#it's about how i hate this place and i love this place and i need to leave and i never want to be anywhere else

[maudie-duan]

Summary: "It was everything, all at once, it was you, it was him, it was the broken girl inside you, crying to be healed, to be wanted, to be needed, to be loved, because you wanted to be loved, you wanted to be seen, you wanted someone to love you the way you deserved. You had always had so much love to give, but no one who could reciprocate, the world always taking, but never giving back."

Word Count: 11.6k

A/N: Plus-sized!reader x Trainerry based on this request <- To the Anon that requested this. I hope it's everything you wanted and more. I really had to pull at some feels for this one. Thanks you so much for this!!

Warning: Angsty self-hate with a happy ending, and a mild sweet smut scene at the end that you can skip if that's not your cup of tea. (Heavy themes centered around hatred of body-image/body shaming. All self-induced)

It wasn’t that you wanted to change yourself entirely. You just wanted to be able to look into the mirror and, for once, like what you saw. It wasn’t a size or a number you were after, you wanted the peace of mind, the relief, the weight of the stigma lifted for more than just the occasional, oh yeah, I look good kind of moments.

 Because let’s face it, we all know those moments were fleeting, but what if you could feel it for longer? What if your eyes could roam over your body, and maybe, just maybe, you could spend less time picking yourself apart. What if you could try on those jeans and this time they fit just perfectly—none of the excruciating cut of the waist digging into your belly while you sat, or the fear of not even being able to button them in the first place. 

You wanted freedom, you wanted joy, you wanted less days of the mental prison that your brain held you in every time you looked into the mirror, or binged on that food you knew you should avoid. That was what this would be, the journey you were ready to embark on—a journey to confidence, a journey to loving yourself, a journey back to you. These were the words you were filling your head with, the prep talk you had given yourself that morning as you got ready, and now that shit was laughable, you thought as you walked through the gym doors, eyes already darting around as a gust of cool air spread over your bare arms. 

This was the part you hated, the part you were dreading. It hadn’t even been two seconds and you were already tugging at the hem of your oversized tee, your gaze scanning over bodies in motion, most fit as fuck, some laughing and moving about, some focused forward in the zone, their eye on a prize that felt out of your reach, bending and flexing with an effortless ease you couldn’t even wrap your mind around, let alone even conceive the amount of energy you knew went into making each rep look like a walk in the park.

And now you felt crazy, because you were signing yourself up willingly, putting yourself out there for what? To fail? To be judged?

Was this really what you wanted? Did you really hate yourself this much? Was this even considered hate, or was this self-love? Because suddenly, the line was becoming blurred, and here you stood, waiting by the front desk on full display, following the instructions given via email, because you were too weirded out to set up everything in person. Hell, you didn’t even know where the bathroom was. It wasn’t like you could disappear until you were ready.

So maybe you couldn’t run and hide, but you could hide behind your phone, and wait for your trainer, god, what was his name again? Henry? Harris? Fuck, how could you be blanking, and as you took to searching for your welcome email, a deep voice sounded through your frantic thoughts:

“Hey there! ” a cheerful voice called out.

That’s when you turned to see a tall figure approaching you, his bright smile lighting up the room as he ran a hand through his tousled dark hair, green eyes reflecting the light, and holy shit, that physique, that body screamed fitness. And as you peered over your shoulder to see if he was signaling for someone else, your heart skipped a beat, cheeks flushing, because there was no way in hell this dude was going to be your trainer.

“Oh… were you talking to me?” you stammered, trying to maintain eye contact but failing miserably, hands already fidgeting with the him of your shirt.

“Yes, you have a training session at 9, correct?” he asked, extending his hand. His grip was firm yet gentle, and you felt a jolt of electricity the second your hands collided. “I’m Harry, it’s really nice to meet you. I can’t wait to help you on this journey.���

“Thanks,” you replied, trying not to drool over his British accent as your voice came out small. Your palms were sweaty, and you quickly wiped them on your pants, hoping he didn’t notice.

“So, what are your fitness goals?” Harry asked, his tone encouraging and friendly, and just by the way he was making eye contact, you could tell that he was genuinely curious, like it wasn’t just his job to know.

For a second, you hesitated, your mind racing. You had so many thoughts swirling around this very question. What was it that you wanted again? To lose weight? Feel healthier? Gain some kind of confidence? But the words felt stuck in your throat, your mind going blank as you said, “Um, I just want to… you know, get in shape and feel better about myself,” you finally managed to say, your voice trembling slightly.

Harry nodded, his expression holding a warmth you weren’t expecting, maybe an understanding, like he knew exactly what you meant to say, a sort of grace given that sent a flutter to the pit of your stomach.“That’s a great start! Remember, it’s all about progress, not perfection. I’d love to work together to set some goals that suit you and your lifestyle. I’m all about sustainability for the long-term, not the instantaneous results that rarely last long.”

And even though his words sent a flicker of hope through you. You could feel the self-doubt trying to creep back in. “I’m not really sure about all this,” you admitted, eyes moving around the room. “I’ve never been good at working out, and honestly, this place isn’t really my vibe. Like a place I feel like I belong... I guess.”

Yet as you said the words, Harry’s smile never wavered. “I get it. Change is always a little uncomfy at first, but you know everyone starts somewhere. The important thing is that you’re here, ready to take that first step, and as cheesy as it sounds, I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

For a moment, you looked at him, holding his gaze, and that’s when the nervousness seemed to fade. There was something about his confidence and the kindness he exuded that was infectious, and you felt a small spark of determination ignite within you. “Okay…” You breathed.

“I’ll try my best, but I can’t promise you anything,” you told him with a small smile, feeling a bit more resolute, like yeah, maybe you could actually do this, like there was hope for the self-loathing bitch within you, because fuck her, she couldn’t have it all, you deserved a little light, some time away from the shadows of your self that kept stealing tiny moments of joy you could never get back. 

At some point, you had to live, right?

“That’s the spirit!” Harry answered, his enthusiasm making your smile grow despite the lingering insecurities. “Shall we get started?”

And as he led you deeper into the gym, you couldn’t shake that feeling of awe, that mix of anxiety threatening the surface. You were about to do it, finally take that leap, about to be trained by this gorgeous guy, and while the thought made your heart race for maybe all the wrong reasons, you also felt a sense of possibility, like maybe, just maybe, this could be the beginning of something great, something to make you feel alive again. 

But it’s crazy how quickly excitement can fade.

The first week was pure torture, and the second week was no better. You wanted to quit, but you didn’t know what you wanted.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? You had walked through those gym doors with all these grand ideas about transformation, about becoming someone new, but now, three weeks in, you were just as sweaty, still a breathless mess who couldn’t even do a proper squat without Harry having to adjust your form for the millionth time. 

And god, those hands, always professional without a doubt, but there was something about the way they would ghost over your shoulders, the way they corrected your posture, or lightly pressed against your lower back to guide you, that had your skin burning from everything but the workout.

“Let’s try something different,” Harry said, and you could hear that patient tone, the one that never made you feel like the failure you knew you were. 

He grabbed a bench, positioning it behind you. “…Seated squats. They’re gentler on the knees, and the bonus is they’ll help you build the strength for the full movement.”

Your first instinct was to prove yourself, to convince him you were able to do a full fucking squat like every other person in this gym, but somehow the words died in your throat when you caught sight of yourself in the mirror—red-faced, sweat pooling in places you didn’t want to think about, your oversized shirt clinging to rolls you had been spending years trying to hide, and lets not even get started on your arms, fucking hell, your arms felt like they were made of jello, wobbling with each movement. Not to mention your thighs had already been chafing with every step, that familiar burn a reminder of exactly why you had been avoiding this place for years.

It was torture, pure fucking torture, but you sat anyway.

“Hey,” Harry called out, pulling you from your thoughts, and suddenly he was in front of you, those green eyes level with yours as he crouched down. “Where’d you go just then?”

“Nowhere… I’m fine,” you lied, because what were you supposed to say? That you were having a mental breakdown over a squat? That you could feel every pair of eyes in the gym judging the “chubby girl” who couldn’t even do basic exercises?

But Harry just nodded, like he knew exactly what you weren’t saying. “Right then, seated squats it is. And after that, we’ll work on some upper body stuff. Sound good?”—The thing about Harry was that he never seemed to push when you shut down. His superpower was to redirect, adapt, and move on to something else, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. 

Never an ounce of judgment.

You had noticed other things too, in these first three weeks—like how sometimes he shifted his weight to his left side during demonstrations, or how he would choose specific exercises over others without explanation. Once, when he was showing you how to do lunges, he distinctly favored his right leg, the change so evident that you almost asked about it, but something in his expression had stopped you.

One day, near the end of week three, the gym’s usual crowd of fitness models decided to make their appearance. You had recognized them by now, you know the type, the group of women who looked like they just stepped out of a Lululemon catalog, all tight abs and perfect ponytails, not a jiggle in sight. They were hard to miss, and even more apparent the way they gravitated toward Harry like moths to a flame, and why wouldn’t they? He was gorgeous, British, and had the kind of body that made you wonder what he looked like without a single scrap of clothing.

And these were the kind of thoughts that you had to shake from your head, because you didn’t want to go there.

Not when he was that close.

“Harry!” one of them shouted, her outfit like a latex glove, leaving little to the imagination as she bounded over. “Could you check my form on these hip thrusts?”

And fuck, you would have laughed if you weren’t trying to make yourself invisible, focusing on your water bottle like it held the secrets of the universe, but you couldn’t help watch them from the corner of your eye. Harry glanced at his watch and then back at the woman.

“Sorry, Melissa, I’m with a client right now,” he said, and was it your imagination or did he step slightly closer to you? “Maybe check with Tom at the front desk about booking a session.”

That was when the woman’s eyes flicked to you, and you could practically feel the onset of her assessment, knew the exact look she was giving, that up-and-down glance that was cataloguing every flaw, every roll, every reason you didn’t belong here. But Harry had already turned back to you, already demonstrating the next exercise like the interaction hadn’t even happened.

“Right, so for this one, you’ll want to keep your core engaged to protect your low back,” he was saying, but all you could think about was how he had just dismissed her, how he had chosen to stay focused on you when he could have just as easily given her five minutes of attention, and you chalked it up to professionalism without a second thought. He was getting paid to train you, after all.

This was his job.

But then why did your stupid heart skip when he smiled at you after you completed your set?

Week four started like any other, except it felt harder as you dragged yourself through the gym doors, already anticipating the torture ahead. You felt like shit... not good at all, more like death had warmed over you. Even though your body was starting to recognize the routine, your brain was still screaming at you to run every time you saw the weight rack.

“Morning!” Harry called out, and damn him for always being so cheerful at 9 in the morning. “How’re you feeling? Any soreness from last session?”

“Just my entire body,” you groaned, but there was less bite to it than before. “Who knew your ass muscles could be this sore.”

He laughed, that genuine sound that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Well, that means you’re doing it right, and that’s a win, ay? Today we’re going to work on some balance exercises, really activate those stabilizer muscles.”

You were halfway through a set of single-leg stands, wobbling like a baby giraffe and cursing Harry’s name in your mind when it happened. It was quick, you losing your balance—again—and you stumbled backward, your elbow connecting with Harry’s leg as he moved to steady you, and out of nowhere, he made a sharp, pained, involuntary sound that made your blood run cold.

“Oh my god, I’m so, so sorry!” and when you whirled around, he was gripping his knee, face tight with a pain that looked too familiar to be from your clumsy elbow. “Harry, I—”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, but his voice was strained, and he was still holding his knee like it might shatter if he let go. “Just an old injury acting up. Nothing to do with you. I promise…”

But you had seen that kind of pain before, in your own mirror when your body would decide to remind you of all the ways it had been pushed too far. “Sit down,” you tell him, taking charge of the situation, surprising even yourself in the process. “Seriously, sit.”

For a second, he looked like he might protest, but something in your expression must have convinced him because he lowered himself onto the nearest bench, still favoring that right knee. The gym suddenly felt too quiet, too exposed, and without thinking, you positioned yourself between him and the rest of the room, like you could shield him from all the curious glances.

“It’s an old football injury,” he said finally, the words coming out reluctant, like he was still trying to hold them back. “Soccer… I mean—sorry, I know you Americans call it soccer. Tore my ACL completely about six years ago. Had surgery, did all the physio, but...” He shrugged, a gesture that looked too casual for the weight of what he was sharing. “Sometimes bodies don’t heal the way they’re supposed to.”

Startled by his words, you stared at him, this perfect-looking trainer with his perfect-looking body, and it was like something shifted inside your chest. “But you’re... you’re a trainer. I always pictured you all so—”

“Perfect?” He finished, looking up at you with a wry smile. “Yeah… that’s what everyone thinks. But the truth is, I can’t even run anymore. Can barely kick a ball without my knee giving out. Gosh, some days I wake up and have to spend like twenty minutes just trying to convince my knee to work properly.”

The words seemed to linger, weighted with an openness you hadn’t expected. Here was Harry, this beautiful, confident man, admitting to being broken, and somehow it finally made him real in a way that his encouraging words, or the professional distance he kept, never had, and that seemed to scare you.

“Is that why you became a trainer?” you asked, settling onto the bench beside him, your workout forgotten. “Because of the injury?”

He nodded, absently rubbing his knee. “Yeah… I guess in a way…I couldn’t play anymore, but I couldn’t stay away from fitness entirely… it was kind of my life, so I started learning about adaptive training, about working with bodies that don’t fit the typical mold. Turns out I’m better at helping people find their own path than I ever was at following mine.”

In that moment you wanted to say something, wanted to match the encouragement of his words, but all that came out was, “Well, that feels really fucking unfair.”

He laughed, surprised, but sincere. “Yeah, it really fucking is.”

And just like that, something changed. That professional distance he had been maintaining cracked just a little, and you saw him, not Harry the trainer, but Harry the person, a man who had his dreams ripped from under his feet, but still learned how to build new ones from the scraps.

“I should probably tell you,” he said, his voice lighter now, “this is why I modify so many exercises. It’s not just for you—half of them I can’t do the ‘proper’ way anymore. Those seated squats? I do them on my bad days, oh, and those knee-friendly lunges? Learned those during my physio.”

And fuck, there it was beating at your insides, that crush, that you had been desperately trying to ignore, suddenly felt less like a schoolgirl fantasy and more like... god dare you say it… Something else. Something deeper. Because now, when you looked at him, you didn’t just see the attractive trainer who was nice to the “fat girl”. You saw someone who maybe understood you more than you knew, who probably knew your body better, knew all the ways it betrayed you, the frustration of every limitation, and the slow, painful process of finding acceptance.

“Thank you,” you breathed, really wanting him to know you meant it. “For telling me.”

He stood to his feet then, eyes sweeping over your face, before offering you a hand up. “Come on, let’s finish your session. But maybe we’ll skip the jumping jacks today, yeah? My knee’s not the only one that needs babying.”

After that day, everything shifted, not just in your mind. Harry, of course, still maintained his professionalism, but there was a warmth now, an understanding that hadn’t existed before. Your workouts became less about pushing through pain and more about finding what worked for your body—and his.

“See, the thing about traditional training,” he explained during week five, while demonstrating a modified plank that didn’t make your wrists scream, “is that it assumes everyone’s working with the same equipment. But we’re not, are we? You’ve got your challenges, I’ve got mine… but the trick is finding what works for us.”

Us… 

And, damn it was such a small word, but boy did it seem to carry weight.

That’s when you started noticing more things, like how he would ice his knee between clients, or how he would shift positions during longer demonstrations, or how his jaw would tighten on particularly bad days. But you also noticed how he never let it stop him, how he moved through it, and adapted his entire life around this limitation without a trace of self-pity.

So why couldn’t you?

“After my surgery,” he told you one day while you struggled through a stupid resistance band exercise, “I spent months being angry. Angry at my body, at the universe… I guess at everyone… everyone who could still do what I couldn’t. It took me a long time to realize that anger was just fear wearing a different face.”

“Fear of what?” you asked, breathless from exertion but curious nonetheless.

“Fear that I’d never be enough again. That, without soccer, without that, I guess that identity, I was just... nothing.” He told you, adjusting your form gently, his hands warm through your shirt. “Sound familiar?”

He had you there; it was all too familiar. Because wasn’t that exactly what you felt every time you looked in the mirror? That without the body you thought you should have, you were somehow less than? And the parallel hit you like a ton of bricks, because was this not him basically telling you that he understood, that he had been where you were, just in a different way—that maybe not all trauma was the same, but it still hurt, even when the two weren’t comparable.

“So what changed?” you asked during a water break, after you finally digested the realization, watching him absently massage his knee.

“Perspective,” he said simply. “Started focusing on what my body could do instead of what it couldn’t. Yeah, I can’t play soccer anymore, but I can help people like you find their strength. That’s not nothing, is it?”

People like you… And maybe the phrase should have stung, but the way he said it, with such an honest warmth, made it feel more like a compliment.

“You know what I love about training you?” he asked suddenly, and your heart did a stupid flutter in your chest. “You’re honest. You don’t pretend like it’s easy or fun. You show up even when you hate it. Do you know how rare that is?”

This makes you laugh, wiping sweat from your face with a towel. “Yeah, I’m a real inspiration... The girl who nearly cried doing wall sits yesterday.”

“Maybe… but you still finished them, though,” he pointed out. “That’s what matters. Not how pretty it looks or how easy it is. Just that you don’t give up.”

With perfect timing, the gym hotties made another appearance, a new group this time, but technically the same, all giggling and hair-tossing as they tried to catch Harry’s attention. One of them even “accidentally” dropped her water bottle right by where he was spotting your chest press, and for a second you held your breath, waiting for him to look, to give them the attention they were so desperate for, but he just kicked the bottle gently out of the way and kept his focus on you.

“That’s it, three more,” he encouraged, and maybe it was your imagination, but his voice seemed a little louder than necessary, like he was making a point. “You’ve got this.”

Later, as you were packing up your things, you overheard one of them complaining to her friend: 

“He’s always with that girl. Like, what’s the deal? Is she paying him extra or something?”

It was one of those times you wished you could roll it off, but the words pricked at your skin, and before you could spiral into self-loathing, Harry appeared at your elbow. “Ready for the cool-down stretches?” he asked, and his hand touched your lower back, guiding you away from the women who were still whispering their gossip. 

“I’ve got a new routine I want to try—it’s specifically designed for people with knee issues, but I think it’ll help with your hip flexibility too.”

People with knee issues. 

Like him, like you, like your fucking body that creaked and fought you at every turn, but now what was once a negative connotation had shifted, had become a positive acknowledgment, a thing you both shared. All the modified movements, the limitations, yes, they were real, but gone was the judgment, and the monster you could make of them.

By week six, you had developed a routine. You still hated mornings, still wanted to die during cardio, but there was something else now, a sense of anticipation. Not for the workout itself, god no, but for the hour you got to spend with Harry. 

A growing anticipation for the way he would light up when you managed something you couldn’t do the week before. All the terrible jokes he would tell to distract you during the dreadful planks. The way he would casually touch your arm or back—always appropriate, always professional, but still, there was something that made your skin tingle, a curious wonder that had your mind reeling.

“You’re getting stronger,” he told you one morning, watching as you completed a set of squats—real ones this time, not the shitty seated ones. “Can you feel it?”

And honestly, you could. Not just in your muscles, but in the way you carried yourself. You still had times when you tugged at your shirt, still felt your thighs rub together, but it was different now. Maybe less shameful, more just... fact. Your body was what it was, but it was capable of more than you thought.

“My knee’s been acting up this week,” Harry had admitted during a demonstration of a new exercise. Mentally, you had already noticed that it was less fluid than usual, but you didn’t say anything. 

He cleared his throat, trying to hide the wince of pain, “Probably the weather change. But look—” Then, he showed you how to modify the movement, turning what should have been a jumping exercise into a step-touch pattern. “Same muscle activation, less impact. All of this to say we work with what we’ve got, yeah?”

We…

And there was something in the way he said it, like he was trying to bind you both together through all the tiny imperfections. That’s when you found yourself, starting to stay a few minutes after your sessions, helping him reset equipment or just chatting while he iced his knee. It was during one of these moments that he opened up a little more about his injury.

“The thing is… the pain wasn’t even the worst part…” he said, pressing a bag of ice into his finicky knee. “It was watching my mates continue on without me. I mean, of course, they would visit the hospital, tell me about matches, and I was grateful… really I was… and I would smile and nod, hit all my marks… but the truth was I was dying inside… Took me years to be able to watch soccer again without feeling bitter.”

“Do you still feel bitter?” you asked, organizing dumbbells to avoid looking at him directly.

“Sometimes,” he confessed. “On bad days, when my knee won’t cooperate and I see people running without thinking twice about it... Yeah, it stings. But then I remember that without this—” he gestured to his knee, “—I’d never have become a trainer. Never have met the people I’ve helped. Never have...” He paused, and when you looked up, he was staring at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read. “…Never have met you...”

You couldn’t help the heat creeping up your neck, your face burning with it, and like an idiot, you fumbled the dumbbell you were holding, completely giving yourself away. “I’m sure you say that to all your clients,” you muttered, trying to keep your voice from wobbling, but he shook his head.

“No,” he said simply. “I don’t.”

And as his words settled, the world around you seemed to pivot, the air now filling your lungs, charged with something that felt dangerously close to desire, but then someone dropped a weight plate across the gym with a thunderous clang, and the spell was broken, but you held onto that moment for as long as you could, because you felt it, felt the need beginning to ache in your bones.

But the one question that would always remain was:

Could he ever want a girl like me?

Week seven was when you nearly quit. It had been a bad week all around—work stress, family drama, and your fucking period decided to show up with a vengeance. You had barely slept, your body hurt in ways that had nothing to do with exercise, and the last thing you wanted was to squeeze into workout clothes and pretend like everything was fine, when it wasn’t.

“I’m sorry… But I don’t think I can do this today,” you told Harry the moment you walked in, not even bothering with a greeting. “I just... I can’t.” And there was shame in the way the words came out, like maybe this was your true self after all, and the rest was just an act.

He took one look at you, like, really looked at you. Not the quick bullshit assessment most people did, and nodded. “Okay. Tell me what you need?”

And his words nearly blindsided you. It wasn’t the “you have to push through” or “you’ll feel better after.” It was just a simple acceptance of where you were at, and you stood there trying to gather your words, feeling the burn at the back of your throat. 

“I don’t know,” you forced, feeling tears prick at your eyes. “I’m honestly so exhausted and everything hurts, and I looked in the mirror this morning… I don’t know… it’s just been a shitty week, and I’m just not sure what the point is anymore, and—”

“Hey,” he gently interrupts, steering you toward a quieter corner of the gym. “Breathe for me, yeah? Just breathe.”

And you did, gulping in air like you were drowning, and maybe it was his hand on your low back, but gradually the panic receded just enough for embarrassment to creep in. “Sorry. I’m being dramatic.”

“You’re just being human,” he corrected. “We all have these days. Hell, I had one last week—woke up and my knee was so stiff I could barely make it down the stairs. Wanted to throw things, and cry, and give up. You know what I did instead?”

“What?”

“Called in sick and spent the day on the couch watching terrible reality TV and eating biscuits.” Your brows shot up, and he grinned. “What? You thought I was going to say I powered through with positive thinking? Fuck that. Sometimes you need to just feel what you’re feeling.”

You felt overwhelmed. His answer was so unexpected, so honest, that you found yourself laughing despite the tears. “So what should I do?” You asked, wiping at your eyes.

“Today? If you want to stay, we can modify everything. Gentle movement only, nothing that makes you want to die. We can do some stretching, maybe some light resistance work if you’re up for it. And if at any point you need to stop, we stop. No judgment, no pushing. Just listening to what your body needs.”

And thank the heavens up above, because it was by far the easiest session you had ever had, physically speaking. But emotionally? God, emotionally, it was everything. Harry had adapted every single movement to match your energy level, never once making you feel weak or pathetic for needing the modifications. Everything was intuitive, even when the gym hotties walked by and gave you pitying looks, he shifted positions to block their view, talking louder about muscle groups to draw your attention away.

“You showed up,” he said at the end, as you were doing your final stretches. “On a day when everything in you said to stay home, you showed up. That’s a huge win.”

“It feels like nothing,” you muttered, but he shook his head.

“Six weeks ago, would you have come in feeling like this?”

And as you gazed into his green eyes, you thought about it. Six weeks ago, you would have used any excuse to avoid the gym. “No… I would have stayed home.”

“Then that’s progress. Not all progress looks like smaller jeans or bigger muscles. Sometimes it looks like showing up when you don’t want to.” His hand rested on your shoulder, warm and steady. “I’m proud of you.”

His words seemed to hit you harder than any physical exercise could ever touch the surface. When was the last time someone had said that to you? When was the last time you had given someone a reason to?

By week eight, something fundamental inside you had changed. Not just in your body, though you had to admit, you were feeling stronger, more capable, but in how you existed in your skin. You still had all the same insecurities, all the same soft places and jiggly bits, but they felt less like failures now and more like... just parts of you.

Which is why, when you got dressed that morning, you reached for the new workout outfit you had bought on impulse—fitted leggings and a tank top—there would be no hiding behind excess fabric, not today. Of course, your reflection still showed everything you usually hated—the belly that refused to lie flat, the arms that continued their gentle wobble, the thighs that would always touch. But for once, you didn’t want to reach for the oversized shirt.

“Fuck it,” you told your reflection. “Let’s see what happens.”

And what happened was Harry nearly dropped his water bottle when you walked in.

“You look—” He caught himself, his professionalism snapping back into place like a rubber band. “That’s a great color on you… It really brightens up your complexion.”

And try all he wanted, but you had seen that first reaction, the way his eyes had widened, tracked over your curves before he could even remember himself. It sent a thrill through you, gave you a sense of power that had you on cloud nine.

“Thanks,” you said, trying to sound casual even as your heart hammered. “Figured I would switch things up a bit…”

“Yeah… It’s a nice change for sure,” he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made you look at him. I mean, really take in his expression, because it said it all. “Just... for what it’s worth, you should wear whatever makes you comfortable. But this—” He gestured vaguely, carefully not looking directly at your body. “This confidence suits you.”

He had you soaring, and the workout that followed ignited a new kind of tension growing between you. Harry had always been hands-on with corrections, but now each touch felt loaded with a new possibility. When he adjusted your hip position during bridges, his fingers seemed to linger a beat too long, and fuck, when he spotted your chest press, he stood closer than strictly necessary. And when he demonstrated proper form for a new exercise, you caught him glancing at you in the mirror, checking if you were watching.

You were. You always were.

“You know,” he said during a water break, his own face flushed from a particularly intense movement, “I’ve been training people for five years, and I’ve never seen someone transform the way you have.”

“I haven’t really transformed, though,” you told him, gesturing at yourself. “I mean, I’m maybe a size smaller? If that?”

“That’s not what I mean.” Then he sat on the bench beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. “When you first walked in, you looked like you wanted to disappear. Moved like you were apologizing for taking up space. Now look at you—wearing what you want, taking up all the space you need, moving like you have a right to be here. Because you do.”

The sincerity in his voice made your throat tight. “It’s because of you,” you said quietly. “The way you teach, the way you... see me. Not as a project to fix, but as a person. Like I don’t have to fit into the mold I thought I did.”

“Fuck the mold. It’s boring,” he said, and his hand covered yours on the bench, just for a second. “Lifes too short to try and keep up with all the bullshit.”

That was when the gym hotties chose that moment to make their appearance, a trio of them this time, chest high, all sports bras a size too small, stretched across their fucking boobs with an obvious intention. You watched as the tallest one made a beeline for Harry, her trajectory as clear as a heat-seeking missile.

“Harry! I was hoping you could show me that lunge from the other day during our session… it seems to have totally slipped my mind.”

“I’m with a client, Bridgette,” Harry said, not even looking at her. His hand had left yours, but he shifted closer, his knee touching yours. “Like I tell the others, you can book a session at the front desk if you need personal instruction.”

Bridgette’s eyes flicked between you and Harry, taking in the minimal space between you, the way Harry’s body was angled toward yours like a plant seeking sun. “Right. Sure. I’ll do that.”

And just as she was about to turn to leave, she says, “Oh… and it’s Courtney, by the way…” then she stalks off, and you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. 

“You know, I think they’re all convinced I’m either paying you extra or sleeping with you.”

Harry’s amused expression fell. “Have they been saying things to you?”

“No… no more than I expected,” you confessed. “You know how it is.. heaven forbid the chubby girl get any personal attention from the hot trainer? It’s probably not realistic in their world… and I guess in mine either… but of course, they’re going to talk.”

“You’re not—” He stopped, jaw clenched, and when he continued, his voice held a careful control. “First of all, I don’t think your chubby… if that’s what you want to call it… so fuck them. Second, you’re not just nothing. You’re a client who works harder than anyone else in this gym, who shows up even when it’s hard, who—” He cut himself off again, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “And I’m not just giving you attention because... Christ, I’m making this worse.”

“Because what?” you urged, heart racing.

He looked at you then, and for a moment, you saw past the professional mask he was trying to hold, to something real and wanting underneath. “Because it’s my job,” he said finally, but the words sounded hollow. “Come on, let’s finish your session.”

The rest of the workout passed in tense silence, both of you overly aware of every accidental touch, every shared glance in the mirror. When he helped you stretch at the end, his hands on your calf as you lay on the mat, the tension was almost unbearable, and you bit the inside of your cheek to keep yourself grounded.

“Same time Thursday?” he asked when you were gathering your things, and there was something helpless in his expression, like maybe he was afraid you might say no.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Same time Thursday.”

As you left, you caught sight of yourself in the mirror by the exit, flushed and sweaty, curves on full display in your fitted outfit, looking like someone who belonged here. Not because your body had dramatically changed, but because maybe you were actually starting to believe you had a right to exist in places like this, exist in your own skin, like maybe it could be okay.

And just as your eyes were about to move forward, you caught sight of Harry watching you go, and the look on his face...

Yeah. You were definitely in trouble.

But for once, you didn’t want to run from it. You wanted to see where this path could take you, just as you were.

When week nine rolled around, you were back on track, your mind totally on board, and everything was going great. Even you were amazed by yourself, the way you were hitting every mark. Harry still kept a professional distance, but it wasn’t taking from the attraction you felt, now a low hum over your skin, signalling an obvious draw to him, that sent a pulse between your thighs every time his hands touched your body.

It was becoming a problem, actually. The way your body responded to him now—not just the flutter in the pit of your stomach, but it had turned into a full-body awareness every time he was near. When he corrected your form, his fingers grazing your hip or pressing against your back, you had to bite back sounds that had nothing to do with exertion. And you were pretty sure he knew it, too, from the way his jaw would tighten, the way he would step back a little quicker than necessary, like he needed the distance just as much as you.

One day, you were in the middle of box step-ups, feeling strong, feeling capable, feeling like maybe you were actually becoming the person you had wanted to be when you first walked through those doors. The fitted workout clothes were your new normal, and while your body hadn’t dramatically changed, the way you moved in it had. Confident. Taking up space. Belonging.

Because like Harry said “Fuck them all.” 

“That’s it, drive through your heel,” Harry encouraged, and god, his voice when he got all instructor-mode did things to you. “Really activate those glutes.”

You were focused, you were in the zone, you were—

And then your fucking ankle rolled.

One second you were stepping down, controlled and strong, and the next you were falling, your right ankle giving way beneath you with a sickening pop that you felt more than heard. The sound that tore from your throat was raw, primal, and suddenly, you were on the ground, hands clutching at your ankle as pain shot through it like lightning.

“Fuck!” The word came out high and sharp as a sob ripped from your throat, and then Harry was there, dropping to his knees beside you, his professional calm never wavering even as his hands hovered over you, not quite touching.

“Don’t move,” he demanded, his accent thicker with urgency. “Let me see—can you wiggle your toes?”

You tried, gasping at the pain that radiated up your leg. Around you, the gym had gone quiet, and you could feel every pair of eyes turning your way. The fat girl has fallen, was all you could think, because, of course, she had. Everyone was probably thinking you couldn’t handle the exercise, probably pushed too hard, probably—

“Hey, look at me,” Harry whispered, cutting through your thoughts. His hand cupped your face, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Just me, yeah? No one else matters right now.”

But they did matter. You could hear the whispers, feel the stares, and like another betrayal, the tears of frustration burned at your eyes, already threatening to spill over. Not just from the pain—though fuck, it hurt—but from the humiliation of it all. Nine weeks of progress, nine weeks of building yourself up, and here you were, crumpled on the gym floor like every stereotype you had been fighting against.

The stares felt like the harsh truth of ‘I told you so,’ feeding that inner monologue you had been trying to suppress.

“I need to check if it’s broken,” Harry said, his hands gentle as they ghosted over your ankle. You hissed at even the lightest touch, and he pulled back immediately. “Right, we’re going to the hospital. Can you stand at all?”

“I don’t—I can’t—” The tears came then, hot and angry. “Everyone’s watching.”

“Fuck them,” Harry said fiercely, and the sharpness startled you enough to look at him. His green eyes were blazing with something protective, something furious, something lighting a fire within him. “Marcus!” he called to another trainer. “I need you to clear this area. Now.”

Then, to you, his voice softer now: “I’m going to help you up, okay? We’ll go out the back exit. Can you put your arm around my neck?”

The next few minutes were a blur of pain and movement. At that point, Harry was essentially carrying you, your weight supported against his solid frame, and for a moment, you forgot about everyone else because all you could focus on was how strong he was, how easily he held you up despite his own bad knee. When he got you to his car, he helped you into the passenger seat with a gentleness that made your chest tighten.

“I need to cancel my appointments,” he muttered, pulling out his phone as he started the car. “Sarah? Yeah, it’s Harry. Let’s go ahead and cancel the rest of my appointments for the day...”

And you listened, dazed, as he gave her instructions. “You know you don’t have to—” you started, but he cut you off with a look.

“Yes, I do. You’re hurt, and you need to get to the hospital. End of story.”

The hospital was a whirlwind of X-rays and ice packs, and doctors with cold hands. Your ankle wasn’t broken, thank goodness, but a bad sprain that would have you off your feet for at least a week, and even though the news was disheartening. There was joy in the way Harry stayed the whole time. He even held your hand during the x-ray, kept you distracted with silly stories while you waited for results, and graciously helped you fill out paperwork when your hands were shaking too much from residual adrenaline.

“You know,” you said at one point, watching him charm the nurse into bringing you an extra ice pack, “most trainers would have just called an ambulance and been done with it.”

He looked offended at the proposal. “What kind of person would I be if I did that? Besides,” his expression softened, “I needed to make sure you were okay.”

The drive to your apartment was quiet, your ankle propped up in the backseat, wrapped in an ace bandage, throbbing with every heartbeat, or sudden bump in the road. Harry had insisted on driving you home, waving off your suggestion for an Uber, and now here you were, trying not to think about how normal this all felt, him driving you home, eyes flicking to yours in the rearview mirror, every time you stared too long.

“Third floor,” you said when he pulled up to your building, and then realized what that meant. “Shit. I’m on the third floor. With no elevator.”

“We’ll manage,” Harry said, already getting out to help you.

‘Managing’ turned out to be a slow, painstaking process. Harry’s arm was around your waist, taking most of your weight, and you had never been more aware of your body—not in the usual self-conscious way, but in how it pressed against his, how his fingers splayed across your hip to hold you steady. He smelled good, inviting even. You liked this proximity, enjoyed the feel of the muscles in his shoulders working as he nearly carried you up each step.

Halfway up the second flight, his knee buckled slightly, and you both had to stop, pressed against the wall, breathing hard.

“Your knee,” you gasped, guilt flooding through you. “Harry, I’m too heavy—”

“Don’t,” he said sharply, his arm tightening around you. “Don’t do that. You’re not too anything. My knee’s just being a bastard today. We’re both a bit broken, remember? We’ll make it work.”

And you did, step by careful step, stopping when his knee was cranky, adjusting when your ankle screamed, a quiet give and take, you both seemed to be savoring, and by the time you reached your door, you were both sweating and trembling, but something about doing it together, about both of you pushing through your limitations, made it feel like a victory rather than the anguish of a struggle.

Harry helped you inside, getting you settled on the couch with your ankle elevated, and for a moment, you just looked at each other, both breathless from more than just exertion. The silence felt weighted, thick in the air, heavy with the words unspoken, and you found yourself saying, “Do you want to stay? Like hang out, I mean? I could order food or—”

“I should get back,” he said too quickly, but he looked reluctant. “I probably need to get back. Sort out the schedule for tomorrow, since I canceled on everyone today. Figure out how to rearrange things…”

That’s when reality crashed back in. Right. Of course. This was his job; you were just a client, and he had definitely already gone above and beyond. The disappointment must have shown on your face because then he quickly added, “But we’ll need to talk soon, yeah? Go over modifying your workouts for your current situation. Once you’re healed enough to come back, I mean.”

Situation…

The word like a fucking knife to your gut… “Your situation,” he said, like you were some kind of problem to be solved, a complication to work around. Just like always, too much, too difficult, too... everything, and all at once, you felt the warmth of the last few hours evaporate, leaving you exposed, foolish in the way you thought there could be more, but silly you.

“Right,” you said, your voice coming out flat. “My situation.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, clearly sensing the shift but not understanding it. “I just mean with your ankle—”

“No, I get it.” And you forced a smile that felt like plastic. “Thanks for everything today. Really. It was... above and beyond.”

He stood there for a moment, looking like he wanted to say something else. Then he reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. “Here, let me... I don’t normally do this, but...” He seemed to be fighting with himself. “Can I give you my number? Just in case you need anything or have questions about the ankle?”

Your heart sank. He was giving you his number out of pity. Poor chubby girl who hurt herself, better make sure she doesn’t feel completely abandoned, god, it was so obvious—it was charity, wrapped up in the typical nice guy package.

“Sure,” you said, typing it into your phone with numb fingers. “Got it.”

“Text me so I have yours,” he said, and you did, sending a simple “Hi, it’s me” that felt like swallowing coals.

The awkwardness stretched between you like taffy, both of you unsure how to move the moment forward. Harry shifted his weight, favoring his good knee, clearly wanting to leave but not knowing how. “So... rest, ice, elevation. Doctor said a week minimum before trying any weight-bearing exercises. We can work with that when you’re ready.”

“Yeah, definitely.” You told him, trying to keep that plastic smile in place. “I’ll let you know.”

After he left, you sat in the growing darkness of your apartment, ankle throbbing, and did what you always did when things got too real—you retreated. But you did send him a text that night: 

Y/N: I appreciate you shifting your day around. It was really kind. I’ll reach back out when I’m ready to come back. Thanks for everything.

Professional. Distant. Safe.

And his response came quickly: 

H: Of course. Rest up and let me know if you need anything. We’ll get you back on track in no time. 

But you didn’t reach back out. Days turned into a week, then two. Your ankle had healed, but your mind had spiraled back to old patterns. Every time you thought about the gym, you remembered falling, remembered everyone staring, remembered Harry having to literally carry you because you were too much for your own body to handle. 

To your surprise, his texts came sporadically:

H: Hey, how’s the ankle?

H: Just checking in. Doctor cleared you yet?

H: We got some new equipment that I really think you’ll like. Excited to try it when you’re back.

H: Hope you’re okay. Miss having you in sessions.

That last one even made you cry, but you still didn’t respond. It was easier to ghost him than to face the humiliation of going back. Easier to order takeout and binge Netflix than to deal with the messy feelings he seemed to stir up. You had been down that road with guys like him; it never works. Always the friend but never the lover. You were stupid to think there was something there, stupid to believe you were anything more than a client he felt sorry for.

Two and a half weeks after the ankle incident, you were deep in the trenches of doubt, sucked in by yet another self-loathing pity party, when the doorbell rang, but you ignored it at first. Then it rang again, followed by a knock.

“If that’s Mrs. Gladys about the rent, it’s in the mail!” you called, not moving from your cocoon of isolation.

“It’s not Mrs. Gladys.” You froze. That accent, that voice, fuck, it was Harry at your door. 

“I know you’re in there,” he continued. “I can see the TV light under the door. And... I brought Chinese.” He spoke up again.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

You hauled yourself up, catching sight of yourself in the hall mirror, and immediately regretted it. But it was too late, he already heard you moving, and it would be worse to leave him standing there, so you opened the door just a crack, trying to hide your body behind it.

“Harry, what are you doing here?”

He looked good. Of course, he looked good, in jeans and a worn tee that clung to his chest in ways that should be illegal, especially on a Tuesday night. He was holding a massive bag of takeout in one hand, and wait… were those flowers?

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the genuine worry in his eyes made your chest tight. “I know this is weird, but I wasn’t sure what I should do. You hadn’t answered any of my texts, and I was worried about you…”

“I thought it was just protocol,” you answered, your voice tight.

He shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Well, I mean I was asking from a trainer’s point of view, yes, but I was hoping that it would come across as... I don’t know... more?”

“More? What do you mean?” You asked, cracking the door open a bit more.

“I thought when I gave you my number, you were catching the vibe that I was trying to put out...” He laughed, looking down at his feet, and the bashfulness was so startling on him that you almost forgot to breathe as a strand of hair fell loose. “What I’m saying is I thought there was a vibe between us?”

“Mmm,” was all you could manage, stunned. “A vibe?”

“Honestly, I thought you gave everyone your number?”

This made him laugh, looking back up at you with those heartwrenching green eyes, and fucking hell, those dimples. “No, trust me, I’ve learned my lesson with that one... Have you seen some of those ladies at the gym? A little persistent, yeah? Trust me, they’re not my type. I’m not interested.”

“I see...” You were mesmerized. This guy, this gorgeous, sweet, amazing guy, was standing at your door with flowers and food, talking about vibes.

“I can go, though... if this is too weird... but I’d hate to eat all this Chinese takeaway by myself,” he said, holding up the bag, and it did indeed look like enough to feed a small country, and it took everything in you not to make a fat joke, but something in his expression stopped you. 

He was nervous. Harry was nervous.

“No. Please... come in... I never pass up... what did you call it? Chinese takeaway...”

When he came in, you shut the door and immediately examined the bag. The smell was incredible, and your stomach reminded you that depression meals of cereal and toast weren’t actually sustaining.

“I do think you bought enough to feed a small army, though...”

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I ordered a little of everything...”

This got a laugh out of you, the first real laugh in weeks. “Well, lucky you, I like everything... You don’t get curves like these being a picky eater...”

“I see...” He said with a sexy smirk, that had you giddy as his eyes roamed your body with the same heated look you had seen that day in the gym mirror. He wasn’t hiding it now, wasn’t trying to be professional. He was just a man, looking at you like you were something to devour, pajamas and all.

“Yeah... there was definitely a vibe...” You teased, narrowing your eyes at him while taking the flowers from his hands and bringing them to your nose. They were simple, but the gesture made your heart flip.

“I’ll put these in water...” And as you moved toward the kitchen, you felt his eyes following you, suddenly aware of how small your apartment felt with him in it. 

The energy you guys had been dulling in the past was present, making itself known as it filled the space. Now you had a new hunger growing in your belly that had nothing to do with Chinese food and everything to do with the way Harry was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.

Fuck it you thought, and you set the flowers down in the sink for later, “I’m not usually this forward… but I’ve been dying to kiss you?” you asked pressing your back against the sink, and you said the words with an air of confidence that seemed to flee the second your eyes found his. Sending you right back to that place of self-doubt.

Harry didn’t answer, and you watched as he silently pushed himself away from the counter and closed the small space between you.

 It felt like every movement slowed, every breath hollow, as if the sight of him before you was a figment of your imagination, and you couldn’t quite bring your eyes to meet his, not yet. You just stared at his broad chest, his strong stature like stone before your gaze, unmoving except for the slow rise and fall of his breath, like maybe he was waiting for you to make the move.

But it was something about the way he stood there, that same gentle patience he had exuded all along. It was devastating, the kindness now an ache that deepened inside you, the second you pressed your palm flat to the center of his chest. 

Yet his stillness remained as you felt the warmth of his body, the beating of his heart, but you still couldn’t look, because here was the fear telling you that you couldn’t have it, that you weren’t worthy, that this wasn’t real, but god he was real, and the breath that left his body was real.

And it hurt, and you were scared, and when his hand moved to yours, pressing your palm into his chest, you felt yourself breaking. Then you braved a look, your eyes finding his, and it was like something cracked within you, a well of every insecurity you had ever had, came spilling from your chest with a gasp, as a sob rose, and it wasn’t even him that you were crying about.

It was everything, all at once, it was you, it was him, it was the broken girl inside you, crying to be healed, to be wanted, to be needed, to be loved, because you wanted to be loved, you wanted to be seen, you wanted someone to love you the way you deserved. You had always had so much love to give, but no one who could reciprocate, the world always taking, but never giving back.

Then his hand was cupping your face, his eyes on your mouth, and the second his lips pressed to yours, delicate and soft, he drew in a deep breath, like you were the air he needed to fill his lungs with, like suddenly here you were, and as your mouths begin to move, the chatter in your head began to fade away.

As the kiss deepened, hands roaming, you felt yourself letting go, slipping to a place of peace, to a place you had only ever felt with him, to those times when he had you in a room full of people, yet the world always seemed to narrow to just the two of you. This was that moment, a universe that belonged to you and Harry.

And for the first time, maybe ever in your life, you allowed yourself to just exist.

When you pulled away, your eyes met, making a silent exchange, and you grabbed his hand with a slow nod, ready to make sacred what you felt in your heart, give him the pieces that he had made whole with the kindness of his spirit. You wanted to give yourself in the only way you knew how to convey what words couldn’t say.

And when he laid you down on the bed, he was gentle, hands moving over your curves like they were the most sacred gift you could give, and maybe they were in that moment, and when he kissed your lips, you felt the passion and the need in the delicate balance of his control. It felt safe. Harry was taking his time to explore the plains of your body, no rush, just a tender embrace that had tears streaming down your face.

“Is this okay?” he whispered against your skin, and the care in his voice made your chest tight. Always checking, always making sure, like you were the most beloved artifact, instead of too much.

You nodded, but your hands were already moving to guide his away from your stomach, that soft place you had spent years hating, years hiding. He noticed, you knew he would, and he paused, his green eyes searching yours in the dim light of your bedroom.

“Talk to me,” he said softly, his hand stilling on your hips. “What’s going through that beautiful mind?”

“I just...” You said, turning away, and the look in his eyes was too much for the shame pricking at your skin. It wasn’t like you hadn’t had sex before, but there had never been this level of positive vulnerability on both parts. The feeling reminded you of your first time, and maybe almost every time, actually.

The good times, few and far between.

Yes, the fear was there, and so was the desperation, but that was the part you didn’t want to be there. You didn’t want that desperate feeling of doing, just to feel wanted. You knew this wasn’t the case now, but it was hard to shake that pattern of thinking when this was the only relationship you had to sex. “You’ve probably been with so many girls who are... who look...” And the words stuck in your throat. 

Skinny. Fit. Perfect. Everything you weren’t.

“Hey.” His finger gently turned your chin back to him. “I’m here with you. Only you. And I’ve wanted to be here, exactly here, for weeks.”

But when his hand moved again, you caught it, redirecting it away from your middle, and this time he didn’t let you. Instead, he slowly lowered down your body, holding your eyes as he did, and before you could stop him, his lips were pressing against the soft flesh of your stomach, right where you were trying to hide.

“Harry—”

But he was already kissing every inch, every delicate place, every roll and curve you had spent years despising, and as he continued, your body trembled with sobs beneath his lips, overwhelmed by the adoration in his touch.

“God,” he breathed against your skin, “Every inch of you is beautiful. I can’t believe how lucky I am.”

And just when you thought you couldn’t break anymore, here was another wall crumbling, and when he moved back up to kiss you, you could taste the mingling of your tears on his lips now, salt and beauty, a messy mix of his devotion and time.

“Can we just...” you start, then stop, embarrassed by what you wanted to ask. This was the part you wanted to skip, the lead up, you didn’t think you were strong enough for it, not right now, not in this moment, not when you were barely hanging by a thread, your emotions everywhere.

“What do you need?” He pulled back slightly, studying your face. “Tell me.”

“Can we just... be together? I want to feel you, to kiss you. Is that okay? I don’t need...” You gestured vaguely over your body, unable to say the words.

Then you watched as understanding dawned in his eyes. “If that’s what you want,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “But… hopefully you’ll let me take care of you another time—”

“Another time?” You repeated, a little too excited, because god, the hope in your voice was already embarrassing.

He smiled, that dimpled smile that had you out of your mind from the beginning. “Yeah, love, there’s no way this is a one-time act. I’m already hooked. You have me completely. Trust me.”

That was all you needed, because then you were reaching with a shaky hand to your nightstand, pulling out the condom you had optimistically kept there. He took it from your trembling fingers, and the care he took with everything—with you—made fresh tears spring to your eyes.

And it was like a light switch flipping on in your brain when he pushed inside you, like something waking. At first, you weren’t sure what to do, whether you should just lie there, and let him lead like you had usually done in the past with others, or if you should use your words. But everything in you wanted to take some kind of control, to show him that you weren’t just passive, that you could give as good as you got.

The feeling built slowly, his hands mapping your body like he was trying to memorize every curve, every response. And just as you felt yourself getting close, that familiar tightening, a surge of confidence unlike anything you had ever felt before, flooded through you like a line of fire.

That’s when you pushed your hands into his shoulders, trying to be smooth about the move, hoping he would get the hint, but then he stopped without hesitation, concern flashing across his face. “Do you want me to—”

But you were already moving, pushing him onto his back and climbing on top, not giving a fuck that your stomach was visible, or that your boobs would bounce, that hell, maybe everything would jiggle, but for once, you didn’t care, because the way he was looking at you, like the fucking goddess you were and felt, was everything. It made you feel powerful, turning what was already pleasure into a feast that fed the famished hunger within.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his hands gripping at the flesh of your hips, as he bucked up to meet you, and the awe in his voice was already pushing you to the edge. It didn’t take long until you came hard, crumbling forward, and his arms wrapped around you immediately, holding you tight against his chest as he followed you over.

Even though you were aware of everything, all the flaws, all the thoughts, the way your body felt pressed against his, you stayed like that for a long moment, giving your body time to meld with his, no matter how uncomfortable it was or if you felt like your body would crush him. You wanted to be with this man in every way, maybe even savor the way his hands still moved up and down your body, caressing over every curve as both of you caught your breath. When you finally lifted your head, he was looking at you with such tenderness, such wonderment that it made your chest ache.

“You’re incredible,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Absolutely incredible.”

Later, after he had cleaned you both up with a warm washcloth, yes, you let him, because he insisted on taking care of you despite any objections, and damn he was a sweet talker, you knew you couldn’t resist the power of his words. Because you knew he meant them. Afterward, when you lay curled against his chest, his bad knee elevated on a pillow, and you with all your insecurities knocking at your mind’s door. You knew in that moment that you were two broken people, but even two broken halves can make something whole together, and that was the devastating truth you held onto.

And as you drifted off to sleep, his arms around you, his heartbeat steady under your ear, you thought maybe the universe was finally giving you something good, giving you someone who saw you, saw the real you, not just as a project to fix or some kind of problem to solve, but as someone worth loving, exactly as you were.

You knew the journey to confidence wasn’t over. You knew that you would still have your bad days, still struggle with mirrors and fitted clothes, and that fucking voice in your head that said you were never enough. But for now, you had someone who wanted to be there for those days, too, someone you knew would remind you of your worth when you forgot it yourself.

Someone who would love every inch of you, especially the parts you’ve allowed yourself to hate. Someone who made you believe that maybe, just maybe, you deserved to take up space in this world—and in his heart.

And that was worth more than any number on a scale could ever be.

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Our Little Soda Pop: Chapter 2

“Baby please move your head. It's right under my tit.” Natasha mumbled with a groggy voice. It had been a week since she started managing the boy band and letting them invade her privacy every night. They had their own rooms in the penthouse but at that point, they only used them to keep their belongings. The boys had taken a shine to sleeping in Natasha's bed every night and made no effort to stop their behavior. To be fair, Natasha did try to ban them from her room multiple times.

But there was only so much an older demon woman could do against 5 younger demon men who claimed they were obsessed with her scent. “Mm no… comfy.” Baby mumbled back in an incredibly deep morning voice. “Well you gotta move anyway. I need to get up so I can make breakfast. You got a recording session today.” Groaning, Baby instead moved closer into Natasha's side while Mystery tightened his grip on her waist.

“Come on boys. You gotta let me go.” After some heavy convincing, Natasha managed to slip away from the bed that was crowded with all five Saja boys and went to brush her teeth. As she did, she sighed as Abby came up behind her and wrapped his strong arms around her waist. “Come back to bed~ Miss you.” Using one hand, Natasha shoved the man back gently. “Go back to bed young one. I have things to do.” She smiled softly before leaving the bathroom and going to the kitchen. As she started cooking, Natasha began to hum an old song of hers very quietly.

She remembered her years in the spotlight fondly but she had no desire to return to those times. The money was good and she adored her fans. She reveled in her fame and fortune but she hated the paparazzi. The constant invasion of privacy and the fabricated lies they would spin like nosy little spiders angered her. She liked her years in the spotlight, yes but not enough to return. “Smells good. That for us?” Romance smiled as he and Jinu walked into the kitchen slowly.

Sleep still clinging to their bodies. “Yes it is. Good morning. Jinu? Can you go wake up the others? Romance, set the table please?” Natasha asked sweetly. As Jinu left to wake the others, Romance took the opportunity to walk up behind Natasha and grab a handful of her ass. “What the!? Romance!!” Angry and flustered by the action, Natasha turned to scold the man only for his lips to catch her own in a deep kiss while his hands rested on her hips.

His fingers slowly sliding into her fluffy pajama pants. He then pulled away, slowly licking his lips before leaning down to whisper in her ear. “I'm hungry, but not for food. Won't you feed me properly lovely lady?~” He asked, almost whining before trying to slide one of his hands into Natasha's underwear. “No. I can't.” Natasha responded firmly by grabbing Romance's hand and moving from her body and pushing past him.

“I'm not going to sleep with you. Now please set the table.” She then replied trying to keep her cool as if she was not at all turned on by the man behind her. Instead of being upset with the rejection, Romance smirked. He knew he got to her. He could smell the arousal from her. He just wished Natasha wasn't so uptight and let herself enjoy the benefits that came with the fact 5 sexy young demon men took interest in her. “Why does it smell like pussy juice out here?” A loud voice interrupted the once peace and quiet Natasha was trying to enjoy.

“Watch your fucking mouth Abby.” Another voice added. “You watch your fucking mouth Baby.” “How about you both watch your fucking mouths?” Jinu groaned as Mystery made a beeline towards Natasha and wrapped his arms around her in a warm hug. “They're so loud…” He whispered into her neck. “Good morning to you too Mystery. Go sit down hun. Breakfast is about to be served.”

Moving from his embrace, Natasha watched as Mystery took his seat next to Baby who was eyeing the extra spicy hot sauce that was placed on the table specifically for him. After breakfast, the boys scattered to their rooms to get ready, save for Romance who decided to stay behind to help with the dishes. After drying the last one, he watched as Natasha retreated to her own room to get ready for the day.

Sneaking into her room and listening to the sound of the shower turning on, Romance smirked and undressed himself before teleporting behind a naked Natasha who, due to the sound of the shower, hadn't heard him appear behind her. Her eyes nearly bugged out of her head the moment she felt hands on her hips. “Oh my!!-” “Shhh it's just me.~” Romance replied. “How is that supposed to make me feel any better!? Get out!! I told you no!!” Natasha shouted angrily.

“You said no, but your body said yes. Your scent practically screamed it. Why won't you give in to your instincts. Let me be the first to mate you.~” He whispered as he leaned down to kiss her neck. Natasha felt herself shiver despite the hot temperature of the water. “Can't you smell me? I smell you. Your arousal is like a drug I want to keep taking. It's intoxicating. I'm addicted. We all are. Please~” Romance bit his lip while pressing himself up against Natasha's back, making sure she could feel his erection.

“You just don't wanna listen do you?” She growled, causing the man behind her to tilt his head in confusion before he was shoved against the shower wall with Natasha's hand pressed against his chest and the other grasping his cock. “O-oh shit!!” He choked.

“Do you know how hard it is trying to keep my composer around you sluts? Your musk is constantly flooding my senses and it's driving me crazy. But I still have the sense to keep it professional. Something that seems like a foreign concept to you. So let my tell you something, I'll fuck you. Absolutely! But on my terms. My time. And when I feel like you deserve it. Whore. Now, be a good boy, cum on my hand and tell the others. Because I know they're listening at the door. Go on. Sing like the whore you are.~” Natasha smirked all the while she pumped Romance's cock and listened to his choked moans and begging sounds.

Her demon form allowing her to growl in his ear while he cried in pleasure. “Please! Oh fuck! Mistress! I'm yours! I'm your whore! I wanna be your good boy! Fuck! Fuck! Cumming! Cumming!! Mistress!!!” Natasha watched satisfied as thick ropes of semen shot from Romance's cock. “Good boy. Now get out. I need to wash myself.” She whispered as she pressed a long kiss to Romance's lips before shoving him out of her shower.

Outside of the room, the others watched in envy as Romance stumbled out of Natasha’s room with a dazed smile on his face. The only thing now on their minds was which of them was next.

Chapter 3

[wonluhver]

Mingyu Focus

M = Content Warnings for Smut

! = Personal All Time Favs.

Red Card [M] - smut/fluff, non-idol au, 80s au (aesthetics only), childhood friends to lovers, oneshot.

Mingyu's been there through everything. From childhood to now. What happens when he gets hurt and someone else has to step in and play the hero?

! Clarity [M] - bf's best friend mingyu, (awkward) acquaintances to lovers, the other side of the f2l trope, angst, smut, you could say there's a drizzle of fluff, one shot. side of bad bf!jungkook.

Mingyu doesn't want to pay you any mind. To him, you're just another girl that'll get her heart broken by his dumb best friend.

Why would he care, right? He shouldn't care about the crying sounds he hears from his bedroom when his friend stands you up for the girl he's actually in love with. And he shouldn't be getting close to you. He shouldn't dread the day his friend decides to end things with you and bring someone else home. He shouldn't be wishing to have met you first.

! Save the Date [M] - smut, fluff, angst, frenemies to lovers, oneshot.

5 weddings in one year. 5 dates you saved for you and your boyfriend to attend — before he cheated. and now, you had to force your best friend, vernon, to go with you. but after losing a bet, mingyu agrees to take vernon’s place and be your date. this wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go, but you guess you could settle going with your only one-night-stand from college.

Theories and Heartstrings [M] - Neighbours AU! Fake Dating AU! (but only one is fake dating. It’ll make sense when you read it, lol). Non-Idol AU!. angst, fluff, smut. completed series.

As a writer with a mildly cynical take on love, you’ve always believed people have a “type”—a pattern they never stray from when it comes to dating. And Kim Mingyu? He’s the textbook definition of someone who wouldn’t go for someone like you, nor would you go for him. But you test your theory when a fateful run-in with your charming neighbour sparks an unexpected attraction.

The plan? Go on dates with him and count how many it takes before your heart gets involved—if it ever does. But Mingyu is unpredictable, effortlessly breaking down your carefully constructed walls with every smile, every late-night conversation, every moment that feels too easy to be just an experiment.

The real problem? Secrets never stay secrets for long. And when Mingyu finds out the truth behind your so-called theory, will it prove you right, or that love doesn’t follow the rules you thought it did?

! Again and Again [M] - exes, fake dating, mutual pining, idol!gyu, vet!reader, mild angst, fluff, smut, oneshot.

your mother calls one day, asking if you’re bringing mingyu along for chuseok this year. in your panic, you end up giving her an affirmative—never mind the fact that you and mingyu have stopped seeing each other over half a year ago.

Covert Desires - spy au, mafia, enemies to lovers, fake marriage, mutual pining, spies, angst, fluff, killing, oneshot.

he mission is simple - infiltrate a high-stakes auction that the top leaders, businessmen, women, and politicians of the world attend every year and steal one of the most highly guarded and hidden-away paintings from the target’s collection. the only downside, you had to work with kim mingyu, whom you absolutely hated. and to make it even worse, you had to pretend to be his wife for this mission to work.

! Challenge me [M] - College!Au, porn with plot(s), crack, OT13 x afab!Reader (mingyu/scoups focused), smut. unfinished series.

you have never been a person to turn down a challenge, but when your best friend challenges you to hook up with 13 boys in one semester you kinda wish you were.

Wicked Games [M] - angst, fluff, smut (18+), bartender mingyu, friends to rebound fucking, no strings attached (fwb to lovers), mingyu/wonwoo focused. unfinished (? i think) series - still ongoing.

Kim Mingyu came into your life at a time when you needed a friend the most. And that he was: a friend that you could confide in and laugh together, share your secrets with and perhaps, share a burden that was too similar to his.

Kitty Claws - a svt spiderman x jujutsu kaisen au, spiderman!mingyu, blackcat!reader, lots of banter, mild fighting scenes = mentions of blood and injuries !!, fluff with angst if you squint. oneshot.

being a superhero isn't as easy as it seems, and it's even harder when you're notorious supervillain black cat with a past threatening to catch up with you and a pesky spider that won't leave you alone.

Get Him Back [M] - lead guitarist!kim mingyu x lead singer!fem!reader, romance, angst, smut (oral sex, unprotected sex (please stay safe irl!), wall sex, angry sex, overstimulation, dirty talk), exes to lovers au, band au, oneshot.

years after your messy breakup that broke up the band, you and mingyu are forced back together for a reunion tour—and the public can’t get enough of your chemistry. on stage, you’re electric, but backstage it’s all snide comments, heated arguments, and mingyu slipping in petty lyric changes just to piss you off. you’re not sure what’s worse: how much you still hate him or how much you don’t.

What Do I Call You? [M-ish] - college au, idiots friends to lovers au ; angst, fluff, suggestive ? slightly smutty? themes. football player!kim mingyu x fem!college journalist!reader. oneshot.

your best friend is a man of many facets - a creative architecture student, a skilled football player, a wonderful friend and a sought-after lover. not that he'd ever truly glance anyone's way, especially not when his heart has always been set on you.

! Dessert First [M] - baker! mingyu, wedding planner!YN, fluff, smut, angst, exes to lovers, oneshot.

You've got a great life. Your wedding planning business is booming, your clients are great, and you're finally over your ex-boyfriend after years of pining. Or you are, until the universe decides to test if those three things are actually true.

! Lost in the West [M] - fake dating (kind of), friends to lovers, holiday!au | fluff, smut, romance, oneshot.

where your best friend pretends to be your boyfriend for the holidays so you can avoid more nagging from your mother. except your whole family thought you were already dating.

!!! Kim Mingyu's (unhelpful) Guide to Losing your Virginity [M] - smut, fluff, humor, college au, best friends to lovers au, friends with benefits au, oneshot.

after accidentally telling your friends that kim mingyu took your virginity (he didn’t), you’re shocked when he proposes to relieve you of the fabled v-card for good (he does).

! The Very First Night [M] - angst, smut, exes to lovers au, roommates au. oneshot.

the search for a new place to live takes a turn for the worse when the only person willing to split rent with you is your ex-boyfriend

for my best friend who i promised i would post mingyu recs for,, youre welcome. ignore how half of these are exes to lovers, or fake dating to lovers... i'm okay...

other recs

[rafecameronssl4t]

Can you do more of reader x rafe that involve Sofia.

Calm down || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

gif by @tetragonia

Summary: basically based off this scene in s4 ep 2 but ofc including reader

Warnings: none rlly!!

Word count: 1,986

MASTERLIST

The music was too loud, the air was too thick, and the vodka in your cup wasn’t nearly strong enough to make any of this bearable. “So… how have you and him been?” Ruthie asked, her tone loaded despite the way she lazily twirled the straw in her drink.

You rolled your eyes, already annoyed at the direction this conversation was heading. “Rafe and I?” you echoed, lifting your glass and swirling the half-melted ice like it was the most interesting thing in the world. “Haven’t talked to him since that bonfire a month ago.”

Your voice was clipped, tone dismissive, but Ruthie was looking at you too closely. The kind of look only a friend who’s seen you at your worst would know how to give. You hated it. “I’m just so over it,” you added quickly, hoping it sounded convincing.

“Can’t believe he stooped that low,” she muttered, snorting into her drink. “A pogue, seriously?” You didn’t answer, but your jaw tensed slightly. You gave a loose shrug, feigning indifference. Like it didn’t burn every time you heard his name. Like you didn’t still dream about that night—his hands, his mouth, the way he said your name like it meant something.

The sound of laughter and shouting swelled around you, and you looked up just in time to see Topper sink a perfect shot into the last cup on the beer pong table. His friends exploded in cheers. “Let’s go, baby!” Topper bellowed, arms thrown up in drunken victory.

Ruthie squealed and immediately threw her arms around her boyfriend in exaggerated celebration “Oh man,” Topper slurred as he staggered over to the two of you, a goofy grin plastered on his flushed face. “It’s just a little harmless celebration, right?” You couldn’t help but laugh at how absolutely wrecked he already was.

“Oh, absolutely. You need another beer.” Topper laughed, leaning heavily against you. He slung an arm around your shoulder, the scent of cologne and whatever he spilled on himself earlier clinging to his shirt. “You know me so well, Y/n. Fuck, I love you.”

You rolled your eyes but let him kiss your head anyway, playing along like always. Ruthie giggled beside you, probably just as tipsy but much better at hiding it. Then—“Hey!” The loud voice cut through the buzz of conversation, music, and drunken laughter. You turned instinctively, and your entire body went stiff.

Rafe. Making his way toward the group with that same confident swagger like he owned the place. Your stomach dropped. “Yeah, my brother!” Topper hollered, practically leaping forward as the two of them pulled each other into a half-hug, half-clap-on-the-back. “There he is! How are you, baby?”

Rafe actually lifted Topper slightly off the ground before setting him down again, both of them laughing like this was any other night. Like everything was normal. You fought the eye-roll threatening to escape and instead focused on sipping your drink. Then Ruthie nudged you sharply.

You glanced at her and followed her gaze. Sofia. Standing just a few feet behind Rafe. Hair perfectly curled, but her posture stiff—like she knew she didn’t belong but was pretending otherwise. Her eyes darted around the crowd before finally landing on you. She gave you a small, awkward smile.

You stared for a second too long before mustering the fakest smile you could manage and looking away. Arms crossing tightly over your chest. “Of course she’s here,” you muttered under your breath, venom lacing every word. Ruthie raised her brows and leaned in. “I swear she follows him around like a lost puppy.”

You didn’t respond, because when you glanced back at Rafe—he was already looking at you. The smirk was gone now. No bravado, no cockiness. Just that unreadable look he’d perfected. The one that made you wonder if he regretted everything… or nothing at all. “Hey,” he said quietly.

And that was enough to make you snap out of it. Without acknowledging him, you picked up your drink, turned on your heel, and walked away. “Wait,” Ruthie called, rushing to follow you. You didn’t stop. You didn’t want to deal with him. Not tonight. Not with Sofia hovering awkwardly in the background like some replacement you never agreed to.

He knew it pissed you off—seeing them together, acting like what the two of you had wasn’t even worth protecting. And the worst part? He brought her anyway. You made it to the bar, needing something stronger than the half-warm cocktail melting in your cup. You pushed your way through the cluster of sweaty Kooks and grabbed a beer from the tub of ice, popping it open with a sigh. Ruthie stood next to you, her eyes scanning the crowd with laser focus.

“God,” she muttered, leaning against the bar as she sipped her drink, “she stands out like a sore fucking thumb.” You followed her gaze. Sofia. She was lingering near Rafe, too close for comfort but still visibly uncomfortable. Her posture was tense, her smile unsure. She looked like she was trying to blend in, but everything about her screamed not from here.

You took a sip of your beer, eyes narrowing. “Yeah,” you muttered. “Wait—wait. Do you think he pays her to hang around?” Ruthie whispered, mischief dancing in her voice. But before you could even laugh, a sharp voice sliced through the bass-heavy music. “What did you say?” You both stopped. Looked up. The tone was unmistakable.

Rafe. He was standing near the entrance, voice raised, jaw locked, shoulders squared. Your chest tightened. “You got something to say?” He was talking to someone now—a girl who looked vaguely familiar. Local. Not a regular. Maybe a plus-one of a plus-one. Whatever he was, he clearly hadn’t learned one of the unspoken rules of Figure Eight: Don’t talk shit where Rafe Cameron can hear you.

“Hey, listen, if you want to say—” “Back off, Rafe!” The guy close by shoved him. Ruthie slapped her hand to her mouth. Your beer paused mid-sip. “Holy shit,” she gasped. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Just shook your head slowly. “Typical. Always picking a fight.” You took another swig as Rafe’s voice rose, chest heaving as he advanced.

“If you wanna whisper some bullshit behind my back, why don’t you say it to my face? I’m standing right here.” He stepped forward again, pointing aggressively. Topper lunged in, grabbing him by the shoulder with a grunt. “Rafe, chill, dude—” “You got something to say? Say it to my fucking face!” Rafe barked again, leaning in, slapping his own cheek like some unhinged invitation.

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Here come the theatrics.” Topper finally got a better grip, dragging him back slightly. Sofia hovered awkwardly nearby. Her face was blank, expression unreadable. When Rafe stumbled back, she stepped in and helped Topper steady him.

She said something to him—probably trying to calm him down—but you couldn’t hear over the shouting. Then, as if the chaos couldn’t escalate further, Rafe’s voice boomed again. “He was a great man!” You blinked. “Jesus Christ,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. “He’s spiralling,” Ruthie said, half in awe.

Before you could agree, the clatter of bottles jolted you. You turned just in time to see Rafe storming toward the bar—your bar. “Hey,” Sofia said behind him, her hand catching his arm, gentle. “Don’t listen to them,” she murmured. You weren’t even trying to eavesdrop. Not really. He wasn’t exactly being discreet.

“Don’t listen to them? Don’t listen to them?” he echoed bitterly. “Kind of hard when they do it in front of me. I mean, I expect that shit from the Cut—but not here.” You exchanged a quick look with Ruthie. There it was. The line.You could practically see it hit Sofia in real time—the flicker of something breaking in her face.

She recovered quickly, but not before you caught the sting in her eyes. “Shit,” Ruthie whispered. “He doesn’t even realise he just insulted her.” Topper reappeared like a storm-drenched lifeguard. “What is this bullshit, man?” Rafe asked, exasperated. “Who do you have at your party?” Rafe shook his head like a wet dog, pacing, seething.

“I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m just��getting a drink.” And that’s when it happened. As he turned, his eyes found you. Locked. He didn’t smirk. Didn’t look smug. Just stared. Something unreadable flickering beneath all the anger—something dangerous. You raised your brows but didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile.

Just took a slow sip of your beer, eyes never leaving his. Almost daring him to say something. He walked right past, close enough for your shoulders to nearly brush. Then Sofia stepped forward. Still lingering behind like she didn’t know where else to go. Her movements were stiff.

And when she looked up, her gaze met yours. It wasn’t awkward this time. It was deliberate. You stood there, holding her stare, bottle in hand. And then—Sofia started walking toward you. Ruthie leaned in, voice low. “Oh my god. Don’t tell me she’s about to start something.”

She stood beside you, just barely within arm’s reach, her presence cutting into the thick air around the bar like a cold gust through summer heat. You didn’t look at her at first—not until she said something. Not until she spoke. “How did you do it?” You paused mid-sip, the neck of the beer bottle still against your lips.

Slowly, you lowered it and turned your head, brows furrowing as your eyes met hers. “Do what?” you asked, voice even but laced with confusion. Sofia’s eyes didn’t move from Rafe—still visible a few feet away, his shoulders tense as he paced near the cooler, Topper doing damage control.

“Calm him down,” she replied, quiet but clear, the weight of the question hanging between you like smoke. You let out a short, disbelieving laugh through your nose. A snort, really. You and Ruthie turned to each other instinctively—your best friend’s eyes wide, eyebrows raised, lips twitching in amused disbelief like is she for real?

Was she seriously asking that? You blinked, looked back at Sofia. She was still watching Rafe like he was a ticking bomb she hadn’t figured out how to disarm. Like you were the only one who ever knew where the wires connected. “You think I knew how to calm him down?” you said, the edge creeping into your voice now.

“He’s Rafe, Sofia. No one calms him down. He decides when he wants to stop.” Her brows pulled together, and for a second, you saw something real flash across her face—something like defeat. Or maybe just realisation. Maybe she thought there was some secret you had. A trick. A formula. But there wasn’t. There never had been.

“It didn’t look like that when you were with him,” she said quietly, eyes dropping to her drink. You exhaled sharply, leaning one arm on the bar, facing her now. “Yeah, well,” you said, “that’s because he and I are alike.” Sofia blinked. Hard. And in that second, you almost felt bad for her.

Almost. But then Ruthie spoke, cutting through the tension with her usual bluntness. “He’s not a project you get to fix, babe. Trust me, she tried.” You didn’t correct her. Sofia stared at the condensation sliding down her glass. “He said he was different with you,” she murmured.

“He was,” you answered simply. “But he fucked it up so there’s that.” And for a moment, the silence between the three of you felt heavier than the party around you. The laughter, the music, the clinking bottles—all of it felt far away. Sofia nodded once, almost like a thank you—but more like a quiet resignation.

Then she turned, walking back toward where Rafe stood—his jaw still clenched, eyes wild, not looking at her. Not looking at anyone. Ruthie sighed beside you. “Well, that wasn’t awkward at all.”You took another swig of your beer, finally letting yourself breathe again.“Nope,” you muttered. “Just another night in paradise.”

[s-4pphics]

we’re not at Wendy’s anymore, toto…

SYNOPSIS: dropping fries or drawls?

WORD COUNT: 2.0K

WARNINGS: THIS IS CRACK AND VERY UNSERIOUS! FT. AGGRESSIVE FLIRTING, oc is a big titty pansexual and the wendy’s robin hood, ellie is a butch-dyking, fry-dropping misandrist who frowns a lot, mentions of mary jay, MDNI: TIT AND SPIT PLAY, MILD DIRTY TALK

A/N: i literally have no plan for this it’s just for shits n gigs. obsessed with their dynamic lowkey first part LOL

TAGLIST: @areyna @dyk3ang3l @grotesquevi @lucidfairies @aphrodyk3 @edenspoem @ssshhh-imreading @sappho-favourite-pupil @spoilmyfun @alpha-whoore @xxmoonyxx12 @wheni013 @elliesluckycharm @kuv1ras @euph0riafilms @rockwizard43 @inf3rn4lia @lillybunns @berlin1994 @weirdero @ferxanda @dulcerbbns @z456 @cheyshaunted @justarandomflowerchildofthenight @jayy2inlove @breathinlove @piercedome @aagutzke @sawaagyapong

This is not how Ellie thought she’d be spending her 15: outside at 11:47PM with her best friend calling her loose.

“This whole time, I thought, ‘wow, maybe Ellie has changed! Maybe she isn’t easy anymore’, but look at you! It took one hotbox and a hot box to—“

She massages her temples, “Riley—“

“I can’t lie and say y'all wouldn’t be hot together—Imma need that tape by the way, but Jesus Christ, get a grip—“

Why’d Ellie think confiding in her best friend about her new friend would be a good idea? Why’d she think befriending you in the first place was a good idea?

You’ve infiltrated her midnight sessions like a demonic witch. 3 days of pure torture: her waking up an hour before work steaming under her blankets, drenched in sweat and brain cursed with the image of you still with a full throat, only now… it follows her to work. Fuckass Wendy’s.

No one’s caught on—except for Riley, fuck her intuition—to the too long gazes shared between you, the playful shoulder bumps when you walk by her station, and the biggest one of all…

As Riley put it, ��they’re not leaving a snail trail on the tile anymore. I think you tamed ‘em a little. Good for you, friend.”

But Ellie’s not trying to tame you. You can do, talk to, fuck, who and whatever you please. She doubts she’s made that much of an impact on you in such a short amount of time, but she does notice that you’re a bit more… chill? Chilled out? Still a menace, but slightly more selective with who you enchant.

That fucking shirt is still too tight, though.

And now, she wants to dunk whoever’s accepted your muted salaciousness into her 400 degree oil tank.

Ellie’s not a jealous person… She wasn’t, but there’s a deep sense of rage that overtakes her whenever men men men compliment you. It’s murderous, borderline sadistic what she envisions in her head while she throws their cheese slices on their limp. Dick. Fries. She despises their existence, wants nothing more than for them to die, or at the very least, shut the fuck up—

“I invited them over tonight.”

“… WHAT THE FUCK—“

… Yeah. Ellie felt so guilty about rain-checking you last week, but her cat got sick. Her baby wouldn’t stop vomiting.

A head pokes out from behind the back door, “Uh, y’all break ended 7 minutes ago.”

… Clock watcher. Maybe Ellie doesn’t hate all men. Jesse’s a guardian angel sent to protect her against the incoming force that is her best friend.

“BITCH, IT’S TUESDAY, WE’RE DEAD!” Riley shouts in his direction, “THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN THEY’RE COMING OVER—“

“Who’s coming over? Coming here? Health inspectors?—“

“I needa pee.” Ellie’s already booking it towards the restroom, an excited Riley trucking close behind while Jesse panics about The Pope possibly eating at Wendy’s in the middle of fucking Wyoming.

“WHO’S COMING TONIGHT? HELLOOO—“

“YOU—YOU’RE FAKE AS HELL! YOU WAITED THIS LONG TO TELL ME ABOUT Y’ALL—“

“Shut up, I’m peeing, byeee, love ya, bye I needa pee, bye—“

The door shuts and locks, but she hears them yelling. A couple bangs on the door.

Just when she thought she found sanctuary…

“Hey.”

You stand by the mirror adjusting your tits in your tight ass shirt. All buttons are undone today, just her fucking luck.

“… You didn’t lock the door.”

“I wasn’t pissing.” You hold Pennifer up in your hand like a trophy, and Ellie snickers.

“Started without me?”

“Was fienin’,” With no hesitation, you offer it over, “Wanna pregame?”

She doesn’t mean to snatch it, but she’s a bit jittery. She puffs from, exhales in the opposite direction from you.

“I like when you do that.” Your tongue sounds larger in your mouth. Ellie has to puff again to keep from laughing.

“Do what. Get high on the job?” She whirs around smoke, but you ignore her.

“Tough night?” You nod towards the door that’s still being punched in by Riley.

“Somethin’ like that, yeah.”

“I HATE YOU, BITCH! NEXT TIME YOU WANNA SNEAK, LEMME KNOW—“

“Damn… what happened?”

“I just… I told her you were coming over tonight.” She hands Pennifer back.

Ellie’s surprised when you laugh. She half expected you to be irritated for snitching you both out to someone at work, was so prepared to ride for how trustworthy Riley is, that she wouldn’t get you both fired for workplace flirting and potential bathroom fondling.

But you don’t seem to care, just asks a simple question,

“Should I be concerned?”

She knows what you’re implying. Her head immediately shakes in denial. “I told you. Just a friend. She’s just nosy.”

“Alrighty,” you purr, and Ellie’s heart skyrockets when you take 2 steps closer. The bathroom suddenly feels like a funnel tube. Tight, closed-off, trapping, but she doesn’t leave. The door’s right there; she can’t bring herself to open it.

The pounding suddenly comes to a pause before irritated footsteps vacate the outside.

Ellie can’t stop the ache that blooms in her core or the watering of her mouth when both your hands rise to rest on your chest, the pudge poking through the gaps between your fingers. Either you're that soft, or you’re not wearing a bra.

“Buttons or no buttons?” Asked with fluttery lashes.

Ellie swallows. “One button.” For my fucking sanity, she wants to add, but you got enough ego to cover a goddamn army.

“Help me? Full hands ‘n allat.” That bottom lip juts out slightly and your lashes flutter, and it takes everything for Ellie to not press your face against this filthy ass door. Never in her life did she think she’d reach this level of depravity, but it’s been days. Days. She’s fucking starving for you.

Unfortunately, she has smidge of dignity, and wants you to keep yours.

So she buttons the last one, knuckles brushing against that small sliver of skin, taking in the way your pupils shake with every maneuver of her fingers. Your gaze alone could light a match. Start a forest fire. Burn this whole building to the fucking ground if you wanted.

“Thanks!” You say in your usual bushy-tailed tone, gently shoving Ellie aside to unlock and open the door. “Hi, favorite coworkers!”

The screaming stops, and Ellie’s head knocks back on the wall.

The last thing she wants to do is see her friends' faces. Riley’s hollering is enough.

“… WHAT IN THE FUCK IS GOING ON—“

Ellie’s sigh leaves her breathless.

—

“Welcome to my humble abode.”

Ellie shuts the door behind her, untangles her earplugs from around her neck to drop them, along with her keys, on the dining room table before shrugging her jacket off.

You were pretty quiet on the ride over. Made her a little nervous… A lot nervous.

“Why, thank you.” Ellie can’t hide her smile at your courtesy.

She watches your wandering eyes, moving all over her decorated walls, sloppy paint jobs, shredded up couch from kitten claws. She hopes you don’t notice the coffee stain that she could never remove.

“‘S very you.”

“I would hope so,” her feet carry her to the kitchen, “want a drink? I haaave…” She inspects her fridge. Empty, minus the to-go box, 3 beers, and 2 jugs of berry Minute Maid.

… Awkward. You’re a peckish pothead. Couldn’t even bother to get you a meal on the way home. Dumbass.

“Damn, bitch, no water?” You laugh, and Ellie huffs.

“You’re lucky I drank all my O-negative this morning. You’d be pissing yourself.”

“Sike, I’d buss it wide open for a vampire.”

She flushes before shutting the fridge and guiding you to the couch with a hand on your back.

“We matching? Or are you robbing me again?” You nudge her playfully before rummaging through your purse, and Ellie follows, pulling two jays out of her backpack.

Soon enough, your hands are stocked with Pennifer, a ziplock baggie of your own pre-rolls, and a… fucking butane lighter that your hand can barely close around.

“Goddamn—“

You cackle. “Shut up! Couldn’t find my pink one.”

“So you brought a fucking campfire?”

“If you’re gonna judge, you can spark yourself. Don’t mind m—“

Ellie snatches your lighter with an eye roll that borderline launches them to her brain, flickering the lighter on. It feels like a fucking fireplace. You’re ridiculous.

But you’re quiet. Ellie sparks the end with as much skill as you did last week.

Speaking of.

“Sorry I had to cancel a few days ago—”

“No need to be.”

“My cat got sick and it freaked me out. So. Yeah.”

“Aww, nooo,” you whine sympathetically. Even in your times of softness, that pout makes her lightheaded.

“Where's the baby? Is it okay?”

“He’s fine now. With my… dad.” She passes the jay to you. Watches you puff like a hawk, tinted chapstick smearing the edge. “I pick him up tomorrow.”

“That’s good. What’s the baby’s name?”

“Stewart.” She says stoically.

“… Is he orange?”

“Yes.”

“I can tell. He fucked this couch up.”

Ellie smiles. “You should see my room.”

“Is that an invite?”

Her heart stutters in her chest, but her gaze doesn’t falter from yours. She simply takes the joint from your grip, speaks around her puff.

“It’s whatever you want it to be.”

“Well.”

“Well what.” She pins.

“I want your mouth on my tits.”

“… And I want your tits in my mouth.” She speaks through a dry throat and a thrumming core, your tone set deep in her bones.

You nod your head once before unbuttoning the button she buttoned for you earlier, leaving your greasy cloth on the floor.

“Well… Lean.” Your hands gesture backwards.

And Ellie does, back pressed against her couch cushions, joint hanging from her fingers, almost as low as her eyes. Her suspicions were correct: you’re that soft and braless. You throw a leg over her lap, tits jiggling in her face.

She nearly yanks you down onto her lap when your lips curl around the joint, the orange end cresting like the sun in the morning.

“Suck on ‘em.” Smoke wafts in her face and she curses low and broken.

Your nipple beckons her lips and your hand flies to yank at her hair, pleased whines leaving your lips and vibrating down to her toes. She can barely gather the strength to rub on you like she wants; she’s too enraptured by your softness.

And your filth. That fucking mouth...

“You’re eating ‘em up like a fucking slut.” You whisper in astonishment before pressing a kiss atop her head. Ellie moans around you in response, tongue swirling messily around your areola before suctioning your nipple, drinking in your satisfied squeaks.

One of your nipples is more sensitive than the other. It's cute how loud you get when her teeth rub on them. Just an inch. Enough to get you jumping on her lap like a bunny.

They’re so heavy on her tongue, so soft in her mouth. She’s sure her jeans are staining with her slick… and yours. She can practically smell you.

“Ellie, ‘m—oh fuck, I might cum—“

Her muscles act on their own accord, her joint-less hand coming down to whack your ass, mouth popping off to spit sloppy on both your tits, rubbing her mess in with her tongue.

“You’re so hot, you’re so hot, m’cumming, ohhh fuck—“

Your arm closes tight on the back of her neck, shoving her face tight against your breasts and she accepts that she’ll happily die here: under you, trapped by your scent and your skin and your yipped thanks for the nut.

You have to shove Ellie off your tits after your comedown, thighs clamping shut on her lap when her teeth nick your more sensitive nip, her mouth matching your chest in wetness.

“Fuck.” She exhales, head plummeting on the back of the couch. Tokes one last time. Blows it in your face between giving you one.

“I thought you were a fucking prude when I met you. My fault.” You exhaust through heaves and clouds. She shakes her head uncaringly, massages your tit just to watch you twitch.

“You want another one?” She asks plainly despite the throbbing between her thighs.

“… You serious?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure… After you show me what’s in your nightstand.”

Ellie chuckles. She’s always loved a bargain.

[inthelibrarybtw]

you're gonna go far | 01 - the boneyard

SERIES MASTERLIST pairing: rafe cameron x pogue!reader

summary: where Rafe who hates pogues has a soft spot for one, who couldn't care less about him, she's too independent and too focused on graduating college and making it out of the Cut to pay attention to him or where they say they don't like each other yet for a reason they are always at the same place at the same time, him making time for her and her never pushing him away but again they don't like each other. word count: 3.2k content: alcohol consumption, angst, cursing, pogue/kook talk, rafe being an asshole, classism, superiority complex authors note: they are back! my angsty babies. we'll see where this one goes. If you read it the first time around, pretend you didn't 😂

01 | 02

Another Boneyard party. Pogue territory, your territory, not his. Yet he found himself at another party there. The excuse he gave everyone, even himself, was that he would never miss a party and needed to keep an eye on Sarah, his very grown sister, whose business was anything but important to him. But he needed something to justify his presence instead of just accepting the truth about why he always wanted to be there.  

The truth didn’t make sense to him. It was not who he was. Rafe hated pogues, even though he wouldn’t use the word hate out loud; his actions spoke louder than words. He never wanted to be around them, not until he saw you. Sarah had invited her new friends over to a party after a few months of dating John B. He had probably seen you around a few times, but you had never caught his attention. You had been like another person who blurred into the background until that night. There was just something about you that had him immediately hooked. From that point on, he looked for you everywhere; he wanted to know you. He wanted to know a pogue, and that threw him off balance more than he liked to admit.  

Your existence alone made him lose his mind, but other things drove him crazy and made his skin crawl. Like the fact that you weren’t afraid of him, you stood up against him when he messed up with your friends, and you were there to witness it. Whenever he was an asshole, you were there calling him on his shit, and he hated it but not as much as he pretended to. He hated that you could see right through him, but he loved how much he could also push back at you. There was just this pull about you that he couldn’t resist.  

So, there he was again at another Boneyard party, even when he wasn't really in the mood; he was there only to see you. As much as he tried to ignore you and pretend not to care for you, he couldn't, and that's how he ended up going back to his car to grab his jacket and make his way to you. The party was in full swing, but you needed a break, so you were sitting alone on a blanket over the sand, looking at the ocean and hugging yourself. For a mid-June night, it was cold—too cold; probably a storm was coming soon, or the weather was just acting up.  

As if it were heaven-sent, a puffy jacket wrapped around you. "You'll get sick," he said. You looked up to meet Rafe's stoic face, as if what he had just done was nothing. "It's freezing," he added before sitting next to you.

"I'm going to be fine," you said. 

As much as you wanted to take the jacket, your pride was bigger, so you started to take it off to give it back, but he stopped you by putting it back on. He scoffed before answering. 

"Right, like you're not trembling. Just take it." You didn't fight him; it felt good, but you weren't going to admit it to his face. 

"What about you?" You turned to look at him. He didn't appear cold, but still, you asked. 

"I'm fine. You need it more than I do." His eyes darted over to your body, a strange feeling forming in his chest at the sight of you enveloped in something that belonged to him. 

“I'm not going to die from being cold.” You glared at him, putting your arms into the jacket. It looked like his jacket had swallowed you up, and he smirked at the sight.

"Yeah, I know, but you were shaking, and I'm not."

"Right..." Rafe being nice to you wasn't new, but with him, you were always waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was never nice just to be nice.

"Thanks," you said softly as you looked around. Everyone was enjoying the party; it was one of those moments when you wondered why you were there. You could be doing anything else. Rafe interrupted your thoughts when he cleared his throat.

"Aren't you going to go back to everyone?"

"Not right now. Why?" You turned to look at him with a confused expression. You wanted to go home, but if you didn't stick around a little longer, your friends would ask, and you liked to avoid the questions. 

"Just asking… I don’t get why you hang out with them." The other shoe dropped. You wondered if it was physically impossible for him to keep his mouth shut. 

"Around who? My friends?” you asked. "Yeah, I don’t see the appeal of hanging out with Pogues.” You rolled your eyes.

“You are hanging out with one right now,”  you quipped back, and he rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, but this is different,” he said as if he were stating something obvious. 

"Oh, and why's that?" Rafe was the perfect example of why you didn’t like kooks; it was like they inherently needed to be right or have the upper hand in anything they did. 

"Because I’m not hanging out with you, I’m just sitting here,” he scoffed. He had a way of getting under your skin that no one else had. It was infuriating. 

“If you were just sitting there, you wouldn’t be talking to me.” 

“Whatever, one pogue is not the whole Cut,” he said gruffly. 

“Yes, because God forbid you’re a decent person toward the rest.”

“Again with that?” 

“You’re the one who started this.” He knew it was true. 

“I just don’t get why you willingly decide to hang out with them. They don’t care about anything, look at them…” he made a hand gesture to point at your friends. 

“It’s a party, they are having fun.” 

“I’m just saying you shouldn’t be around them,” he shrugged. 

"And what makes you think I will listen to you?" His face contorted in annoyance.

"I'm just trying to look out for you, Pogue. " The way he said 'Pogue' with such disdain just reminded you of his hate for you and your friends. You also hated him, even if the current situation didn’t look like you did. You didn’t take off his jacket. The cold weather was making you do stupid things. 

“You hate Pogues,” you stated. He huffed, almost as if it’s amusing to see you mad. 

“Usually I do; all of them are annoying, but…” he pauses for a second, thinking as if it’s a good idea to continue talking. “You just… you’re different.”  

“And that’s supposed to mean something?” You didn’t know how to take that coming from Rafe, of all people.  

“It means you don’t annoy me as much as they do, and I don’t particularly want to see you getting hurt because of whatever the Pogues do.”  

“Getting hurt? How would my friends hurt me? Last time I checked, you were the one doing the hurting to them.”  

“They are them, and you’re…” he trails off. “I just don’t get how you can hang out with them.” His irritation was growing; you noticed it, but you didn’t care.  

“There’s nothing to get; they are my friends. Maybe you don’t understand because the concept of considering your friends family is foreign to you.”  

“Oh, I don’t get that they’re your little family? That you love hanging around The Cut?” he said in a condescending tone.  

“I’m a Pogue! The Cut is my home,” a home that you didn’t like. Pope was the only one who knew how much you wanted to just get out and how hard you were working to actually make that happen. “That’s my life!”  

“A hell of a life you’ve got then; you could do better than that.” As much as you didn't like it there, it was still your home. He didn’t have the right to comment on it. He had barely set foot in, and he didn’t get it. He was never going to get it. “Living there doesn’t mean you have to hang out with them.”  

“And what? Get kook friends that don’t understand how hard it is to live on the Cut? They get me; we have been through a lot together.” His chest feels tight all of a sudden. He studies your face, trying to think of what he can say next.  

“You could do better. Go find new friends, some that won’t drag you down with them.” You stare at him, looking for a trace of it being a joke, but he is serious. He seriously thinks your friends are not good for you. You laugh bitterly.

“I don’t need new friends… I don’t want new friends. They aren’t dragging me down; they push me to do better and, most importantly, they don’t make me feel like trash.” Rafe goes silent, his jaw clenching in annoyance. He knew he treated your friends like that most of the time and hated that you were right about it.  

“I don’t think you’re trash,” he groans in frustration. “This is just about having better company, people that don’t get you into trouble.”  

“I don’t need better company. What aren’t you getting? They are important to me, and I care for them. We stick by each other, and we push each other to do better because we want out; we do not want to stay in The Cut forever.” You didn’t. A part of you knew that JJ and John B didn’t care. Yes, they wanted better, but that didn’t necessarily mean getting out of The Cut.  

Then there was Kie, who was a kook and preferred the pogue life. A part of you was angry at Kie; she had the privileges you would kill for, and she took them all for granted. You loved her, but still, it frustrated you.  

He scoffs; he hated the tone you were taking. Yes, it’s the same tone he’s giving you, but he doesn’t like it when it’s aimed at him and coming from you. If it had been any other pogue, he would’ve either fought them or ignored them, but it was you.  

“Oh, you don’t?” he said, faking disbelief. “I don’t think having them around is going to make things easier. Almost no one makes it out of The Cut. What are you going to do? Work for minimum-wage jobs?”  

“You think I’m not aware it’s hard? I know how things go, Rafe.” You were trying to remain calm; he was getting on your nerves. You had heard that a thousand times, but coming from him right there felt somehow even worse. Not even a few minutes ago, he had given you his jacket, but just like that, he was back to being an asshole.  

“Well then, I don’t think you’re trying that much. The Cut is like a black hole that swallows people, and you can never escape. If you do, I doubt it's going to be with your friends next to you.” You had enough. He had the nerve to say all that when his father came from The Cut and made it out. You didn’t really like Ward Cameron; granted, not a lot of people did, but you had to give him that. He made it out, and he wasn’t the best person, but he was all the proof you needed to know it was possible.  

“Yeah, well, your dad made it out of that black hole.” You saw him tense up at the mention of his father; well, now you knew how to piss him off. You regretted using his dad as an example since it was a sensitive topic for him, but you tried to convince yourself he deserved it.  

You didn’t like confrontation, but with him, every word flew out of your mouth without hesitation. It made you feel good, like you were brave enough, and in the eyes of many, you were. After all, it was Rafe Cameron you were standing up against. Deep inside him, he respected that you would run your mouth at him, even if it made you the most insufferable girl he knew.  

“My dad was different; it was a rare thing, like winning the lottery, you know?” you huffed under your breath, looking at the sand. Of course, he was going to be an asshole about it. But he saw your reaction and felt the need to comfort you.  

“What I’m saying is…” He didn’t know if he would say the right thing; he sucked at comforting people. “You’re going to have a hard time getting out of there. If you want to stay with your friends, then maybe you’re better off staying in The Cut and accepting that reality.”  

You looked at him; if you could strangle him with a look, you would’ve done it. You scoffed, biting the inside of your cheek. “You know what, Rafe? Fuck you! You don’t get it!” You stood up, took his jacket off, and threw it at him before walking away.  

“Hey! Wait, where are you going?” He stood up, calling you out and grabbing his jacket, but you were already walking as fast as you could to get away from him.  

“This girl…” he muttered. You annoyed him so much, yet he felt bad. The look on your face before leaving, the words—it had affected him more than he liked to admit. Watching you go directly to JJ after it just made it worse. You had heard him, but you ignored him. What made him think that any of what he said was okay?

—

When you finally made your way back to your friends, you regretted throwing his jacket back; you were cold again. “Ah, she's back! Where were you?” JJ piped in first as he watched you sitting near the bonfire. You weren’t going to tell them you were with Rafe, so you avoided the question the best way you knew how.

“Just taking a break from all this,” you nodded, hugging yourself. You thought about going back just for the jacket, but you would rather freeze to death than face Rafe again. 

“You’re cold? There’s a hoodie on the Twinkie; you can grab it,” JJ said as he walked to grab another beer. You nodded and decided to go get it, and maybe even stay there. You made your way to where the Twinkie was parked.

—

Rafe didn’t leave the party even after what had turned out to be a fight with you. He kept an eye on you from a distance, and he did that far more often than he liked to admit. He decided to follow you wherever you were going. You were about to put on the hoodie when Rafe showed up.  

"You know you can always have this back." He lifted his hand, where he held his jacket. You rolled your eyes as you put on the less-warm hoodie.  

"I don’t need or want your help; maybe you should accept that reality too," you said bitterly, referring to what he had told you earlier.  

He rolled his eyes, feeling guilty for what he had said, but it was done, and he was trying to make it better without even saying sorry. "You don’t let things go, huh?"  

"You’re an asshole to me, and then you want me to be okay with it? Things don’t work that way; at least acknowledge that what you said was wrong." You crossed your arms over your chest and stared at him. He knew he was in the wrong; he felt bad about it, but he wasn’t going to apologize or acknowledge it because every word you said spiked his irritation in a way only you could manage.  

"If being wrong is stating facts, then yeah, I’m wrong," you groaned in frustration. You wondered why you even indulged him when you knew how he was. It was like you were being pulled to him; as much as you knew you could just stay quiet, you never did with him. You didn’t like him having the last word.  

"You’re an asshole. You come here saying stuff when you don’t even have a clue what it’s like to live in a place you hate, but it's still your home." He felt a sudden anger bubbling up. Oh, he was familiar with hating the place where he lived. It wasn’t the same way you did, but he knew the feeling all too well.  

"You’re so infuriating. First, you say I’m too much for the Pogues—newsflash, I’m one! You say they hold me down, but when I tell you I want to do better, you say I should give up?" You groaned in frustration and ran your hands through your hair.  

He stared at you; you looked pretty even when you were angry at him. He shook his head, focusing back on his irritation. "You done with your tantrum?" He knew that would only make you more upset, and maybe he wanted to see how far he could take it. As much as he was different from you, he still was Rafe—the cocky kook asshole who thought everyone should listen to him. You clenched your jaw.  

"What, you didn’t like what I said? Sorry, I was just stating facts." You lifted a brow, testing him in return. You weren’t afraid of him; your friends had told you multiple times to be careful, that you didn’t know who you were messing with. But nothing ever happened to you, besides the same old Pogue comments, and as sad as it was, you were used to them. They did hurt sometimes, but nothing worth crying over. It just fueled you to prove to everyone—and him—that you could do the things he never thought you would.  

"Do you ever know when to shut up?" he huffed, and you felt a pang of hurt in your chest. Out of all the things he had said, this is what ended up hurting you? You swallowed and looked up at him. "Oh, you do know when to shut up." He smirked with his stupid, smug face. Why did he have to be like that?  

"Do you ever know when to stop?" you pushed past him. You knew why this had hurt more than the other things, but you chose to ignore it; you could deal with that later, or just shove it down. You turned around to walk back to where the rest of the people were.  

"Wait!" He yanked you back. "You don’t get to tell me what to do." You looked at him, frustrated. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath to try and calm yourself down, but it was useless.  

"Neither do you!" You pulled your arm from his grasp. "Never touch me again. I don’t want to see you around. Stick to the words you’ve said to my friends a thousand times: stay on your side of the island, kook!" You used the word with the same distaste he used for "Pogue."  

You were done; he had made you feel horrible twice, and you had allowed it. You stormed off, and this time he didn’t stop you. The words kept ringing in his head until Topper called him out. They were ready to leave, and at the same time, you convinced JJ to take you back to your house. Rafe looked from a distance, anger bubbling up inside him, but there was nothing he could do about it. 

He left the party not long after you did, parts of the conversation still replaying in his head.

taglist: @starkeyvhs @oxpogues4lifexo @persiar9 @lenasvoid @angelicameron @purplerose291 @davinashifts333 @hannieskzzz @rafesdrew @icopewithfanfictions @pogueprincesa taglist is open! if you want to be added send an ask or comment! :) follow and turn on notifications on @inthelibrarybtw-notifs to get updates on everything i write.

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INTHELIBRARYBTW ✧.*

[alanisstonedd]

busted | singledad!ony x teacher!reader

an: so cute! i love themmmm. i’ve had this one in the drafts for a while now yall, please enjoy! send me ya nasty asks

cw: fluff, suggestive themes, black!reader, cussing, single dad

you hear a soft knock, blinking up from your laptop a little confused. it’s 1:30 and your kids are in science, currently grading with the little free time you do have today - you certainly were not expecting any meetings.

but when you focus your eyes on the figure at the door, you don’t even know why you didn’t expect that shit. amira’s father is once again standing in your classroom doorway, shoulders broad as hell in a white tee and grey sweats, clutching a little pink jacket in one thick hand. go figure.

you squint, not only at his unplanned appearance at 1:30 on a wednesday, but more so at the jacket “it’s… 85 degrees.” you can already smell the con he came in here tryna fool you with

he shrugs, biting his lip like he don’t even care about the excuse anymore. but he locks eyes with you and steps in slowly like he hasn’t been here a million times already. “mm — yeah, she said she was cold earlier. y’know kids. gotta be on go.”

you fold your arms, smiling despite yourself. he really is relentless — this is like the fourth time he’s been in here this week and you’re only three days in. “they in the art room right now, ony.” you sing-song, standing up and rounding your desk to give him your full attention. i mean he’s already here, smelling like you wanna climb him until your legs are around his head… it would be rude to not give him at least a second of your time.

“oh, word?” he steps farther in, looking around like he’s seeing it for the first time or something. “well… I could just leave it.” he mumbles, licking his lips at you, and it feels like he just turned the heat on in here.

this is precisely why you hate him coming in here like this — because as soon as you see that big ass frame tryna bust out of that white tee, that sweet smile that also somehow says “i’ll man-handle you and wear yo ass out”, and what maybe or may not be a bulge inbetween two huge thighs that you’re unsuccessfully trying to avoid… you fold like a damn chair. your will power is never strong enough to withstand this man and his apparently unyielding desire to see you.

but he doesn’t “just leave it”, of course, the man always has another plan.

instead, he sets it on amira’s desk and plops into the nearest tiny chair. you almost bust out laughing at how ridiculous he looks — this ass big man, all thick thighs and grown-man muscle, folded into a desk built for 7-year-olds.

you lean against your own desk, raising an eyebrow. you can’t help but smile at him grinning up at you like he’s so happy with himself. but he knows you already folded.

“you good, mr. ony?”

“mhmm.” he tilts his head, eyes trailing over your frame. drinking you in. wishing you���d move a little closer so he could reach for those hips. “you look real good today miss ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧. real professional. definitely too fine to be up in this school single…”

you roll your eyes, biting back a grin. “you here to flirt with me or to bring your child’s unnecessary outerwear?”

“it can’t be both? you know i need my miss ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ time…” he says, full grin, unabashedly and very obviously undressing you in his head.

“mhm, you a piece of work ony.” you’re trying to keep it together — you really are. hut this man’s sitting there all big and broad, sweats straining against his big ass legs in that tiny chair, hand stroking his sexy ass beard while he watches you like you’re art — eyes shining like the things he’s imagining doing to you right now have no place in this classroom

“so how’s your day been, miss ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧?” he asks, and all the sudden you’re hot with just those simple words, his voice all low and seductive. “you eat somethin’ today? drink your water? anybody holla at you yet or i’m the first lucky man?”

you tilt your head, snickering. “is that how you talk to every teacher?”. you sass back, fronting like you don’t want his flirting but you can’t deny the fanny flutters you get when he comes in thirsty for you.

he leans forward, tryna reel you in even closer than you already are, resting his arms on the tiny desk like it’s the most natural thing in the world. little does he know, you wanna lock that damn door and show him off-the-clock you.

“nah,” he says, eyes glinting with that mischief that makes your clit throb. he knows he got you — or at least got your attention. “just the one i’m tryna take out for dinner… then dessert… and then breakfast.”

your breath catches, and he immediately sees that shit because he’s been watching you like a hawk since he came in here. watching you every move, your beautiful face and all your expressions like he wants to know every single one you have, jealous of the way your hands get to hold your juicy hips and thighs.

he stands up realllll slow, walking toward you, caging you in — close enough that the desk’s edge is flush against your booty, that the heat from his big frame is making your face hot. making all of you hot. you try to stay calm. professional. but his voice drops to that dangerous whisper.

“y’know how hard it is not to grab yo fine ass and kiss you every time I see you?”

you blink up at him, heat crawling up your neck and down into your pussy. his hands on the desk behind you, boxing you in, his hips dangerously close to your hips.

“ony, this is not—”

his hand slides up your thigh slow like he wants you to feel it, hiking your leg up just slightly against his body. he leans in slow enough to show you he’s not scared, lips barely brushing yours, eyes flicking between your mouth and your eyes like he’s starving. he wants you in his bed already. the holding-back is not for him, but if he keeps this up, he might do something regrettable in this elementary school classroom.

then, suddenly, just as you’re about to lean in and suck his tongue like yall are alone, his hands gripping you up and pressing you against him like he craves to do every damn day —

SLAM.

the classroom door swings open.

you jump against your desk. he steps back lightning fast, not ashamed but… you could loose your job right? ‘course he wants to have you, but ideally without that possibility.

amira skips in like she owns the place, completely oblivious to the little situation happening in there just moments before.

“hi miss ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧! miss smith said i could come get my water bottle!”

she grabs it off her desk, “oh, hi daddy…” and gives you both a sweet little wave before skipping back the way she came in…

but she pauses mid-skip and turns around…she squints at you both like she knows something, then smiles like the devil. she lets out a little “mhm..” before continuing on her way back to science class.

but not before blurting “quit kissin’ on the mouth with the door unlocked!” you hear a sneaky giggle and then she’s skipping right out the door before yall can even speak.

you and ony are still frozen in shock — then BURSTING out laughing. he collapses forward into you, head on your shoulder, muffling a full-body laugh into your shirt while you wheeze with one hand over your heart. she too smart for her age.

you shake your head, smirking. “you ain’t right, mr. ony. almost got our asses busted.”

he grins into your shoulder, like he doesn’t even care. “she really said on the mouth… we wasn’t even…”

© 2025 alanisstonedd. all rights reserved — do not steal, plagiarize, or modify my content.

hope yall liked this! likes, comments, reblogs and all the rest are much appreciated!!

xoxo, lani 💋💋💋

[redheadspark]

17 for Azriel please? (Azriel being the one doing that)

A/N - This is cute for Azriel! Thanks for the request, anon!

Right Direction

Summary - Azriel was never soft, not until you

Warnings - Fluff :)

If there is one thing that most of the Night Court was not aware of when it came to the Shadowsinger, it was his affection.

He was never known to be affectionate, not in the public at least.  Being the only Shadowsinger in all of Pythian,let alone the Spymaster that would shake even the bravest soldiers in their boots, it would be surreal to think of Azriel being someone who was soft and affectionate with others.  He cared for the Inner Circle of course, that was his family and he would always care for him.

But it was different when it came to you, his mate.

You two were freshly mated, finding one another right after the battle against Hybren.  You blew into Night Court after leaving Autumn Court, wanting to start fresh and leave the past behind you.  Finding sanctuary in Night Court, you snagged a job at a local floral shop since you had a keen eye for flower arrangements.  One summer afternoon, on a particularly warm day with the front bay windows wide open to let in the breeze, a few fae came into your shop as you were tending to the peonies that were ready to blossom.

One of them was Azriel, and once you both locked eyes, nothing else cease to exist.

Now, nearly a year later, you were in the same flower shop and trimming down some stems of yellow roses when you heard a small hint of footsteps. Almost like tiptoes that were barely heard on the creaked floors.  Then you felt a cool lick of smoke against your forearm, a teasing touch that you knew far too well.  Lastly, a pair of hands were placed against your hips.  The feel of the calloused and scarred palms and fingers were felt through your shirt.  That touch alone brought you peace when you were in trouble, strength when you felt weak, and love when you were empty.

“Hello, my darling,” You hummed, a dark chuckle was behind you.

“How did you guess?” A smoky tone purred against your hair as you giggled.

“Your shadows, honey.  I swear they have a mind of their own,” You teased, though you felt a poke at your side. You squealed, his laugh rang in the room as his arms snaked around your waist to tuck you in front of him.

“Don’t tell me you hate it when my shadows do that?” He asked in a coy manner, you were about to say something until he finally had you turn to face him.  There he was, stripped down from his leathers in a dark blue linen button down shirt and slimming jeans and a good pair of boots.  HIs black inky hair was swept to the side, and his hazel eyes glistened in the sun that was pouring into the shop.

Azriel, your mate and husband.

“I would never say that,” You hummed, reached up to wrap your arms around his neck and then pocking his nose lightly with the tip of your finger.  His nose crinkled from your touch, though he grinned from ear to ear from the gesture, “I happen to like your shadows and the wonders they can do when were alone together,”

Azriel was flushed for a moment before he leaned in a kissed you, steeling your breath for only a moment.

It took some time to have Azriel come out of his shell when it came to affection, that’s what you were told at least.  When you two discovered you were mates, Azriel wanted to court you properly and make sure you were comfortable with him as your mate, let alone as a potential husband.  It seemed sweet of him, you seeing that he was a bit uncomfortable with the notion of having his guard down constantly.  But Cassian reassure you that his heart was tender and in the right place.

“He needs a push in the right direction,” Cassian explained as he visited your shop to gather flowers for his own mate, Nesta.  He watched you wrap up the two dozen roses that he was going to purchase with a tilt of his head, “I think you’re gonna be the right push he needs.”

Cassian was right.  You showed him that holding hands was okay, lingering hugs when he would walk you home from the shop, even kisses on the cheeks during a dinner date or a walk along the bay.  Azriel’s walls were no longer fortresses, but they were crumpling down everytime you showing him affection.  He loved your hugs, almost as if he was never hugged in such a way for such a long time.  The kisses her gave you were soft and gentle, almost as if he was afraid to be open to you.

Le this love for you blossomed within weeks, even months.  Before you knew it, the Shadowsinger would follow you around like a lost puppy and be on your beck and call.  He loved showing you affection, in his own way at least. He wanted to be close by you at all times when you two were around one another.  Whether his hand would be on your lower back or around your hip, even holding your hand was enough for him.  

But with the affection came his mischievous side, which was ten times better.

He loved making you laugh, whether it was from a corny joke or by making faces behind Rhysand’s back when in an intense meeting.  He claimed your laugh always made his heart beat a bit faster and make his day a pinch brighter.  If his antics wouldn’t work, then he would find other ways, including poking you.  For some reason, it made you laugh even harder when he would poke your side, your nose, even your stomach.  Sure it was a bit childish, but you never hated it. 

He would poke your arm carefully when you were lost in thought, he would poke your side when you were reading a book in bed and he was wanting to ask you a question, even poking your shoulder when you were  silently crying and needing to bring you comfort and peace.  You would crumble at the touch, rolling into his awaiting arms as he would let you cry against his chest.  The hardships that you had, he knew and wished to take from you within seconds.  The hard nights filled with nightmares, he would wish them away if he could.

All he could do was bring you affection, both gentle and playful.  You took ounce of affection that he would give you.

“Our anniversary is coming up,” Azriel reminded you lightly as you rang your fingers along the back of his neck into his hair, “I wanna take you away for the week,”

“A week? “ You asked with a hint of shock as he nodded his head with a massive grin, “You make it so casual, as if I can take the week off from the shop,”

“Well as I recall, you are doing quite well with the business and you can afford a whole week off and then some,” He reminded you as his fingers drummed at your sides, “Besides, you’ve been working double hours the last few days.  Even Rhysand mentioned you needed a break after our monthly dinner at the House of Wind,”

You rolled your eyes as Azriel used that moment to kiss your cheek lovingly, “Damn him and his prying eyes,”

“He means well, as do I.  Which is why I wanna treat you for our anniversary,” He explained, though you pointed at him with one finger.

“If you would have your way, we would be celebrating our anniversary for a solid month,” You corrected, and the wya he smiled at you, you knew it was true.  You leaned in for another kiss, feeling him tuck you in a bit more.  Once you pulled away, you were pouring your eyes into his own and you had those butterflies again.  The same butterflies when you made in this same shop nearly two years ago, the same butterflies when you two kissed for the first time under the summer stars.  

Those butterflies would never fade, and you were glad for it.

“Come on, how about you close the shop early and we can get back to our place to pac,” He said as he poked your side, you giggled as you swatted his arm in retaliation, “I’ll make sure that we pack the good snacks.”

“And the good wine?” You teased as you were pulling away from him to go grab your bag that was hanging on the wall.

“I know where Rhysand hides it in The House of Wind,” Azriel replied.  

That anniversary was a great one, with the wine included and plenty of laughs ensued.

The End

June Prompt Session

[cuteandhughesy]

It’s You. ╰┈➤ AS37

summary: when your best friend needs a fake girlfriend for his cousins wedding, you are the girl he claims is his. after all, what’s the worse than can happen? well, after sharing a bed, an awkward conversation about sex with his family and an unexpected kiss, you and andrei are forced to confront feelings you thought you had been repressing.

[word count] 10.9k

warnings: MATURE! friends to lovers | fake dating | fluff | a lil angst | weddings | l kissing | reader is mentioned to have glasses | fade to black smut scene | drinking | mention of sex organs | mature themes and dialogue | read at your own discretion

a/n: the end of 2024, I put out a poll asking which players you wanted to see my write for (that I haven’t done yet) and svechy was one of the players you guys wanted to see! so I hope you guys love this 💋 this uses some scenes from a no-longer published fic—if it looks familiar, that’s because it is ❤️

🎵 perfect places by lorde, scared of my guitar by olivia rodrigo, must be nice by ruel, breakfast in bed by nessa barrett, carry you home by alex warren, it's you by zayn, best friends by 5 seconds of summer, delicate by taylor swift, + always been you by shawn mendes

andrei already knows that it's not the brightest idea he's ever had. actually, refrain that, it's quite possibly the worst idea he's ever had.

it's just—the idea passed through his system and fell out of his mouth before he could even blink. andrei's mother and aunt had practically ambushed him on a three way call just over three weeks ago—8 a.m in russia, 1 a.m. in carolina—which already had him in a frazzle. but then they immediately started asking about the dreaded (dreaded for andrei, more so than anyone else, obviously) plus one attached to his cousins wedding invitation.

the wedding that yes, was in fact only three weeks away. and a plus one attachment that andrei still hadn't confirmed or denied if he needed. because according to his very empty left side of the bed, and the singular toothbrush on his bathroom counter, andrei svechnikov is very much single and very much not needing a plus one.

but it just came out before he could stop it.

‘of course i'll be bringing someone to the wedding mama and tetr! in fact, i'll be bringing my girlfriend!’

and know here he is, 2 hours into an 18 hour flight from raleigh to his hometown in a first class seat that, despite its expanse of leg room, feels all too small. it's suffocating for no other reason than his own doing and sneakiness that he’s drowning in.

because you're next to him, happy and sipping on your third glass of champagne—skin radiating heat with the bubbly alcohol running through your bloodstream. you're halfway to tipsy and somehow completely oblivious to the way andrei's shoulders are still tight and ridged, something that normally subsides after take off.

as far as you know—because it's what your best friend told you, mind you—you're attending andrei's cousins wedding as his best friend. because since 2019, where you meet the russian hurricanes rookie downtown at a shitty dive bar playing music far too loud, you and andrei have been just that. best friends.

you suppose the friendship blossomed because of your common interests of sports and adam sandler movies and how the smell of coconut is one of your favourite things in the entire world. or perhaps it was your differences that had you and andrei forming such a strong friendship.

you hate rollercoasters, but andrei loves them.

you love tequila, but when andrei drinks tequila he ends up with his head inside a toilet bowl.

you would rather eat rubber than an olive, but andrei puts olives on everything he eats—much to his dietary staffs displeasure. salt is a killer people.

regardless, the both of you bonded over shitty honey garlic wings served with a side of ranch—sauce on the side per your request, to which he called you a weirdo for. whatever—and became fast friends.

so obviously three weeks ago when andrei asked if you wanted to come to the wedding so he, you and quote, 'doesn't have to be alone while he young cousins force him to play around the yard, and his distant family talks his ear off the entire weekend,' you easily complied. you booked the time off work that afternoon before leaving the office without so much as a second thought.

but andrei didn't tell you why he needed you to join him. not the real reason anyways. because what? he's just supposed to say, 'oh by the way, this weekend I need you to be my fake girlfriend because I told my family that's what we have become. boyfriend and fucking girlfriend.'

yeah, unfucking likely. and andrei knows that you're not going to kill him over his little lie. that's just not you. he's also sure that if he was truthful from the beginning with you, you would've agreed to the whole fake in love act with the snap of a finger. because you're giving and caring and so damn compassionate that it's almost sickly.

but andrei just couldn't. he kept pushing the truth back, telling himself that the moment would come and that’s when he would come clean. but now you're both on the plane to russia, wedding just a few days away, and you still have no idea that in 16 hours you're going to be sharing a bed and holding hands and maybe even needing to show a few kisses.

god, it's a mess.

"do you feel sick?" your smooth voice breaks andrei out of his stress whirling thoughts, lifting his palm off his sweaty forehead like he's been caught stealing candy. it's then when andrei realizes he audibly groaned out loud, which obviously did it’s part in grabbing your attention.

he swallows and sends you an unconvincing smile. "no, i'm fine." andrei feels sick alright, just not in the way you're picturing.

you blink like a baby deer at him from over the adjustable wall between your scoop like seats—your champagne glass abandoned on the fold away table in favour of clutching the edge of the wall between your manicured fingers.

a pout pulls at your lips before you reach out, touching his forehead with the back of your hand. "are you warm?"

andrei jerks back, worried that you’ll notice the misting of sweat dusting his hairline. "no, what? I'm fine, y/n."

you send him a skeptical look, "you look like you're about to blow chunks everywhere."

"that's gross."

"it's true," you chime. a beat passes, your gaze never wavering from andrei's wound up, tight expression, while the plane continues to easily glide through the clouds.

you take your bottom lip between your teeth, gnawing on the plump skin until it will undoubtedly go raw. andrei has to stop himself from reaching over to pull your lip out with his thumb.

"are you mad about something? nervous?" you push, determined to get your best friend to spill regardless of how tightly wound up he is. and obviously you've noticed that he's been a little...off, for lack of a better word, the past three weeks. andrei is your best friend, of course you noticed.

but you know better than to push him, and that andrei will open up when he's ready—like usual. but the champagne floating around in your head has your tongue slipping, and curiosity has gotten the best of you.

"is it something I did?" you swallow, something tentative in your tone that makes andrei's belly clench with guilt.

"no," he breathes before running a calloused hand down the front of his flushed face. andrei looks back over to you, eyes flickering between your wide and sad ones, and he just breaks. "I fucked up."

ever amused by his dramatics, you quirk a brow at his distress. the drunk haze has you unable to see his actual, very real, distress. "you get the sushi from that airport kiosk after I went to the bathroom, didn't you?"

but it's then —when andrei looks over at you with a guilt ridden, pouty raw lip, that you blink. hard. a wave of hot sweat rushing over your skin as every possible problem arises in your body.

andrei mutters your name in that deep, gravelly way and you think you might be the one who ends up puking.

"what is it?" you swallow, "what happened? are you okay?"

he groans again, no less dramatic than the previous display, head falling back against the plush first class cushioned head rest, giving himself a nice view of the hard plastic roof above.

andrei thinks back to the phone call with his family—more specifically, how pleased they sounded when he told them that you were the girl he was bringing home.

you, the girl he's cared for since before he could string a cohesive english scentence together.

you, the girl who his mom facetimes more than she facetimes her own son.

you, the best friend his family has had the pleasure of falling in love with and accepting as one of their own. but left disappointed when andrei said, no, nothings there between you.

just friends.

it's too late to back out now—for obvious reasons, clearly—but also for the fact that he can't take this away from his family now. not when his mother had said she's been waiting for the two of you to fall in love.

so fall in love you must. even if it's fake.

andrei's head lols against the headrest over in your direction, and he gulps slowly, adam's apple bobbing largely. before he can chicken out and do something crazy like jump out of the emergency exit, andrei's lips part with hesitation.

"we have to pretend to be in love," he pauses, "like in love."

at first you just blink at him, face completely flat and void of emotion, and then every so subtly, your brows draw together. "...why?"

"I just," andrei hesitates like he's not quite sure exactly what to say to you. he chalks it up to the way your soft eyes are unwavering—patient, even—and that's the reason andrei just spews.

he tells you everything. from the wedding invitation with the accompanying plus one he got in the mail a year prior, and all the way through the conversation with his mom and his aunt just a few weeks ago. the taunting plus one and lack of girlfriend that just bubbled up in his chest until the lie just fell off his tongue.

andrei takes a much needed inhale, his cheeks flushed like a little boys in the summer heat. "and when my mom asked for my girlfriends name...I don't know? you were the first person I thought of."

you nod after a beat, every so slightly that andrei is not sure if he's imagining it. you fall back into the large seat with a fluttering sigh, "oh fuck."

andrei can't help the disbelief laced laughter that rumbles through his broad chest, because, yeah, oh fuck is right.

you turn to look at him, face a little less flushed than the last time you did.

"if it makes you feel any better," he continues awkwardly, scratching the spot next to his heart like a nervous habit. "my mom was really excited that we're together now."

"andrei."

he winces, "are you mad at me?"

the question prompts a flash of deja vu from meer minutes ago, when the question was flipped between you. "no," you tell him after a beat, running a clammy hand over your untamed hair. "i'm just...trying to digest it all."

"right, of course." andrei swallows and sits up straighter in his seat, "and I know i'm springing this on you very last fucking minute. but i've already figured it all out, and i've got some sort of a game plan for us."

"a game plan?"

"yeah," he nods, "I've called it the 'andrei and y/n love affair 2025.'"

"that's good," you gulp, pulling your knees up against your chest. your matching cream sweat set all blends together in this position, and andrei thinks you look like a cute marshmallow—but he chooses to not verbalize that right now, because it may just push you over the edge.

even though right now, you're surprisingly calm and it's kind of freaking him out even further.

you continue, "I hope you have this said love affair plan written down because we really gotta figure this out before we get to russia."

instinctively his chocolate eyes flicker towards the map screen, stealing a glance at the ETA of the touchdown. andrei looks back at you, "oh, we've got time."

for the next hour and forty five minutes, you and andrei go through every possible nook and cranny of your fake relationship and nail it down. from the beginning right until the very end, the plan has been polished and repeated between you over 20 times. each.

throughout the conversation you started to come a little more to. it helped that andrei asked if you were okay every fifteen seconds—which any other time may be a little annoying—but right now, you accept his persistent with open arms.

knowing that he feels bad about the situation is enough, even though you could never actually be mad at him. not over something as simple as this. the amount of times andrei has picked your drunk ass up from a variety of different carolina bars over the years—or took care of you the next morning—let's just say you definitely owe him a favour or two.

besides, it's not like you're really worried about faking a romantic relationship with andrei. most of the time it feels like andrei is already your boyfriend, just without the kissing and…stuff. now that's making you a bit nervous. but you digress.

you've both had a few glasses of champagne now, allowing yourselves to relax a bit more—which was much needed. it also allows your usual banter and teasing to return between you and andrei, hushed laughter falling from your lips under the dim lights of the cabin.

"so," you muse, a little slurred. "when did you realize you liked me?"

"you're ridiculous," andrei snorts, earning a cautious look from the old lady on the other side of the plane. neither of you notice.

"what," you laugh, "i'm prepping you for the questions." you reach over and push his thick thigh with the tips of your fingers. he barley budges.

"'nobody is going to ask me that." andrei counters teasingly, nudging you back.

"they might!" you counter, a teasing smile still tugging at your lips, a sight that has andrei following suit with his own boyish grin.

"if they ask...i'll say," he pauses, making you wait with half baited breath, tucked under the first class blankets that andrei always thinks feel like toothbrush bristles. andrei shrugs casually, "i'll say always."

your head whips in his direction from where you previously started to flip through the dinner menu—always so easily distracted—so fast that andrei gets a whiff of your raspberry shampoo. it's a pleasant smell, one that reminds him of coming home after a road trip to you sleeping on his apartment couch.

his words settle over your skin like a prickling whisper, and you blink a few times in surprise.

but then, like he didn't just say something so heartfelt and beautiful, turns towards the airplane dinner menu, humming thoughtfully as he reads the three options. "I think i'm gunna get the steak."

—

carefully, but with precision, you roll your shoulders, bones and vertebrae squeaking and cracking in—a much needed, mind you—protest.

you can still smell the lingering champagne and the scent of plane on your skin, and on andrei's as he walks back towards you from where’d he’d been in the heart of baggage claim, both of your suitcases in tow—wheels squeaking along the weathered floor tiles.

andrei looks all but awake as he raises his eyebrows in question, "all ready?"

you groan sleepily as a form of answer, raising your arms in a limb stretching pull, tank top risings and exposing your lower belly to the bustling airport. you removed your fluffy hoodie as soon as you stepped onto the hot, sticky tarmac and it's now sitting comfortably around your best friends broad shoulders, making him look like he belongs in a country club.

oddly enough it suits him—when you said that though he gave you a look.

despite the way andrei urges you along, he too is fighting exhaustion. changing time zones is always a struggle no matter how many times a year andrei does it, and this weekend trip is no exception. there's matching eye bags under both of your eyes, and even though andrei knows that his family is waiting for your arrival, all he wants to do is climb into his small double childhood bed and pass out.

and you're in the same boat it seems, ugg slippered feet dragging on the ground beside andrei as you both step onto the descending escalator—suitcases clinging annoyingly at the change of surface.

the ride down is held for nothing but the whirling sound of the machinery as you and andrei stay quiet. not only are you both on the brink of falling asleep while up right, but you're both so damn nervous about perfecting your plan that speaking about it will only make it worse.

and if you panic, andrei will panic and it will just go to shit.

so silence is good.

once you're stepping off the escalator and onto the ground level of the airport, andrei automatically places his large palm on your lower back, steadying you as you both make your way towards the large exit doors that lead to the even larger parking lot.

a parking lot that undeniably has his family waiting for the both of you. suddenly you’re wishing you guys just called and uber.

your heart flutters anxiously, feet coming to an abrupt stop at the thought of the days ahead. you're supposed to be a girlfriend from here on out, and that has your tongue molding into a sheet of sand paper.

once he notices you’ve stopped walking, andrei spins to look back at you, his brows pulled in the concerned way he always seems to have when it comes to your well being.

"do I look okay?" you ask frantically, running your hands over your oily, yet somehow also frizzy, hair.

"you look fine," andrei soothes, pulling your hands away from your head and holding both of your clammy hands in one of his. stupid giant boy. "stop playing with it though, or else we will really have a problem "

you send him a deadpan look. "you're not funny."

andrei grins despite the sleep lacing his expression. he easily tugs you back into his side as you both begin to short walk towards the doors. finally. "you're right. i'm actually hilarious."

you roll your eyes and push the door open, a wave of heat washing over your already dewy skin and making you feel a bit woozy. andrei reaches over your head and pushes it open further, holding the door and allowing you to easily slip outside.

he continues, "you don't need to be nervous, y/n. you've met my family before and they are already obsessed with you." andrei makes a noise between an amused scoff and a laugh, "my mom texted me yesterday and said she's already changed your contact name to, future daughter in law."

"jesus christ," you exhale shakily, pressing a hand to your forehead. your eyes flicker up to his, "don't say that or i'll start feeling bad."

andrei holds off from smirking, "don't feel bad."

"too late."

"hey, just stop for a second." andrei gently takes ahold of your wrist, his index finger automatically stroking the outer part of your forearm. you know he's doing it to calm you, but unfortunately it only turns your stomach flutters up to a maximum.

andrei swallows, and all signs of his playfulness from mere seconds ago fades. his eyes swim with sincerity as he continues, "if this is too much just tell me and i'll handle it. I don't care if my mom whoops me with her shoe—if you're uncomfortable with this plan, i'll make sure it doesn't move forward."

you blink before managing to give one firm shake of your head. obviously you're nervous, but not enough to ruin your best friends entire trip. not over this. "i'm fine."

he looks skeptical, "promise me?"

"we're not 5." you deadpan.

"promise me."

you sigh—a mixture of reluctance and amusement. "I promise. i'm just...nervous. and overthinking everything. i’ll be fine once I get some sleep."

andrei's response comes easily, like he doesn't even need to think about reassuring you. "that's okay. just be you." he squeezes your wrist. "seriously."

your lips part in an attempt to deflect the wave of tenderness rushing between you and andrei—some sarcastic remark about him becoming a softly, surely. but the excitable gasp from across the surprisingly calm parking lot halts you.

"andrei!" his mothers voice is full of excitement as elena svechnikov bounces on her heels. both you and andrei look towards the commotion and find not only his mother, but his father, igor, and for some reason the family dog.

your best friend grumbles under his breath. "oh god."

you squint through the sunshine reflecting on the cars and distorting your vision. "is that a sign?"

he matches your squinty expression, even going as fair to shield his eyes from the sun with his gigantic hand. "that's definitely a sign."

his mother, ever to sweetest lady—seriously like purse candy, shirt of her back, treats you like her own kind of sweet—is clutching a piece of red and black decorated bristol board. canes colours obviously. a big and bold font that says welcome home smack dab in the middle.

you're pretty sure there are even a few pictures of you and andrei accompanying the words.

andrei's shoulders fall in what is probably exhaustion and the act of giving up. his eyes flicker towards your side profile, a careful expression on his face as he asses yours.

"we got this," you mutter after a beat, squinting through the blistering sun and away from his parents—up at your best friend.

"I hope so." without another passing second, andrei interlocks your fingers together, a soft yet confident smile overtaking his face as he pulls you both across the parking lot and in the direction of his family.

you don't even register the feeling of his hand in yours until his mother is greeting you both happily, pulling you into a bone crushing embrace that has the potential to crack your ribs.

"wow mom," andrei snickers playfully, ruffling the dogs overrun head of curls as it jumps up his thighs. "you must love y/n more than me if you’re greeting her first."

elena waves of his teasing before pulling andrei into a hug that mimics the one you just received. andries father gives you a polite hug and then takes one of the suitcases andrei wheeled up to the side of the car.

"how was the flight?" his mom questions, eyes darting between you both with the upmost twinkle of curiosity.

"long," you breathe a laugh.

andrei grins, "but we were fine. lots of talking to pass the time."

you shoot him a look, and andrei winks at you in response.

this guy.

registering your voice, the family dog bounds towards you next, its chubby legs and paws scratching at your legs, tail wagging happily while it pants up at you—clearly seeking affection. affection that you're happy to provide. always a sucker for animals, you crouch down and scrub behind the dogs ears. it earns you a satisfied rumble from its tiny body.

"you guys are definitely tired," elena clicks her tongue in displeasure, running a knuckle over her sons cheek like he’s a kid. "let's get you two home."

she gently pets your head before making sure her husband is packing the luggage in the car correctly—even though igor claims there's no correct way to pack a trunk. andrei's mother begs to differ.

the dog follows in her footsteps, leaving you. with a sigh, you place your hands on your knees and push up from your crouched position.

clearly you should've checked how close andrei was standing behind you, because your proximity has you completely grinding your ass against his crotch as you move to stand.

you gasp as andrei lets out a gentle grunt.

"sorry!" you wince quietly, but before you can move away, andrei arm wraps around your waist, fingers flexing against your lower stomach as he pulls you back into his chest, holding you in place and not allowing you to escape.

"it's okay baby." he says. you try not let your eyes widen at the nickname or the way you can feel his semi poking at your lower back. you're sure the blush you're now sporting is visible by anyone in the general vicinity and that's embarrassing enough.

elena hearing your voices, turns away from her husband and looks towards you. the sight of you embraced has her cooing, hands held to her chest like she's just seen the rebirth of christ himself.

"aren't you too so cute, I'm glad you two are finally together." it's clear she's not seeking any kind of response with her admiration because she turns and gets into the passenger seat before either you or andrei can attempt at closing your gaping mouths. you seriously look like fish.

the car door slamming shut has andrei blinking. he clears his throat once, and drops his arm from around your waist, and despite the heat of the sun, his lack of touch leaves you feeling cool.

you quickly move away from andrei and his...situation, allowing him the space to subtly fix his problem before anything else. you try not to think about it and pass your backpack to andrei's father, who is waiting patiently for the last bit of luggage.

"you okay sweetie?" igor sends you a weary coupled with amused glance, placing your pink bag on top of andrei's green suitcase. "you're looking flushed."

your eyes widen into saucers as your skin only warms further. jesus christ.

thankfully, ever your savour, andrei saunters up next to you, shoving his own carry on into the trunk with anything less than grace. he laughs, "it is summer, dad. we're both roasting." andrei jerks his head towards the front of the suv while the dog barks happily from his mothers lap. "go ahead and get in dad, run the air conditioner for a second. i've got the rest of the bags."

as soon as igor gets into the driver's seat, your both whipping in each others direction, looks of bewilderment on your faces as the last 5 minutes linger in the air.

"fuck i'm sorry," andrei whispers frantically, pretending to adjust the suitcases to not draw too much attention to either of you. "I don't know what came over me there. are you okay?"

you can't help your eyes from flickering towards his crotch. "are you okay?"

"I will be as soon as we stop talking about it."

you snort a laugh before quickly covering your mouth with your hand, concealing the sound. andrei sends you a harsh look which only makes you giggle more.

he shuts the trunk. "just...get in the car."

"such a gentlemen."

all earlier teasing and playfulness comes to a lull as the cool and plush leather seat envelopes you—the lack of rest and pure exhaustion quickly creeping back into your bones. it's truly game over when the car starts moving, lulling you into a much needed sleep.

not even the smell of airplane and greasy hair can stop the comfort of your best friends thick body pressed against yours, providing you with the most perfect pillow as you knock out, the beautiful city of barnaul passing through the window panes.

— day 1 BREAKFAST

you have very faint memory of climbing up the stairs of the svechnikov home after arriving back from the airport. andrei helped you out the car—sleep still clouding your eyes and your legs wobbly like a brand new baby giraffe.

the next thing you know, you're blinking awake, the sun shining through the sheer blue curtains and assaulting your eyes. you're not sure exactly what time it is, but based on the light and the smell of breakfast food wafting up the stairs, you can only assume you've slept through yesterday afternoon and night.

you blink a few times, squinting at the alarm clock on the bedside table until it becomes clear—7:08 a.m. you groan into the quiet room, the mattress squeaking under your weight while you shift into a more upright position. the navy blue plaid duvet falls to your hips. it unmistakably smells like andrei, and although it's a room you've stayed in before, being in here never fails to make you feel all warm and fuzzy.

there are posters up on his wall of ovechkin and a few other russian nhl stars. old hockey sticks sit collecting dust in the corner of his room, and next to them is your suitcase. andrei must've rolled it in after you got into the bed, where you undoubtedly knocked right back out.

you stretch the stiffness from your limbs before slipping out of bed. you're still in your travel clothes, so you make quick work of changing into something a little more appropriate—cut offs and an old shirt of andrei's because you really can't be bothered to dress up for 7 am breakfast—and cleaning yourself up.

after a quick trip to the bathroom where you speed run brushing your teeth and washing your face, you timidly make your way down the stairs, the noise of bacon sizzling on the stove and gentle chatter becoming louder as you enter the room.

evgeny, andrei's brother, spots you first from his spot already sitting at the dining table. he quickly swallows his gulp of tea before calling your name in welcome greeting, "hey, you're up. how was the flight?"

it causes a chain reaction really. elena and igor turn to look in your direction from where they're fussing over scrambled eggs and various meats in the frying pan—both greeting you warmly in a way that just sounds like one long jumbled scentence. evgeny's fiancee, sara, smiles and says your name in the bubbly way she does, patting the chair next to her as an invitation.

the dogs loudly barking and it's kind of a lot for this early, but you've done it all before, and easily navigate through the bustling kitchen, and the happy dog weaving through your legs, to take a seat beside sara.

"it was alright," you answer evgeny's question while sara wordlessly pours you some orange juice. it's your favourite, and elena always makes sure it's made fresh anytime you and andrei come visit. the thought of that alone has any lingering tiredness disappearing, and a absentminded smile blossoming on your face at the simple gesture.

he snickers and shoves some bacon into his mouth. "long, huh?"

"you can say that."

"sausage or bacon, y/n?" igor glances at you over his shoulder.

you hum, "bacon, thank you."

"you and andrei," his mother woos knowingly, "you're both the only people I know who love bacon as much as you do." elena holds a plate towards her husband, and once he piles some bacon beside the gooey eggs, she's placing it on the woven placemat in front of you.

"speaking of sleeping beauty," evgeny's playfully tone has you looking away from your breakfast and towards the archway that sits between the kitchen and family room. and there stands andrei,  sweatpants hung low on his hips, and hair messy like he's been running his hand through it.

you heart ticks as you lock eyes and the corner of andrei's lips turn upwards into a lazy smile.

"get enough beauty rest?" his older brother continues to tease him, earning evgeny a flick to his bicep courtesy of elena.

your brows furrow, as its only then you realize andrei wasn't in his childhood bed, but in fact, you were. "where'd you sleep?" it's not uncommon for you and andrei to share a sleeping place, even if he's on a half deflated air mattress, grumbling like a baby, while you snuggle in the cozy bed.

"the guest room — although," he shoots his mother a look, "it was hard with all the clothes that have seemingly taken over that bed." andrei rounds to the back of your chair, hovering over you while he playfully scolds his mother.

naturally you tilt your head back to continue looking at him, his mothers rebuttal comforting background noise.

he looks down at you, a half frown settling over his face. "you're squinting. you forgot your glasses, didn't you?" he reaches out and runs his thumb along the crease between your eyebrows.

the action is so soft and so sincere that you almost forget you need to reply like a normal person. "oh, right. yeah, I did."

you didn’t even realize you’d forgotten them.

andrei always notices.

he hums in what sounds like displeasure, taking his thumb off your face in favour of moving to sit on the unoocupied chair to the other side of you and sara. then andrei gulps down three huge gulps of your orange juice and just like that you forget about the butterflies in your stomach—snatching back the glass and shoving at his shoulder.

elena sits down across the table, breakfast plate piled high with eggs and fruit and sausage. it's just as mouth watering as your own plate. "you know," she starts, "you don't have to sleep in the guest room, andrei."

he shrugs, the kind of shrug that tells you he's listening to his mother but he's not actually hearing her. no, he’s too busy shoving eggs covered in pepper into his mouth. "it's no big deal," andrei stays through bites.

elena waves a dismissive hand, while she forks some cantaloupe with the other. "oh don't spare me son, I know you two share a bed, and It's alright to sleep upstairs with y/n." she pauses, a half amused and half concerned drawn look at her face. "well, I can imagine you do more than just share the bed."

you choke on your sip of juice at the same time andrei almost spits out the piece of bacon he just greedily scarfed. it earns you both curious looks from around the table. well, curious for everyone except evgeny, who looks all too amused with the way this conversation is headed.

"oh, that's okay-"

andrei cuts you off, a blush settling high over his cheeks. "mom, do not continue that thought."

"what?" she squawks, "it's completely normal for people who are together to make love."

"make love!" evengey relates with a laugh.

sara hides her face.

igor, used to his wife's antics, just stays silent. but the half smile on his face lets you know that he too is amused.

but you and andrei are like statues.

elena continues, "although i'd prefer if you didn't do anything in your childhood room, andrei. it's too nostalgic for you to just...strip it of its innocence." she forks some more egg onto her utensil, "but as soon as you guys get back to carolina, please, get to making me some grand babies."

"okay," andrei cuts her off before either of you can truly die from embarrassment. he scratches the spot near his heart awkwardly, and even in your own state of despair, you have to resist the urge to distract him. "can we save the sex talks until dinner." he trails off, muttering under his breath, "and the babies until the wedding."

it's sara who clears her throat, clearly also feeling the laughable tension—and snickering from her husband—tainting breakfast. she plasters on a smile, before shifting the conversation. thank god.

"I can't believe it took you guys so long."

you tilt your head, "what do you mean?"

sara laughs in a way that tells you she finds this whole ordeal cute. not sure if that’s the word you would use to describe it, but anyways. “to get together. you know, dating.”

"right!" you almost shout, blinking fast. without thinking, you toss your hand on andrei’s thick thigh, rubbing it briefly like some weird form of possessive affection.

at your touch, andrei tenses. you can feel it under your palm. if it wasn’t for his family all around, you would’ve face palmed right in that very moment. is this a normal thing girls do with their boyfriend? grope his thigh during family breakfast?

before you can remove your grip and regret your entire existence, andrei casually tosses his thick arm over the back of your dining room chair. his fingers stroke your shoulder over your (his) oversized shirt, wordlessly reassuring you that everything is fine.

it feels far from fine, especially with your hand starting to sweat.

“yeah,” andrei shrugs the shoulder that’s not beside yours, “guess I finally realized what was right in front of me.”

you shove some more eggs into your mouth, chewing slowly while your try to not freak out. and then andrei’s hand is on the back of your head, scratching your scalp like it’s an everyday occurrence.

why are you kind of wishing it was?

sara and elena gush, sharing knowing looks over the table. a look that says yeah, I remember falling in love with a svechnikov.

which on one hand is great—they are truly buying the whole fake dating thing.

but on the other hand—fuck, do you look like you’re actually in love with your best friend?

"I always thought the two of you would be cute together.” sara notes after swallowing her bite of whole wheat toast. “i've been telling y/n that since, what, like our engagement party in september?"

andrei makes a light noise, “is that so?” he tugs at the roots of your hair, “you never told me that.”

“mhmm,” you hum noncommittally, finishing off your glass of orange juice. you barley remembered that conversation with, at the time, newly engaged fiancée until this moment. you briefly recall you and sara, wine drunk and with a ring glittering on her finger—her smooth voice talking about you and andrei and how she thinks he’s in love with you.

you look at andrei, “didn’t cross my mind.”

“oh no?” he murmurs, voice all low and syrupy.

evgeny snorts, “get a room.”

you let out a laugh that sounds a lot like a grumbly breath, retracting your hand from andrei’s leg. you attempt to get the pitcher of orange juice but your best friend beats you to it, refilling your glass almost dangerously full—no doubt planning on stealing some more.

then andrei takes your hand in his, interlocking your fingers and then resting them on top the table. it so sweet and domestic and if it wasn’t doing funny things to your head, you’d probably melt at the sight.

elena grins, “awe, they’re holding hands.”

and then—

“yeah soon enough they’ll be making babies in the bathroom.”

— day 2 REHEARSAL DINNER

andrei check his watch, not impatiently mind you, because when it comes to waiting for you, andrei has all the patience in the world.

plus his mother would kick him in the butt if andrei even breathed the wrong way right now about your current lack of presence. his cousins rehearsal dinner starts in an hour, and with a 45 minute drive to the vineyard, andrei is looking to leave like, 2 minutes ago.

which is fine, because he's not just waiting on you. sara is still upstairs with you, and his mother is changing out her purse on the kitchen island because her usual handbag isn't the right shade. andrei didn't even realize there were different shades of black. but whatever.

it’s just about as andrei is about to climb up the stairs and make sure you haven't burned all your hair off and are having a breakdown in his dinosaur themed bathroom , the sound of shoes clicking on the floorboards echo through the home.

and then you're appearing, in some breezy conversation with his brothers wife while you descend down the stairs. your dress, which is the perfect shade of summer blue, swooshes coolly around your ankles, making you look like a real life princess. your hair is styled perfectly, and you've even added a little extra glitter to your eyelids and andrei thinks you look fucking ridiculously pretty.

your eyes catch his, and you falter. time slows down like honey between you and andrei, warming your skin and making your knees feel heavy.

andrei's lips part like he's going to say something, but elena waltzes into the room, igor just being her—both sporting wide smiles as the height of the evening approaches.

his mother spots you and inhales sharply. "oh wow, don't you look beautiful. andrei, honey, doesn’t she look beautiful?"

it seems to break you both out of your locked, heated gaze. you smile naturally like being polite is second nature, closed mouth and with glossy lips as you continue the rest of the way down the stairs. you gravitate next to andrei instinctively.

"yeah," andrei breathes, a half smile on his face that says something words can't yet. "she does."

and then he ruffles your hair and everything shifts again. you smack him away form your freshly done hair, but andrei just takes your hand in his, interlocking your fingers as his parents usher everyone out the door.

—

the speeches go by in a flurry of laughter and emotion, warming your chest in a longing way you didn't release you held. there was one point when the best man started talking about how lovely the bride to be was, and your eyes got a little misty. which meant that there were fat tears rolling down your cheeks. andrei caught it, and instead of snickering at your emotion, he tugged you into his side, wiping your tears before they could continue to fall with his thumb, before turning his attention back to the speeches.

somehow, that was worse than him laughing.

thankfully as soon as the food came around, your stomach growled and the tears and sudden feeling of impending doom towards being single forever, disappeared. it's delicious and perfect and andrei keeps purposefully nudging his knee against yours under the table when someone makes a loud, stupid joke.

and that always ends up with you hiding your grin in his shoulder.

andrei, long clearing his own plate, snatches one of your brussels with his silver fork. right off your plate without a care.

your mouth goes agape, a half laugh falling from your lips. "hey!" you scold, "those are mine."

"sharing is caring," he reminds you, stabbing two more from the pile before raising them to his mouth.

"so?"

"so, do you want me to starve or something?" 

you quirk a teasing brow, "maybe if you savoured the taste of your own dinner, instead of scarfing it down like a neanderthal, you would actually be full."

"I can help it," andrei says around chewing, leaning in real close before continuing. "they're so buttery and delicious." clearly, andrei is trying to sound sudective and wind you up, but all you can hear is his chewing and it has you laughing, pushing him away as his voice tickles your neck.

"you're so gross." you laugh, grabbing the last full brussel that andrei was hoarding on the prongs of his fork, and then pop it into your own mouth.

he tongues his cheek as you chew up at him, a shake to his head so slow and soft that you're not even sure he's done. it's admiration, and amusement, and care—and it sends your heart into cardiac arrest.

andrei's gaze is so intense that it has a shiver running up your spine. the feeling making you straighten your posture and force yourself to look away. you don't see the way his face falls, or feel the way his heart drops.

and andrei doesn't know the way your heart has completely opened up to him in a different way. a way that reminds you of the feeling of home. of the past. of love.

"so, how'd you two meet?"

someone who you're pretty sure is a college friend of the groom, asks from across the table, looking between you and andrei curiously. his girlfriend has the same look on her face, hugging her man's arm fondly.

their display of affection makes you feel a bit funny considering you and andrei are supposed to look in love, but aren't even cuddling with one another at the dman rehearsal dinner like the very real couple.

so—awkwardly—you lean through the space between you and andrei, and wrap your arms around his bicep, your cheek resting against the crisp linen button up decorating his shoulder.

andrei shoots you a curious yet amused look. clearly he knows what you're trying to do, because he doesn't bring attention to your sudden affection. instead, he plays into it, large hand coming over your knee like this is something you two do all the time.

it must look natural enough because no one around the two of you bat an eye.

"we met at a bar." andrei says, "around the time I was drafted to the NHL."

"we've been friends for years." you add on without thinking.

a bridesmaid next to the couple nods, "and when did you realize you were in love?"

andrei laughs softly, rubbing that spot on his chest with his free hand. he swallows gently before answering the loaded question. "her laugh. that night at the bar, she was laughing at something one of her friends had said. I was naturally attracted to the sound. it was loud and real- it matched her perfectly."

andrei pauses, thumb twitching over the material of your blue dress. "and then when we started to chat, she was so patient with my broken english and bad flirting that I just..." he trails off, meeting your eyes from where you're softly peering up at him. "I fell for her that very same night."

you're pretty sure you stop breathing, and if you weren't surrounded by a bunch of strangers, you probably would've audibly gasped at that.

andrei blinks sheepishly, like he's only just taking account of what he's actually just said. he looks away form your gentle gaze and back towards the member of his cousins wedding party—who is staring at the two of you with a look he can't decipher.

andrei forces a chuckle and it's like a cold water bucket over your head. "only took me 7 years to admit it." he squeezes your knee in a way that feels like an apology mixed with truth. "but we're here now. right baby?"

"yeah," you clear your throat, his words and admission laying heavy on your heart. "we are."

—day 3 THE WEDDING

okay so you've kind of been avoiding andrei since the rehearsal dinner. and that was yesterday. it's just—you don't really know where to go from that.

even if andrei was trying to play into the whole fake relationship scheme, he literally admitted that he's been into since the night you met in that dingy raleigh bar almost 8 years ago. even if he didn't actually mean it, hearing him say those words cracked open the locked box in your chest.

when you met andrei many moons ago, you were quickly drawn to his dorky smile and shy persona. it was almost instantly that you developed some form of infatuation. and back then—drunk of course. you were in college. in a bar after all—you were much more confident.

you weren't going to let the russian slip away. not when the guy had you flustered and dipping your chin after two minutes of a half strung together conversation.

so you made sure to stay in touch. texting and calling and making andrei download snapchat so he could see how dolled up you'd get. for him.

you went out for drive thru dinners before andrei’s athletic trainer cared too much about the food he was consuming, and you watched movies with your legs tangled together in his apartment. fuck you even helped him learn english outside of his lessons.

but nothing ever happened. no moves were made because frankly, you weren't sure if he possessed the same kind of romantic interest in you.

so you pushed those feeling away. deep, deep, deep down into the spot in your heart you keep concealed to everyone, even to yourself. and you threw that damn metaphorical key in the toilet it and flushed it. twice.

friendship was good. and easy. and you could accept a friendship with him. because you still had him, regardless of your hidden feelings.

and you thought your feelings for your best friend had completely vanished in the last 8 years. until last night. when andrei and his sweet words and large mitt on your leg—stroking you and squeezing your flesh—started taking about falling for you the same night you fell for him.

surprise! feelings are coming back up the drain and soaking you.

and, oh god, the wedding. the venue which was stupidly packed and even more beautiful, decorated in lavender and baby pink, only made your feelings amplify.

because your avoidance for andrei didn't stop him from being the most patient and sweetest guy. he could tell you needed space as soon as you woke up this morning, and he walked into the bathroom to find you angrily brushing your teeth—and when you didn't send him a foamy smile from around the handle, andrei just knew something was up.

so he just sat beside you silently during the ceremony, wordlessly handing you a few tissues from his suit jacket when you began to cry during the vows. even when he didn't know your tears had nothing to do with the happy couple up at the altar, but instead the guy you've been in love with since before you knew the difference between tequila and vodka.

"you okay?" andrei asks during the journey to the ceremony outside, to the reception inside, words hushed against your ear while his hand hovers your lower back.

you nod, too quick and ridged. "just need a drink."

and drink did you ever. because two hours later once the sun has long set, and your shoes have been abandoned under the dinner table in favour of dancing, you can barley contain your drunken laughter and poorly timed singing.

you've probably had two bottles of wine to yourself.

and andrei can tell because your skin has changed shades and you no longer seem upset. which andrei knows is only because the liquor has coated your bloodstream, allowing you to forget whatever—or whoever—had upset you.

even though andrei is 99.9% positive that the reason for your cold shoulder is him. that, or the oyster joke evgeny made yesterday afternoon, but that was a long shot. it was most certainly him.

andrei watches with what he doesn't realize is a full blown pout on his face—like glistening, down turned lips, chin resting on his knuckles pouting—as you spin around with his sister in law.

not even the sound of your previous seat scraping against the floor pulls andrei out of his sad stare. it’s only when his brother nudges him that andrei blinks.

“so,” evgeny starts, voice low enough to keep the conversation between them, but still loud enough to be heard over the music. “y/n, huh?

“yeah,” andrei breathes, “y/n.” your name taste like sugar on his tongue.

evgeny nods in approval, but his lips are pursed in thought. a beat passes between them, nothing but the laughter of guests and synth pop song playing from the dj booth to be heard.

“can't say I'm suprised,” his brother eventually settles on, making andrei’s brows turn upwards in question while a rush of ice shoots through his veins. the inquiry and tone of evgeny’s statement has andrei feeling weary.

simply due to the fact that his older brother has always known andrei better than andrei knows himself.

he’s scratching at his chest again, but evgeny notices the nervous tic before andrei notices it himself. once andrei sees his brothers knowing glance though, andrei pulls his hand away so fast it’s like he’s been burnt, choosing to rap his knuckles against the table cloth instead.

andrei lick his lower lip before speaking. lis that a bad thing?”

“absolutely not,” evgeny reassures at the speed of light, voice steady. “it's just...I could tell that you loved her. always have.”

andrei laughs once—low and breathy—despite the way the words weigh on his chest. “I haven't always loved her. you're making me sound like a sad puppy or something equally as...” andrei trails off, but his brother is quick to fill the silence.

“pathetic?”

“yeah.”

“well, you are pathetic.” evgeny snorts, a playful edge to his voice that makes andrei sweaty. nervous. “when it came to her. always watching her, not subtly at all. and the flowers, and the birthdays, and that one year you couldn’t come home for christmas because y/n had the flu and you wanted to make sure she was okay.”

andrei shrugs causally, all while the weight of the truth sits like thick fog in the air. suffocating him. andrei doesn’t dare look over at you. not now. not when it will make him crumble and spill everything. “well i'm a good friend-and boyfriend.”

his brother doesn’t comment on the slip up. “I know that. but when it came to taking care of y/n and just being with her, it wasn't just about you being a good friend. it was about you loving her.”

fuck.

evgeny watches his brother carefully. he can see the way his words are affecting andrei, and the emotion pricking the heart on his sleeve.

it’s only then, when the conversation comes to another brief pause, does evgeny see the way andrei’s eyes flicker back towards your dancing, carefree frame. and instantly, he watches his younger brothers face changes.

it’s hurt.

it’s longing.

it’s unspoken love.

“it's okay to be in love andrei.” evgeny breathes slowly as if not to startle. “you've got a good one.”

a rough swallow and then andrei nods. “yeah. I do.”

“and mom loves her.”

that seems to do the trick, and it illicit a rough chuckle from andrei’s chest. “you don't say.”

“definitely more than you.”

andrei looks back at his brother, the start of an amused smile beginning to pull at his lips. “thanks dick.”

“you're welcome. and hey—now that you finally have her, never let her go.”

andrei isn’t oblivious to the underlying meaning of evgeny’s words. like he’s said, his older brother knows him well. but it doesn’t stop the panic creeping up andrei’s sternum, and the urge to deflect and deny is uncanny.

just as andrei goes to respond, you stumble into his eyesight, tripping over the air like it was a curb, and completely stealing andrei’s attention. thankfully you catch yourself before falling to the ground, but it still sends andrei’s heart into over drive.

"you okay?" evgeny asks you, his amusement clear. almost as clear as your level of intoxication.

andrei is on his feet before he even realizes that he’s stood up from the upholstered chair, standing next to you with his hand hovering over your back.

you nod with a lazy smile on your face, and your eyes completely glossed over. slowly, because you’re not completely all there, your eyes trail towards andrei. your smile grows tenfold while you grab onto his hips. “hey there. come dance with me?"

"I don't know," he breathes softly, eyes moving over your body as if he’s trying to assess you. regardless, he can’t stop the smile that blossoms across his lips. “I think it’s probably time we go? no?”

you frown playfully, swaying until your chest is pushed against his. "please? just one dance. please, I love this song."

andrei doesn’t recognize the song, and considering you play him every single song you like at least 20 times in a row, he knows you’re lying, and this is just an excuse to get him on the dance floor.

because you have seemingly pushed away your vendetta with him for the moment, andrei decides that he’s taking this opportunity to be with you while things are normal. andrei sighs reluctantly, yet with a hint of enjoyment, and that has your face lighting up—because you can see the answer before he says it.

andrei lets you lead him into the middle of the crowded dance floor and to a spot you seem acceptable before turning in his arms, wrapping your own around his shoulders while his find your waist, completely enveloping you.

the music has slowed down, casting the room with a slow, romantic haze that makes your limbs tingle.

"if you're sick of me after this week and never want to see me again, I understand." andrei mutters after a minute, thick fingers flexing around your body, like he’s fighting an internal battle. one that he seems to win, because he then is pulling you flush against him.

your eyebrows pull towards your nose. "what? no. nothing could make me never want to see you again."

“I hope this weekend hasn’t been too overwhelming,” andrei starts, voice no higher than a whisper due to your proximity. “and i’m sorry again for…springing all this on you—quite literally last minute.”

you shake your head. “i’m not upset, andrei. i’m fine, you really don’t have to worry about me.”

this time, it’s andrei’s brows that turn down. “i’m always going to worry about you, y/n,” he swallows thickly, knees bending ever so slightly so he can better peer into your drunken eyes. “you’re my best friend.”

maybe it’s the liquor, or maybe it’s pure exhaustion of fighting your feelings off for 8 years, but your bold question comes before you can deflect it. “and?”

your prompt makes andrei halt.

a beat passes and then andrei’s hand is running down the back of your head, smoothing your hair and you heart. “and.”

and right now—that unspoken knowing—is enough.

—

andrei brings you up the stairs of his childhood home two hours—and two chugged bottles of water—later. he gently guides you up the walkway, slowly and with his hand on your hip, guiding you and keeping somewhat of your stability in tact—your heels dangling from his index finger of his opposite hand.

he sits you on the edge of his navy bed once you’re back in the comfort of his old bedroom, ensuring that you’re okay before turning and shutting the bedroom door. your heels thump to the floor as he drops them next to the dresser.

andrei pulls his tie loose while spinning back on his heels. instead of the upright position he left you in, you’re now flat on your back, limbs all spread out and starfish like.

you’re not asleep. not yet. but rather grinning like a naughty child at andrei. your hair is fanned out against the covers, and there’s still some sweat lingering on your hair line from all the dancing and alcohol.

you’re quite literally glistening and andrei feels light headed.

"you can't fall asleep yet," he tells you, walking over to stand above you. with a delicate touch, he traces a finger over your thigh, and even through the material of your pale lemon dress, andrei can feel your body heat. "you have to change out of your dress, or else you’ll be mad at me when you wake up because it’s wrinkled."

you whine, "can you do it for me?”

your words are nothing but innocent, but his sex deprived brain doesn’t think the same way, and your whiny tone shoots right down to his dick. andrei swallows roughly, scratching at his chest twice before running his hand through his tousled hair.

you shift, the strapless hem of your dress slipping down just enough that it’s dangerous. andrei’s eyes instinctively dart away—just like the time they did three years ago when you’d been swimming at his place and your nipples got all pebbled under your bikini.

andrei curses under his breath.

you call his name and like the hopeless man he is, looks back at you. "please, i'm tired."

so, so hopeless.

andrei nods, grabbing ahold of your outstretched hands before pulling you back into your previous sitting position. your smile thickens and it has him feeling incredibly nervous.

"stand up for me." andrei requests quietly, and thankfully you agree with a simple nod, moving to stand on unsteady feet at the foit of the bed.

andrei doesn’t dare break eye contact. not when you’re so close that your scent is intoxicating and your bulging breasts are practically calling his name. without blinking or tearing his gaze from yours, his shaky hands reach around your body, blindly finding the clasp of your gown.

the clasp pops open, and you almost don’t catch the dress in time before it falls away to reveal your chest.

but andrei doesn’t stop there, his breathing heavy against you as he begins pulling down the small, yellow zipper. as andrei slowly begins tugging the zipper, revealing more and more of your bare skin, the more your breathing catches.

his knuckles graze against your skin, ilicting a hitched sigh from your plump, wine stained lips.

this exchange is quite possibly the hottest and most intimate thing either of you have every experienced, and nothing really has even happened. perhaps it the hesitant yet eager brushing touches that are making you light head. or perhaps it’s the eye contact between you.

it’s definitely the way your nipples have turned to diamonds, and andrei’s dick is sitting hot and heavy beneath his slacks though.

the zipper hits the end of the track with a soft clinking sound. andrei slowly lets the tag go, his hand smoothing over your hip as he begins to retract his touch.

you can feel his restraint. you can feel his desire.

"andrei," you whisper his name like a prayer. like a mantra. like it’s the password to the 8 year long puzzle between you. “i’m going to let the dress fall now.”

his gaze flickers. just far enough down to see the start of your dress and your barley concealed breasts. then, like gravity, andrei’s eyes find yours again.

“okay.” his voice is hoarse in a way that’s undeniable.

and then the dress hits the floor, the smell of your perfume puffing around you like a cloud as the material falls away. not even the smell of wine could over power your fruity scent.

he doesn’t look. he can’t. not when you’re still a little tipsy and he’s barley holding onto himself. instead, andrei brushes your hair away from your face, lingering on your cheek.

you swallow, “what are you thinking about?”

his answer comes like clockwork. “you.” andrei’s voice falters as you reach out, your much smaller fingers clumsily pulling at the buttons of his dress shirt. like your bodies know what happening before your heads do. as his summer skin becomes exposed, your hands find new home against his flesh.

andrei lick his lower lip and tilts your face up, towards his. "i'm always thinking about you."

and then, without hesitation or reluctance or anything else he’s been fronting since that night in that bar years ago, andrei slots his mouth against yours.

pushing up onto your toes, your grasp at his sides under his unbuttoned shirt, sighing against andrei’s mouth just as he does yours.

with his free hand, andrei grabs your hip, pulling your naked body flush against his, all while he expertly kisses and licks into your awaiting mouth.

after what feels like an eternity of switching between languid, slow kisses and heated hands and desperate kisses, andrei slowly guides you back down to his childhood bed, slotting between your open legs like it’s where he’s meant to be.

and perhaps, it is.

— day 4 THE MORNING AFTER

the sun beating on your back is what wakes you up the next morning. its bright and hot and too much for just opening your eyes. you groan out like a baby, pulling the covers up and over your head to further bury yourself in the cocoon of andrei’s bedding.

andrei.

your eyes snap open at a comical pace, and you sit up even quicker if that’s somehow possible. your eyes flicker towards the right side of the bed where just hours ago, andrei was curled against you. skin warm and bare against yours.

the spot is now empty.

the night comes back to you in movie like flashes. the drinking and the dancing. andrei’s calloused hands on your zipper and even more so on your skin. you sit there, still as a statue, as you remember how andrei kissed you—all over—and how his body rutted into yours like second nature.

the whispered praises and pleasure filled moans.

you remember it all.

and you remember, most of all, that you love him.

you don’t know if you should puke, cry, scream or just jump out the window. maybe all four.

you slip on the housecoat hung over the bed post, tying the string uncomfortably tight, just before slipping out of the bedroom. with last night still fresh, and your feelings practically drowning you, you know you need to find andrei—like yesterday—and tell him.

well, tell him as much as you can without choking on your own tears.

the smell of freshly brewed coffee hits your nostrils before anything else. you round into the kitchen and see elena and igor. they both grin politely, one of them offering you a drink—you’re not sure who because you’re too busy wondering where the hell andrei is to notice anything else.

the words tumble from you without a second thought, interrupting the dogs happy hopping at your ankles. “where's andrei?” and of course the cherry on top is your voice wavering.

elena’s eyes draw in confusion, her lips parting in wordless question.

“i'm here,” andrei’s familiar voice sounds from behind you. and instantly you feel like crying. he rounds to your front, looking freshly showered and clean in his shirt and athletic shorts. “you okay?”

“I just, I thought you left.” you admit, wrapping your arms around yourself as embarrassment washes over you.

“no moya lyubov,” andrei coos with his native tongue, brows pulled tight in concern. he brings you into his arms despite the way your self hug makes it a little awkward. “just putting our bags in the car so it’s all ready to go for tonight.”

“oh right,” you nod, a little dumb. you lower your voice even more before continuing. “we should talk, right?”

“yeah, we should.”

you nod again, manoeuvring in andrei’s arms until you’re able to grasp at his fingers. “come upstairs with me? please.”

he hums. “of course.”

as soon as you’re back in his navy bedroom, and the door is heard softly shutting behind you, you’re nervously wringing your hands out. “you're my best friend.” you blurt out, robe slipping off your shoulder as it is inevitably, too big. as it is obviously andrei’s robe.

he fixes the shoulder so you’re covered again. “I know.”

you continue, heart racing and voice cracking despite andrei’s calm demeanour. “and I thought that these feelings I was pushing down were unreciprocated.”

“I know,” he mumbles, pushing your hair away from your neck. “me too.”

its something in the way he’s touching you—looking at you—that has you faltering. it’s like you’re his. like he’s in—oh.

“and now.” andrei continues.

“and now,” you breathe, “and now I want to kiss you again.”

andrei legs out a laugh. “you can.”

“but not just today,” you interrupt, “I want to kiss you everyday and wake up next to you everyday because I really fucking like you.”

“well,” andrei breathes, chest puffing as he takes an impossible step closer to you. he gently but confidently takes ahold of your face in his hands. caressing you like a porcelain toy. like a prized possession. like the greatest trophy in sports. “I really fucking like you too.”

you exhale.

but he’s not quite done with his love confession. after all, he has been thinking about it since 2018. “and I always have.”

your breath catches, curiously and hope gnawing at you like a moth to a flame. “since the bar?”

“since the second you stepped foot into that bar, y/n.”

a beat passes.

“this is kind of crazy, right? is this crazy?” you laugh in disbelief, continuing to look up at him like he’s hung the stars in the sky.

“absolutely,” andrei nods, thumbs brushing over your cheek bones. “but it's a good crazy. don't you think?”

“definitely.” you mumble through the beginning stages of a sheepish smile. your fingers itch to reach out and touch andrei, and unlike everyday before this one, you allow them to.

“okay then let’s bask in the crazy, yeah?”

A/N: okay. so! this definitely got a little rushed and I can only hopes this flows well enough to follow along with. and hopefully it makes sense and you catch the drift! I went through a writers block through this fic so a lot of the parts were spaced out (writing wise.

on another note—the rom com series is still happening. i’m just not sure when it will be out. i’m hoping for at least one before the summer ends, along with a few other goodies.

jo will girls and wyjo girls, get excited.

anyways this is just to say thank you for your patience and support like always.

[firingstars]

no one asked for this, but this is a dissection of my own fic bc i love this characterization of bucky x reader and tbh i might just do this to other fics that i adore. <3

Bucky hated his phone, but he still texted you often. Texted you good morning and good night every single day.

guys bucky wrote reader a LOVE LETTER in the first fic and told her during their first date that he hated his phone and everything about it. however?? bro still texts reader like its his job. like its the only thing he knows.

You were pretty certain that he wasn’t joking when he said that he assassinated JFK, too. Except, you were drunk when he confessed that to you during a drinking game that you two were doing when you first started dating. You don’t know if you dreamt it. Bucky refuses to comment, like a true politician.

bucky tells reader everything. he told reader everything about his past. and obviously, she took it like a champ. this was part of his non-negotiables that he quietly hinted at during match made that he was kinda scared to actually say out loud. someone to accept him and his faults. the reason why he fully accepted reader to begin with was because during the first date she said:

“Well, you can’t run from me,” you smiled at him, “I already know your past. There’s nothing that you need to hide from me that I’ll be scared of.” (this is from match made not locked in lols)

AND SHE DIDNT EVEN KNOW THE EXTENT OF IT she js knew what was put online as the backlash bc of the mfs that were like ?? congressman assassin???!?!? extra: bucky once asked her what she thought abt that and she said she still thinks he's better than the other politicians by a loooooonnnnggg shot so she rly doesnt care extra extra: she's worked with clients that are way worse than him and never elaborated. bucky is confused on what that could possibly mean

You finish your own skincare routine faster than he does, as per usual.  “I don’t understand why the hell I have to do this, doll,” he grumbled as you left the bathroom. “I’m over a century old.”

bucky complains, but does he ever mean it??? no. bro is whipped. always whipped. do not forget man is the same man that did not understand reader when she said people generally have one love language. he has all five.

- “Just a present. Saw it, thought it would look nice on you.” - His card is slid into your palm, and his lips are pressed against your knuckles. “I’ll pay for you and Mel,” he said, giving you one more smile. - “I bought [these shoes] for you,” he said, tilting his head as he examined the design a little closer. ... he always wanted to be the kind of man that was able to spoil his girl rotten– to bring his woman to the best places and sign the check without batting an eye.

and the influx of flowers after reader confirms that she loves flowers teehee. he's always getting her flowers. there's always fresh flowers somewhere. always. if he sees the flowers he last got her wilting?? oh lord. someone's dying

- He learned over time that you just wanted silence, the same way that he did. - Bucky answered any questions that you possibly could’ve had for him, already knowing what you would’ve thrown his way. - ... you still had to do work when you came home ... Bucky seemed to plan for that, which is why he had a room specifically made for a home office for the two of you.  - “Do you know how many times you have ranted to me about the fact you hate restaurant proposals? You hate planning them, and you hate watching them. Why would I ever propose to you in a restaurant?”

the wording was very deliberate- bucky learned over time. do you know how many times. there was trial and error in the beginning of their relationship bc bucky still wasn't up to speed with modern dating (and obviously still isnt with how nervous he was about asking to move in) but reader was very patient with him throughout all the speed bumps bc she understands his struggles and his past, which is exactly what he was looking for from the very beginning of this whole matchmaking shenanigans

idk this entire fic was just a love letter to reader because i didn't feel like writing an actual

dear y/n, blah blah blah love, bucky

kinda thing.

someone did ask me what the love letter did entail and i rly did entertain the idea of writing the love letter... but i felt too lazy. so this fic if what came out of it. which honestly. feels like the opposite of laziness.

locked in

— a sequel to match made

congressman!bucky x matchmaker!reader

summary: you and your boyfriend have been together for a strong nineteen months and counting. problem is, you’re starting to notice he’s hiding things from you.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, semi-public (?) stuffs, oral (f+m receiving), hair pulling, face grabbing, fingers in mouth, unprotected sex, backshots, fingering, window… sex…, soft dom bucky, slight sub reader, language, no use of y/n, alcohol consumption, bucky is the best boyfriend ever and loves you very much

word count: 15.2k

a/n: due to popular demand, here’s a second part! this is also my formal apology for whatever happened in love, persevering <3 please accept. // also if anyone saw this get prematurely posted with NOTHING attached you didn’t fucking see it. i wasn’t made aware until EIGHT HOURS LATER and the fic wasn’t even done yet!!! 😔 i always make my fic intro template things before my fics are done for motivation

masterlist

You almost lost your fucking job. 

You expected it, honestly. With the amount of lines you crossed, boundaries broken, and toes you stepped on… Yeah. There was only so much that your boss could take from you— star employee or not. 

Thankfully, your boss kept the whole thing quiet from the rest of your coworkers to spare you the embarrassment since you had the decency to come to her and tell her the truth. 

It still meant you had to refund Sam Wilson the entire Ador Luxury Matchmaking Package, which your boss was not happy about.

Sam, on the other hand, was over the moon. 

When he received the refund transaction, he called you almost immediately. You had to go into a private conference room to answer the call, away from your coworkers.

“Mr. Wilson,” you answered the phone, trying to keep your tone light.

“Hey, Ms. Matchmaker,” he said, suspicion in his voice. “Did Buck cancel his membership?”

“That is correct,” you said, clearing your throat. 

“I thought we had an agreement. I paid you guys extra to not allow him to bully you guys into ending the program,” Sam said. You can hear the frustration in his voice. You don’t blame him. “What happened?”

“I can assure you– the refund is not due to Congressman Barnes just cancelling the service,” you said. “In fact, he is no longer in need of my services.”

“What? Then he’s been on a date?” Sam asked. “If that’s the case, then why the refund? If the date was successful, then doesn’t Bucky get the benefits or whatever?”

There was no response from your end for a good handful of moments. You were stuck, unable to respond. You couldn’t figure out how to say the words in the most professional way possible. You needed to find the right concoction, just in case there was someone walking down the hall at that exact moment,  and overheard your conversation. 

In the end, all you could think was that Bucky was a dead man walking.

You were going to kill Bucky. You weren’t sure how you were going to do that, seeing as he was the one with the years of experience of fighting between the two of you, but you would do it. You were hoping that he would’ve told his one and only friend that he had a girlfriend. 

Then again, Bucky refused to answer any of Sam’s calls. You texted Sam back most of the time when you got ahold of Bucky’s phone, pretending to be Bucky. Bucky didn’t care that you were doing that– though you wondered if Sam would be heartbroken if he ever found out. 

“Hello?” Sam asked, calling out your name. “Are you there?”

“Congressman Barnes terminated his membership with Ador as he and I have mutually decided to pursue a more personal relationship with each other,” you quickly answered him, cringing at your own words. You took a quick breath in before continuing, “The refund is due to my own oversight, and is serving as an apology to you for wasting your time on our service. I truly hope that you will forgive me for being unable to maintain a more professional connection with the client.”

It was Sam’s turn to fall silent. You had to check your phone to make sure that the call was still active. There was a slight rustle on the other end, letting you know that he was still there– that he was on the other end, dissecting your words, gears processing through his mind.

“The matchmaker I hired is dating my friend?!” he cackled. 

“Mr. Wilson, I truly apologize for the inconvenience–” 

“There is no inconvenience!” he cut you off, still laughing. “Holy shit, let me tell you– after that first meeting with you? I asked Bucky what he thought about you as his matchmaker and his only words? He thought you were pretty. Would not say anything else. Fuck, listen, let me call you back– or let’s all go to dinner. You, me, Buck, and my girl. I gotta head down to the office and harass Bucky right now.”

You went on an unpaid suspension for eight weeks after the refund transaction went through. The HQ of Ador had to undergo a full on investigation to figure out if you were worth keeping around as an employee or not, seeing as you ended up breaking client-employee conduct. 

Your boss wasn’t awful, though. In fact, she was only pissed off about the refund because she knew that headquarters back in London would have been alerted. Either way, it was still the right thing to process the transaction. She promised you that she would be your biggest advocate during the investigation, and she would try to argue for you to get the time to be paid seeing as you were the best employee in the New York branch.

The second you told Bucky– who told Sam– you found money wired into your account the next business day. It was the same exact amount that you had refunded back to Sam. It was still more money than you would’ve made if you were working those eight weeks. 

Neither man told you how they got ahold of your bank information. Neither man would look you in the eye when you questioned them. 

So, you had eight weeks of basically overpaid, free vacation to do whatever the hell you wanted, and a new boyfriend. Which meant you spent damn near every single day in his office, cosplaying as some government worker– an intern or secretary. And you were helping him. You actually were. 

“You really don’t have to do any of this, baby,” Bucky told you. You had been coming for an entire week straight at this point.

“If I stay stationary for two months, I think I might die of brain failure,” you told him, stealing a stack of his files from him. “Besides. You look like you need some help. You should really hire a secretary. Or someone to help you out. A personal assistant, maybe?”

“I can handle it on my own,” he sighed, shaking his head. Despite his words, he looked grateful as you took the files to the lounge area of his office and spread them out on the coffee table.

“Tell that to me when you sleep more than two hours a night, handsome,” you said, tucking your legs under you.

With less sensitive information that he was allowed to hand over to you, you organized and kept tabs on. You summarized documents for him perfectly that made his life easier. You helped train other onboarding interns that didn’t know what the hell they were doing. You managed his calendar when he looked like he was about to combust into flames. You got to spend time with him during his breaks, have lunch with him, eat dinner with him, and he would drive you home, and spend the night with you most nights.

Not that anyone knew that, though. They thought you were an actual employee of this official government building in New York. With the way that you walked side by side with Bucky every single day, holding files and looking down at his work phone– they really thought that you were working for him.

“Where’s your secretary today?”

You don’t know who asked the question, and you don’t really care. There’s about three other officials in this room that barged in out of nowhere, when you were on Bucky’s lap. 

Both of you had panicked, and he had shoved you into the hiding space beneath his desk before any of them could see the scandalous position he had you in. 

Unluckily for him, he had chosen the wrong place to put you. 

“At a training session with other interns,” Bucky said, tone clipped and short. He was irritated at being interrupted out of nowhere, but also at the fact that you were ignoring his warnings. 

You grinned, pressing an innocent kiss to the hand that gripped over your wrist. Tight, but not enough to hurt you. You continued to palm over his hardening length with your free hand. 

You weren’t paying attention to any of the fancy words that were being thrown around over your head, but you were certain that Bucky wasn’t either. You rested the side of your head against his thigh, feeling the muscle tense and hardened at your touch as you continued to lazily play with him over the fabric of his dress pants. 

Bucky’s metal hand slipped from your wrist to your hair, carding through it and stopping at the base of your skull– another cautionary message being sent to you as Bucky tried to focus on the sudden meeting thrown his way. Thankfully, these men loved the sound of their own voices. They couldn’t hear you slowly unzip him, and free Bucky from the confines of his slacks. 

“Your thoughts, Congressman Barnes?”

Your boyfriend cleared his throat above you as your lips kissed the tip of his cock, wrapping your hand around the base of him to keep him in place as his dick twitched in response. You fought back the small hum that threatened to come forth as you licked up the small bead of precum that leaked out.

“It’s a very… worrying matter,” Bucky said slowly, clenching his jaw as he took in a slow breath. You licked a thin strip up from the base of his cock– focusing on the thick vein that you knew was sensitive. “That is very worrisome. And we’ll get to the bottom of this uh– worrying... issue.”

You paused at his words, unable to believe what you were hearing from him for a moment. You pulled away from him for a moment, hand still wrapped around his dick as you pressed your face to his thigh, trying to hide your laugh into his flesh. 

Bucky’s hand tugged back on your hair roughly, pulling your head back and away from his thigh. Immediately, his metal hand shifted from your hair to clasp around your face, covering your mouth. His fingertips dug into the soft skin of your cheeks, daring you to make another noise. Surprise and excitement shot through your body in response.  

You could test him. You could press it. 

You decided against it, and licked his palm instead, closing your eyes. You could feel his hand twitch against your face— he told you once that his arm was calibrated to feel sensations. That he felt nerves like his other arm did. You smiled just a little, then kissed right where your tongue had just been. 

All the while, your hand was still pumping at his dick in lazy strokes. Nothing too much, nothing that would alert anyone of your presence, nothing that would make him let out noises that were only yours to hear. 

“Right,” one of the officials said slowly. “Well– we have lunch with some of the other representatives in ten minutes. You are welcome to join us, Congressman. If your secretary comes back from her training, she is more than welcome to join us as well. Lord knows we need a little more eye candy around here.”

A chorus of laughter rang around the room, but not from Bucky. In fact, he just stared at them until their laughter became uncomfortable, and they awkwardly excused themselves. 

The second the door to his office shut, Bucky’s chair was rolled back instantly, and your hands weren’t touching him anymore. 

You were still on your knees, looking up at him as Bucky stared down at you, hand still on your face to shut you up before you had been caught laughing at his inability to form proper words with your mouth on his cock.

“You’re so pretty like this, baby,” he murmured, hand shifting to cradle your face.

A metal thumb brushed against your lip slowly, a shiver running down your spine involuntarily. His touch was gentle. Reverent. He touched you like you were made of glass. Unlike the blown out, hungry look in his eyes, the gruff, low tone of his voice as he whispered to you. 

From the corner of your eye, you saw his other hand tuck himself back into his pants. When your eyebrows furrowed in response, he let out a soft chuckle.

Bucky leaned down, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead. Then, he stood up tall. He rolled his shoulders back, but you couldn’t focus. Your eyes were on him, and the aching bulge above his zipper. 

“I have to go to lunch, sweetheart. When I get back, you’re going to get exactly what you wanted from me, okay?” 

Your boyfriend left you there. Left you partially under his desk, still on your knees. What was supposed to be you teasing him, quickly shifted into you being extremely hot and bothered. You didn’t know how long lunch would take, either. 

You busied yourself with literally anything else. Not that it worked. Every footstep that came down the corridor, you were jumping in attention like some rabbit in heat.

Except, Bucky moved like a ghost. You wouldn’t hear his footsteps. 

When he finally returned, you didn’t even hear him until the sound of the office door locking caught your attention. You barely had the time to turn around before he was all over you. Lips were on yours as he hoisted you upwards, wrapping your legs around his waist to carry you to his choice of christening. 

An arm swiped his desk clear of any debris so no pens or other office supplies would be digging into your skin. He bunched your skirt up to your hips, and pulled your panties to the side. Bucky bent you over his desk with fingers shoved into your mouth to keep you quiet as he did what you wanted from the beginning. He curtained you, his chest pressed against your back as he whispered sweet nothings to contrast the punishing thrust of his hips— letting you know that he still very much adored you, but was also extremely annoyed by your little game earlier.

Afterwards, Bucky cleaned you up gently. Kissed you softly, held you tightly in his arms. Then presented you with food that he brought back for you– he ordered you lunch while he was out eating since he knew you wouldn’t have left the office while he was gone. 

You almost jumped his bones again right then and there for how considerate he was of you.

So yes, you almost lost your job, but you weren’t necessarily upset about it. Not when you got to spend an entire month with Bucky, helping him out at work, cuddling with him at night, and waking up at whatever time you wanted the next morning. On the rare days that you weren’t at the office with him, it was because you were somewhere else– still with him. 

Eventually, you were called back into work.

You convinced Bucky to hire an assistant to take care of his little things— stuff that you did for him to make his life easier so he could focus on more pressing things. It managed to ease his workload just a little bit, but not by a lot. Bucky still managed to bite more than he could chew, and you knew he was stressed from how slow the process was for passing bills and getting change to happen. 

Despite it all, the two of you were content. Happy. Overjoyed, really. He was perfect, and he swore to the heavens that you were, too.

A cacophony of voices, poppers, music, and sparkles were blasted into your face as you pushed open the door to the office. Streamers were shot directly into your face, colors cascading directly before your eyes, showering you with colors of the pastel rainbow. 

Your coworkers, all dressed to the nines, were cheering. A few of them held flutes of champagne. Two of them held balloons– together making the number twelve together. One of them held a cake that read congratulations.

There was a catering table set for the party that was clearly waiting for you. You saw the table set, ready for everyone to dig into. You knew your boss didn’t hold back when it came to celebrating any kind of achievements, especially not your own. You were the best at what you did here.

Your grin wasn’t smug, even though you had every single right to be. You shrugged your blazer off as you sauntered into the room, allowing the applause and cheers to wash over you. You dropped your purse and other materials off at your desk as your boss approached you with a grin, hands going to your shoulders.

“My star employee– our number one matchmaker!” she cooed at you, everyone shouting around you in response to our praise. “Tell me, with this wedding upcoming this weekend, how many will you be responsible for?”

You paused, only for dramatic effect. The ceiling looked suddenly oh so interesting as you smiled. Then, you guessed, “Twelve?”

“Twelve!” your boss roared, the girls around you jumping up and down with excitement and cheer. 

“Do a speech, a speech!” your deskmate urged, and you only let out a small, playful sigh as everyone died down around you.

You were handed your own glass of champagne, led to the front of the room, and turned to look at all the girls. Girls that you worked with for the past six, almost seven years. Your boss had been doing this job for well over a decade now. There were a few new faces that had just started a few months ago. 

With your glass lifted into the air, you smiled, “Love is all around. It’s easy to find the perfect match for someone.”

They squealed, toasting to you. The cake was brought to you, letting you blow out the candles as if it was your birthday or something– just a tradition your company had for good luck. Something to bring more successful matches and weddings to your clients.

Your two clients, Luke and Jessica, were tying the knot after twelve months of dating, and another four months engaged. One year and four months— which was a relatively short time, but who were you to judge? They both told you they knew the other party was the one after the first date. Who were you to stand in the way of them? 

Just because you were fucking bitter, and jealous that you couldn’t spend time with your own boyfriend despite the fact that Luke and Jessica got together three months after you two did didn’t mean a thing. Not a single thing. 

You masked your growing irritation well with your clients. After all, your performance margins had been going through the roof within the last six months. Your productivity has never been better, your clients have never been happier with your performance, and you have been churning out perfect match after match like you might as well have been Cupid himself. 

Yet, you couldn’t find a single time for your own boyfriend. 

When you had a free night, he didn’t. There was a dinner that he had to get to, one that required secrecy amongst government officials. You understood that. You didn’t hold that against him– especially not when he looked pained to tell you that you couldn’t join him when you offered to come with him the first time he said he had the work dinner. Because you didn’t mind joining him for work related activity. You just wanted to spend time with him, by his side.

But you were a fucking matchmaker. You didn’t have any business being in a government setting, and you knew that. He knew that. The entire government knew that. 

Sometimes it wasn’t even dinner. Sometimes, he wasn’t even in the city. Or the state. Or even the fucking country. Bucky always let you know in advance when he had to travel for work, but there was usually never any chance for the two of you to meet for even a brief look at each other across the road. Just to see each other in person before he had to hop on the plane and head hours away from you.

On the rare occasions Bucky had a free night, you most certainly did not. You had a proposal to plan for. Not a policy or business proposal like he worked on. A marriage proposal. One that had you sneaking around parks in bushes, setting up trails of rose petals, hiring and arguing with musicians– things that you didn’t need your boyfriend around to trail you like a lost puppy asking you if there was something that you needed help with. 

If it wasn’t a proposal, you had another work event. A client on the verge of a breakdown because their date cancelled on them, or some bullshit like that. You would be so close to finally being in your boyfriend’s arms, but you would have to cancel on your own lover to play therapist even though you were severely undereducated and underpaid for the position. 

Bucky was understanding. Too understanding. So understanding that it made you want to bash your head into the wall. 

The two of you had working hours that were strenuous, strange, and demanding. 

Bucky hated his phone, but he still texted you often. Texted you good morning and good night every single day. He reminded you to eat at least twice a day knowing you were only running on the fuel of your own brain to make it through your work hours.

Absence definitely did not make the heart grow fonder. If anything, your heart was growing irritated. Angry. These happy couples around you were pissing you off. 

Each and every single one of your clients that reported to you that they were falling in love with the person that you set them up with, was like another person setting you up for failure. You were a ticking time bomb just ready to explode, and the only one who would ever be able to defuse you is currently locked away in his office with his pretty fucking secretary that you know he doesn’t care about, but spends more time with than you do. 

You’re not jealous of her perse. 

You’ve seen them work together. It’s strictly professional. You don’t know if she has a boyfriend, and you don’t really care if she does or doesn’t– you trust Bucky, bottom line. He hasn’t given you a single reason to not trust him. You know he has eyes for you and you only. What you’re envious of is the time that she gets to have with him. She sees him every single day. She handles his schedule, hands him coffee, speaks to him face to face, sits with him during meetings, and discusses his fucking policies with him. 

You’re jealous of the time that you don’t get to have with your own boyfriend. You haven’t seen him in over a week and a half by this point. Last time you saw him, it was for a brief lunch that lasted forty-two minutes before you both had to run into meetings. Before that, two weeks. 

You scratch angrily into your notebook, then rip the page out. You crumple it up, throwing the wasted piece of paper into the bin with a frustrated groan before scrubbing a hand down your face. 

The time on the clock reads 1:44am.

Bucky should be getting home by this time, you think. Your phone hasn’t rang otherwise. There’s no good night text yet. 

This was easier before. Easier before you got so attached to him. Easier before your world got shifted on its axis, and started to rotate around him, just a little bit. Easier when you didn’t love the man so fucking much. 

You couldn’t dwell on this though. Not when you had to go to sleep. You had somewhere to be tomorrow, and you couldn’t look like death itself. You sent off your own text to him, then let your sorrows and loneliness cuddle you to bed. 

As much as you wanted to wait for him to text you back, you couldn’t. You had a battlefield to get to. A networking event. A bride to maybe convince that she wanted to marry her groom. 

By the end of the wedding, your purse was full of business cards, and your lips were full of promises to call women on Monday to get them on your books as clients. Your face muscles hurt, your feet ached, and your heart was breaking.

Your phone was full of notifications, and not a single one of them was from your loving boyfriend. Did he get JFK’d somewhere? He couldn’t have. It would have been all over the news already if he did. Sam would have called you, too. Besides that, the serum in his veins would have him feeling the murderous intent from a thousand miles away.

You were pretty certain that he wasn’t joking when he said that he assassinated JFK, too. Except, you were drunk when he confessed that to you during a drinking game that you two were doing when you first started dating. You don’t know if you dreamt it. Bucky refuses to comment, like a true politician.

You make it through the rest of the wedding, get invited to the afterparty, decline, and step out into the street to wait for your Uber to arrive. A car pulls up to the curb that you know is not a silver hatchback like the app indicates, so you ignore it–

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone on a Friday night?”

Your head snaps up at the voice. Bucky’s stepping out of the driver’s side, holding a colorful arrangement of fresh summer flowers for you, wrapped in kraft paper, tied off with a bow. He’s dressed in a formal suit– bowtie and everything. You vaguely remember him telling you that there was a gala event that was happening tonight the last time that you two had a chance to speak on the phone. He must have had a chance to slip away from there. 

“Need a ride?” he asked, feet stopping just right before you.

You let out a laugh, looking up at him. You take a moment to admire him. Bucky’s smiling at you. There’s so much love in his eyes for you. There always is. In fact, it seemed as if there was more love there than there was than the last time he saw you. You were certain that there would be double the amount the next time you would meet.

“I have one,” you sighed, deciding to play coy with him. “Coming in about five more minutes.”

Bucky clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Five minutes? That’s too long. Shouldn’t make you wait out here for even a second.”

You couldn’t fight back the grin that makes its way onto your face. You close the remaining distance between the two of you, your hand resting on his chest as you lean upwards towards him to meet his lips. Bucky’s hand wraps around your back, holding you to him to stabilize you, a small sigh escaping through his nose. 

“Hi, handsome,” you hummed, parting from him. 

Your smile only widened a little more when Bucky chased after your lips instinctively, wanting more. Wanting another kiss. You gave him just a couple more pecks before you settled the heels of your shoes back onto the cement of the sidewalk. A laugh rumbled through you at the disappointed look on his face.

“How’d you know where my wedding was, Congressman?” you asked, looking back at your phone to cancel the ride. 

“Oh you know. A birdie told me,” Bucky said, shrugging as he moved to open the passenger door for you.

“You had Redwing spy on me?’ you raised an eyebrow at him, stepping into the car..

“More like I had Sam send a trail on you tonight. Don’t know if he used Redwing,” he corrected, holding the flowers out for you to take. 

You rolled your eyes at him as you took the bouquet. He was messing with you, and you knew it. You shared your location with him on your phone a long time ago, and he only just figured out how to use the function of it a few months back. He was even shocked to find out that there was such a feature so easily accessible on regular technology. Bucky even asked you if you had his location. You didn’t, and you told him that you didn’t want it. You figured he would be weirded out by that kind of stuff as a former spy, and you were right. He was more at ease after your reassurance. 

However, he did enjoy the fact that he didn’t have to go through several satellite feeds and camera playbacks to find where you were.

In the car, the music is soft. Low. Something from the forties that you don’t really listen to unless you’re with Bucky. He’s tapping his finger on the steering wheel to the beat of the song, and you find yourself relaxing into the comfortable leather of the seat. 

Neither of you are speaking, nor do you find the need to. 

Bucky knows you. You’re exhausted after an event like this. He used to ask you how the job went, like a mission debrief. To you, it is a mission. This was your battlefield, and you just fought against enemies and kept your cool against a thousand different obstacles that could’ve made the mission go sideways.

He learned over time that you just wanted silence, the same way that he did. Bucky used to think that you wanted to talk after these events, which wasn’t totally wrong. You talked if the event went horribly wrong and you needed to vent your frustration out to someone that wouldn’t get you fired. You talked his ear off because you couldn’t say what you wanted to in front of your own clients.

Bucky misunderstood and thought you wanted to talk after every single event. Eventually, he realized that most of the time, you enjoyed the peace and quiet of a job well done. That you wanted to sit without having to force a smile anymore, to close your eyes, and feel the weight of his hand on your thigh comfortingly as he drove. 

The sound of a text message coming through cut off the music momentarily. Your eyes cracked open, and on the center screen of Bucky’s dashboard, you saw there was a message from Bucky’s one and only friend.

Don’t Respond [12:08am]: Did she find out what you’re doing yet?

“What’s Sam talking about?” you asked, shifting to reach for Bucky’s phone that was in the cupholder. 

Bucky was faster. His hand left your thigh, grabbing the device before you could. He looked at the small screen momentarily, taking his eyes off the road for just a second. Then, you watched as he long pressed the side of his phone, turning it off completely before putting it back in the cupholder.

“Nothing, sweetheart. I’ll text him back later,” Bucky said, giving you a smile before looking back at the road. His hand returned back to its rightful place on your thigh. 

You stared at the side of his face, blinking at him. There was no more music in the car, since his phone was turned off. You were left in silence, just the low thrum of the engine and your thoughts being your only source of entertainment as Bucky turned into your apartment’s parking garage.

Bucky will text him back later? Bucky will text him back later?

No the fuck he won’t. 

As much as Bucky loves new technology like a nerd loves Star Wars, he hates it all at the same time. He thinks it’s disgusting for any sane person to spend the amount of time they do glued to their phones willingly outside of educational and work purposes. He’s a man that had zero choice in life, and he prefers to see the world. If he has free time, there is no way in hell that he will waste it typing away on a tiny screen to text back anyone. 

Except you, of course. He’ll only text and call you.

His reaction was even more strange. Bucky didn’t swat your hand away or anything like that. He didn’t scramble to get to his phone before you did– but he did react. He didn’t answer you. He deflected. He’s always answered your questions to the fullest.

Besides that, this wasn’t anything new between the two of you. You always texted Sam back through Bucky’s phone. When Sam texted, you would read it out loud, Bucky would answer, and you would type what Bucky said, but in a nicer… less aggressive way. In fact, 99% of the conversations Bucky had with Sam through text was done by you. Sam still did not know of that fact, and you were not going to be the one to tell him. 

You’re still reeling in your own thoughts by the time you get to your apartment. 

You shove your downward spiral for just a moment to accept Bucky’s extremely tempting offer to shower together– which is never anything sexual. 

Bucky enjoys the intimacy of being able to hold you, bare, and help you get cleaned from your day. It’s one of his favorite things to do. You revel in the way he takes his time, hands scrubbing at your scalp slowly to lather up the shampoo. He’ll ensure that not a single part of your body goes untouched.

You do the same for him. You take great care in every part of his body. You remember the first time you touched his scars– paid close attention to them. It looked self-inflicted. Nothing like a surgery or done by doctors or scientists, like how he said the arm was attached to him. When you saw his face, you knew you were right.

Every once in a while, you can still see the dark shadow casting over his eyes when your hands run over his shoulders. You simply move to kiss against the scars to quietly remind him that you aren’t afraid of him, and you watch as the shadows fall mercy to the light.

You finish your own skincare routine faster than he does, as per usual. 

“I don’t understand why the hell I have to do this, doll,” he grumbled as you left the bathroom. “I’m over a century old.”

“And I’m trying to make sure that you don’t look like it,” you replied over your shoulder. 

Bucky huffed, but continued with the routine that you strictly put him on. He complained, but he never went against your words. You knew that he was still following it even when he wasn’t spending the night at your place, too. He’s always been a handsome man, but you would say that he’s been leveled up even more since you came around.

While he’s distracted, you move towards his bag. 

You don’t distrust him, but you’re not stupid either. Turning off his phone, saying things out of character– yeah. Something is different. What’s even weirder is that he doesn’t have any of his usual things with him. There’s only his laptop. He doesn’t have any of his regular written notebooks or calendars that he usually carries around with him. The man loves his written, visual items. He likes to flip through pages and see things with his own eyes, to be able to edit with a pen instead of a tap of his fingers.

You hear the last cap of the bottle close, and shut his bag. You’re only left with more questions as you move his bag towards the hanger where your own purses hang.

“Ah– sorry,” Bucky apologized, seeing you move his stuff. 

“It’s alright,” you hummed, thankful you were able to play off your snooping.

The two of you move towards your bed, sliding under the sheets. You settled into his arms naturally, assuming the position that the two of you had found most comfortable in the almost two years of dating. Your head rested on his bicep like it was a pillow, his metal arm coming around you to wrap around your waist to keep you cool against his furnace of a body. 

“You ever respond to Sam?” you whispered into his chest, closing your eyes to snuggle closer into him.

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned, moving to grab his phone from the nightstand behind him. You immediately shifted, just slightly– to try and see the screen.

But so did he.

With one hand, he angled his phone so that it was distorted. The brightness was down low enough that you weren’t able to properly see the messages between both men. However, you saw him silence the chat. You saw the swipe of his thumb, and the icon that signified a silenced message.

Then, Bucky put his phone face down on the nightstand before returning to you.

“Good night, doll,” he murmured to you, hand moving to tilt your head up to him. He kissed you once, twice, a third time before settling back against the pillow. “I love you.”

“Night,” you whispered back, though your mind was everything but asleep. Suspicion was creeping up on you. You could feel it– the sign of something coming. You pushed your gut feeling down. “I love you, too.”

Bucky ❤︎ [2:48pm]: What days do you think are your most free days right now?

You paused, staring at the text on your screen. This is different. This isn’t a text that you normally received from Bucky. Especially not in the middle of the work day, either. Momentarily, you want to entertain the idea that someone stole his phone, but you were certain that someone would be injured or dying if they even got close to ever trying to rob Bucky.

Me [2:50pm]: Are you asking me on a date, Congressman?

Bucky ❤︎ [2:53pm]: I’m trying to plan one instead of our random spontaneous ones, yes. Can you let me know what days work best for you so I can look at my calendar?

Last time he ‘planned’ a date, the two of you went to Romania for your first year anniversary for a week. You didn’t even realize that’s what he meant by planning a date until you were at the fucking airport with no luggage. Except he packed for you, had your passport, and everything else you could possibly need. You were just completely oblivious to the entire thing. 

Me [2:54pm]: Is this a trip kinda date?

Bucky ❤︎ [2:55pm]: No, but I do need two days of your time.

Me [2:56pm]: You’re asking for a lot, handsome.

Bucky ❤︎ [3:01pm]: I promise I’ll be worth it.

You smile at your phone at his words. Of course he’ll be worth it. You take a moment to go through your calendar, flipping back and forth between all your different events. You cross check between client meetings, event plannings, meetings with your coworkers and boss, and then text him back with your response. 

Me [3:12pm]: Weekends are really bad right now. Mondays, too. Wednesdays are also surprisingly bad… Tuesdays and Thursdays are the best. Fridays are a hit and miss.

Bucky ❤︎ [3:25pm]: Tuesdays are bad for me. Rep. dinners on Tuesday nights and Wednesday morning debriefs. Can you block out Thursday and Friday for me two months from now? The 17th and 18th. I’ll give you more details about our date when it comes closer.

Two months? That’s more than enough time to block out. You’ll even take the weekend off for good measure, just in case. Still, two months is a long time to prepare for just a date. You can’t help but tease him a little bit.

Me [3:27pm]: You don’t plan on seeing me for two months? :( 

Bucky ❤︎ [3:30pm]: You’re funny. We’ll still have our random and spontaneous dates. Like tonight. I’m picking you up for dinner. Don’t call a ride after work.

Excitement flutters in your chest. You saw him four days ago, but you’re still happy. 

Time is thankfully on your side today, and he’s waiting for you outside your company’s building. You’re starved for food, for his affection, attention, and everything in between. 

Except all of that dies once his phone rings in the middle of dinner. Bucky silences it, and you see the screen. It has a name that you don’t recognize, then his phone goes faced down onto the table. A few moments later, it buzzes, indicating there was a voicemail left. Bucky swipes the device, pocketing it safely away. 

You’re really trying to not let this bother you. But change doesn’t just happen overnight, and this is Bucky’s personal phone. This isn’t even his work phone. He leaves his work phone in his bag, permanently silenced when he’s not working. This is his phone that he carries with him that he purposely ignores, that is only supposed to have two contacts in it– yours and Sams.

Bucky drove back to your apartment, even though his apartment is closer to the restaurant that he chose for the two of you to eat at tonight. 

You’re lying awake in his arms that night, listening to the sounds of Bucky’s soft snores as he sleeps beside you. It took him a long time to be able to sleep first between the two of you. You used to see how long you could stay up, to see if you could fall asleep after him. The first time he fell asleep on your lap, you almost cried.

Now, you’re staring at his sleeping face wondering if he thinks you’re a fucking idiot. 

The signs are right there. All the blaring signs are screaming in your face, loud and angry. The hidden phone screen, calls, and texts. Hiding his calendar, and all his written notes from you. The sudden trip planning, even though there was nothing special about two months from now. Two months was your twenty third month together. Not even the second year anniversary. 

Yeah, Bucky thought you were stupid.

The biggest sign? You’re currently sleeping in your own bed, and not in his. He’s hiding something in his apartment that he doesn’t want you to find—

An engagement ring. 

You go through Bucky’s drawers like those are your own clothes to wear because they are, and he loves to see you in his shirts. You once spent an entire weekend properly organizing his apartment in a way that made sense because his junk drawer consisted of bullets and lego pieces from when Sam’s nephews came over.

You once found guns and daggers in his apartment just by dropping pens and searching for them. There’s absolutely no way that Bucky can hide a velvet box anywhere in his apartment from you that you won’t accidentally stumble across. Hell– you found a loaded nine millimeter in your own apartment, and asked what the hell it was doing there. 

“Safety,” is all he answered with.

This was your job. This is what you did for a living. You helped other boyfriends hide proposals from girlfriends like this. This is exactly what you did– this is how you told them to do it, though you were a little more slick with it. You definitely made sure your clients weren’t hiding their phones from their potential fiance’s, that’s for sure. 

You made sure that your clients did not know that they were being proposed to. It was your mission, honestly. You saw enough of those TikTok’s where women truly had that gut feeling where they knew it was happening. You refused. It needed to be a surprise. You scouted out every single person in your client’s lives to ensure that every single moment would come to be a surprise. From ensuring that their nails would be done to the ring itself- everything would be perfect. 

Your boyfriend of almost two years was planning on proposing to you in two months, and he thought you wouldn’t find out? Jesus Christ– what were you going to do with him?

Marry him, you supposed.

If you were anyone else, if you were any less stable in your emotions, you would’ve thought he was cheating on you. Hiding his phone definitely made your eyebrow twitch for half a second, if you were being honest. Thankfully, you were able to maintain a rational and sane mind.

Sane was an overstatement. You were now planning an entire wedding in your head without the engagement ring on your finger. You were anything but sane. Insanity was taking over every single cell in your brain as you stared at Bucky, imagining your future. The thought made you extremely giddy. 

A smile crept up on the corner of your lips as you moved into the warmth of his embrace. His arms tightened around you instinctively, and he let out a soft, contented sigh.

You can’t keep it to yourself as the date starts coming closer and closer. 

Mel, who has graduated as your client and now has become your friend, is sitting in your apartment, telling you about her most recent date with her boyfriend of six months. Not in a way that she would when you were her matchmaker, but as friends would. You find yourself liking this arrangement much, much more.

“Enough about me though,” she grinned, swirling the wine in her glass. “Tell me about you and Bucky. How are things going?”

“You really wanna talk about the guy that your boss hates?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at her as you take a sip out of your own glass.

“I can separate work from girl talk,” Mel said, smiling at you. 

“Well,” you said, smiling at her, “If you’re free the rest of the evening, I was wondering if you wanted to get your nails done with me?”

“Nails?” Mel repeated, raising her eyebrows at you as she brought the glass to her lips.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I think Bucky’s gonna propose to me on Thursday.”

Her eyes widened as she choked on her wine, the alcohol spluttering back into the glass. You couldn’t hold back a laugh before you jumped to your feet. You turned, rushing to grab paper towels from your kitchen to wipe off her face before it dripped, and stained her clothes. 

“Shit– shit! I’m so sorry,” she coughed, patting her face. 

“It’s okay,” you said between laughter, desperately trying to compose yourself. “Do you– do you want more wine?”

“Do I want– No! What? We need to go to the salon now! One of us needs to drive! Why the hell don’t you have a car again?!”

“Uh… I just… order a ride everywhere, or Bucky drives me,” you answered her, sheepish. “I’ll just order us a ride, we’ve both had a glass already. We don’t need to drive there, Mel.”

“Must be nice–”

A knock on your door makes you both pause. You move, going to check the peephole and find your boyfriend standing there with a box in his hands. You rip the door open, shocked.

“Bucky?” you asked, surprised. “Don’t you have a dinner to get to soon? It’s Tuesday.” 

“Yes, but I wanted to drop this off to you,” he said, giving you a smile. He leaned over the box, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. “Just a present. Saw it, thought it would look nice on you.”

“What is it?” you asked as he transferred over the gift box to you.

“A dress,” he shrugged. “What are you up to today?”

“Mel’s here,” you said, opening the door further so he could see her. He looked past you, giving her a small wave that you’re certain that she returned back. “We’re about to go get our nails done. I was about to order a ride.”

“Oh? Don’t do that. I’ll just drop you two off. You’ll go the place you always do, right? It’s on the way to the dining hall,” he said.

“What? I don’t want you to be late,” you said, frowning at him. 

“It’s fine,” Bucky insisted, shaking his head. “They can start without me. Talbot is late more than a few times anyways.”

“It’s true,” Mel said from behind you. You turned around to look at her, finding that she was gathering her jacket and purse. “Talbot is always late.”

“See? Thank you, Mel.” There’s a bit of a gloating tone to his voice that makes you smack his arm. Bucky chuckled in response, a smile settling over his face. “Come on now, grab your stuff so we can get down to the car so I’m not too late for the meeting.”

You sighed, knowing that you wouldn’t be able to change his mind and get him to leave you. You put the box on the counter to inspect once you return later, and snatch your purse from where it’s resting on the table. Both you and Mel follow Bucky down to the car. He holds open the back door for both of you to climb into the backseat like he’s your chauffeur, and not your boyfriend.

Bucky drives in silence, you and Mel scrolling through pinterest hurriedly during the car ride for inspiration pictures for your nails while trying to be subtle about the fact that you know that you’re getting proposed to. Your boyfriend doesn’t seem to notice that you know, though.

Once he pulls up to the salon, Mel thanks him for the ride and slides out. You lean over the console to give him a kiss, and he grabs your hand, stopping you.

His card is slid into your palm, and his lips are pressed against your knuckles.

“I’ll pay for you and Mel,” he said, giving you one more smile.

You want to race down the aisle right at that moment. 

Instead, you get your nails done with Mel, swallow down butterflies that are forcing their way up your throat, and get to the restaurant that Bucky told you to meet him at while he runs late at his last meeting before your date. 

It’s a beautiful skyline restaurant in the middle of New York that your own company can’t even secure a date at. You’ve tried multiple times. In fact, your own clients have wanted to get proposals done at this restaurant. It just couldn’t be done. Reservations were booked out at least a year in advance, and somehow Bucky was able to secure the two of you a spot with two months to spare. 

There’s live music playing here by world renowned musicians. The chefs are even more well known. The lighting was low so that it wouldn’t take away from the view outside the windows. The time of night that Bucky chose was perfect– New York was lit up like stars on the ground from the table that you were sitting at. 

You were dressed in the gift Bucky bought for you. A backless, square neckline gown. The straps came up and wrapped around your neck like a halter top would, and tied around the back in a thin bow, the long straps kissing down your bare spine. It was soft and airy against your skin. 

Bucky arrived earlier than you expected, but you were sure he was still later than he wanted to be. Either way, he still had another bouquet of fresh flowers in his hands for you that you two had placed under the table. Of course, he didn’t take a seat before giving you a kiss for a greeting, and murmuring his apology for not being able to pick you up.

“You look beautiful,” he said, smiling at you. “I didn’t think you would wear it tonight.”

“I thought you bought it for me to wear tonight?” you asked as he placed the flowers under the table. You watched as he sat down across from you. 

“Mm… Well, I bought it for you to wear,” he said, reaching his hand across the table. You easily slipped your hand into his, watching him bring your hand to his lips to press a kiss to your knuckles. “When you wear it doesn’t matter to me. I just wanted to get you a present.”

“A present?” you echoed, unable to stop smiling. “Even though you already do so much for me?”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t want to do more for you, sweetheart,” he hummed. 

The waiter came by not a moment later, letting you know that the first course would be coming out momentarily. You both thanked him, and returned back to each other. 

“I feel like I don’t see you as much these days,” Bucky said, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. 

“It’s been really busy for the two of us,” you agreed, releasing a soft sigh. 

“I even contemplated hiring you as a matchmaker again, just so I could block out meetings and have you in my office again,” he joked, making you laugh. 

“That would be fraudulent, Congressman,” you teased, shaking your head. “For you and me.”

“What are they gonna do? Threaten to fire you again?” 

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face is firmly planted, and isn’t moving anytime soon. 

“You know our dates don’t always have to be somewhere big or fancy, right?” you tell him, your voice softer.

“So you keep telling me,” he hummed, squeezing your hand a little bit. “I know, sweetheart. You said this to me. Several times. I just want to do this for you. For me, too.”

You soften a little bit at his words. You’re gently reminded of a previous confession he told you from when you first started dating. 

You told him that you were more than happy to just get takeout with him on busier days. To get fast food or something quick, if it meant that you two would have more time to spend together. You didn’t always have to sit down and eat somewhere nice. He said that he knew that, and he liked doing that, too. But as a kid in the forties, he always wanted to be the kind of man that was able to spoil his girl rotten– to bring his woman to the best places and sign the check without batting an eye.

This kind of thing was healing for him, too.

“We can get burgers tomorrow,” Bucky said, giving you a smile. 

“Deal,” you grinned at him. 

The first course of your meal was brought out to the two of you. You two never spoke about work over food. It was your rule. You talked about everything else. Sam. Mel. Your parents and siblings. The conversation Bucky overheard while he was in line getting coffee the other day. 

There was always a lot to talk about when you two never saw each other. Then again, you were certain that you would ever run out of words even if you spent every waking moment with him. If there ever came to be a time when that was the case, you were more than happy to spend the rest of eternity in a peaceful silence with him, as long as you were able to hold him. 

Topics never ran dry between the two of you. More than once, you two needed to remind yourselves to shut the fuck up in this fancy establishment because there were sophisticated people around you having very nice meals. 

“I’ll book a private room next time,” Bucky said under his breath.

“I don’t think they’ll let us come back, babe,” you whispered between soft, gasping laughs. “The host is glaring at us.”

That only made Bucky snort, which made you have to cover your own mouth in return before another fit of giggles wrecked through your body. It took everything in the both of you to compose yourselves before dessert was brought out. 

Once your table was cleared off, and you were left with just your wine glasses and the centerpiece on the table, you and Bucky smiled at each other. You were strangely reminded of your first date with him. So you told him that.

“This reminds you of our first date?” he said, his nose crinkling just slightly. “How so?”

“Mm… The ambiance,” you said, shrugging just a bit. You rested your chin in your palm. “You. Me.”

“It’s always you and me on our dates, sweethearts. Who else would it be?” he sarcastically joked, rolling his eyes at you.

“You know what I mean,” you scoffed at him, watching him smile a bit. “I just… feel a bit nostalgic. Just a… who knew, kinda thing.”

“I knew,” Bucky said, making you pause for a second.

“You knew?” you repeated his words, raising an eyebrow at him. Your heart picked up speed just a little bit. This felt like the start of a speech– the start to the speech.

Bucky cleared his throat, and your chest grew tighter at the sound. He shifted in his seat, and you watched as his hand dipped into his pocket. Oh, shit. It’s coming. Your eyes shot back to his face, and your mouth went dry.

“I thought you were the matchmaker, sweetheart. You didn’t know that we would end up together?” he clicked his tongue at you. “I knew I couldn’t trust a matchmaker that didn’t have a boyfriend of her own.”

“I have a boyfriend now, don’t I?” you asked, but thought– Not for long.

He smiled, eyes meeting yours. Then, a velvet box is produced. Placed right on the table in front of you. You can’t bring yourself to look down at it, not when Bucky is still looking at you.

“I want to spend the rest of my days with you. And it’s getting really fucking hard when I can’t see you all the time because we both live on opposite sides of the city, and have awful work schedules that keep us apart. Even so, I love you so much and I can’t imagine being with anyone else,” he confessed to you. Bucky takes in a deep breath that slightly shakes before he whispers out your name, nervous, “Will you move in with me?”

You freeze.

What the fuck?

“Move in with you?” you echoed, blinking.

Bucky opens the box. It’s a key. A shiny, silver key.

“I bought a penthouse in Manhattan,” Bucky said, sliding the box over to you to inspect the key even closer. “I want to see you more often. Not just the random dates when we both have time– I want to sleep next to you every night, and wake up to you in the mornings.”

“A penthouse… In Manhattan,” you said slowly. 

Your brain was short circuiting. In fact, it was fried. Gone.  You were still staring at the key, lips parted. He… wasn’t proposing to you tonight?

“I’m sorry. Am I– Are we moving too fast?” Bucky suddenly asked you, and you could hear the panic in his voice. 

Your head snapped up to look at him. His eyebrows were furrowed in worry, eyes scanning all over your face. You slapped yourself mentally. You could only imagine how you looked just now– staring at him and the key with a blank look on your face, and giving him no answer.

“What? No! No, Bucky– we’re not moving too fast at all,” you reassured him, hands darting across the table to take his hands in yours. “Most couples our age move in together by the first year or so. Mel and her boyfriend are already planning on moving in together when Mel’s lease breaks in a couple months.”

Bucky lets out a breath of relief, and you watch as his shoulders drop. You feel guilt surge through you at the pure stress that is released from his body at that moment.

“God– I just… You know, the penthouse… It’s fully furnished. I’ve been– Sam has been helping me out, actually. He helped me meet with some realtors, get the place fully furnished and decorated,” Bucky said, dragging a hand down his face. “I’ve been living there for the past two and a half months while waiting for all the furniture to come in, and it’s finally all finished as of yesterday and it never occurred to me that you could possibly say no until just now.”

“You’ve been– Is that why you take me back to my apartment after our dates? Instead of yours?” you asked, surprised.

“I already got rid of my other place, sweetheart,” he said, giving you a small, anxious smile. You can see him bouncing his leg up and down just slightly. “Got the penthouse so that we could have enough space for your stuff and mine.”

“You took me out to a fancy dinner, and prepared a speech for me to ask me to move in with you?” you whispered, your heart feeling fuller by the minute.

“I grew up in a time where couples didn’t move in together until after they were married, doll,” Bucky reminded you, his voice small and soft. 

You’re speechless, for just a moment. You take your eyes off of him, to look down at the key in the box, a smile finding its way on your face. You look back up at him, watching as he mirrors your own smile.

“I think it’s time to head home, Congressman.”

Bucky trails behind you quietly as you step into the penthouse. The elevator directly leads to your home– something that you had only ever seen in movies before. You barely took a step into the rest of the home before you were running numbers into your head.

“What’s my share of the bills?” you asked, heart racing as you look up at the high ceilings. “And don’t you dare tell me not to worry about it, Bucky. If we’re living together, then we’re splitting bills. I don’t care that you make more money than me–”

“We’ll talk about finances later, baby,” he cut you off, hands rubbing your shoulders to soothe you. “We’ll split it equally based on our incomes. Just go explore for right now.”

“I don’t know if I can afford this, Bucky,” you said, turning around to look at him. You were freaking out.

“Your salary was put into play when I got this place,” he said, cradling your face. “Sam and I met with the banks. We met with financial advisors to ensure that this would be feasible for both you and me. Please don’t ask how we got your information.”

“Is there a loan–”

“There’s no loan,” he assured you. “Do you trust me?”

“I do,” you answered instantly. 

Bucky gave you a smile, then pressed a kiss to your lips. You melted into his embrace, feeling your worries wash away with just one touch. He wrapped his arms around you, rubbing your back comfortingly. When he pulled away, another kiss was pressed to your forehead. 

“I’ll give you all the documents later to look over. If you still hate it, then we’ll break the lease, and we’ll find somewhere else. I don’t care where we live. I just want to be somewhere that’s with you,” he promised. 

“Okay,” you breathed, nodding. 

Bucky’s hands leave your body, and he steps away from you. He’s quietly urging you to take a look around. 

You had two floors to explore. The elevator opened up the first floor, where there was an open concept condo. You were staring at a living room, kitchen, floor to ceiling windows, and there were built-in shelves on the wall that held Bucky’s books– and had empty spaces for your own books. Down here, there were two doors– one leading to a half bath and the other leading to a home office. 

You saw two desks, separated by a bookshelf. Bucky’s desk was already occupied with his things, while yours was empty and waiting to be used. On the shelf were pictures and other momentos collected by Bucky over the duration of your relationship so far. There was space for you to decorate with whatever you pleased. On the other end of the room was a daybed and some other furniture to cozy up the area. 

Upstairs, there was a platform for another lounge area. Also furnished to hang out in case the two of you ever had any guests come over. Here, your bedroom was behind a closed door. 

A king sized bed was in the middle of the room, along with two nightstands on either side of it. There was a full walk in closet, Bucky already having his stuff hanging on his side with yours waiting to be filled. The windows are touching the floor just like they are outside, and Bucky has the curtains pulled back so you can see the city lights from your bedroom window. 

“What if I get fired?” you whispered, Bucky’s arms wrapping around your waist from behind. “I won’t be able to pay my share of the bills.”

“I’ll pay then,” he said, pressing kisses to your bare shoulder and neck.

“What if you get fired? Or what if you quit? Join Sam and return back to action?” you asked, heart racing. 

Bucky chuckled against your neck, squeezing you against him. 

“Iron Man’s late wife donates a large portion every year to the heroes that do the work. If that’s me, then we’ll be fine,” he promised you. “It’s how Sam gets paid right now.”

“Oh,” you breathed, nodding a little dumbly. You tilted your head to the side, allowing him more access to more skin. You felt him smile against you. 

“You like the place then?”

“I can’t believe you hid this from me.”

“I hide you from the entire American government so you can continue to walk the streets of New York without being asked about politics that you don’t care about. I hid Romania from you. I think I can hide an apartment,” he listed off, scoffing softly at the end.

All of your hair is gathered in one of his hands to get it out of his way as he continues to press dizzying, nipping kisses against your body.

“A penthouse,” you managed to correct.

“Same thing,” he muttered, and you felt him tug on the string of your dress. A moment later, the soft fabric was sliding down your body, and pooling at your feet, “C’mon, sweetheart. We gotta christen the place.”

You’re being turned around to face him, and your arms move to slide up his chest and wrap around his neck. Bucky’s lips met yours in an opened mouthed kiss halfway, tongue gliding over yours easily. 

Your eyes fluttered shut, and you sighed into his mouth, feeling his hands glide up and down the sides of your body. Something about him being fully dressed, and you with nearly nothing at all did something to the both of you.

Your fingers grabbed onto the collar of his dress shirt, tugging him into a deeper, needier kiss. Bucky groaned into your mouth in response, hands finding purchase on the flesh of your ass. His fingers dug into the supple skin, making you moan softly as he groped you.

Your boyfriend gently pushed you until your back was pressed against the window. Once you were situated where he wanted you, Bucky parted from your lips, only to attach himself to your neck once again. He kept shifting, moving down to your collarbones, your chest, your sternum. Lower. 

You watched helplessly, every inch of you thrumming with desire and need as Bucky slowly shifted to his knees in front of you. His hands moved down your body, dragging your underwear down your legs as he positioned himself to sit back on his feet, thighs spread just a bit for comfort. You’re certain your breathing was erratic as you stared at him.

Usually, you were the one on your knees for Bucky. This was different– this was new. You were more than certain that you would still be the one at his mercy.

“Don’t your feet hurt in these heels?” Bucky asked, hand closing around one of your ankles to lift your foot off the ground slightly. “They look uncomfortable. Very tall.”

“It’s not too bad,” you whispered, unable to trust your voice to speak any louder. “I like these shoes.”

“I bought them for you,” he said, tilting his head as he examined the design a little closer.

“That’s why I like them,” you murmured.

Bucky chuckled just a little bit, shaking his head. He moved slowly on purpose, undoing the strap around your ankle and slowly pulling it off of your foot like you were some sort of princess. He gently led your foot back down to the floor, keeping an eye on your posture to make sure you didn’t suddenly fall from the shift in height. When he was certain that you were stable, he switched over to the next foot, repeating the same process.

Except, he didn’t put your foot back onto the ground. Bucky lifted your leg higher, pressing a kiss to the inside of your ankle, eyes closing as he did. When they opened, he met your gaze, never looking away as his kisses went higher and higher up your leg. He settled your knee to hook around his shoulder, moving to fully kneel before you as his hands went to grab your waist, keeping you pressed against the glass behind you. A firm, tight grip. 

You wouldn’t be able to run from whatever he was about to do to you. Not that you would ever want to.

If he wasn’t holding you up, you were certain you would’ve folded over and collapsed the second his tongue met your heat. The vibrations from the groan sent shockwaves through your entire body that made you tremble above him, hands darting to grab onto his shoulders for an extra form of stability as his tongue parted your folds and flattened against you.

“Shit, Bucky,” you moaned, your mind going blank. All you could feel was him. 

His tongue dipping just slightly in and out of your aching hole, only to drag up to your sensitive clit to swirl figure eights around the nub. Bucky’s hands on your torso, his thumbs  drawing circles into your skin to soothe you against the stimulation he was giving you. The heat of his body radiating against yours from where he was positioned beneath you. 

“Your pussy is squeezing around nothing, baby,” he murmured, pulling away from your core for just a moment, a whine ripping through your throat in response. Bucky clicked his tongue at you, and kissed the inside of your thigh to subdue you. “Have I been neglecting you? Not fucking you enough for you to be so needy?”

Definitely not. Maybe it was the fact that everything was crashing down on you. The fact Bucky went so far to secure the two of you an entire home without you knowing, furnishing the whole place, meeting with financial advisors– all of it made you incredibly desperate for him. 

It was like that one time when you watched him do the dishes for the first time at the beginning of your relationship. He was at your apartment, doing your dishes that you were too lazy to do before he came over. You don’t know what the hell happened to you at that moment, but you just watched him. The second the water turned off, you were unzipping his pants and giving him head. It confused him, but he also wasn’t complaining. 

“I’m always needy for you,” you barely managed to answer him.

Bucky’s lips parted, eyes scanning your figure above him for a few moments. Then, one of his hands left your waist, and two fingers were shoved into you without a single warning. 

A moan ripped through your throat, and you weren’t given a chance to even recover before his mouth was back on your clit, sucking and flicking at the sensitive nub. His fingers entered and exited you at a delicious speed, and he could feel you coming apart around him. Your body was beginning to tremble, walls beginning to shake– and he curled his fingers the way he knew you liked.

You came undone, Bucky’s hand moving to press against your stomach to keep you from collapsing forward. Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths as you whimpered his name, tugging on his hair weakly to pull away from your overstimulated body. 

Reluctantly, he released you. Bucky’s hands never left you as he stood, keeping you upright. Your legs were still shaking when you had both feet on the ground, but fuck if you were going to let Bucky stay dressed. 

You had every intention of returning the favor once Bucky was just as bare as you were. Bucky saw it in your eyes, too. The way your gaze dropped down his torso to his cock that was stiff and high up against his stomach, waiting for you. You barely moved your hair to the side before you were being spun back around, chest pressed to the glass– eyes to the view of the New York city skyline. 

“Next time, doll,” he promised, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade that made you shiver. You let out a small moan as you felt him drag the length of his dick through your folds, coating himself in your slick to get him ready to enter. “Gotta be inside you right now or I might go insane.”

“Hurry up, then,” you whined to him, pressing your ass back further into him. A mistake, and you knew it. Not that it really was a mistake on your end though.

His hand came around from your stomach, gripping your throat and jaw, pulling you back into him. Your back was arched, hands resting on the glass for some sort of security in the position he had you in. Bucky forced your head to turn, to look at him. 

Bucky wanted to watch your face contort with pleasure as he finally slid in, watch as you fell apart as he speared you full with his cock. There was a look of satisfaction and fucking arrogance in his eyes with the way your mouth fell open in a noiseless moan. Bucky took advantage of it, shoving his tongue into your mouth to swallow up any of the noises that he knew would start coming once his hips started moving.

You couldn’t keep up– not with his kiss, not with the pacing– not with anything that was happening right now. His hips were snapping into yours at such a brutal pace, his metal hand gripping your hip to keep you in place, and you barely managed to pull away from his lips to breathe. 

“So good– so good,” he groaned as you turned back to the glass, chin falling to your chest for a moment as you moaned in response. 

Bucky didn’t let your head hang for too much longer. He pulled your head back up to look out the window, and you could feel his breath against your ear as he continued to pound his hips from behind you.

“Isn’t the view so nice, baby?” he whispered to you.

“Wh… what?” you moaned, mind spiraling for just a moment.

“It’s so nice,” he continued, grunting behind you, “I know your pussy loves it– loves it when I fuck you in front of all of New York to see.”

Excitement shoots through you, and you unexpectedly clamped around him. Bucky’s hips stuttered as he cursed softly. You were close– again– and Bucky wasn’t making this any better for you. Then again, you almost just brought Bucky over the edge with you.

“Shit. I knew you were a fucking freak when you tried giving me head in front of my coworkers,” Bucky muttered, a small laugh falling from his lips.

“Bucky,” you whimpered. “I’m so close–”

“It’s too bad. New York can’t have you,” he cut you off, pulling out of you. 

The sense of loss is immediate, but not for long. Once more, he’s spinning you around. This time, he’s hoisting you up like you weigh nothing at all. Your legs are wrapping around his waist immediately, and he’s sinking you back down on his length within seconds. 

Your lips are collided with Bucky as he’s fucking you against the window now, holding you up in his arms as you hang onto him for dear life. Your fingernails are digging into the muscles of his shoulders, scratching down his chest in a way that he once admitted that he loves, and you’re moaning into each other’s mouths.

The thrusts are growing sloppier as the kiss grows messier– there’s no need for words between the two of you anymore. You both know your tells at this point.

Bucky angles his hips just slightly to hit that one spot in you, forcing you over the edge as his own orgasm threatens to take him. Your body seizes, and you can’t kiss him back anymore. Bucky busies himself with your neck, leaving marks on your skin as he fucks you through your high, chasing his own that comes just moments later, coating your walls and dripping down onto the new floors of your new room together.

You’re still panting and trying to catch your breath, head dropped onto his shoulder when Bucky moves, carrying you to the bathroom to clean up. His kisses are softer as he walks over, his words more gentle. His body separates from yours as he rests you on the edge of the bathtub so he can start the water to fill the tub.

“How’s the view?” Bucky asked you, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

A soft laugh rips through you, and you can feel him smile against your skin.

“The view is perfect, handsome.”

You didn’t find a single number out of place in the documents he presented you either. You took an entire weekend going over the numbers while Bucky watched you quietly. He didn’t bother you while you did so. In fact, he just stayed nearby and took the days off work, too. Bucky answered any questions that you possibly could’ve had for him, already knowing what you would’ve thrown his way.

Which only made your heart grow fonder for him, if you were being honest. He knew you like the back of his hand.

Once you were satisfied with everything, he helped you move all your stuff from your previous apartment over to your new home. Bucky timed the move in perfectly– your lease was about to break the following month, so you had just the right amount of time to tie up all your loose ends. 

All you really had to move over to the new place was your wardrobe, books, and sentimentals. You found out very quickly that during your random dates where Bucky would come home with you, he started taking stock of all your little things around the house. Anything that was running low, he just went ahead and bought so it was already at your new home, ready for you to use.

The last couple weeks were spent with you listing all your unneeded furniture up on the marketplace for an extra few bucks. Things like your dining table, sofa, coffee table– everything that Bucky had already bought and decorated for your home together. 

“You know this couch?” Sam asked you as he flopped down on it. “And the coffee table? The rug? Those barstools? The fucking light fixtures?”

You and Bucky invited him and his girlfriend over for dinner for a small celebration– a little get together to commemorate the fact that you and Bucky were officially fully moved in together now. 

“What about it?” you asked, handing him a bottle of beer.

“I picked it. Me. Bucky just swiped his card. You’re so fucking lucky, matchmaker. Your boyfriend sucks. If I wasn’t there– shit. You would’ve had clashing colors and patterns in this luxury penthouse,” Sam scoffed, taking a long swig. “I had a fucking headache just standing there. The sales associate thought we were married the way I was arguing with him in the store.”

“You two basically are,” you said, grinning against the rim of your own bottle.

“Don’t say that,” Bucky muttered, a shudder running through his body. “I’d rather die than spend the rest of my life with that idiot.”

“God, I’m glad we agree,” Sam groaned, shaking his head. 

“We picked more neutral stuff,” Bucky told you, sitting beside you on the couch. An arm draped over your shoulders, pulling you into his warmth. “We thought it would be easier for you to add whatever additions or colors you’d want in the future.”

“Oh, so you did think about me when you purchased an entire penthouse and furnished the whole damn thing without telling me,” you teased. 

Bucky rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t fight the smile on his face. “Yes, sweetheart. I thought of you.”

With the two of you living together now, it was easier for you both to see each other. You reveled in the fact you could fall asleep every night in his arms, even if you went to bed first. He didn’t want you waiting for him if he had an event that had him staying out late, but you would often wake up to him pulling you into his embrace.

In the mornings, Bucky would usually be the one to wake up and leave first. 

You no longer set an alarm on your phone. Bucky’s sweet kisses were your wake up call every morning. He wouldn’t leave until you kissed him back, no matter how long it took you to wake up. 

“Morning,” you would whisper to him.

“Morning,” he’d reply, kissing you one more time for good measure. “I made you breakfast. It’s on the table.”

“Wake me up earlier tomorrow so I can eat with you,” you whined to him, though you just rolled over on your side, closing your eyes again.

Bucky chuckled, leaning over your body to press a kiss to your temple. You sighed, letting the morning wash over you for just one more moment before you pushed up off the bed. You’d follow him downstairs, watch him grab his blazer off the seat of the dining table, and you’d tie his tie for him at the door.

“I’ll be home early tonight. I don’t have any events today,” you said, smoothing out the fabric on his chest.

“You’ve been coming home early every night,” he said, raising his eyebrow at you.

“So have you, Congressman. Almost like there’s something you’re running from. Something you’re avoiding at work?” you teased, smiling at him.

“No. Just trying to get home to you,” he hummed, smoothing out your bedhead with both hands before he held your face gently to kiss you one more time before he went off into the world.

This was your new daily morning routine. 

The trade off on coming home early meant that you still had to do work when you came home. Both of you. However, Bucky seemed to plan for that, which is why he had a room specifically made for a home office for the two of you. 

You two would spend your evenings there before dinner for a few hours, finishing up any work that you weren’t able to do at your respective offices. You two would be silently working on your own jobs.

You, researching your clients preferences and trying to match them up based on their profiles. You would also be looking up the best date spots, trying to keep up with the latest trends for dating, and making sure that you weren’t falling behind on anything else.

Bucky would be going through packets upon packets of different meetings that he would have attended. There were several different duties that he had acquired since you first started dating, and there were a lot of responsibilities that he had started shouldering. You were certain that he was also helping Sam on the side, though he couldn’t tell you full details as per usual. 

Usually, you would stop working when you heard Bucky stop working and open the door to the office. He normally ordered food for the two of you, and would go out to the lobby to pick it up, and bring it back for you two to eat.

It was your signal to put everything down, and relax with him for the rest of the night.

You heard him close his binder, heard the wheels of his chair roll backwards, but you didn’t hear the elevator open and close to signify his departure down. You shook it off– wondering if he just went off to the bathroom or something.

Then, you felt him behind you. 

Bucky’s chest was pressed against your back, enveloping you in his warmth. His hands were on your shoulders, and as always, the left side of your body was colder from the touch of his metal prosthetic. 

“Hi, handsome,” you said, a smile coming onto your face. “Is it time for dinner?”

“Almost. Delivery is on its way,” he answered you.

His hands slid down your shoulders, goosebumps rising on your bare skin as his hands moved all the way down to cover your own hands. He left his hands on top of yours, and you hummed, happy to feel him all over you for just a moment. Bucky’s head pressed against the side of yours, then he dropped his forehead into the crook of your neck.

“Are you okay?” you whispered, tilting your head to the side to give him more space to rest. He took it, burrowing deeper into you.

“Yeah. Just a little nervous,” he murmured into your skin, taking a breath. 

You were about to ask him what he was talking about, to turn around and look at him properly. Then, you felt his hands slide up just a little bit, resting now on your wrists instead of covering your hands completely. Except, there was a weight he left behind that wasn’t there before. Your eyes shifted downwards, and your breath caught in your throat at the ring he slipped onto your finger– the cool metal that he masked with the metal of his own arm.

Your breath is caught in your throat, your eyes widened at the sparkling star on your finger. Bucky plucked this thing out of the fucking sky– he had to. There was no way. 

“Marry me, sweetheart?” he asked softly. There was a slight tremor to his voice that you caught. A slight shaking in his right hand that you could feel. 

You couldn’t repeat what you did at the restaurant, make him freak out with worry over your quiet shock and silence.

Your sudden jolt into standing surprised him, but he didn’t seem to mind when you wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing his lips, then his cheeks, his eyes– everywhere you could as tears were beginning to well up and spill over. You couldn’t help it. You felt Bucky’s anxiety release with each kiss, his hands resting on your waist to hold you against him.

“Is that a yes?” he asked, smiling at you.

“Why would I ever say no to you?” you demanded, making him laugh. “Fuck– I thought you were going to propose to me at the restaurant when you asked me to move in with you!”

“The restaurant?” Bucky asked, blinking. “What– really?”

“Yes!” you nodded, wiping your tears away roughly. Bucky caught your hands, putting them down to your sides so he could wipe your tears away in a more gentle way with his thumbs.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” he said, looking appalled. “Do you know how many times you have ranted to me about the fact you hate restaurant proposals? You hate planning them, and you hate watching them. Why would I ever propose to you in a restaurant?”

“If it was you, then I would have changed my mind about it right away!” you argued with him, stubborn. “If it was you, you could’ve proposed to me with a candy ring, and I still would have said yes! We can elope– I don’t need a fancy wedding or anything. I just– just you. I just want you, Bucky.”

You watched as his eyes softened for you as he looked all over your features. You were certain that you looked like a mess right now, but you were finding it harder to believe that with the way he was looking at you right now. He looked as if you were the one that created the universe, and solved all his problems. There was nothing but admiration, love, joy. These were eyes that only you had the privilege to see. 

A smile came onto his face, one that you adored. A smile that you were going to be able to have for the rest of your life.

“Well, I’m your fiancé now, but you’ve already had me from the beginning, doll,” he said, “I’ve had this ring for over a year now, actually.”

“A year?” you whispered, eyes wide.

“I’ve been trying to find the right time to ask,” he admitted, a bit sheepish. “And just… right now. It felt right.”

“Me working in the same room as you felt right?” 

Bucky rolled his eyes at your blatant sarcasm. Except, he’s still smiling. He never gives you a real attitude. He wouldn’t dare. He loves you too much to ever do that.

“The fact that we’re both able to do our own thing in silence, but still be together felt right. We don’t need to speak. We don’t need to be touching. Don’t get me wrong, I love all those things, but… When I looked over at you just now— I felt at peace. Peace that I never thought I was ever allowed to have. So yes, it felt right.”

You’re about to cry again. You’re about to start fucking ugly sobbing in your boyfriend– your fiancé’s arms. You have a thousand things to say, but you know none of them will make sense right now. So, you bury your face in his chest and hug him tight, his arms coming to hold you even closer to him. 

“I love you,” you settled with, your voice breaking slightly.

“I love you, too,” he chuckled in response.

You listened to his chest rumble with laughter under your ear, felt his head rest against the side of yours. He led your bodies in a gentle sway, rocking the two of you back and forth. He took in a breath, releasing it slowly in a contented way. 

Your mind is racing still, and you ask one single question– just one to get his opinion. 

“Where should we get married?” you whispered to him. 

Bucky’s quiet for a few moments. A few moments too long. You pull back from him to look at his face, finding a smile on his lips, and a small sparkle in his eyes.

“I have some friends that want to meet you. Do you think you’re up to traveling to Wakanda?”

masterlist

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla @simp4f1 @its-in-the-woods @lvrrinx @herejustforbuckybarnes @djotummy @star-yawnznn let me know if you would like to join my general bucky taglist for whenever i post a fic!

[secretlifeofliyahh]

FLATLINE

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

warnings: cussing, angst, one kiss

↳ side note: paige comes home and sees you

𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 paige bueckers x fem!reader (angst | one kiss | gxg | very long)

You weren’t supposed to see her.

Not again. Not here. Not in Minnesota. Not after she left you standing in the damn hallway of Hopkins High with nothing but a shaky breath, wet cheeks, and a heart that hadn’t stopped flatlining since the day she boarded that plane to Connecticut.

But here she was.

Back in the place she once called home. Back where it all started. Back in the grocery store parking lot at 7:47pm on a Thursday like her presence wouldn’t rip something raw and unresolved open in your chest.

She saw you before you could duck your head.

“Y/N?”

Her voice was exactly the same — soft, lilting, just enough rasp to remind you of summer nights on your porch when she'd read you poetry with a flashlight under her chin and pretend it was Shakespeare.

You froze.

Not from fear. Not from surprise.

From anger.

“You really came back?” you said, teeth clenched.

She blinked, already defensive. “I mean… it’s home.”

You laughed once. Bitter. “Oh, now it’s home.”

She flinched.

Because she knew.

She knew what she did. She knew what she left behind.

You.

She texts you later.

“can we talk?”

You leave her on read.

She tries again the next day. Then the next. Until finally, it’s Saturday night and your chest feels too heavy with everything you’ve never said, and she sends you a final one:

“i’m outside.”

You look out the window. She’s in that same gray hoodie she used to wear after practice, leaning against her car like she doesn’t know you’ve dreamed of yelling at her for years.

You walk outside.

You don't say a word.

“I didn’t know how to say goodbye,” she mumbles before you can open your mouth. “So I didn’t.”

You squint at her through the porch light.

“And you think that’s an excuse?”

“No,” she admits. “But I was seventeen. I thought if I left fast enough, it’d hurt less.”

“For who?”

That lands.

She shifts her weight. Looks down at her shoes. “You,” she says, almost like a whisper. “Me. Both of us.”

“You didn’t just leave, Paige. You disappeared. I had to find out from your mom that you were gone. You kissed me the night before and said you’d call, and then I never heard from you again. You acted like we—like I—meant nothing.”

“You meant everything,” she says immediately.

You scoff. “Yeah. Sure. That’s why you couldn’t even text back once.”

“I didn’t know how to deal with it. You were the one person who made this place feel like more than just a stepping stone. And I needed to leave. For me. For my career. But if I stayed for you, I knew I’d never go.”

“And you couldn’t have told me that?”

“I was a coward.”

The words hang in the night.

“I thought about you every day,” she continues, slower. “In dorm rooms. After games. On the court. I looked for you in every crowd like maybe you’d show up and scream at me or something.”

You finally look at her fully, throat dry. “And what would you have done if I had?”

“I would’ve deserved it.”

The porch light flickers. She’s standing so close now you can smell that same vanilla body wash she used to steal from your shower. You hate how much of her you remember.

“I didn’t just lose my girlfriend,” you say, voice cracking. “I lost my best friend.”

“I know,” she whispers. “And I’m so sorry, Y/N. You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve me—at least not how I was back then.”

You laugh bitterly. “Then why are you here now?”

She swallows. “Because I never stopped loving you.”

The silence after that is so loud it could break the moon.

You breathe, just once, before speaking.

“You don’t get to come back and say that like it’s supposed to fix everything.”

“I know.”

You take a shaky step toward her. Then another. And then you’re right there, close enough to see the shimmer of guilt in her eyes.

“I don’t forgive you,” you say.

She nods.

“But I missed you,” you add, a whisper.

“I missed you more.”

And then, you don’t know who moves first—but her hand is on your cheek and your fingers are in her hoodie and she kisses you like nothing’s ever changed, like time is a liar, like seventeen didn’t shatter everything you ever had.

Just one kiss.

One breath between two broken girls who never got their goodbye.

And maybe this isn’t a beginning. Maybe it’s not even a second chance.

But it’s something.

And for now, that’s enough.

END.

TAGLIST @2prettyyjayahhh , @24hrssofnea , @americasfavoritelesbian , @archivessofkassidee

[vaginalvr]

can u pls do an enemies to lovers with Spencer were he goes from calling her beloathed to calling her beloved (pls let it be smut and make him be a dom 😝)

content warning: enemies to lovers, dom!Spencer Reid, spanking, rough sex, dirty talk, hate sex turned love sex, hair pulling, praise kink, degradation kink, orgasm control, soft aftercare.

a/n: IM TALKIN BOUT INITTTTTTTTT

word count ~ 1.4k

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

You don’t know when the petty bickering between you and Dr. Spencer Reid turned into a full-on war.

It probably started the day you joined the BAU. He was condescending—brilliant, sure—but arrogant and short-tempered with you from day one. And you gave it right back. Mocking his facts. Smirking at his statistics. Calling him “Dr. Know-It-All” with a sickeningly sweet tone that made his eye twitch.

And in return?

“Good morning, beloathed,” he’d greet you with a tight-lipped smile.

You wanted to slap that smug mouth.

Or maybe you just wanted to kiss it.

—

The tension between you and Spencer was unbearable. The entire team noticed. You argued over files. You’d fight in the car about case theories. You even had a shouting match outside a crime scene that ended with Hotch physically stepping between you.

But the moment it shifted from hatred to something else?

That happened in a hotel hallway in Miami.

—

“Stop looking at my file,” Spencer hissed under his breath as you both sat on the floor outside the last unsub’s apartment. “You're too slow, anyway.”

You scoffed. “Just because I don’t read three thousand words a minute doesn’t mean I need your assistance, Doctor.”

He leaned in, smirking. “No, but it’s cute that you think you’re contributing.”

Your nostrils flared. “You’re such a smug, overgrown high school debate kid.”

He leaned closer. “And you’re a brat who wants someone to put her in her place.”

Your eyes locked.

The air sizzled.

You didn’t realize how close your faces were until he was whispering into your mouth.

“Bet you’d like it if I did.”

You didn't speak.

Neither did he.

The moment passed… until the case wrapped, and you found yourself walking back to the hotel, your heart still pounding.

He followed you down the hallway.

Neither of you said a word.

And then he grabbed your wrist and shoved you against your door.

—

“Spencer—”

“Shut up.”

His mouth crashed into yours. Hard, fast, rough. His hands tangled in your hair. His thigh slid between your legs. You gasped, and he took advantage, licking into your mouth like he owned it.

You were still fully clothed. Still standing in the hallway. But it was already the hottest thing you’d ever experienced.

“I fucking hate you,” you breathed against his lips.

“Yeah?” he growled, hand curling around your jaw. “Let’s see if you still hate me when I’m making you beg.”

—

Your hotel room.

You barely made it inside before Spencer slammed the door behind him and shoved you against it.

He kissed you again, all tongue and teeth and heat. His hands yanked your shirt over your head, tossed your bra aside.

“I knew you’d be like this underneath all that attitude,” he rasped, cupping your tits, thumbs flicking your nipples. “So fucking needy.”

“I hate you,” you whimpered, even as you arched into him.

He grinned. “Say it again. Louder. So I can fuck it out of you.”

You moaned as he dropped to his knees.

And he ate you out like a man starving.

One arm wrapped around your thigh, the other pressed to your stomach to pin you to the door. His mouth buried in your pussy, tongue licking deep and flat and wide, nose nudging your clit just right—

“Sp-Spencer—”

“Be quiet,” he said sharply, lips glistening. “I’m not done yet.”

Two fingers pushed into you, curling perfectly. You cried out, one hand slapping against the door, the other tangling in his hair.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, “you’re so good—”

He chuckled darkly, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“That’s Dr. Reid to you.”

—

Later, in bed.

He fucked you like he had a point to prove.

Like every stroke was a lesson. Every thrust was punishment. Every smack of his hips against your ass was a war won.

“You think you’re smarter than me?” he growled into your neck as he took you from behind, one hand gripping your hair. “Huh?”

“N-no,” you gasped, drooling into the sheets.

“Exactly. Say it.”

“You’re smarter—fuck—you’re so much smarter—”

He slapped your ass hard enough to make you cry out.

“Say you need me.”

“I need you, Spencer, please—!”

“Say you want me.”

“I want you.”

He slowed, hips grinding deep. His hand moved from your hair to your clit, circling gently.

“Say you’re mine.”

You sobbed.

“I’m yours.”

And just like that, the rhythm returned, faster, rougher, unforgiving.

You came with his name on your lips, and he spilled inside you a second later with a groan that vibrated down your spine.

—

After.

You laid curled into his chest, still panting, skin slick with sweat.

Spencer kissed your forehead.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured.

“What? That I’m a brat?”

He smirked.

“No. That you’re mine.”

Your cheeks flushed.

You looked up at him. “Still gonna call me beloathed in the office?”

He chuckled, hand running up your bare thigh.

“Only if I can call you beloved in bed.”

—

The next morning.

You arrived at the BAU with a limp, a new appreciation for genius-level dominance, and a very smug Dr. Spencer Reid holding your coffee.

“Good morning, beloved,” he purred as he handed it to you, and winked.

Hotch just sighed.

“I don’t want to know.”

[demiurgicviscera]

uvb76fan is posting in this tag talking about all the ways trans men have it “worse”, while misrepresenting the statistic she is citing. most likely banking on no one looking closer or reading the links.

this person is a terf. if you search trans on her blog it is immediately clear, i am not using terf loosely she is literally actually a terf.

we cannot let our weariness at not being heard by some of our community push us into the sick and malformed arms of transmisogyny and radical feminism, these people do not care about us at all, they are trying to harm every single one of us. our solidarity with trans women, men and people as whole should cause us to slam hard on the breaks. no matter how many trans women you see being antitransmasculine it does not mean that there are not so many more who are our genuine allies, do not let the algorithm pushing hateful person after hateful person your way skew your understandings. the transphobes want dissent, they want us to tear each other apart. we do not need to contribute to the harm to have ours lessened. (causing harm to a vulnerable minority is never morally correct no matter what got you there in the first place. also straight up trans women are easy to love and are inherently deeply deserving of community solidarity, and fascism (which terfs are) should not have any appeal whatsoever no matter how hurt you are but i digress.)

on another note: we cannot and must not reactively take on the mentalities of trans rad fems, no gender in the trans community needs to be the most oppressed to be taken seriously and given respect in our community, the equality in our suffering is immense and must be acknowledged without each group needing to prove we are the most victimized to get the care and community support we need. this is harmful no matter who is doing it. we absolutely must nip this kind of thinking in the bud.

push back on terfs in this tag everywhere you can, and if there is a reason you cannot comment or reblog to shut them down, block them on sight.

[sexyandcringe]

As much as you love to spend time with Suna Rintarou, you hate asking for it.

And as much as you hate asking for it, you still catch yourself tapping on his name, texting him to let him know you are free for the day because your friends ditched you.

Y/N: Yo, my girls went to war and left me alone and broken (they ditched me), wanna bangout?

Y/N: I meANT HANGOUT***

Y/N: We can bang too, though. Later.

It takes him around 10 minutes to reply, just as you’re about to hop in the shower.

Rin: Sure, let’s do that

Rin: When are you coming?

Y/N: I’ll take a quick shower and i’ll be over?

Rin: Bet. Text me when you done.

You leave a thumbs up reaction and head into the shower, already excited by the idea of meeting up with Rintarou.

It’s been a year now — this messy, no-strings, fwb thing you’ve got going; And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like him, but these kind of things never end well for you, so you keep it casual, hit him up when you need some company (or a good fuck). it’s not like you don’t have a life; you’ve got your friends, your books to read, a job to do. You’re good on your own. 

You know Rintarou is not one for anything serious, but he is a good guy overall. He doesn’t just reduce you to a fuck-buddy, he sees you as a friend and cares for you, like friends do, but that’s all you’ll ever be to him. A friend and a good fuck.

That doesn’t stop you from parking in front of his building, walking up to the third floor stairs because his lift is always fucking broken, and knocking on his door with a wide smile and a basket full of snacks.

“Hey loser,” you greet, holding up the basket, "Got you some snacks.” 

His face remains stoic, unimpressed as he stares at you, “Fruits are not snacks, Y/N.”

Your only reply is pushing him aside and stepping inside, putting the basket on his kitchen table like you own the place. Suna Rintarou may be a professional athlete, but you really have to put up a fight with him for him to eat some fruits, and this is one of your battle tactics.

“I climbed, like, a thousand stairs. gimme some water.” you demand, flopping down in a chair around the table,  playing with the little cat statue in the middle of it. The one you got him when you were in Milan — black and white, scowling with a tiny green collar. It looks just like him and you still think it’s one of the cutest gifts you got him.

He scoffs but heads to the fridge anyway, grabbing a bottle and pouring it into your heart-shaped glass. the one you made him swear not to let anyone else touch. it was your heart-shaped glass that you bought for yourself, and since Rintarou’s apartment is like a second home to you, leaving it here was just as natural as breathing. 

“Am i your slave now?” he grumbles, setting the glass in front of you.

You grin, “You love being my slave.” 

Rintarou swears he is going to wipe that stupid grin off your face soon. Tonight.

There is always something to talk about when you are with him.

The latest drama about his new manager, your neighbour who you are 100% sure is growing weed in their backyard, your coworker who might actually be satan in disguise; and when you run out of shit to say, you end up watching anime together, stealing each other’s snacks in-between kisses. All normal, absolutely nothing weird about kissing your homies on the lips, you tell yourself, especially if said homie is a complete hot mess of an athlete with the body of a Greek god and the most annoyingly perfect hands you’ve ever seen.

So every time you hang out with Rintarou, you end up with your limbs tangled with his, sharing heavy breaths at the rhythm of his heartbeat, and while you feel so full of him in those moments, he always leaves a hole bigger than before in the depth of your soul.

You’ve lost count of how many guys dumped your miserable ass with some variation of “you talk about suna too much”. Like you could just turn your heart off for him on command.

Not that any of them gave a shit about you either — most of them just wanted a warm body for the night, which, honestly, is probably all you’re good for.

Sometimes you wonder if Rin also sees you just as a piece of meat.

Maybe he’s just really good at acting like a friend.

You tell your friends that it’s just physical and there’s no way you’d fall for someone like him, but you can’t tell them that the idea of him seeing you just as a good fuck and nothing more hurts you more than it should do.

“i’m going to italy in a few weeks,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed next to your half-asleep body, a strawberry lollipop lazily tucked between his lips.

You remove your sheets and sit up slowly before replying: “Okay.”

It’s going to be okay. It’s not the first time he’s gone out of the country, and he always comes back to you, be it in a month or two. You’ve done it before, you can do it this time too. It’s not a big-

“I don’t know when i’ll be back.”

Silence.

Usually, you’re good at hiding your feelings from him, keeping them caged under your throat, unspoken truths that you gulp down like heavy crumbs, but today you are doing a terrible job at that.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” It slips out a little too rough for your liking, a little too desperate.

“I got a sponsorship for an italian team and I want to see where this takes me. If it doesn’t work out in Italy I may shift to Spain or Sweden like Kageyama. I don’t think I’ll be back for a while.” He quickly glances at you, as if scared to meet your eyes. fucking coward.

You sit in silence, letting his words sink, letting the emotions stabilize and settle down for once.

You nod, “I see, i get it.”

You don’t. You don’t get it at all, any of it, but you can’t let him see you this weak.

You pick up your things, from the underwear thrown across the room to the toothbrush you left in his bathroom. You kiss him one last time, a simple peck on the lips - soft, quick, nothing like you want it to be, but you hope it will leave his lips burning, and you wave him goodbye, trying your best not to look at the broken expression he’s giving you. You can’t.

Driving back to your house feels sour and empty and when you open the door to your room the first thing you see is a small polaroid on your nightstand, a picture of Rin lying in the grass, smiling wide, while Luffy, his corgi, lays atop of him, snuggling his nose in it’s owner’s neck, and then there’s you, a blur of hands and open mouth at the edge of the frame because you couldn’t make it in the picture. Yet, it was one of the prettiest pictures you’ve ever taken of Rintarou.

You stare at it long enough to feel your heart cracking bit by bit.

And you break.

Reblogs are really appreciated!

[keraiiszn]

ʏᴏᴜ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ'ᴠᴇ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ɢᴏ

ꜱᴛᴀᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴅᴇᴇᴘ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ | ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʀᴜɪɴ | ʙᴇᴛʀᴀʏᴀʟ, ʏᴇᴀʀɴɪɴɢ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

You loved him like salvation. But he only knew how to sin.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

You hated the way his name still echoed in your chest like a warning.

Stack.

You used to say it with laughter in your throat. Now it sounded like something scraped out of glass.

You used to say it like prayer.

Now it felt like punishment.

He wasn’t supposed to get that close.

Not when you knew what came with him—anger, scars, a silence that always came before the storm. But he had that soft look sometimes, the one you swore was just for you. When his jaw relaxed. When his eyes didn’t look like warzones. When his voice dropped and he whispered shit like:

"I don’t let people in, but you… you different."

And you believed him.

You fucking believed him.

Because there was a part of you—some wounded, desperate part—that thought if you loved him enough, he’d finally feel safe. That your softness would be enough to teach him peace. That you could hold all his chaos and still be whole.

But loving Stack felt like trying to carry fire with bare hands.

It always burned. And you always let it.

The night it all fell apart was humid, thick with tension. You felt it before it happened—like the air was trying to tell you something your heart wouldn’t admit.

Your body always knew before your mind did. The unease. The ache in your chest that wasn’t quite sadness yet. Just a slow cracking in your ribs that said brace yourself.

He came in late. Again. Smelling like weed, liquor, and a perfume that didn’t belong to you.

Something sweet. Fake. Loud.

Nothing like you.

He didn’t even try to lie. Not really.

"You gon' ask or you already know?" he said, tossing his hoodie on your couch like this was still his place to fall.

You stared at him. Not because you didn’t know the answer—but because hearing it, saying it, would make it real.

"Do you even care anymore?" you asked, voice calm—too calm. That was the thing about heartbreak: it didn’t always come with screaming.

Sometimes it sounded like silence.

Sometimes it sounded like I’m done pretending I don’t know who you really are.

"Don’t start with me, Y/N," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "You knew what this was."

"No, you don’t get to say that," you snapped. "You don’t get to act like I imagined this. Like you didn’t lay next to me every night and kiss my back like I was yours."

"I never said I was good for you."

"You didn’t have to. You just had to stay. But you couldn’t even do that."

He scoffed, pacing now. “You always want something I don’t got in me. You want soft. You want... fairy tale shit.”

"I never asked you to be perfect," you said, voice breaking. "I just wanted honesty. Loyalty. A fucking phone call if you were gonna disappear."

"I don’t owe you explanations every time I breathe, Y/N. You not my wife."

"And yet you called me your peace, right?" you said, bitterly. "I was your peace, but only when it was convenient. Only when you needed somewhere to hide from the world you created."

"Man, I’m not doing this,” he muttered, heading toward the kitchen like he could walk away from the mess.

"No, you never do this," you said, following him. “You run. You shut down. You fuck up and expect me to sit here and make excuses for you. And I did that. Over and over.”

He turned then, face hard.

“You think you some savior? You think being with you made me better?”

“No,” you whispered. “I think being with you made me forget who I was.”

The silence returned, but this time it wasn’t empty.

It was loaded. Heavy. Grief-filled.

You should’ve left then. Should’ve walked away with your pride before it got dragged through the mud. Before you started rewriting your own worth just to make sense of his distance.

But your heart—your dumb, loyal heart—held out for a miracle.

The kind where he turns around and says he’s sorry.

The kind where he admits you were enough.

“Did you love her?” you asked, voice barely holding.

You knew the answer.

But still, you asked. Because part of you wanted him to say no. To say there was only you.

He looked at you then. Eyes soft. Regret painted across his face like it could fix anything.

“I didn’t even love myself,” he said.

And it hit you harder than any betrayal.

Because that was the truth you’d been ignoring. You weren’t fighting another woman. You were fighting his demons. His guilt. His self-loathing. His idea that love was dangerous and being loved was a death sentence.

And baby, you were losing.

Because no matter how much you bled for him, he never learned how to stop cutting.

When you left, you didn’t slam the door.

You didn’t scream.

You didn’t cry—not yet.

You just took what little pieces of yourself remained and walked into the night, knowing he wouldn’t chase you.

Because Stack never chased anything he thought he could find again.

But this time, you weren’t coming back.

Not as the same girl.

Not as the girl who waited up, who forgave silence, who thought love was proving your worth to someone who only saw your heart as collateral.

And even if he did try?

You weren’t the same girl who waited up anymore.

You were done surviving him.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

[devswritingcornerorsmth]

Can I get like a familial or platonic headcanon with Dorian? Like yeah he’s fine but he’s also like my dad fr fr trust

you are so real for that anon congrats on such an amazing dad

i'll do both cuz its dorian and all love/like him

like always, these are my headcanons and personal thoughts! if you don't like them make your own! :D tumblr could always use more lol

Platonic Dorian/Reader Headcanons

familial at 'read more'! also more door puns sorry not sorry

= Becoming friends with Dorian was surprisingly easy, given his closed-off personality and behavior. He's a little open, making basic conversations and such, but you're the one who has to put in a little more work during the start of the friendship.

= It starts off with *very* simple hellos and hi's ending at one-word answers and responses, on his end anyway. Asking how his day was results in, again, one-word answers. But, in time, he slowly gives more information.

= Dorian is quick to realize you really do want to be friends with him and taking time out of your day, and a slot out of The Datviators proves to him that your feelings are genuine. He talks a little more when you greet him and eventually starts asking about your day or what you plan to do, depending on when you speak to him.

= After a few days, he asks you if you genuinely want to be friends with him and want to know about him. He smiles happily when you say yes and apologizes for being so closed off. Dorian admits that his past interactions with friends and lovers weren't the best, leaving him closed off and almost scared to talk about his real feelings, but you've proven to him that you can be trusted.

= You both talk about anything and everything when you can. He'll listen to your current hyperfixations or interests, asking questions about them or nodding along and listening. Dorian might not understand much if it's about an anime, TV show, movie, or something else in the latest times, but he'll try his best.

= Dorian is very smart and knows nine languages aside from English (according to his description on his page), so if you need help with history or a language class, he'll do his best. He won't give you the answers but gently lead you to them. Very patient and understanding if you get stressed or frustrated.

= He'll comfort you if he sees you feeling down, ask what's happened, and if he can help. He hates seeing his friends uncomfortable and sad. Dorian understands if you don't want to talk about it and just need someone to stay with to take your mind off things. If one of the objects in the house made you upset, he'll speak with them himself to try and work out what happened and get them to apologize for mentally hurting you. Physically is another story. If another human upset you, he may or may not let himself hit them on the way out if they ever come to visit.

= Overall, a great friend to have! Will comfort you in the worst times and celebrate with you in the best. Even when he's Realized, Dorian will try to take time to visit you now and then to make sure you're doing alright.

Familial Dorian Headcanons (Dad ver)

so i'm kinda making two here where you're an actual door like dorian and another where dorian is realized and has a kid with someone (me/j)

Door version!

= You are Dorian's only child, cut from the same piece of wood, leaving him a little (lot) protective. You are also a door, taking place in the kitchen, where a tiny Dorian should be, but he trusted you enough to get your own spot in the house after a while of preparing.

= Dorian is very hesitant once the human comes around, trying to romance everything, telling them to stay clear of you until he's figured out if the human is safe to trust or not. He tells you to stay silent and locked up, but it's your choice at the end of the day to talk with the new human.

= If you do talk with the new human, Dorian will be... disappointed but also a little proud for showing confidence and telling them they couldn't open you just yet. If you're nice, Dorian tells you to be safe and to not tell them too much about yourself.

= If you don't talk with the human, he's proud and tells you that you did a good job.

= Dorian doesn't want to smother you, but doesn't want you to make harmful mistakes like he did when he was younger. Yes, you can make mistakes, but ones that harm you would be too much for him to bear. He'd never forgive himself if you got hurt.

yea that kinda sucked sorry anyways onto the better stuff wahoo

Human version!

= Dorian never thought the day would come that he would have a child of his own, finding himself to tears as he holds you for the first time, promising himself to be the best dad and protector anyone could ask for.

= Once again, protective. Always checking in on you mentally and physically. Someone's bullying you at school? A stern talk to the parents and the principal is in order.

= He teaches you how to defend yourself both with words and fists. Dorian constantly tells you to try and use your words first and fists for last if things get ugly. If you use this to bully others or for evil, instantly grounded and disappointed; he taught you better than that.

= Onto a lighter note, he gives the best dad hugs. One arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other placed on the back of your head, holding you close to comfort if you're having a bad day.

= If you are upset, Dorian sits down with you, offering his shoulder to lean on and an ear to talk. He'll listen and try to help you through your problems, offering solutions and answers. He will stay silent and listen if that's all you need, though. Will take you out for ice cream or sit down and watch Tv/a movie/anime/whatever with you to help cheer you up.

= Dorian goes into full protective dad mode when you talk about a crush or date, asking for their phone number, address, what they look like, SSN, etc. They will have to meet him first before anything official happens. He trusts you to an extent and only wants the best for you. He immediately tells you no if it's one of the objects from the player's house.

= If you get upset over this, and if you're old enough, Dorian tells you his own experiences with love, telling you about Keith and Reggie and what they did. He tells you that he just wants you to be safe and not have your heart broken like he had at one point. It's up to you if you want to understand him or not.

= Dorian couldn't care less about the gender of your partner. He does give you *the talk* when you're old enough and explains to you the birds and the bees... and the bees and bees. And birds and birds.

= On that note, if you tell him you want to transition and go by a different name, he'll support you 100%. It might take him a minute for pronouns and the name change, but know he's trying.

= At the end of the day, he's a father who loves you very much and is happy to have you in his life.

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i was gonna put here that i was writing this at a reasonable time but i looked down and saw it was 2am lol

hope this was alright, not very good at familial/platonic so I'm sorry if i fucked it up

thank you for reading! mwah!