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vunblr · 2 days ago

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Five Dollars and a Hook

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Tags: 18+ only. Established relationship. Fluff. Smut

Summary: Bucky navigates the impulse of being a provider, struggling with the rules of the human world.

Word Count: About 7.3k.

note: Follow-up/Side story of Tangled.

Almost a full year had passed since she moved into the coastal cottage. The sea had watched over every season with its endless tide, but now the sun was lower, the breeze cooler, and the first copper leaves had started to gather at the corners of her porch. Autumn was around the corner.

Summer hadn’t been kind to Bucky.

It wasn’t just the heat -though he grumbled about that too- but the crowds. That year, the coast had seen more tourists than usual, loud and unfamiliar bodies spilling into the sleepy town like waves. Bucky had kept to himself more, either hiding away in the deeper parts of the cove or spending time at her home when he was done with the noise and the smells.

Sometimes he'd lean against her kitchen counter with a glass of ice pressed to his wrist, watching her cook like the smell of garlic hypnotized him. Other days, he’d stretch out on her rug under the ceiling fan, arms behind his head, the long line of his body still betraying something briny and feral.

On quieter evenings, he would join her in the shallows, his human half visible while the rest of him lingered in the water, eyes tracking every movement on the beach like a sentry. Even in his more generous moods, he scowled at the thrum of speakers echoing from open car trunks, at the barking laughter of people who didn't belong there.

She tried not to laugh when he muttered curses under his breath about "landwalkers" and their inability to respect a nesting ground.

In late July, during the worst heatwave, she introduced him to ice cream. It was one of the rare things he didn’t question, no sniffing, no wary prodding. He just accepted the cone.

He bit too much off the top, of course.

The freeze hit his palate, and his eyes went wide, as his jaw worked slowly like he was trying to decode the sensation. She’d nearly dropped her own cone laughing. He didn’t speak for a full minute, just stared at the melting vanilla dripping over his knuckles like it was some small, personal miracle.

"You're meant to savor it," she’d said, breathless with amusement.

After that, he ate it constantly. She’d never seen him take to anything so quickly.

By August, the night swims had become a routine. She’d meet him down there after dark, sometimes in nothing but her underwear and a worn t-shirt. He’d be just offshore, his shape breaking the silver surface, tentacles swaying slowly beneath him like smoke.

Sometimes she slid into the water and let him pull her under gently, hands on her waist, the soft friction of his skin against hers as they drifted. Sometimes she just floated on her back while he circled below, trailing his limbs across her body in lazy figures.

He didn’t talk much in the water. Neither did she.

He hadn’t retreated. Not to another coastline, not to a deeper trench.

He stayed.

Not because it was easy.

Because she was here.

---

The dining table was a battlefield of notebooks, half-dried markers, and crumpled practice sheets. Bucky sat on one side, hunched slightly over his paper, his lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at the page. She was across from him, one leg tucked under her, a pen behind her ear, and a soft smile tugging at her lips.

“Alright,” she said, tapping the notebook in front of her. “Last dictation round. Ready?”

He nodded, a little grunt escaping his lips.

She dictated the words slowly -companion, thread, silence, tangled, anchor- and he wrote them down one by one, biting his lower lip in concentration.

Once he was done, she leaned over to check. “Four out of five right,” she said, clearly pleased. “That’s your best yet.”

His brows lifted just slightly, a flicker of satisfaction showing in the subtle twitch of his mouth.

“And now,” she added playfully, “your final boss: read me this paragraph.“

He stared at it, and the words swam a little. He groaned, but took the paper from her fingers anyway. Tried to remember how she told him to break it up. He started slowly, stumbling here and there, his accent flattening some vowels and twisting others, but he got through it.

When he was done, he slumped back in the chair with a frown. “Stupid. I sound stupid.”

“Bucky.” Her voice was firm and fond all at once. “You read an entire paragraph. Out loud. Not even two months ago, you couldn’t recognize your own name on a page. That’s not stupid, that’s amazing.”

He glanced at her. She reached across and softly nudged his knuckles with hers.

“You’re doing something completely outside your world. It’s brave, Bucky. And I’m proud of you.”

Something passed over his face then, a flicker of discomfort difficult to name. He looked away, but not before she caught the way his mouth pressed into a crooked line, half-embarrassed, half-something else.

“…Thanks,” he muttered.

She closed the notebook with a satisfied thump, tapping her pen twice against the cover before glancing his way.

“I’ve got news, by the way,” she said, a bit too casually.

His gaze slid toward her. Suspicious. Waiting.

She smoothed her palms over the tabletop. “I walked past the Shipyard Supply Office yesterday, you know, the one by the ferry docks? They had a job notice posted on the window. They were looking for a new clerk to help organize inventory and process shipments.”

His expression didn’t change, but she saw the shift in his body, the slow tensing of his shoulders, the narrowing of his eyes.

“I went in,” she continued, “and asked about it. They were doing interviews on the spot, so I figured, why not? I didn’t expect anything, but they called me this morning. I got the job.”

Still, he said nothing.

“Only four times a week. Good pay, “she added, trying to keep it light.

“You applied,” he said at last, his voice a low murmur. “Without telling me.”

She blinked. “Well, yeah. It just happened fast-”

“You didn’t even mention it.”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal. I wasn’t even sure I’d get it.”

His frown deepened. “The shipyard supply.”

“Yeah?”

“The clerks there,” he muttered, “they’re all males.”

Ah. There it was.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “So?”

His jaw worked for a moment before he spoke again. “You’ll be surrounded by them. In a closed space. For hours.”

She exhaled slowly, already sensing the spiral forming behind his eyes, the same one during Chris’ brief crocheting career.

“They’re coworkers, Bucky. I’m going to earn money. That’s all.”

“They’ll want more than that,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“Just like Chris did?” she teased gently, resting a hand on his forearm. “Come on. We’ve been through this.”

His eyes darkened. “They won’t be old. Or married. Or uninterested.

She gave him a look over the rim of her mug. “How can you possibly know their age and relationship status? Did you conduct a census while I wasn’t looking?”

He frowned at the unfamiliar word.

“And again,” she continued, trying to rein in a smile, “you think all of them will want something else from me? What is this, some reverse-harem novella?”

She chuckled, but Bucky didn’t.

“You were right about Chris,” she added quickly, “I’ll give you that. But come on, Bucky. You’ve seen the beach crowd this summer. My body type isn’t exactly top of the ranking-”

“Your body is mine,” he said firmly, pouting now. “You are my mate.”

She arched a brow. “I thought it was mine. Don’t remember gifting it to you.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

The moment the words left her mouth, she saw it, the way his expression shifted. His eyes darkened, not with anger but something far more raw. Hurt. Betrayal. Like she had just broken something sacred between them.

Because to him, that bond wasn’t playful or theoretical. It was everything.

And what she’d just said, even in jest, sounded dangerously close to rejection.

He looked like she’d slapped him.

Her smile faded the second she saw his face. One of his hands curled into a slow, deliberate fist where it rested on the table, the other flexing with a need he didn’t seem to know what to do with. His gaze had dropped, not out of shame, but restraint. His chest moved shallowly, like even breathing around the hurt took effort.

“Bucky…” she began softly, already regretting the jab.

He didn’t look up. Just shook his head once, slow and stiffly.

“I didn’t mean it like that-”

“You did,” he said. Voice low, controlled. “You meant it.”

“No,” she stood from her chair, walking around to him. “I was teasing. That’s all. It was stupid, I’m sorry.”

He didn’t flinch when she reached out, but he didn’t lean into her either. Just sat there, still. Guarded. Wounded.

“I don’t understand your world,” he muttered finally, eyes lifting to hers. “But you understand mine.”

“I’m trying to.”

“Then you know what that kind of bond means. What it costs to say it. What it gives.” His voice dipped even lower, one hand pressing against his chest. “I told you I don’t share. I don’t steal. I chose, and you yielded to me.”

She swallowed, with her heart aching. He was trying so hard to adapt, to live in her world without sacrificing what made him him. But every now and then, their languages still clashed.

She stepped closer, slipping between his legs, gently cupping his jaw.

“I know,” she murmured, stroking the edge of his cheekbone with her thumb. “I know, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of what we are. I’d never throw that away. Not for a job. Not for a joke.”

His breath shuddered in relief, but his eyes stayed locked to hers, needing something more than words. Needing her to see it.

So she leaned down, resting her forehead against his.

“This body is mine,” she said softly, “but it’s yours too. Always has been.”

That did it.

His arms wrapped around her waist in a swift motion, dragging her into his lap with a strength that was still startling sometimes. He buried his face against her neck, nuzzling the skin just below her ear with a low hum that bordered on a growl.

“Still don’t like it. The job.” he muttered.

She leaned against his chest, playing with his long hair. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I extended my stay here. Arthur’s been charging me cheap for the place. I made the fixes that had to be done, which kind of evened things out… but it’s still not fair to him. He could’ve rented this place out during the summer for way more.”

Bucky’s frown deepened.

“I want to do the right thing,” she continued. “Pull my weight. I like it here, and I want to earn the right to stay.”

That made something twist in his chest again.

Pull her weight. Earn it. The idea of her working to keep her lair… it rubbed something raw and ancient in him. Now it wasn’t about the job or the men. It was the fact that he wasn’t the one securing her comfort. That she had to seek help -worse, coin- from others to keep what should be protected by him.

It made him feel less. Not a protector. Not a provider. Not a proper mate.

He didn’t speak, just stayed nestled in the crook of her neck, pensive.

She tilted her head slightly, reading the tension in his posture. “Bucky.”

He didn’t look at her.

“I’m doing it because it’s something I can do, it seems easy, and also it’s a way to belong here. I don’t want to impair Arthur, and I don’t want to move from this house either.”

That got him. He looked at her, reluctantly. “Move?”

“If I can’t pay him the right fee, maybe I should look for a place that I can really afford.”

His whole body went tense.

The idea of her leaving this place -their place- made his stomach drop with a cold, sick weight. His arms pressed harder around her instinctively. “No.”

She blinked. “It’s not-”

“No,” he said again, firmer this time. “You don’t leave your nest. Not after we made it ours.”

His voice had gone low, dangerous. Not to her, but to the very thought of her packing up and going somewhere else, away from the cave, somewhere he couldn’t protect her.

“You think this place is just walls?” he growled, pulling back to look her in the eye. “This is where I came to you as a man. Where I sleep most of the time now, this is our lair now, besides the cave. That doesn’t change just because Arthur could earn more.”

His words were clipped and harsh.

She cupped his cheek again, gently despite the sharpness in his tone. “Bucky-”

“I should be the one to handle it,” he muttered, guiltily. “Should hunt, bargain, do something. Not have you scraping your hands to keep what I’m supposed to protect.”

Her fingers slid into his hair again, soothingly. “You do protect me. This is just a job. Something I can do while you’re at the shore or learning new things here. And, must I remind you what I told you about genders and chores?”

That calmed him a bit, but only just. His brows remained knitted, his expression stormy. “If you must… I’ll allow it. For now.”

She laughed softly at that. “Oh, thank you, almighty lair-lord.”

He didn’t smile.

But he did hold her tighter.

And after a pause, voice barely audible, he muttered, “Still don’t like it.”

She sighed against his collarbone. “I know.”

His hand traced idle shapes along her back, eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder, thoughtful. After a moment, he spoke again, low and rough, “What kind of work could someone like me even do in town?”

She sighed. “Bucky, you don’t have to-”

“I want to,” he interrupted, in a quiet but firm voice. “I can’t read properly yet. Don’t know your machines. Can’t sit in one of those loud rooms with people and… type.” He frowned, flicking away his stare. “But I can do things. Build. Carry. Fix.”

She watched him for a moment, measuring his frustration, the way he tried to cage it behind a calm surface. Carefully, she reached up and ran her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck.

“With no papers,” she said gently, “at the age you appear to be… with no schooling, no official record, it’s hard.” She said it slowly, choosing each word with care, not wanting to bruise his pride. “There’s only a handful of jobs that don’t ask questions. Maybe something down at the port, loading and unloading. The fishermen might need an extra hand. Or maybe out at the lumberyard near the ridge.”

His brow furrowed deeper. “So many rules. Just to do a job. Just to carry things, or fix what’s broken.”

“I know,” she said, brushing her thumb along the curve of his cheek. “Mainland life is… a different kind of wilderness.”

“I hate it.”

“I know that, too. But you’re doing great, you know. Reading. Writing. Talking to people, even if it’s just a grunt.”

“Too many steps,” he muttered, but leaned into her hand anyway.

She cupped his jaw, nudging his gaze back to hers. “You’ve already come so far. And whatever path you choose, it doesn’t have to match mine. Or anyone else’s. You’re not behind. You’re just… different.”

He held her gaze for a long, silent beat. Then, gruffly, “Still don’t like it.”

----

The sun had barely cleared the edge of the horizon when Bucky slid beneath the waves.

The sea was still cold this late in the season, but he welcomed it. Needed it.

His body sliced through the currents as if trying to shake the frustration that had nested deep in his chest the second she told him about the job.

He wasn’t angry. Not really. But something inside him bristled at the idea of her going out for hours, surrounded by strangers -males- with whom she’d share her time, her focus, and her voice.

And he couldn’t follow.

So, he dove. Again. And again. Deep enough that his ears buzzed with the pressure, far enough from the shore that nothing human could reach him.

----

She’d been surprised how much of the job was just… boring. Sorting through old inventory. Stocking shelves. Typing up backorders. Her supervisor, a man named Reynolds who had the body of an old linebacker and the patience of a turtle in traffic, roamed more than he helped, but it was gentle.

“This here’s delicate,” he said while handing her a box of literal nuts and bolts. “You drop one of those, you’ll be pickin’ ‘em up all day.”

Most of the workers were polite and nice. A few younger ones were even friendly. Still, being her first day, she didn’t relax, trying to absorb everything that was instructed to her.

It wasn’t until she stepped out onto the gravel drive after her shift that her shoulders felt lighter.

Because there he was.

Leaned against the far fence, all black hoodie and shadowed eyes. One leg crossed at the ankle, folded arms, not even pretending to hide the way he watched everyone around her like a sentry.

She smiled, walking toward him with her messenger bag slung across her shoulder. “You didn’t have to wait.”

“I did.” His voice was flat. “Was already nearby.”

“Doing what?”

He blinked. “Swimming.”

That explained the faint briny scent beneath the hoodie. And the slightly damp locks behind his ears. She knew better than to tease him when he looked like that, tense and quiet, with his gaze still fixed on the building behind her.

“You alright?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. When she was within reach, he brushed his hand across her hip and leaned in a little. Inhaled. Subtle to anyone else. Not to her.

“Smell like them,” he muttered.

“Oh, come on,” she sighed.

He growled low, a sound meant more for himself than for her. “You talked to them.”

“I also talked to my supervisor, and to the guy at the vending machine who gave me his extra coffee pod, and to the printer that jammed twice. It’s a workplace, Bucky, you are supposed to communicate with people.”

“Hm.”

She rolled her eyes and slipped her arm around his waist.

“Want to walk me to the car, or are you going to keep inspecting my skin for traces of other males?”

He didn’t laugh, but his jaw shifted, and something unreadable flickered in his eyes. Instead of answering, he reached over and took her bag from her shoulder without a word, slinging it across his own as they started walking.

Once inside the car, she clicked her seatbelt into place and turned the key. The engine rumbled to life and Bucky exhaled slowly, like he was trying not to flinch at the sound. Still didn’t like the machine.

As the car rolled forward, he noticed the turn wasn’t one she usually took. His brows drew together, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Where are you going?”

“Oh, I need to pick something up before heading home,” she said casually, glancing at the dashboard clock.

“What thing?”

She grinned. “Not telling.”

He scowled. “Why not?”

“It’s a surprise.” She stuck her tongue out at him like a challenge, eyes back on the road.

“I don’t like surprises,” he grumbled and crossed his arms, clearly not enjoying being left out.

“Oh, cheer up already,” she said, laughing as she pulled into a small gravel lot and killed the engine.

He glanced up, blinking at the familiar sign. The smell hit him first, rich, oily, mouthwatering. The crispy fish place.

Bucky watched her go, with his arms still folded, tracking every movement. A few heads turned when she reached the counter, mostly curious people waiting for their orders, and his jaw ticked once.

But she came back just a minute later, triumphant, holding one of the warm cones of whitebait in both hands. She opened his door and leaned in, pressing the paper cone into his palm.

“For you, mister grumpy,” she said with a teasing smile. “Freshly made and hot.”

He stared at the food, then up at her. Then back down again.

She raised a brow. “What? Thought you liked these.”

He took the cone slowly, brushing her fingers. “Didn’t say I didn’t.” And without much ceremony, he popped one of the tiny, crispy fish into his mouth.

She watched him chew. “Good?”

His silence said it all. That, and the way he immediately reached for a second one.

She grinned and shut the door behind her as she slid back into the driver’s seat.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, the occasional crunch of the whitebait the only sound between them. She had one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on her thigh, humming faintly to the tune playing low on the radio.

Bucky glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, then down at the half-eaten cone in his lap.

“...How was it?” he asked suddenly.

She blinked, turning to look at him briefly. “Work?”

He gave a small nod, chewing a handful of fish. “Your first day.”

Her mouth lifted into a soft smile. “It went alright, actually. A little chaotic. Everyone’s rushing around like they’ve done it a thousand times and forgot I haven’t. But the team was nice, and the supervisor was too. There’s still a lot to pick up, but I think I’ll get there.”

Bucky glanced at her hands on the wheel, her fingers flexing slightly as she navigated the road. His eyes drifted to her gaze, catching the faint drop on her eyelids, then the way her back was pressed against the backrest, and he frowned.

He didn’t really understand the ins and outs of human jobs -rushing around, orders, clocks dictating their time- but he could tell she was tired. And he hated that part. His jaw worked for a moment, like he wanted to say something but decided against it.

“That’s good,” he said finally, leaning his elbow on the window. “That they were nice.”

“Yeah, it is,” she said, glancing at him.

----

By the time they got home, he tossed the empty paper cone into the trash and she flicked on the small kitchen light, casting a soft amber glow across the cozy space.

Bucky grabbed two mugs from the shelf without being asked, putting them on the counter. “Tea?”

She smiled as she pulled off her jacket. “You offering to make it?”

His shrug was slow and a little smug. “Don’t act so surprised. I can boil water.”

She laughed, and the sound filled the kitchen in a way that made him feel… calmer.

“I’m glad you asked, you know,” she said. “I know it’s hard. But you did. That matters.”

He turned the burner on and glanced over his shoulder. “Still don’t like you being tired from something that isn’t for you.”

She came over, arms wrapping loosely around his middle as she leaned into his back. “I’ll be fine. You’re allowed to not like it. But you asking means a lot.”

He grunted softly in response, already moving to make the tea like he’d seen her do dozens of times before, his motions a little clunky, but sure. She used the moment to peel off her shoes and make herself comfortable on the couch, and tugged one of the throw blankets over her lap.

When he returned, he handed her the mug she liked -the one with the chipped rim and faded paint- and set his own on the coffee table without a word. Then, without asking, he sprawled out along the couch and rested his head on her thighs.

She smiled, already threading her fingers into his damp hair. “You know you’ll have to shower if you plan on sleeping in the bed. You smell like seaweed and salt.”

“Maybe you could help with that,” he said, turning just slightly so his face pressed closer to her stomach. His voice came out lower, rougher. “Make sure I don’t miss a spot.”

She huffed a soft laugh, stroking her fingers behind his ear. “Is that what you’re calling it now? Help?”

“I’m learning euphemisms,” he muttered. “Thought you’d be proud.”

----

He didn’t tell her he was going.

She had left that morning with a kiss pressed to his cheek, muttering something about inventory day and that she’d be home late. The moment the car disappeared down the narrow coastal road, Bucky turned toward the sea.

The water was cold early in the day, but it felt like home. He swam with purpose, gliding along the jagged shoreline, keeping low beneath the surface. He surfaced only once, far enough from the docks not to be seen, but close enough to make the final stretch.

He carried a waterproof bag. Something she’d bought him months ago, for him to change when coming to the cottage from the cave and vice versa. Inside of it, there were dry jeans, a worn t-shirt, and a flannel button-up, along with a towel and a pair of sneakers. He shifted slowly, his limbs and muscles contorting and compressing under the strain.

It used to hurt more.

Not anymore, not as much. Not since he’d started spending more time in his human form. Not since he started choosing to do it for her.

Once dressed, hair still damp, he climbed up the stone slope toward the port.

He hated the place immediately.

Too loud. Too crowded. Too many eyes.

He loitered near the edge for a while, half-shadowed by a stack of pallets. Watching men move with purpose. Crates were hauled. Nets were tossed. Jokes and shouts flew through the sea breeze. His presence didn’t go unnoticed for long.

“Hey-” someone barked. “You loiterin’, or lookin’ for somethin’?”

The man approaching was stocky and old, his hands were scarred from rope burn and time. He looked Bucky up and down, sizing him like a head of cattle.

“Work,” Bucky answered simply.

“Yeah? What kind?”

“Don’t care.”

The man’s brow rose. “You lift?”

Bucky nodded.

The answer came in the form of a sharp look and a sack of cement dropped at his feet.

He picked it up like it weighed nothing.

The man squinted. “You on something?”

“No.”

“Show me again.”

Bucky bent down and grabbed two sacks this time. Made it look like it cost him.

The man gave a grunt of approval. “We’ve got a guy out with a busted back. You can fill in. You show up, keep your head down, don’t break shit.”

“No paperwork?” Bucky asked.

The man shrugged. “Not for this. Temporary’s temporary.”

He handed Bucky a folded piece of paper. “Name?”

He paused a bit. Then-

“Erm- James.”

“Show up at six. Don’t be late.”

And that was how Bucky got his first human job.

No ID was asked. No résumé. No one cared where he lived, who he knew, or what he’d done before. Just muscle and silence, which turned out to be the only language that really mattered there.

Half the men grunted more than they spoke anyway.

He kept his strength in check. Always pretending to strain just enough to seem impressive, but not inhuman. He lifted. He moved things. He kept his gaze down.

No one noticed him.

No one asked questions.

And strangely, that felt good.

----

Even if she only worked a few days a week, Bucky kept heading to the port daily.

Each morning, he’d tell her he was going for a swim, pressing a kiss to her shoulder or nuzzling under her ear before vanishing toward the shoreline. She never questioned it. He was sea-bound, always had been. She didn’t know he changed into dry clothes behind the rocks, walked through the back alleys of the port, and lifted crates and sacks until his shoulders ached, not from strain, but from holding back.

He didn’t tell her.

Not yet.

And on Saturday, when the foreman handed him his pay -a modest wad of bills folded with a paperclip-, he pocketed it and made his way through town.

Straight to the yarn shop.

He pushed the door open, and the little bell above jingled. The air smelled of cotton, lavender soap, and something faintly briny and sharp. The clerk was behind the counter, sorting a box of embroidery floss.

She looked up.

Their eyes locked.

For a beat too long, neither of them moved.

“Octopus,” she greeted dryly.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Herring,” he returned.

Her chin lifted a touch as she raised a single brow. “Well. You’re a long way from your rocks, aren’t you?”

“I want one of those hooks,” he said gruffly, ignoring her tone and nodding toward a row on the wall behind her. “The kind with the silicone handle.”

She squinted at him, twitching her lips. “Size?”

A pause.

He blinked at her. Opened his mouth. Closed it.

Her mouth curved, and not in a kindly way. “Don’t even know which one she uses most, do you?”

He exhaled through his nose, sharply and annoyed, and his hand twitched at his side. He imagined flipping the entire counter over. “Just tell me what kind of yarn she buys.”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because, old hag, you want coin.”

Her cackle was almost musical. “The nerve of calling me a hag, you ancient squid.”

His nostrils flared at the throwback insult, fisting his hands at his sides.

She turned around before he could spit fire back, plucked a 3.5mm hook from a drawer, and dropped it on the counter.

“Five dollars.”

He scowled at the price. “You gouge everyone, or just me?”

“What? Can’t pay with seashells and rusty fishhooks?” she teased, propping her chin in her hand like she had all day to enjoy this.

He shoved a hand into his jeans pocket, tugging out the folded bundle of bills the dock foreman had handed him. As he fumbled through it for the right number, she tilted her head, looking at the money.

She smirked. “Tell me, octopus. Who’d you eat for it?”

He slapped a five on the counter with more energy than necessary. “Didn’t eat anyone.”

“Pity,” she said sweetly, dragging the bill across the wood.

He snatched the hook and turned.

“Always a pleasure,” she sang-songed at his back.

He didn’t answer.

But the door swung closed with enough force to rattle the bell like a warning.

----

She was slicing an apple when the door opened and closed with a familiar creak.

Bucky stepped inside, hair damp from sea-spray, smelling of salt and wind. He kissed her cheek in passing, a firm press of lips to skin that made her smile.

“I’m gonna shower,” he muttered.

She hummed in response, too focused on not cutting her fingers.

He disappeared down the hallway, already taking off his sneakers.

A minute later, when she carried her plate to the table, something else caught her eye.

A crochet hook lay near the placemat. Not hers, she could tell at a glance. The handle was smooth, matte silicone in a soft sea-glass green. Ergonomic. Just like the one she'd mentioned a dozen times but never actually bought.

She blinked at it. Picked it up. Turned it slowly in her fingers.

A smile bloomed across her face before she could stop it.

She padded softly down the hall. The bathroom door was closed, steam slipping out through the gap at the top. She knocked once and let herself in, sitting on the toilet lid like she sometimes did when he showered. Her favorite perch for idle conversations and teasing.

“So…” she started, “I saw something pretty on the table.”

Behind the curtain, water hit the tiles. A pause.

“Did you?”

“Hmm. Might’ve appeared out of nowhere. Or maybe… someone put it there.”

Another pause. Then, a low, almost grumbling answer: “Maybe.”

“Any idea where it came from?”

His voice was flat but betraying the tiniest flicker of pride. “The yarn shop.”

She let the silence stretch before whispering, “Thank you, Bucky.”

A grunt.

She leaned back, still twirling the hook between her fingers. “I thought you didn’t like surprises.”

“I don’t,” he shot back. “But this one was for you.”

She laughed, soft and delighted. “You’re such a cutie.”

“I’m not.” The curtain shifted slightly, and his silhouette moved toward the edge. “You like it?”

“I love it.” She smiled at his shape through the steam. “Almost as much as I love that you listened.”

“I always listen,” he said simply.

She tilted her head and bit her lip.

Then, without a word, she stood up and began to undress. Quietly. Purposefully.

When the curtain rustled and she stepped in, Bucky blinked at her through the steam. His eyes dropped, then rose again, a glimmer of surprise that was chased quickly by something darker, pleased and hungry.

“You never come in here with me,” he murmured.

She shrugged, already reaching for the soap. “You always get handsy. And it gets messy.”

A half smile tugged the corner of his mouth. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “I didn’t say that.”

He grunted, stepping closer, water streaming between them. “Good.”

His hands found her waist, pressing his fingers as if he’d been waiting for this moment forever. Which, to be fair, he had.

"Let me wash-"

"I'll wash you first," she cut in smoothly, stepping into him. "You're the surprise guy today."

He scowled, just a little, more out of habit than anything else. But he didn’t protest. Her soapy hands on him were more than welcome, warm, slow, and familiar.

"So..." she murmured as her hands roamed across his chest, tracing old scars, "may I ask how you bought it?"

His eyes narrowed faintly, water dripping from his lashes. “Oh, I followed your example.”

She glanced up at him, arching a brow.

“Got myself an occupation,” he said, a little too casually.

Her hands stilled. “You what?”

He smirked then, that rare, crooked thing that always felt like it held secrets. “Temporary. Port work. Told you I could be useful.”

“Wait- you’ve been working?”

His shrug was all muscle and pride. “You’re not the only one who can bring something to the lair.”

“How do you get there every day?” she asked, gliding her fingers down his sides, suds slipping through her touch. “How did they even hire you? And what kind of work do you do at the port?”

Bucky tilted his head back into the spray with a satisfied sigh. For once, he wasn’t the one interrogating, and he found that he liked it.

“I swim,” he said simply. “Carry my things in that waterproof bag you gave me.”

She blinked. “That’s a long swim.”

He cracked a crooked grin again, arching a brow cockily at her. “I get there without breaking a sweat.”

She gave him a look, halfway between impressed and exasperated.

“And they hired you just like that?”

“They saw my potential,” he said smugly.

“Bucky…” she started, the warning in her tone was unmistakable.

“I’m not stupid, mate,” he cut in, lifting a hand to push wet strands from her face. “I feign to struggle a little.”

She snorted, biting back a smile, then let her gaze drop -just for a beat- before her hand followed, sliding down his slick chest and lower still, wrapping her fingers around him with a teasing squeeze.

His breath caught in his throat.

“Any manly co-worker I should be worried about?” she murmured, stroking him lazily. “Being a little too friendly with you?”

He snorted, rolling his eyes before narrowing them in a slow, pointed glare. “They barely speak. One barked at me for loitering and asked if I was on something after I lifted a couple of sacks.”

She chuckled lowly, grazing the head of his cock with her thumb just to hear him inhale sharply through his nose. “So no charming carrier with broad shoulders and twinkling eyes?”

He arched into her touch, resting a hand on the tile behind her. “None of them smells like you. So no, mate, you’ve got no competition.”

She laughed, slow and satisfied. “Mm, I like that answer.”

“And I like that hand,” he muttered, cock twitching against her palm. “But if you keep doing that, I’m gonna end up making a mess.”

She looked up at him, eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, do you?”

Instead of answering, she leaned in, giving a playful lick to his nipple. He twitched again in her hand.

That was enough to snap his restraint.

In one swift motion, he lifted her effortlessly, backing her against the cool tiles. Her legs wrapped around his waist without hesitation, gripping his shoulders with her hands.

“Yeah,” he rasped, his breath hot against her neck. “I do. And now I’m wondering…” He shifted his hips, teasing, testing, “…if you can take me just like this. No stalling. No fingers first. No cheating.”

His nose brushed her jaw as he nuzzled close, voice getting rougher.

“You think you’re ready for that, mate?”

She seemed to weigh it for a heartbeat, her gaze locked on his with a look that was equal parts challenge and surrender. Then she leaned in, nipped softly at his jaw, and whispered against his skin, “There’s only one way to find out.”

His hands clenched under her thighs, the slick heat of her pussy pressed flush to him, and for a beat, he just held her there, chest to chest, heartbeats thrumming in sync.

“Brave little thing,” he muttered, more reverent than mocking.

His hips rolled upward, slow and deliberate, teasing her just enough to make her whimper before he pulled back again. Her breath hitched.

His mouth found her throat, then her collarbone, licking and biting and making her head tip back. He moved with purpose now, grinding deliberately and relentlessly against her, slick skin on slick skin until she moaned as he finally pushed into her, slow at first, stretching her inch by inch with no buffer, no hesitation. It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t unkind either. It was all raw, all heat, all him.

“That’s it,” he hissed, rocking deeper. “Take it. Take all of me.”

She did, with trembling thighs, fluttering breaths, hands tangled in his wet hair as he pressed her harder to the tiles, chasing every gasp, every whimper like it was a reward.

His thrusts became deeper, rougher, hips snapping with purpose. Not just from desire. That raw satisfaction rumbled in his chest and put a smirk on his lips against her neck.

He’d earned this.

Not just her gasps, or the way her nails dragged down his back. But the moment, the right to feel proud. To feel like a male who could provide, who could give her something she needed, even if it was small. Even if it was just a damn hook with a better grip.

“You liked that gift?” he growled against her ear, voice low and strained as he drove into her again,

She moaned in answer, hips rolling to meet his. That was enough.

“Good,” he grunted, pushing her higher against the tile, water cascading down their bodies, “Because I got it with my own hands. My work. My coin.”

He bit gently at her jawline, then licked over the mark. One hand slipped beneath her thigh, lifting her higher to get deeper still. Her head rolled back with a sharp cry.

“You feel this?” he growled, every word rough with the effort of holding back. “This is what you do to me. Every day. When you smile. When you kiss me.”

She whimpered something incoherent -his name, a plea, a yes- and he slammed into her again, his pace brutal now. His satisfaction, his triumph, all of it pouring into the way he took her.

His fingers dug into her thighs.

“You’re mine, mate,” he bit out, hips pounding, pelvic bone grinding against her clit. “And I’ll earn a hundred more hooks if it means you keep looking at me like that.”

She shattered with a cry, her legs trembling, arms tight around his shoulders as her climax hit her hard. And still he moved, drawn in by the way she clenched around him, the way she gave in fully to him, again and again.

His release came soon after, stuttering hips, forehead pressed to her shoulder as he groaned her name against her skin, spilling deep inside her.

For a moment, all that could be heard was the sound of their panting breaths and the water streaming down.

----

The sheets were soft and warm, still faintly damp where their bodies had pressed on them after the shower. Her fingers drew idle patterns across his chest, tracing the old scars while the weight of his arm rested around her waist. He was unusually quiet, eyes half-lidded but not asleep, his breathing deep and regular.

She shifted slightly, angling her face toward his shoulder.

“You know…” she began gently, “you don’t have to work, Bucky.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just blinked slowly, as though choosing his words. Then, his jaw clenched a little, and he spoke without looking at her.

“I do.”

There wasn’t anger in it, but there was a certain weight. Finality. She stilled her hand on his chest, and in that pause, she understood.

It was about pride. It was instinct. It was the need to contribute, to pull his weight beside her in the strange new shape of the life they were building. In his world, in his upbringing, a mate who didn't provide was less than. Worth less. And he had already spent too long hiding, watching from the fringes of her life.

Trying to coddle him or dismiss the effort would only wound him.

So instead, she shifted up slightly and pressed a kiss just below his collarbone.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Then I hope it’s not too hard on you.”

He finally looked at her then. Not with surprise, but something softer. Something grateful.

“It’s not,” he said after a beat, dragging his fingers lazily along her back. “I like earning things for you.”

She smiled into his skin, nuzzling into the curve of his neck.

"That's flattering," she murmured, voice low against him, "but I want you to get things too."

He made a quiet sound in his throat, and she could feel the frown forming in his face before she even looked up.

"I know what you said about your kind and possessions," she added quickly, drawing slow lines on his stomach, "but you live here now. So maybe you can indulge yourself a little."

Still no answer. His body remained still under her, unreadable. She softened her tone further, shifting so she could rest her chin just below his collarbone.

"Like tools. Or food you enjoy. Not just... gifts for me."

He shrugged one shoulder, not quite dismissively, not quite accepting either. But after a beat, he muttered:

"Yes. That could be."

She smiled against his skin, brushing her nose along the warm line of his throat. The scent of soap remained faintly on him, mixed with salt and something that was just his.

“Then we’ll make a list,” she murmured. “What you want. What we want.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just breathed in, as his hand slid to rest low on her back. Holding her there. Tethering.

But the way his thumb traced lazy circles against her skin… the way his chest rose calmly… it told her he was already thinking about it. Already imagining it.

Their nest.

Their life.

A future neither of them had expected, slowly taking shape like the tide reshaping the shore: patient and inevitable.

Taglist based on the main story: @thatesqcrush @lonelyghosts-stuff @angelilacsworld @dollface-xoxo @mcira @lazyneonrabbitt @vxllys @namjoohnie @sebastians-love @misspendragonsworld @thewriters64 @escapefromrealitylol @hi172826 @wintrsoldrluvr @reddesires @ruexj283 @buckvoidsyy @littlesuniee @kimberly-stocks @pandaxnienke @ladypncl @homiesexuallaj @kulteule @awesompawsum @killerwendigo @princessgriffin1998 @helen-2003 @nynxtea @alagalaska @maryevm @kittieboo @otterlycanadian @queergalpal97 @gentlelimerence @moogles93 @tentacle-priestess @fandomsearcherforcuntymen @lemonylover @wintrsoldrluvr @x-press-it

dividers by: @/strangergraphics

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #merman! Bucky #cecaelia! Bucky #cecaelia #bucky x curvy!reader #Mer! Bucky #Tangled #mermay 2025 #mermay

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lazy-ahh · 17 hours ago

Text

YOU SOAR HIGHER THAN EROS HIMSELF

pairing phainon x gender neutral reader

in amphoreus, pushing someone on a swing is the oldest love confession—so when phainon takes you to a cliffside swing adorned with ribbons and charms, his heart hangs on your reaction. too bad you had no idea.

author's note this was inspired by @earthtooz's little one-shot! i definitely recommend reading it <3

it had been weeks since three travelers from beyond the sky had descended upon amphoreus. trailblazers, they were called, though one among them moved like a storm wrapped in sunlight, all grace and gentleness despite the power humming beneath their skin. and from the very first moment, phainon was undone.

it wasn’t just the way you fought (though stars above, the way you moved—like the wind itself had learned to wield a blade). no, it was the way you laughed, bright and startled, as if joy was something you kept forgetting you were allowed to have.

it was the way you matched his dramatics with your own, tossing back his playful taunts like you’d been waiting your whole life for someone to keep up with you. and oh, how he wanted to keep up. wanted to be the one who made your eyes crinkle at the corners, the one who pulled that breathless, half-embarrassed chuckle from your lips when his flirting tipped into the absurd.

was this how the poets felt when they stumbled upon their muse? like the universe had carved a space just for you in the hollow of his ribs, and now every breath he took was yours? or maybe it was simpler than that.

maybe it was just the way your shoulder brushed his when you walked, the way your voice softened when you thought no one was listening. maybe it was the terrible, wonderful truth that you felt like home—not the kind made of stone and memory, but the kind built of shared glances and the quiet understanding that here, with you, he could be exactly who he was.

(and wasn’t that the most terrifying thing of all?)

it had only been a week. a handful of days, really—barely enough time to learn the rhythm of someone’s breath, the way their voice curled around laughter. and yet, that night, beneath a sky smeared with stars, phainon swore his soul to you without speaking a word.

the two of you had been running since dawn—not just following, but keeping up, step for step, like you’d memorized the rhythm of his duties as if they were your own. that first day, you’d trailed behind him like a curious shadow, learning the shape of his work, the weight of it.

but now? now you moved beside him as if you’d always been there, anticipating the turn of his path before he took it, standing beside him and passing him his favourite snack before he could ask.

and stars, he was grateful. not just for the help (though that alone would’ve been enough), but for the way you made the work lighter without ever dismissing its importance.

for the way you laughed when he grumbled about stubborn nobles or his theatrics, for the way you nudged water into his hands when his voice grew hoarse from speaking, for the way you stayed—always, always staying—even when the sun burned high and the work felt endless.

though, during those hours of duties, phainon had come to realise something.

phainon lived for the sound of your laughter. if he could bottle that sound—bright and unguarded, like sunlight given voice—he'd carry it with him always, uncorking it on his darkest days just to remember how it felt to be the reason for such joy.

the way your hand would fly up, knuckles pressing against your lips as if trying (and failing) to contain it. the way your eyes scrunched shut, crinkling at the corners like the pages of a well-loved book. the way your shoulders shook, just slightly, as if your entire body couldn't help but agree—this moment, this joke, this ridiculous man before you was worth every ounce of delight.

and oh, what a privilege it was, to be the one who drew that reaction from you. he'd noticed, with no small amount of pride, how you seemed to laugh easier around him—how your usual careful composure melted into something freer, lighter, like you'd forgotten to be anything but happy.

was it his terrible puns? the dramatic way he'd recount simple stories? the way he'd purposefully trip over his own feet just to see you bite back a giggle? it didn't matter. all that mattered was that when you looked at him like that—cheeks flushed, eyes shining, mouth curled in that particular way—phainon felt like he'd conquered worlds.

(and if he sometimes wondered if you laughed like this for anyone else... well. he liked to pretend you didn't. liked to imagine that this version of you—breathless and bright and beautiful—existed only for him.)

but when it finally sank below the horizon, painting the sky in tired golds and purples, it was you who took the lead. your fingers curled around his wrist, warm and sure, tugging him away from the city’s glow with a promise whispered like a secret: "come on. i’ve got something better."

and of course you did. you always did. in his eyes, you were the kind of miracle that made the climb worth it, the view sweeter, the air easier to breathe.

the cliff’s edge overlooked okhema in all its shimmering glory, the holy city glowing like a spill of liquid gold against the dark. you collapsed beneath a gnarled old tree, shoulders pressed together, and talked until your voices softened into murmurs—silly things, profound things, secrets that didn’t feel like secrets when they passed between you. and then, without warning, your head lolled against his shoulder, your breath evening out into sleep.

phainon didn’t move. couldn’t. not when your weight against him felt like the most natural thing in the world, not when the rise and fall of your chest synced with his own.

was this how it felt to find the other half of your own chaos? to meet someone who didn’t just match your fire but understood it, who laughed at your jokes before you finished them, who looked at the world with the same reckless, bleeding heart?

(perhaps soulmates weren’t written in the stars after all. perhaps they were built like this—in shared silences, in the way your pulse thrummed against his skin, in the quiet certainty that no one else would ever get him quite like you did.)

૮ฅ・ﻌ・აฅ

the sun bled gold across okhema's skyline, dripping honeyed light over the cliffs where phainon walked beside you, close enough that your sleeves brushed with every step. your laughter tangled with his—breathless, bright, the kind of sound that made his chest ache in the best way.

he'd orchestrated this moment down to the second: the exact angle of sunset, the breeze carrying the scent of distant blossoms, even the way his cape would billow dramatically when you reached the cliff's edge (he'd practiced that part). every detail mattered, because you mattered.

and there it was—the swing.

not just any swing, but one that was set up on the tree from that night when your head had rested against his shoulder and stolen his breath forever. now its ropes shimmered with ribbons the exact shade of your favorite colour, each one painstakingly dyed and rewoven until the color matched perfectly.

tiny charms caught the fading light—a silver leaf that reminded him of your smile, a blue glass bead like his eyes because you had jokingly expressed how much you found them pretty (phainon's convinced/deluded himself into thinking you actually meant those words), a carved puppy because you'd once mentioned being disappointed when you didn't manage to buy one since you had no money. he'd come here at dawn, at noon, at midnight, testing which hour made the view most breathtaking (dawn for serenity, dusk for drama—he chose dusk, of course).

the seat was worn smooth by his own hands, sanded until no splinter would dare mar your skin. he'd hung it just low enough that your feet would brush the wildflowers, just high enough that he could push you gently and watch you soar against the skyline. because this wasn't just a swing—it was a confession woven into wood and ribbon, every knot tied with the same helpless devotion that kept him awake those nights wondering if you'd understand.

you, who moved through the world with such gentle ferocity. you, whose laughter tasted sweeter than victory. you, his most beloved verse—not some polished epic, but a living poem that grew more beautiful each time he thought he'd memorized every line.

"you like it?" he asked, trying to sound casual, though his heart was hammering against his ribs.

you blinked, then smiled, and oh, how that smile unraveled him. "it’s awesome," you said, fingers brushing over the ribbons before settling onto the seat.

phainon exhaled, relief and exhilaration tangling in his chest. he stepped behind you, hands hovering for a moment before he finally—finally—pushed you gently, sending you swaying forward with the wind.

he expected laughter, maybe a teasing remark, or better yet, that soft, flustered look he’d been dreaming of. but instead, you just grinned over your shoulder and said, "oh, thanks, phainon."

and then you kept talking.

as if nothing had happened.

as if he hadn’t just bared his heart in the only way he knew how.

૮ฅ・ﻌ・აฅ

a full day had passed since the swing. since the disaster. since his heart had quietly shattered in his chest while you, blissfully unaware, had simply thanked him.

and now, phainon was slumped on a garden bench, groaning into his palms like a man condemned. the entire day had been torture—smiling when he wanted to sigh, laughing when he wanted to whimper, standing beside you with all the grace of a kicked puppy while you, ever perceptive, kept glancing at him with those soft, worried eyes.

stars, why did you have to notice? why did you have to lean in, voice gentle as morning light, and ask if he was alright? if he needed space?

oh, it was unbearable. you were unbearable. too kind, too thoughtful, too good for someone like him, who had foolishly believed he could win you over with ribbons and daydreams. he had coughed out some excuse about not feeling well, which wasn’t entirely a lie—his chest ached something fierce, after all.

but it wasn’t your fault. it was his. his for rushing, his for not trying harder, his for not weaving spells into every word until you had no choice but to love him as fiercely as he loved you—as inevitably as the tide loved the shore, as hopelessly as the moon loved the sun.

he should’ve written you sonnets. should’ve dueled the heavens for you. should’ve—

"i’ve been rejected," he muttered into his hands, voice thick with despair.

aglaea, ever the picture of patience, arched a brow. the faintest smirk tugged at her lips, as if she found his misery delightfully amusing. "have you?"

phainon peeked through his fingers, his expression the very image of tragedy. if he had a tail, it would’ve been dragging through the dirt. if he had ears, they’d be flat against his skull. he was a stormcloud of a man, all pouting lips and woeful sighs.

"yes," he said, dragging his hands down his face. "i set up the whole thing—the swing, the view, the pushing—everything! and they just… thanked me."

aglaea's gaze lingered on him, her expression softening into something between amusement and pity. the corners of her lips curled gently as she studied his miserable form—shoulders slumped, fingers tangled hopelessly in his hair, the very picture of lovesick despair. "phainon."

"yes?" he mumbled into his palms, voice muffled and miserable.

"do you honestly believe you've been rejected?" the question came light, almost playful, like she already knew the answer.

phainon peeked through his fingers, his blue eyes wide and wounded. "is that not what this is? they—they just... thanked me. like i hadn't poured my entire heart into those ribbons, into that damned swing—" his voice cracked, raw with emotion. "stars, they're even kind about it. pretending nothing happened to spare my feelings. though the pain is all the same..."

aglaea exhaled through her nose, a quiet sound that might have been a laugh if she weren't so fond of him. "phainon..." his name came out like a sigh, like she couldn't believe she had to explain this.

"yes...?" he dragged the word out, already dreading whatever came next.

"they're not from amphoreus," she said slowly, carefully, the way one might explain that rain was wet or that fire burned. "they don't know what the swing symbolizes here. they likely thought you were just... being thoughtful."

phainon went perfectly, utterly still.

oh.

oh no.

the realization hit him like a tidal wave—all at once, overwhelming, leaving him breathless. he hadn't been rejected. you hadn't understood. you hadn't known that in amphoreus, pushing someone on a swing was as good as shouting your love from the rooftops. you'd just seen it as... as another kind gesture from a friend.

which meant...

a beat passed. then another. then—

"i’m an idiot," he groaned.

aglaea patted his shoulder. "yes. but a very romantic one. did you really make that swing and all those ribbons yourself?"

phainon sighs.

૮ฅ・ﻌ・აฅ

phainon walked down the cobbled streets of okhema, the night air cool against his flushed cheeks. the stars above seemed to wink at him knowingly as he replayed aglaea's words in his mind, his heart pounding with renewed purpose. he felt invincible—no, more than that. he felt like a man who could pluck the moon from the sky if it would make you smile, who could rewrite the constellations just to spell your name across the heavens.

this time, he would do it right. no more hidden meanings, no more symbols lost in translation. tomorrow, he would seek out the trailblazer and dan heng, learn the ways of love from beyond the sky, craft his confession like a master poet crafts his verses—each word deliberate, each gesture meaningful, each moment designed to make your heart sing as his did whenever you glanced his way.

his steps were light, his blue eyes alight with determination as he mentally began planning—flowers from the eastern markets (the blue ones you'd admired last week), perhaps a song (if he could keep his voice from shaking), definitely words (so many words, spilling from his lips like a river finally freed from winter's ice). he wouldn't rush. couldn't rush. not when your love was worth every careful second, every patient breath.

but just as he turned the corner, boots scuffing against sun-warmed stone, he heard it—your voice. like honey and starlight, like the first warm breeze after a long winter, cutting through his grand plans and reducing him instantly to that same lovesick fool who tripped over his own feet when you smiled.

"phainon! wait!"

your voice cut through the night like a melody he’d been waiting his whole life to hear.

and just like that, every carefully laid resolution scattered like petals in the wind.

phainon turned, and there you were—a vision of breathless determination, your footsteps echoing against the cobblestones as you ran toward him. the lamplight caught in your hair like fireflies in dusk, your expression so wonderfully, painfully open—flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes bright with something that made his pulse stutter.

you skidded to a stop before him, hands braced on your knees as you fought to catch your breath, and stars above, he couldn’t stop the smile that curled across his face if he tried.

"it seems my duties aren’t over for the day yet," he teased, tilting his head as you straightened up. the way you looked at him—like he was the answer to a question you’d been too afraid to ask—sent warmth spilling through his ribs, honey-gold and impossible to contain. why wouldn’t he be happy? you were here. with him.

"is there something i could do for you, dawnlight?" the nickname slipped out unbidden, soft as the first brush of sunlight after a long night. he’d started to call you that the day after that night by the cliff—for the way you brightened even his darkest hours, for the hope you carried in your laughter. and now, here it was, offered to you like a secret he’d been keeping just for this moment.

"let’s do it again!" your voice cut through the quiet street, too loud, too earnest, and so utterly you that phainon’s heart stuttered. your eyes burned—not with anger, but with that terrifyingly beautiful determination you got when you set your mind to something, edged with something softer, something desperate. like this moment mattered more than anything.

phainon froze. his gaze darted around the empty street, panic flaring for half a second (stars, did anyone hear that? did they think—), but of course, you were already two steps ahead. you winced, cheeks flushing that lovely shade of pink he’d memorized by now. "i mean, like—the swing thing," you clarified, voice dropping to a murmur, fingers flexing before they pat your thigh. "i want us to do that again."

"oh?"

and then—oh.

the look on your face stole the breath from his lungs. flustered, yes—the way your lashes fluttered, the way you bit your lip like you were nervous—but beneath it, something steadier. something warm and sure, like sunlight breaking through clouds. when you met his eyes and nodded, it wasn’t just an apology. it was a promise. "i’m sorry i didn’t understand before," you said, soft but unwavering. "but now i do."

phainon’s chest ached. his pulse roared in his ears, loud enough he was half-convinced you could hear it. when your fingers brushed against his, tentative but certain, his skin burned where you touched him. he was ruined. every thought scattered like leaves in a storm, every coherent word dissolving into static. he was pretty sure his soul had left his body. was he breathing? he should probably be breathing.

"unfortunately," you continued, your thumb tracing idle circles over his knuckles (he was going to die), "i had to have dan heng explain it to me. and the trailblazer laughed in my face, so—" you huffed, but your grip on his hand tightened, anchoring him back to earth. "this time, no more misunderstandings. let’s do it again, and i’ll give you my answer."

a squeeze of your fingers, and—

oh.

oh, stars.

phainon was pretty sure he’d just ascended to another plane of existence.

"i'm.. afraid we can't do that right now." the words left phainon's lips softer than he intended, barely above a whisper. and stars—the way your face fell? it shattered him. your eyes dimmed like guttering candlelight, that bright determination melting into something wounded, and he swore he felt the fracture of it in his own chest.

a wounded sound escaped him before he could stop it—a pathetic, half-whine that would've been embarrassing if he weren't already scrambling to fix this. his hands fluttered between you like startled birds, fingers twitching with the urge to reach out but hesitating at the last second. "i-i mean—!" the stammer ripped free, his voice pitching high with panic. "we don't have enough time to walk up to the cliff! you—you'd be exhausted by the journey, and i couldn't bear that, not when you've already run all this way just for— for me—"

his face burned. he could feel it—the way his cheeks flushed scarlet, the way his lashes fluttered as he struggled to hold your gaze. every frantic word made his ears grow hotter, his pulse rabbiting in his throat like it wanted to escape. he must've looked ridiculous: blue eyes wide and pleading, lips parted around unsteady breaths, the very picture of a man torn between worship and wretchedness.

(he was so, so doomed.)

your face fell for only a second—just long enough for phainon’s heart to lurch painfully—before a slow, knowing smile curled at the corners of your lips. "oh?" you tilted your head, eyes glinting with mischief. "so one of the great chrysos heirs, who once challenged an entire group of nobles to a poetry duel, is��worried about a little walk?"

phainon’s mouth opened, then closed. "i—that’s not—!"

"are you scared?" you pressed, leaning in close—close enough that the evening light caught in your lashes, close enough that he could count every star reflected in your eyes. phainon's breath hitched as he watched your smile curve, slow and knowing, and oh, how it unraveled him.

his pulse was a wild, fluttering thing, caught somewhere between fear and devotion—because yes, maybe he was scared. scared that this fragile hope between you would shatter if he held it too tightly. scared that he'd never be enough, no matter how many ribbons he tied or poems he whispered.

but then your fingers brushed his wrist, feather-light, and every doubt burned away like morning mist. in that moment, he would've given you anything—his pride, his poetry, the very breath from his lungs—if it meant seeing that teasing glint in your eyes forever.

"or," you continued, voice dipping into something softer, "are you just making excuses because you don't actually want to push me on the swing again?"

"i always want to push you on the swing!" he blurted, then immediately looked like he wanted to throw himself off the nearest cliff.

you laughed—bright, unguarded—and the sound melted the tension from his shoulders like sunlight on snow. "good," you said, bumping your shoulder against his. "because i was looking forward to it." his flustered sputtering was worth every second.

a comfortable silence settled between you, the kind that only existed when two people fit together just right. then, softer: "so if not the swing tonight... what can we do, phainon?"

phainon stood there, utterly still, as if the universe itself had paused to let him memorize this moment—the way the fading sunlight gilded your lashes, the way your lips parted just slightly as you waited for his answer, the way your fingers curled absently against your thigh like they were aching to reach for him.

he was ruined. completely, irreversibly ruined. every breath he took was yours, every heartbeat a quiet echo of your name. if love was a thing that could be measured, his would outshine the stars; if it was a thing that could be held, it would overflow between his trembling hands.

his gaze flickered behind you—just for a second, just long enough to spot the fruit vendor’s stall nearby—before returning to your face. when you tilted your head, curiosity lighting your features, his heart stuttered like a bird caught midflight.

"would you like," he began, voice dropping to something intimate, "for me to peel you a pomegranate?" the question hung between you, weighted with unspoken meaning. his eyes traced yours, then dipped to your lips, half-lidded and warm with devotion.

in amphoreus, to peel a pomegranate for someone was to offer them your patience, your care—to stain your fingers crimson for the chance to feed them something sweet. it was a lover’s promise: i would unravel the world for you, seed by seed, if only you asked.

and thank the stars—thank every constellation that had ever blessed him—you understood. phainon’s breath caught as he watched your expression shift: curiosity melting into awe, awe softening into something so tender it made his chest ache.

and oh, if the way you looked at him now wasn’t the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen—eyes wide and shining, lips parted just slightly, as if you’d stumbled upon something precious.

(he hoped, desperately, that his own face wasn’t mirroring the same lovestruck wonder, but he knew it was. how could it not, when you were looking at him like that?)

the joy that surged through him was dizzying, bright as sunlight after a storm. to be the one who put that look on your face? to be the one your hands reached for, your smiles belonged to? it was more than he’d ever dared dream.

you hummed, low and content, fingers slotting between his like they’d been made to fit there. phainon squeezed gently, his thumb brushing over your own in a silent promise: i’m here. i’m yours.

and for the first time, the world felt right—balanced, complete, as if every path he’d ever walked had led him to this moment, to you.

the two of you began to move toward the stall, steps syncing effortlessly, when you added, voice light but earnest: "sure. then after that, perhaps i could try to write a little love letter for you with the peel or the seeds."

phainon stumbled.

his steps faltered, his grip on your hand tightening reflexively as his free hand flew to his chest, as if he could physically cradle the burst of warmth blooming beneath his ribs.

his cheeks burned; his pulse roared in his ears. writing with pomegranate seeds—it was an old amphoreus tradition, one whispered between lovers.

the peel for promises that would stain the skin, the seeds for vows that would linger sweet on the tongue. and you—you wanted to try? for him?

for a moment, phainon was certain he’d misheard. but then you grinned—that same bright, mischievous grin that always sent his heart racing—and bumped your shoulder against his.

"what, never had someone write you a love letter before?" you teased, fingers still laced with his, swinging your joined hands lightly between you.

"oh, i’ve had plenty," he shot back, recovering just enough to fall into your rhythm, into this familiar dance of yours. he brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a dramatic kiss there just to watch your cheeks warm. "but none as tragically unreadable as one written in fruit guts, i’m sure."

you gasped, faux-offended, but the sparkle in your eyes gave you away. "are you mocking my romantic efforts before i’ve even started?"

"never," he swore, leaning in until his breath ghosted over your ear. "i’m simply preparing to cherish every illegible, juice-smudged word." he pulled back just enough to smile playfully. "though if you’d prefer a more traditional method, i do know at least seventeen different ways to profess my undying—"

you shoved him lightly, laughing, and oh, stars, the sound was sweeter than any pomegranate seed. "just peel the fruit, poet."

"as my dawnlight commands," he sighed, over-the-top and reverent all at once, already reaching for the nearest pomegranate with a flourish.

easy 4.4k words for our favourite pretty boy phainon. i literally re-installed the game the second i saw his trailer and spent days grinding stellar jades like my life depended on it—got him and his light cone (now desperately pulling for E1 hahahah). spent the last few hours devouring every phainon x reader fic i could find, so i was definitely inspired and wanted to contribute. special shoutout to @sugarcubesandinsanity for the genius "dawnlight" nickname (i'm OBSESSED)—go show them and @earthtooz some love!

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y2kuromi · 2 days ago

Text

⟢ ┈ ❛ 𝗧𝗢𝗢 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗚 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗡𝗢𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗟𝗚𝗜𝗔 呪術廻戦

synopsis. your last summer together is buried in memories and spent grieving spring days you’re too young to be nostalgic for.

contents. sfw! fluff, with a smidge of angst. poly stsg x fem! reader. est rel ⇢ they’re dating. canon compliant. premature death arc. reader gets called pretty girl, wifey, sweets, baby & angel. melancholy slice of life. i’m not normal about them </3

the sky was a numbing bright blue tinted with the orange hues of the sun's rays. it was hot, sickeningly so, and the common room was stuffy despite the windows being open. you could barely move your limbs without being suffocated by the sticky heat.

the clock’s handles seemed to crawl lethargically across its dial. you were reclined on the tatami floor, head propped up against satoru's legs as you sighed loudly for what felt like the hundredth time in the last hour.

the blue eyed boy sat cross-legged in front of the only working fan, running a hand languidly through his soft white hair as he tapped absentmindedly at his phone's screen. his cheeks were flushed a light pink from the sun's warmth and beads of sweat clung to his skin.

he'd shrugged off his navy blue uniform jacket and discarded it somewhere on the common room’s couch. under the onslaught of the blistering heat sweat bled through the fabric of his white school shirt, highlighting the planes of his shoulders and abs.

his hair fell softly, framing his face and you swore his irises were glowing behind his sunglasses when you inevitably got lost in those pretty blues of his.

you were positive he was oblivious to your staring until the corner of his lips quirked upwards in a small smirk. “take a picture it’ll last longer”

“i wasn't even looking at you” you huffed, too sweltered to be embarrassed by the teasing grin that was plastered across his features as he directed his attention solely to you

“that's right sweets, you were staring” he chuckled, “i can’t say i blame you, i mean look at me, i'm drop dead gorgeous”

“i should've gone down to the konbini with shoko” you groaned, propping yourself up on your elbows in order to shoot him a well meaning glare. “or followed sugu and nanami on their mission this morning, anything’s better than being stuck here with you”

“aww don't say that, they wouldn't have wanted you to miss out on this view” the sunlight filtering in through the window cast a golden hue over his eyes. it took everything in your power not to melt under the intensity of his gaze.

“whatever helps you sleep at night” you sighed loftily, subsequently rolling your eyes. “it’s too hot for your nonsense, do you ever shut up?”

“nope! no can do” he said, sticking his tongue out childishly — the action only served to deepen the dimples carved in the apples of his cheeks. “if i did you'd be bored out of your mind”

“i am bored out of my mind” you sighed exasperatedly. you were beyond stultified, unable to do as little as focus on the book you'd been reading. the fan tousled its pages aimlessly while you stared up at your boyfriend the ceiling

“let’s do something fun then” satoru proposed. your brows furrowed as he pinched your cheek softly, rolling your flesh between his thumb and index finger.

“like what?” you narrowed your eyes at him. he couldn’t be up to any good, he never was. you wondered what the twisted idea whirring in his mind was now.

“skinny dipping” he grinned, you weren't opposed to going for a swim. it would be fun and relaxing. the thought of cool crystal clear water washing over your skin was very enticing but satoru was a handful. and you were too hot to deal with his antics.

“i’ll pass on that” you hummed, swatting his hands away from your face to no avail. he continued to trace shapes on the canvas of you skin

“and here i thought you’d jump at the opportunity to spend some time with me” he pouted.

it was suddenly a little harder to look him in the eyes without remembering how cold and lifeless they’d once been. a dull grey, unlike the familiar bright blue you’d fallen in love with

it was suddenly a little harder to breathe as you wiped beads of sweat off your forehead. this wasn’t your usual banter, his blue eyes were hazy as if a storm layed in wait in them. a storm that had been brewing, slowly, since his untimely awakening

“i am spending time with you silly” your voice was soft, like spun sugar, like the embroidered cushions lining suguru’s bed, like your gentle fingers carding through his unruly hair at night, “i’ve missed you. a lot”

satoru frowns. he was so much busier than he’d wished to be with the nonstop solo missions the higher ups threw at him. he’d barely seen you this summer. and he’d seen suguru even less. resentment, slow and bitter had begun to stir towards his newfound strength, and the responsibilities that came subsequently with it.

he’d missed so, so much this summer. it was still his favourite season. it would always be

he would never grow sick of the sun’s rays beating down on his skin. of picking pretty flowers to thread through suguru’s hair. of the late night konbini runs you went when yaga-sensei was fast asleep

but he resented his absence.

as strong as he was, as quickly as he dealt with each curse on his missions, he couldn’t be there for you, for suguru, no matter how much he wanted to be

“i know, i’m here now” he murmured, you held satoru’s gaze for a moment as he pressed a honeyed peck to your cheek with an over-exaggerated mwah

and you tried to mirror the smile splayed on his lips even though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was hard to bask in his warm presence when you’d never felt so alone.

( change was lonely, painfully so )

satoru was busy being the strongest. shoko spent her days toiling away in the infirmary with her dummies, she practically lived there. suguru had shrunken into a shell of himself — his olive skin had become milky and so, undeniably pale. his violet eyes were sunken and the dark bags hanging beneath them made your heart ache.

( change was heartbreaking to witness )

suguru seemed worse off after haibara’s funeral. he’d been holed up in his dorm more often than not. and when he could be bothered to come out his loose fitting uniform was creased. and he was quiet. quieter than he’d ever been.

he felt like a doppelgänger to you, a zombie

his trademark scent of coffee and jasmine pommade was long gone. his obsidian hair was unstyled and greasy. he was no longer the first to wake up and trail to the kitchen to make breakfast for everyone. he no longer reprimanded satoru for eating too much sugar, no longer scolded you for staying up too late.

but he was still your suguru, you still loved him

you missed him just as much as you missed your blue spring. you chewed on the inside of your cheek for a moment. it didn’t take a genius to tell something was bothering you, it was written all over your face.

“you okay?” satoru asked, brows furrowed in a way that made him look like the pouty teenager he once was, “i can practically hear you thinking”

“‘m thinking about suguru again” you confessed quietly, leaning into his touch and closing your eyes, “i know he’s fine but, i’m worried”

you weren’t entirely sure what yaga was thinking when he’d sent suguru and nanami to exorcize a second grade in kyoto.

it had been a year since the incident with the star plasma vessel and the furthest suguru had traveled for a mission was shinjuku, sending him to a completely different prefecture was throwing him in the deep end

“sugu’s a tough guy baby, he can hold his own” satoru said softly, brushing stray curls away from your forehead. you weren’t sure he actually believed that

his leg bounced subconsciously beneath your figure, and his bottom lip was caught beneath his pearly teeth. he sat quietly for a moment, considering what to make of the far away look on your face

“wanna speak to him? will that make you feel better?” he asks, dangling his phone mere inches away from your face. the matching phone charm you’d bought for the three of you reflects the suns rays beautifully

you nodded. satoru cracked his signature smile as he handed his phone to you. you knew his password by heart — it’s a combination of all your birthdays and he uses it for everything. your thumbs dart across his keyboard and his screen lights up with the photo shoko took at the beach last spring

you were grinning, sandwiched between your boyfriends and there was glitter-like sand dusting your cheeks. suguru’s eyes had so much more light in them and satoru looked like he was dreaming

( it’s so much better than his old screenie of that gravure idol )

his phone rang shrilly and you waited with bated breath for suguru to answer. relief washed over you when the line connected with a click and a familiar voice sent tremors of something akin to love rippling through your chest

“satoru?” you can hear the faint ruffling of his sleeve against the receiver as he holds his phone up to his ear

“close, it’s me ” your voice is soft, a mere whisper. talking to suguru often felt like taking timid steps towards a stray cat. making no sudden movements incase he’d bolt. “but he’s here too”

“hey angel, is everything okay?”

you knew suguru was grieving the loss of something. something you didn’t think you’d ever understand, but he never failed to think about your own wellbeing first. it made you sad, but it also made you love him even more

“yeah, i’m fine” you smiled, “i just wanted to know how your mission was going”

he chuckled lowly, amused by the shy timbre of your words. “that’s sweet of you, nanami and i are on the train now. we’ll be back before you know it”

“told you he could hold his own” satoru said quietly before growing smug, “suguru, how long does is it take to deal with a second grade? you’ve been gone all morning”

it’s a little rude, and vibrant shades of condescending, but you all know he’s only kidding. you all know he’s worried too.

“hello to you too ‘toru,” you could almost hear the smile tugging at suguru’s lips, “do you want anything? i saw some takoyaki and thought of you”

the blue eyed boy is deep in thought for a moment, before he speaks up again “nahh, i don't want anything just come back safe so we can get thai food for dinner tonight”

your mouth began to water and your stomach growled, clamouring at the mention of the savoury dishes you often got from the thai joint in town. the cereal you’d had for breakfast was a distant memory

“speaking of food, have both of you had lunch yet?”

you and satoru exchanged guilty looks. you hadn’t. you were waiting for suguru. you always were

“i’ll take your silence as a no” he tutted, “please don’t bother waiting for me again, i don’t have much of an appetite today”

satoru hummed noncommittally, shifting you off him ever so slightly, so that he could stand up. you groaned quietly as he cupped your head in the divot of his palm and placed a pillow beneath it

( it was nowhere near as soft as him )

you raised a curious brow at him, and he mouthed the word ‘water’ to you before padding towards the kitchen. you didn’t need to ask him to bring you a glass too, you knew he would

“you’ve barely eaten anything this week, and shoko said you didn’t have any breakfast before you left” you sighed — a gloomy exhale that made something in him constrict. it made his heart burn with the desperate yearning to protect you

( from everything. from how fucked up the jujutsu world was. from the dangerous curses lurking in shadows. from him.)

“we’re still getting take-out tonight angel” suguru’s voice is comforting, and laced with unadulterated affection. he really does love you, “and i’ll eat it all, i promise”

he wants to apologize to you. to promise that he’ll try — to eat, to take a little more care of himself, to be less apathetic, to talk about amanai and haibara and unpack the feelings he’d buried in the back of his mind

( to be easier to love. )

but he’s afraid his heart might give out if he unveils himself to you.

“thank you” you beamed, and he knows you mean it. he knows you’re truly grateful. for him, for everything. and he hopes you know the feeling is mutual. he feels a little less melancholy when the line clicks

( he feels a little less melancholy because you’re so, so good to him )

satoru returns with a full glass of water. your glass has cute tiny strawberries dotting its rim. he’d found it nestled behind snow globes and old ceramic vases at an old thrift store. he sets it down carefully on the coffee table

you remained unmoving on the tatami mats, legs spread akimbo in a way that made satoru think of starfish. of running barefoot on the beach and building castles in the sand

you reminded him of summer, you always had.

“c’mon, up you get lazy” he coaxed, leaning down to scoop you up effortlessly in his arms. you let out a whine as he carried you towards the couch.

he trailed a soft kiss from your cheek to the top of your head, and pulled away ever so slightly, resting his forehead against yours

he’s a little too pretty like this, framed by the golden sunlight flitting through the windows. hazy, like a midsummer night’s dream. a little too unguarded

a little too human to be a god

a blissful sigh fell from your lips. satoru had always been clingy. but — on the rare occasions he was free from his tedious missions — he’d been moreso lately. his fingers brushed over your skin meticulously, meaningfully as if he wished to commit every inch of your skin to his memory.

he waited patiently as you sipped on your water. blue eyes crinkling, as teasing as ever. you could tell he was itching to make fun of you for being so sluggish. but he doesn’t

he leans in to kiss the tip of your nose gently, and you’re drunk on the way his love seeps through his touch. it bleeds through infinity, his skin, everything and it always reaches you

it’s a heavy, cloying type of love. sometimes too much to bear, like draping a heavy blanket over your glistening skin. but satoru made it feel so light. so natural. his arms are snug around your waist and you fit into him like a puzzle piece. you’re so impossibly close to him you can feel the beat of his heart against you.

“pretty girl” he grins, and all you can manage is an airy murmur of mm. one that has him pressing yet another kiss to your skin. ivory tendrils tickle your neck and you can’t help but squirm

in his affection driven haze, satoru ignores your weak protests about him ‘slobbering all over you’ . instead, pressing more short, sticky kisses to the crook of your neck that temporarily soothed the sun’s bruises.

you’re so lost in him, in his love, that you don’t even hear shoko drifting through the open door until her footsteps came to a halt, and she took in the unfolding scene with a scowl

“get a room please” shoko groaned as she trudged into the common room. “better yet, go to one of yours. this has to be a form of public indecency”

you giggled wryly. it was hard to see her past your besotted boyfriend, but you managed. there was a disgruntled look clouding her dark brown eyes. the practiced, unamused look she reserved for satoru’s shameless public displays of affection.

her shoulder-length brown hair is scraped into two loose ponytails. beads of sweat dot her forehead, glistening beneath the mellow kitchen lights and making her skin appear to sparkle. she'd shed the jacket of her uniform and rolled her sleeves up to her elbows

you turned your face into the crook of satoru’s neck, grinning ruefully against his skin. “you could’ve stayed at the konbini longer.”

“and left you two to defile the common room? i don’t think so” she scoffed, dropping her grocery bags on the kitchen counter “i had to buy more posicles and ice cream by the way, considering someone finished all of them and didn’t think to say anything”

satoru whistled inconspicuously as he perked up beside you, “i wonder who that could’ve been”

you rolled your eyes and nudged your elbow into his ribs gently, “you, eight eyes.”

he gasped, pressing a hand dramatically to his heart. “sweets c’mon, you’re supposed to be on my side.”

“i genuinely have no idea how you managed to pull two of the hottest people i know,” shoko muttered, yanking open the freezer and shoving the cold treats inside. “you’re such a loser”

“it’s the charm, i’m simply irresistible”

“you’re insufferable actually,” she snapped, grabbing herself a popsicle and biting into it with a small crunch. she sighed as she sat herself down on one of the stools. “god it’s so hot today.”

you groaned in agreement, popping the top two open in surrender. “i feel like i’m melting”

satoru peered down at you and grinned. “oh? just a few more buttons sweets—”

“pervert!” you said, glaring at him accusingly. “what is wrong with you?” your palms flattened against his chest as you shoved hard. he didn’t budge

“that’s not very nice” satoru sniffed, feigning ignorance as he tilted his head “i’m just appreciating the view! am i not allowed to find my girlfriend attractive?”

“you’re cursed,” you shoved at his chest again to no avail. it was like trying to move a brick wall. a brick wall with annoying sparkly blue eyes.

“you’re so mean to me,” he whined, dropping his arms and drowning you in his weight. all long limbs and lazy affection, blinking at you slowly, like a cat basking in the sun.

“get off me” you shrieked, writhing beneath him in outrage. he only laughed, the sound bright and boyish as it rumbled in his chest. “i’m all sticky”

“i like you sticky” he mumbled into your skin, pressing a kiss to your temple as you tried and failed to squirm away

there was something about summers that made satoru and suguru hang off you more than they ought to. you thumped his shoulder until he finally relented with a groan. he pouted as if you were somehow inconveniencing him by not letting him squish the life out of you.

“so violent,” he teased, sitting up and pulling you towards him by your waist effortlessly. you let out a squeal as he hoisted you up into his arms.

“put me down!” you squirmed as he carried you towards the kitchen, legs kicking in the air as he held you firmly over his shoulder.

“nope,” he grinned, “not ‘til you say sorry”

“for calling you a pervert? you are one.” you rolled your eyes, trying and failing to fight the small laugh that escaped your lips, muffled against his collarbone.

“i hate both of you” shoko scowled, “you make me sick to my stomach, especially you satoru”

“hurtful,” he sniffled dramatically, tightening his grip around your waist. “wifey, tell shoko to stop being mean to me.”

“shoko stop being mean to him” you said absentmindedly as he deposited you on the counter with care, making sure you didn’t hit your head on the overhead cabinet. his fingers were gentle as he adjusted your legs so they dangled comfortably over the edge.

“i make no promises” she drawled, taking another bite of her popsicle, unmoved. “we should hit the beach one of these day, before summer ends”

you perked up slightly at that, swinging your legs where they dangled over the edge of the counter. “only if we go when toru doesn’t have a mission,”

“unlikely, i always have missions,” he muttered, still lingering by your side

“that’s true,” you said, voice softer now. “we barely see you these days. if it’s not a mission, it’s some meeting with the higher-ups or—”

“i’m here now, aren’t i?” he poked your thigh gently. looking at you with his pretty blues. they were soft in a way they rarely were these days. like summer fading into fall. “i’ll always make time for you, baby.”

shoko gagged, not missing a beat, “cut it out please, i beg of you.”

before satoru could retaliate, his phone buzzed in his pocket. he picked it up, face lighting up at the name on the screen. “sugu’s asking what you want from the thai place in town” he says, “d’you want your usual or do you want to try something new?"

“mm i want my mango sticky rice" you said, after careful consideration. the rice drizzled with sweet fresh slices of mango and coconut milk was perfect on humid days like this.

“i knew it,” satoru grinned, “you’re so predictable.”

“shut up,” you mumbled, flicking his arm. “you get pad thai every single time.”

“it’s the superior option,” he shrugged “besides, i always give you some.”

“that’s because your portions are huge.”

“and because i love you,” he said softly, reaching up to cup your cheek. you let him, because his touch was familiar and warm, because he was always anchoring himself to you in any way possible

“are you going to ask for my order too?” shoko asked impatiently, “or are you going to keep flirting with my best friend”

“if you must know i’m multi-tasking” he sighed, turning his attention towards her briefly, “i can be a good boyfriend and remember that you want . . .”

“kanom jeeb and fried tofu” she narrowed her eyes at him as he texted her order to suguru

“happy now?” he said, rolling his eyes. shoko didn’t bother gracing him with a response. she tossed her popsicle stick into the bin with a lazy flick of her wrist, already completely tuned out of the conversation

instead of probing her any further — for once — satoru ambled towards the fridge. his uniform shirt was sticking to his back in soft creases from the heat. he crouched, muttering something under his breath about the strawberry ones disappearing first, rifling through the boxes to dig out popsicles for both of you

there was a pause as he stood back up, nudging the door shut with his foot and turning toward you with a small, triumphant grin. he held out a strawberry popsicle in one hand and the mystery flavor in the other. you took yours without complaint

“thank you ‘toru” you smiled, the corners of your lips curling as you leaned ever so slightly into him, the strawberry popsicle already beginning to drip down your wrist in the summer heat.

“any time, pretty girl,” he murmured, looking very pleased with himself, “y’know i live to serve you.”

“you live to be annoying” shoko quipped flatly from across the kitchen, where she was rummaging through the rest of her groceries. she cracked open a can of cola and took a long sip before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand

“are you and suguru down to smoke later?” she asked you casually, “i wanna talk to you without your shadow lurking”

“you mean satoru?” you asked, trying to suppress the smile tugging at your lips

“i’m right here” he scowled around a mouthful of popsicle, brows furrowed as he processed the betrayal, “and you shouldn’t be smoking anyway, it’s bad for you”

“so is eating enough sugar to kill a family of five but i don’t see you quitting any time soon” shoko shot back, arms folded across her chest

“semantics” satoru said breezily, waving her off with his free hand, “the three of you smoke like you’re getting paid to, at this rate i’m gonna end up outliving all of you”

you paused, the cold sweetness of your popsicle dull on your tongue as your gaze flickered up to him. shoko didn’t respond right away either. she just looked at him, like she wasn’t sure if he meant it as a harmless joke or if he even realized how that sounded out loud.

“very tactful” she muttered finally, voice lower than it was before, “that’s one hell of a thing to say satoru”

he blinked slowly, like the weight of his own words had only just reached him. but he didn’t take them back. he just chuckled hollowly. “i mean, think about it. i am the strongest. kinda comes with the label, doesn’t it?”

there was a pause. you looked at him, really looked at him, the way you had a hundred times since the star plasma incident. his face was flushed with heat and sugar. his mouth was curled like he was still joking, but his eyes had gone a little glassy

you knew that look all too well, you’d seen it too often in the quiet moments after missions, when he came home with bloodstains dotting his collar and heavy silence. you'd seen it when he held amanai’s body too tightly the day she died. you’d seen it when he stood next to suguru at haibara’s grave. you could see it now, beneath the kitchen lights and between melting popsicles. you felt something twist deep in your stomach.

“toru,” you murmured, your voice barely above the hum of the fridge. he blinked, once, twice, “stop talking like that”

“like what?” he cocked his head, expression unreadable behind his sunglasses

“like you’re going to end up all alone” you frowned. he sighed, eyes lowering again. he fiddled with the now empty popsicle in his hand

“‘m just being realistic” he grinned limply, “someone’s gotta be” your fingers brushed against his gently, in an almost imperceptible way that made him flinch. not away from you, but towards you. like he needed it. like he needed your touch to anchor him, to pull him back from wherever his mind had started to spiral.

he shifted a little closer, knuckles grazing your thigh where you sat on the counter, soft and quiet. in case the smallest movement would scare the moment away.

“you don’t have to be the one holding the world together” you said softly. his jaw tensed, he was still grinning but his lips twitched weakly

“who else is gonna do it?” he asked casually, “nanami’s too serious, utahime’s too weak—”

“gojo” shoko interrupted coolly, arms folded over her chest again. she watched him closely as she shook her head, the expression on her face was a mix of concern and mild irritation beneath her soft bangs.

“my bad” he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck as he offered her a half-hearted smile, “didn’t mean to get all doom and gloom on you guys, it’s way too hot outside for conversations like this”

you hummed, unconvinced but you didn’t push it. as the silence settled back into something lighter, you heard footsteps echo down the hall.

“conversations like what?” suguru’s voice filtered into the kitchen, gentle and low, warming your heart in a way only he could manage to.

“suguru” your body moved before your mind could register, sliding off the counter and padding across the linoleum to close the distance between you. you threw your arms around him the second he stepped into view, pressing your face into the crook of his neck before he could fully set the takeaway bags down.

he stiffened slightly, but you felt him soften just as quickly. “hey,” he said, voice low and a little hoarse as he adjusted his grip on the food to avoid dropping it, “i’m all sweaty”

“when has that ever mattered?” you mumbled against his skin, breathing him in. his scent was fainter now, mixed with heat and exhaustion, but he still smelled like himself. like coffee and jasmine. he was still your suguru.

“double standards” behind you, satoru spluttered. “when it was me last week you told me to get off you. and you told me to get off you multiple times today”

“because you were literally covered in blood and you’re clingy at the most inconvenient times” you rolled your eyes as suguru placed a tender kiss on your the crown of your head. like he was reassuring you in ways he couldn’t quite accomplish with words. “how was your mission sugu?”

“so you hate me and you want me to die?” you didn’t even have to look at satoru to know his face was twisted into the most betrayed expression imaginable, hand clutching at his chest like you’d run him through with a blade.

“he’s so dramatic,” you murmured, softening into the crook of suguru’s shoulder

“he always has been” suguru said fondly, “it’s one of his more charming flaws”

“flaws?” satoru gasped again, voice cracking as if the word alone had physically hurt him, “you’re turning on me too?”

suguru sighed through a small, fond smile. like he’d seen this exact performance a hundred times, and would happily watch it a hundred more. “no one’s turning on you, ‘toru. you’re just. . .exhausting.”

“exhausting?” he sounded scandalized now, staggering a step backward toward the counter like he needed the support. “i give and give and this is what i get in return? slander? betrayal?”

“you give us migraines,” shoko muttered, rubbing her temple tiredly like the sound of satoru’s voice was more than enough to trigger another one. “how was your mission suguru?”

“mm” suguru hummed, setting down the takeaway bags carefully on the counter. “not too bad, just another haunted house”

“where’s nanami?” you asked, leaning against the counter as suguru loosened the ties of the plastic bags with his lithe fingers. his dark hair was still a little damp at the ends, curled slightly where it brushed the nape of his neck. you could see how the sleeves of his uniform clung to the faint sheen of sweat along his arms.

“he said he was going to take a shower,” he said, finishing unpacking the takeaway with practiced movements. mango sticky rice for you, pad thai for satoru, kanom jeeb for shoko, khao soi for nanami, and som tam for himself. all neatly boxed in clear plastic and lined neatly on the counter . “i’m going to freshen up as well, you can start eating without me”

“like hell we will” satoru scoffed indignantly, as if the mere idea of eating dinner without suguru was a personal affront, “we’re coming with you”

“that isn’t necessary, i’m only going to take a shower.”

he had that look in his violet eyes again, something akin to exhaustion and untouchable softness.before the star plasma vessel, before amanai, before toji, he would’ve teased satoru for being too clingy. but now?

now, he was quieter. slower to smile. still warm, still him. but dull, defeated

( now, an ache permanently rested on his shoulders and he was always a little too far away. like you could reach out and touch him, but never truly hold him )

satoru, naturally, took offense to suguru’s refusal, “how rude,” he huffed, “i said we were tagging along why are you acting like i asked to watch you shower?”

“i wouldn’t put it past you.” shoko interjected, “freak”

you snorted behind your hand, watching suguru’s violet eyes flicker with the faintest trace of amusement. the kind of amusement they were lit with naturally before everything broke

“we’re coming” satoru insisted again, already walking toward the hallway. his footsteps unyielding as he glared at shoko over his shoulder “best believe i’ll deal with you later shoko”

shoko didn’t flinch, she didn’t do as little as batting an eye. “shiver me timbers” she deadpanned

your fingers slipped into suguru’s. his hand was warm and a little rough, it tightened gently around yours instinctively. muscle memory. something he couldn’t unlearn no matter how hard he tried to.

he glanced at you briefly, your eyes held something that he couldn’t quite place a finger on. it softened his resolve to be alone, it softened his resolve to leave. “alright”

you didn’t say anything, just tugged at his hand to guide him toward the hallway. toward the stillness of his room. your steps were slow and unhurried, and suguru was grateful for it. grateful for you

the door creaked as he pushed it open. his room hadn’t changed much over the course of the last three years. it still smelled the same, like jasmine, sandalwood, and a hint of sweet citrus. the main lights were off and the sun hadn’t fully set yet. golden rays filtered in streaks through the curtains.

you stepped in after suguru and let the door click shut behind you. satoru was already sprawled out on his bed like he owned the place

suguru’s room was messy in an intentional way. his walls were adorned with paintings and photographs. some were in proper frames while some were hung up with tape. his desk was littered with sketches of curses he’d absorbed, and studies of you and your found family. there was one of nanami reading by the windowsill. one of shoko smoking. and a half-finished sketch of amanai at the beach.

his dragon shaped record player sat near his desk, a neat stack of worn vinyls beside it. his dresser was cluttered with glass bottles of cologne, hair products, and his childhood jewelry box that was stuffed with silver rings and tangled necklaces. suguru’s room was a sanctuary. it was the only place he still felt like himself. he always had a candle burning, its scent wafting through the air like sweet incense. it clung to his sheets, to his throw pillows, to his clothes

his pet lizard was dozing off in its vivarium, blinking lazily at you. the lava lamp on the bedside table gurgled and shifted, casting soft ripples of orange light across satoru’s face

“i’m in love with your room” you murmured with a smile, eyes flicking toward the small mountain of lego sets lined up by the window. “when we finally graduate and move in together, you’re definitely going to be in charge of decorating our apartment”

suguru stilled slightly at the sound of your words. “assuming i would say yes to living with you two”

“of course you would” satoru said, “who else would do the dishes and laundry and all the other boring stuff”

“if you’re gonna be lazy then you can’t move in with us” you said matter-of-factly.

“i happen to be very helpful when i want to be”

“so never?” you quipped, sitting down slowly on the edge of suguru’s bed, “we’ll get a place somewhere in the city, not too far from the school so we can still commute easily, but far enough that we don’t run into yaga-sensei on the weekends”

“we need a big kitchen for late night snacks” satoru added, looking expectantly at suguru.

suguru was silent for a moment. every time you and satoru brought up the future and talked about building a life outside missions and curses, his heart twisted in his chest. he wanted to want it. but no matter how much he daydreamed, he knew deep down he wouldn’t be with you when the time came. for now he could pretend to believe in your fantasies

“and a little balcony with enough room for me to grow plants and smoke until ‘toru threatens to throw me over it” he said drily

“you just had to bring up the s word” satoru sighed, shaking his head softly

suguru unbuttoned his shirt with tired fingers as he headed for the bathroom “i won’t be long” he said over his shoulder. when he disappeared into the steam and scent of his green apple shampoo, the quiet settled in again.

satoru shifted a little beside you, watching the way your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your skirt, watching the way your bottom lip was caught beneath your teeth, watching the worried crease that clouded your visage. “why’re you making that face, sweets?”

“what face?”

“you know what i’m talking about” he tilted his head slightly, white curls falling across his forehead as he scrutinized “c’mon spit it out”

you hesitated, fingers threading together. “i’m just worried about him and i know you said he could hold his own. . .” you paused, pressing your lips firmly together, “. .but he’s not himself lately.”

“he’s grieving” he sighed, “we all are” his tone wasn’t dismissive. it was bitter. not at you, or suguru. but the truth of it all. and the fact that grief had settled over all of you like a storm cloud, dimming everything. suguru’s laughter, his brightness, your peace. and there wasn’t a cursed technique in the world, not even his, that could exorcize the kind of grief haunting the summer

“i feel like it’s more than that” you persisted, “it’s like he’s fading away both literally and figuratively, he used to talk about his missions more, his feelings, he used to be more. . . himself, and now he keeps everything bottled up and it’s scaring me”

“ i mean. . .he’s always been a little emo.”

“satoru.” you said through gritted teeth. you knew he was trying to keep things light, trying to make you laugh, or maybe, at the very least, trying to keep himself from spiraling alongside you. that only made the ache worse

“okay, okay,” he lifted his hands in surrender. “i just— i . . don’t worry your pretty little head too much, yeah? he’ll talk when he’s ready.”

you sighed, hugging a throw pillow close to your chest, it smelled faintly of suguru’s cologne and you buried your face in it for a moment. as if that could quiet the dull ache in your ribcage. “i miss him”

satoru was quiet for a beat too long.“i know,” he murmured eventually, voice solemn and low,“me too, but he’s still here”

your breath hitched as you choked back a sob, and that alone made him sit up, you felt the bed dip as he shifted closer to you. placing a warm, steadily hand on your lower back

“don’t do that, sweets,” satoru murmured, voice soft in a way only you and suguru ever got to hear, “please don’t cry, y’know i’m bad with tears”

you shook your head, pressing your face harder into the pillow, trying to swallow the emotions clawing their way up your throat. they spilled through a shallow gasp, a broken little sound that made satoru’s heart constrict in his chest.

he didn’t say anything else. he just pulled you closer. his arm curled around your shoulders, tucking you into his side. he didn’t mind the way your tears bled through his shirt, just rubbed soothing circles against your arm

“we’ll figure it out, i promise” he said, “he’s not going anywhere. not really.”

you wanted to believe him. you wanted to believe that this heavy silence hanging over all of you would eventually lift. that there was still time.but you didn’t. you knew better

satoru hummed thoughtfully when you didn’t respond, then turned to look at the lizard in its vivarium. “suguru gecko do you know anything? has suguru talked to you about his feelings? did he tell you about his plans to leave?”

you swatted at him lightly with a laugh, though it came out a little watery. “he’s not gonna talk ‘toru, he’s a lizard” he caught your wrist mid-air, pressing a small kiss to your knuckles, then the soft flesh on your wrist where your pulse fluttered

“worth a shot,” he grinned. the bathroom door opened then, and suguru stepped out in a loose fitting black t-shirt, hair dripping on the towel draped around his neck, the strands darker and heavier from the water

his violet eyes swept across the room, softening as they landed on you two curled up on his bed, “sorry to keep you waiting”

“can i help you with your hair?” you asked, already sitting up straighter as your glassy eyes met his.

“of course you can, angel,” he said, moving without protest when you patted the space between your knees, settling on the floor in front of you with a quiet sigh.

you reached for the hair dryer on his bedside table, plugging it in and adjusting the heat settings. you ran the dryer gently over his head, fingers working carefully through the damp strands. his breathing hitched slightly when your fingertips brushed against his scalp but he didn’t pull away. his shoulders sagged in relief and his eyelids fluttered as he relaxed into your touch.

“thank you,” he murmured. you leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. you took your sweet time drying his hair. and he was grateful because he needed that. you both did

when his hair was dry enough you reached for the comb resting on the bedside table, gently gathered his hair in your fingers, and ran a it through his hair slowly until the black strands were smooth in your hands. the green apple shampoo he always used lingered in the air, light and nostalgic.

“do you mind if i braid it?” you asked. he tilted his head to look at you over his shoulder. there was something so tender in his violet gaze it made your throat feel tight

“i trust you” he said plainly

you could feel the rhythm of his breathing even out as you worked silently. your fingers wove strands to his scalp, the three part pattern forming quickly. you completed one braid, then the other, securing the ends with small rubber bands.

you leaned back, admiring your handiwork with a small smile. you got up and kneeled in front of him, reaching out and cupping his face between your hands, thumbs brushing against the faint shadow below his eyes, “you’re so pretty, sugu” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead

his gaze found yours through his lashes and he leaned into your touch instinctively. his hands came up to cover yours, holding them in place for a second. “thank you” he whispered again, and it wasn’t just for the compliment, or the dutch braids. he was thanking you for everything. for understanding, for taking care of him, for loving him.

the moment slipped into something more casual as satoru, never one for being ‘left out’, rolled over onto his stomach with an exaggerated groan, “here i am, forgotten, ignored by the people i love”

you tilted your head, still cupping suguru’s cheeks, “we should go eat before our food gets cold”

“don’t change the subject” satoru pointed at you accusingly, “you have a favorite”

“i do not” you said, lips twitching

“oh really?” he sat up quickly, “then how come you never compliment me? how come you never kiss me?”

“you are such a pathological liar” you gasped, “i’m literally always kissing you, and i do compliment you. i just don’t do it often because your ego is huge enough”

“don’t indulge him” suguru murmured, his hands were still curled around yours, “he just wants attention”

“i do want attention!” he agreed, “i want to be doted on, is that too much to ask for?”

“you are doted on, constantly” suguru argued, “you’re just greedy”

“greedy . .?” he echoed, “greedy? me?”

you sighed, a soft exhale that came with loving someone as difficult as satoru. “please can we eat before we have this tired conversation again? i can’t deal with your nonsense on an empty stomach”

you rose to your feet, pulling suguru up with you. your fingers laced through his. when you looked back, satoru was still pouting on the bed. with a fond sigh you stretched out your free hand to him

“oh so now you remember me?” he sniffed, taking your hand shamelessly, grip tight around yours like he never wanted to let go

the three of you left suguru’s room together. satoru on your right, suguru on your left. the hallway was dim and quiet save for the soft patter of your footsteps. the sun had dipped a little lower now, but it still felt too hot. you wished you’d changed out of your uniform into something lighter and made a mental note to do exactly that after dinner

you rounded the corner into the kitchen, you could hear shoko’s voice floating as she spoke into her phone’s receiver. she was probably talking to utahime again. the air was heavy with the scents of thai food, garlic, basil, lemongrass, rich and warm. the table was cluttered in a domestic way that tugged at your heart strings

take-out containers sat half unpacked, disposable chopsticks stacked neatly in pairs. shoko had a cigarette slotted between her lips, curling smoke into the evening air. someone had cracked open a window, probably nanami, and breeze filtered in softly

shoko had an elbow resting on the table as she laughed at something utahime was saying. her container of kanom jeeb was nearly empty. “finally” she said, snuffing out her cigarette in an ashtray, “you took too long, i started eating without you”

“i can’t blame you” you slid into the seat beside her, suguru sat to your left, while satoru sat across the counter. nanami was the last to re-enter the kitchen, dressed in a crisp t-shirt and sweatpants. he offered a short nod and reached for a bottle of water before quietly taking his seat

it was a slow dinner, full of idle chatter and old jokes. shoko complained about how hot it was once again, satoru talked about digimon, nanami and suguru were silent. your boyfriend picked at his food methodically, alternating between bites of his salad and sips of water.

“you’re not eating enough” satoru muttered, earning a glare from both you and shoko

“i’m eating fine” suguru said, giving him a pointed look

“you ordered rabbit food” he frowned, offering suguru a portion of his stir fried noodles, “here, you’re gonna waste away at this rate”

“you’re eating enough for all of us satoru” you said, your words resulted in satoru dropping his chopsticks and clutching his heart

“i can’t believe you would say that to me”

“you ordered six portions of pad thai” shoko scoffed, “not two, not four, but six”

“that’s because i’m growing” he said proudly.

a laugh bubbled out of you, the kind of laugh that reminded you of the summers before everything changed. suguru leaned forward slightly, elbow brushing against yours as he accepted satoru’s offer

when your stomachs were full, the dishes were washed, and the leftovers had been stashed in the fridge for later, you stretched with a groan and declared you needed a shower or you’d melt for real this time. nanami excused himself to his room and satoru trailed after you sluggishly, leaving suguru and shoko alone in the kitchen to smoke together

by the time you’d showered and changed into a soft t-shirt and shorts, suguru was already sprawled across one of the couches in the common room, flipping through movie options leisurely.

you padded over quietly and curled up beside him without a word. he shifted instinctively, opening his arms to you. your cheek found his chest, and your legs slid between his, fitting into the space he made for you.you sighed as he pressed a soft kiss to your hairline.

satoru came in after shortly after you, wearing a graphic tee and grey sweats. his hair was slightly damp and his skin was flushed pink. he sat beside you on the couch, slouching against you

you found yourself sandwiched between them. suguru’s arms were wrapped around you in a tender hold that radiated warmth, his fingers lazily traced patterns on your hip. his other hand found repose in satoru's snowy curls.

his fingers began to comb gently through the tangled strands, nails scratching at satoru’s scalp in soothing circles. the blue eyed boy hummed in contentment at the feel of suguru’s fingertips moving against his scalp. satoru murmured i love yous in the crook of you neck, his voice low but laced with a tenderness only reserved for your ears.

“no horror movies” he said firmly, “not tonight”

“scaredy cat” you teased, shooting him a taunting look

“i’m not scared” he said, dragging a pillow onto his lap, “i just don’t think we need that negative energy right before bed”

“if you say so” you hummed, “in that case, we should watch howl’s moving castle again” satoru raised a brow.

“we’ve watched that a billion times” he sighed, “and you thirst over howl too much, it hurts my feelings wifey”

“he’s an animated character satoru” suguru chuckled

“well you act like he’s real” he frowned, blue eyes half-lidded as he glared at you “do you think he’s prettier than me?”

“shut up and watch the movie” you giggled as suguru pressed the play button. the screen flooded with warm watercolor landscapes. satoru’s head found your lap and you smoothed your fingers through his soft white curls. suguru’s hands rubbed lazy circles against your hipbone and for a moment you felt like everything could be a whole again

until you tilted your head slightly, just enough to look at suguru. his violet eyes were glued to the screen, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. it made your heart ache again. the concern you’d voiced earlier was still there, nestled between your ribs. but you were tired of worrying, of wondering if he would ever tell you how he was feeling

you would keep it nestled between your ribs for tonight. because you still had the heavy press of satoru’s head in your lap and the slow rise and fall of suguru’s chest behind you. you still had the warmth of this moment

the summer night stretched on, still heavy and hot, but you had adjusted to the heat. maybe it was easier to bear because of the way suguru pressed his nose into your shoulder and breathed you in like he needed you to live, and the way satoru pressed sleepy kisses to your thigh.

maybe it was easier because you were in love. and maybe tonight, nothing mattered. not the ghosts haunting suguru’s heart, not the worries nestled in yours. right now you had everything. both chaos and calm. and you weren’t quite sure how you’d survive without either of them

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stxrrydreamss · 2 days ago

Text

Shogun Caleb x F! Courtesan Reader

Word count: 4,175

A/N: I'm sorry for the long wait. I was in and out of the hospital and dealing with many issues, but here it is!

Contains: Slow burn, childhood friends to lovers, historical romance, forbidden love, emotional sex scene, class divide, shogun x courtesan, hurt/comfort, virgin female lead, virgin male lead, sensual intimacy.

Pings: @lattefromneptune @pirana10 @multisstuff

Description: In a snow-kissed world bound by duty and class, a courtesan and a rising shogun find their way back to each other after years of separation. Once childhood friends, their bond grew into something deeper, something forbidden. As they reunite under the hush of falling snow and candlelight, memories resurface, promises are rekindled, and longing finally gives way to love.

I stand mesmerized, watching the snowflakes drift down from the leaden sky, their delicate forms swirling gracefully through the crisp air before settling softly on the ground. How long has it been since I last laid eyes on him? My Caleb. A wave of nostalgia washes over me, thick with unspoken words and unfulfilled promises. A cycle of seasons has come and gone, each one a silent witness to my longing. How many times have I marveled at the snow’s gentle descent, only to see it yield to the warmth of spring, giving way to vibrant blossoms and the jubilant dance of summer leaves, before finally surrendering to the quiet embrace of autumn? Each fall encapsulates the passage of time, yet my heart remains ensnared in the endless winter of his absence.

We were just children when our paths first crossed. The summer sun hung high in an azure sky, bathing the world in a warm, golden glow. I found refuge beneath a sprawling cherry tree, its branches heavy with vibrant blossoms. I wore a faded and slightly frayed kimono, the fabric soft against my skin, adorned with motifs that told a story of simpler times. Delicate pink petals descended like whispers, carpeting the ground in a soft, fragrant layer.

It was in that serene moment that a boy, a few years older, ventured toward me. His clothes, much like mine, bore the signs of wear, with patches adding character to his appearance. His tousled brown hair stirred playfully in the gentle breeze, and his striking purple eyes caught the sunlight, shimmering like the veil between worlds on a winter's night. They sparkled with youthful curiosity, reflecting the dappled light that danced through the cherry tree's leaves, creating a breathtaking mosaic of color and warmth around us.

“Hey there! I’m Caleb!” he exclaimed, his voice bubbling with enthusiasm. His face lit up with a wide grin. He reached out his hand toward me, the warmth of his cheerful spirit radiating through the gesture. “What’s your name?”

I gazed at him, taken aback, my heart racing with curiosity. Gathering my thoughts, I finally broke the silence, my voice steady yet soft. “My name is (Y/n),” I announced, the words hanging in the air like a beacon of connection in the midst of uncertainty.

"That's a stunnin name!" he exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with genuine enthusiasm as a warm smile illuminated his face, casting a soft glow over his youthful cheeks that flushed a delicate shade of pink. I returned his smile, and that was only the beginning of an enchanting tale unfolding between us. While my time was filled with lessons, learning the art of song, the grace of dance, and the intricate responsibilities of a future courtesan, we found joy in meeting every day to indulge in playful adventures.

We frolicked in the shimmering waters that danced like diamonds under the sun, climbed sturdy trees that felt like our own inviting castles, and raced through fields awash in a kaleidoscope of vibrant flowers. We rolled in the lush, emerald grass, our laughter mingling with the gentle whispers of the wind, and lay beneath the vast, blue sky, pointing out the fluffy clouds and their whimsical shapes. Each day was a canvas painted with new escapades and boundless joy, and together we created an art gallery of memories that spanned the years.

Each day dragged me closer to the looming shadow of my 18th birthday, the fateful day when I would be bartered to a renowned brothel, a transaction made in desperate exchange for the meager coins my family so desperately needed. This practice, though not uncommon for someone of my standing, felt like a heavy, cold weight resting upon my chest. It was a reality that enveloped many families like a persistent fog, one they navigated with a blend of resignation and hope.

In a world where financial survival often dictated heart-wrenching choices, many families chose to sell their daughters, seeking the promise of stability and a chance at a better life. We were often told that such a transaction could open doors to education and the distant flicker of a brighter future, should one of us catch the eye of a wealthy patron willing to invest in our potential. Yet, as I stared into the uncertain horizon, the idea of taking on customers filled me with dread. My dreams lay not in surrendering to fate but in embracing a different role, a gracious hostess whose charm and wit could shine beyond mere transactions, offering warmth and a sense of belonging in a world that often felt cold and transactional. I desire to remain pure. This approach would enhance my value, and with my skills, I could secure a better future, but in my heart, I have made a definitive choice: Caleb is the only man I want to share my life with. His presence brings me joy and comfort that I cannot imagine finding in anyone else. No other relationship or connection holds the same significance for me as the one I have with him.

Amidst the backdrop of a world steeped in uncertainty, Caleb poured every ounce of his determination into his military service, tirelessly striving for a higher rank. His ambition was more than a personal goal; it was a desperate attempt to rescue me from the dark fate that loomed ahead. It was beneath the sprawling branches of that ancient cherry tree, its delicate blossoms whispering tales of hope, where we shared our solemn promise, an unwavering bond forged in the shadows of adversity.

“I promise to visit you whenever I can,” Caleb declared, his eyes sparkling with determination. “I’ll find us the most beautiful home, complete with a breathtakin garden where vibrant flowers bloom in a symphony of colors. And one day, we’ll be standin together in front of our loved ones and say ‘I do.’” He extended his pinky finger towards me, a playful yet earnest gesture binding his words with an unspoken promise.

“I wouldn’t desire anything else,” I reply, my voice a gentle whisper, as warmth spreads through my chest. “You’re the only boy who holds my gaze, the only one who ignites a spark within me. My heart, with all its passion and devotion, belongs entirely to you for as long as it continues to beat.” A soft smile graces my lips, and with a tender gesture, I intertwine my pinky with his, sealing our unspoken promise in that delicate embrace.

Beneath the sprawling branches of that old cherry tree, where our childhood adventures began, we now stood, hearts racing as our fingers tentatively intertwined. The air around us buzzed with electricity, and as we leaned closer, the world faded away; it was just the two of us. Our eyes met, filled with a longing that seemed to dance like fireflies in the twilight.

When his chapped lips brushed against my own, it felt like a gentle spark igniting a deep flame. One kiss melted into two, then three, each a soft exploration filled with unspoken promises. As our lips moved together, the memories of carefree summers and whispered secrets rushed through my mind, each moment a treasure I held dear. I could feel the rhythm of my heartbeat echoing the truth: my heart was his, and in that sacred connection, I knew his echoed back to me.

Years had slipped by since those early days, marking our transformation from carefree teenagers to complex young adults navigating the world. Caleb had once been a frequent visitor in my life, especially during the initial months of my journey as a courtesan. His presence was a comfort, a reminder of simpler times. However, as my reputation grew and my worth increased due to my blend of intelligence and striking beauty, his visits became increasingly infrequent. The absence of his vibrant, cosmic purple eyes and the tousled mess of his brown hair weighed heavily on my heart. Each day felt like an eternity, and the longing for him settled deep within me, a persistent ache I couldn’t shake. It had been months since our last encounter, and with each passing moment, I clung to the hope that when I was summoned, it would be him, the one person I truly desired to see. Yet, fate dealt a cruel hand, and instead of Caleb, I found myself face to face with another man, someone I had no interest in and wished to avoid. The disappointment was palpable, a stark reminder of what I had lost.

Once again, I find myself summoned. I brace for what may come, aware of the possibility of disappointment lurking in the shadows. However, the moment I lock eyes with him, those enchanting, violet eyes that have haunted my dreams, I feel a wave of joy wash over me. A wide smile instantly blooms on my face, reflecting the longing I have felt for this man. As we are guided through the opulent hallways, adorned with intricate artworks and glimmering lanterns, my heart races with anticipation. We step into a softly lit room, the air fragrant with the scent of jasmine and sandalwood. A lower-ranking courtesan stands at the door, her demeanor respectful yet slightly nervous. With a nod, she grants me the privacy I requested, closing the door gently behind her. In this intimate space, it's just the two of us, surrounded by the plush furnishings and delicate decor that have always felt like a backdrop to our connection. The world outside fades away, and for a brief moment, I allow myself to savor the exhilaration of being in his presence again.

"Caleb," I whisper, my voice trembling with joy as tears stream down my cheeks. The warmth of my emotions contrasts sharply with the bittersweet ache that tugs at my heart whenever I think of him. I can almost feel the weight of unspoken words lingering in the air, reminding me of everything we've shared and lost.

“Y/n, I’m truly sorry it took me so long to visit,” he says, his voice filled with sincerity. “I’ve been puttin' in lots of work and training, strivin' to climb the ranks at so that I can earn enough to visit you more often, and hopefully, one day, buy out your contract.” He speaks with a solemn expression, but soon a warm smile spreads across his face, illuminating his features. In the soft glow of the moonlight, each contour of his face becomes even more striking, from the strong line of his jaw to the gentle curve of his lips. As we settle into a conversation, catching up on the little things we’ve missed, he reaches for my hand. His left hand is warm, calloused from hard work, and he gently places it over mine, sending a rush of warmth through me. My gaze flickers up to meet his eyes, which shimmer with unspoken emotions, as his right hand glides to my face. I lean into his touch, relishing the feeling of his skin against mine, and I nuzzle into his palm, feeling a sense of longing swell within me. My heart yearns for his presence, and in this moment, I can sense that his heart longs for mine as well. Here we are, two lovers separated by circumstances, yet their connection remains as strong as ever.

"I can finally buy out your contract now that I've been promoted to shogun," Caleb uttered excitedly, his voice low and intimate as his forehead pressed gently against mine. The warmth of his skin against mine sent a shiver down my spine, and I could feel the steady rhythm of our breaths mingling in the close space between us. His eyes searched mine, a mixture of hope. He is the only man who ignites a fire within me, the one whom my heart has chosen without hesitation. My thoughts linger on our shared laughter, the glimmer in his eyes when he smiles, and the quiet moments that feel so just right. He’s the only one I can imagine building a life with, a future filled with dreams and warmth. My heart races not just from fear, but also from the thrilling possibility of finally being with him.

"Please, I want to be with you forever," I whisper, feeling my heart race as I close my eyes and lean in to gently meet his lips. His kiss is tender yet filled with an undeniable hunger, igniting a spark within me. We linger in this embrace, wrapped in our own world, savoring the sweetness of the moment. After a few blissful minutes, he suddenly pulls away, and I can see a glint of excitement in his eyes. With a deliberate motion, he reaches into the pocket of his kimono. My curiosity heightens as he fumbles for something, and then he reveals a stunning ring. The band glimmers under the soft light, adorned with intricate details and a radiant stone that catches my breath. As I gaze at the ring in awe, my eyes widen, and I feel an overwhelming rush of emotions wash over me at this unexpected turn of events.

"Y/N L/N, I know this may come as a surprise, and I apologize for the abruptness of my proposal, but I can't hold back my feelin's any longer. I would be honored to ask for your hand in marriage. From the moment we first met, you brought a light into my life that shatters the darkness I didn’t even realize was there. Your laughter fills my heart with joy, and your kindness inspires me to be a better person every day. I can't imagine sharin' my future with anyone else but you. Together, I envision buildin' a life filled with love, adventures, and countless beautiful moments. You are my confidante, my partner, and my greatest love. I want to create a lifetime of memories with you by my side. Please say yes, and let’s embark on this incredible journey together."

The ring nestles against the fragile bones of my finger, its cool metal a whisper of promise glinting in the light. For a fleeting moment, the world fades away, leaving only the radiant sparkle of the ring and the rhythmic thrum of Caleb’s heartbeat echoing beneath my palm. He gently cradles my face in his rough, calloused hand, the warmth of his touch contrasting beautifully with the chill of the ring, creating an intimate cocoon just for us.

“Pipsqueak,” he murmurs, his voice husky with the weight of relief, “tell me this is real.” In reply, I press my lips against his. The kiss begins gently, a soft caress that sends a flutter of anticipation through me, accompanied by a tentative sigh. As the moment unfolds, it deepens, transforming into a fervent communion, both hungry and reverent. His scent envelops me, an intoxicating blend of crisp, snow-kissed night air, apples, and the sharpness of clean steel, filling my lungs and making my head spin with blissful lightheadedness.

When we break apart, he presses his forehead to mine. “I’ve paid a retainer,” he whispers. “First light, I’ll settle the rest and walk you outta here free. But tonight…” His thumb strokes the line of my jaw. “Tonight I just wanna see you, hold you, no masks, no titles.”

A warm blush crests beneath my skin, infusing my cheeks with a delicate hue. I give a hesitant nod, my heart racing. "Stay," I whisper softly, the words barely escaping my lips, filled with a mixture of hope and vulnerability.

He carefully slides the shoji door’s bolt, the soft click echoing in the tranquil room. The warm glow of the lantern casts flickering shadows, deepening the hue of his violet eyes until they appear almost obsidian, filled with a burning intensity. Despite the electric tension in the air, he moves gracefully, each deliberate gesture steeped in agonizing patience, as if any hint of haste might fracture the exquisite fragility of the moment.

I carefully unfasten my obi before removing my kimono, watching as the luxurious silk slips from my waist and cascades to the floor, pooling around my feet like melted moonlight glimmering in the dark. I watch coyly as Caleb's gaze travels down momentarily, filled with a mixture of curiosity, intrigue, and admiration, before returning to my face, silently seeking my consent. With a hint of hesitation, I raise my trembling fingers to the intricate ties of his haori before helping to remove his kimono. As I pull apart the fabric, it parts gracefully, unveiling the sculpted contours of a seasoned swordsman’s body, marked by a constellation of pale scars, each one a story, a testament to the many battles he has fought and the oath he has sworn to uphold.

He pulls me tighter, the firm pressure of his hands never faltering, anchoring me as his mouth trails a path down my neck, slow, reverent. Each kiss leaves a scorch on my skin, and when his tongue brushes just beneath my jaw, a soft gasp escapes me. I feel his smile against my throat.

“You're so soft,” he murmurs, voice husky and rough around the edges. “You don’t know how long I’ve dreamed of this. Of you.”

His hands begin to explore with a deliberate slowness, as if he’s traversing sacred ground for the first time. His fingertips glide up my sides, tracing the contours of my body, while the crisp air of the room brushes against my exposed skin. The coolness is swiftly enveloped by the inviting heat radiating from his body, pressing warmly against me, creating an intoxicating mixture of sensations that ignites a spark between us.

When our lips meet again, the kiss deepens, messier this time, unrestrained. He walks me backward until the backs of my knees meet the edge of the futon. I sink into the cushions, breathing unevenly, and he follows, his body covering mine like a promise.

His weight feels like safety, familiar and solid, as his mouth moves lower, worshipping every inch he uncovers. My chest arches into his touch when his lips find my breast, soft and wet and slow, and his tongue circles with aching precision. My fingers weave through his hair, anchoring myself to the only thing that feels real in this moment.

He takes his time, exploring, tasting, murmuring my name like a prayer between each breath. When his hand drifts between my thighs, I open for him instinctively, a silent surrender. His fingers stroke with agonizing care, coaxing pleasure from me until my hips lift of their own accord.

“God, you’re perfect,” he whispers, watching my face with awe and hunger. “I want to feel you, all of you.”

I nod, unable to speak, my chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Caleb’s hand trembles slightly as he hovers above me, eyes searching mine as though silently asking if I’m sure. I answer by pulling him closer, brushing my lips against his, hoping it will quiet the storm of nerves fluttering in my chest.

When I reach down to guide him, the first brush of his length makes me tense, my breath catching. We both still, his jaw tightens, and I know he feels it too: the weight of everything this moment means. Slowly, carefully, he begins to ease into me.

At first, it's just pressure, a stretch that steals the breath from my lungs, but then the sting sharpens, unmistakable. I flinch, and he freezes instantly.

“Y/N?” he whispers, voice hoarse, worried. “Did I hurt you?”

I blink rapidly, a tear slipping free. “A little,” I admit, voice small. “It… it just stings.”

His hand comes up to cradle my cheek, thumb brushing away the tear before it can fall to the pillow. “We can stop,” he murmurs, eyes soft with concern. “We don’t have to do this. I just want you.”

“No,” I shake my head gently, wrapping my arms around him. “Please don’t stop. Just… go slow.”

He leans in, kissing me tenderly, and nods. “Alright. Slow.”

He moves again, more cautiously now, his hands steadying me as he presses forward in increments. The pain doesn’t vanish, but it lessens with his patience. He kisses me through it, my brow, my cheeks, the corners of my mouth, his touch a salve against the discomfort. Every inch of him that joins with me feels like a promise kept.

When he's finally fully inside me, we pause together, foreheads pressed close, our breath mingling in the quiet. The sting fades to a dull ache, and underneath it, something warmer stirs, something deeper.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

When he begins to move, it’s slow and shallow, more of a gentle rocking than anything else. I clutch at his shoulders, adjusting gradually to the feeling of him within me. His body trembles above mine, holding back, waiting for me.

The pain doesn’t disappear entirely, but as the minutes stretch on, it begins to dissolve into something else. Something softer. Fuller. Our bodies fumble a rhythm, but our hearts move in perfect time. He holds me like I’m precious, like I’m breakable but worth the care. His lips return to mine again and again, murmuring my name like a prayer.

And as the ache becomes warmth, and the warmth becomes longing, I feel my body begin to open to him, not just in flesh, but in every part of me that’s ever loved him in silence.

When I pull him down into the crook of my neck, his breath hitches. His arms wind tightly around me, and for a long moment, he stills, just holding me.

“This…” he whispers, voice thick with emotion. “This is what I’ve waited for.”

I nod, tears in my eyes, and press a kiss to his temple. In his arms, I feel safe. Loved. Cherished.

This may not have been perfect, but it was real and ours.

He shifts slightly, and I feel the way his breath catches against my skin, as if even now, even here, he's still in awe that we’re joined like this. His hand moves gently along my side, trailing from my waist to the curve of my hip in a silent act of devotion. He’s memorizing me, not with his eyes, but with his touch.

We move together, slow and unsure, like dancers still learning the steps. Each roll of his hips is deliberate, coaxing rather than claiming, his restraint rooted in love, not fear. He watches me closely, checking, always checking, until I give him the smallest nod, a shaky breath, a whispered “I’m okay.”

And with that, something inside both of us shifts.

He deepens the angle just slightly, and I feel it, that flicker of something more. I gasp softly, fingers digging into his shoulder, and he groans low in his throat, like the sound was ripped from somewhere deep. His lips find mine again, this time more desperate, more raw.

“I love you,” he murmurs between kisses, “I love you so much.”

It breaks me a little, the way he says it like it’s an apology and a vow all at once. I respond not with words but with touch, guiding his hand to where our bodies join, letting him feel the way I tremble for him now, not from pain, but from rising need.

We find our rhythm again, closer now, less hesitant. The ache has turned to fullness, and the fullness into fire. Each slow thrust carries the weight of all the years we lost, every goodbye we never wanted to say. My name on his lips is a confession, a worship, a promise made in the dark.

And when it comes, my release, it’s quiet, blooming through me like petals unfolding in the dark. My breath shudders, my body tightens around him, and I bury my face in the crook of his neck as I come undone.

He follows not long after, his voice breaking as he gasps my name, as though it’s the only word he’s ever truly meant.

Then all is still.

His weight settles against me, not heavy, but grounding, like a presence that says, I’m here. I’m not leaving. His fingers tangle with mine where they rest against my chest, our heartbeats wild and tangled beneath the sweat-damp skin.

For a long time, we just lie there, wrapped in each other beneath the silk-draped lantern glow and the hush of snowfall outside. He kisses my shoulder. My collarbone. My lips.

“Are you alright?” he asks again, voice soft, nearly drowsy.

I nod against him, letting my fingertips trace the line of his spine. “More than alright.”

A small, disbelieving smile touches his lips. “That’s the only first I ever wanted.”

He brushes his thumb over the ring still on my finger. And in the quiet that follows, there are no more walls between us. No more distance. Just the warmth of his body, the scent of sandalwood and skin, and the steady sound of our breathing, rising and falling together.

For the first time since I was sold off, the winter inside my chest begins to thaw.

#love and deepspace #caleb x reader #caleb #love and deepspace caleb #lads caleb #love and deep space x reader #caleb x mc #lads #angst #caleb love and deepspace #caleb smut #xia yizhou #xia yizhou x reader #smut #x reader smut #x reader #love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader

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weirdmarioenemies · 12 hours ago

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Name: Skeeter (again) (and again as well)

Debut: Super Mario 64

I am surprised we only had one post about Skeeter, and it was one that didn't go into much depth! (EDIT: wait what the hell I was way wrong. We had another one after that which has now been linked above! I forgot. Sowwy *shrugs cutely so you forgive me*) It's always jarring how short our posts were seven years (!) ago. Nowadays we could not DREAM of posting about something as momentous as Skeeter without a veritable essay! And here it is! (essays are fun when they are about Skeeter!)

Skeeter- my dear friend Skeeter who was in my second grade class and who I even still talk with from time to time, thank goodness- is basically the mascot of Wet-Dry World! It adorns the entry painting, and also, there is NO creature that better represents the concept of Wet-Dry like the humble water strider. An insect that gracefully skates along the very barrier that prevents wet and dry from intermingling! Is it wet? Is it dry? Is it both? To be honest, it's dry. It has water-repellent hairs. But it lives such a wet life!

Do you know why a creature might want to live on, specifically, the surface of the water in the first place? It's because most insects, upon getting wet, will get stuck at the surface and struggle to escape. A nearby skeeter will sense these vibrations, find that poor insect, and slurp out its innards! Exactly like lifeguards are allowed to do on Opposite Day each year!

Silly little Skeeter is likely a fierce predator, even though it has no visible weaponry, not even a mouth to speak of. Maybe that's why it's sad. Or maybe it's the Negative Emotional Aura that it has known all its life. What Skeeter DOES have is a bobbly bop on its head! Real water striders do not have these, but maybe they should. Not enough real animals have a single bobbly. California Quail should not hold a monopoly on the fashion! Something especially interesting about Skeeter's body is that Surskit, the Pokemon, also has a single antenna atop its round body. Maybe it was actually somewhat based on Skeeter! Or maybe they're both based on existing depictions.

In Super Mario 64 DS, Skeeter has a new lease on life! There are many possible reasons for this. I will suggest only one: Skeeter HATES the idea of a 3D platformer being controlled with an analog stick, and is thrilled to see the option of touch-screen controls instead. It's very excited to see the future of 3D platforming with this innovative control method!

Well, speaking of the future of 3D platformers, Skeeter would appear a whole lot, and change a whole lot! In Super Mario Sunshine it is a real little freak, just like every other redesigned enemy. It already had an orb-shaped body with thin, gangly legs, but in this design, it more than ever resembles one of the Opiliones- the harvestmen or daddy longlegs, the arachnids that are like extra legtastic spiders with only a single body segment.

It also looks oddly robotic! Those markings are not like any I would expect on a natural creature. It seems like a metallic or plastic construct meant to clamber around and spy on heroes... but it's not! It's still just a funny bug on the surface of the water. I quite like that just the bottoms of its feet are yellow now, like it's representing hydrophobic coating!

Skeeters were sadly absent in Galaxy... but they then appeared in Galaxy 2, so it's ok, actually! It's not like we're missing out on seeing what a specifically "Galaxy 1-style" Skeeter would look like. It would look like this. It would purpel.

At first, Skeeter looked sad. It then looked alert and wide-eyed. Now, as of Galaxy 2, it looks tired, or disinterested. And that's always so charming. What's the matter? Did this insect have a long day at the office? Get real! I would say the wide-eyed look suits a PREDATORY skeeter the best, but the half-lidded look is splendid for a Mario version that lazily skims the surface! I quite like this design!

And wouldn't you know it! After fifteen years, Skeeter finally returned in Mario Kart World, and the Galaxy 2 design (with slight adjustments) remained! It is safe to say that Skeeter finally has a set design, which is such a nice thought.

I never mentioned the suction cup feet! What a weird thing. I don't think those will help on the surface of the water. It does share these funny feet in common with some incarnations of Scuttlebug, though, and in 64, the two were VERY similar in design! Some localized names even call Skeeter a spider. While Scuttlebug would go on to become a more standard cartoon spider, Skeeter stayed true to its roots of "orbs and sticks", and I think that is wonderful!

Remember to think about water striders! Never take them for granted!

#skeeter #super mario 64 #super mario 64 ds #super mario sunshine #super mario galaxy 2 #mario kart world #weird mario all-stars #mario #mario enemies #mod chikako

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livvymd · 15 hours ago

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HATE YOU.

request: hola diva (ur gals in portugal) would love a george enemies to lovers type smut or something of the sort xxx need ur SPECTACULAR writing to keep me entertained, you don’t understand how much i need it (i left my rose toy at home)

oh suddenly im vibrating (sorry. LMFAO)

tw smut - intense sexual content(sexual frustration), physical roughness (includes hair pulling and biting), strong language/swearing, power dynamics and domination themes

You’ve hated him since the first group shoot you did together. George Clarke, with that smug, lopsided grin that always tugs at the corner of his mouth when you talk, eyes flicking to the ceiling in exaggerated eye-rolls, muttering under his breath just loud enough for you to hear but too quiet for the others to catch. He’s taller than he needs to be, always standing close enough to make you tilt your chin up to glare at him properly, laughs too loud at his own jokes, shoulders shaking as if he’s the funniest person in the room, every room, and you can’t stand it.

So naturally, the universe decides to punish you by putting you in the same Airbnb for a weekend trip with the rest of the boys. One room left, one bed, and of course, both of you refuse to leave, your stubbornness matching the sharp glint in his annoyingly pretty eyes.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” you hiss, shouldering past him with a harsh brush that sends a shock of heat through your arm, ignoring the way his body heat lingers too long as you bend to dig for your skincare bag in your duffel. Your fingers fumble with the zipper, the sound of the metal teeth loud in the small room, your pulse ticking in your throat with frustration.

Yuo can feel his gaze before you see it, heavy and slow, dragging down your body in that way he does when he thinks you won’t notice, the weight of it making your skin prickle under your shirt. You straighten sharply, whipping around to glare at him, only to find him leaning back against the dresser, ankles crossed, arms folded across his chest, biceps straining against the black fabric of his t-shirt as it pulls tight across his shoulders.

“Yeah? You’re the one who’s been stomping around like a toddler since we got here,” he bites back, his voice low and sharp, but there’s a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s holding back a smirk, like this is all some game to him.

His eyes flick down to the bag in your hands, then back up to your face, lingering for a split second too long on your lips before meeting your glare, something dark and amused glinting in his gaze, the air between you charged and heavy.

The room feels smaller with him standing there, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the clean, dusty air of the Airbnb, the soft hum of the hallway outside the only sound as the two of you stare each other down, your breaths coming quick, matching the irritated flush creeping up your neck as you clutch your bag tighter, refusing to look away first.

You hate how good he looks in it. That stupid black t-shirt clinging to his broad shoulders, the fabric stretched just enough across his chest to show the shape of him beneath, sleeves rolled carelessly to reveal the flex of his forearms as he runs a hand through his hair. Hate how your stomach flips when you catch a whiff of his cologne, clean, sharp, with something warm beneath it; lingering heavy in the small, stuffy bathroom as you argue over who’s taking the first shower.

The mirror fogs from your combined breathing, a thin sheen of condensation blurring your reflections as you stand too close, voices overlapping, heat rising from the freshly run water and the tension between your bodies.

“It’s literally my turn, George, you’ve been in here for-”

“Yeah, and you’ve been moaning about it since we got here, maybe if you stopped talking for two seconds-”

“Oh, fuck off, you-”

You both talk over each other, words blurring, tripping, until you don’t even know what you’re arguing about anymore, your voice rising with the flush creeping up your neck, his jaw tightening as his eyes darken, a spark of something dangerous flickering there.

He steps closer, that infuriating half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, eyes flicking down to your lips for half a second before meeting your glare again, the air between you hot, charged, the fog on the mirror thickening with your ragged breaths.

“Georg-”

“Fuck it,” he mutters, low, like he’s saying it to himself, and then he kisses you.

It’s rough, messy, your teeth knocking against his, a soft, shocked gasp caught between your lips as his mouth claims yours, the taste of mint and something sweet on his tongue as it slides against yours, hungry, impatient. His hands are on you before you can push him away, or pull him closer, gripping your waist with strong, warm palms, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above your hips like he’s been waiting for this, like he can’t stop himself.

He pushes you back against the dresser, the edge digging into your lower back, grounding you as your hands scramble for something to hold onto, clutching at the front of his t-shirt, bunching the fabric in your fists. The mirror rattles slightly with the movement, the sound sharp in the steam-heavy air.

His thumbs press into your hips, dragging you flush against him, your bodies aligning in a heat that makes your head spin, and you feel it, the hard, unmistakable press of him through his jeans, thick and insistent against your lower stomach, proof of how badly he wants this, how badly he wants you, despite everything.

Your gasp breaks the kiss, your lips slick, swollen, brushing against his as your breaths mingle, sharp and uneven, the air tasting of him, of the electric, dizzying heat sparking under your skin.

You shouldn’t want this. Every part of you knows it. You hate him. Hate the way he smirks when you talk, hate the way he always has to get the last word, hate how he looks at you like he can see right through you.

You should push him away.

Instead, your hands fist in his hair, the strands soft and thick between your fingers as you tug hard, forcing his head back just enough to pull a groan from deep in his chest, the sound rough, raw, vibrating against your lips as you swallow it down, kissing him deeper, harder.

His mouth is hot, relentless, teeth catching on your lower lip before his tongue sweeps in again, tasting you, claiming you, breathing you in like he’s starving for it.

“You think you’re so-, fucking- funny,” you gasp between kisses, your words breaking as your back arches off the dresser, pressing your chest into his as he drags his mouth down, lips brushing the corner of your jaw, the edge of your chin, before finding that sensitive spot just below your ear.

“I am,” he murmurs, voice low, smug, but laced with a rasp that betrays how badly he wants this too. His teeth scrape lightly against your skin before he bites down, just hard enough to make your breath catch, a sharp gasp breaking from your lips as your head tilts back to give him more.

His hands slide up under your top, rough palms warm against your skin, thumbs brushing along the soft curve of your waist, dipping into the indent where your ribs meet, holding you steady as he kisses down the line of your neck, each press of his lips leaving a hot, tingling trail that makes your stomach tighten.

“Fuck you,” you breathe, the words shaky, a whisper against the damp air, but your hands betray you, already tugging at the hem of his shirt, fingers dragging over the hard planes of his stomach as you pull the fabric up and over his head, tossing it aside without looking, your eyes locked on the newly exposed skin.

The lines of his torso are sharp under the soft light, muscles shifting as he breathes, the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans drawing your eyes down for half a second before snapping back up to his face.

“Yeah?” he breathes, his voice lower now, dark, pupils blown wide, swallowing the color of his eyes as he watches you with something wild, desperate, consuming. His chest rises and falls heavily, the muscles flexing under his skin with each sharp inhale. “Thought you hated me.”

“Shut up,” you snap, your voice rough, breathless, as you grab him by the back of the neck, pulling him back in, your mouths crashing together with a heat that steals the air from your lungs.

Your teeth knock, lips parting around a shared gasp as his hands grip your hips tighter, pulling you forward against him, the hard line of him pressing between your thighs, the friction sending a shock of heat through your core as you cling to him, kissing him like you’re trying to burn the hate out of both of you.

You end up on the bed, sheets rumpled beneath you, your shirt halfway off, bunched around your elbows, your chest heaving as George’s mouth drags hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. His teeth graze your skin, just enough to leave a sting, his breath warm, uneven, a low sound catching in the back of his throat each time you arch up against him.

His hand slides down, rough palms skimming the soft skin of your stomach before slipping into your shorts, the waistband snapping lightly against your hips as he pushes past it, fingers dipping lower, teasing over the damp fabric of your panties. You suck in a sharp breath, hips twitching as his fingers brush over the soaked spot, pressing lightly, testing, the heat of him burning through the thin cotton.

He freezes for half a second, just enough for his shoulders to shake with a breathless, disbelieving laugh against your skin, his lips brushing the hollow of your throat as he lifts his head to look at you.

“Fuck, you really do hate me,” he mutters, the smirk tugging at his lips, but his eyes are dark, hungry, pupils blown as they track the way your mouth falls open, a shaky breath leaving you as your hips cant up, chasing his touch.

“George- fuck- I swear to god- ”

“You swear to god what, huh?” His voice is low, teasing, but there’s a ragged edge to it, like he’s barely holding himself back, like this is affecting him just as much. His fingers hook under the waistband of your panties, dragging them to the side, the cool air hitting your soaked skin as he drags a single finger through your slick, slow and deliberate, the touch sending a shiver up your spine.

“Gonna tell me to stop?” he murmurs, leaning down, his nose brushing yours as his eyes stay locked on yours, reading every twitch, every gasp. “Or are you gonna cum for me, hm?”

His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing slow, firm circles that make your legs tremble, the pleasure building too fast, too sharp, as his fingers dip lower, circling your entrance, teasing but not pushing in, the pressure making your hips roll, desperate for more friction.

You hate him. You hate the way he’s looking at you, smirking like he’s won, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, like he can feel how close you are already. You hate how good he is with his hands, how easily he finds that perfect rhythm, just the right amount of pressure that has your thighs shaking around his hips, the muscles in your stomach tightening with each slow drag of his thumb.

You hate how his mouth doesn’t stop moving, trailing down your body, kissing every inch of skin he exposes as he pushes your shorts down your hips, pulling your panties with them, leaving you bare and trembling under his gaze.

The air feels cold on your wet skin, goosebumps rising along your thighs as he tosses the fabric aside, his hands sliding up the inside of your legs, spreading them wider, his mouth following, leaving warm, wet kisses on your inner thighs, his breath hot against the slick mess between your legs as he looks up at you, eyes dark and feral.

You hate him.

And you can’t look away.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he mutters, almost to himself, the words barely audible over the rush of your breathing, his voice rough, reverent, as his eyes drag slowly over you, taking in the way your chest rises and falls, the way your thighs are spread for him, glistening in the soft light.

And then he lowers his mouth to you.

It’s filthy, really. The way he groans the second his tongue meets your pussy, the vibration rumbling against your skin, sending a shock of pleasure up your spine that makes your back arch off the bed. His tongue presses flat against your clit, the heat of it searing as he drags it up, slow, deliberate, savoring every taste, every twitch of your hips as you gasp, your fingers fisting in the sheets before finding his hair, gripping it tight.

His stubble scratches against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, adding a rough edge to the overwhelming heat of his mouth as he pushes his tongue against you again, firmer this time, before flicking it lightly, teasing, tasting, letting out another low, guttural moan that you feel all the way through your core.

“George- fuck- ” Your voice breaks, high, breathless, as your hips grind down against his face, chasing the friction, the slick, obscene sounds filling the room as he drags his tongue through your wetness, lapping it up like he can’t get enough.

His hand slides up your thigh, firm and grounding, before his fingers slip between your folds, sliding through the slick mess he’s made, gathering it before he pushes two fingers inside you, the stretch making your eyes flutter shut as a choked moan escapes your lips.

He curls them just right, finding that spot that makes your vision spark, your thighs tightening around his head as he presses his tongue flat against your clit again, sucking lightly before pulling back to flick it with the tip of his tongue, each movement precise, controlled, devastating.

“Fuck, George- don’t stop, don’t you fucking dare-

He doesn’t.

If anything, he groans again, deeper, the sound muffled against you, the vibration making your toes curl as his fingers thrust in and out, curling with every drag, hitting that spot that makes your stomach tighten, heat coiling low and fast.

His eyes flick up to you, dark, pupils blown, watching your face as he sucks your clit into his mouth, his tongue circling it as his fingers fuck into you, steady, relentless, pushing you closer, closer, until you break.

Your release crashes over you like a wave, your body tensing, shaking, your thighs trembling around his head as your hips stutter against his mouth, your hand pulling at his hair as you cry out, gasping his name, the pleasure so sharp it’s almost too much.

He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering, twitching, pushing at his head with a shaking hand, your body collapsing back against the sheets as you try to catch your breath, your pulse thundering in your ears.

When you finally open your eyes, he’s looking at you with that smug grin again, mouth glistening with you, his tongue darting out to lick the corner before he wipes his chin with the back of his hand, eyes still dark, heavy with hunger.

“Still hate me?” he asks, voice rough, low, the corner of his mouth tugging up as he watches you try to catch your breath.

You don’t answer.

You just grab him by the front of his stupid, perfect face, pulling him down as you kiss him hard, teeth clashing, lips sliding, tongues tangling as you taste yourself on his mouth, the slick sweetness mixing with the rough heat of him as he groans into the kiss.

Your hands move quickly, almost clumsy, dragging at the waistband of his jeans, yanking the denim down over his hips, the fabric catching on the curve of his ass before you shove it down far enough for him to kick them off, leaving him in nothing but the condom wrapper crumpled in his fist.

His cock springs free, heavy, flushed dark, the tip already leaking, glistening as it rests against your thigh, leaving a smear of warmth against your skin that makes your breath catch, your thighs clenching around his hips as your hand slides down to wrap around him.

The sound he makes, deep, guttural, desperate; vibrates against your lips as you stroke him slowly, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head, gathering the slick there as his hips jerk forward into your fist, chasing the friction.

“Fuck, condom,” you manage to gasp out between kisses, your voice ragged, barely holding together as your chest heaves, your pulse pounding so hard you feel it in your fingertips.

“Yeah- fuck, yeah-” he breathes, tearing open the wrapper with shaking hands, the foil crinkling loud in the thick, heavy air between you as you watch, your mouth falling open slightly as you see him roll it on, his jaw clenched, veins standing out on his forearms with the tension thrumming through him.

“Fuck, you’re so-” he mutters, his voice breaking, rough with need, “-so pretty, fuck.”

You pull him down, your legs wrapping around his waist, ankles crossing at the small of his back as you drag him closer, closer, until the blunt, hot head of him is pressing right against your entrance, slick and heavy, the pressure making your breath catch as your nails dig into the hard muscle of his shoulders.

“George-” you gasp, the sound barely a whisper, your hips tilting up, needy, desperate, lining yourself up as he grips your waist, steadying you, his eyes locked on yours, dark and wild, pupils blown so wide they swallow the blue around them.

“Look at me,” he rasps, voice shaking, and you do, your eyes locked on his as he starts to push in, slow, deliberate, the thick stretch of him burning in the best way as he sinks in inch by inch, splitting you open, filling you until you can’t think, can’t breathe, the only thing you can do is feel.

“Fuck- fuck, George-” you choke out, your head falling back against the pillows, your nails leaving crescents in his skin as your thighs tighten around his hips, pulling him deeper, needing him deeper.

“God, you’re so- fuck, you feel-” he groans, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath hot, ragged, mixing with yours as he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, staying there for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him pulsing inside you.

You gasp, legs trembling around him, your hands sliding up to cup his jaw, forcing him to look at you as your lips brush against his, your breath mingling, your bodies locked together in the thick, heavy heat of the room.

He stills, buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and uneven as it fans across your lips, mixing with yours. For a moment, it’s quiet. Sso quiet you can hear the slick, obscene pulse of your heartbeat in your ears, the creak of the mattress beneath you as your thighs twitch around his hips.

His eyes are closed, lashes fluttering, jaw tight, the muscles in his shoulders trembling under your hands as he holds himself there, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him, the stretch and fullness making your breath catch, your fingers digging into the taut skin of his back.

“Move,” you whisper, the word breaking on a gasp, need threading through your voice, and you feel the way his body shudders above you before he pulls back, slow, the drag of him inside you making your toes curl, your hips lifting instinctively to follow him as he thrusts back in.

He fucks you slow, deep, every roll of his hips deliberate, grinding into you so you feel the thick weight of him pressing against every sensitive spot inside you, the friction sending sparks of heat down your spine, pooling low in your belly.

Your hand searches for something to hold onto, but he catches it, his fingers lacing with yours above your head, pinning it to the pillow as he leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, the soft brush of his lips a sharp contrast to the steady, heavy thrust of his hips.

It’s too intimate, too much.

The way he holds your hand, the way his nose nudges against yours between kisses, the way his hips stutter when you clench around him, pulling a low, broken groan from his lips that you swallow with a kiss, your mouth opening for him, your tongues sliding together as your chest arches into his.

Your body feels too hot, your skin prickling where his chest brushes yours, where his fingers tighten around yours, grounding you, tethering you to him as the coil inside you tightens, your thighs trembling as you chase your second release, your hips lifting to meet every thrust, desperate for more, for everything.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, his voice rough, tender, demanding, and you force your eyes open, blinking up at him, meeting the dark, blown-out blue of his gaze, the way it softens as he looks down at you, his lips parted, breath ragged as he fucks you, slow and deep, grinding into you so you can feel every pulse, every twitch of him inside you.

“I hate you,” you whisper, the words thin, breathless, trembling as they fall from your lips, your nails digging crescents into the back of his hand where your fingers are still laced together.

He smiles, soft this time, the kind of smile that makes your chest ache, makes your stomach flip in a way you can’t control, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, your noses brushing, your breaths mixing as he stills for a heartbeat, looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“No,” he breathes, so quiet, so sure, his eyes locked on yours as his hips start to move again, slow, deep, hitting that spot that makes you gasp, makes your eyes flutter shut before you force them open again to see the way he’s looking at you, the way his lips part around a soft groan when you tighten around him.

“No, you don’t.”

And for the first time ever, you think hes right.

#george clarke #george clarke x reader #george clarkeey #george clarkey #smut #george clarke smut #george clarke fanfic #george clarke fics #george clarke fluff #fanfic #uk youtubers #ukyt fic #ukyt fanfic #ukyt smut #ukyt x reader #ukytblr #ukyt

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itslifetreesworld · 2 days ago

Text

My favorite Benthan looks in M: I (8/8): The Final Reckoning!

M:I 1-3

Ghost Protocol

Rouge Nation

Fallout

Dead Reckoning

Can't believe we are here already...The Final Reckoning...

The following will be the costume based on my not very good memory and as much stuff as I can find from trailers and behind-the-scenes pics. Sadly because of this, it would be much more text-heavy than the previous ones.

I am pretty sure I will go back and remake this one when TFR went online, but again I think I still got quite some interesting things out of it, so here we go one last time:

Mission Impossible: The Final Reckoning

First of all... is anyone surprised(?) Do I really need to explain?

But I do have some details that I want to talk about:

I'm just being very normal about Ethan's soft grey turtle neck sweater... We usually see Ethan being pretty indifferent about the temperature, he just wears a jumper and a jacket wherever he goes, and the clothes cling to him very tightly

But this time it was soft, the shape hung loosely on him and every corner and turn of his silhouette were so soft and round, it's as if the cold finally seeps into his bones when he drowns in the freezing depths of the sea, and he really needs something warm and soft (like a hug) to recover from that nightmare

I couldn't find any pic about what trousers he's wearing so I just made something up, but I made it as warm and soft as possible because he looks like he really needs that

(Sadly I couldn't find anything in a better angle)

And for Benji, on the airplane he was actually wearing a very neat black shirt, usually Ethan's thing. It's as if in this moment their roles were exchanged, Benji is taking the responsibility of the team leader, so Ethan can catch some precious time to rest and just let loose the weight he's carrying for even just a brief moment.

...but I decided to go with the brown sweater he's in in the cabin because I just love it too much

It's just... the texture, soft but still with a bit of roughness is just such a Benji thing...And I just want to see them in comfy sweaters is that too much to ask

Btw the posture I did was actually a combination of the forehead kiss (I'm just gonna call it like that) and the farewell in the mines. (I swear I have the pic in the mines saved somewhere but I just can't find it you'll have to conjure it up in your memory) This slight tweak was because I was putting Ethan on the left side for the entirety of this thing and I don't really want to change this,,, so I hope I still capture the precious moment of...them...

With my pick explained, let's have a look at whatever we've got at the moment and what they are telling us!

I've noticed that a lot of the scenes/costumes are a direct reference to previous m:i movies, I am almost 100% sure that the early scene in the embassy is a direct reference to the Rogue Nation Vienna Opera House scene.

Does any detail on this shirt look familiar to you? Mhmmmm....

(I didn't find any pic with Benji in this part but I think he was also wearing a bowtie and glasses in the car)

btw I really like the coat Ethan was wearing running across London. I think it's a really cute length and silhouette

The next one in the timeline is Ethan in this blue jumper. Obviously it was an attempt to make him look harmless(?) in some way, but I just can't help but remember this from mi3

I know it was very different in plot, in TFR he's doing this willingly while in mi3 he was captured as a highly dangerous rogue agent, but it just feels like somebody just went "Oh yeah you know what he's gonna break all of those at some point so why bother just throw a cuff or something"

btw I also really like Ethan's hair in TFR, it's something shorter than mi2 and GP but longer than RN and there are some layers and curves as well.

The next one I've noticed is that in the helicopter he's already in the swimsuit, so Ethan "out of your mind" Hunt's plan has always been jumping straight into the freezing water, it just happened slightly earlier than he thought

Last time I talked about how Benji in DR had no brightness balance and how everything on him blurred into something dark. Now this time we have the opposite example of that!

He's still wearing dark colors, it's the same type of suit+vest+tie but now you can clearly see how everything is balanced by the lighter color of the tie, something in the middle to break up the blurry dark area. If you compare this to the one below in DR I think it's obvious that he looks less grave and somber. The tie also helps bring attention to his face by creating an extra layer of information around the center. (He's definitely doing much better now than the end of DR)

I think I briefly mentioned this before, but I LOVE the fact that Benji's texture is rough. It's always something natural/tough, very earthly, but never pointy or dangerous, kind of like sandpaper. I think that's an amazing expression of Benji's character in the recent films.

The last one on my list is the one in the mine!

Edited: At first I thought Ethan's shirt here was a Grandfather shirt because I thought it was a fully buttoned down one, but @callmearcturus and @midnightannalore pointed out in the comment that it was actually a Henley's, which means that it's actually a pullover shirt with a few buttons on the top and I found a better pic for this! (top right). I told myself I can edit this in first thing tomorrow morning but my brain just decided I'm not going to sleep unless I do this now

And... when I see Benji's hat I just can't help but think of Luther. Maybe that's Benji's way of honoring him by taking part of him to this final battlefield, he is with them till the very end...

And with that... this is the end (for now)! Wow, I can't believe I actually made it. When I started I genuinely didn't think anyone would be that interested in my random ramblings about clothes, but I'm absolutely overwhelmed by all the love and comments and reblogs. Like I said, I enjoy this immensely and it just makes me so, so happy that there are other people who enjoy this as much as I do.

So, thank you so very much for reading all of these analyses! Lots and lots of love to all of you, and I hope you had a wonderful time!

Quick links again for previous analysis:

M:I 1-3

Ghost Protocol

Rouge Nation

Fallout

Dead Reckoning

#mission impossible #mission impossible: the final reckoning #ethan hunt #benji dunn #benthan #ethan hunt x benji dunn #costume analysis #character study #lifetreesworld #I already know I'm missing a lot of stuff #Def gonna redo this when it's streaming #and... did I mentioned about a bonus somewhere?

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maria021015 · 2 days ago

Text

Figure You Out

Fred Weasley x FemGryffindorReader

Cedric Diggory was a good boyfriend. He was loyal, and kind, and handsome. He was smart, and thoughtful, and hardworking. He was a great boyfriend, even. Just not for you.

Fred is insistent that the two of you simply aren’t a good fit. He doesn’t know your favourite things, his hobbies don’t align with yours, and…well, he just can’t seem to figure you out. Not the way Fred has.

Inspired by the song ‘Figure you out’ by Vìola.

———————————————————————

The Gryffindor common room glowed with the amber hues of sunset, stained glass casting dappled patterns across the floor and over the velvet-worn cushions of the overstuffed furniture. The fire crackled lazily in the hearth, its warmth battling the crisp, late-autumn chill that had crept into the castle. You were curled up on the middle sofa, legs stretched over Fred’s lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, which, it sort of was. You’d been best friends since first year. This was normal. Casual. Totally platonic. Supposedly.

Fred was absently tracing shapes on your shin with the edge of a Sugar Quill wrapper, eyes flicking between your face and the Exploding Snap cards George was reshuffling on the floor. The two of you had been locked in a battle of wits for well over ten minutes now.

George rolled his eyes dramatically as he looked between you and Fred. “Honestly, do you two even hear yourselves?”

Fred smirked. “Every golden syllable.”

You smacked his shoulder with the rolled-up sleeve of your jumper, laughing. “What, jealous we have banter and you’re just stuck with charm and mildly acceptable looks?”

George huffed, feigning offense. “Excuse me, I am the full package. Banter and bone structure included.”

Fred wiggled his eyebrows. “You forgot modesty.”

You grinned, eyes crinkling, and Fred’s hand stilled briefly on your leg, his fingers curling slightly against your knee before he forced himself to look away.

“Speaking of charming packages,” you said suddenly, fiddling with the fraying edge of your sleeve, “Cedric’s taking me to the Three Broomsticks on Saturday.”

The words hovered in the space like smoke. Fred blinked once. The smile on his face didn’t drop entirely, but it tightened, lips pressing just a little too firmly together, his jaw shifting as he looked back down at the wrapper in his hands. George glanced at his brother, but said nothing.

“Oh?” Fred said after a beat, voice overly casual. “Didn’t know Cedric was the pub type. Thought he’d be more into…butterfly gardens and brooding poetry.”

You laughed, tilting your head back against the couch. “I think it’s sweet.”

Fred made a noise, something halfway between a cough and a scoff. “Sweet, right. Like curdled milk.”

You rolled your eyes. “Come on. He’s trying.”

“He’s taking you to get Butterbeer,” Fred said, the sharpness in his voice catching you off guard. “That got to be the most unoriginal, boring date I’ve ever heard. You hate Butterbeer!”

Your brows furrowed. “I said I wasn’t a huge fan.”

“You said - and I quote - ‘it tastes like sugar water that lost a bar fight with a marshmallow.’”

George snorted behind his deck of cards. You flushed slightly. “Okay, yeah, maybe I haven’t liked it before. But Cedric thinks he can change my mind.”

“Sounds like he’s trying to get you explore new things,” George muttered quickly, clearly trying to cut the tension as he dealt out cards to himself. “Real open minded stuff.”

Fred leaned back, shifting your legs a little higher on his lap. His voice was quieter now, but no less pointed. “Yeah. Taking someone somewhere they don’t even like is real intuitive.”

“Fred.” You sat up slightly. “It’s a sweet gesture.”

Fred looked at you then. Really looked. His gaze flicked to your lips before darting away again, jaw tight.

“Sure,” he said. “Really thoughtful.”

The silence stretched. You pulled your legs back to sit cross-legged beside him, suddenly unsure of what just happened. “You’ve been so weird about Cedric lately.”

George coughed a spluttered, trying to cover it up by smacking his own chest as though something had tickled his lungs.

Fred blinked. “Weird?”

“Yeah.” You nudged his shoulder. “Every time I bring him up, you get all sulky.”

“I don’t get sulky.”

“You do, actually,” George offered helpfully. “Like a puppy that didn’t get picked for fetch.”

Fred shot him a glare. “Thank you, Georgina.”

You folded your arms. “If it’s about Quidditch or something, I swear—”

“It’s not,” Fred cut in quickly. Too quickly.

You raised an eyebrow, waiting. Fred scrubbed a hand through his hair, then leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes trained on the flames. “I just…I don’t think he gets you.”

Your expression softened. “Fred…”

“I mean, you say you don’t like something, and instead of listening, he tries to prove you wrong. That’s not sweet. That’s—” he stopped, biting his tongue. “Forget it.”

You hesitated, unsure what to say.

George, sensing a powder keg about to blow, stood with exaggerated grace. “Well. I’ve got detention with Filch in ten. Gonna go polish suits of armor and question all my life choices. You two…enjoy the awkward tension.”

He was gone before either of you could stop him. You sat in silence for a moment before finally speaking again.

“Okay, so he’s not perfect,” you said quietly. Fred looked at you, a flicker of hope dancing in his chest. “But he’s trying,” you finished.

Fred’s shoulders slumped.

“Maybe I’ll give Butterbeer another go,” you added, more to yourself than anyone else. “Who knows, the Three Broomsticks might be better than the Leaky Cauldron.”

Fred didn’t answer. He just watched the flames flicker, your words settling heavy in the spaces between.

———————————————————————

It was late Saturday afternoon, the dying light bleeding through the tall common room windows, casting an orange-gold sheen across the wood-paneled walls and red velvet drapes. A fresh fire had been lit in the hearth, crackling softly as the castle settled into weekend stillness.

Fred and George were lounging on opposite ends of the couch, legs tangled up in a lazy stretch as they passed a Chocolate Frog card back and forth in some made-up game of flicking and catching. Fred’s shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, collar slightly wrinkled. He looked at ease, until the portrait hole creaked open.

“Hi, uh—Fred? George?”

Fred didn’t have to look up. He knew that voice, low and impossibly calm like everything he said was pre-planned. Cedric bloody Diggory.

George glanced up with a mild smile. “Hey, mate.”

Fred looked up slowly, expression unreadable as Cedric stepped fully into the common room. He held a bouquet of tightly wound red roses in one hand and looked irritatingly perfect, as usual. Neatly pressed robes, chestnut hair just slightly tousled like it had been styled to seem unstyled.

“Hey,” Cedric said, shifting awkwardly. “She’s not ready yet?”

George shrugged. “Upstairs still. You know how it is, they’re say five minutes but they really mean a half hour.”

Cedric chuckled politely and perched on the edge of the adjacent armchair, careful with the bouquet as though it might bruise. “That’s alright. I’m early anyway.”

Fred’s eyes dropped to the flowers. His mouth twitched, just barely.

“Nice roses,” George complimented, voice casual, leaning back with one arm flung across the back of the sofa.

Cedric flashed his perky white teeth in a smile. “They’re classic, right?”

Fred snorted. “Yeah. Basic, too.”

Cedric frowned slightly, confused. Fred leaned forward now, elbows on his knees, voice quiet but sharp with intent. “She doesn’t like roses. Thinks they’re overrated.”

George stayed silent, watching with thinly veiled amusement as the undercurrent of tension thickened. Cedric sat up straighter. “She told you that?”

Fred didn’t answer right away. He was looking at the bouquet now, like it had personally offended him.

“She likes peonies,” he said eventually. “Always has. Big ones, the kind that look like they’re exploding with petals. White or pink, sometimes coral. And carnations, especially if they’re that peachy kind. Baby’s breath too, but only as filler.”

Cedric blinked again, obviously startled. “Right. Wow, you…know that offhand.”

Fred gave a shrug like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t something he’d memorised on purpose. “She mentioned it once,” he said, deliberately vague, though the memory was sharp and vivid in his mind. You, during third year, lounging on the grass during Herbology break, talking about how your mum used to charm peonies to bloom early in the season and how roses always felt too forced, like they were trying too hard to be romantic and had no personal thought put into them.

Cedric was quiet for a moment. Then, almost shyly, he lifted his wand and whispered a charm under his breath. The bouquet shimmered faintly, and the crimson roses folded and bloomed outward, petals shifting shape and tone until the tight bouquet melted into a wild, soft collection of pale pink peonies, peach carnations, and airy baby’s breath that swirled gently in the warming charm.

Fred hated how good it looked. He hated even more that you’d like it.

“Thanks,” Cedric said, glancing up at him. “That was really…helpful.”

Fred nodded once, jaw tight. “Sure.”

The creaking sound of the stairs drew their attention, and Fred immediately leaned back, slipping into his usual mask of cool detachment.

You stepped into view with your wand twisted in your hair, sleeves rolled up and sweater buttons loose. Your outfit was simple but lovely - fitted in all the ways that made Fred’s stomach twist uncomfortably, his eyes catching on the delicate slant of your collarbone.

“There you are,” you said, smiling at the sight of Cedric.

Then your gaze dropped to the bouquet in his hands and stopped dead. “Wait—” you stepped forward, astonished, “You got me peonies?”

Cedric looked sheepish. “Yeah. Thought you’d like these.”

You reached for them, cradling the bouquet like it was something magical. “These are my favourite. I never even mentioned that, though…” You turned to Fred and George with an appreciative smile. “Did one of you tell him?”

Fred shrugged without looking at you, suddenly very interested in the Chocolate Frog card now flipping between his fingers.

George grinned innocently. “Must’ve been a lucky guess.”

You beamed back at Cedric and kissed him on the cheek, then, impulsively, on the mouth - a quick press of affection that made Fred go utterly still.

He didn’t watch the kiss. He didn’t have to. But he did catch the way you flushed slightly, your fingers tightening on the bouquet as you turned toward the portrait hole.

“See you later!” you called to the twins.

Fred only nodded, jaw clenched so tight it ached, as the portrait swung shut behind you and Cedric.

Silence stretched in the common room again. The fire crackled. Fred slumped backward on the couch and threw the Chocolate Frog card toward the flames.

George whistled low. “You alright there, Romeo?”

Fred stared up at the ceiling. “Bloody brilliant.”

———————————————————————

Monday morning came with cold air and early fog, mist curling across the stone floor of the Hogwarts courtyard like smoke. Autumn had well and truly settled over the castle, biting at fingers and noses and making scarves a necessity rather than a fashion statement. The scent of damp earth and chimney smoke lingered in the air, and the crunch of frost underfoot echoed faintly through the castle.

Fred and George were slouched against the wall outside the Charms corridor, books open but mostly forgotten. The two had spent the past half hour flicking bits of parchment at a distracted Ravenclaw prefect across the hallway and keeping count of how many had hit him in the back of the neck.

“Seven,” George said with a smirk as his latest flick landed. “New record.”

Fred grinned faintly, but his eyes weren’t on the prefect anymore. His gaze was angled just to the right, toward the tall group of Hufflepuff boys clustered outside Professor Flitwick’s classroom.

Cedric was in the center of the group, hair windswept, one hand jammed casually into the pocket of his robes while he talked animatedly with a few mates from his year. Fred couldn’t hear the whole conversation, just fragments, but it was enough to piece it together.

“—front row seats,” one of them was saying, “looking right over the pitch. Imagine the view—”

“Can’t wait,” Cedric said. “Thinking of taking her. Would be perfect.”

Fred’s stomach dropped.

“She’d love it,” the other boy agreed.

“Yeah,” Cedric went on, his voice low but clear. “Top of the stands, middle section, those are the ones I’m aiming for. You can see everything from up there.”

Fred’s knuckles went white around the edge of his textbook. He didn’t even realize he’d stood up until George reached out and caught his sleeve.

“Mate,” George said in warning. “Don’t—”

But Fred was already moving. He crossed the space in a few long strides, dropping right into the edge of their conversation like he belonged there. His voice was deceptively casual, but his eyes were sharp.

“She’s scared of heights.”

Cedric blinked, turning to face him fully. “What?”

Fred met his gaze evenly. “Y/N. She’s terrified of heights. Anything higher than the greenhouse roof and she won’t go near the edge. You book seats at the top of the pitch, she’ll spend the whole match watching her feet.”

There was a beat of silence.

Cedric’s brow furrowed slightly. “I didn’t know that.”

“Obviously,” Fred muttered, looking away.

“Right. Thanks, I guess.” Cedric didn’t sound annoyed. More…confused. And maybe a little impressed. “I’ll get us different seats.”

Fred nodded once and walked away without another word, shoulders tense as he crossed back to George. He didn’t sit. Just leaned against the wall, arms folded, jaw clenched so tight it felt like his teeth might crack.

George studied him for a moment. “That was subtle.”

Fred didn’t answer. After a pause, George sighed. “You’re not helping yourself, you know.”

Fred closed his eyes briefly. “He’s going to take her to the bloody World Cup, George. And the great big oaf would have had her shivering in her boots the whole time because he wouldn’t know the difference between her and any other girl in this hallway.”

“Yeah. And instead of letting her figure that out, you’re feeding him the bloody playbook.”

Fred let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well, I want her to be happy.”

———————————————————————

The Gryffindor common room buzzed with soft chatter that evening. Just a low hum of students curled up in armchairs, scribbling essays, trading Chocolate Frog cards, and pretending not to be anxious about the Transfiguration quiz in the morning.

Fred was seated cross-legged on the rug in front of the fireplace, a half-built card tower in front of him and a handful of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans scattered around as makeshift weights. His eyes were fixed on the structure, but his attention wasn’t.

George was perched on the couch, flipping lazily through Quidditch Weekly, while Fred fidgeted with a card between his fingers, bent at the corners from how often he’d twisted it.

The portrait hole creaked open.

“Evening,” came Cedric’s voice as he stepped in, looking just a touch awkward surrounded by so much red and gold.

Fred didn’t look up. He knew that tone.

George lowered his magazine. “Didn’t think we were expecting visitors.”

Cedric smiled, holding up a small brown box tied with gold twine. “Just dropping something off.”

Fred’s eyes flicked to the box. Cedric stepped closer, clearly proud of himself. “She mentioned she’s been stressed about her History of Magic paper, so I thought I’d surprise her. These are her favourites.”

George quirked a brow. “Oh yeah?”

Fred finally looked up then, mouth tight. “What’s in the box, Diggory?”

Cedric opened it with a flick of his wand and a puff of sugary steam escaped. Inside were neat rows of licorice snaps wrapped in parchment, a stack of honey fudge squares, and - Fred grimaced - three raspberry truffles topped with spun sugar.

He didn’t even try to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Wow,” Fred said. “Romantic and potentially fatal.”

Cedric frowned. “What?”

Fred stood up, brushing his hands on his trousers. “She hates licorice. Thinks it’s like chewing black shoelaces.”

George snorted. Cedric blinked. “Really?”

“And fudge makes her nauseous,” Fred added casually, circling the coffee table like he wasn’t personally invested. “Too dense, she says. Makes her feel like she’s eaten a brick.”

Cedric’s brow wrinkled, glancing at the box. “But she told me she liked sweets—”

“Chocolate frogs,” Fred said sharply. “Fizzing Whizbees. Sugar quills when she’s revising. She doesn’t even look at the Honeydukes licorice rack.”

There was a long pause. George closed the magazine, watching closely now.

Cedric sighed and shook his head, embarrassed. “Merlin. Thanks again, Fred. You keep saving my arse, don’t you?”

Fred forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Guess I do.”

Cedric glanced toward the girls’ staircase. “Would you mind giving these to her dormmates to leave on her bed? I’ll write her a letter, let her know I was thinking of her.”

Fred nodded, taking the box reluctantly.

“Right,” Cedric said, already heading toward the portrait hole. “Next time I’ll double check about the sweets. Cheers, mate.”

And with that, he was gone. The fire crackled. Fred stared down at the box in his hands like it had turned into a ticking time bomb.

George whistled softly. “You gonna start writing his love letters for him too?”

Fred exhaled through his nose and dropped the box on the coffee table with a dull thud. “I’m going to end up watching him propose - and do it entirely wrong - aren’t I?”

George raised an eyebrow. “Only if you don’t explode first.”

Fred didn’t answer. He was already retreating to the boys’ staircase, fists stuffed deep into his pockets, tension radiating off him in waves.

He didn’t want the credit.

He wanted the girl.

———————————————————————

The Gryffindor common room was glowing in the golden haze of early evening, warm firelight flickering against the stone walls and casting dancing shadows across the crimson and gold banners. Laughter bubbled from one corner where Seamus Finnigan had just turned someone’s book bag into a animated face. A record spun low and slow on an enchanted gramophone in the corner, humming out an old Celestina Warbeck ballad, soft and romantic.

You were sitting cross-legged on the plush rug in front of the fire, nursing a cup of cocoa - actual cocoa, courtesy of Fred, who’d whisked it away and remade it after you grimaced at the first sip of the powdered rubbish someone else had made.

Fred sat beside you, one arm braced behind him, watching the firelight dance on your features out of the corner of his eye while pretending to listen to George rant about a professor docking points again. You laughed at all the right moments, teeth flashing in the soft glow, and Fred could’ve watched you like that for hours.

He was just starting to relax - just starting to forget that Diggory existed - when it happened.

A flutter of footsteps. A cluster of younger girls - Lavender Brown and the Patil twins, Padma and Parvati - approached in a haze of giggles, all beaming like they were about to burst.

“Oh my Merlin,” Lavender breathed, her voice shrill with excitement. “Your boyfriend is actually the most romantic boy alive.”

You blinked. “Cedric?”

Fred’s body stiffened beside you. His easy posture turned sharp. Alert. George immediately side-eyed him like a war was about to start.

“We heard he left a note on your bed!” Parvati gushed. “And sweets! It’s so cute it hurts.”

“Literally hurts,” Padma added with a grin. “If it were me, I might have cried.”

Lavender sighed dramatically, plopping onto the ottoman nearby. “He’s so thoughtful. How do you stand it?”

You gave an awkward smile, cheeks flushed. “Yeah, it was…kind of him.”

Fred stared into the fire, unmoving. George nudged his foot under the table.

But Lavender wasn’t done. “And don’t even get me started on that bouquet he gave you the other day! Peonies?! I didn’t even think boys knew what peonies were!”

Your smile faded just a fraction. You glanced toward Fred instinctively, but he was staring stonily at the flames.

“Oh, and i heard he said he’s planning a surprise for summer break,” Parvati added. “Something about World Cup tickets?”

Your brows knit together slightly. Fred’s hands curled into fists against the rug.

“He’s just perfect,” Lavender concluded, utterly dreamy. “You’re so lucky.”

And that’s when Fred snapped. He stood abruptly, voice loud and sudden, cutting through the cozy hum of the room like a blade.“He’s not perfect.”

The girls froze. You blinked up at him, startled. Even George lowered his cocoa. Fred’s voice was rough around the edges now. Bitter. Barely restrained.

“He doesn’t know her favourite sweets. He bought her fudge which she hates, and nicotine, which she despises. He doesn’t know that she’s allergic to bloody peanuts. He kept trying to give her flying lessons when she can barely even stand at the top of the staircases without gripping the railing so hard her knuckles turn white.”

You stared at him, mouth parted slightly. Fred wasn’t looking at anyone. His gaze was locked on the fire like he needed something to keep him grounded.

“He didn’t get her the right flowers,” he continued, voice low now, but still sharp. “Not really. He brought roses, and I told him they were wrong. I told him what she actually liked. I’ve told him everything he’s ever actually got right about her.”

It was so silent, you could hear the fire crackle. The soft shuffle of Lavender shifting uncomfortably.

“And there’s plenty more that he’s already stuffed up - like taking her for butterbeers when her favourite drink is hot chocolate. Or buying her that silver heart necklace that she wears out of pity because she only owns gold jewellery and thinks hearts are tacky. And he always wears that cologne that she thinks smells like old cars because she hates strong scents.” Fred went on, words flowing freely along with his frustrations. “He really doesn’t know anything about her, and the real kicker is, I didn’t even need to be told any of those things. I just paid attention.”

George closed his eyes with a wince. “Oh, hell.”

Fred realized it then. The weight of what he’d said crashed down on him all at once - every confession, every bite of resentment that had been twisting in his chest for weeks. It was all out now, spilled into the common room like shattered glass.

And then—

“Cedric!” Lavender squeaked.

Fred turned slowly to see him.

Cedric stood in the entryway to the common room, just inside the portrait hole. The warm firelight spilled across the floor toward him. “Hey, guys. How’s it going?” He grinned and it only made Fred’s blood boil.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t wait. He just turned and left, storming past Cedric and out the portrait hole without a word, his footsteps echoing in the quiet room.

———————————————————————

The air was colder up here.

Wind whispered around the stone spires of the Astronomy Tower, tugging at your clothes, sweeping strands of hair across your face as you stepped out into the open. The sky was velvet-black, spangled with stars. The moon hung low - silver and solemn - its light casting shadows across the carved balustrade. Your heart thundered in your chest, and you were sure of it was because of the height, or because of him.

Fred was leaning forward with his elbows on the railing, the wind brushing through his hair, jaw set tight as if holding himself together by force alone. He didn’t turn when he heard the door creak open. Didn’t look at you.

You stepped closer, even though it terrified you to approach the edge. “Fred.”

He flinched. Just barely. Just enough to know he hadn’t expected you to follow him.

“Y/n,” he said, voice rough. “What are you doing up here?”

You ignored it. Crossed the tower until you were standing beside him, even though your head almost sounded at the sight of the steep drop to the ground. He still didn’t look at you. Just stared out over the dark grounds of Hogwarts, eyes fixed somewhere between the Forbidden Forest and the black glint of the Black Lake.

“I broke up with Cedric.”

That made him turn. His expression cracked wide open in shock, disbelieving the word that had come out of her mouth. His lips parted, but no words came out.

You held his gaze. Steady. Honest. “He’s sweet,” you said quietly. “Thoughtful. Kind. He really did try. He was a great boyfriend, but…he never really knew me, Fred. Not like you do.”

Fred exhaled hard, like someone had punched the air from his lungs. “Don’t,” he whispered again, but this time it wasn’t a warning. It was a plea. “Don’t give me hope because you…I don’t know, because you feel sorry for me or something.”

You stepped closer. “You knew about the heights. The sweets. The flowers.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You knew all of it because you paid attention. Because you’ve always paid attention.” You interrupted him, needing to get your point across. Needing to do what you came here to do.

Fred turned away, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

He laughed, but it was hollow. “I’ve spent months watching someone else be the boyfriend I wanted to be. Watching you smile at flowers I picked out for him. Watching you kiss him because of something I told him to do.”

Your heart ached at the crack in his voice.“Fred…”

“I thought I could handle it,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought if you were happy, that’d be enough. Even if it wasn’t with me.”

Silence. The wind stirred your loose strands of hair. Stars spun slow above. You reached out and touched his hand. Cold fingers. Tense.

He looked at you and you smiled - gentle, soft, unguarded. “I wasn’t happy. Not really. As wonderful as he was, it just didn’t feel right. He didn’t laugh at my jokes as hard as you do. And he didn’t challenge me back when I teased him. And the longer I was with him the more I realised I was disappointed in the fact that he wasn’t anything like you. Because you’re the one I want, Fred.”

His chest stilled, unable to draw in a breath but unable to let one go either.

“I think maybe I’ve always wanted you,” you said. “But I didn’t see it until you were everywhere - in everything he got right. Every sweet, every bouquet, every careful little gesture. It wanted it to be you.”

Fred’s jaw tightened like he was fighting it. Fighting hope. Fighting want. And at your confession he finally broke. He surged forward and kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was urgent, like he’d been holding it back for years and it finally snapped loose. His hands cradled your face, fingers sliding into your hair, and you melted into it, fisting the front of his jumper as the stars spun above you.

When he finally pulled back, your foreheads stayed pressed together, breath mingling in the cold night air.

“You’re sure?” he whispered.

You smiled, brushing your thumb against his jaw. “Fred Weasley. I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He laughed, real this time. Warm and bright and a little breathless.

“Thank Merlin,” he said. “Because if I had to sit through one more week of that bloody idiot making the simplest mistakes, I was going to hurl myself off this tower.”

You grinned. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“Too late.” He kissed you again, slower this time, with all the things he hadn’t said out loud. And you kissed him back with all the things you never knew you’d been holding onto.

Below, the castle slept. Above, the stars burned bright. And in the quiet space between, Fred Weasley finally got the girl.

#fred wealsey fic #fred weasly x reader #fred weasley #fred weasely x y/n #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley reader insert #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley imagine #wizarding world

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