic Boys:

Leo, Subaru, Ren, Kaito, Yuri

love fluctuates. intense then quiet, hot then cold, all-consuming then insignificant 

very transparent ghouls with few layers. what u see is what u get.

often don't last long and take longer to recover 

a little more flexible with role changing, but do have solid preferences 

You are never, ever prepared. He's like a pendulum, swaying back and forth between endless, bountiful devotion and a cold shoulder the following day. He's not sure how to handle this love he has for you. It's unfamiliar, it's big, it's loud, it's petrifying. He's scared he'll do something wrong, and on those days when the fear eats him alive, he closes up, rejecting your presence. But then, he sees how down you are, and knows that wasn't right, so the following day he's at your beck and call. He'll do whatever you ask, just say the word and it's done, for you. His fatal flaw is that he never communicates his deep-seated fears, instead choosing to let them rumble in his gut and disrupt your relationship as a consequence. He wants you, though, and he never wants you to doubt that. He'll communicate eventually, the words spilling out before he can think much of them, apologies and desperate sobs with them. He won't shut down anymore after this, choosing to remain like an open book for you to read at any time. He will learn to hold you the right way, without clamming up nervously when you tell him he's perfect. 

The Silent Boys: 

Tohma, Romeo, Ritsu, Lyca, Alan, Jin

their love is consistent 

never changes, always with immense depth, but never readily apparent 

love is like a pretty serene waterfall with unseen strong currents capable of killing someone 

like to switch it up every now and again (mayyybe dom→sub, sub→dom yk)

last moderately. some might finish fast, some might take a while.

His attitude and demeanor towards you hardly change. He loves you, and he's serious about it, but that won't mean special treatment, extra gifts, or public displays of love. He will love you exactly as he always has, and sees nothing wrong with it. His love is in how he looks out for you, how he worries for you despite himself, how he may allow himself a small smile when you approach, or a sigh heavy laden with devotion, after you wrap your arms around him, and before he pushes you off of him. It's okay because you know how his heart beats erratically in his chest when you approach, which he's strangely good at hiding. You know how his breath hitches in his throat every time he sees you, his eyes glazing over like you're a vision to be committed to memory. You know how he treasures you, his love hidden under his vast sea of responsibilities. Peel the layers back and you'll see he's yours in all ways that matter, but he also knows he can't let that get in the way of his daily life. Once he has the time, and is no longer bearing the weight of prying eyes and overwhelming expectations, he'll build his life around you, to make sure you feel centered in his life, as he does in yours.

well if nobody really likes these at least i had fun. amen!

no blurb 2 put here except that i have a ren fic incoming soon bc my regular [🐟] anon went crazy in my inbox about that boy and his damn collarbones.

y'all have a wonderful day im so tired.

taglist: @cupcakesmoothie @aayakashii @sunskosh @despairingy-obsessed @glamorousspoon @mmy-meow @dailyvahine @diluxama @obscuarysghoulnextdoor @disassociationdive

want 2 join or be removed from the tkdb taglist? let me know!

[spanktony]

prologue. | WHERE DO YOU SLEEP? — YU JIMIN.

𝘀𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀 — y/n, a rising music producer, has built her dream career while keeping her personal life under wraps. karina, aespa’s leader, is preparing for a huge comeback with a mini album produced and written by the one and only y/n.

karina knows this is the opportunity of a lifetime, and she has to nail it. the only problem is, she may be a bit distracted by her producer.

something about their connection feels different—like maybe it's worth the risk of prying eyes. but how much will they give up to chase after what they want?

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 — none.

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀 — 1.3k

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲— dude, i've been writing this series like crazy to the point im almost finished. and i HATE the first 3-4 chapters because they're kinda boring bruh. but happy new years guys! enjoy!

taglist — open!

series masterlist. main masterlist. next.

the first few months back in seoul were nice.

actually, more than nice, it was everything you hoped for after being on the road bouncing from city to city.

you had just gotten off a mini u.s. tour, with a big emphasis on mini because it was only around seven cities in total. but even that small stretch was a whirlwind of airport terminals, crowded venues, and late nights in hotel rooms that all started to blend together.

you had missed seoul, specifically your grandmother's house, because that is where most of your childhood memories took place.

born in new york, you were adopted by two of the kindest people you'd ever known. your parents met in the city, fell in love, and decided to start a family through adoption. your mom, who was korean, made sure you spent every summer in seoul with your grandma so you could stay connected to your roots—learning the language and culture firsthand.

it was her way of preserving what mattered, and you were grateful for it. those summers with your grandma was something you'd cling onto till eternity.

your parents did an amazing job of raising you—big props to them.

now, at 22, you were five years into your career in music. producer, singer-songwriter, performer—if it involved music, you were all in.

things had moved fast: two grammys out of the four nominations, three spotify 1 billion streams plaques that all hung proudly in your studio, and countless music festivals under your belt. you had done everything, from coachella to lollapalooza to bonnaroo and a slew of others.

though you were proud of all you'd achieved, the constant performing was beginning to take its toll. you needed a break from the spotlight, from the endless cycle of promotions and tours. you loved the hell out of your fans, but man you were tired.

so, when you told your management you wanted to step back from performing and focus on writing and producing, they were hesitant. they had their plans for you, but they knew better than to argue when you were so adamant. they respected your decision, and now here you were, doing exactly what you wanted. helping others create music, being behind the scenes rather than on stage, where you could breathe easier.

after months of your team sending your demos out to various artists, you finally got a callback from smtown. saying you were nervous was an understatement. the nerves had settled in your chest and stayed there, a heavy weight that didn't want to go away.

you had written this demo with a friend a few months ago, and it was one of your favorites. it was a little different from the usual songs you produced, and it was a risk. but when the call came, your team couldn't have been more supportive. you were excited but terrified at the same time.

that brings you to today, a month later, sitting in the lobby of the smtown building.

your legs bounced uncontrollably as you stared at the clock on the wall, counting down the minutes until the meeting started. you were early—not too early—but the wait was killing you. the lobby was quiet, which was unusual since the building was constantly buzzing with artists coming and going. the company was big on privacy, though. they always tried to make sure no one was photographed, and you respected them for it.

your manager sat beside you, cool as always, one hand scrolling through his phone while the other rested casually on his knee. you had known him since you were 19, fresh to the music scene and pretty much a mess. he was assigned to keep your career on track, and while he took his job seriously, he didn’t have the whole uptight vibe that most other people in the industry did. he was cool, collected, and a little sassy, which you appreciated more than you'd like to admit.

"seriously, can you stop moving so much?" he said, not even looking up from his phone. "you're making me dizzy just watching you."

"i'm just... excited," you mumbled, forcing yourself to sit still. "i can't help it."

he rolled his eyes dramatically and shook his head. "excited? you look like you're about to pass out. you do know that they already liked your song, right? they called us in."

"yeah, i know," you replied, trying to shake the jitters. "but, you know... they could change their minds. or something."

"or something," he mimicked. a glare shot his way, one that he didn't seem to mind at all. he was used to your glares. he had dealt with them for the last three years, after all. "please. just relax, okay? i'm sure it'll go well."

you nodded, taking a deep breath.

glancing down at your phone to see your mom's text, smiling to yourself. she always knows how to make you feel at home, even from halfway across the world.

mom ❤️: tell your dad that he's too old for tiktok. he keeps trying to dance.

you snicker. a response from your father quickly comes, adding another grey bubble to your screen from your family's group chat.

dad 💙: tell your mom to mind her own business and to get off my phone!

you slip your phone back into your pocket as your manager taps your shoulder, his hand lingering on your shoulder before he gestures for you to follow him.

you rise from the seat, following behind him as another figure begins leading him. lots of leading. so many twists and turns. and then an elevator, which the three of you step into, where you immediately blow a quick raspberry, the sound loud and a little childish. the corners of your mouth twitch as you try to stifle a laugh.

you glance up at your manager, who doesn't seem to mind the odd noise at all—he's used to you and your little ways. when you look at the other man, he looks surprised but intrigued. you think he's trying not to laugh as well.

stepping off the elevator and rounding a corner of the building, you pull the brim of your hat down a bit more with your right hand, hoping to cover a little more of your face. it's a nervous habit that's stuck with you since the beginning of your career.

your manager, walking just ahead, casts a quick glance back at you. his expression is neutral, but there's a certain glint in his eyes that tells you he's as excited as you are, if not more. the other man—a member of the smtown staff, you assume—keeps pace, a very fast pace, as he's much taller than either of you.

curse tall people and their long legs.

the three of you finally stop outside a room marked 115.

your manager turns to look at you, a smile on his face.

"this is it," he says. "are you ready?"

silence.

karina's eyes are unfocused, staring after your footsteps that are moving further and further away. it's an early morning, and the group has been called into the company's building for an important meeting revolving around their upcoming comeback. it had been a long couple of months since their last project, and everyone was eager to dive into new material.

the sound of her manager's voice, calling her name, pulls her out of her reverie.

"karina?"

she blinks, her gaze snapping back toward the voice that is holding the boardrooms' main door open, awaiting her entrance. karina blinks a few more times, her eyes refocusing as she shakes off the lingering thoughts of the stranger she had just seen.

she's usually good at recognizing people in this building, but she doesn't know who the person is. the black new york yankees hat was pulled so low over their face that she couldn't make out any features.

"karina," her manager calls again, a little louder.

"yes, sorry, i'm coming."

she steps into the boardroom, a small room with a long, sleek table and a whiteboard at the front of the room. several of her fellow members are already seated at the table, along with their managers and a couple of other staff members.

series masterlist. main masterlist. next.

[prettydaisygirl]

Congratulations on 500 followers, you're amazing!! ♡♡♡

🌼 Let's dive into James Potter's angst with the phrase “i’m not ready to live without you.”

Perhaps where the reader is gravely ill and while she sleeps cuddled to him, James cannot bear the bad thoughts about losing her. 😭😭😭😭

AND Hello! I hope you're having a good day ��� I came to ask for a James Potter drabble haha 🌼 Where reader knows that being so sick is wearing James down and even though it hurts, she decides that she doesn't want to drag him down with her to her inevitable death, so she breaks up with him. 😭😭😭 “please don’t make me go, i want to stay.”

the fact that two of you had the audacity to ask me for this (im just kidding). In all truth though, I cried the whole time wriitng this. So if angst is what you want, angst you shall get (with a bit of fluff because obvi you know me, I did not have them break up). Hope you both enjoy, thanks for requesting my loves! <33

🌼 daisy (innocence, loyalty, pure love): pick a character and an AU from the lists above & a prompt from this list and I will write a <500 word drabble

daisy's 500 follower celebration bouquet

James Potter and "I'm not ready to live without you."/"Please don't make me go, I want to stay."

cw: reader has a terminal illness with a bad prognosis, very sad

°˖✧✿✧˖°

It’s nights like these where James feels it the most. In the quiet, there’s no hiding the grief. He can’t laugh and bounce around and smile like his world isn’t ending, because in the darkness of your bedroom, it’s the only truth. His world is ending.

You’re laying next to him, your breathing slightly wheezy as you snore. You look… dull. Even in your sleep when you’re supposed to be the most peaceful. James remembers when you were vibrant, shining and beautiful, and James thought he’d found an angel on Earth. He still does, he just… doesn't know why you have to leave so soon. It’s not fair. 

He turns on his side to face you. You’re thinner than you used to be, the changes in your body evidence of its struggle against itself. He can remember the day the two of you received the news. ‘It’s malignant.’ They’d said. ‘The prognosis is… not good. A year at best.’

A year at best.

Everything has changed since then. You, obviously. Him, more than he’d like to admit. He doesn’t think it’s fair for the two of you to be this young and going through something this devastating.

“I’m not ready to live without you.” James whispers, reaching a hand out to brush your cheek. It’s more hollow than he remembers. You stir, and he immediately feels guilty. Maybe you weren’t as asleep as he thought you were. Your eyes blink open, duller than he’s ever seen them, and your smile is too.

“What time is it?” You ask, voice slightly slurred and raspy from sleep. “I don’t know.” He answers honestly. Your eyes scan the bedroom, finding that it’s the middle of the night. You frown, and something seems to settle over you. James is already shaking his head, he knows what you’re about to say. You’ve had this argument before.

“James-” You start, and he tries to finish this before you continue, desperate to stop your words before you can even say them.

“I’m not leaving.” He presses himself closer to you, his hand finding your lower back. He handles you as gently as he can, and he watches as your eyes turn glossy in the dark. “Please don’t make me go, I want to stay.”

Your eyes pinch shut, and he both hears and feels your shaky inhale. “I hate seeing you like this, James. You need to just… let me go. Go be young like you’re supposed to.”

“And what about you?” He asks, offended that you would ever ask that of him, that you continue to ask that of him. “I’m not abandoning you. I love you.”

“I love you too.” You finally break, sobs wracking your frail body as you lean into him. “But I don’t want you to die too, Jamie.” 

“I’m not leaving.” He repeats himself, and he hugs you closer. He lets you sob into his shoulders, and a few tears of his own fall too.

He’s not letting you go. Not now, not ever. He’s with you until the end.

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[imagine-it-was-us]

something on my mind || Lando Norris

Inspiration: Purple Disco Machine x Duke Dumont x Nothing but thieves "Something on my mind".

Author's note: To fully immerse yourself into the story, I highly suggest listening to the song first. My first instinct to go back to writing after 7 years was highly inspired by the song and the idea of the music dictating the narrative. So here we are. Hope you like it. ✨

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: The two of them could not be more different. A loud, extroverted racer, and the shy, introverted graphic designer. Yet you can't control the spark.

Word count: 2.8k+

Lando’s life wasn’t meant to be simple and ordinary. He moved too much, changed cities like clockwork with brief moments of tranquility. F1 took him everywhere, yet because of that nowhere ever felt permanent. Don’t get it wrong. He simply adored his life, it was after all his dream. The constant buzz around him, the rush of adrenaline, the highest highs and the lowest lows. He enjoyed it all and never took it for granted. Yet living this particular dream has its cost.

That feeling of never being settled? It applies not only to the locations. It also does to people. It was easy to keep in touch with family or friends, it was all like second nature to them. But relationships weren’t easy to maintain. It is not like he didn’t try, but his last relationship was a complete disaster and had taught him that love didn’t fit neatly between airport terminals, paddocks and packed schedules. So now, he didn’t look for it. He didn’t want to get hurt like that again.

That’s what made one-night stands easy. There were no expectations, no heartbreak, no risk. No promises, no trust issues. It just provided the gratification he needed, blowing the steam off, as one could say. And he was purposely looking for the women, who were just like him. They didn’t ask questions and hold any expectations. They also didn’t stay.

And that’s how he ended up in another club tonight. He wasn’t a DJ—just a guy who knew enough about music to have fun with his friend, Martin Garrix, filling a gap in the setlist. Even though he enjoyed playing with music, everyone knew that this show was a one-off thing. Something to laugh about later. Standing behind the booth, watching a crowd move to the beat you controlled, felt good.

Then he saw her. 

She wasn’t the kind of girl who got noticed. And she liked it that way. She had never been the loudest in the room or the one who commanded attention just by walking in. She likes blending in the crowds and living her life from the sidelines. Yet as it happens to introverts usually, she was domesticated by rowdy extroverts, who teased her for it—Live a little, dance with someone, let loose for once.

She did dance. That was the only reason she had agreed to the club in the first place. Not for drinks, not for hookups—just the music. She had always found a kind of freedom in it, a way to exist without thinking too much. Just lost in the rhythm, in a world of her own, as if the music was the only thing that mattered. 

That night, she felt seen. She didn’t even know why she looked up. Maybe it was instinct, the pull of something invisible. But when she did, he was there. Watching her.

A stranger behind the DJ booth, but not like the others. Somehow he wasn’t showing off, wasn’t scanning the crowd for attention. He was just there, hands moving effortlessly over the decks, looking straight at her. Her breath caught.

Lando experienced the same thing. When she looked up at him, really looked, something in his chest tightened. For a guy who kept his heart locked behind logic, something about that made his pulse stutter. The moment stretched as the bass thrummed between them; for a second, it felt like the entire club faded away.

Then she looked down. And the moment was gone.

Martin coming to the booth caught Lando’s attention for a split second and once his focus shifted to the crowd again, she was already slipping away, vanishing between shifting bodies, just another face in the blur of neon lights. Frustrated, he tells himself it was nothing. A passing moment. A trick of the lights.

So he tried to let it go and let the night play out like it always did. Drinks. Another girl. A half-hearted hookup in a darkened corner of the club, taking her to his hotel room. But the second it was over, he felt it—that hollowness, the restless edge in his chest.

He knew exactly why.

Later at night, staring at the ceiling, with a nameless woman sleeping calmly by his side, Lando couldn’t shake the feeling that he had let something slip through his fingers. Not in a grand, romantic way—but in a what if way. A nagging curiosity. A voice in the back of his head whispering: Did she feel it too?

He told himself he was being ridiculous. It was just a passing moment. A look across the crowd. But then why couldn’t he stop thinking about it? And was she dreaming of him?

________

Imagine his shock when going through the streets of Barcelona, he saw her again. Not at the club, but in a quiet bookstore café, tucked into a corner by the window, with her full attention on the computer screen in front of her. There were no flashing lights, no pulsing bass—just her in her world, while headphones blocked out the outside buzz.

The second he saw her, something in his chest shifted. She wasn’t dancing now, but she still looked lost in another world. And this time, he was not going to let her disappear.

She flinched and gasped when she saw the cup of matcha appeared in the empty space on the table right in front of her. She stopped her favorite playlist and the gaze immediately shot to the one carrying it.

Her first instinct was to assume he had the wrong table. Maybe he was meeting someone else and just placed the drink in front of her by mistake. But by looking at his face for another second, she realised that she knew him. Not in the way that counted, but in the way you remember a face when it stands out from the blur of a night. He was the DJ from the club. The one she had locked eyes with for just a second too long before vanishing back into the crowd.

What was he doing here? More importantly, why was he standing in front of her like he remembered her, too?

“Hey,” Lando said, leaning against her table as she was pulling the headphones away from her head. “Saw your empty cup and thought you might wanna refill.” He explained when her eyes went from his face to the hot beverage. But selfishly he wanted to bring her attention back to him. “You ran away the other night.”

Her brows furrowed and she felt her stomach flip. “What?”

“The club,” he said. “You looked at me. Then you ran.”

She flushed and felt her cheeks starting to burn. “I—I didn’t run.”

“You disappeared,” he countered, while swiftly pulling away an empty chair from another table so he could sit right in front of her. “Felt a lot like running.”

She hesitated, then exhaled a small laugh, shaking her head. “I don’t really do clubs.”

“Yeah, I figured. So why were you there?”

“My friends.” She shrugged while closing her laptop. She felt that this conversation might be a little bit longer than just a quick chit-chat. She will deal with her responsibilities later. “I just wanted to dance. I didn’t expect… anyone to notice me.”

Norris studied her for a beat. Shy. Reserved. The opposite of the girls he usually ended up with. But there was something about her quiet confidence, the way she had felt the music that night, that intrigued him more than any of the loud, fleeting distractions he was used to.

“Well, I did.”

She bit her lip, then asked, shifting attention from herself. “You’re a DJ?”

He laughed. “Not even close. My friend shoved me up there for a set. I just went along with it.”

She tilted her head. “So what do you actually do?”

And just like that, conversation shifted. She thought he would be the kind of guy who only knew how to flirt in half-truths, but instead, he talked. Really talked. About his job, his travels, how he ended up behind that booth on a whim. The more he talked, the more flustered and surreal she felt. She had a literal millionaire sitting right in front of her, who could have been doing anything he literally wanted. And somehow he ended up sitting in her favorite cafe, chatting her up. And he showed the interest that she wasn’t expecting – even though she tried to talk about herself as little as possible, he persistently asked her about her days, what she was doing for living, about the kind of music she actually liked, about things that had nothing to do with the place they had met. When Lando realized that she had been living in Barcelona for a while and since it was just another stop before another grand prix, he asked her if she could find some time to show him the city. 

The connection was born and both of them were eager to further explore it. 

____________

Ten days passed quicker than any of them expected. Lando saw her every chance he got, whenever she wasn’t working and he was done with the meetings and practises. Their meetups had no expectations. No pressure. Just stolen moments—late-night drives with the stereo turned up, quiet dinners where he learned how she hid her laughter behind her hand when she was embarrassed. With every glance, every unexpected touch, the feelings were growing deeper.

Her heart was doing somersaults trying to warn her not to fall for his charming and immersive personality. Especially now, when she knows how his daily life looks and that his days in Barcelona are counted. Also, of course, once he said his name and his occupation, it took her less than 5 seconds to find countless articles online about him and his lifestyle. Parties, rumors, links to several different women. His world seemed so distant to her and on paper it would be difficult to find two people who are as opposite as the two of them were.

And yet it was hard to believe everything she saw online when she had a breathing and living example right in front of her. During their week together there weren't any acts of sheer extravaganza. He always chose to lay as low as possible. Instead of taking her to expensive restaurants trying to impress her, he asked her to take him to a pub that would repel any tourist, but was so loved by locals. As much as he claimed to love speed, somehow he ended up with the slowest rented convertible. Even though there were longing looks and accidental touches that seemed to last a little bit longer than necessary before one of them would pull away, he never pushed her and never threw himself on her or even asked her if she was feeling something.

And that was down to two things. Firstly, Lando believed that good things always required time. It didn’t matter that he was indeed hooked by her presence every time they met, but he knew that acting on his desires might simply turn it into another meaningless and awkward fling. And he most certainly didn’t want that. And secondly, as closed up as she was to the rest of the world, Norris saw her opening up just a little bit more every time they texted or saw each other and as cocky as it sounds, he knew that she felt it too. He knew that it was rational to give it a little bit more time.

Yet time wasn’t on their side as it was Sunday night after the grand prix and he had a plane to catch in the morning. He was still buzzing from placing second, but the happiness was overshadowed by looming goodbye. They walked in comfortable silence, the city humming softly around them. The celebrations had faded, but neither of them seemed in a rush to end the night.

She glanced at him—his hands shoved into his pockets, head tilted toward the sky like he was trying to freeze this moment in his memory. He seemed so out of place in these quiet and empty streets further from the action, but yet somehow he fit here. With her.

This was the part where she should start pulling away. She knew how to do it – keep things light, make a joke, pretend none of this meant more than it should. It was easier that way.

She had spent years perfecting the art of being just enough. Just friendly enough to blend in, just open enough to avoid too many questions. People rarely noticed when you kept your answers vague, when you laughed at the right moments, when you never let them see the parts of you that meant something.

But Lando noticed. Not in a way that was prying, but in a way that made it feel safe to be honest. And that was dangerous. Because honesty led to attachment. And attachment led to expecting things that were never really yours to begin with.

“You should be celebrating tonight,” she said, nudging his arm lightly. 

Distraction. Distance. The only tools she had left.

He seemed too deep into his thoughts and she had a strong feeling why he was in that state. Yet she didn’t want to seem cocky or push the forced narrative. 

Lando exhaled a short laugh, shaking his head. “I am.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

He stopped walking, turning to face her. The streetlight above them was casting a soft glow, making everything feel strangely surreal and intimate.

“You know,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “you’re a real pain in the ass sometimes.”

She blinked, surprised by the blunt expression. “Excuse me?”

“You,” he repeated, taking a step closer. “Making me enjoy slow drives and quiet nights when I should be focusing on my job.”

She crossed her arms, tilting her head at him. He knew from the get go that she couldn’t be further away from his typical life. And yet he accepted it with open arms. “You know, you had a free will to do whatever, right? Now you’re making it sound like I ruined you.”

His mouth quirked into a smirk, but his eyes gave him away – there was something deeper there, something hesitant but real.

“Maybe,” he admitted, voice softer now. “Maybe you just made me realize I want more than what I usually get.”

That did something to her chest, twisted it in a way she wasn’t ready for. She wanted to make a joke, wanted to deflect – but instead, she just looked at him, just like the first time in the club.

And he looked back. This time he wasn’t going to let her gaze go, still low key thinking that she would somehow simply disappear. Neither of them moved. Neither of them had to. The weight of unspoken words filled the air between them, stretching the moment just long enough to make it unbearable.

Lando inhaled sharply, like he was about to say something – then changed his mind. Instead, he just reached for her hand.

It wasn’t forceful, it wasn't desperate. Just an unvoiced question. Are you going to let me in?

She exhaled slowly. She knew that she could simply walk away from this. Right now, if she chose to ignore it, she would probably never see him again and the only proof of the last couple days would be random selfies on her phone and his presence would linger for a while in her favorite places around the city. But when he looked at her like that, she felt the sense rare sense of fuck it filling the air. And instead of answering that lingering question, she closed the space between them. It took a blink of an eye for Lando to meet her halfway.

The kiss wasn’t rushed, it wasn't perfect. It was something in between – a slow, careful exploration of something neither of them were ready to name. Of something so fragile that any rapid movement could break it. When they finally slowly broke apart, Lando let out a low chuckle, shaking his head and finally exhaling as if he was holding his breath this whole time.

“Well, damn.”

She laughed, rolling her eyes, feeling the sense of ease rushing through her. “Don’t let it get to your head, Norris.”

“Too late, there's already something on my mind.” His thumb brushed absently against her wrist before he finally – reluctantly – let go.

The moment lingered, heavy but not unbearable. No promises. No dramatic confessions. Just the quiet understanding that this wasn’t over.

And somehow, that was enough.

As they started walking again, neither of them spoke. But as the streetlights flickered above them, their hands brushed once more. And this time, neither of them pulled away.

[jjwolves]

Hello! Your writing's great! Um... Sorry, just a bit unsure because I don't normally request things in fandom spaces... If it's okay with you, could you write something platonic with DBBQ Ena where the reader:

1. Has a hard time trusting her salesman side.

2. Is scared of her meanie side.

3. Can't help but have a squish (that's platonic attraction) on her?

Basically just... The reader doesn't wanna feel like Ena's solely just trying to sell them something nor do they want her to be angry/insulting towards them... Also, gender-neutral reader please. ._.

If you can't or don't want to write this, that's completely fine! Have a nice day! óuò

DROOPY LIKES YOUR FACE ✦•··············•✦•··············•✦

What: 5 Headcanons of ENA the Worker X Reader (Struggling Platonic)

Who: ENA the Worker from ENA Dream BBQ (By Joel G)

How Much: ~700 words, ~3 mins

Warnings: Slight Language

You’ve been working with ENA for a while, and you’re pretty sure that you understand the pattern now. Froggy usually orders you and your partner in crime to go out and squash any problems which need squashing. You do your best to get the job done, and when there’s time, you try to find some reprieve from the crushing reality that this is probably going to be your job forever. You try to talk to ENA. You think that you’d be up for getting drinks later, but it’s hard to get along with her at times.

You two could be friends, you think, as you march through the realm of the carpenter and do your best to avoid any saws which would saw through the room you’re traveling through and send you into the abyss surrounding the tower. Adjusting your tie, you glance over at ENA as you walk. She’s chipper (heh) and red as her head swivels to face you, body unaffected by the movement like an automaton. “The ambiance here is palpable! Would you be willing to buy a jar of it?” Thinking on your environment, you make a joke—don’t you mean pulpable? ENA takes a moment to process before startling you with a switch-up. “CAN IT!” You jump and look away, returning to your nervous tie adjusting. At least she acknowledged it.

ENA is able to get through a door while you wait and idle about near a mouth on the wall that sucks on lollipops endlessly supplied by you suit’s pockets. Hopefully it’s too busy tasting raspberry and rootbeer-adjacent chemicals to notice that your work buddy is intruding in its domain. It takes her some time but eventually she circles back to you and you can stop feeding the thing. “You’re a good worker.” ENA smiles inscrutably. You’re thankful for the compliment, but you wait for the catch. She follows through. “And good workers know amazing deals when they see them. Would you be willing to trade a few lollipops for this stylish ribbon I found?” Should have known.

ENA makes you anxious sometimes. She doesn’t mean to, probably, but she ends up doing it anyway. Once in a while you’ll drop something or tell a ‘potential customer’ something less than flattering—but true—about your services. After the tool hits the floor or the words are out your mouth, you tense up, hoping that she wasn’t around to hear that. You look around. All clear. That is, until you look directly in front of you to see ENA wearing a jagged frown and holding a megaphone. “THAT’S ANOTHER INFRACTION! ARE YOU TRYING TO GET US TERMINATED!?” You jump back and apologize profusely, tripping over yourself. ENA’s face straightens into something more neutral, however, after your blubbering has subsided.

You take a break with your coworker (friend?), making sure to hide away from Froggy so that he doesn’t see you two slacking. It’s awkward and silent until your coworker speaks up. ENA looks thoughtful when she turns to you. “I apologize for the behavior of my employment.” She fidgets with her hands. “I’ve never really invested in a friend before… So please forgive me as I update my software.” Feeling a gentle smile on your face, you say that it’s alright. You’re both working on getting along better, after all. “Speaking of which. Friend. Earlier you had complained about not having any, ‘iced coffee’, as it were. Consider this a payment towards my forgiveness.” ENA reaches to grab something from her invisible item-space. You begin to say that she doesn’t need to pay you anything, but your words die as she places something in your hands. It’s coffee, frozen into a cube the size of your head, attached to the end of a freakishly large popsicle stick. It’s practically a warhammer. You’re baffled. ENA is quick to go white at your reaction. “DON’T LAUGH! IT ONLY COMES IN VENTI! God DAMNIT!” ENA throws her hat down in a fit of rage. You’re thankful for the strange gift from your even stranger friend.

A/N: You have a nice day too, Anon! Geez, guys, I'm sorry if you send in a request and it takes a while to get to it. I try to work down the list of requests by date and there's quite a few (which I am very thankful for). I do try to make every hc list or story very richly detailed, so it takes time to get done. The fics would lose what makes them special if I shotgunned them, haha. Stay tuned, and if you have a request you really really want done ASAP then you can always commission me! Comms take priority after all. :o)

[thunderbolt-ing]

"I Can't Do It Alone." — 3

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART FOUR Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Fem!Reader Summary: Denial is a river in Egypt. In other words, the signs are there, but you dodge them like bullets. Warnings: idk gunshots and distant gunfights, you'll see. reader is in extreme denial. bucky is trying so hard. please tell me if anything in this chapter is triggering, i don't think so bc it's just fluff-ish but please lmk A/N: canon divergence bc i completely messed up the order of events from the movie (I'm writing this in pure memory) but its going to work out anyway so!!!!! NO CHANCE NO WAY I WONT SAY IT NO NO (you swoon, you sigh, why deny it uh oh) that was playing in my head while writing the majority of this part. I've read through this several times but I'm sure there are still mistakes i didn't catch so i do apologize in advance. Word count: ~5.7k words. I hope this keeps you fed while my brain regroups.

Later that Same Evening Long After the Gala

Your flight, much to your mounting irritation, had been cancelled. At this point, it felt like the universe was dead set on keeping you in D.C., a place you didn’t particularly mind, but didn’t want to linger in either. You just wanted to go back to New York, back to your routine, and back to your job. 

Still, you weren’t helpless. Sure, you complained and cursed out every possible godly being, but you had things under control within minutes. You’d already opened three tabs on your phone, scanned for reasonably priced motels near the airport, and mentally mapped out your commute the next morning. 

Then your phone buzzed. 

You stared at the message, blinking. Not only did he predict that you were going to protest, but he was already making his way back to the airport when he had just dropped you off hours ago. You sat down heavily on the nearest bench in the ‘departures’ terminal, trying to make sense of that familiar ache in your chest. It wasn’t the first time he had done something like this. It was little things, things he never pointed out, never made a show of. He just… showed up. It was as if no version of his evening didn’t include making sure you got home safe. 

You tapped your phone screen again, reading his text over. 

No need. On my way. 

You could’ve insisted, you should’ve insisted. You weren’t helpless, you knew how to navigate things alone, you’d been doing it your whole life. But somehow, with Bucky, the line between stubborn independence and reluctant comfort blurred just a little. 

You typed a reply. Paused. Deleted it. 

Then, you tucked your phone into your pocket and told yourself it didn’t mean anything. It was just Bucky being Bucky. It wasn’t about you. He’d do the same for anyone because that was just the kind of man he was: reliable, responsible, and frustratingly decent.

But then he’d do things that chipped away at that belief. It was gentle, subtle things that left you standing in the ruins of your own logic, questioning everything all over again. 

It was infuriating.

This, or rather he, was not what you were here for. You were hired for a job, a purpose. You were supposed to be focused on policy briefings, constituent emails, scheduling, and outreach. Not your boss’s inconvenient acts of quiet heroism. Your job was to make sure he passed legislation, kept his approval ratings high, and won re-election. He was good at his job because you were excellent at yours. You were a team, impeccably efficient, practically unbeatable, and you couldn’t complicate that. 

So you did what you did best: Deny. Bury. Move on.

The familiar, low roar of a motorcycle engine ripped through your thoughts like a needle scratching across a record. You looked up and there he was, just as he said he would be. 

Bucky was straddling his bike, helmet-clad, and still in the same dress shirt and slacks he wore to the gala. The black tailored jacket that completed the look was gone, leaving his sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons undone. He looked less like a congressman and more like someone who belonged on the cover of a vintage motorcycle ad—windswept, timeless, and entirely unaware of the effect he had. 

You held back a sigh. You really wish he had taken the car instead. 

Bucky pulled up just in front of where you sat, killed the engine, and swung his leg over the bike with practiced ease. He removed his helmet and walked it over, holding it out to you wordlessly like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

You stared at it for a beat too long, then up at him. His expression was neutral, but something about the slight raise of his brow said, ‘Are you really going to argue with me about this?’ You were, you thought about it, but you didn’t this time. 

You took the helmet reluctantly, securing it on your head before tightening the straps of your backpack with practiced movements. Bucky then swung his legs over the motorcycle with ease, settling into the seat and steadying the bike with one foot so you could comfortably hop on. 

He glanced over his shoulder to make sure you were ready. “Hold tight,” he instructed, his voice calm but firm. Then, with the smallest smirk in his tone, he added, “On my waist, L/N. You know how this works.” “I know, I know,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. You hovered your hands awkwardly near his sides, as if proximity alone could meet the safety requirement. 

You heard him sigh, low and amused, before his mechanical hand reached back and gently guided your arms into place, adjusting your grip until your hands were flat and secure against his waist. “There,” he said, his voice softer this time. “Now you won’t fall off.” You scoffed. You hated the way your chest tightened at the casual intimacy of it all and the way he didn’t even seem to realize what moments like this did to you. 

He rolled off into the streets with familiar ease, weaving through traffic as the city lights blurred around you. The cool air stung your cheeks, and your hair whipped wildly in the wind, but you barely noticed. Your gaze was distant and unfocused, caught between reality and thought. This was just second nature to him. Just muscle memory. Nothing more. 

You let a cheek rest lightly on his back, more out of necessity than affection, or so you told yourself. The low, steady roar of the bike filled the silence between you as he sped through the streets, guiding you both toward the safety of his apartment. 

You were fine. This was fine. 

You weren’t going to read into it, you never did. 

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

A little while later, he pulled into a quiet brick building nestled just a few ways away from the Capitol. As the motorcycle came to a stop, you swung your leg over and quickly stepped off, removing the helmet and letting it hang loosely on your side. The neighborhood before you was calm and unassuming, the kind of place where people walked their dogs at dusk and kids left their bikes on the steps. Trees lined the sidewalks, their branches rustling gently in the breeze, and clusters of native flowering bushes bloomed with the kind of effortless charm that only came from being carefully tended to. 

Bucky led you through the front doors of his apartment building and up to his unit, unlocking it with ease. He pushed the door open and stepped aside, letting you go in first.

“Make yourself at home,” he said casually, his voice warm as he hung his keys on a small hook by the door.

You placed your backpack and his helmet on the couch, your eyes examining your surroundings. The apartment, much like himself, was understated but intentional. The space was minimalistic, but not cold. Everything had a purpose, and nothing felt out of place. The furniture was simple and functional, built for the comfort of a single man, yet it still gave the space a quiet charm. The walls were mostly bare, painted in muted, neutral tones. But above the couch hung a vintage map of Brooklyn, the colors faded with age, with corners slightly curled. A nostalgic tribute to the place he still called home in his heart. 

What truly drew your attention, though, was the bookshelf tucked away in the corner of the living room. You found yourself drifting toward the shelf while he headed into the kitchen without a word, the sound of the refrigerator opening faint in the background. The shelf was more than a storage space for novels; it felt like a time capsule. It held a collection of memories and fragments of identity that Bucky let speak for themselves. Dog-eared novels of well-loved paperbacks lined the shelf—Hemingway, Baldwin, Fitzgerald, and Twain. There were newer ones too, titles you recognized instantly because you were the one who had recommended them. You smiled to yourself, feeling a small tug of surprise and warmth in your chest. You never thought he’d actually take your suggestions seriously, much less keep them. And yet, there they were, nestled between the literary giants like they belonged. Some even had worn spines and folded corners, proof that he hadn’t just bought them to be polite, he had read them, really read them.

But it wasn’t just the books that captured you. It was the small trinkets nestled between them that told a different story. 

There were framed photos, some in color, some in black and white. A shot of him and Steve, mid-laugh in front of Coney Island, a frozen echo of simpler days. Another, more recent, with Sam grinning beside him, sunglasses on like he owned the world. And then there was the one that made you pause: a photo of Bucky in his 1940s Sergeant uniform. His expression was proud, boyish, and untouched by the weight of what would come after. You found yourself tracing the edge of the frame with your fingertips, wondering what kind of man he was back then, before HYDRA, before the Winter Soldier. Before the world tried to break him.

Your musings were swiftly interrupted by a soft mrow echoing from the hallway. Your eyes darted toward the sound, then flicked to Bucky, who was still in the kitchen, too preoccupied with ordering food on the phone to notice you snooping around his living room.

Curiously, you padded quietly down the hallway toward the noise. At the end of it, lounging like she owned the place, was a fluffy white cat. She was elegant, clearly a ragdoll, with a silky coat and mismatched blue and yellow eyes that tugged instantly at your heartstrings. Before you could even kneel or say anything, the feline rose and began trotting toward you with confidence, her little bell collar chiming softly with each graceful step. You crouched instinctively, a grin tugging at your lips as she nuzzled against your leg like she’d known you forever. You got hold of her collar and turned it around to see the cat’s name. Alpine.

“No, no, no!” Bucky called from behind you, his voice laced with sudden panic. “She—”

He stopped short as he watched you scoop the cat effortlessly into your arms and cradle her like you had done it a hundred times before.

“—bites,” he finished weakly, blinking in disbelief.

“Could’ve fooled me,” you said with a soft laugh, nuzzling her fur as she purred contentedly in your arms. “She’s the sweetest thing. She just walked right up to me.”

Alpine rubbed her head against your chin, purring like a small motor and clearly smitten. Bucky, on the other hand, looked like he was short-circuiting. This was definitely not how he expected things to go. He'd anticipated claws, maybe a hiss, possibly even you swearing never to step foot in his apartment again, not you holding Alpine like a baby and kissing her on the head.

“I locked her in my room before I went to get you,” he confessed, still staring at the cat in disbelief. “I don’t know how she got out.”

“What can I say?” you replied smugly, scratching behind Alpine’s ears as she melted into your chest. “Cats love me.”

Bucky let out a small breath of laughter, but the smile that followed was something else entirely. It was soft and unguarded in a way you weren’t used to seeing from him. It wasn’t the polite grin he donned at work; this was warm, and it pulled at something within you despite how hard you tried to pretend it didn’t.

Bucky blinked and cleared his throat, as if snapping himself out of whatever trance he’d slipped into. 

Then, the doorbell rang, sharp and sudden, cutting through the moment like a blade.

“Pizza’s here,” he muttered, his voice rough and uneven, almost like he had forgotten how to speak. 

“Yeah, I got it,” you replied quickly, a little too quickly. You gently set Alpine down, earning a small meow in protest, though you barely registered it. Your entire focus was on putting distance between yourself and his warm, disarming gaze that made you feel both seen and exposed. You bolted toward the door like it might save you because staying in that moment for a second longer would’ve cracked something wide open, something that you weren’t entirely ready to admit even existed. 

You returned a few minutes later, heading straight to the kitchen, clutching the box like it was some sacred offering to the gods of casual indifference. Normal. You just needed normal. 

Despite your best efforts to sweep everything under the rug, the universe seemed to have a sick sense of humor. Standing before you was Bucky, his white dress shirt now unbuttoned and hanging loosely on his frame. Beneath it, his white tank top clung to him in a way that made you wish you hadn’t looked at all. To top it off, his hair was tousled too, like he had raked his hand through it one too many times. 

You dropped the box on the counter a little harder than necessary, flipping it open. The two of you wordlessly reached for a slice, your fingers brushing his just briefly, but the contact sent a jolt up your arm like you’d grabbed a live wire. You felt the heat rush to your face. 

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. 

You bit into a slice with unnecessary focus, hoping the act of chewing would drown out your incessant thoughts. 

Ever since the gala, your brain had been on a reckless little joyride of stupidity, teasing the idea that maybe, just maybe, there was something there. Something more than the long hours you two spent together, the satisfying banter, and the way he always seemed to notice when you needed something before you even asked. 

But that was completely ridiculous. You blamed it on the proximity, on the caffeine-fueled late nights, on the way his voice sounded at 2 in the morning when both of you were buried in policy drafts and half-eaten takeout. You blamed it on the fact that you hadn’t been with anyone in years, that you were lonely, and maybe your standards had plummeted into dangerous, shark-infested territory.

But none of that mattered because this was your boss. Congressman James Buchanan Barnes. 

He wasn’t supposed to be a possibility, not even a consideration. Not with his title, not with your job, and definitely not with the line you swore you’d never cross. 

Your internal tirade was thankfully derailed when your eyes landed on a small stack of untouched, unopened, and suspiciously pristine dockets sitting nearly on the far end of the counter. Those were the same files you’d handed him last Friday, neatly and painstakingly compiled in preparation for the upcoming congressional hearing on the veteran aid bill the two of you had been pushing for. 

��I gave these to you last Friday,” you called out, placing your half-slice down and crossing the kitchen with growing suspicion. You plucked one of the folders off the pile and flipped it open. “Don’t tell me you’re procrastinating, the hearing’s in like five days.” 

“No, of course not,” Bucky scoffed, replying far too quickly for your liking, and springing into motion as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. He practically lunged for the files, his hand landing just beside yours. “I’m a slow reader. I’m working on it.”

“Sure, I’ll entertain your lies.” 

“I am!” He insisted, pressing his metal hand on his chest as if swearing an oath. “Okay, how about this: let’s read it together. Like the partners that we are.” 

You let out a deep sigh, more dramatically than intended, but you were already gathering the files and opening them to begin reading. 

“Fine,” you said, waving a hand. “Whatever it takes to get this bill passed and to make sure you don’t crash and burn during questioning.”

Bucky grinned, “What would I do without you?” 

“Get expelled from Congress.” You deadpanned.

You didn’t miss the way he stood closer than he needed to be. Or the way his fingers brushed yours again when he handed you a pen. Or how annoyingly aware you were of how warm he looked in that god forsaken tank top. 

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

The two of you worked in perfect harmony, like a well-oiled machine that had been running for years—each movement seamless, each glance understood without needed explanation. You highlighted and annotated key sections of the bill, patiently talking him through the language, coaching him on how to sell it with conviction. Your notes were meticulous, filled with cues and conversational maps, anticipating every possible question or objection he might face. You were the strategist, charting the battlefield with deadly precision. He was the warrior, prepared to defend the legislation like it were something sacred. 

With one last slice left in the box and the clock ticking well past midnight, the two of you finally closed the last of the files. Everything was highlighted, annotated, and flagged. For once, you were ahead of schedule and had plenty of time for Bucky to go back through and add his own thoughts. A small victory, but it felt like a triumph.

You exhaled deeply and leaned back with a stretch, arms overhead as your spine cracked in relief. “Finally,” you mumbled. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Bucky reached for the last slice without looking up, flipping through the final few pages of the docket as he chewed thoughtfully. “No, it wasn’t bad,” he said, almost offhand, “but that’s only because you’re here.”

You barely had time to react before a dollop of sauce slipped from Bucky’s slice, landing right on the front of his crisp white dress shirt and barely streaking his vibranium forearm. Without thinking, you moved, reaching for a napkin and dabbing at the mess with brisk, practiced motions before it could soak into the fabric, or worse, find its way into the crevices of his mechanical arm. 

He stilled under your touch, his eyes dropping to your hands as they moved carefully and deliberately, as if this wasn’t the first time it happened. 

"You don’t have to look out for me so much, you know?” he said, voice quiet and unguarded. 

You didn’t meet his gaze. “I don’t,” you deflected breezily, “I just didn’t want that shirt to get ruined. It’s a good shirt, looks expensive.”

Bucky huffed a small laugh and leaned back slightly to let you toss the napkin into the trash. Then, without hesitation, he shrugged off the dress shirt entirely, leaving him in the fitted white tank underneath. The fabric clung to his shoulders and chest, and you averted your eyes before your thoughts could spiral again. 

“Oh, but you do,” he said with that infuriating half-smile. His voice was playful, but there was something heavier underneath that lingered.

“At least it didn’t get in the arm. I hate putting this thing in the dishwasher.”

You glanced back at him, “Your arm is dishwasher safe?” You asked, grateful for the shift in tone. You tilted your head, a smirk tugging at your lips, “Wow. Innovation.”

He chuckled, “Wakandan tech.” He said dismissively as if it was the most obvious, most casual thing in the world. Then he moved on to clean the counter, tossing the empty pizza box in the trash. 

“But seriously,” he added, glancing at you again, “I meant what I said. You’ve got this way of looking out for people. For me. I notice it.” 

You tried not to let his words settle. “It’s my job,” you said stiffly, wiping down the counter and moving the dockets to a cleaner surface. 

He only smiled gently, “No, it’s not. Your job is to make sure I don’t screw up legislation on the Senate floor. To prep me for hearings. It’s not staying up past midnight to coach me through policy language I should already know. It’s not sprinting across the kitchen to stop a stain from getting on my arm.”

Then, he paused, eyes softening, “It’s not caring like this.” 

You froze. You didn’t want to look at him, not with everything suddenly cracking wide open like this. You could’ve said something cold and sharp. Something to deflect. But for once, nothing came, and your usual wit failed you. 

Instead, you said quietly, “I don’t know why I do it. Maybe it’s just easier to take care of other people than deal with my own problems.”

There was a long silence before he responded.

“I do that too,” Bucky said finally, his voice stripped of pretense. “Pretend I’m fine. Push things down until they’re out of reach. I still fight battles in my head every damn day. And sometimes, I look at who I am now and wonder if it’s ever going to be enough to make up for the things I’ve done.”

You looked at him, seeing right through. For the first time, you didn’t see the Congressman, the anti-hero, or even the man you worked beside every day. You saw someone fractured and still healing. Somehow, that made him even more impossible to ignore. 

“I think you’re doing better than you think,” you said softly. “You’re not perfect, Bucky. No one is. But you care about this bill. You care about people. That matters. You matter.”

His jaw tightened like he wasn’t used to hearing that, not from anyone who meant it. He tried to smile, but it faltered under the weight of the moment.

“You really scare the shit out of me sometimes,” he murmured.

You blinked at him. “What…?”

He let out a quiet laugh through his nose, something halfway between affection and disbelief.

“Because I’m smart and capable?” you offered, trying to deflect with humor.

He shook his head. “No,” he said simply. “Because you see me. And… I don’t know what to do with that.”

And just like that, the air between you thickened again. Not with fear, but with understanding. The kind of quiet recognition that neither of you were quite ready to say out loud. For one suspended moment, it was just the two of you, unspoken things hanging heavy in the silence.

Then came the reality check. 

Bucky’s phone buzzed sharply against the countertop, the sound almost jarring. The screen lit up with Unknown Caller in bold letters. You both looked at it like it might explode.

“You going to get that?” you asked, the question more of a lifeline than anything else, a gentle nudge away from the dangerous emotional territory you’d both just wandered into.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, grabbing the phone like it gave him something to do with his hands. He hit the speaker. “This is Barnes.”

There was a moment of static, then a soft voice came through. “Hi. It’s Mel. Valentina’s assistant.”

Your hand flew to your mouth, your eyes widening. It worked. The stupid gala and the Mission Impossible-esque stunt you two pulled, it worked. You elbowed Bucky hard in the ribs, silently urging him to say something before the girl got spooked.

“Oh. Hi. Yes—hi, Mel, thank you for calling me. I didn’t—”

“I can’t talk long,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “So I’ll get to the point.”

You stilled and held your breath. Bucky didn’t even blink.

“I want to help,” Mel continued, rushed and panicked. “Val told me to incinerate evidence tonight. Records. Files. People.”

You exchanged another look with Bucky, both of your pulses spiking.

“—People who know too much. She told me to get rid of them, but they escaped somehow, and if you’re fast, you can find them. Get them to testify.” 

“Mel, you don’t know how much this helps us.” Bucky said quickly, leaning forward, “We’ll protect you. My partner is here, she can coordinate witness protection—“

“Thank you, Congressman, but I’m not interested.” Her voice tightened with fear, as if someone was or had already interrupted her. “Have a great night!” 

The call ended. Silence fell once more, sharp and electric.

You stared at Bucky’s phone. “Holy shit.” You muttered, letting out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, “That was it! That was the seed! That was our shot!”

“Barely,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “She didn’t even tell us where they are. We don’t even have a lead.”

“Barnes,” you said, gesturing towards his laptop that sat on a nearby desk, “are you seriously not seeing the solution here?”

He blinked at you. “What solution?” 

“Track her phone.” 

He recoiled like you just suggested something nefarious. “What? No. Absolutely not.”

“Track. Her. Phone,” you repeated, enunciating every word like he was a particularly dense child. 

“I heard you,” he replied, frustrated. “I just don’t do that anymore.” 

You gave him a pointed look. “Yes, you do! You track me all the time.” 

“That’s different!”

“How is that different?” You threw your hands up. “You literally pinged my location last week because I didn’t answer your call during a Senate session.”

“That’s because you stopped answering me for four hours, and I thought you were dead!”

“I was at a dentist appointment!”

“Well, I didn’t know that at the time!” 

You stared at him for a beat, then gestured towards his laptop again, muttering, “You are so dramatic.”

He exhaled loudly, rubbing his temples. “Look, it’s not that simple. I’d need access to her internal files. It’s a whole thing.”

You tilted your head and gave him the look. The look.

“Don’t you dare give me the look.”

You didn’t blink, your gaze remained unflinching.

“I hate that look.”

Still no blink.

He groaned, defeated. “Fine. Give me ten minutes.”

“Thank you,” you said sweetly, getting up to fetch his laptop from the desk. 

“You know,” he added, pulling his laptop over and connecting his phone to it, “you are way too comfortable bossing around a former assassin.”

“Oh, just get to work, Barnes,” you shot back, rolling your eyes as you smirked at him. 

There was a beat of silence, broken only by the sound of his fingers flying over his laptop’s keyboard.

Then, more quietly, more sincerely, he said, “I meant what I said earlier.”

You paused. “About what?”

“About you seeing me.” He met your eyes. “It still scares the hell out of me.”

You held his gaze for a long second before saying, gently, “Good. Because that means you’re still human.”

He smiled faintly. “Guess I better start acting like it.” The Next Day Brooklyn City Hall, New York 

You climbed the worn stone steps of Brooklyn’s City Hall, the early morning sun casting long golden shadows across the plaza. The chill of dawn clung to the air, but even after an early flight from D.C., your exhaustion faded and was replaced with anticipation.

Flanking you were a few of the event sponsors who were local business owners, nonprofit reps, and volunteers, each carrying boxes, tote bags, and clipboards as they trailed behind you. A local news van was parked at the curb, the station already broadcasting live segments as reporters flagged down early arrivals to get interviews. 

It had been a long, grueling week filled with late nights, last-minute approvals, a maze of calls and red tape, but somehow, you’d pulled it together. The Veterans Outreach event you’d been organizing was finally happening, and to your astonishment, it looked like everything might actually go according to plan. 

You pushed open the heavy double doors and stepped inside. Then you stopped, momentarily stunned at the sight before you. 

The main lobby of City Hall had been completely transformed. Booths lined the perimeter, draped in patriotic colors and banners offering support and resources for veterans. Each station was already buzzing with activity. Volunteers in matching t-shirts greeted attendees with easy smiles. A local acoustic jazz band played in the far corner, and the aroma of coffee and food truck fare drifted in from the open courtyard doors. 

You let out a long breath, your shoulders finally easing for the first time in days. 

Then, your phone buzzed in your hand, Bucky’s name and photo lighting up the screen. You answered quickly, stepping away from the crows and into a quieter corner of City Hall, tucking a hand over one ear to hear him better. 

“Barnes, this place is packed,” you said, barely containing your excitement. “The booths are full, the sponsors showed up, and even Channel 5’s out front doing coverage.” 

“I figured it would be,” Bucky replied, his voice warm despite the faint roar of wind and engine noise on the other end. “Listen… you’re going to hate me for this, but… I can’t make it.” 

You paused for a beat, then exhaled softly. “I know,” you said gently. “It’s okay. I figured when Mel called you yesterday.” 

There was a beat of silence that followed, filled with the low rumble of Bucky revving his motorcycle. Then—BOOM.

A sudden, deafening crash cracked through the line, followed by screeching tires and the unmistakable crunch of metal. 

“Hold on—” Bucky said abruptly. 

You froze, gripping the phone tightly in your hand. In the background, you heard the sharp click of a shotgun, followed by two loud bangs, then a barrage of gunfire. 

“Bucky?!” you hissed, instinctively glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one could hear you. “Are you out of your mind?! What the hell was that?!”

“Minor inconvenience,” he grunted. More gunshots rang out, his motorcycle revving again. “I’m multitasking.” “Are you being shot at right now?!” 

“No, not me. Hang on, you’re on my comms. Don’t hang up.”

Another crash. A deep, loud, metallic thud followed by the sound of a car door being ripped off its hinges. There was yelling in the distance, then silence, followed by Bucky’s heavy breathing and another round of shots. “Jesus Christ, Barnes,” you muttered, now pacing the quiet hallway like a storm in motion. “Are you seriously calling me mid-fight?” 

“I said I was sorry,” he replied, a bit breathless but still managing to sound maddeningly casual. “I found them. The people Valentina tried to get rid of. Contract workers. Assassins, maybe. Or former ones. Still figuring that part out.” 

“Assassins?! James, what the fuck?” You pinched the bridge of your nose, teetering on the edge of exasperation and just a tiny sliver of admiration. “You’re going to give me gray hairs. I’m going to develop a heart condition by the end—”

“—I’ll make it up to you,” He promised, a low laugh catching in his throat. “I just needed to check in. Make sure you were okay with the outreach and everything.” 

“You’re worried about me when you were just dodging bullets?!” 

“I knew you’d be fine,” he said softly, like a confession. “I think I just… wanted to hear your voice.” 

Your heart squeezed, traitorous and aching. You stood in stunned silence, letting his words settle like dust in a room you hadn’t dared to open. Before you could form a reply, the engine revved again on his end, and another crash thundered through the speaker.  

“I’ll call you back,” he said quickly, his voice clipped with urgency. “Let me just rein in these guys.” 

You sighed, even as the corners of your mouth betrayed you. “Be careful, idiot. And you better call me back.” 

You ended the call and lowered the phone slowly, staring at the darkened screen. An uninvited smile tugged at your lips. You hated how easily he could disarm you, how quickly a few words from him could slip beneath the armor you’d spent a long time perfecting. 

Of course he’d call you mid-fight. Of course he’d say something maddeningly sweet while dodging bullets. And of course, you felt your resolve crumbling all over again. It felt as if you were putting Band-Aids on a rapidly cracking dam. 

You had rules. Boundaries. Reasons. 

This was your job. He was your boss. You’d promised yourself this wouldn’t happen, that you wouldn’t entertain the topic of romance while building your career. You were busy and too focused. There wasn’t room for anything else besides work.

And on top of that, he was reckless, complicated, and always halfway out the door.

You knew better.

Yet here you were, standing in the middle of a quiet hallway with a stupid grin and a pulse that hadn’t calmed down since the call ended. 

You tried so hard to draw a line between you and him. You were supposed to be professional, responsible, even detached, but the truth was, you never meant for it to hold. 

“Boyfriend?” came a voice behind you, startling you out of your thoughts. 

You turned to see one of the younger interns, the one in charge of the event’s social media coverage, peering at you with a knowing grin. “Or was that Congressman Barnes? Are you two finally...?”

You narrowed your eyes, but the flush creeping up your neck betrayed you. “Get back to work, please.”

The intern laughed and raised her hands in mock surrender before disappearing back toward the courtyard.

You lingered for a moment longer, letting your fingers toy with the edge of your blazer before finally tucking your phone away. The lobby ahead of you was filled with activity, volunteers guiding people, voices over the PA, distant music, but your thoughts were miles away, wrapped around the sound of his voice. 

You walked back to the main lobby, the weight of the morning pressed gently against your chest, and a curve of a smile still tugging at your lips. 

Damn him and damn the way he made you question whether the walls you’d built were really protecting you anymore. 

Maybe it was just keeping something good from getting in.

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if you're silent enough, you can hear me screaming

[dying-isnt-good-for-your-health]

DpxDc, A hypocrite's concern

A little thing I wrote about Jason and Danny interacting after Jason gets captured by the GIW:)

(Starts under cut because I accidentally made it long)

Jason didn't know what to think.

He had been walking to the bus stop to get groceries in his civilian clothes, when a white van with an obnoxious logo on the side drove by and snatched him off the sidewalk. They didn't even grab him. They just full on drove by with a giant net outstretched like some weird type of fishing to catch him.

They didn't knock him out, they hadn't seemed to find a need to, but they did call him several terms he never even knew existed. None came close enough to the net—which was made of a weird material that couldn't be cut with his smartly hidden knife—to be kicked, so he had resorted to calling them several lovely names that you could only learn by growing up in Crime Alley.

When the van full of Men in Black ripoffs finally stopped, he was loaded into a... cage? Like, it looked a bit like a cage, but it also seemed as if it was made of rubber or plastic, and its shape was also odd, like it was specifically designed for something that would escape a regular cage easily and this was their attempt to stop it. It had bars, sure, but they were at weird angles and constantly layered over each other.

The 'cage' was placed on a cart and wheeled inside a generic office building, but they didn't enter through the entryway, no, what kind of madman uses a door? They entered through the wall. The agents walked directly through the wall, wheeling him in after them, with no difficulty other than pressing a small button next to a random brick. The secret entrance led to an early 2000s sci-fi movie elevator, that had wires filled with a disturbingly familiar green, and a not-so familiar blue.

One of the agents leaned into the comm thing attached to one of the wires and murmured something that made the elevator start working.

The elevator reached what was probably the bottom of the Secret Evil Lair™, and opened with a hiss. The doors revealed a well lit hallway with white walls, floors, ceilings, and heavily reinforced doors. So, these madmen did use doors. It was modern, but in a way that would remind you of a rich person with no interior decorating abilities.

The disproportionately large number of bald men pushed the cage-cart down the hall. The second thing he noticed after the atrocious decoration was the eerie quiet. There wasn't any noise that you would expect from an evil lab, even when the agents walked it was difficult to hear their steps, while when they were outside every step they made would be heard, inside, it was as if they were in their element.

The cart stopped in front of a door with far more protection than the rest, it was dark gray with the blue accents, rather than the white and green of the others. One of the agents leading him turned to a keypad-looking thing and began typing. The door had two signs on it, seemingly to catalog what was held within, but only one had any writing on it, as if the information of the room's contents was incomplete.

"-Phantom-

-DP-001-

-Danger Class: 7-

-Ectoplasmic Strength: Level 4 (For lower level agents, the maximum is Level 5)-

-Power Set: On the DP-001 file-

-Experiment Notes: While testing, ignore any and all pleas for mercy, it is a manipulation tactic it utilizes often. Do NOT remove the muzzle, doing so will result in termination. Causing permanent damage to subject without instruction from an agent classed over Class 7 will result in termination.-"

Jason was able to read the entire thing while the agent was still typing in the code to open the door. When the agent finally finished entering the code, the door opened with the same hiss as the elevator, and revealed a decontamination chamber.

They threw him into the chamber, and quickly closed the doors behind him. The cage melted away, as if it were made of wax, leaving him standing free in the chamber.

The chamber began to fill with a blue gas that fell from the ceiling vents. Jason instinctively held his breath while reaching for his gas mask, only to realize he didn't have his gas mask. Which was not right, he knew he had his gas mask. No Gothamite leaves home without a gas mask. No smart one, at least.

The agents had somehow managed to remove all of his belongings without him noticing. His clothes were also different, instead of the outfit he had left the house in, he was wearing a white shirt, and white pants.

How the hell did they do this? Was the most coherent thought he could have, but it was short lived as the doors in front of him opened with the exact same annoying hiss as the last few.

Based on the sign, he was expecting some kind of cryptid, like a demon, or something. But rather, he was greeted by a short teenager with black hair and blue eyes. The boy wore the same white clothes as Jason, but he also wore a mask that covered half his face, but there was also a blue tinted glass that allowed him to see his mouth. He was working on something behind him.

The boy stared for a moment, before smiling and waving animatedly, like he hadn't seen anyone other than the agents in a long while.

"Hi! I'm Danny!" He said, even if it was slightly muffled, sounding something between being under a blanket and speaking through a fan, "Or Phantom. Or DP-001 or just 001, they flip flop between the last three usually, you?"

"...I'm Jason," He couldn't see why he shouldn't tell this kid his name, it didn't matter, the kid wouldn't recognize it, "Uh, how old are you?"

Danny paused before tilting his head and asking, "Hm, What's the date? I dunno how long I've been here."

"April 13th." He replied, not liking the implications of not knowing your own age.

"Oh! I turned 15 last week! What about you?"

That was way too young to be... where ever this is, this kid is a literal child.

"I'm 23." Again, seeing no reason to lie.

"Wow. You're old." Danny said with the typical teenage snark you'd expect from a fifteen year old, "Sorry, my friend used to say that whenever her parents made her socialize at rich people parties."

He filed away that information for later, even if "Rich people parties" is pretty vague.

"So, where are you from?" Jason asked, Small talk and gather info, he can do that.

He froze for a split second, before speaking, "Amity Park," The kid said, smiling, but in a sad, wistful way, "It's in Illinois."

So this kid was most definitely kidnapped, there are no doubts about that.

"I'd ask where you're from, but I kinda already know" Danny stated, "I saw you in the Gotham file back when I still tried to escape."

Still? They had a file on Gotham? Why? Why was he on the file?

"Oh, why do they have me in the file?" Subtle.

"Either you died and came back funky," He started, holding his fingers out to count on his hand, which was, just perfect, that this random shady group knows about that, "Or you have come in to contact with ectoplasm, the green stuff, or both! That happened to me."

There was a lot to unpack there, but begin simple.

" 'Came back funky' ?" That was a good place to start.

"Oh yeah, like, came back with powers, or with your body being in a better condition than while you were dead, or coming back after too long a time for it to be technically possible."

That answered nothing and everything.

"Actually, I don't even think they care if you came back at all," Danny said after he seemed to think about it for a moment, "Ancients know they only care about technicalities when it benefits them."

Every time the kid answers a question, ten more fill its place because of the answer.

It was a little hard to focus on his answers, though, because of how uncomfortable the weird new clothes were.

Wait.

"How did they get these clothes on me?" He didn't really want the answer, but he also didn't want to not have the answer. "I didn't even notice it."

"Oh! Did they bring you here in a cage?" Danny asked.

"Yeah, if you could even call it that."

"Well," He said, making a big show with his hands to enunciate his sentence, which made Jason notice the electrical scarring that lined his left hand, "I'm pretty sure the Guys In White made the cages out of some material that, when it melts, coats your clothes in some kind of ectoplasm, and then the gas basically breaks down the affected clothing, and replaces it. I'm still not sure how, though."

That, again, answered nothing and everything, but mostly nothing this time.

[whoredyceps]

"OH LOVER BOY!" || 28 Days of Love: A Valentine's Challenge + Series

day fifteen: old wound

ᰔ pairing: agent whiskey x reader

ᰔ summary: first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes jack daniels unsure if the two of you are making the right choice.

ᰔ author's note: this one is going to be a bit longer and is p angsty. sorrrrryyyyyyy. thank you again to everyone who's been reading there, i've been having a lot of fun writing them 🥹💙

ᰔ content warning: afab!reader, reader is pregnant, conversation around pregnancy, mentions of abortion, bits of canon in an au setting, angsty angst, fighting, mentions of character death, no beta- we die like men

"Baby, can I talk to you?" You peaked your head into Jack's office.

It was late, and you had just finished up your nightly routine of tidying up while he tied up the loose ends of his job for the day. You detested the idea of him working after hours, but that was an uphill battle you had yet to see the other side of. For now, you had bigger fish to fry.

"Of course, darlin'. You okay?" Jack looked up from his computer. He had his glasses on, already showered and in his pajamas. It was a good look on him— hell, everything was a good look on him.

"I wanted to talk to you about something. It's..." Your sentence trailed off. You stepped further into the office, and found your way behind the desk. Jack's chair turned towards you as you leaned your thigh against the sharp edge of the wood.

Jack reached his hand out, placed on your hip to offer some form of comfort. Whatever had plagued you seemed to be written all over your face. Though you two had only been married for a few months, you had known each other for years.

So long, in fact, that you remember the days when you used to hang out with Jack's deceased wife. A beautiful woman ripped away too soon, herself and their unborn son caught in the crossfire of an incident no one could have predicted. The two had become the untouchable subject between you and Jack, and you abided by that without question.

Up until now, that was easy enough to follow. You left it alone, and looked the other way when Jack stared at pictures from high school for too long. He had his better days, and the worse days were spent at the distillery— long evenings of work until he'd trudge back home past midnight, too exhausted to think, let alone face his grief head on.

While it wasn't perfect, it worked. You tried to support Jack in whatever way he needed. He did the same for you, and it had all become apart of the give and take you two had.

Now though, you had to address the elephant in the room. One in the form of a polaroid tucked away in the top drawer in Jack's desk, with a sonogram clipped to it. As badly as you wanted to drag out the entire situation, you were on borrowed time.

"Talk to me," Jack gently urged. "It ain't like I'm gonna bite your head off." His tone was concerned, but a bit amused at his own joke. With his free hand, he removed his glasses and placed them on the keyboard of his computer.

You gave a weak chuckle and tapped your foot. The amusement in Jack's tone seemed to die off as you squirmed in your spot. It was rare that he saw you in such a state.

"I went to the doctor today," you started. "Got some tests done like we had talked about." You didn't meet Jack's eyes, wouldn't even look in his direction. His hand felt like it had burned its imprint through your leggings and into your skin.

"Everything okay, darlin'?" Jack sounded immensely concerned, which you expected.

You weren't going to visit the doctor in the first place, if it had been your choice. Over the last few weeks, you just hadn't been yourself. You had been plagued with debilitating headaches and stomachaches that could lay anyone out. Jack begged you to get them checked out, worried that you were facing some sort of terminal illness.

Thankfully, you were given a clean bill of health. That was, until the doctor came in with a round of congratulations and talks of scheduling an appointment with your obstetrician. In that moment, it felt as if something you had locked away for so long finally popped open.

You hadn't even considered kids with Jack. After the passing of his wife and son, you didn't recognize him. It took a long time for him to shed that version of himself and return to some version of the man he once was.

One drunk night, back at your place after a date early on in your relationship, he went on and on about how it was a terrible idea to have children. Nothing good happens, and even if they live, they were set up to face a cruel world. You didn't disagree, but you knew the voice of grief well enough.

Now, since you had left the doctor's office, you had a different stomachache. How were you going to tell Jack? You were in no mood to fight, but you knew it was going to be a spectacle when you did tell him.

"Yes... and no. Jack, honey, I don't really know how to say what I need to say." You fidgeted with your hands, suddenly aware of the manicure you had gotten last week.

"Well, if it ain't terminal, then that's a good start," Jack tried to reassure you. He had never seen you like this, so unsure and hesitant. You were strong and confident to your very core, so sure of every move you made or whatever came out of your mouth.

"I'm pregnant," you blurted out. There was no other way to put it.

Jack was silent, his hand stilled on your hip. You watched as his expression turned steely and his jaw tensed. It hurt more than you cared to admit when he moved his hand away from you.

You looked to him, then back to your feet. The silence hung in the air ate at you, tense and thick with animosity. What was supposed to be a picture perfect moment– or at least what you had imagined when you were younger– was now anything but.

The silence only made you fidget more. You felt that sour pit in your stomach return as you waited. After a while, you couldn't take it anymore.

"I asked how it was possible, and the doctor said it could happen on some birth control pills. We discussed some options and how to proceed with this." You hoped it would help, but Jack refused to look at you. Instead, his gaze lingered on the top drawer of his desk.

You waited for something, anything from him. All day, you had braced yourself for what was to come. You had even considered removing the fetus without Jack knowing, but that just didn't seem right. The only option you felt you had was to face the problem head on.

"I know we haven't talked about it, but I need you to say something. Anything, really." You reached for his hand, only for him to pull away. It hurt more than you expected, and you moved your hand back to your side.

"You know how I feel about it," Jack finally said. "Just– I need some time to think."

You almost rolled your eyes, but refrained. In the time you had known the man, he said what he wanted when he wanted to. Over time, you had learned what that meant. It was Jack for 'I don't want this kid and I don't know how to do that without upsetting you'.

"Take the time you need," you assured him. Even in your turmoil, you understood he had a lot to process. You knew grief too well, and what it did to a person.

The silence had returned, this time heavier. You watched Jack quietly turn back to his work, a dismissal of you and the conversation all together. Without a word, you left his office.

You went to bed alone that night. Not unexpected, but it still cut deep. Right now, you just needed your husband and the simple act of comfort. All lost because of one little confession. Something you tried to prevent, but failed.

You had barely slept a wink. All night, you tossed and turned in the empty bed. When the sun peaked out from over the horizon, light slow to fill the room, you finally gave up. You decided to take a shower and get yourself ready for the day. Even if you wanted to wallow in bed, there were still tasks that had to be completed.

"Jack?" You called out as you headed downstairs. The house was empty, and a quick glance out the front door confirmed the truck was gone.

Anger bubbled inside of you as you slammed the door. He never did things like this to you. Jack made it a point to kiss you goodbye and love on you until the absolute last minute. Now, he was gone before you made it out of bed.

All day, your anger sat with you. It lingered in everything move you made, every thought you had. If there was anything you hated most of all, it was the feeling of anger. You found it did you no good, but all of your logic had flown out of the window the second the confession came out of your mouth.

Jack wasn't the only one who struggled with this. You were the one that had to create a human— one that you had never intended to have. This whole situation was terrifying, and the one person you needed most was too wrapped up in his own mind to see what stood in front of him.

When it was Jack's usual time to come home, you were surprised to hear the truck pull up. Instead of greeting him at the door as you normally would, you continued to work on dinner. You didn't have it in you to be the sweet, doting wife you liked to be.

"Hi, darlin'." Jack's sweet tone felt like a slap to the face. There was no way he had forgotten last night, no way he thought you had forgotten what happened last night.

It was your turn with the silence. You continued to make meatballs with your back turned to him, the only sound in the kitchen came from the radio you had turned on.

You heard Jack sigh as he placed his keys and wallet on the counter. The sound of his cowboy boots clicked against the tile of the kitchen floor. His hand found the small of your back, and he didn't miss the way you tensed at his touch.

"I thought about what you said," Jack muttered. He was close enough that you heard the way he talked under his breath.

"I hope so," you huffed. "Not like we had much else to talk about between now and then." You didn't look back. If you saw those sweet brown eyes, you'd melt and forgive him in a second. You had to stuck up for yourself, even if that meant focusing on the meatballs instead of your husband.

"That wasn't right, me leavin' you on your own after what we talked about last night." Jack's hand didn't move from your back. His fingers gently pressed into your side as he spoke.

"Came to that conclusion all on your own?" You tried to bite back some of the venom, but it had been stewing inside of you all day.

"Darlin'," Jack sighed. "I- You know why I acted the way I did. I mean, I can't-"

You whipped around to cut him off. Everything that had festered inside of you had come to a head, and if you wanted to stick up for yourself, now was the time.

"I do know, Jack. I'm well aware of what's been lost. You know, she was my friend too. You weren't the only person who lost someone," you began. "I know what loss is. I've lost a lot of people, but I can still acknowledge that life goes on. You ignoring me and the pregnancy doesn't make her come back. Grief is a fickle bitch, but I'm still pregnant and it's still your kid." You poked Jack's chest as you spoke.

"I-"

"No, you're going to let me finish. If you don't want the baby, fine. I'll call my doctor and that will be the end of that. If you want to keep it, that's fine too. Stop comparing me to her. I'm not her. This baby isn't him. You can feel the sadness and grief, but what you won't do is ignore me." You took a long, deep breath before you spoke again.

"If you ever do that again, I'm gone. Don't try me."

Jack waited a beat, but you finally settled and crossed your arms over your chest. You gave him an expectant look. The ball was in his court now. He sighed and rubbed his jaw as he tried to collect his thoughts.

"That was wrong of me, and I'll be the first to admit it," Jack started. "It's also wrong of me to compare the two of you. The truth is I never thought we'd be here, havin' this conversation."

You raised an eyebrow, your hip cocked to the side.

"You never thought that there would be a chance at me getting knocked up? With how often we go at it, that's just delusional." You tried to refrain from the attitude, but once your feathers were ruffled, that was the end of that.

"We've taken the proper steps for precaution," Jack argued. His jaw tensed as you rolled your eyes.

"You ever taken a sex ed class? There's always a chance. Look, that's not what I'm getting at. I've tried to avoid the subject as long as possible, but there's no more waiting. There a fetus in me, and we need to decide how we're gonna handle this before it's too late."

Jack sighed as he leaned back against the island, his hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. You were right, as you had always been. How you saw right through him was beyond him, but then again, that's what he admired about you.

"I don't know if I can handle another loss," Jack admitted. "I can't lose you."

You huffed a bit, your hands curled up at your side.

"Stop trying to get me killed! It hurts, Jack. It hurts to think that you're prepared for my death, that I can't make it through and have this baby— to know that you've accepted my death before you could even think of the life we could have." You turned back to the meatballs, and grabbed a hunk of meat. It did not ease your aggravation, but the physical work was cathartic.

Jack was silent. Between the two of you, an old country song wafted through the air. If the circumstances had been different, you'd be drinking wine and laughing with him. You were sure the two of you would be—

Your thoughts halted as a hand wrapped around your waist. The meat was dropped and you wiped your hands, all before Jack tugged you away from the counter. His strong arms wrapped around you as he pulled you to his chest.

Even in the thick of a fight, Jack made you dance with him. The first time it happened, you were so bewildered that you just let it happen. Every time since, you let him apologize in his own way.

Jack held you as the two of you swayed to the music. He was a sucker for Jonny Cash, you had come to learn. Whether it was slow and sweet, or something with a quick pace, he had to hold you close and dance with you.

If I Were a Carpenter played through the speakers, Johnny and June bore witness as you let Jack take lead. The two of you were quiet, but the footwork seemed to say a lot. As angry and hurt as you were, he knew every move you'd make. He knew you as well as you knew him.

"Would you'd love me if I was a carpenter?" Jack's voice was soft. You had one arm around his neck, the other wrapped around his as he led you.

"I'd love you no matter what," you assured him. It was true, you loved him through and through.

"Even now?" Jack asked. "Through it all?"

You nodded without hesitation.

"Through it all, even if I want to strangle you."

Things would be fine, and you knew that. What Jack had to work through was beyond you and the baby. As badly as you wanted an answer right now, that wasn't going to happen. He had to think and piece it all together himself. It got under your skin, but you meant what you said.

You'd love him no matter what.

[idiopath-fic-smile]

any chance of something whump-like for IDOAG? (inspired by me being SO brave and working on a grant report until very late at night)

congrats on yr bravery!

(to review, this ficlet is out of gratitude for my pilot of a musical audio drama about a rock band that secretly solves monster-related problems reaching 30% of its funding goal. we're actually at over 50% right now and i have one prompt in the wings but i'll need another today, so if there's anything you want to see, throw me an ask!)

October

By the time he hits “Print” on the co-op computer in the common room, Grantaire’s vision is going softly gray at the edges, and his stomach roils at the thought of coffee or breakfast.

“Jesus Christ,” mutters Grantaire.

“What’s the matter?” says Jehan, materializing at Grantaire’s elbow. Well, probably Jehan had walked there; that sounds like something Jehan would do. Grantaire’s awareness is coming in ungainly lurches, like a poorly animated cartoon brontosaurus.

The printer chugs away, slowly spitting out the first page of the history essay Grantaire had started five hours ago. It is now 8 a.m. The paper is warm to the touch, in a way that makes Grantaire think of food again. His intestines clench.

“My dumbass body,” says Grantaire at last.

“Ah,” says Jehan. “When they figure out a way to download our consciousnesses into Terminator-style robots without physical weakness or flaw, I will be first in line.” A pause, and then, charitably, “You can be second, if you’d like.”

“Cool,” mutters Grantaire. He sways a little on the desk chair. The printer is only on page two.

“Hey, Jehan,” someone says. Grantaire swivels towards the door and immediately regrets it. His brain takes another few unsteady seconds to catch up with his body, and that’s when he sees Enjolras and Combeferre standing together, bright-eyed and perfect in the early morning light. They’re both wearing sweaters, and holding reusable coffee cups. They look like an advertisement for L.L. Bean, for the very concept of being a cute gay couple in Autumn. Grantaire feels like a bridge troll.

“Hey, Grantaire,” Combeferre adds. “Are you okay?”

The printer belches out what sounds like page three.

Last year, Grantaire had a system for writing papers like this. The system involved doing a shot for every page he finished. If he was really stuck, every paragraph. Obviously, this is not an option at Amis House, and so Grantaire had compromised, made sleep deprivation his drug of choice. It had seemed like a good idea at 3 a.m.—a phrase so forlorn it could be a country song, he thinks, scratching the back of his neck as the printer shudders and churns. He needs a shower.

“Why are printers absolute, uh, hot garbage?” he says out loud.

Enjolras opens his mouth, then closes it.

“I read an article about this,” says Combeferre. “The conclusions were complicated. I can send it to you?”

It’s such a perfectly kind and normal response, Grantaire could cry. He blinks hard. The printer finally regurgitates the final page of his essay.

“Yeah,” he manages, “sure, that would be great. Sorry, I’ve gotta run.”

Grantaire gathers the papers, checks to make sure they’re in the right order, and staples them together. Ka-chunk. The stapler is impossibly loud.

“There’s ginger tea bags in the kitchen,” Jehan offers quietly, and Grantaire nods because it’s easier than explaining that the problem isn’t his digestive system, it’s his entire being. He needs someone to wipe down the surface of his eyes, take a squeegee to his brain. He needs his soul dunked in warm sudsy water and then wrung out to dry. That would fix him, he thinks.

It’s too bad he’s not holding onto his thoughts very clearly, because he’s pretty sure there’s another country song in there somewhere. He snorts.

“I can make you some tea to go if you’d like,” says Combeferre, and it’s too much, it’s too warm, it’s too close to what Grantaire doesn’t even let himself think about wanting.

“That’s okay,” says Grantaire. “See you.” And he books it out of the room before he can get a glimpse of the pity on Combeferre’s handsome face.

[skullspinner]

MIS* YOU SO BAD

pairing . Yelena Belova x fem! oc synopsis . 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝗮 𝗸𝘂𝘇𝗻𝗲𝘁𝘀𝗼𝘃 and 𝘆𝗲𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗮 𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗮, are both alone. despite all they've faced and all they've done, they are alone. but maybe, a certain team can teach them that they don't have to be, and when two women who have never had agency over their life before, both make the choice to reach out for each other, something begins to grow between them.

warnings . valentina (i hate her so much, im sorry..), thunderbolts* spoilers, a lot of descriptive fighting, this is oc x canon, pretty long but most chapters will be relatively long, (let me know if i have to add more.)

notes . both writers are on this story! we're going to try to update this story regularly, so every 7-9 days. (hopefully). we haven't got super far, but we've had a lot of fun writing this au so far! also, chapter one is a lot of descriptive fighting and a lot of the canon events of the first part of thunderbolts, and it will be a lot of the canon events most likely up until chapter 3-4 or so. [THUNDERBOLTS* AU] divider credits: @bernardsbendystraws chapters: 1, 2, to be continued

　

. CHAPTER ⌗01 ！ ⋆ 　　　　　

❝ BROKEN BEGINNINGS : ANIMOSITY ❞ 3rd person!

જ⁀➴

　　　　　 　　　　　 　　　　　 　　　　　 　　　　　　　　　　

ANYA POV:

ANYA kneeled behind a supply crate, pressing her hand to her communication device, one she had proudly invented herself, which was purposely reminiscent of a star hair clip. When the comms switched on, she heard Valentina’s voice coming through the comms, as she read off her instructions in that aloof tone, with a hint of satiric, arrogant humor, Anya had come to recognize instantly

. "This facility-- or, vault, rather, holds all of O.X.E. Group's most important, sensitive assets. We've been informed that a man known as John Walker, has intended to break in, and… rob me."

Anya silently nodded, knowing she could not see her but processing the information, her head snapping in the direction of the door as she heard it open and saw John walking in. Target spotted. Task 1, completed. "I need you to go in, find him, and kill him. No interrogation necessary. In and out."

Anya silently pulled the hood on the back of her suit over her head, getting up and walking up to the door. She placed her hand on the security pad, a USB hidden inside her long leather fingerless gloves, plugged itself into the security pad, promptly overriding the systems, causing the door to slam open. Anya heard an sigh on the other side of the comms as Valentina added, "Had you give me a moment, I would have explained that your biometrics are already in the system, so you have access to everything here. You and your grand entrances…" causing Anya to scoff playfully. 　　　　　 　　　　　 　　　　　

YELENAS POV:

YELENA hid behind a rock, listening to Valentina's instructions, as she watched the figure of a woman, wearing some kind of suit, walking up to the door. "Intel's come in that a rogue operative with attributes perfectly tailored to rob me, is intending to… well, rob me."

Yelena tilted her head, watching the operative phase through the door. She assessed her surroundings for only a moment before cocking her gun and standing up, beginning to walk towards the entrance without a word. "I need you to find out, what she intends to steal. I'll add your biometrics to the system, you'll have full access." Valentina states in her usual austere tone, as Yelena walks through the door, her gun in her hands and readied at her side. "Once you assess what's being stolen, you have the go ahead to terminate on sight."

Yelena carefully enters the vault as the door closes behind her, her gun pointing infront of her as she stalks about carefully, before finding and entering an elevator. "And then no problem. You know, we can find you some good guy material."

"Its simple really. Its just one little target. And then you're done." Valentina states, her voice almost unnaturally impassive. As the elevator opens, Yelena readies her gun again, walking slowly towards the inside of the vault, which was seemingly full of crates, tables scattered with intel, cabinets full of files, boxes upon boxes, and other things she couldn't quite place before she walked in. The place felt uneasy to her, but then again in her like of work, uneasy was not an unfamiliar feeling.

As she walks in she looks around carefully, her eyes wandering to a very specific set of papers. She slowly walks forward, her hand hovering over the papers.

'Project Sentry.'

She noticed some small pictures and picked them up, one of them being a photo of what seemed to be a shadow, against a wall. But it looked strange. Unsettling to her, almost.

And then there was a picture, of what seemed to be multiple bodies, all in a row, covered in a white cloth. She hesitantly picked them up, along with the papers, and folded them before stuffing them in her pocket.

She continued to assess the room but before she could even, reach towards the table to pick her gun back up she heard a footstep, turning around to see a man in what seemed to be a uniform, black with red and white stripes, with only one, barely visible, star symbol on his chest. Walker. He pulled out his gun and Yelena swiftly grabbed a bulletproof briefcase, shielding her face with it, causing her to stumble back.

John tossed aside his gun, and Yelena threw the case at him, but he just hit it away with his shield, continuing to move closer. This gave Yelena a second to pull out her gun, and she quickly fired off multiple rounds, aiming for his face, but he used his shield to deflect them, before kicking her gun out of her hands, then turning and trying to kick her. What the fuck was even happening right now?

She swiftly dodged, attempting to throw a punch, but he grabbed her arm, pulling her closer to him. She elbows him in the head twice, before slamming him to the ground, and knocking his shield out of his hands but he lands a kick that sends her flying across the room, knocking her into a pile of boxes, which topples over behind her. She quickly tries to sit up, looking up at him in confusion. "What is happening--"

He quickly jumps up onto his feet, as she stumbles to hers, approaching her with a dagger in hand. She tries to throw a punch first which he intercepts with his shield, before hitting her in the gut with it and using it to throw her over his shoulder, causing her to let out a groan as she had the wind knocked out of her once again. She quickly bounces back, wrapping her arm around his shoulder and wrapping her legs around his midriff, getting on his back.

She grabbed his hand which held the dagger, forcing it towards him. "You're not even my target!" She said, her voice strained as she struggled against his wrist. "Well, you're mine!"

Oh.

She knocks the dagger out of his hands, getting off his back and grabbing it before turning on her knees, and swinging, just barely missing him. She tries to stab him underhand this time but he grabs her arm, and she kicks his ankle getting him to let go of her, which causes her to stumble forward and she quickly turns around and swings again, but his shield is in the way, and he manages to grab onto her forearm, before once again flinging her across the room, causing her to stumble into another pile of boxes.

How many times was he gonna fucking swing her around? She just needed to get her target, and get out. She tried to get up as she heard him walking closer but she was having a temporary phrenospasm.

She slowly managed to get up into a kneeling position, as John walked closer, but just before he got close enough to attack her, some rushed out of the shadows, seemingly some tech in her boots, causing her to move faster than Yelena had seen anyone move before, what sounded almost like some type of tech powering up sounded in the room, ringing out before the woman delivered a kick to Johns chin that sent him flying instead of her for once, knocking over a table with some papers, and tumbling right over top of it.

She looked up at the woman, unsure of what to think. She had never seen her before.

She was wearing some kind of white suit, with blue light streaks down her arms and legs, some type of utility belt, with guns and daggers, and a star clip in her hair? It was barely visible because the hood on the back of her suit up, covering it.

Her hair was covering her eyes but she seemed to have some type of scar all down her neck, where her suit didn't cover. She had long white gloves that also had blue light streaks down them, like her boots. Maybe it was some type of tech enhancement? But what got her was the symbol on her belt. A blue, widow symbol. Eventually she turned to Yelena who was unable to see her eyes. Yelena quickly stumbled to get into an upright position, grabbing her baton, but the girl just murmured, "I'm not here for you." In a tone that seemed all too familiar, with a thick Russian accent she swore she knew. John got onto his feet and started to approach the woman, his shield in hand. She rushed forward, pressing something on her wrist which seemed to be attached to her gloves, a grappling hook shooting out of the mechanism on her wrist, and wrapping around walkers arm, which she quickly used to pull him closer, closing the distance between them, before delivering another kick to his face, that sent him to the ground.

She quickly pulled her gun from her holster on her hip, firing off multiple rounds, but he quickly picked up his shield holding it infront of his chest to shield himself. Eventually, John managed to get to his feet, throwing his shield in her direction but she just caught it and threw it back at him, the sound of it hitting the wall resounding in the room. John quickly tried to stumble towards it as the woman grabbed her gun, but right as her finger began to push down the trigger, another woman came up behind her, smacking her in the back of the neck, perfectly hitting a nerve that caused her to fall to her knees. The person who hit her, Yelena knew her. Antonia. Taskmaster. What the fuck was happening. The woman got up to her feet, but before she could turn around Antonia, smashed her shield into the back of her neck sending her back to the ground. John tried to rush forward and the woman got up, grabbing him first, and wrapping her legs around his midriff, before rolling forward throwing him to the ground, swiftly pulling her gun out, but before she could press the trigger Antonia kicked the gun out of her hands. What the fuck had she gotten herself into. She continued to watch them until finally, her target phased into the room, her white mask over her face, everyone standing up and stumbling to their feet, ready to fight the woman who had come in. Ghost. "There you are." "Now what." Walker flippantly, his voice holding a particular arrogance that seemed to piss everyone in the room off. "Oh, get over yourself" Ava said, and even though nobody could see her face, the eyeroll was evident in her face. She ran towards Walker, who readied his shield, going to strike her across the head but she phased right through him, reappearing in front of Antonia, and punching her directly in the ribs, sending her flying backwards. Yelena turned towards her, shooting one of her Widow Bites, but Ava disappeared allowing it to pass right through her, wrapping around Johns shoulder blade, causing him to double over, clutching at it and trying to rip the device off him, only worsening the effects of the electrocution.

This gave Ava time to rush forward again, right hooking Antonia, who hit her fist away with her shield. Ava went to throw another punch, but the unknown woman, kicked her feet out from under her causing her to fall to the floor, before the woman grabbed the shield from Antonia's hands, and smashed it across her head.

Ava got to her feet, but Yelena quickly ran towards, her pushing her to the ground, and grabbing her baton, raising it but before she could bring it down on Ava's face, she phased out from beneath her, before kicking her in the head, causing Yelena to fall on her knees once again, dropping the baton in her hand. "Stay out of my way."

Walker, finally getting the device off of him, stood up.

Antonia quickly drew her bow, firing off an arrow, which exploded upon contact with Johns shield. He quickly pulled out his gun, firing multiple shots at Antonia. Eventually, being fed up he threw his shield at her which she dodged, sliding under a table, but she was quickly grabbed by Ava who shoved her against a wall, punching her multiple times.

John turned his attention back to Yelena, and she hid behind a table, but he just threw his shield which knocked it out of the way, and it flew backwards, but what nobody noticed, was it hitting a containment module, which began to open. Yelena quickly hid behind a crate, as John fired off shots, slowly walking closer to her before the woman Yelena couldn't place, shot him in the back with a... Widow Bite? Causing Walker to stumble to the ground once again. Eventually Ava stumbled into Yelena's line of vision, and she pulled out a dagger, throwing it directly at Ava, who disappeared just in time, catching it before throwing it to Antonia, who deflected it, and John then caught it, rushing forward and knocking the crate out of the way with his shield, trying to stab her with it but she quickly put her wrists together, using her Widow Bites to send shocks through his body.

Antonia and Ava continued to fight, before Antonia used her shield to knock her away, sending her across the room, before pulling her blade off her back, and walking towards that unfamiliar woman, before Ava appeared in front of her, shooting her in the head, causing Antonia to crumple to the ground. Yelena and the woman turned their heads, Yelena's eyes blown wide as she saw Antonia on the ground.

Ava pressed two fingers to the side of her head, putting down her helmet, looking down at Antonia, she opened her mouth to speak but before she could, a sound came from the left corner of the room. Almost like a wretch. Everyone's eyes darted towards it as they swiftly, got to their feet and pulled out their guns, aiming towards each other.

Suddenly something slammed open, and they looked back to the corner, pointing there guns to where the sound came from earlier, only to see a... man? He crawled out of some sort of capsule, and had what looked to be some sort of pajamas on. When he looked in their direction his eyes locked on the dead body. He stared wide eyed, just barely managing to stammer out a few words. "Is she... Is she really dead-- That's--"

"Oh. Oh no--" As he seemingly realized the severity of the situation he was in, he stumbled to his feet, rushing for the door, which promptly shut in his face. All of the other doors around the room slamming shut as well. The man, eventually hesitantly stepped forward, causing everyone to point his guns at him, and he quickly put his hands up in surrender. "Hey, oh woah-- No-- Hi. Hi." He managed to choke out nervously, everyone staring at him in confusion. "I-- I'm Bob."

What. The. Fu--

A/N: we will eventually be cross-posting this story on ao3, and possibly wattpad! (I dont use wattpad really, but I'll try. </3) this was almost sort of the prologue to the fic but this felt too long to be a prologue. - Writer 1 [ WRITERS ON THIS CHAPTER: WRITER 1 ]