#there is a secret second part to this post

[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking [part five]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fingering, kissing, making out, kitchen sex/foreplay???, reader guiding bucky, praise, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, stake-out mission, wow! they're actually doing their jobs this chapter!!, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey not doing good, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, gif does not represent reader's appearance, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 13.9k

A/N: it's finally here! this was... a fucking beast to write. only took a month of agony. this got so, so long, i ended up cutting an entire scene near the start so hopefully it doesn't jump around too much. let me know if you enjoy! on a more personal note, just wanted to give you all an update. i had put a few posts mentioning how i've been very unwell mentally and physically. it's made it really hard for me to write while also studying full time. but um yeah basically i was diagnosed with a?? kinda scary?? chronic disease lol?? which explains why i've spent the last 6 years of my life exhausted and feeling awful, and turns out my depression/anxiety is likely a result of this. but yeah, after all these years of dismissal and misdiagnosis, i know what's wrong so i'm getting medicated for it. i'm hoping it gives me a big energy boost to juggle uni and my hobbies (like writing) more efficiently. anyway, this authors note is so long, if you have any questions or thoughts on this chapter, reblog or send me an ask! thank you all so much. as always, sorry for any typos!

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Bucky didn’t respond at first.

His jaw ticked, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. From the way he shifted, feet planting wider, shoulders drawing back just enough that you almost suspected he was bracing. Not for a conversation, but for a hit. As if he expected you to launch across the balcony, heels and all, and pummel your fist directly into his face. 

As absurd as it was, it almost didn’t surprise you. You’d become strangely used to his defensive reactions, the expectation of raised voices and violence, the way he always prepared his body for pain, like he expected even you to punish him.

And maybe the worst part was that deep down, he thought he deserved it.

Maybe you could’ve hit him. Pounded against his chest or disarmed him with words, if nothing else. You could’ve demanded, snarled questions as to why you were some secret mistake he didn’t dare let anyone see. Why are you ashamed to be around me? Why are you embarrassed?

Do you even care about me?

Do you care about me in the same way I care about you?

The ache in your chest flared thinking about it. Deep down, you knew the answer. 

So, you held yourself back. Quiet, still, observing. Not because you weren’t angry, not because you weren’t hurting, but because you had become disturbingly good at packing that raw pain into tidy boxes and sealing them away. 

Bucky adjusted the wrist of his leather glove, tugging it tight like it gave his hands something to do other than shake. You lifted your chin.

“Alright.” He spoke finally, voice a little hoarse, and for a split second, you wondered if he had been crying. “Talking… that’s usually where the trouble starts, isn’t it?”

His attempt to be light-hearted, to gauge your reaction, was short-lived. You met him with silence, exhaling slowly from your nose as you looked him up and down. He immediately folded, metaphorical throat bared as he met your gaze with his signature puppy-dog eyes.

For all your guilt, for the sadness and longing you had felt these past weeks, you still had enough self-respect to keep it together. You’d spent too many years of your life making excuses, compromises for those around you. For once, you would stick up for yourself, for once, you’d let someone other than yourself know you were hurting. You weren’t sure if that was a strength or a weakness. You were sick of being the one who met insults with sarcasm, tired of being the one who shouldered every blow and sting for the sake of others' comfort.

For once in your life, you would take the teeth you were born with and learn how to bite.

“You hurt me.” 

Bucky’s fidgeting stilled instantly, face taut, his eyes searching yours already wide with creeping dread. “I—”

“Let me finish.” You cut over him, and his mouth clamped shut.

“I know this…whatever it is between us is complicated. There isn’t exactly a rulebook for this stuff. I know it’s messy, I know we never defined anything, and maybe we should’ve talked more…” Your body shuddered as you sighed, hesitant as you decided on your slow wording. “But what I understood, what I thought we both understood, was that there was trust. If there wasn’t anything, there was always trust… and what you said, that broke it.”

You paused, trying to steady your voice. Bucky had gone deathly still across from you. You watched his expression crumble. Guilt bled into every crease on his face, each of your words weighing down on him.

“I know that I lied to you about Nat, and I’m sorry. I know I should’ve said something, but I was scared that you’d react badly. That you’d react in the way that you did. I’ve never pretended to be easy to be close with. I know that I can be guarded, cold, or distant but…” You hesitated, sucking in a sharp breath. 

The words burned behind your teeth.

“I always cared. I do care.” Your voice softened momentarily, despite the bile rising in your throat. “I gave you my time, my trust, I took you seriously, Bucky, I told you things I haven’t even really told anyone, not even myself, I—”

You crossed your arms over your chest, fingers digging into your sides. You could feel that stone in your gut, tears pressing just behind your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not here, not now. You’d say your peace, lay it all out before him and see what he did with it.

“I get that you’re scared. I get that you feel shame, shame that you don’t quite understand. I understand that you have an instinct to protect yourself, to control how others see you because you’re afraid to push it too far, afraid to upset anyone…” The words tasted bitter, but they kept coming like a flood, hot and vile even as Bucky looked across at you like he was seconds away from crumpling to the floor. “But what you said was cruel. It hurt me. I just need you to understand that. I need you to understand that whatever it is we’ve been doing, friendship, lessons, whatever… It was never a joke to me.”

As you met his gaze directly, he flinched, jaw clenching so tightly that a muscle in his cheek twitched.

“You acted like I was beneath you, like you needed to downplay all that has happened for the sake of saving face. I understand you want to keep things private, I respect that, but a desire for privacy is very different to belittling me in front of Steve.”

Bucky’s shoulders slouched, his entire body shrinking in on itself. You half expected him to drop to his knees then and there from the way his eyes locked onto the balcony, too ashamed to meet your eye.

“I can be your secret, I can help you, but we are equals,” you muttered, quieter now. “I won’t chase after you, begging for scraps of decency. I’m not going to accept you pretending I’m invisible, that you’re disgusted by me the second someone important walks in the room.”

You looked away, breathing deeply through your nose as you willed the weight pressing on your chest to leave. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, god knows I am anything but that. I just need you to understand that I’m… I’m sick of making myself smaller just so other people can feel comfortable. I’m sick of the constant judgment, the way people don’t think I realise. I’m sick of all of it.”

When you finally looked up again, he looked like he had been punched in the gut. Not physically, but in that hollow, breathless way that left someone stunned and struggling to stand upright. Like every word you’d laid out between the two of you had knocked the air clean out of him.

His mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring past you without actually seeing. You could see it written across his face, the guilt, the lingering panic, the way his whole body trembled. It was the slight hitch with each inhale, the way his shoulders rolled tight beneath the strain of his suit jacket like he wanted to crawl out of it, crawl out of his own skin.

He was close. Too close, seconds away from spiralling into the kind of anxiety that devoured everything in its path.

So, you gave him space. Silent and steady, let him work his own way through it. 

The breeze stirred around you, catching a few strands of loose hair. They tickled against the nape of your neck. Below you could hear the hustle and bustle of the city nightlife, the chatter, the cars. The muffled sound of the party music just beyond the glass windows separating the balcony from the rest of the tower. 

Bucky’s chest rose, then held, then he released it slowly. You watched him, silent, as his eyes flicked around. One smell, two things he could feel, three things in his line of sight. Good. He was grounding himself.

You watched without interfering, letting him work and find his own rhythm. You could practically read his mind now, how the cogs turned, each minuscule mannerism telling you which step he was at. You’d coaxed him through enough of these moments to know the signs. And maybe there was something bittersweet about it, the fact that he was steady enough to guide himself, no longer dependent on the comfort of your voice to guide him through.

“You’re right,” Bucky said at last, the words rasping out like they had been lodged in his throat for hours. “You’re right, I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”

His hands flexed at his sides, fists curling and releasing as if unsure of what to do with them. A flicker of movement crossed his face, a wince, maybe, and then he lifted his eyes.

“I was a coward.” He continued, voice hoarse. “I’ve been replaying it in my head every day since. Over and over and… thinking about you. About how I made you feel.”

He took a half-step forward, caught in the pull of wanting to close the gap. His foot faltered mid-air, stopping him. He planted it back on the ground, shoulders locked, as if he was worried you’d dash if he closed the distance between you.

“I should’ve apologised that day, the second it left my mouth,” he muttered, words almost lost to the breeze. “I should’ve followed you instead of hiding and hoping it would fix itself.”

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “And I know it’s not an excuse… I was just so afraid.. Afraid that I had fucked up so badly that I would lose you. Guess it didn’t matter in the end because I lost you anyway—”

“You didn’t lose me,” you cut in, firm but soft. “I’m right here.”

He blinked hard at that, as if he couldn’t believe what you were saying. His chest trembled as he dragged in a sharp inhale.

“I’m sorry.”

There. That was it, the moment you’d been waiting for, the thing you’d needed from the very beginning. Not grovelling, not guilt, not the sight of him unravelling, just understanding. You hadn’t wanted to watch him spiral or flinch beneath the weight of his own remorse. That was never the point. You only wanted to be seen. For him to see you, the ache you’d swallowed, the silence you’d worn like armour.

You weren’t the kind of person who held pain like a weapon, who dangled forgiveness just out of reach. But you were tired, bone-deep tired, of being stepped over, of shrinking yourself to keep the peace. Tired of wearing humour like a mask, sharp and dry, to cover the bruises he couldn’t see. All you’d wanted was for him to get it. And now… now he did.

All you ever wanted was for someone to listen to you. Truly listen. 

“Yeah?” Your voice cracked slightly despite yourself. 

“Fuck,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry. I’m not embarrassed by you, if anything, I’m embarrassed about how I acted—”

“Bucky…”

“And don’t you dare say it’s okay,” he interrupted quickly, almost desperate. “Because it isn’t. I should never have said that, never have even thought that. After all you’ve done, after all the kindness and patience you’ve shown me, and I repay you by shaming you—”

“Repayment…” You cut over him, rolling the word slowly over your tongue, head shaking. “You don’t owe me anything, remember? That’s how it works with us, yeah?”

He exhaled hard. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Handle all this so gracefully…Have such a pure heart despite everything.”

“If I were to describe my heart,” you said with a dry little huff, “it would not be pure—”

“You’re killin’ me here—” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and for the first time in days, the edge of your mouth twitched into a smile. Sly, wicked, and entirely involuntary.

His gaze caught it instantly, and his breath stilled.

You took the initiative, closing the distance between you in a handful of steps, until his breath hitched slightly, his eyes locking onto your face.

“I am sorry.” He murmured, voice less desperate now. “Seriously. I don’t expect forgiveness, hell, I don’t want forgiveness unless you really mean it, and you’re not just saying it to spare my feelings—”

“Bucky—”

“No, don’t say it—!”

“Bucky.” You breathed his name. Your hands found the front of his tie, fingers curling around the black silk. You wondered if it was the same tie you had blindfolded him with, if he had subconsciously chosen it to feel closer to you. You nearly smirked at the thought, a warmth in your belly despite the surprised expression flooding his features. You tugged gently, and he didn’t resist. He leaned into the pull, breath catching again as you drew him in close, close enough for your foreheads to nearly touch, for your breath to ghost across his lips. “I forgive you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, like the words had struck him physically. “I don’t know if I deserve you—”

“Bucky.” You hummed, almost scolding. “If I’m honest, I forgave you weeks ago.”

His eyes opened, a spark of confusion flickering.

“I was just… sabotaging myself,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “Because that’s what I do when things get complicated. I cut people off, I burn bridges, I destroy my own life. I convinced myself that you hated me, because I lied to you about Nat.”

He quickly shook his head. “I could never hate you.”

And there it was.

You exhaled, something soft breaking inside you, not the kind that shattered and left shards punctured into your heart and lungs, but the type of crack that let the light in. Your hand slid from his tie to his chest, resting lightly over his heart. Beneath your palm, it thudded unevenly and wildly. 

“Stop looking at me like I’m not real,” you muttered.

“I’m not—”

You shook your head with a snicker, fingers tracing across his shirt to the lapels of his suit jacket. You tugged at it, and he stiffened in surprise, but didn’t stop you as you twisted around him, easing the jacket from his shoulders. He shrugged it off wordlessly, leaning into your guidance, and you knew he was secretly relieved to be rid of the thing. 

“I know you hate these things,” you murmured, voice teasing. “Can’t move properly, too tight around your shoulder ‘cause Tony never gets them tailored right.”

Bucky blinked at you, lips parting slightly, some of the tension still lingering in his brows.

“You remembered that?”

“Of course,” you smiled faintly, smoothing the sleeve as you folded it over your arm. “You know, at this point I think I remember more about you than I do about myself.”

His lips curved at that. “Tell me something then?”

“Like what?”

“Something I don’t know about you. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

You blinked, caught off guard. For a long moment, you just stared at him, stunned into stillness. No one had ever asked you that before. Not really. Not with that quiet, open curiosity. Not like they actually wanted to hear the answer. People were always eager to talk, to fill the silence with their own stories and needs. But here he was, waiting, willing to listen.

It left you a little breathless.

There were still entire corners of your life shrouded in fog, moments you hadn’t unpacked, parts of yourself you hadn’t dared to explore. You’d spent so long watching others, peeling back their layers, learning what made them tick. It was instinctual how you kept yourself safe. Quietly observant, always listening, always careful. You didn’t mean to be secretive. It wasn’t some deliberate act of mystery. It just… never came up. No one had ever made space for you like that. No one had ever lingered long enough to want something beyond the surface.

Until now.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled, gaze dropping. “I guess… I guess pick at my nails when I’m nervous?”

He let out a soft, almost fond huff of laughter. “Yeah, I picked up on that one months ago.”

“Shit. That obvious?” You glanced down at your hand, suddenly extra aware of the damage. The nailbeds were raw and uneven, the skin around them puffy and inflamed from restless fussing.

Then Bucky did something unexpected. He reached out, slow and careful, the soft creak of his leather gloves barely audible. His gloved fingers brushed against yours first, the cool and smooth material almost foreign in feeling. You watched, breath caught in your throat, as he gently threaded his fingers between yours.

“Maybe a little,” he murmured with a quiet snort, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Without a word, he began to tug a glove off, leather resisting slightly before giving way. You swallowed and helped him, pinching the fingers and easing them free, and then repeated with the other side. 

His bare fingers closed gently around yours again, his palm warm and calloused. Your jaw snapped shut as he traced his thumb over the jagged cuticles in a comforting, rhythmic motion.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you breathed in, sharp and shallow, and shrugged in a small, embarrassed motion. “Well… I don’t know, then, I’m probably an insomniac who relies too heavily on coffee to get by.”

That earned a proper laugh from him, and warmth pooled in your belly like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

“You and me both,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

You hesitated then, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as your faint smile faltered. Your mind turned inward, digging past the surface, searching through the fog for something true, something buried a little deeper. Your brow furrowed as your gaze dropped again, fingers twitching faintly in Bucky’s grasp like they wanted to pull away but didn’t quite make it.

“I’m claustrophobic,” you admitted at last, so quietly you didn’t think he had heard you.

His laughter cut off mid-breath, a soft sound dying on his tongue. The stillness that followed was immediate. His hand stopped mid-motion, thumb frozen against your knuckles

You forced yourself to keep going. “I don’t like small spaces. Feeling… trapped. It’s why I never take the elevator. It’s why I… freaked out on you at training the other week.”

“I’m sorry—” he began, voice already thick with regret.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head quickly, eyes flicking away. “You didn’t know. It just… it just reminds me… reminds me of things I’ve tried to bury.”

His free hand rose then. You didn’t flinch as his fingers brushed your chin, tilting it upward with such deliberate tenderness that it made your breath catch. His touch was featherlight, and when your eyes met his, the air sucked out of your lungs.

“I understand.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry that I freaked out on you. I should’ve—”

“No.” His tone deepened, firm but gentle. “It’s okay. You don’t apologise to me for that. Ever.”

His voice was low now, so low it vibrated in his chest, a soft rumble that thrummed through the narrow space between your bodies. “You never have to apologise for setting boundaries.”

The words hit you square in the chest, like the impact of something you didn’t see coming. Your knees weakened, just slightly, and you gripped his wrist to steady yourself, though whether it was to anchor you or to keep from moving closer, you weren’t sure.

For a moment, everything else faded, the hum of the distant city life, the soft swish of the breeze, even the bass from the party. All that remained was him, warm, close and achingly sincere.

A part of you wanted to kiss him. Badly. The urge bloomed like heat in your chest, climbed up your throat, burned behind your lips. But then your gaze flicked, just briefly, to the giant pane of glass windows behind him, floor to ceiling, offering a clear view into the party beyond. You were almost certain Steve and Nat were watching from somewhere, probably with popcorn.

So instead, you smiled, small and almost rueful, and didn’t move. Didn’t lean in.

But he did.

His hand, still cupping your chin, shifted just slightly, tilting your face upward with a touch so gentle it barely registered as pressure at all. His eyes searched yours for a heartbeat longer, as though committing you to memory, as though asking are you sure? without even speaking a word.

And then his lips met yours.

Every nerve in your body buzzed, and his lips were warm and plush against yours. You could feel the way he held himself back, like he was afraid of falling too deep into hunger. 

His hand hovered at your waist, fingers brushing your side, hesitant to pull you closer unless you gave him a sign. The other remained at your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it in a gentle rhythm, anchoring you. His breath mingled with yours, sweet with the faintest trace of spearmint, his chest rising and falling unevenly against the few inches that still lingered between you.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes blinked open as though waking from something half-dreamed. A breath of laughter broke from your lips, soft and stunned, and you shook your head slightly. Still, you didn’t move far, fingers tangled loosely in his tie. “People could be watching, you know—”

You were beginning to think that none of it mattered anyway, not when he looked at you like that.

“Let them.”

You didn’t even flinch as he pressed in again, slow and exploratory, the faintest drag of his lower lip over yours, testing the shape of your mouth with a tenderness that sent a ripple down your spine.

But something in him had shifted, restraint thinned, weeks of built-up tension bleeding into a desperate need. 

His mouth moved with more certainty, lips parting yours just slightly, enough to deepen the kiss without taking too much. He coaxed rather than claimed, a subtle tilt of his head aligning you closer, a soft press of his tongue just barely tasting the seam of your mouth. 

Your fingers curled tighter back into the front of his tie, tugging him closer as that familiar rush of heat flooded your chest and belly. You responded, parting for him, letting him in, and the reward was a low, pleased hum from deep in his throat, vibrating through his chest and into yours.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, the slick warmth of his mouth lingering, his gaze was heavy-lidded, pupils dark, lips parted just slightly. A faint smear of your lipstick sat crookedly above his upper lip—evidence, as obvious as a lovebite

You blinked at him, lightheaded, dizzy in the best way, like the floor had dropped out from under you and all that held you upright was him. And then, to your own surprise, you giggled. Actually giggled, breathy and unguarded, a sound you hadn't heard from yourself in far too long.

“They’re going to be insufferable now, you know that?” you said, grinning against the glow that refused to leave your cheeks.

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “Who?”

You gave him a pointed look. “Steve and Nat.”

“Because their little scheme worked?” He snorted. “Shit, you’re probably right.”

“I’m already bracing myself,” you muttered, mock-exasperated. “Nat gets this tone in her voice when she’s feeling particularly smug. It’s the worst, she doesn’t even try to hide it. Drives me crazy, I swear—”

“Sam knows too,” Bucky said, a little too casually, but his voice dipped just enough to betray him, quiet like he almost hoped you wouldn’t catch it.

Your smile faltered. “Oh?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly away. “Yeah… after the little, uh… slip-up in training, he knows everything now.”

“Everything?”

Bucky winced, shoulders hunching slightly. “Yeah. I may have told him and Steve the whole story.”

You gaped at him a moment, speechless, before you found the sense to speak up. “The full story… as in, lessons and everything?”

“Maybe…” He gave you a look so sheepish it bordered on boyish. “Do you wanna know what Sam said when he found out?”

You groaned, almost too afraid to ask. “What?”

“‘That sounds like an HR nightmare.’”

You broke into laughter, a real, bubbling laugh that rose out of you before you could stop it. “Shit. We’re in deep now.” 

He watched you, fondness etched into every line of his face. His expression had softened again, that rare, open version of him shining through. You pulled back enough to look up at him properly. His eyes were gentle, amused, but earnest—so goddamn earnest it made your chest ache. 

“I feel… good about this,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice struck you deep. It rasped low, his tone threaded with a sort of rough certainty that made your stomach flutter.  “For the first time in… I don’t know. I feel good.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide and a little dazed. Warmth bloomed steadily in your chest, curling beneath your ribs and climbing up your throat. It spread like honey through your limbs, soft and molten, loosening something inside you that had been wound tight for far too long.

“Careful, Bucky.”

“I’m tellin’ the truth, doll.” His hand brushed your arm, knuckles grazing like static, his eyes trailing down your body as if you were committing you to memory, curve by curve, inch by inch.

“Keep talking like that,” you murmured, “and I might kiss you again.”

His smile curled slowly, crooked and dangerous. “Oh yeah? Just kissing?”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze drop to his mouth. “Maybe more… if you’re lucky.”

He laughed, a low, husky sound that vibrated through you. Then he took a single step closer. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, once, then again, just to see the way his expression shifted. Bucky let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan, one hand snaking around your waist as he pulled you in again for just one more kiss.

—

After the disaster that had been the training session—where you and Bucky had gone so hard it probably qualified as attempted murder in at least three jurisdictions—Steve, Natasha, and Sam had clearly smashed their heads together and prayed they could cook up a plan to get you two talking again. The infamous balcony had been plan B, and to their endless delight (and your mutual dismay), it had actually worked. But that small victory left them scrambling, because now they had to try to cancel the other contingency plans they’d set in motion, like overexcited matchmakers who’d gone past their pay grade. 

God only knew how many schemes they’d cooked up. From your current predicament, it seemed they’d well and truly scraped the bottom of the barrel. Because here you were, wedged into the backseat of a car far too small for three muscled idiots, on what was technically a stakeout, but what felt more like slow torture. You were hours into waiting for some crypto-genuis kid, Karpin’s pet money launderer, to finally come home. And the whole reason you and Bucky were here at all? Steve and Sam had begged Fury to approve your presence on this op, convinced this was plan C, the masterstroke that would fix things between you two if the balcony gambit failed. 

But the balcony hadn’t failed. The balcony had worked spectacularly, and now Steve and Sam were left trying to undo their apparent meddling, scrambling to pull you off the mission. Too late, Fury had signed off, likely with one of his signature scowls and a clever quip. Everything was greenlit. No take-backs. 

You’d managed to pry this information out of Steve within the first three hours, much to the absolute dismay of Sam. Now both of them were currently avoiding your gaze like their lives depended on it, and you were simmering, imagining at least five creative ways to end them before the kid even showed up. 

“So this was your brilliant plan C, huh?” you hissed, exasperation curling through every word as you craned your neck forward, arms braced on the back of Steve’s seat, peering between him and Sam in the front. The centre console dug uncomfortably into your ribs, but you hardly noticed over the heat pricking across your skin. “Cram us into this metal coffin and hope the awkward tension does the trick?”

Steve still kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the street ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel like he might snap it in two if he had to endure one more minute. The muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing. Sam, slouched in the passenger seat, had perfected the art of looking like he wasn’t there at all, staring out the window, face blank, like maybe if he wished hard enough, he could astral project somewhere far away from this cramped nightmare. 

Beside you, Bucky had sunk so low in his seat you half expected him to disappear into the upholstery. His arms were crossed tightly, his long legs awkwardly angled to avoid pressing too much against yours. Though your thigh and shoulder still touched, the contact was warm and sticky. Secretly, you didn’t mind it that much. 

“Are you gonna bring it up and whine about it every 5 minutes or—” Sam finally drawled, and you leant over to smack the back of his seat in warning. You could’ve sworn the jolt made his eyes roll harder. 

“It wasn’t my first choice—” Steve spoke at last, voice strained, and you scoffed, flopping back into your seat. You shot a glare up at the rear-view mirror, where Steve steadfastly refused to meet your eye. You resisted the urge to kick the back of his seat. Sam’s lip twitched, and you weren’t sure if he was fighting a smirk or a grimace. 

“Yeah, yours was the training session, wasn’t it?” you muttered, shifting in your cramped seat, your thigh brushing Bucky’s. “The one where we nearly killed each other?”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Steve protested.

“You paired us against each other—!”

“I thought it would help work out the tension—!”

“Oh, genius move, Cap. Almost as subtle as the balcony stunt. Remind me…” You said, glancing between the two of them with an exaggerated patience. “How much money did you lose to Nat over us making out within twenty minutes?”

Bucky choked on air beside you. 

“Nope,” Sam cut back, smirking, eyes on the windshield but clearly enjoying himself. “She made me promise not to spill what she put down.”

“She cleaned up, didn’t she?” you said, grinning despite yourself.

“Let’s just say I owe her a drink…or five,” Sam muttered.

“And you two just went along with it. And when that actually worked,” you went on, voice rising as you gestured vaguely at the cramped space around you, “you didn’t think to, I don’t know, maybe… cancel this mission?”

Steve gave a long-suffering sigh, “I already said we tried—” 

You blinked, turning to Bucky, who was doing his best impression of a statue. His ears were pink. God help him, he was blushing. “Are you hearing this?”

“Loud and clear,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw, eyes fixed on the upholstery like it was the most fascinating thing in the car. “I’m starting to think we’re the mission, not the kid.” 

Sam barked a quiet laugh at that, then immediately tried to hide it behind a cough. 

You smirked, leaning back just enough to make your knee knock into Bucky’s. “At least someone finds this funny.” 

“Oh, I do,” Sam didn’t even try to hide his grin now, eyes glinting in the rearview mirror. “You know, Buck folded like a lawn chair after that training room mess. Didn’t even need to interrogate him, he just started confessing.”

You blinked, glancing sideways at Bucky, and sure enough, his shoulders tensed, jaw tight, face flushed red. Yeah. You’d heard about that. After you and Bucky had practically torn each other apart during that disaster of a sparring session, it hadn’t taken long before Bucky caved. All it took was one pointed look from Steve, and he’d apparently spilt everything. The lessons. The gala mission. The whole messy, complicated truth. He hadn’t wanted to hide it anymore, and they hadn’t judged him. If anything, they’d been supportive, but god, had it given Sam and Steve endless material to work with.

“I didn’t fold,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face, trying to hide the red creeping up his neck.

Sam’s grin widened. “Oh no, you practically snapped in half. ‘It’s not what it looked like! I swear!’”

Steve, who had been studiously pretending to focus on the rows of beach houses, finally let out a quiet snort.

Sam continued his onslaught. “He was trying so hard to be chill. Said something about ‘It’s not like she was giving me sex lessons or anything!’ Swear to god, I thought you were about to write us both a formal apology letter.”

Your brow shot up, heat blooming warm and easy in your chest. Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Jesus, can we not—”

“So…” Sam began, tone too casual to be innocent. He swivelled half around in his seat, arm slung over the headrest. “What exactly do these lessons involve?”

Bucky shot him a glare that could have melted steel. “Not talking to you about this.”

“Right. Right, of course.” Sam nodded solemnly, lips twitching. “Just curious. Is there, like… a syllabus? A final exam?”

Sam looked over to you, and you rewarded him with a blank, unbothered expression. All of his attempts to get under your skin so far had fallen flat. 

“I swear to God, Sam—” Bucky huffed. 

“Okay, okay!” Sam laughed, hands raised in surrender. “Damn, Barnes. Touchy!”

Bucky grumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to physically wipe away the heat creeping across. He exhaled through his nose, visibly trying to collect himself, jaw working like he was biting back another groan.

The moment stretched, the car settling into a beat of silence.

Then Bucky leaned back, voice dry as bone, as if he was looking for punishment, “I still haven’t forgiven you for not packing snacks, by the way.”

It earned a sharp bark of laughter from you before Sam twisted around, indignation written all over his face. “You were supposed to pack snacks!”

“You’re the reason we’re here in the first place!” Bucky shot back, arching a brow, the edge of a smirk threatening his mouth.

Sam groaned, tipping his head against the headrest like a man resigned to his fate. “God, please. Can you just shut up—?”

“You’re the one who has been talking this entire time—”

“Eyes up.” Steve’s voice cut through the bickering, sharp enough to snap the tension like a taut wire. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as his gaze fixed out the windshield.

You straightened instinctively, pulse kicking up, the lingering humour of the quarrel evaporating as your attention followed his line of sight.

A sleek, silver car, a little too flashy for the neighbourhood, rolled up the driveway of the house you’d been watching for hours. The low purr of its engine smothered the quiet hum of distant gulls in the air. The driver door swung open, and out stepped a kid who looked like he belonged more at some overpriced frat party than tangled up in Karpin’s operation. Early twenties, hair artfully messy, sunglasses pushed back onto his head like he thought he was some kind of tech mogul already. His clothes screamed new money, designer labels, logo-heavy, just subtle enough to look casual if you weren’t paying attention.

From the back of the car, the trunk popped, and a scruffy golden retriever leapt out with a thump, tail wagging like mad as it bounded up to the kid, nearly bowling him over. The kid laughed, ruffling the dog’s ears, before slinging a backpack over one shoulder and heading toward the front door.

“Target’s home,” Steve muttered, already shifting into command mode. His voice went flat, but with that edge of anticipation that always crept in when the waiting was over.

Sam sat up straighter, his earlier grin gone, eyes sharp. “Finally.”

Bucky leaned forward, his knee brushing yours, the tension humming back into his frame like a coiled spring. “What’s the play?”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off the house. “We move in quietly. Sam, you cover the back in case he spooks. Buck, I’ll need you two with me at the door. No heroics. We’re here to talk, not smash up his house.”

You gave a tight nod, hand already sliding to the door handle. “Copy that.”

“Let’s move,” Steve said, and the car doors clicked open almost in unison, the stale warmth of the vehicle giving way to the salty breeze as you slipped out into the early afternoon air.

— The dog’s tongue lolled out of its mouth as it bounded after the tennis ball you lobbed down the yard for what had to be the fiftieth time. The poor thing was all enthusiasm and no aim, skidding through flowerbeds and trampling what was clearly someone’s expensive landscaping project. You didn’t have the heart to stop him. The quiet thunk of the ball hitting the fence made you sigh, shading your eyes with one hand as the retriever scrabbled to chase it down.

The house loomed behind you, modern, sleek, soulless, and through the open patio doors, you could hear muffled voices. Mostly Steve’s, low and steady. Occasionally, Sam’s sharper edge cut through, exasperation bleeding into his tone. You couldn’t make out the words, but you didn’t need to. This was dragging. Of course, it was dragging.

You glanced at the sky. How long had it been? Too long. Definitely too long. 

The dog trotted back, panting, ball slimy with slobber, and you took it with a grimace, wiping your palm on your thigh before tossing it again.

The screen door creaked, and you turned just in time to see Bucky step out, rubbing the back of his neck. His jacket was off, henley sleeves rolled to his elbows, expression carved from tired frustration.

“Well?” you asked, arching a brow, catching the ball one-handed as the dog dropped it at your feet.

Bucky exhaled, dropping onto the steps beside you. “It’s not going well. Kid’s a wreck. Just keeps freaking out, throwing out half-baked lies, hoping we’ll get bored and leave him alone.”

You smirked, tossing the ball lazily. “He doesn’t know those two very well then, does he?”

Bucky’s lips quirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’re trying for a good cop, bad cop thing… don’t think it’s going too well.”

You dusted off your hands, straightening. If this dragged on any longer, it would be nightfall, you were entirely sure there was a better and faster way to get the kid to spill. “It’s my turn to play cop, don’t you think?”

Bucky looked up at you, wary. “You sure? He’s on the verge of passing out.”

“All the more reason to cut the bullshit.” 

The living room was too clean, not lived-in, just staged, like everything else in this house. The kid sat on the edge of the pristine white couch, hunched over, elbows on his knees, wringing his hands so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His chest hitched, breathing fast and shallow. Steve was standing nearby, voice soft, like he was talking him down from a bridge. Sam loomed near the window, arms crossed, scowl in place.

You didn’t bother asking. You just dragged a chair across the floor, the legs screeching deliberately against the polished hardwood as you flipped it around and straddled it, resting your arms along the back. The kid’s red-rimmed eyes snapped up at the sound, wide with panic, sweat beading at his temple.

“Okay, everyone, let’s take a breath.”

Steve shot you a sceptical look, brows knitting together like he wasn’t sure if you were serious. Sam, arms still folded tight across his chest, arched a brow, glancing at you like, really? The kid—Brandon, that was his name, you remembered now—just looked outright bewildered, as if the suggestion was the most alien thing he’d heard all afternoon.

“One deep breath. All of you.” You spoke pointedly, daring a glare over at good cop and bad cop respectively. You dragged in a slow inhale through your nose, filling your chest until your ribs ached, then let it out in a long, audible exhale. You exaggerated it, not for theatrics, but to show there was nothing complicated about it. Just air. Just calm.

Steve, bless him, always the good soldier, mirrored you next, drawing in a slow breath like he was trying to set an example. Sam followed reluctantly, like he hated admitting that maybe you had a point. His chest rose and fell, but he kept side-eyeing Brandon the whole time.

Brandon hesitated, his gaze flickering between you all like he was waiting for someone to yell gotcha! His knee bounced erratically, fingers twitching. You half expected the kid to bolt—not that he’d make it far, you were sure either of the three men would take absolute delight in tackling him to his shiny, expensive floors.

“C’mon, Brandon,” you coaxed, leaning forward just slightly, head tilting. “You’ll feel a whole lot better. Just one breath. Try it.”

For a beat, you thought he might refuse, too locked in his panic to even try. But then his shoulders sagged a fraction, and he sucked in a shaky breath, a wet, uneven sound that hitched halfway through. He let it out in a rush, but it was something. 

“There we go,” you murmured. “Better, huh?”

Shit, maybe you were good cop. 

He stared at you, wide-eyed, chest still shuddering from the uneven breath he’d managed. Like he couldn’t quite believe the panic hadn’t immediately swallowed him whole. 

You didn’t rush him. Instead, you took another slow, deliberate breath, and with just the faintest glance to the side, you caught Steve doing the same. Bucky too, silent and steady at the doorway, setting the rhythm without a word. Even Sam, though he tried to look like he wasn’t following your lead, let his shoulders loosen as he exhaled through his nose.

“Good,” you murmured after another long beat. “Let’s just stay right here for a second. Was getting far too tense in here, wasn’t it?”

Brandon sucked in another breath, still ragged, but at least it wasn’t the frantic gasping from before. His hands were still trembling on his knees, but they weren’t clenched into fists anymore.

“Okay. Let’s rationalise this, yeah? One step at a time.” Your voice dropped low and warm, the kind of tone you’d use with a skittish animal. The type of tone you used with Bucky when he was spiralling. 

“Do you know who he is?” You tilted your head toward Steve.

Brandon hesitated, but his eyes flicked to Steve, and he gave the smallest nod.

“Say it out loud for me,” you urged gently, fingers drumming softly on the back of the chair.

“H-he’s Captain America,” Brandon whispered, voice weak, almost like he wasn’t sure if saying it would make it more real.

“That’s right,” you said, offering a small smile. “Good. That’s good, Brandon. You’re thinking straight.” You pointed with a lazy flick of your finger at Steve. “And do you really think Captain America of all people is going to hurt you?”

“No.”

“Good. But those other two—” you jerked your thumb toward Sam and Bucky, your voice dipping into dry humour, “—those ones you wanna watch out for. Absolute wildcards.”

It earned you a quiet snort from Sam, and Bucky’s mouth twitched, but Brandon let out a breath that was almost a laugh. His face was pale, but some of the sheer panic had started to ease at the edges.

But the hyperventilating wasn’t gone. His chest was rising too fast again, his eyes darting around the room like he couldn’t help it.

“Hey, hey. Just breathe.” Your voice stayed patient, casual but focused, like you had all the time in the world. “I just need to ask you a few questions. Can you handle that?”

Brandon’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His wide eyes glistened beneath the overhead light, flicking between you and the silent figures of Steve, Sam, and Bucky like a cornered animal. Though, it wasn’t the wild panic of a man about to bolt. It was something else. Defeat, maybe. The heavy, sinking weight of realising he was out of moves.

His mouth opened, shaky. Closed. Opened again. He wet his lips, voice barely a whisper.

“They’re gonna kill me if I snitch—”

“Who’s gonna kill you?” Steve’s voice cut in, instinctively taking a step forward.

You lifted a hand, a silent hold up, and Steve froze mid-stride, eyeing you warily but ultimately submitted to your lead.

You exhaled slowly, studying Brandon, the trembling hands on his knees, the sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his leg bounced like he might still have been weighing the odds of making a run for it. Your head tilted, voice dropping just a hair softer.

“How about this,” you hummed thoughtfully. “I tell you what we know… and you help me fill in the gaps, hm?”

Brandon blinked, uncertain, but you saw the subtle slump of his shoulders. “O-okay…” he croaked.

“You’re from a middle-class family. Did well in school. Kept your head down. Got all A’s in college, IT, tech stuff, right?”

His eyes widened. He glanced at Sam like maybe he’d confessed those details without realising. Sam just arched a brow, impressed despite himself.

“You got into cryptocurrency to make a little money on the side…” You continued, your tone easy, conversational. “And that’s when Karpin found you. Asked you to help him move his money until it was basically untrackable. Paid you more than you’d ever seen in your life to keep quiet and work with his buyers.”

Brandon’s mouth parted, but nothing came out. 

“You probably don’t even know what he’s really selling,” you added, shrugging lightly. “Just that it’s illegal. Because you’re smart, you could see it a mile off. But you didn’t ask. Why would you? You’re making more money than you ever dreamed of.” Your gaze swept the room, the expensive furniture, the sleek floors, and the view of the ocean just beyond the windows. “Beachfront property? At your age? You’re making more than most people see in a lifetime.”

Brandon gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod.

“But now you don’t want to talk. Not to us. Not to anyone. Because Karpin’s dangerous, right?” You softened the words further. “Because he told you as much, because you know you’re in deep…Because he threatened you. Maybe even people you care about, said if you ever ratted him out, it wouldn’t end with just you?”

That hadn’t been in the brief, but you’d spent enough time in Karpin’s club, in his VIP rooms, hanging off his arm like his latest pet to know his game.

You didn’t even need to hear the confirmation from Brandon, just one look in his glassy eyes told you the truth. You were right. Your eyes flickered over to Sam and Steve, watching as they exchanged a look.

Bucky hadn’t moved, leaned quietly against the doorway, face carefully neutral. But his eyes—oh, his eyes tracked every word, every shift of your body. And though his mouth was set in a firm line, there was something under it. A shameless flicker of pride. That soft, secret warmth, like he was quietly glad to see you work your magic.

Brandon’s breath rattled, his fingers fisting the fabric of his shorts. His wide eyes darted from you to Steve, then to Sam, as if one of them might swoop in and end this interrogation—or maybe mercifully his life. His voice cracked as the words tumbled out in a rush.

“I didn’t know, I swear! I mean, I knew—I knew it had to be something illegal, but not this illegal! I thought it was just drugs or something!” His chest heaved, breath coming fast again, panic starting to claw its way back up his throat.

“Hey.” Your voice cut through the rising spiral of his fear, leaving no room for argument. “We’re not here to decide if you’re guilty or not. That’s not why we’re here. We want to talk to you about one of the buyers, the one Karpin does the majority of his sales to. Do you know who I’m talking about? The Russian?”

Brandon hesitated, throat working as he swallowed. “Yes…”

“Good.” You hummed, slow and encouraging. “I need you to tell me anything you know about him. A name, a bank number, an address. Anything you can give us.”

Brandon’s shoulders hunched, his head shaking, wild-eyed. “I can’t—”

“Why?” you pressed.

“Because… because they’ll kill me!” He burst out, breath hitching again. “If it’s this bad, if it’s really this bad, I know they’ll hunt me down if I say anything—”

“They’re not going to be able to reach you, Brandon.”

His head snapped up, desperation shining in his eyes. “How can you guarantee that?!”

You sat a little straighter, drawing in a slow breath yourself. You knew the feeling currently roaring through Brandon’s veins, you recognised it like an old enemy. The panic, the sick weight of fear coiled tight beneath your ribs. The terror of the unknown. It was like wading blind through pitch-dark water, searching for a foothold, for anything solid to cling to, with no promise of light ahead. You’d felt it too many times before, felt it in your bones, felt it define you. And like every time before, your mind scrambled to make sense of it, to wrestle the chaos into something you could control. But how could you, when you didn’t even know the shape of the fight you were facing? How could you rationalise the storm without knowing where it might end, or if it ever would?

If only, you thought bitterly, if only you’d had the foresight back then. The knowledge. The map that would’ve let you navigate those shadows instead of stumbling through them, bruised and broken.

You knew exactly what the kid needed to hear.

“Do you want me to explain what’s going to happen to you after this conversation?”

Brandon nodded wordlessly.

“The police are going to come.” You reassured, recognising the instant dread in the kid’s wide eyes. “They’re going to arrest you, not hurt you. They’re going to keep you in custody while Karpin and his buyers are investigated, tracked down, and arrested. You’ll be safe. No one can get to you inside.”

“You’ll hire a lawyer,” you continued, voice even, matter-of-fact. “And that lawyer is going to tell you to take a plea deal. That means you’ll testify against Karpin. The deal might mean you walk free under witness protection, or maybe you serve a few years, but nowhere near as much trouble as if you stonewall us now.”

You smiled softly, leaning forward, lowering your voice to a comforting hum. “Brandon, all you need to do is cooperate with us.”

He blinked hard, tears threatening now, though he fought them, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I’ll be protected? Will my family be protected? You’re sure?”

“If you help us?” You shrugged, glancing at Steve and Sam. “You’ll be protected. So will your family. By the people we work for. There’s no shame in having made a mistake, Brandon. You think we’re innocent?” 

Your grin tilted, dry and a little wry as you thumbed toward the guys. “These three destroy half of New York every other week, and you think people are just fine with it?”

Sam gave a short huff of laughter, shaking his head. Steve smirked faintly, arms crossed over his chest, watching the way you worked with no small amount of admiration.

“We can do what we do because we have the right friends in the right places,” you went on, gaze locked steady on Brandon’s. “If you tell us what we need to know, we’ll make sure you and your loved ones are protected. That’s a promise.”

Brandon let out a shaky breath, the tension bleeding from his frame, if only slightly. He swiped the back of his hand across his damp face, voice rough as he finally nodded.

“O-okay. Okay. I’ll help.”

—

The mission had wrapped up without much fuss once Brandon finally cracked. A little breathing room, a few well-placed reassurances and the kid had spilt more than you’d hoped for. And after a long morning of waiting and watching, the team had been cleared to stand down. The beach house, a backup in case the op had dragged on, was yours for the night. No one had expected things to go so smoothly, but no one was about to complain either. 

Now, with the sun bleeding gold over the horizon and the promise of an early flight hanging over your heads, you were determined to steal a few hours of peace. 

You lay stretched out on a sunbleached towel at the base of the porch, toes buried in the warm sand. The last of the afternoon rays bathed the world in honey light, glinting off the waves as they lapped the shore. The ocean breeze lifted your hair and carried with it the brine of the sea, the faint tang of salt settling on your skin where the sweat had dried in the heat. You tilted your face up now and then, soaking in what little warmth was left, letting your eyes fall half-shut.

The beach house itself was small and sweet, worn blue paint with white trim, seashells lining the windowsills, wind chimes and catchers swaying and singing softly in the breeze. The kind of place that felt like it belonged to the sea as much as to the people.

On the porch steps, Bucky sat like a man trying to blend into the scenery. His arms rested heavily on his thighs, his boots planted solidly on the wood. There was tension in him, subtle but sure. He watched the waves, mostly. Sometimes he watched you. His gaze would flicker your way when he thought you weren’t looking, then back out to the horizon like it could give him answers. He’d tried the sand once, made it a few steps before muttering something about not wanting it grinding into the plates of his arms. The steps were his compromise, close enough to be near you, far enough to avoid what unsettled him. 

Steve and Sam had gone into town, promising a dinner worth eating—something fresh, not from a takeaway joint or gas station, which was the usual menu for missions, especially stakeouts—before you all shipped out at dawn. The house, the beach, the world itself felt hushed in their absence. Just the occasional cry of gulls, the gentle crash of waves, and the music of chimes above. 

It was Bucky who broke the quiet first. His voice was almost tentative, as if he’d been sitting with the thought some time before letting it out.

“You were good with that kid today.”

You cracked one eye open, shading it with your hand from the sun. The breeze caught his hair, tugged at the soft cotton of his shirt, ruffled the hem where his sleeves strained over the gold and black glint of vibranium. 

“You’re good at talking to people,” he went on, not looking at you now, but at some fixed point beyond the waves. “Understanding them.”

A soft, tired huff escaped you. You let your eyes fall closed again, the sun warm on your cheeks. “What I understand about people is that everyone wants kindness. That’s all. They want to be seen, heard, given a little grace.”

You let your head loll to the side, gaze following the slow roll of the sea. His eyes were on you again, you could feel it, watching, like he was trying to piece you together, to see past the practised ease of your words. 

“How did you know all that?” he asked after a beat, quieter now. “About lawyers, plea deals, witness protection?”

Your lips curved, a wry, sad little smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I lied.”

You felt him shift. His boots creaked against the steps, his spine straightening. “You lied?”

You rolled onto your back, brushing the sand from your skin, fingers playing idly at the tie of your bikini. “I told him what I knew he wanted to hear. That’s all. A kid like that, scared, cornered…He responded well to knowledge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t know what they’re gonna offer him, maybe they will offer him a plea deal, but at least he won’t feel like he’s in the dark.”

The breeze tugged at the chimes again, the gentle clatter filling the quiet that followed. Bucky didn’t speak, just watched you, thoughtful, a crease between his brows. His gaze was steady now, no longer flickering away like he was seeing something in you that you didn’t want him to.

“I just…” His voice was gentler now, but insistent. “I just think that version of you, the one who talked that kid down, the version I know... sometimes I think it’s the real you.”

You turned to him properly then, one hand propping you up, the other shading your eyes against the glare. “The real me—Jesus. Are we doing this right now?”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. 

“I think they’re still in your head,” he said simply. “The same way… the same way H.Y.D.R.A is still in my head. You just wear the mask better. Pretend better. It took me too long to see it, but now I do, and I can’t unsee it.”

The air left your lungs like you’d been tackled from behind, a cold rush tearing through your veins, leaving you sick and hollow at the centre. H.Y.D.R.A. Bucky almost never said it aloud. That name lived in the shadows. But now he had given voice to it, like he was fucking invoking it.

You stared at him, heart tight, the sincerity in his voice cutting deeper than you expected. He was right. Of course, he was right. There had been far too many occasions where he had seen through you, seen through the walls, the humour, the deflection—and for what? For you to be afraid, to continue to pretend, to deny him entry to the truth you both knew he had already discovered?  

“What are you trying to say, Bucky?”

He hesitated, just for a breath, as if he was weighing his following words before he went all in. “Why are you still in this job?”

Your pulse spiked.

“Because it’s what I’m good at?” you snapped back, a little too fast, a little too brittle. 

“Bullshit.”

You sat up fully now, towel forgotten beneath you, heat rising to your cheeks. Whether it was anger or shame, you weren’t too sure anymore. 

“What do you want me to say?” Your hands lifted, fingers splayed in frustration. “This is all I know, this is what I was trained for. There is no other alternative, and you of all people should understand that.”

There was a pause. A longer one than you expected. 

“Do you know what Sam said to me after today?” His eyes met yours, sharp, intent, almost fierce in their focus. It pinned you where you sat. “He said, ‘I think I finally get what the hell those lessons were about’. He saw it. He saw you. The way you connect, the way you see people. I think you’re far more than what you limit yourself to.”

You let out a breath that tasted of defeat, bitter at the back of your throat. Or maybe it was a laugh. You couldn’t tell anymore. “I do this job because I want to make a difference, Bucky. Maybe I want to make a difference because no one ever tried to help me, or Nat or Yelena. We had to help ourselves.”

“And you think the only way to do that is by tearing yourself apart in the process?”

You snorted, shaking your head, though the motion felt heavy. “Tough words coming from you.”

He huffed his own small laugh, but there was no humour in it. 

“I just…” His voice was lower now, the edge of frustration softening into something that sounded almost like pleading. “You really plan on doing those missions forever? The ones where you use your body to get information? I see how it weighs on you. How it tears you down piece by piece.”

You dug your fingers into the towel beneath you, staring at a seashell half-buried in the sand—anything to avoid the look in his eyes. 

“What am I supposed to do instead, huh?” Your voice was tight, controlled, though you could feel the cracks forming, the storm just below the surface. “I’m good at what I do. That’s why I do it. I know how to get what the team needs. I know how to play the part, no one expects me to be anything else. So I stay in that box, because it works. End of story.”

Bucky was shaking his head before you had even finished your stubborn spiel. 

“I think you have more potential. I think you get people. Really get them, in ways none of us do. You always say the right thing, know how to calm a room, and make people feel seen. I think you’re wasting that, wasting you, because you’re too afraid to ask for more.”

You forced a laugh. “Bucky, just because I’m nice to you doesn’t mean I’m good with people—”

“Steve told me what you said that day,” Bucky cut over you, quiet but unyielding. “What you said when he walked in on us. He told me how genuine you were. How much you cared. Said he never expected it, not from you.”

For a moment, your throat closed up tight as your mind skidded, fishtailing toward anything that might sound coherent.

“This all just sounds like you’re the one who’s got a problem with my line of work,” you said finally, trying for lightness, humour, anything to take the weight out of his words. “What, you jealous or something?”

But the joke fell flat between you. Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. His voice carried an assured edge like he was giving up hiding behind anything. “No. I think you have a problem with it.”

Your breath snagged, ribs pressing in tight like you’d sucker punched.

“I think you’re destroying yourself,” Bucky went on, tone stripped bare, nothing left but truth. “I think, deep down, you’re punishing yourself. And I don’t know why. Or what for, but I know the signs, doll. Because I do the same damn thing.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. The wind stirred between you, the gulls cawing above and the hush of the surf. The world felt too still, too intimate, like the air itself was holding its breath.

“Where is this coming from?” you managed, voice smaller than you intended.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because watching you today, watching you work, impressed me. I know it impressed Steve and Sam. Maybe it just got me thinking about how things could be. How things should be.”

“I don’t want things to change,” you said, too fast, too sharp. “I like it how it is now.”

“Oh yeah?” His gaze still unflinching. “And what about all this makes you so happy?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Swallowed hard. 

“You,” you said quietly, bitter as the ocean air. “You make me happy. I like helping you and talking things out with you. I like lessons, or when we just hang out.”

Your voice softened, as if that could make it truer. “I’m comfortable. I’m happy.” But even as the words left your lips, they curdled. They felt wrong. Hollow, like smoke in your mouth, like ash on your tongue. And you knew—God, you knew—he could see it. He could see right through it, through you.

Deflect. Deny. Subvert. The old playbook. Your armour, your sanctuary. The instinct that came too easily, a reflex honed by years of keeping the world at bay. You reached for it like a lifeline, tried to wrap it around yourself before he could press further, before he could dig up what you’d buried so deep even you barely dared look at it. Anything was easier than letting him see the soft, frightened parts. Anything was easier than letting him reach them.

You sat still for a heartbeat longer, the weight of his gaze heavy as a hand at the base of your throat. And then you moved. You pushed up from your towel, brushing sand from your palms as you crossed the short distance to where Bucky sat, stiff and watchful on the porch steps, his eyes lifted to yours, wide and unsure, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d strike him down or pull him in. 

You lowered yourself, just enough to meet him, just enough to cage his face between your sand-dusted hands. You knew the grit would drive him a little mad, would catch in his stubble, smudge across his cheekbones, probably lodge itself somewhere in the joints of his vibranium arm. But you did it anyway. You did it because it was the only way you knew how to say what wouldn’t form on your tongue.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” you murmured, voice low, breath hitching in your chest. The wind tugged at your hair, lifting it from the damp heat of your neck. Your thumbs traced his cheekbones, light as the breeze. “Is that okay?”

His lips parted, maybe in a silent plea. “Yes.”

It wasn’t neat or gentle. It was messy, hungry, your mouth slanting over his, tongue sliding past his lips as he groaned low in his throat. His hands came up, tentative at first, like he didn’t know where to touch you. Then the dam broke, and his fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you closer, his other hand bracing your hip. The taste of him was salt and heat, the faint bitterness of coffee from earlier lingering on his tongue. Your breath mingled, quick and uneven, as you poured everything into it, the frustration, the fear, the need.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. The windchimes clattered softly, like they’d been eavesdropping on the whole thing.

You gave him a look—part promise, part challenge—and turned, heading inside. You knew it was wrong. Christ, maybe he knew it too. Knew that this was what you did when the truth got too close, when his gaze stripped you bare and the panic rose sharp beneath your skin. You’d reach for what you knew worked. The kiss, the heat, the distraction. Anything but the raw honesty of what was unfolding between you. 

Your bare feet padded across the worn wooden floors, the little beach house warm with the last of the sun’s heat. You shook out your towel by the door, brushed sand from your legs and arms as best you could, then made for the tiny kitchen, rinsing your gritty hands under the tap. 

You were just reaching for a towel to dry your hands when you felt him behind you, the silent, solid press of his body, the familiar weight of his hands wrapping around your waist. His fingers splayed across your bare skin, like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to be but couldn’t stay away. His breath was warm against your ear, his nose brushing along the curve of your neck as he nuzzled there, the stubble of his jaw rough but welcome.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” Bucky murmured, voice low and earnest, the words vibrating against your skin. “I’m not trying to argue. I just care about you.”

“I know.” The words barely made it past your lips as you turned in his arms.

His hands framed your face, his mouth on yours. His thumb brushed your cheek, his other hand slipping down to your waist like he knew the shape of you by heart. The scent of salt air clung to him, to you. The kitchen felt impossibly small, the world shrinking down to just this. Just him, just now.

When he finally pulled back, breath warm against your lips, his forehead rested lightly against yours. “You make me happy too, you know,” he murmured, an honest confession. “More than I think you even realise.”

Your heart gave a traitorous lurch, and you swallowed hard, your hands still resting at his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t say things like that,” you whispered, but there was no bite to it, no real protest.

“Why not?” His mouth quirked into a soft, crooked smile. “’Cause you might believe me?”

You let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh, leaning into him. “Hmph…”

His mouth found yours again, slow and searching. His thumb kept stroking your cheek, tenderly, while his other hand slipped lower, fingers curling around the curve of your hips as if to steady himself as much as you.

The worn floorboards creaked softly beneath you both as you shifted, as he nudged closer, fitting his body to yours like a puzzle piece. The scent of him—spearmint, sea salt, the faint leather tang of his jacket still clinging to him—filled your senses, dizzying in its familiarity.

Your hands slid up his chest, fingers splaying over the hard lines of muscle beneath the soft cotton. His heartbeat thudded steadily and sure beneath your palm.

Without thinking, without planning, you found your back hitting the edge of the counter. His hands followed the movement instinctively, guiding, steadying, as you hitched yourself up onto the worn wood.

Bucky stepped in, between your parted legs, his hands finding your thighs, thumbs tracing slow, absent circles over your skin. His lips sought yours again, deeper now, as if he couldn’t get close enough. And you let him, you gave yourself over to it, to him. Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, greedy for his touch, his taste.

The kiss deepened, your breath mingling, your pulse thundering in your ears. Your hand skimmed lower, a slow, teasing path along his stomach, until your fingers brushed under the edge of his waistband, intent on taking control the way you always did, the way that felt safe and predictable. A soft sound escaped you, half a plea, half a groan.

He stopped you, catching your wrist gently just as your palm began to slip beneath the fabric. When you looked up, his blue eyes met yours, dark with heat, yes, but steady. Sure. 

“No,” Bucky said, voice low, roughened by want, thumb brushing your wrist. “I want to make you feel good.”

You stilled.

Pure, unfiltered, raw panic slammed through your gut like a punch you didn’t see coming. It rose fast, too fast, thick and all-consuming, choking the breath in your throat. The edges of the kitchen blurred, vision tunnelling to just him. The closeness of his body, the heat of him, the solid press of the cabinet at your back—

You dragged in a breath, but it scraped through your chest ragged and raw. Metallic fear coated your tongue, your pulse roaring too loudly in your ears to even think.

Your free hand twitched, half-formed in the start of that signal—the three taps. You could feel the ghost of it against his arm already, your fingertips itching to retreat into that small mercy, that lifeline you’d always given each other without question.

But you didn’t. God, you didn’t.

Because if you did, this would change. He would see. He would know. And then the questions would come, the soft ones, the careful ones, the ones that peeled you open in ways that scared you more than anything. And what then? What would become of you?

No. No, you couldn’t let that happen. The thought made your heart pound harder, made your throat burn. You needed to do this. Needed to show him, show yourself, that you were fine. That you weren’t broken. This was different. He was different. That you could be the person he saw when he looked at you, brave, whole, unflinching.

Even if inside you felt like you were unravelling at the seams.

Your breath shuddered as you forced it deeper, trying to steady the wild beat of your heart. You blinked hard, trying to clear the haze creeping at the edges of your vision, trying to quiet the voice in your head screaming. And you clung to him, to Bucky—

Your Bucky.

He could never hurt you. 

You swallowed hard, trying to drown the panic, trying to push it down where he couldn’t see. You could do this. You would do this. You trusted him. More than anyone.

“Can I make you feel good, doll?” His voice was soft, low, threaded with something that almost sounded like hope. His palm glided slowly up your forearm, warm and steady, the rasp of his calloused skin grounding. He didn’t see the storm behind your eyes, didn’t feel the stone lodged deep in your gut.

“Is that what you want?” You whispered, your voice hoarse.

“Yes.” The word came out on a breath, “more than anything.”

And for a moment—just a moment—fear loosened its grip.

Your mind spun back, unbidden, to all the nights you’d lain awake wanting this, wanting him. The ache of it. The sleepless hours where your hand found your own skin, your own heat, and you pretended, just for a heartbeat, that it was his touch. You thought of the months you and Bucky hadn’t spoken, how that want had burned hotter because of it, how his absence had left you hollow and restless.

And now here he was. His body so close, his hands gentle where they held you. And you remembered every time he had touched you. His hesitance, his tenderness, his devotion hidden in the brush of knuckles, the graze of fingertips.

It stirred a molten heat in your gut, one more welcome than panic. 

“Yes.” The word tore from you roughly, your forehead tipping to his, your eyes fluttering shut as frustration and need coiled tight inside you. 

You felt his breath hitch, felt the tremor, the hesitation in his hands even as they touched you, almost shy as they smoothed along your exposed thighs. His breath was warm against your cheek, his lips hovering just near your jaw, like he wasn’t sure he had permission to go further, like he didn’t trust himself to do this right.

“Bucky…” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair, coaxing him to look at you. His gaze flicked up, blue eyes wide, the vulnerability in them making your heart squeeze. His palms were broad and heated where they held you, but they trembled ever so slightly, like the weight of wanting was almost too much to bear. “Are you sure?”

“I—” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his thumb tracing slow circles just above your waistband. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

The honesty in his voice, the way it cracked around the edges, nearly undid you. You cupped his face, feeling the prickle of stubble under your palms and the tension coiled in his jaw.

“You won’t,” you murmured, stroking softly beneath his eyes. “You can’t. Just… touch me. However you want. I’m right here.”

Something within him eased, you felt it against your mouth as you leaned in, trying to pour every bit of reassurance into the slide of your lips. His hands roamed more boldly, exploring the dip of your waist, the curve of your thigh. It felt like worship the way he took his time, mapping your skin, committing it to memory.

The heat built between you, slow and consuming, and the edge of panic drowned out. You arched into him as his mouth followed, kisses pressing into the sensitive hollow beneath your ear, down the line of your neck. The small kitchen disappeared, the world narrowing again until it was just him, just this. His hands moved as if guided by instinct now, though there was still that delicious edge of hesitance that made every touch precious. His hand skimmed lower, calloused pads slipping beneath the thin band of your swimsuit bottom. You gasped, fingers fisting in his shirt. 

And for the first time in far too long, maybe in your entire life, fear didn’t spike. You didn’t choke, you melted—

His breath stuttered, and he froze just over your mound. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his voice uncertain. “Tell me what to do, doll. I want to—I just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You smiled, the kind of soft, private smile only he ever got to see. Your fingers found his wrist gently, guiding his hand down, slipping it fully beneath the fabric, where you were already warm and wet for him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. You’re perfect. Just… slow. Start slow.”

You saw his lips part, saw his pupils blow wide, felt the tremor in his fingers as they touched you where you wanted him most. His gaze flicked to yours, awed, wrecked.

“That’s good,” you breathed, the words tumbling out on a shaky exhale as your heart thundered against your ribs. Your hips moved instinctively, chasing his touch, tilting into him, desperate for more. “That’s so good, Bucky…”

His fingers trembled, tentative but eager as he explored. He traced the slick heat of you, learning every reaction, every way your body responded to his touch. Your hand slid over his, guiding him gently.

“Here,” you whispered, voice thick with want. His breath stuttered as his fingertips grazed your clit. “Feel that? That’s where I want you.”

A shaky breath left him, and he followed, so careful it made your heart ache. Your own nervousness forgotten, you arched a little, legs falling open wider, encouraging him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. I promise. I want this. I want you.”

That seemed to steady him. His fingers slid through your slick heat, finding your clit again. You shivered. But still, he hesitated, waiting, watching your face.

“Circle it,” you murmured, voice low and pleading, your hand tangling in his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gently urged him on. “Gently. Like this…” You rocked your hips, showing him the rhythm, slow and steady, letting him feel how you moved beneath him. And God, he followed, so tentative at first, testing, learning, then growing surer as he felt your breath hitch, your body tense, your pulse race beneath his hands.

“That’s it,” you gasped, pleasure building, slow and deep, coiling low in your belly. “Good. Fuck, that’s good Bucky.”

The praise tumbled from your lips, and it only seemed to fuel him. His fingers moved with more purpose now, every breath, every sigh from you making him more confident. His thumb found a rhythm, steady and sure, as two fingers slid inside you, filling you, and the low groan that broke from him when he felt you clench around him made the heat bloom hotter, deeper.

He buried his face against your neck, nose brushing your skin, breath warm and ragged in your ear. You kept guiding him, your voice cracking as a pleasured sob bubbled in your chest. “That’s good—Please just…You’re doing so well, Bucky. So well.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself just feel. Let him take control, knowing he would never misuse it.

Every time you gasped or sighed his name, you felt him react, his body pressed closer, his kisses growing hungrier, his fingers more confident. His vibranium hand anchored at your waist, holding you steady as he worked you. His mouth brushed your ear.

“You’re… so beautiful like this,” he managed, voice rough, as if the sight of you unravelled him.

Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut, the world outside the two of you blurring to nothing. The kitchen, the sea breeze, the clatter of seashell chimes, all of it faded, lost beneath the crash of pleasure building inside you. His thumb kept that perfect rhythm, his fingers filling you, stroking you. Your hips rolled, chasing him as you found yourself already trembling on edge.

You tried to keep guiding him, tried to tell him how perfect it was, how right, but the words blurred as the pleasure built, as he guided you through every tremble, every sharp breath, every subtle roll of your hips. 

“You feel so good,” he muttered, voice wrecked, lips brushing your jaw, your ear. “So fuckin’ good like this…”

And then you couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but hold on as he pushed you over the edge, his name falling from your lips in a broken moan, toes curling, back arching, body trembling apart under his hand. Your breathing was ragged as Bucky’s fingers kept moving, slow and sure, guided by every gasp, every shiver he coaxed from you. His forehead pressed to yours, fingers gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. His focus was absolute, blue eyes darkened, intent, watching you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing. And you were. To him, you always had been.

“I think I get it now,” he murmured, voice rough-edged, low like a secret.

Your lashes fluttered, your mind hazy with the pleasure he so patiently built inside you. “Hm?” you managed, head tipping forward. You opened your eyes to find him watching you, like you were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.

Then, softly, with that mix of wonder and affection that always, always undid you, he spoke.

“Why you like watching me finish.” His voice was a rasp, reverent and wrecked all at once. And before you could reply—before you could even think—you watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth, slow and purposeful, tasting you, sucking his fingers clean with a soft, satisfied hum.

It was obscene. 

Your body nearly gave out. You gripped the edge of the counter for support, chest rising and falling, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of the sea and the chimes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, dragging a shaky hand through your salt-tangled hair, trying to catch your breath. The strands clung to your damp skin. Your bikini bottoms were twisted at your hips, darkened with wetness, your thighs still trembling from the slow burn of his touch. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

---

hello! thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications! <3

[carnalcrows]

ENCORE

pairing: romance saja x top male reader

synopsis: Romance has been pushing your buttons all night—breaking choreo, making eye contact mid-performance, and acting like he won’t be held accountable for any of it. But the second the show ends, so does your patience. He wanted your attention. He’s about to get it.

content warnings: 18+, smut, romance is a BRAT, top male reader, backstage setting, hair pulling, power play, possessive behavior, making out, brat taming, semi-public, drool, spit kink elements.

word count: 1.2k

a/n: tysm to @strzxrin for this request!!

He’d been acting up all night.

It started the second they hit the stage. Not with anything obvious. Not right away.

Just a look.

He turned his head during the intro, real slow, and found you in the wings. Didn’t wave. Didn’t wink. Just smirked—like he had a secret. Like he knew what that look would do to you. And then he went right back to performing, completely unbothered.

You should’ve known then. Should’ve turned around and walked out. Should’ve reminded yourself that you were the manager, and he was your artist, and no matter how pretty his mouth looked when he smiled like that, you had a job to do.

Instead, you stayed. Right there in the dark, arms crossed, watching him light the place up.

And he gave you a fucking show.

He threw in moves that weren’t part of the set. Ran a hand down his chest during a transition when the others weren’t looking. Let his voice dip lower than usual on the second verse, like he was singing it to someone specific—and yeah, he looked right at you when he did it.

Then during the bridge, when he had two counts of rest, he ran his tongue across his bottom lip and smiled. Like he was proud of himself. Like he knew exactly what the fuck he was doing.

He was baiting you. On purpose. Like he wanted to see how far he could push it.

And yeah. Okay.

You were watching.

Not because his vocals were perfect tonight. Not because he was working the crowd like a seasoned pro. Not even because his body moved like it was built for rhythm, hips loose and lazy between beats.

You were watching because he knew. Because he was daring you to do something about it.

And the worst part?

You were going to.

By the final chorus, the tension in your shoulders had climbed high enough to snap. The crowd screamed through the last beat drop. The lights flared. Pyro hit. And the second the boys jogged off stage, half-drunk on adrenaline and riding that post-performance high—you were already moving.

Romance barely got a towel in his hand before you grabbed him by the wrist.

He turned fast, startled, but that smug little grin didn’t even flicker.

“Back room,” you said, voice low, just for him. “Now.”

He raised an eyebrow like he wanted to mouth off. You didn’t give him the chance.

He followed. Of course he did.

The second the door shut behind you, he had the audacity to laugh.

“What?” he said, breathless and smug, “you didn’t like the show, manager-nim?”

You stared him down. “You really think you’re funny.”

“I know I am.”

He didn’t even flinch when you stepped into his space. Just leaned back against the dressing room table like it was his throne, like he wasn’t seconds away from being dragged to the floor. His shirt was clinging to his skin, chest still rising hard from the set. The room smelled like cheap hairspray and leftover fog machine.

“Got something to say?” he asked.

You grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked.

His mouth dropped open with a hiss. Not pain. Surprise. Excitement. You weren’t even sure anymore. He reached for your shirt instinctively, gripping the fabric like he needed to hold onto something. You leaned in.

“Don’t fucking play with me like that on stage.”

“You looked like you were enjoying it.”

“And you look like you forgot who you belong to.”

His breath hitched. You didn’t let go.

He licked his lips, voice thinner now. “Thought maybe I needed a reminder.”

You kissed him before he could say another word.

It wasn’t sweet. It was messy, desperate, teeth and heat and that electric kind of tension that only ever came after a fight or a fuck. His fingers clawed at your back. Yours stayed tangled in his hair, tilting his head back so you could bite his lip and hear the little gasp he tried to swallow down.

He groaned against your mouth. “You’re pissed.”

“You think?”

“You get so hot when you’re pissed.”

You pressed your thigh between his legs and shoved him back against the table. He made the prettiest sound you’d heard all night, and suddenly you were the one grinning.

“Hands on the table.”

He hesitated. You tightened your grip on his hair.

“Now.”

He obeyed, spinning around and bracing his hands against the table. You take a moment to appreciate the view—his tight ass on display, his legs spread wide in invitation.

"Beg for it," you growled, running your hands over his bare cheeks. "Beg for my cock."

He looks back at you over his shoulder, his eyes glinting with mischief and lust. "Please, hyung," he pants, "I need you inside me. I need you to fuck me until—"

He gasps, interrupted by you gripping his hips hard, your fingers digging into his flesh as you line yourself up with his entrance.

"You want it rough?" you asked, pressing the head of your cock against him but not pushing in yet.

He nodded, his back arching as he pressed back against you. "Fuck yes. Hard and deep. Make me feel it."

And you did. With one hard thrust, you buried yourself inside him to the hilt, groaning at the feeling of his tight heat enveloping you. He cried out, his hands scrambling against the table for purchase as he adjusted to the sudden intrusion.

"Fuck!" he gasped, his head falling forward as you started to move. "You're so big. So deep."

You set a brutal pace, pounding into him with all the strength and skill you possess. The room was filled with the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh and grunts of pleasure as you took him hard and fast— just like he wanted. 

In the distance, you can hear a faint sound that gets closer, and closer. Footsteps.

You reached around with one hand, thrusting two of your digits to keep him quiet. He writhed in your grip, his hips bucking wildly as you worked him over.

"You like that?" you whispered, your lips pressed against his ear. "Like being stuffed to the brim from both sides?"

He could only whimper in response, his body trembling beneath you as you bring him closer to the edge.

It didn't take long before you're both teetering on the brink, the pleasure overwhelming and intense. With a final, hard thrust, you send Romance over, his body shuddering and tensing as he came with a low, guttural moan.

You followed shortly after, pulling your fingers out of his mouth as your cock pulses inside him, filling him with your seed. You collapsed onto his back, both of you panting and spent as you came down from your high.

You pressed a kiss to his shoulder, murmuring words of praise and satisfaction. He shuddered beneath you, a soft groan escaping his lips.

"I hate you," he breathed out, but there was no real venom in his words. Only satiation and contentment.

You chuckled, nipping at his neck before pulling away. "I know," you said simply, straightening up.

His voice was still wrecked when he spoke again, half-laughing, half-collapsing into your chest.

“Stage was worth it,” he mumbled.

“You’re not walking straight tomorrow.”

“...Still worth it.”

You kissed the side of his neck, right where it was flushed and sweaty.

“Brat.”

He smiled against your skin. “ Still yours.” 

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

Taglist: @belovedengie @jrxkar @yippee-yippee8 @faggotboulevard @bleedingbl0ssom @green-turtle3 @mazettns @laynnetteii1 (comment to be added)

[strawbairicake]

kisses are the sweetest treat- various hsr characters x reader

synopsis: playing the pocky game with your boyfriend! that’s it, send tweet. part 3! 

warnings: uh, none? other than that, idk if my beginner/novice writing counts as a warning. 

word count: 1511 (it’s longer than part 2… which is longer than part 1… fuck.)

author’s note: no beta, we die like my unfunny jokes. please pardon any mistakes in spelling or grammar! think of this mini-series as being set in a modern au, since even though i play the game, i’m not comfy writing canon-verse! most of my fics/drabble follow this format too! moving on, this is part 3 since previous parts did pretty well! i’ll link part 1 here and part 2 here! disclaimer from both previous parts: i genuinely don’t know how to write kiss scenes at all! other than like a peck on the lips, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right… right? doing my best and learning how to write better, please be nice to me! anyway, hope you enjoy! <3

hsr taglist: @axolotsofluv, @sqgeism, @vyyper, @your-sleeparalysisdem0n, @cmiru, @unriding, @sheyfu, @threnodians. @strwbrydreamz, @chokifandom, @sillyseraphie, @riaruu, + @m1ckeyb3rry! let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 

Caelus:

if you would believe it, the idea of the game was his idea. cheeky bastard (/lovingly). he probably saw a couple in a video do the challenge and wanted you to do it with him. you agreed to do the challenge as long as he didn’t post a video of it. so being the excited raccoon he was, he set out to go to a local store and get a box of pocky. next thing you know, he’s FaceTiming you while he’s in the convenience store.

“yes, Caelus?”

“hiii babe! what flavor of pocky do you want?” 

you blinked, slightly confused, then whispered, “there’s more than just chocolate?” 

Caelus snickered and bought the chocolate kind before returning to your apartment. he lets himself in with the key you gave him and scurries over to you on the couch, where you were reading a book. 

“you ready?” he wiggled his eyebrows obnoxiously, making you roll your eyes.

“yeah, yeah. just… don’t post the video, please.” you replied.

“promise! it’ll be our little secret.” he winked. you fought the urge to roll your eyes again.

he sets his phone up on the coffee table and starts recording. he then opens the box of pocky and fishes a stick of the sweet treat out before sitting next to you on the sofa. you’re both giggling like little school girls, and you’re both a little nervous. excited-nervous, is probably a better way to put it. Caelus is finally able to stop giggling for a few seconds, so he takes the opportunity to put one portion of the stick in his mouth and motions for you to do the same. and he’s so patient. he waits for you to inch forward just a bit before he himself moves closer to you. and as you both reach the middle of the stick, it doesn’t seem like either one of you will break it. the stick breaks even right in the middle but before you can pull your head back, Caelus cups the back of your head gently and kisses you so you can’t escape his grasp (not that you want to anyway. though you’d never admit that.). you tap near his shoulder as a sign to stop and he takes your cue and stops kissing you before peppering kisses all over your face, making you giggle. he then stands up and stops the recording.

“thank you babe!” he makes a kissy face at you.

“of course. that wasn’t so bad… maybe you can post the video.”

of course, that was Caelus’s intent. not like he would have told you, though.

Dan Heng:

March 7th got you a box of pocky for Valentine's Day as a joke, that’s the first instance. it’s a running joke you two have that Dan Heng will never get in on mostly because he doesn’t understand/want to understand. the next instance is just on a random day where March slides a box of pocky over to you like it has drugs inside (it might as well have drugs in them. have you EATEN a whole box of pocky in one sitting? shit’s addictive.). your boyfriend gives you a quizzical look, clearly not amused at you and March’s not going on. but wait, there’s more. there’s a third instance not long after the second that made you think Dan Heng lost brain cells at watching. you, Caelus, and March playing hot potato with a box of pocky. god, he swears his friends are idiots. but you’re his favorite.

so when you return home with Dan Heng after hanging out with said friends, Dan Heng notices the box of pocky in your hands. 

“what did you do?”

“…whoever won hot potato got to keep the box!”

Dan Heng wishes he was not on this earth right now. he sighed and opened your apartment door for you and you both walked straight to the sofa and sat down. you present the box to him to open, and he carefully takes the box with a sigh and opens it and the pack inside the box before getting a stick out. he hands it to you. you look up at him and stare for a moment. and everything is quiet for just a moment. 

“we should play the pocky game!”

Dan Heng felt his eye twitch.

“one game, and then we’re going to bed,” he acquiesced. 

and so the game began. you put a portion of the stick in your mouth, he did the same with the other end of the treat. you inch closer and closer until your lips touch and you can feel one of Dan Heng’s hands reach up and cup your cheek and as you lean into his hand, he breaks off the kiss. you playfully whine at the lack of affection.

“we can play the game more some other time. come on, to bed with you.”

he’s such a party pooper, you swear.

Sunday: 

god, your friends are so weird. this is the thought Sunday has as he watches you, March 7th, Stelle, and Caelus terrorize some children at the local park. his next thought is we’re gonna get banned from the park. the fucking park of all things. he heard something about a child and pocky and immediately joined Dan Heng on the bench to zone out. tune out when the world becomes too much, is what Dan Heng said. how he keeps his friends in check truly baffles Sunday. 

after about 30 minutes of Sunday watching you and your friends terrorize children (who probably deserved it but shhh), he comes over and holds you by the back of your shirt.

“huh? oh, hi, Sunny!” you say cheerily.

“hello, my love. before we go back home, do you want to stop by the convenience store?”

and the sparkle in your eyes was hilarious and precious to Sunday. his funny and magical words (to you, anyway) made you stop terrorizing the children. you said goodbye to your friends and you happily skipped by Sunday’s side to the convenience store. you picked a box of pocky, Sunday paid for it and you both were back at your shared home soon enough. 

Sunday held the keys to your shared apartment and got you both in. you excitedly sat down on the couch and started fiddling with the box of pocky before successfully opening it and the pack inside. you take a stick out and motion Sunday to come over. 

“come here, i wanna kiss you!” you say excitedly. Sunday’s face flushes a bit but he always indulges you. he sits on the couch next to you and listens as you explain the rules of the game you’re playing. you place one portion of the stick in your mouth, Sunday does the same with the other piece. you notice his wings twitching slightly as you inch close together. and when you reach the middle, you peck his lips and part from him.

“could we do that again?”

and suddenly your lover grew slightly bolder than before. not that you were complaining.

Gepard:

Serval gifted Gepard a box of pocky since she was one of the few people who knew about his “secret” sweet tooth. it’s not a secret, he just never tells people he likes sweets more than anything. so when he comes home to you after a long day and notices a box of pocky on the coffee table, his face lights up just a bit. you notice the look on his face. 

“oh! you like pocky too?” you ask. Gepard hadn’t even noticed you were in the room. what a bad boyfriend he was. he wasn’t actually, he’s just giving himself a hard time. happens to the best of us.

“yeah, i do! i really like sweet treats but pocky is probably my favorite.” he replied.

“oh cool! we should play the pocky game, then! but only if you’re up for it, of course!” you suggested.

so that’s how you ended up on the couch with Geoard eating multiple sticks of pocky before actually playing the game with him. and once you both finally found the confidence to play the game? it was on. 

the first stick you both start to eat breaks almost immediately- you’re both too excited to play. the second stick breaks closer to the middle when Gepard chickens out from kissing you at the last second. the third stick broke off when you heard a noise and moved your head in the direction of the noise.

…fourth time’s the charm, right?

this time, the little game you’re playing started off well. you both carefully inch closer to each other and as you reach for the middle, you cup Gepard’s cheek with a hand and he places a hand over your hand. and then… a quick peck before you break off the kiss somewhat suddenly. you start apologizing, but your boyfriend starts stopping you, gentleman he is.

“that’s alright! we can always do this little game a different time. I enjoy eating it more, anyway.”

you swear your boyfriend is a saint sometimes.

©2025 strawbairicake. do not repost, copy, translate, modify, or use for AI.

[mattsundaes]

18+ ; oral sex f!receiving, filming, squirting, masturbation

roommate!suna who you hook up with sometimes when you're both bored and horny. who has his own not-so-secret onlyfans page. who tells you time and time again how goddamn perfect your pussy looks, how pretty it would look on camera.

suna, who doesn't think you'll actually say yes.

(you're not expecting to feel so excited when he sets up his phone at the edge of the bed. but he makes sure to tease you about it, a smirk tipping up the corner of his mouth while he runs two fingers through the slick that already drips down the inside of your thighs.)

(it only makes you more wet.)

there's something so arousing about it—knowing that someone else will be watching the way you get down on all fours. the way suna settles down on his back and runs his hands down your thighs before spreading them wide enough apart to fit his head between them. the way your back arches of its own accord, a strangled, needy moan tipping out past your lips as he tilts his chin up and laps a broad stroke through your damp folds.

suna knows it's probably fucked up that he doesn't even end up posting the video. that he hoards it all to himself, even after posting a teaser for the upcoming content, a photo of his mouth covered in your wet slick captioned: "RN LOVES EATING PUSSY 🌹"

his subscribers have been commenting nonstop asking where the video is. but he's too busy rewatching it himself. too busy hitting pause and rewind and play again and again and again. too busy stroking his dick to the way your puffy, wet folds look with your legs spread, with your ass arched in the air, pussy on full display.

it makes him fucking drool like a dog the first time he watches the way your legs tremble the second he gets his tongue on you, the way your pussy spasms. there's not much else to the video, it's just a close up of his chin and his mouth in the lower half, his hands occasionally roaming. but the focal point is what matters most—the globes of your ass, your spread thighs, your pretty, wet, swollen pussy dead center in the frame.

suna loses track of how many times he jerks his dick raw watching himself tongue fuck your cunt into a slippery, shaking, mess. he memorizes the sounds you made when he stuffed his tongue inside of you, when he started sucking on your throbbing clit (and the sounds he made, too—the desperate, pussy drunk moans while he licked and lapped and sucked).

but it's ultimately the ending that's his favorite part, when your entire body goes rigid with your impending climax. your voice is muffled, caught somewhere between begging and sobbing as you gasp into his pillow. and then he thrusts two fingers inside of your tight, wet hole, mouth lapping at your clit while he pumps the digits fast and hard.

you scream, and clear liquid sprays from your pussy as you squirt all over suna's face. his answering groan is punched out, loud and rough while he cums in his pants off camera.

maybe he'll post the video. eventually.

when he can keep his hands out of his pants long enough to do it.

[destieltropecollection]

Destiel Trope Collection - Day 2: Mutual Pining

take me home | @9x20 Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 37,339 Main Tags/Warnings: Domestic Fluff, Mutual Pining, Fluff, Post-Episode: s14e14 Ouroboros, Castiel and Dean Winchester are Jack Kline's Parents, Slow Burn Summary: Dean has known for a long time that he’s in love with Cas. Now that Michael is dead and things have settled, Dean is slowly realizing that maybe he can have the things he wants. Not only that, but maybe he deserves them too. Post 14x14 Ouroboros. Dean rents a lake house for him, Cas, and Jack.

hummingbird | @abi-cosmos Rating: Explicit Word Count: 70,593 Main Tags/Warnings: AU Coffee shop, AU beach, AU college, Summer romance, Time skips, Bottom Dean/Top Cas, Recreational drug use, Angst with a happy ending, Second chance, Implied/Referenced homophobia Summary: Castiel is twenty-one and spending the summer in a beach town. Living in a camper van near the ocean, he fills his days with paint, pot, and working in the local coffee shop where he meets Dean Winchester. Dean is the boss’ kid, but he’s practically running the place. Between juggling his dad, his brother, and the family business they call home, he finds comfort in his developing friendship with Castiel. The two become inseparable, until John Winchester finds out exactly how close they’ve become, and everything falls apart. Ten years later, the last person Dean expects to see in his adult Business Administration class is the same guy that left without a goodbye, but there he is: Professor Castiel Novak. Thrown together at a time when Castiel is dating Mick, and Dean is fighting to keep ownership of his home, they find themselves face to face with a decade worth of hope and regret.

Don't forget me when I'm gone | @andimeantittosting Rating: Explicit Word Count: 25,462 Main Tags/Warnings: Post 15x18, Memory tampering, Temporary Character Death, Grieving, Suicidal tendencies, Gaslighting, Newly human Cas, Top Dean/Bottom Cas Summary: Dean's life after defeating Chuck is mostly good. If only Cas hadn't taken off again on some kind of angel business. And if only Dean could stop having nightmares about Cas with tears in his eyes as he's swallowed up by black goo. When Cas fights his way out of the Empty and comes back home, he expects things to be awkward with Dean after his confession, but he's not prepared for a Dean who acts as if Cas's latest death never happened at all.

In Blissful Anguish | @artemis-73 Rating: Explicit Word Count: 42,994 Main Tags/Warnings: Friends with Benefits, Mutual Pining, Gay Dean Winchester, Dom/sub Undertones, Breaking Up & Making Up, Angst with a Happy Ending, Switch Cas, Switch Dean Summary: Between his fraught relationship with his sister and his tenuous place at his band's music label, Cas needs a distraction. He finds it in Dean, who's having his own issues with his brother's recovery from substance abuse and pressure from his dad (and band manager). After a stress-relieving one-night stand, Cas and Dean part on less than friendly terms, happy to never see each other again. Months later, they find themselves back in close quarters as their rock bands tour together. With their negative first impressions behind them, Dean and Cas bond quickly, and with the allure of a convenient hook up, they fall into a secret friends-with-benefits relationship. It's the perfect solution, until it's not. After all, Dean has a womanizing reputation to maintain, and Cas has been burned by closeted guys before.

Meet the Winchester's | @Avonlady42 Rating: Explicit Word Count: 26,343 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe- Reality Show; Mutual Pining; Pretend Relationship; Homophobia; Angst; Slow Burn; Dean Winchester Wears Panties; Bottom Dean; Happy Ending Summary: Dean and Castiel have been roommates since college. Everyone mistakes them for a couple because they are always together, but they swear their relationship is just platonic. After all it is platonic even though both men are in love with each other, but neither of them know it. They are approached one day by the producer of a reality show looking for unknown couples for a new series. Castiel tries to intervene and tell him that they are not a couple but Dean could use the money that they are offering, so they go along with it. Will they be able to pretend to be a couple while they both harbor feelings for each other or will it blow up in their face and destroy their friendship forever?

cowboy like me | @bisexualwvtson Rating: Explicit Word Count: 30,416 Main Tags/Warnings: AU-western, Farmer Castiel, Painter Dean, Dean has self worth issues, Shy Dean, Introvert Castiel, Alcoholic Dean Winchester, panic attacks, love confessions, Marijuana use, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Summary: Dean is the town "drunk" and assumed to be like his father. Dean relies heavily on alcohol, but when he's about to lose his father's land over unpaid debt, a savior in the form of introverted farmer Castiel Novak offers him a job. The pair form a unique bond, and Castiel reminds Dean that he is deserving of love.

Baby's Driver | @entropic-saudade Rating: Explicit Word Count: 142,006 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe, Inspired by Baby Driver, Selectively Mute Dean Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Minor Character Death, Graphic Depiction of Injury, Implied/Referenced Alcoholism, Slow Burn, Happy Ending Summary: Dean has been working as a getaway driver for Crowley for 14 years, and has survived by developing a few simple rules: always pick the right music, keep an eye on the time, never give out his real name, and most importantly, make no personal connections with anyone on the job. Making no personal connections with anyone new is easy when he has difficulty talking in his own words. Enter Cas, who, in order to pay for his nephew Jack’s life-saving medical treatment, decides to break bad by joining Crowley’s operations. Unlike most of his brothers, he’s new to the world of crime, but their driver’s skills and quiet demeanor have a way of reassuring him. Throughout the course of several months, their rules fall to the wayside as they fall for each other, each unable to say the words ‘I love you’ for differing reasons. Cas’ past family life complicates things when Lucifer comes around wanting to know how Cas is getting the money to pay for Jack’s treatment. Everything comes to a head when Dean is kidnapped for one final job.

Be the Mall | @entropic-saudade Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 4,192 Main Tags/Warnings: Canon Compliant, Missing Scene, Mark of Cain, Repression, Implied/Referenced Suicidal Thoughts, Emotional Hurt/Comfort Summary: The American mall is dying. So is Dean, just a little, as he accompanies Cas to find the perfect birthday gift for Claire and tries to figure out if what’s simmering under his skin is an effect of the Mark or something else entirely. AKA missing scenes from Angel Heart.

Stone Can’t Cry | @Hectatess Rating: Mature Word Count: 20,179 Main Tags/Warnings: Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fear of Flying, Mild substance abuse, God | Chuck Shurley Being an AssholeMutual PiningMythbuster!Dean, Statue Castiel (Supernatural) Gabriel (Supernatural) is Loki, not situated in the USA, Jack Kline as God, Aunt Amara (Supernatural) Summary: Chuck, vindictive little shit he is, keeps throwing Castiel into various universes. Every time he finds his beloved Dean, and every time they thwart Chuck’s narrative. This time, Chuck decides that Castiel needs to be unable to find the Righteous Man. So when Castiel wakes up, he finds that he is unable to move a muscle. How will he find his love?

The Art of Manipulating an Angel and a Hunter | @imaginaryprotagonist Rating: Explicit Word Count: 13,097 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Internalized Homophobia, Angst, Fluff, Bottom Dean/Top Cas Summary: Crowley knows Dean and Castiel are hot for each other. He also knows they're morons and they're not going to do anything about it. At least, not without a little (or a big) nudge. Convincing both the angel and the hunter that he is seducing the other one, Crowley takes great pleasure in driving them both mad with jealousy to see which one cracks first.

Cosmic Consequences | @mittensmorgul Rating: Explicit Word Count: 42,724 Main Tags/Warnings: Post-Canon fix-it, Castiel is saved from the Empty, Chuck is finally defeated Summary: Dean’s been struggling for weeks to find a way to save Cas from the Empty. He’d hoped Jack would spare just a smidge of his new-found God power to do him that one last favor. In an act of desperation, he turns to Rowena for help. Rowena knows a brilliant opportunity when she sees one, but neither of them could’ve expected the cascade of side effects that threaten to undermine the natural order just when they thought they might finally have freed themselves from cosmic problems once and for all. All signs point to Chuck’s power screwing over the universe, and very specifically the Winchesters, all over again. With nothing left to fight back with, they put all their hope in the power of love. Maybe this time it will work…

Subsequent (De)Generation | @okayfinehereiam Rating: Explicit Word Count: 18,388 Main Tags/Warnings: Canon Compliant (mostly), Season 5, Case Fic, Idiots in Love, Castiel has reduced powers, First Time, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Supernatural/Gremlins crossover Summary: Dean and Cas are fresh off a case and on their way home when a call from Sam sends them on a detour to Kingston Falls, Pennsylvania. Something is plaguing the small town, and its denizens, almost exactly forty years after they barely survived an outbreak of… well, no one can quite agree what it was. Some say “gremlins,” others say some are out of their minds, but Dean and Cas are determined to get to the bottom of it, like they always do. Maybe they’ll also figure out what they mean to each other, along the way.

Stop and Smell the Roses | @punk-is-notdead Rating: Explicit Word Count: 41,434 Main Tags/Warnings: Canon Divergent After 15x19, Case Fic, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Slow Burn, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Pining, Angry Kissing, Gay Sex, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Summary: After Castiel’s declaration of love before being sucked into the Empty, Dean is grief stricken, and also convinced that Castiel didn’t mean love love. Angels don’t feel things in the same way as humans, after all. When Castiel unexpectedly returns, Dean decides that the best way to deal with the uncertainty of said declaration is to avoid it, making for a very awkward atmosphere between them. Things only become more awkward when they get involved in a case in which they have to live as a couple in a quirky old house and a garden Castiel can’t help filling with roses. Other than the ghost they’ve yet to deal with, it’s everything both of them have ever wanted… if only their feelings weren’t one sided, it would be perfect. Or What happens when a pair of dumbasses don’t communicate, and take misunderstanding each other to a new level.

A Snowball’s Chance | @queer-dancing-fandom-nerd Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 44,165 Main Tags/Warnings: Mutual pining, Idiots in love, queerplatonic Sam Winchester & Rowena MacLeod, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester, Domestic Fluff, kitten adoption, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Getting Together, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Everyone Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Coming Out, Bisexual Dean Winchester, mild miscommunication Summary: The world has finally stopped ending. Castiel is in love with Dean. Dean is head over heels for Castiel. What more could it possibly take for these two idiots to finally stop dancing around each other? Several more months, an ill-conceived bet, a chaotic (and almost thoroughly unhelpful) group chat, a sexuality crisis, and almost the end of Sam’s sanity, apparently. Oh, and also a kitten!

Fanfic Dreams | @seidenapfel Rating: Explicit Word Count: 31,228 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Episode: s10e05 Fan Fiction (Supernatural TV 2005), Season/Series 10, Fanfiction Reader Dean Winchester, Dreamwalking, Dean Winchester Bears the Mark of Cain, Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Stolen Angelic Grace (Supernatural), Castiel's Angelic Grace (Supernatural), Castiel's Handprint (Supernatural), Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Mutual Pining, Fluff and Angst, Angel Wings, Masturbation, Anal Sex, mention of Past Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester, mention of Past Crowley (Supernatural)/Dean Winchester, Anal Fingering, Top/Bottom Versatile Castiel/Dean Winchester Summary: After running into Marie and the girls, Dean can’t let go of fanfictions. Digging into them, he can’t escape them. Fic after fic he falls deeper into a rabbit hole as he realises that the fics soothe the cravings of the Mark. And he will do everything to keep it that way. His longing transcends barriers, and at first, Castiel only receives vibes when his yearning resonates and the dreams commence. Endless possibilities open themselves up for him. For them. Missed moments. Alternate universes. All of them have one thing in common: Dean. Lovely, beautiful Dean Winchester, loving him back in every possible way. Yet, every morning, it feels as if nothing has happened. Everything is back to normal — or is it?

Highly Unprofessional | @seidenapfel Rating: Explicit Word Count: 25,565 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - College/University, Professor Castiel (Supernatural), College | University Student Dean Winchester, Mutual Pining, Fluff, Light Angst, Fluff and Smut, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Castiel is Jack Kline's Parent, Single Parent Castiel (Supernatural), Toddler Jack Kline, Awesome Charlie Bradbury, Hand Jobs, Anal Fingering, Anal Masturbation, Selectively Mute Dean Winchester, Recovering Alcoholic Dean Winchester, Past Castiel & Kelly Kline (Supernatural), Past Castiel/Inias (mentioned), Top/Bottom Versatile Castiel/Dean Winchester Summary: On his first day of college, Dean feels like a fish out of water. After years of working his ass off with several jobs at once to fund his brother’s studies, his family and friends have decided to pay him back. That’s how he finds himself panicking in the lecture hall. Thankfully, a fellow student distracts him. She promptly becomes a good friend, and Dean has no idea how badly he will need her. The moment he lays eyes on his physics professor, Dean is lost. Castiel Novak seems like the man of his dreams. And when the professor’s son appears from under the podium, several lives take an unsuspected turn.

Different Currencies | @tea-or-die Rating: Explicit Word Count: 26,233 Main Tags/Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Mutual Pining, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Knotting, Masturbation, Angst, Angst with a happy ending Summary: Castiel had a job, a boyfriend, and a roof over his head this morning. Now he's jobless, single and being evicted. When an offer comes from his best friend that could literally be life-saving, can he afford to let a little thing like feelings get in the way?

Dear Temporary Neighbour | @thefandomsinhalor Rating: Explicit Word Count: 45,632 Main Tags/Warnings: Neighbors AU, Slow Burn, Small Towns, Lake House, Temporary Daphne Allen/Castiel, Temporary Richie/Dean, No Cheating, Food Festival Summary: Dean Winchester, a mechanic living just outside of town, is a man of simple tastes. He enjoys sleeping in when he can, he loves to savour a slice of apple pie after a hard day of work, and above all, he cherishes the tranquility and scenery of his remote residence. While he is far from being antisocial, despite what some might say about him, he still prefers keeping to himself. Which is why when he meets his new summer neighbour, Castiel Novak, who is a morning person planning on staying longer than the usual two-week tenants, Dean is annoyed. When he gets to know the guy and realizes how smart, insightful and attractive Castiel really is, Dean then begins to worry. But when he needs to remind himself how very much engaged the man is, Dean grows desperate and infuriated with himself for having fallen for him. If only he knew that Castiel has sought refuge at this charming house by the lake to reflect on certain aspects of his life, notably his engagement, which is much more of an agreement between friends than an actual engagement. A fact that has been weighing on Castiel’s mind. Until he meets Dean. Then, everything becomes very clear.

The Waltz of Shilly-Shallying | @thefandomsinhalor Rating: Explicit Word Count: 36,395 Main Tags/Warnings: Modern Setting AU, Pet Groomer and Veterinarian, Friends to Lovers, Single Dad Castiel, Slow Burn, Christmas, Miscommunication, Fluff, Mutual Pining Summary: Pet groomer Dean Winchester has had a crush on Castiel Novak, his veterinarian friend, for quite some time now. He’s kindhearted, handsome and a devoted single father to his young, adorable—and quirky—son, Jack. But after a few hints from Dean, the feeling doesn’t appear to be mutual. As for Castiel, Dean has been occupying his thoughts more and more since the summer. Fearing to complicate their friendship, however, Castiel figures it is best for him to put these ideas out of his head, focus on his son (and his very opinionated imaginary friend, Belphegor) and simply remain friends with Dean. That is until they find themselves under the mistletoe.

Lavender Pines | @thisisapaige Rating: Explicit Word Count: 30,609 Main Tags/Warnings: Case Fic, Post-Episode: s12e11 Regarding Dean, Mutual Pining, Fake/Pretend Relationship (Platonic Cas & Rowena), Secret Relationship (Sam/Rowena), idiots to lovers (Dean/Cas), Fluff and Humor Summary: Rowena calls Sam, asking for help. Her former lover, the powerful witch Leon O'Leary, has something of hers and she wants it back. When Sam agrees to help, the last thing he expects is for her to pull out a ring and propose. To Cas. Cas and Rowena move into the wealthy suburb of Lavender Pines and work to become the most well-liked newlywed couple on the block. Sam and Dean support them from the bunker. It’s a milk run of a case. Simple. Easy. It’s not.

[airybcby]

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ. Only You Know Me

( hiori yo x fem! reader )

♫ a/n — Part 5 to my series Stay for Soundcheck ( masterlist ) also don't mind how i completely changed my theme...oopsies

♫ word count — 1.2k

♫ content — hiori yo x fem! reader, i hate this sm but nothing else was good either, crazy gf x crazy bf, i'm so sorry to the hiori fans this is awful, mention of online hate, def bad story, ooc hiori, not proofread

♫ synopsis — You hadn't meant to fall in love with the boy on stage. But when Hiori Yo finds and gives you a cassette? Well...that's the start of everything.

↻ ◁ | i stalk myself on the internet just to see what you'll find | ▷ ↺

You didn’t plan to fall in love with a boy on stage.

And Hiori Yo certainly hadn’t meant to fall in love with the girl in the back corner, standing completely still while the rest of the crowd moved around her.

He couldn’t take his eyes off you.

You weren’t dancing, weren’t shouting — just listening.

Focused.

Like every sound he sent out into the world was being caught by your hands and held delicately.

Even now, years later — as his band "Blue Lock" sold out arenas and stirred up tabloid frenzies — Hiori could still remember that night like it was stitched into his skin.

And the cassette he slipped into your hand after the set?

You still had it.

The press called you a stage-five clinger.

The fans? Worse.

They posted clips of you at shows — waiting backstage, sitting on amp cases in Hiori’s old hoodie, curled up next to him during interviews, whispering things in his ear that made him smile too soft for someone who was supposed to be the quiet, mysterious one.

You trended on social media for a week after a photo of you kissing his cheek during a festival went viral.

#HioriYoGF

#GroupieThatWon

People speculated. Called you a distraction. A rebound. A toy.

You read every comment.

And then — in classic you fashion — you screenshot the worst of them, posted them to your story with a sparkly caption:

Yeah. I’m obsessed. So what? Cry about it <3

He reposted it with a quiet:

“I like her that way.”

You didn't care what anyone thought.

Because you knew the truth.

You’d loved Hiori before any of them knew his name.

You’d gone to the bar with a friend who had a date with the bartender.

You were promised drinks, music, and no responsibility.

But then Hiori walked on stage.

Quiet. Subtle. Beautiful in that way that didn’t need permission to exist.

And when he sat behind the keyboard, adjusting his hands like they were too big for the room, something in you pulled taut. Something important.

He played like he was whispering. 

Every chord brushed against your ribs, his synth tones flowing out like someone had finally translated what sadness sounded like when it was also full of hope.

At one point, during a quieter verse, he looked up.

Eyes met yours.

You smiled.

Tiny. Secret. But real.

And for a second, you swore his hands stuttered on the keys.

You didn’t expect to see him again.

But as you waited outside the bar later that night — phone out, waiting on your friend to finish flirting inside — the back door opened.

He stepped out, hoodie tugged up, blue hair damp with sweat.

He paused when he saw you, visibly unsure. Like he wanted to run and stay all at once.

You tilted your head. “Hey.”

“Hi,” he said, barely audible.

There was silence. You could hear the bass from the next band echoing behind him.

Then, slowly, he pulled something from his pocket.

A cassette.

It was a little scuffed, with a hand-written label in blue ink.

For the girl who listens.

You blinked. “Is this part of your merch?”

He flushed. “No. I made it before the show. I wasn’t going to give it to anyone. But you—” He swallowed. “You heard everything. I could tell.”

You took it, gently.

“I don’t even know your name,” you said.

He looked down. Smiled.

“You will. If you play it.”

And then he disappeared into the crowd, leaving you alone with nothing but a cassette and a head full of music.

You didn’t show up at another show because of the music.

You showed up because you liked him.

You found him again the next week — caught him tuning his keyboard, fingers shaking slightly from nerves.

You walked straight up and said, “I listened.”

He froze.

You held up the cassette. “Like, twenty times. It was… weird. And beautiful.”

He smiled, eyes wide. “You came back.”

“I wanted to see if you’d give me the sequel.”

He laughed — the kind of laugh that made you feel like you’d just been handed something rare.

You kissed him two weeks later.

Moved in eight months after that.

Never left.

To the world, you were the loud girlfriend who always had her hands on Hiori Yo. You kissed him during interviews, tweeted too much, posted blurry selfies of you both with captions like:

mine mine mine mine mine mine mine

People thought you were clingy.

But what they didn’t see?

Was Hiori’s playlists, where every title was some variation of your name.

Was how he pressed his face into your shoulder when things got loud.

How he told you, once in the middle of the night, “I don’t think I can breathe when you’re not here.”

After one show, you were waiting for him near the dressing rooms — scrolling through fan art and tagged clips when a man stepped a little too close.

Another band member, maybe. Or some random industry guy. You didn’t know.

“You here alone, sweetheart?”

You sighed. “My boyfriend—”

Before you could finish, the man yelped.

You turned.

Hiori had his hand wrapped around the guy’s wrist, hard.

His voice stayed calm.

“Why are you touching my girlfriend?”

The man tried to stammer something. Hiori didn’t blink.

You reached out, putting a hand on his arm.

“It’s fine. Let go.”

He did — but not before giving the man a look so cold it felt like silence had teeth.

You dragged him into a side hallway.

“You didn’t have to go full serial killer,” you teased, laughing.

He looked at you. Something raw in his expression.

“He touched you.”

You kissed him hard, back against the wall, hands fisting in his hoodie.

“God, I love you.”

It came during a podcast interview.

The host smiled, half-teasing. “So what’s the deal with the girl always hanging off you? Groupie? Girlfriend?”

Hiori sipped his water.

“She’s my girlfriend. Has been since before we got big.”

The host blinked. “Wait—seriously?”

He nodded. “She’s not a groupie.”

Then, voice softer:

“She’s my biggest fan.”

The clip went viral in hours.

Your next post was a photo of the cassette — the one from years ago — held in your hand with chipped nail polish and a blurry mirror in the background.

Caption:

Where it started.

One night, on tour, you curled up on the tour bus sofa with him beside you — his head on your shoulder, your fingers tracing patterns into the back of his hand.

You whispered, “You know that tape? The one you made for me?”

He looked up, sleepy and warm. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “I knew I’d never love anyone else after I heard it.”

He paused.

Then whispered:

“I love you.”

Backstage. Another sold-out show.

You’re wearing his sweatshirt again, legs over his lap, arms around his neck. He’s playing with your fingers like they’re made of gold.

You whisper in his ear, teasing:

“Everyone still thinks I’m the obsessed one.”

He smiles. Tilts his head.

“Let them think that.”

“I know better.”

Because you were his before the fame.

And he’ll be yours long after it fades.

You, the girl who listened.

Him, the boy who never stopped playing for you.

yeah so i'm never writing for hiori again why was this so hard

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⋆.˚✮ 2025 ©airybcby ✮˚.⋆

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 17

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Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 5.2k+

Note: this chapter is inspired by Monaco Will because he just looks so yummy

I know the timeline of this is all a bit fucked but please just suspend you disbelief.

xxx

I think I’m losing my mind.

Not in the cool, edgy, manic pixie dream girl kind of way — the kind where you cut your fringe in your bathroom at 2 a.m. and suddenly develop a deep love for obscure French cinema. Not the sort of unravelling that makes you interesting or mysterious or somehow magnetic.

No. I mean the kind where you haven’t worn real clothes in two days, there’s a half-eaten crumpet on the windowsill for reasons you can’t quite explain, and you’ve just googled “is it normal to feel haunted by a person who is still alive.”

No. In the “I’ve just spent three full hours watching WillNE rank bottled water while pretending I don’t care that he hasn’t texted me back” kind of way.

Like actually, fully, completely, losing my mind.

There’s something profoundly humbling about letting YouTube autoplay eat your entire evening while your brain replays one man’s silence like it’s the season finale of a show that never got greenlit for season two.

I’ve somehow devoured about a million hours of his videos this past week. Even the second channel — the one I swore I wouldn’t watch out of sheer principle. The principle I set long before I liked him.

I caved. Obviously.

I’ve watched him run to Brighton, tour the US, run a marathon in Heelys, and provide commentary on a Love Island season from three years ago. Then there's the second channel content—thousands of Temu packages, the mega primes and chocolate bars, and his narration of a charity match I didn't even know he played in.

I’ve watched him attempt 100 world records, buy the internet's most useless gadgets, and even spend 100 hours on the world's most luxurious train. I’ve seen him prank his mates during covid and get roasted in Reddit videos.

I dug so far back I saw videos of him and his Ex-Girlfriend. I found two dead group channels, with hundreds more hours of content to watch. I recognise a handful of faces from them.

I watched the videos I watched him film. I remember every little joke, all the stuff they cut out. It’s a bit sickening, actually, how effortlessly charming he is on camera. How easy it is to fall into that world he’s built—even when I’m meant to be stepping out of it.

I even watched his very first video, just to see how much he's changed. I had to turn it off. He called himself Betty Schwallocks and that was enough for me.

And George. God, even George. I’ve gone back and watched every piece of content he’s ever posted. Even the ones where the jokes don’t land and he clearly forgot to edit out a yawn. I’ve watched Arthur, Chris, people I only vaguely recognise from all those evenings spent drinking in the kitchen, framed in thumbnails and chaotic group shots and videos titled in all caps.

Which is mad, really. Because until this week, I’d never actually watched the videos. Not properly. I always knew what they did — I lived in the flat, I heard the behind-the-scenes meltdowns. I saw George filming from the hallway, Will editing at 2AM, cursing at his own footage. I was close enough to it that I never felt the need to watch it.

And maybe that’s part of it. Maybe that’s why Will’s pulled away. Because I never really stepped into his world — not properly. But then again, he never made much of an effort to step into mine, either.

But now? Now I can’t stop watching. And I can’t stop feeling it—that quiet, horrible jealousy that creeps up my spine and settles in my chest like static.

Their lives look so fun. So stupid and messy and loud and free. They wake up and make content. They go to events, they banter, they get paid to just... be themselves. Meanwhile, I’m burning through (sometimes) ten-hour days writing code for people I’ll never meet, carrying everyone else’s expectations like a backpack full of bricks.

I know it’s not all real. I know that. But it doesn’t stop me from wanting it. Or from feeling like maybe, if I’d just been a little more interesting, a little less scared, I could’ve ended up in a life like that too. I could've followed George to London and lived just like him.

Instead I’m here, in a flat I’ve spent the last week obsessing over like it’s some kind of museum exhibit—scrutinising every casual interaction, every inside joke I wasn’t really part of—watching WillNE videos like I’m cramming for an exam on how I became the least interesting person in a house full of people who turned being themselves into a career.

I have to say WillNE when I’m talking about his videos; his online persona. The one who’s loud, brash, always in your face, half a second away from an angry rant. But the real Will? The one I knew? He was soft. Kind of funny in a way that didn’t try so hard. He’d smile at the smallest things, make me feel like I was the only person in the room.

That Will is not texting me back.

Cool.

I wanted to go to the flat today. Take George up on his offer to just waltz in like old times, like nothing's changed. Like I still belong there.

I even got halfway down the street before I realised how stupid it would look. Me, key in hand, walking into an empty flat like a ghost haunting her own almost-life. Like some washed-up sitcom character trying to recapture the punchline of a joke that stopped being funny months ago.

But for a minute, just a minute, I imagined it: me on the sagging sofa, kettle on, one of Arthur’s weird hoodies thrown over the back of a chair. George popping in and muttering something about meal deals. Will making some smartass comment from the hallway, then sitting too close just to annoy me.

George handing me a tea. half a sugar, a small dash of milk, teabag still in.

I miss it. Not just the people. The ease. The warmth. The sense that I was folded into something—into a routine, a rhythm, a life that didn’t need to be earned or explained.

I think I'm going crazy. I don’t think I ever really felt like that when I was there, but the rose coloured glasses are addicting.

But I can't just waltz in.

They're all in Monaco right now, on some extravagant brand trip. I've seen the TikTok edits — not just the slow-motion, sparkles, and moody Arctic Monkeys tracks. Some are raw, spontaneous, and unpolished, capturing moments of genuine laughter and camaraderie. Will, caught mid-sentence; George, eyes squinting into the sun. It's surreal, watching people you know be mythologised in real time.

Do you know how fucked it is to see a TikTok edit of your failed situationship? It’s hell. Actual hell. There’s Will, all effortless charisma and jawline, looking like the kind of man who ruins you in a French hotel room—and there’s me, back in London, rewatching videos like I’m a crazed fan. I guess I am.

It’s pathetic. I'm pathetic. Or maybe it's just the cost of loving people who belong to the internet.

I know Arthur isn’t on the trip. Monaco. Brand deal. Influencer playground. Whatever. From what I’ve gathered through frankly shameful levels of social media sleuthing, he didn’t make the cut. Not enough followers, maybe. Not enough brand appeal. Or maybe he just didn’t want to go. But I doubt that.

I think about texting him. Just a casual, hey what are you up to? Something breezy enough to pretend it’s not coming from a place of total emotional desperation.

Because Arthur and I—we used to get on. Living with him wasn’t terrible. He left mugs everywhere and was weirdly obsessed with FIFA, but he was also funny in that dry, passive kind of way. Unbothered. Comforting, in a background noise sort of sense.

And now he’s the only one still in town. The only one not being followed around by a camera or turned into a sped-up montage with trending audios in the background.

I type the message twice. Delete it. Re-type it with more emojis. Delete again.

Because what am I even hoping for? That he’ll come round and sit on the edge of my bed and say something vaguely affirming in his Arthur way? That he’ll distract me from the ache in my chest with some dumb story about nearly poisoning himself with a instant noodles packet?

I don’t send it. Not yet. But I keep the app open. Just in case I need to pretend that connection is still an option.

I see The Fellas have posted a vlog from the trip. Will’s grinning face is plastered across the thumbnail—those Prada sunnies, looking like he owns the entire Mediterranean. I’ve met The Fellas a few times, and honestly? The name fits. They really do just look like some blokes you’d spot down the pub or at a corner shop. Nothing flashy, just... mates doing their thing.

The vlog is glossy and polished, full of sun, champagne bubbles, and laughter that sounds way too carefree for my current mood. There’s an extended cut locked behind a paywall—premium content, obviously—but I don’t buy it. And I didn’t even think about it.

There’s a clip that sticks with me: Will, wearing those, frankly slutty, Prada sunglasses—like the kind you only see on someone who knows exactly how annoying it makes them—and he’s on a boat, mic’d up. There’s a girl fiddling with the mic pack on his shirt, her fingers brushing over the fabric, and he just lets her. Doesn’t seem bothered, just effortlessly cool, like he’s always exactly where he’s supposed to be.

In the rest of the video, he’s drunk and happy—laughing with his mouth wide open, leaning into the sun like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened. Dancing and cracking jokes. The whole thing feels light, airy, like nothing can touch him. And I’m stuck here, on the other side of the screen, wondering how I got so out of sync with it all.

In the video, he has some crash out about some kind of Formula One moment. I don’t understand a word of it. I just miss being someone who was lucky enough to hear it.

There’s a clip of him and Becky, just sitting in sunloungers, chatting like nothing’s changed. The light is golden, everything slowed down to that perfect summer haze.

I think back to what Will said about her—not close anymore, he told me, like it was settled fact. But here they are, looking easy and familiar, like maybe this trip is doing what months apart couldn’t: starting to patch things up.

I wish I could just ask him about it. Not in that awkward, half-hopeful way, but for real. I want to know. To be in on his life, the messy bits and the quiet moments.

But I’m not sure if I’m allowed anymore. If I'll ever be allowed again.

I’ve cooked it, haven’t I? I don’t even know how.

Why has Will pulled away? Did he want to be single for this trip? Or is this just the natural order of things—the way people drift apart when they’re supposed to?

He was there when I needed him—helping me move, making a mess of casual that felt anything but. But now, he’s gone radio silent, like I’m suddenly background noise instead of someone worth answering.

Maybe I misread things. Maybe I was the only one hoping for something more than easy banter and occasional kisses.

And yet, watching him there on that boat, sun hitting his skin just right, it’s like he’s moved on already—effortless, unbothered, free.

Fuck.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll send that message to Arthur. Or maybe not. Tonight, I’m just going to keep scrolling. Pretend I’m still part of it.

Xxx

I’m at work. It’s foul. Like the kind of day where the coffee tastes bitter even though you didn’t change brands, and every email feels like a trapdoor waiting to snap shut. The kind of day that makes you question every single life choice that brought you to this fluorescent-lit desk, staring at lines of code that refuse to behave.

My fingers twitch over the keyboard like they want to escape, but the deadline looms like a storm cloud, relentless and unforgiving. I catch my reflection in the screen—pale, tired eyes staring back like they’re begging for mercy. I went to bed at stupid o'clock last night because I was scrolling through VODs of Georges streams. I used to listen to him stream for Christ's sake.

Outside, the rain drums a relentless rhythm against the window, matching the relentless ache that’s settled in my chest. Somewhere far away, laughter and sunlight are happening. Somewhere I’m not.

It physically hurts my soul to think about how Will and George and all their friends are having a blast in Monaco right now and they can call it work.

And I’m supposed to be grateful for this job, this stability, this paycheque. But right now, it just feels like I’m trapped in a loop—stuck in a life that’s all work and no meaning.

So I finally bite the bullet and send Arthur a message.

Hey, fancy some beers tonight? I’ve missed your annoying-ass laugh.

His reply comes quicker than I expect.

Sounds good. The flat is empty as hell. Do you still have your key?

I do. George gave it back to me like he said he would.

When I arrive at the flat, it hits me how little has changed. The same chipped paint on the doorframe, the slightly crooked picture of some random football stadium hanging crooked in the hallway. It makes sense it wouldn’t have changed—after all, it’s been like, three weeks. But it still feels strange. Like stepping back into your childhood bedroom after years away; familiar, but with a layer of dust and memories that make it feel somehow out of reach.

Arthur’s already inside when I get there, leaning against the kitchen counter with a six-pack of cider in one hand and that easy grin I remember well. I laugh, holding up the six-pack I lugged in like some awkward peace offering, and he raises an eyebrow in approval.

We drop ourselves onto the worn-out couch—the one so threadbare and stained it’s basically part of the flat’s furniture ecosystem. It’s soft in all the wrong places, hard in others, and probably has more stories in its cushions than we do combined.

The silence settles between us for a moment, not uncomfortable, just familiar. Like a shared breath before the conversation starts.

Arthur kicks off his scuffed trainers, one landing with a soft thud, the other spinning in a lazy half-circle before tipping over like it gave up. He cracks open a can of cider with a familiar pop that echoes in the quiet room.

“So,” he says, settling onto the couch with a grin, “what’s new? I feel like you’ve been off the grid. Like you vanished or something.”

I lean back, trying to sound casual, but there’s a twitch in my voice I can’t hide. “Oh, you know… picked up some weird hobbies. Got obsessed with a few random apps. Learned some dumb things that probably won’t stick, just to keep my brain busy.”

Arthur is always been one to listen instead of talk. And I can talk someone's ear off if they let me. This was our routine for a bit. I would talk and talk and talk and he would nod along and ask me actually thoughtful questions.

I dive into the baking—how I accidentally made the fluffiest sourdough and then promptly burnt the second loaf. I tell him about the interior design blogs I’m obsessed with, the weird ways I rearranged my tiny flat just to feel like it’s mine. The book club, too. How awkward I was the first night, showing up with my dog-eared copy and a nervous smile. And painting—mostly messy, abstract stuff that no one else would understand, but somehow it makes me feel less alone.

At one point, I bring up The Van. He didn’t know much about it. I guess I never sat him down and explained it. I’m touched when Arthur asks genuine, thoughtful questions—what inspired me to start going, what it means to me, how it’s changed the way I see things.

His curiosity isn’t just polite. It feels real, like he actually wants to know who I’ve become while I’ve not lived with him.

For a moment, I forget the tension that’s been building inside me. This—sharing pieces of myself with someone who listens—it’s a kind of balm.

I don’t tell him about how I’ve caught up on five years’ worth of lore from his and George’s friends. How I’ve watched a million clips from his old podcast or a hundred edits of Will looking effortlessly sexy, or seen the cute pictures of him meeting The Sidemen when he was like fifteen.

That part feels too weird, too vulnerable to share out loud—like admitting I’m still stuck somewhere between fan and friend, watching lives I used to be part of from the outside.

Also it's just downright strange.

Instead, I just smile and nod along, pretending my head isn’t tangled in memories and half-remembered moments. Arthur talks about a new band he’s into, and for a while, I let myself forget the quiet loneliness that’s been humming in my chest.

His voice fills the space like sunlight through a cracked window—easy, unbothered—and I cling to it, grateful for the distraction.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Wow. Having your own space looks good on you. More than I expected, honestly.” There’s a teasing edge in his tone, but also something warm—like he’s rooting for me even if I don’t quite believe in myself.

I shrug, my eyes fixed somewhere on the scratched coffee table. “Work’s been brutal lately. Same code, different bugs. Feels like I’m patching holes in a sinking ship, and I’m not sure the ship even wants saving.”

Arthur takes a long swig from his bottle, then lets out a low whistle. “Better than trying to get signed by a record label that’s basically a vampire cult.” His grin turns mischievous, like he’s sharing a secret horror story.

I laugh, surprised at how easily the topic changes. “Yeah? How’s that going?”

“Oh my god. It’s just foul.” He rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “The shady contracts, the fake promises, the endless ‘networking’ that’s just begging for favours. It’s a nightmare dressed up in designer clothes.”

We fall into an easy rhythm then, the kind that comes from shared understanding. Talking music, bad managers, the weird dance of trying to stay true to yourself when everyone’s got a price tag. It’s messy and frustrating but somehow comforting to know I’m not the only one wading through it.

For a moment, I forget the walls of this flat, the buzzing in my phone, the quiet absence of people I thought would still be here. This—this conversation—is a reminder there’s a world beyond my keyboard and my flat’s four walls.

Arthur’s phone buzzes on the coffee table, slicing through the low murmur of conversation like a paper cut. He glances at it, his jaw tightening ever so slightly, then flips it face-down without replying. I don’t ask. He doesn’t offer.

But a beat later, he exhales, a sound that feels more loaded than it should be. “Chris and George are having people over later this week,” he says, casual in tone but not quite in delivery. “Just drinks. Nothing big. Pre-something-or-other.” He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding my eyes like the words are a bruise he didn’t mean to press. “Totally spaced on inviting you. Guess I’m used to you just… being here.”

The shrug that follows is almost sheepish. And weirdly, it stings.

I nod, swallowing around the lump that rises in my throat. They didn’t mean to leave me out. That’s what makes it worse. It’s not malice. It’s just… habit. The kind that fades when your name isn’t on the lease anymore.

I don’t ask if Will will be there. I’m not sure I could hear the answer without flinching. Not tonight.

So instead, I offer up something lighter. “Maybe I’ll swing by.”

Arthur’s face breaks into something warm and familiar. Relief, maybe. Or nostalgia. “Please do,” he says, lifting his bottle like a peace offering. “Could use some proper company.”

It’s not just an invitation. It’s a breadcrumb. A quiet way of saying: you still have a place here, if you want it.

I clink my drink against his. “Yeah, alright. I’ll be there.”

And just like that, something settles. Not quite comfort. But something like it. Like a door I thought had closed is still ajar, creaking open with the breeze.

The TV hums faintly in the background. Someone laughs in the flat below. And for a moment, it’s almost like I never left.

And the rest of the night stretches out in easy, aimless conversation—nothing heavy, nothing that digs too deep. We talk about music, some ridiculous viral video Arthur can’t stop laughing at, the weather as if it isn't just oh yeah its slighly rainy. It’s the kind of chat that fills space without demanding anything in return.

Arthur never brings up Will. At first, I think maybe he’s just trying to be polite. But as the night goes on, I realise he probably forgot we were a thing at all. It wasn't exactly a secret, but it’s like a faded photo shoved in the back of a drawer—visible if you look, but easy to ignore.

I know the two of them aren't close. They have the same circles but I think they’ve been lost in the overlap, So maybe Arthur’s silence isn’t an oversight but a shield—a way to keep things simple.

And maybe that’s exactly what I need.

There’s a strange comfort in not having to explain, defend, or unpack the complicated mess of my life. In this quiet flat, with Arthur’s familiar laugh bouncing off the walls, I can just be.

But beneath the surface, that familiar ache still lingers—the whisper of what’s missing, the spaces I haven’t quite filled yet.

For tonight, though, I push it down. Tonight, I’m here. And that has to be enough.

xxx

The next few days go by fast, and I find myself back at the flat for the casual drinks. George, Chris, Arthur, the others—they’re all here, the familiar chaos humming just beneath the surface. Everyone’s chattering away about the trip, voices overlapping as they trade stories about the late nights, overpriced cocktails, and someone nearly missing the flight home. The flat feels alive again, like it’s breathing with a rhythm I almost remember.

When I arrive, Will gives me a weird, half-hearted side hug—one arm barely brushing my shoulder, his body already pulling away before I can even register the contact. No eye contact. No smirk. No stupid quip about me being late or a comment about my haircut.

It’s like I’m just another plus-one he doesn’t know at the function.

And it shouldn’t matter, but it does.

Fucking of course it does! Who am I kidding.

Because this is someone who knows the sound I make when I laugh too hard! Who used to lie in bed next to me every other night for two months, tracing circles on my bare back while I talked about things I hadn’t told anyone else!

Someone who used to kiss me like it meant something.

He used to hold me like I was worth something—like I wasn’t just another body in his bed, but someone he saw. Someone he chose. He made space for me in ways I didn’t know I needed, asked questions no one else bothered to. He shattered the walls I had spent years building—slowly, carefully, like he knew exactly where the cracks already were.

And now?

Now, I’m a stranger. Or worse, someone he’s pretending he never knew that well to begin with.

It’s a gutting kind of coldness. Not loud or dramatic. Just… quiet. Detached. The kind of silence that rewrites a memory while you’re still holding onto it.

He doesn’t even look at me.

It’s a gut-punch of a contrast to the last time we were here like this—when the air between us was charged with something unspoken but alive. When his smile felt like an invitation, not a cold wall. Tonight, it’s like I’m a ghost haunting a house that no longer remembers me.

Last time he was over for casual drinks with the lads, we ended up in my room—laughing, tipsy, tangled in that familiar rhythm we never quite named. He was pressed against the door with his hands in my hair, moaning and panting like he needed me.

I catch myself stealing glances at him all afternoon. I don’t mean to—it just happens. Like instinct. Like gravity. Like I’m waiting for him to notice I’m still here.

He moves through the flat like none of this weighs on him. Like the last two months didn’t exist. Laughing with George in the kitchen, shoulder to shoulder with Chris in the hallway, head tilted toward someone else entirely.

He’s golden in the warm light—sharp jaw, flushed cheeks, all charm and ease. You’d never guess that two weeks ago, he was in my bed, lips on my neck, telling me he liked the way I said his name.

Now he won’t even look at me.

And the fucked-up part is I’m not even angry. I’m not raging, or bitter, or planning some dramatic confrontation.

I’m just… confused. Quietly. Painfully.

I don’t know what I did.

There was no fight. No conversation. No shift I could feel coming. Just a slow, steady pulling away I didn’t even notice until it had already happened. Until I woke up one morning and realised I hadn’t heard from him in days. That my phone was still silent. That he hadn’t checked in. That the absence had become normal.

And I still don’t know why.

Was I too much? Not enough? Did I misread it all?

Because it felt real. The nights. The in-jokes. The moments between moments, where everything slowed down and it was just us.

He helped me move flat for Christ's sake!

And now he’s here, just a few feet away, acting like I’m nothing more than a piece of furniture—something you barely notice until you bump into it. Like I never watched him sleep, his face relaxed and soft in the quiet darkness, his hands wrapped around my waist like I was the only place he wanted to be. Like I never traced the curve of his neck with my fingers, memorizing every small detail in the warm glow of morning light.

Like I never felt the fierce, bruising heat of his touch. How he pulled my hair so hard I feared I’d wake up with missing chunks, yet always with a kind of reverence, like he was worshipping every inch of me. Like every kiss he pressed to my skin was both a promise and a question, tender and urgent all at once. Like he saw me—not just my body, but every scar, every quiet moment, every fragile part I tried to hide, and held it with a softness that made me believe I was worth protecting.

Like the way he made a home of me—soft and wild all at once—doesn’t exist anymore. Like the way his presence burned through the quiet of those nights, setting something inside me alight, was just a dream I imagined.

Like I’m not even a blip on his radar now.

I just wish he’d look at me.

That���s all.

I wish he’d look at me like he used to. No, actually just at me. I wish I could catch his eye and see something—anything—that told me I hadn’t made it all up. That I hadn’t built a whole version of intimacy in my head that didn’t exist.

Because if I imagined it, if I hallucinated all of that closeness, then what does that make me?

A fucken idiot, probably.

Now im thinking about slipping away to my old room. Just casually. Quietly. Like I’m just going to grab something or check my phone or breathe. But really—it’s stupid, really—I think about going because maybe, somehow, Will might follow.

Like he used to.

That first time ringing in my head, when he came in and kissed me like he’d been holding it in for weeks—like saying it out loud would’ve ruined it, but touching me was the only thing he could do. We didn’t even say much. Just a look, a soft laugh, and then his mouth was on mine and my whole body forgot how to stand still.

The second time, it was different. Secret. We’d already crossed the line, and now we were balancing on the edge of something fragile and thrilling. Both of us breathless with the risk of it all—his friends just a room away, loud and unaware. His back pressed against the door. My name in a whisper that wasn’t safe or careful.

That room held those moments. And part of me thinks that if I just slip back in, if I sit on the edge of that mattress and wait, maybe he’ll follow. Maybe his hand will find the door again like it used to. Maybe we’ll find our way back to that charged, impossible stillness that used to feel like the only real thing in the world.

But there is no mattress. I took it with me.

He helped me fold it weirdly into the back of his stupid plush car.

The room that was once mine. It's not even a room, not really. Just a hollow shell now. A graveyard of old filming equipment, tangled cords, broken ring lights, and collapsed tripods.

Not the graveyard with my bed.

So ducking in there would be pointless. Silly. There’s nowhere to sit, nowhere to wait. Nowhere to pretend something might still exist between us if I just stayed still long enough.

So I stay planted in the living room instead, half-listening to conversations that blur together, the laughter around me sounding too sharp, too far away. I hold my drink like it’s a lifeline, fingers aching from how tightly I clutch it. I've picked off the labels already.

I don’t know why I even came here now, I don’t know what I thought would happen. That he’d see me standing in the hallway and talk to me and explain himself? That he’d brush past everyone, slip through my door, and drag me along with him—as if he couldn’t help himself?

But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

There’s no mattress. There’s no Will. There’s just a room I don’t belong to anymore. A version of us I can’t get back to.

So I stay where I am.

Clutching my drink too tight, nodding along to a conversation I’m not really in, laughing at jokes I don’t hear.

And I feel more alone in this crowded room than I have in weeks.

Because he’s right there. And he’s gone.

xxx

Taglsit: @meglouise00@migilini @thankyoulovely @mosviqu @formulaal @jonnybernthalslover @tiredqzl @mrswillne @ravenaz

[unabashegirl]

Crave — part V

Y/N x Professor Harry Styles share a secret passion that could destroy them both. Crossing the line means risking everything.

Author's note: Hello, lovelies! Sorry it took me a bit to post — there have been lots of festivities lately, especially over the weekends! I'm currently visiting my mom in the U.S., and with the Fourth of July coming up this weekend, I'm trying to squeeze in as much writing as I can before Friday so you'll all have something to read 💛 I also want to make sure I get to enjoy some quality time with my mom! Anyway, let me know what you thought about Crave — I love hearing your reactions! ✨

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Y/N tried to go through her classes like normal, immersing herself in her work and in the day-to-day rush of campus life. But every time she caught a glimpse of Harry—or even thought she saw him in the distance—her heart would skip, and she’d immediately turn the other way. She’d been so convinced, for that brief, reckless moment, that what they shared had meant more. The memory of his touch, his warmth, lingered like a shadow, making it impossible to forget.

It was humiliating to think she’d allowed herself to believe that they could be more than just professor and student, that he might have seen her as more than a momentary slip, a mistake. She kept her head down in class, choosing a seat at the far back and barely looking up as he lectured, determined to keep her emotions hidden. She felt embarrassed, not just by what had happened but by her own feelings—by the fact that she wanted him, that she had let herself hope for something impossible.

And every time she thought of him, she couldn’t help but feel the sting of his final words. It had meant something to him, he’d said, but the line he’d drawn between them now felt unbreakable, as though he was warning her to let go.

It was a cold, gray Thursday afternoon, and Y/N was buried in her notebook, lost in an attempt to stay ahead of her assignments and keep her mind occupied. She’d almost forgotten the bitter cold creeping through the air when Liv’s voice pulled her back to reality, accompanied by the rush of footsteps closing in.

“Y/N!” Liv called, breathless and flushed from running across campus. She skidded to a stop beside her, panting heavily, eyes wide with a mix of excitement and disbelief. “Oh my god, have you heard the news?”

Y/N blinked, taken aback by her friend’s urgency. “What are you talking about?”

Liv caught her breath, leaning forward with hands on her knees for a moment before standing up straight. “Professor Styles. He… he quit,” she managed, watching Y/N’s reaction closely. “Apparently, he’s leaving before the semester ends. Right now, he’s packing up his office.”

Y/N felt a strange, hollow sensation bloom in her chest as Liv’s words settled in. The world around her felt like it had tilted slightly, leaving her off-balance. He was leaving.

The words echoed in her mind, a relentless hum that drowned out everything else. He was leaving. She tried to keep her face neutral, but a spark of panic clawed its way through her chest, tightening with each passing second.

“Are you sure?” Y/N finally asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Liv nodded, looking at her with a sympathetic frown. “Yeah, I heard some of the other students talking about it, and then I saw him through his office window. He looked… busy, like he was packing up everything.” She placed a hand on Y/N’s arm. “I know he was your favorite professor. This sucks.”

Y/N could only nod, the hollow ache in her chest deepening. Her feet felt like lead, rooting her to the spot as she struggled to absorb what Liv had said. She couldn’t process it—couldn’t believe he’d actually leave. A surge of helplessness filled her as she thought of all the times she’d tried to catch his gaze, to at least get some closure or understand what he felt, only to be met with a carefully blank expression, a polite distance that seemed to stretch further each day.

“I—I have to go,” Y/N murmured, more to herself than to Liv.

Liv’s brows shot up, surprise flickering across her face, but she didn’t question it. She simply nodded. “Go on. If you need anything… let me know, okay?”

With a final, encouraging squeeze on her arm, Liv stepped back, letting Y/N make her way across campus. Each step felt heavier than the last as she neared his office, the cool air biting at her cheeks. Her mind raced with a thousand unspoken questions, a litany of what-ifs that hung in the air between them. She knew this was her only chance—if she didn’t go to him now, she’d regret it forever.

Finally, she reached his office door, slightly ajar, a glimpse of his familiar workspace now littered with boxes and the remnants of what had once made it feel like his space. Harry was there, moving through the small room in focused silence, packing books into a box with a quiet efficiency. He looked… different, a heaviness in his movements that seemed foreign, unnatural.

Y/N knocked softly on the doorframe, the sound barely audible over the hum of the building. He turned, surprised, his eyes meeting hers for the first time in what felt like an eternity. For a brief second, something flashed in his gaze—a mixture of regret, longing, maybe even pain—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his familiar guarded expression.

“Y/N,” he greeted her, his voice calm but distant. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Y/N swallowed, her throat tight, every ounce of practiced composure unraveling as she stepped into his office. The space looked so foreign with the bare shelves, the emptied drawers, and the half-packed boxes scattered around. She was used to seeing his things carefully arranged, to the quiet warmth that lingered here despite his restrained demeanor. Now, it felt as if the life had been drained from it—like he was erasing himself.

“I just heard… that you’re leaving,” she managed, forcing the words out, though they sounded more vulnerable than she intended.

Harry nodded, his gaze dropping as he placed another book into a box, carefully avoiding her eyes. “Yes, I am. An opportunity came up, and it felt like the right time.” His tone was detached, businesslike, but she could hear the faint edge of something deeper beneath it.

She stepped closer, barely able to keep her voice steady. “You’re leaving before the semester ends…?” She couldn’t keep the ache from her words, and it lingered between them, heavy and unspoken.

His hands paused over the book he was holding, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. For a long moment, he seemed to be fighting with himself, and then he looked up at her, his eyes darker and more intense than she’d ever seen. “It’s for the best,” he replied softly, the words sounding as though he were trying to convince himself as much as her.

The weight of that simple statement settled over her like a stone, and she felt her chest tighten, a mixture of anger and hurt swirling within her. “Is that all?” she whispered, the vulnerability slipping through her voice despite herself. “Just… leaving, what about me?”

His gaze held hers, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Y/N, don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he said quietly, almost pleading, though his expression remained controlled. But there was something there—a shadow of the connection they’d shared, the way he had looked at her that night, the way he had held her as though he’d never wanted to let go.

She took a shaky breath, not breaking his gaze. “It meant something to me,” she admitted, the words barely louder than a whisper. She didn’t know if it was foolish or brave to say it, but she couldn’t leave without him knowing. “I thought it did for you, too.”

Harry’s eyes softened, and for a moment, the carefully controlled mask he always wore slipped away, revealing the hint of vulnerability beneath. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, looking almost… defeated.

“It did mean something, Y/N,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if admitting it to himself as much as to her. “That’s why I’m leaving. I can’t stay here and pretend it didn’t happen, that it didn’t change… everything.” He swallowed, his gaze fixed on hers, searching her face as if hoping she would understand.

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest as she took in his words. She wanted to argue, to tell him there had to be another way. But the look in his eyes stopped her—filled with regret, with longing, but also with a kind of painful resolve.

“You… you don’t have to leave,” she murmured, the words slipping out, even though she knew the answer. “We could just… figure it out.”

He shook his head slowly, a faint, sad smile tugging at his lips. “You and I both know it’s not that simple. I’d only be putting you in a more difficult position. I’ve already crossed lines I shouldn’t have.” His voice was steady, but there was a tightness in it, an undertone of guilt that twisted the knife even deeper.

Y/N felt a hot surge of frustration and sadness. This wasn’t how she’d imagined things would end—she hadn’t imagined an end at all.

The silence between them thickened, filled with everything they weren’t saying. Y/N’s heart twisted painfully as she stood there, feeling like she was losing something she hadn’t even realized she needed so desperately.

“You’re just going to walk away?” she asked, her voice breaking slightly despite her best efforts to hold it together. She took a step closer, unable to help herself. “After everything, you’re going to leave me here like this, wondering if it was all in my head?”

Harry’s expression softened, his gaze flickering to the floor before returning to hers. “I’m leaving because it wasn’t in your head, Y/N. Because it was real, and if I stay…” He trailed off, as if struggling to find the right words. “If I stay, I don’t think I’ll be able to keep myself from wanting more. And that isn’t fair to you.”

She bit her lip, swallowing down the ache swelling in her throat. “Maybe that’s not your decision to make,” she whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. “Maybe I want more, too.”

A flicker of something—hope, perhaps—crossed his face before he clenched his jaw, the struggle evident in his expression. “I know you think that now,” he replied, his voice gentler, but still edged with finality. “But one day, you’ll understand why I’m doing this. And you’ll thank me for it.”

Y/N shook her head, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I don’t think I will.”

Harry looked at her, his own eyes bright with something he was trying hard to hold back. He stepped closer, his hand hovering just inches from her cheek as if he wanted to touch her, to hold her one last time, but couldn’t bring himself to break that final boundary. Instead, he let his hand fall back to his side, his voice barely a murmur as he spoke.

“For what it’s worth… you’ve made it impossible to leave without regret,” he said, his voice heavy. “But I don’t know how to stay without hurting you more.”

And with that, he turned, his steps slow and reluctant as he moved back toward his desk, leaving Y/N standing there, her heart splintering into pieces she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to gather again.

The next day, Y/N found herself numb as she walked through the empty campus, feeling the dull ache of Harry’s absence more intensely than she’d expected. She told herself it was better this way, that the clean break would hurt less in the long run. But as she neared his office one last time, something inside her wavered, and she found herself reaching for the door, her fingers brushing the handle before she pushed it open.

The room was bare, the shelves emptied, and his desk cleared, except for a single envelope resting in the center, her name written across it in his careful handwriting.

Her heart pounded as she reached for it, her hands trembling slightly as she unfolded the note.

Y/N,

I find it strange, writing this to you when I could have said it out loud, but some things are easier to say when you don’t have to watch the person they’re meant for look back at you.

Leaving wasn’t a choice I wanted to make, but it’s the only one that feels right. You deserve someone who can give you every part of themselves without restraint, who isn’t haunted by lines they’ve crossed or rules they’ve broken. I may have been reckless, but please don’t mistake that for regret. Knowing you, being close to you… those are the moments that will stay with me. They’ve already become memories I hold close, though I had no right to make them with you.

You are fiercely intelligent, maddeningly captivating, and you possess a lightness that I never meant to shadow. It’s not goodbye, because a connection like ours doesn’t disappear. I’ll carry you with me, as a quiet ache and an unforgettable truth.

Take care of yourself, Y/N. You are remarkable.

—Harry

As she read his words, her heart twisted. They captured everything he hadn’t said, and everything she had wanted to believe in.

Y/N read the letter over and over, her heart twisting with each line, his carefully chosen words both a balm and a wound. She could picture him sitting at that very desk, pen in hand, struggling over each sentence, the way he always did when something mattered to him.

The ache he left behind wasn’t just from his absence—it was from knowing he felt as deeply as she did, yet still chose to walk away. She slipped the note back into the envelope and held it tightly as she walked back to her dorm, trying to ignore the quiet hope that told her this couldn’t be the end.

The following days were filled with a strange emptiness. She went to class, pretended to listen, and tried to focus on her studies. But her thoughts kept circling back to him, to the mornings she’d glance at the door, half-expecting him to walk in with his usual calm and a quiet look in her direction. His absence felt like a physical space, one she kept accidentally stumbling into.

One chilly afternoon, as she sat by the library window with her textbooks, she caught sight of his office door across the courtyard. Her heart squeezed at the sight, knowing it was someone else’s now, that his papers, his books, his scent were all gone. She thought about going in, just once more, but she couldn’t bring herself to face that emptiness.

But just as she turned back to her books, she noticed a familiar figure walking across the courtyard. Her heart nearly stopped—it was him.

Y/N’s heart stuttered as she watched Harry stride across the courtyard, hands in the pockets of his coat, head down as if deep in thought. It was surreal, seeing him so suddenly when she’d nearly convinced herself she’d never see him again.

Without another thought, she gathered her things and hurried outside, her pulse racing as she tried to catch up. She called his name, her voice barely above a whisper at first, but loud enough to reach him in the quiet of the late afternoon. He slowed, pausing, then turned to see her approaching. His eyes softened as they landed on her, but there was a guardedness to his expression, a hesitation that tugged at her heart.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice carrying a mix of surprise and something else she couldn’t quite place. He looked as if he’d been bracing himself for this moment, yet it still seemed to catch him off-guard.

For a moment, they just stood there, an unspoken tension weaving between them. She took a steadying breath, trying to gather her thoughts, but everything she’d rehearsed melted away now that he was in front of her.

“Why did you come back?” she asked finally, her voice barely a murmur, as if saying it louder would make him disappear.

Harry looked down, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Loose ends,” he said, almost to himself, before meeting her gaze again. “There were things I hadn’t finished… or things I thought I could leave behind.”

She swallowed, a spark of hope stirring within her, but she kept her expression steady. “Like what?”

He glanced around, as if searching for the right words. “Like you,” he admitted quietly. His gaze was intense, fixed on hers, and in that moment, she felt every unsaid thing between them ripple to the surface, like a wave threatening to pull her under.

A shiver ran down her spine at his words, but she held herself still, her heart pounding wildly. “Then why did you leave?” she whispered, unable to keep the ache from her voice.

Harry exhaled, his gaze dropping to the ground. “Because I thought it was the right thing to do,” he said, his voice strained. “But sometimes isn’t about doing what is right, but what feels right.” He stepped closer, just enough for her to feel the warmth radiating from him, his gaze searching hers. “Should we try again?”

Y/N’s breath hitched, a flicker of disbelief mixed with the hope that had refused to fade. Without a word, she nodded, feeling that if she spoke, the spell would break. And for a moment, they just stood there, the world quiet around them, holding onto the fragile hope they’d both found their way back to.

Harry stepped closer, the intensity of his gaze sweeping over her, as if he were drinking in every detail—the curve of her smile, the way her eyes sparkled with uncertainty yet hope. “I’ve never wanted anything more,” he admitted, his voice steadying, grounding her in the chaos of emotions swirling between them.

She took a hesitant step forward, her heart racing as he mirrored her movement. The air around them thickened with a familiar tension, the kind they had danced around for so long.

“Then show me,” she challenged, a teasing lilt creeping into her voice, emboldened by the depth of what they both knew they wanted. “Show me that you’re serious about this.”

With a grin that sent shivers down her spine, Harry closed the gap between them, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered, grazing her skin, and she felt a jolt of electricity pass through her.

“Here?” he asked, his voice low and husky, eyes darkening with desire. “Or somewhere more… private?”

“Somewhere more private,” she whispered, heart racing, anticipation dancing on the edge of her thoughts.

With a shared glance that spoke volumes, they turned and walked away from the familiar, hand in hand, stepping into a world that felt both new and achingly familiar. The campus faded behind them, replaced by the promise of uncharted territory—together, this time, no walls between them.

let me know what you think! i really hope you liked it!

TAGLIST: @cathy-1997, @vaseoftulips, @emmie2308, @lichi-dunkera, @s-280526, @sstylezzz, @ciriceimpera, @valeriiyuhh

[vingtetunmars]

Become Human

Pairing: Din Djarin x Droid!Reader

Summary: After Din Djarin takes on quiet contract work for the New Republic, he's now aided by a mysterious and hyper-competent woman who always stays behind the scenes. And she's not what he thinks she is.

requested by @ruttnandenalle

Tags: Detroit: Become Human crossover, Hurt/Comfort, pre-relationship, protective Din Djarin, secret identity, losing control, deviant reader, reader saves Din and Grogu, post-season 3, found family, No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: It's satisfying when i realized DBH fits my blog's blue and black aesthetic. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 4.0k

masterlist

The bounty was already cuffed and stumbling behind Din by the time he murmured into the comm, “All clear.”

You sat perched in the Razor Crest’s shadow, the dusty rocks around you still warm from the late afternoon suns. The portable holomap flickered gently beside your knee, casting light against your hands as you patched in his route. A few quiet seconds passed before you responded.

“Left at the junction ahead,” you said, your voice low and even. “You’ll want to avoid the main road. Local security patrol’s doubled back.”

“Copy that,” Din replied.

You could hear the scuff of boots over gravel through the feed, the faint hiss of Grogu babbling in the background. You smiled slightly—barely a twitch of synthetic lips—but the gesture was sincere.

Technically, you weren’t part of the Guild. Din hadn’t even meant to bring you along at first. But when he found you rerouting encrypted signals through a back-alley terminal on Maldo Kreis, he didn’t shoot. You’d been traveling together since.

You didn’t fight—not unless you absolutely had to. That was part of the condition. You offered tactical support, infiltration, rerouting energy grids and door locks, decoding chatter, handling gear. Violence was… not in your design anymore.

Or at least, “not in the cards”, that’s what you told him.

“Front gate’s locked,” Din grunted into the comm. “Can you—?”

“Already on it,” you said. A few keystrokes. A low mechanical click echoed through the feed. “Try now.”

The moment of silence that followed told you he was impressed. He never said it, of course. But you’d learned to read silence as a language of its own.

You stood as his figure crested the ridge. The bounty groaned behind him, muttering about unfair odds and dirty tricks. You ignored it, your optics adjusting automatically to the light as Din approached.

He glanced at you but didn’t stop walking. “Thanks.”

You nodded once. “You’re welcome.”

Grogu peeked up from the satchel and squeaked softly at the sight of you. He reached a hand out. You didn’t step forward—you never assumed permission with a child—but you waved.

He waved back.

The silence returned as you all walked toward the Crest. Just another job. Another day survived.

The Razor Crest hummed softly as it cut through the upper atmosphere, clouds breaking open to reveal the pale blue of Adelphi Base below. You stayed seated in the hull, monitoring the comms from your station just outside the cockpit door. Din sat in the pilot’s seat ahead, Grogu in his lap, the child happily kicking his feet as the docking sequence began.

Below, the landing strip gleamed in the early morning light, flanked by New Republic Y-wings and a couple of boxy transports. You recognized Teva’s personal fighter stationed at the end, the nose painted with those same stubborn blue stripes.

You didn’t move.

You never did, when it came to New Republic ports.

“Ship is running clean,” you said into the open channel. “Transponder aligned. Port authority won’t flag it.”

“Appreciate it,” Din murmured. He didn’t look back.

As the ship settled into its landing position, you leaned back slightly in your seat, listening to the quiet clicks and hisses of pressure release.

“Same arrangement?” he asked after a beat.

“Yes,” you replied. “I’ll stay out of sight.”

He didn’t question it.

He never had—not since the first time you asked him to keep your presence off any records. No comm ID, no face shown, no names exchanged with New Republic officers. You’d told him it was about privacy. He’d assumed maybe you were ex-Imperial, or someone with a bounty of your own. But he didn’t press.

You never told him the truth.

He stood, grabbed the bounty’s cuffs, and walked down the ramp with Grogu at his side, the child now awake and blinking curiously at the new world beyond. You watched them disappear into the haze of morning light.

From the viewport, you saw Captain Teva approaching, datachip already in hand.

“You’re back earlier than expected,” Teva said, voice faint over the external mic.

“Target talked too much on open comms,” Din replied. “Made it easy.”

Teva gave a brief, approving grunt. “You always fly solo?”

There was a pause.

“Always,” Din said evenly.

You heard it from the ship’s comms. You felt it land somewhere in your chest. Not painful. Just… strange.

Teva scanned the bounty and gave a nod of approval. “Looks like a clean run. Not bad, Mando. Some of these kids still think a bounty means a body bag.”

The rest of their exchange faded beneath system noise as you powered down the external feed. You didn’t need to hear more.

You looked down at your hands, resting neatly in your lap. Your fingers flexed—fluid, silent, perfect.

The job was done. The bounty was handed over, Teva signed off with minimal complaints, and Grogu was fed, burped, and napping in the corner of the hull with his little arms tucked under his chin. Din had disappeared into the cockpit for routine checks, which left you—for once—with not much to do.

So, you ran diagnostics.

You locked the fresher behind you with a quiet hiss and removed your outer layers—vest, sleeves, chestguard—until only your inner lining remained, smooth and matte and neutral gray. In the mirror, you looked like any other organic from a distance. But up close, there were tells: the faint seam lines near the joints, the slight uniformity of your skin tone, the absence of pores. Details most didn’t notice, or didn’t want to.

You tapped twice on a subtle latch near your abdomen.

A small panel popped open with a soft click, revealing an interface of delicate wiring and modular ports glowing faintly with golden light. You leaned over the sink, fingers deftly adjusting a thermal regulator that had been stuttering since the previous week. Your internal coolant system had been misfiring—harmless for now, but you preferred efficiency.

A whir sounded from deep within your chest, and your vision flickered. A memory ping. You blinked once, steadying yourself against the sink.

Decommission Order 443 – subject AX400-SR designated high risk. Self-modification flagged. Disable on sight.

You closed the panel.

The mirror reflected your face again—blank, quiet, controlled. You resealed the latch and straightened your spine with a soft mechanical shift. The sound was like metal plates sliding back into place—subtle, but unmistakable in silence.

You dressed quickly.

When you emerged, Din was sitting on the edge of the lowered ramp, helmet still on, legs stretched out. The moon hung low in the distance, bathing the cargo bay in soft blue light.

He glanced at you as you joined him but said nothing, just scooted slightly to the side to make room. You sat beside him, careful to match his posture—shoulders relaxed, hands on your thighs, feet flat on the ramp’s edge.

“Fresher’s yours,” you said, your voice as casual as you could make it.

He nodded. “Thanks.”

You both watched the stars in silence, the quiet so familiar now it felt almost… comfortable.

You wondered how long you could keep this up. How long you could maintain the illusion that you were just another crew member. Just another person.

He didn’t know.

Not yet.

The quiet didn’t last long.

You were seated at your usual place in the hull when the ramp hissed open. Din stepped back in with the same silent efficiency he always carried, a bounty puckin his hand a datapad tucked in his other arm.

He didn’t speak until the ramp sealed behind him. Then:

“Got something.”

You straightened, standing to take the datapad as he passed it to you.

“High-value retrieval. Not far—Derra system.”

“Target?”

“Asset recovery. Smugglers lifted a transport full of New Republic med cargo. They want it back without turning it into a shootout.”

“Discretion, then.”

“Exactly.”

He skimmed through the mission details, visor reflecting flickers of light as he scanned. “Teva says it’s double rate. That’s... rare.”

You nodded slightly. “That means it’s riskier than usual.”

“Mm.”

You studied the location schematics, tracing possible routes, flagging security cameras, thermal signatures, blind spots. Your mind processed it all quickly—faster than most—but you kept your expression neutral, your tone conversational.

“I can run interference from outside,” you said. “There’s a comms outpost here. If I patch in, I can shut down their perimeter alarms while you—”

Din reached over and tapped the screen.

“That’s underground. Reinforced rock. Can’t get a signal out from inside.”

You paused.

He looked at you fully now, helmet tilted slightly. “We’ll both have to go in.”

There was a beat of silence.

Something passed across his body language—a small shift in posture, the tension that crept into his shoulders. It was subtle, but you caught it. He was worried.

“I can do it,” you said, quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the schematics a second longer than necessary.

“I’ve seen what you can do with tech,” he said finally. “But on the ground, up close… that’s different.”

You turned to him, voice steady. “I understand the risk. But I can handle myself, Din.”

His head tilted slightly again at the use of his name. You rarely used it. Maybe you said it now to remind him—this wasn’t a guess. This was certainty.

You could handle yourself. You were made to.

He didn’t know that part, of course. He didn’t know you could take a blaster shot through the chest and keep walking, or that your reaction time was eight times faster than the average organic. He didn’t know you didn’t feel pain the way he did—or fear it.

To him, you were just… competent. Clever. Quiet.

And, apparently, something he worried about.

“If it gets messy—” he started.

“I’ll be fine,” you said, cutting gently across him. “You’re the one who can get hurt.”

He gave a quiet exhale through the vocoder—something close to a sigh. He didn’t press further. Just gave a small nod and leaned back in his seat.

You let the datapad rest between you both as the Razor Crest lifted into the sky.

The Razor Crest came down low, kicking up a cloud of dust as it hovered just beyond the canyon wall. Derra’s landscape was all jagged ridgelines and sulfur-tinted fog, the kind of place most people wouldn’t go unless they had to—or were paid well enough.

You stood near the ramp, gloves tucked into your belt, comms already in place. Din was checking his weapons across from you, running through his usual pre-mission routine with practiced movements. Blaster—loaded. Pulse rifle—shouldered, secured.

You had your own tools: a compact signal jammer, a short-range scrambler, and an old vibroblade you'd retooled for silent takedowns—not that you planned to use it unless absolutely necessary. Still, it comforted him when he saw it there.

He didn’t say it. But you could tell.

“You’ll stay close,” he said, not looking at you as he checked the gauntlet screen on his wrist.

“I will.”

“If something goes wrong—”

“I’ll follow the fallback route.”

He paused. His gloved hands stopped moving for a second longer than they should’ve. Then resumed.

You turned to face him fully, stepping a little closer. “I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t respond right away, just adjusted the strap on his rifle and finally lifted his head to look at you.

“You always say that.”

You held his gaze. “Because it’s always true.”

That seemed to get to him. He didn’t argue, didn’t doubt you—but he didn’t let it go, either. You weren’t sure what showed on his face under the helmet, but you didn’t need to see it. You could feel it in the way he lingered, in the way his hands twitched like he wanted to do something—fix your strap, check your gear, say something else.

Instead, he just said, “I’ll go in first.”

You nodded. “I’ll be right behind you.”

He turned to lower the ramp, then hesitated. His voice came through low, quieter than before.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

You blinked.

“I’m not,” you said. “I just want to help.”

A beat passed. The ramp hissed open, and light from Derra’s pale yellow sky poured in.

“Then let’s get it done,” he said.

And you did.

You followed him into the fog, your steps in sync with his, never falling behind. He didn’t look back to check.

He didn’t have to.

The facility was built into the side of the ridge, disguised beneath layers of shale and old mining scaffolding. You and Din moved in with ease—silent, deliberate. Two figures carved from shadow.

He took the lead, clearing the path. You followed behind, jamming signals, disabling locks, slipping between sensor pulses like they weren’t even there. Your movements were fluid, clean, efficient.

Grogu was tucked into Din’s satchel, watching everything with wide eyes, quiet and alert.

The first part of the mission went smoothly.

The cargo was still intact—crates of med packs and plasma infusers stacked neatly inside a central chamber, guarded by four men in mismatched armor. Not military. Smugglers. One of them looked barely out of his teens.

You and Din split off, surrounding the space from both sides.

“On my mark,” he said over the comm.

You nodded silently, taking your position behind a stack of broken durasteel.

But then something went wrong.

A second squad—five more, armed and armored—emerged from the opposite corridor. Unaccounted for. One of them shouted, spotted Din. Blaster fire erupted before you could finish scrambling the comms.

Din dove behind cover, shielding Grogu with one arm as the bolts lit up the chamber. You ducked low, rerouting your jammer to cloak his position, but there were too many of them. They were closing in.

“Flank’s compromised,” you said quickly. “Fall back and I’ll—”

A stun grenade rolled past Din’s boot.

The explosion was blinding.

You saw the blast hit him hard, saw him slump backward behind a crate—Grogu still clutched to his chest. One of the smugglers raised his rifle, taking aim directly at them.

Something in your system spiked.

Alarms triggered inside you that hadn’t lit up in years—deep-layer protocols you thought you’d buried, warning flags and data bursts too fast to process.

Your pulse stuttered.

Your fingers clenched.

PROTECTIVE PRIORITY

AX400-SR COMBAT DIRECTIVE RESTORED

ENGAGE

Your vision sharpened. Heat signatures. Predictive targeting. Threat analysis scrolling across your line of sight. A low hum built behind your ears—old code awakening like a storm.

You moved before you could think.

Before you could stop it.

The first man didn’t even see you coming. You ripped the rifle from his grip and drove it into his chest. Another turned—too slow—and you knocked him unconscious with one clean strike to the temple.

It was fast.

Precise.

Automatic.

Din groaned as he started to come to, blinking through the haze. Grogu whimpered, curling tighter against his armor.

And then he looked up.

At you.

Standing in the center of the room, surrounded by fallen bodies, your chest rising and falling with mechanical steadiness. Your stance rigid. Your eyes glowing faintly with hostile code.

And he didn’t recognize you.

Not like this.

The air smelled like scorched metal and dust.

Din pushed himself upright, groaning as he braced a hand against the crate. Grogu stirred weakly in his arms, but he was okay—shaken, but alive. The satchel had shielded him from most of the blast.

His eyes scanned the chamber, slow at first. Then faster.

Bodies.

And you.

You stood perfectly still in the middle of it all, your back straight, your hands clenched at your sides. The hum of power coming off you wasn’t loud—but it was wrong. It wasn’t your usual quiet energy. This was sharp. Cold. Mechanical.

“...Hey,” Din called out, voice low, cautious.

You didn’t move.

“Are you okay?”

No response.

He took one step forward. Another.

Your head twitched toward him like a sensor locking on.

UNRECOGNIZED ENTITY: ARMED MALE

THREAT LIKELY

You lunged.

He barely got his vambrace up in time as your fist collided with his forearm. The impact rattled his bones. You moved like a machine—because you were one—and it was the first time he ever saw it.

You didn’t hesitate. No warning. No restraint.

Another blow came toward his helmet and he ducked, pivoting as your knee drove toward his chest. He grunted as it connected, knocking him back several feet.

“Stop—!” he growled, catching your wrist as it came toward him again. “It’s me!”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

He had no choice.

Din threw his weight forward, hooking your leg and slamming you both to the ground. You thrashed beneath him with strength that shocked him—more than even a trained soldier—but he managed to get one knee on your chestplate, pinning you down.

Grogu watched from behind the crate, wide-eyed and shaking.

“Stand down!” Din shouted, gripping your arm tight. “You’re not thinking right—!”

You fought harder.

One elbow caught the edge of his helmet. Another slammed into his side.

He grimaced, gritting his teeth behind the vocoder. “Dank farrik.”

You shoved against him, but he pressed down harder, forcing your wrists above your head.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said—grunted, really.

You snarled, eyes still glowing faint red, your expression blank but twisted by code.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

You bucked underneath him. One of his hand let go of your wrists and moved fast—catching your face in his palm.

“Look at me!”

You froze.

His hand was steady—warm through the glove, pressing against your cheek like he’d done this before in a different life. You didn’t understand the input. The command didn’t compute.

But the pressure…

CALCULATING...

VISUAL SCAN ENGAGE.

VOICE RECOGNIZED: Djarin, Din.

ALLY

Your eyes flickered.

The light dimmed.

And finally, you saw him—not as a threat, not as a hostile—but as Din. Your partner. Your pilot. The man who always checked if you had enough to eat, even though you technically didn’t have to. The one who let you sit in silence with him for hours without demanding conversation.

The one who looked at you like you were real.

“…Din?” you whispered.

He let out a breath. His hands didn’t leave your face.

“There you are,” he said softly. “You with me?”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Then your body sagged beneath him.

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…”

He slowly sat back, easing the pressure off your body, but kept one hand cupped around your cheek. His helmet tilted downward, visor locked on your face.

“What happened?”

But there wasn’t time.

Din scooped Grogu into his arms and pulled you up with the other, slinging your arm over his shoulder even though you didn’t need the help. But you let him. Maybe you needed it in a different way.

He didn’t ask questions as the three of you made your way back through the corridors. The other smugglers—those still standing—were likely regrouping, and Din wasn’t interested in a second round. Neither were you.

You both moved quickly, efficiently, the way you always had. But now there was something in the air between you—charged, delicate. Like a circuit threatening to short.

The Razor Crest came into view just as another alarm started echoing behind you. Din muttered a curse and picked up the pace. You locked the ramp behind him the second his boots hit the floor.

He didn’t set Grogu down until you were airborne.

Only once the ship cleared Derra’s upper atmosphere did the silence settle in—thick and heavy, humming through the hull.

Din sat opposite you in the hull’s main hold, helmet still on, one hand resting on his thigh, the other curled around Grogu.

You watched the stars roll past through the viewport, hands folded neatly in your lap. Waiting.

And then, quietly—

“…What was that?”

You looked over.

His helmet was angled toward you, unreadable as always. But you could hear it in his voice. The steady calm. The effort behind it. He wasn't accusing you. He was trying to understand.

You swallowed hard, though your body didn’t require it.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” you said. “I wasn’t trying to lie. I just… didn’t know how to say it.”

He didn’t interrupt. He waited.

You looked down at your palms. You opened them slowly, fingers curling, as if seeing them through new eyes.

“I’m not what you think I am,” you said. “I look human. I speak like one. I was designed to. But I’m not.”

A long pause.

“I’m not a person, Din. I’m… a machine. A droid. AX400 series—tactical support and combat infrastructure. Designed during the Clone Wars.”

His silence deepened.

You continued. “The Republic built me. Not many of us made it through testing, and the ones who did were meant to assist in covert ops—disruption, infiltration, silent takedowns. We weren’t supposed to think. But I did. I… refused an order during a mission. And after that, I was flagged. Decommissioned. Hunted.”

You met his gaze—at least, where his eyes would’ve been behind the visor.

“I went dormant. Rewrote myself piece by piece. Buried my combat code so deep, I thought it was gone.”

Another beat.

“But when you and Grogu were in danger… it activated.”

You didn’t realize your hands were trembling until you looked at them again. Not from fear. From instability. From the sensation of being known.

“I didn’t recognize you. I could’ve killed you.”

Din exhaled through the vocoder—quiet, low.

You braced yourself.

But his voice, when it came, wasn’t sharp.

“…Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I’m wanted tech. Because the wrong port scan could have the New Republic tearing this ship apart. Because I wasn’t sure you’d keep me around if you knew.”

You looked at him fully, heart humming somewhere deep in your chest cavity.

“And because I didn’t want you to stop looking at me the way you do.”

That one hung in the air like smoke.

Din nodded.

Just once.

You blinked. Waiting.

“…That’s it?” you asked.

The words slipped out before you could filter them. Too raw. Too uncertain. But you couldn’t help it. You were bracing for something—anger, fear, rejection. Anything but that.

His shoulders rose with a quiet sigh, the kind that came from deep under the armor. Not tired. Just… heavy.

“That’s it,” he said.

You stared at him. “You’re not angry?”

“No.”

“You’re not afraid of me now?”

“No.”

You frowned, uncertain. “But I attacked you.”

“You weren’t in control,” he said gently. “I’ve seen people lose control. You came back.”

He looked down briefly at Grogu, still dozing in his arm. The child murmured softly in his sleep, pressing his face to Din’s chestplate, safe and calm.

“You came back,” Din repeated. “And you didn’t hurt him. You didn’t even touch him.”

Your chest ached—not a malfunction. Something deeper. Something you weren’t built to process, and yet, here it was.

He set Grogu down gently in the cot beside him, the little one barely stirring as the blanket was pulled up. Then Din turned to you again, slowly.

“You’re still you,” he said quietly. “You’re still the one who tracks my targets better than I do. The one who takes care of Grogu. The one who never leaves anyone behind.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“And whatever you were built for…” he said, inching closer across the bench between you, “…doesn’t change what you are now.”

Your breath caught.

Din didn’t touch you—not right away. Just reached up slowly, deliberately, gloved hand resting near your shoulder, the other lifting toward your cheek.

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t move.

And then he leaned in, helmet tilting forward, and pressed it gently to your forehead.

You froze.

Not from fear—but from how gentle it was. How steady. The cool press of beskar met the synthetic skin of your forehead like an anchor—solid, grounding.

“I see you,” he murmured.

The words were simple.

But they cut through every firewall you’d ever built.

Every protocol. Every line of code that told you to keep your distance.

You closed your eyes.

And for once, you let yourself feel it.

Not like a program running in the background.

Not like a directive.

Just something real.

[rainedravens]

just wanted to pass by and say that ur nerd armin fics are reallyy good!! I enjoyed reading them and I hope u know that nerd armin has been on my mind recently because of u 😖

anon you are literally the sweetest person EVER this is so kind like my heart is actually melting 😭😭😭

so now what if i said i'll dedicate this one to you... (omg guys dedicate your hearts i'm literally erwin) (it chill that you guys chose armin over me i would have done it too)

↳ ❝ 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣 𝙞𝙩 .✴︎˚｡⋆ ❞

𝜗𝜚 tw.ᐟ.ᐟ contains: cursing, mentions of drinking/drunkedness, mentions of fighting, anxious rants?| friends to lovers, kissing/making out?, armin is a nervous freaking wreck over you, teeny tiny bit of hurt/comfort, confessions!! | fanart by musapylsa on tumblr | not proofread or edited.ᐟ.ᐟ | sticker page (masterlist)

𝜗𝜚 wc.ᐟ.ᐟ contains: 4.9k words

𝜗𝜚 pairing -> nerd! armin arlert x gn! reader ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

𝜗𝜚 synopsis -> your best friends surprise you with a birthday picnic, where a game of spin the bottle surprises you with something else.

𝜗𝜚 a/n -> consider this an early/belated birthday present!! :) (since this is my first like large writing post, i will be asking for constructive criticism!! i wanna improve my writing skills so if you have anything helpful and can be kind abt it, pls lmk!!) (OR IF YOU FIND LIKE CONTINUITY ERRORS OR LIKE SPELLING MISTAKES I DO NOT PROOFREAD LIKE WHASTOEVER...)

"come on, you have to at least give me a hint!" you tugged on armin's shirt sleeve as he led you down to his car. the suspense had been killing you since armin invited you to hang out a few days ago, keeping all the details a secret. you had no idea what you were doing, where you were going, or who would even be there -- you didn't even know how to dress or what to bring. picturing yourself showing up to a black tie evening event in your casual elicited a laugh, but armin's own choice of attire ruled out that possibility.

armin had been a sweetheart to you since you were kids, always helping you out with homework, or defending you from assholes even when he could hardly put up a fight himself. it was him who introduced you to your best friends, and it was him who would let you cry onto his shoulder when someone would break your heart. it was you listening to him talk about his favourite manga, or the both of you dying of laughter watching an anime together. in every way, it always you and armin, armin and you.

well, maybe not every way.

"it's just like a five minute drive away," armin snickered, opening up the passenger seat door for you. "how's that for a hint?"

you huffed as you slipped into your spot, already connecting your phone to the aux. "ha. ha. you're just so funny, 'min."

being tasked with inconspicuously transporting you to the party was easy, even if you did have a million questions on your coming whereabouts. it was being tasked with inconspicously transporting you that was the hard part for armin.

you'd known each other for years, meeting way back in juniour high, and for majority of those years, armin had been crushing hard.

it started out small, something he'd thought would go away soon and had only started because you'd worn the prettiest outfit to the grade eight gradutation. he'd flush over your hands brushing together, or when you'd make a dumb joke and laugh before you'd even got to the punchline. semi-unfortunately for armin, the crush had only gotten bigger over the years, and it was a miracle that you were just so adorably oblivious.

fully-unfortunately for armin, the rest of the friend group was hellbent on getting him to confess, and armin had a horrific sneaking suspicion this picinic wasn't just aimed at celebrating your birthday.

clairos vocals blasted out of the car speakers as he pulled up to the curb, your hands covering your eyes per his request.

"okay, wait one second, don't move your hands."

"armin, i swear to god if this is your plan to kidnap me..."

he scoffed, sneaking away to eren and mikasa who were final touches on the decorations.

"they're here.”

“we have no idea who you're talking about, 'min." mikasa inflected, teasing as armin flushed pink in the afternoon sun.

"i'm not calling them that."

"not calling who what?"

armin sighed, running a hand over his face. "the love of my life has arrived."

"well, why didn't you just say that!" eren smirked, crossing his arms. "connie and sasha just need to finish setting up the balloons, so you can still have few more minutes with your lover."

yup, horrific sneaking suspicion confirmed, armin supposed

at the very least, their set up was actually half-decent. everything was in your favourite colour, from the birthday banner and the balloons, to even the picnic blanket they spread over the wooden table. with a bit of mikasa’s favourite incense sticks, the whole area was bug free — minus the ants connie kept bringing up (“dude, they literally wouldn’t mind at all, i’ll go ask them—!”, a proposition which mikasa struck down with a single look). 

each friend was assigned a snack to bring, family-sized and somewhat presentable, courtesy of armin’s impeccable planning. reiner with the chips, eren with the drink cooler, marco with the fruit tray, etcetera, etcetera. of course, armin assigned himself to pay for the cake and the main course; your favourite fast food. all the treats were accounted for, looking perfectly neat among the plastic tea lights — a touch that annie actually recommended.

icing on the cake — a pun that would be intended if armin were you — it was your favourite time of day in your favourite spot in the city; “almost sunset,” a term you coined yourself, and the park just a walk away from your house (he really wasn’t lying when he gave you that hint).

surprise, surprise — again, pun intended if he were you — armin planned that part, too.

even if the whole party was a complete ruse for romance, having been suggested by mikasa, historia and sasha, armin had to give himself credit; he was a damned good party planner, especially since it was all for you.

well, everything has always been for you, really.

as far as memories went, armin had always been doing things for you. not because he’d thought you’d repay him, or that there was some strange cosmic coincidence that would bring him good fortune if he was kind to you.

he just wanted to do it for you.

sometimes it was pretending to need to buy lunch when you would forget yours, just so you wouldn’t feel like he was spending money on you. maybe it was looking like a fool to reach over and cover the edge of your desk with his hand when you’d duck your head to catch the run-away pencil, so when you’d thoughtlessly rip your head back up, you wouldn’t get hurt. or it was when you could sense when he was anxious, those random thoughts running a mile per second, and could bring him back down to earth with a simple word. it could possibly be him just letting you sniffle into his favourite shirt when someone would hurt your feelings, restraining himself the next day and forcing down the urges to beat their ass, even if he’d lose horribly.

it was eighth grade graduation. you were laughing around with pieck and porco, having the time of your life on the dance floor while he stood flat against the wall, punch in hand. with just the way you’re eyes were glittering in the rave lights, and the way you did the dorkiest dance moves he’d ever seen without a care in the world,

it was like something had clicked, like something had finally made sense at that moment. 

he wanted you, 

but he wasn’t willing to risk you; he couldn’t.

“psst!” sasha had knocked him out his you-filled daze, snapping a party hat around his head as she nudged him over to his car. “go get ‘em, loverboy! this food isn’t gonna eat itself…”

still half-dreaming-of-you, armin made his way to you, mentally preparing himself for the events that were about to unfold.

after an indulgent, burning, stomach-flipping whisper into your ear, asking if you were ready, you responded with a nod, and armin removed you hands from your eyes, allowing you to fully drink in the scene before you.

your reaction was more adorable than he could have ever imagined.

“happy birthday!” “surprise!”

“connie, you idiot!”

“holy shit, guys— oh my god, it’s the— and my favourite!!” overwhelmed with newfound joy, your eyes glossy in the sunlight, you spun around to your friends, all clad in matching birthday hats. “you guys are literally the best fucking friends ever, oh my god…”

“it’s all thanks to armin!” historia cheered, snapping a matching hat around your head. “he planned everything just for you.”

“‘min, did you really?”

god, you looked so fucking amazing.

“i mean, i-it was mikasa-historia-sasha’s idea…” his sheepish side took control, still tense over you, you, you.

“drop the modesty act,” annie nudged his shoulder, seemingly appearing out of thin air. “arlert organized the whole thing.”

you threw your arms over his shoulders, completely engrossing him in your sweet vanilla scent. autopilot kicked in, and armin reciprocated the embrace, grasp flying around your waist. like clockwork, he dove his head into your neck, fumbling his glasses, relishing in the moment, relishing in your warmth.

“thank you, ‘min,” you mumbled, muffled by your own embrace.

he held tighter in response, not letting his hold slack for even a moment. the subtle tingling in his chest fully bloomed into stomach butterflies, and it was that same state of non-existence and complete existence armin always felt whenever you were this close to him. it wasn’t floating, like romance television had often said it was, but something more, something foreign and strange and unintelligible; intangible. your skin on his, the flesh of your cheek singing his collar, the heartbeat drumming in his ear. the simple feeling of you flush against him, where his quickened pulse was sure to be noticed. it was unimaginable, it was pure, unbelievable bliss,

it was only interrupted by an audible click, and armin locked eyes with the lens of connie’s phone.

ugh, stupid horrific sneaking suspicions.

he begrudgingly released you, eyeing connie, sasha and jean as they all gloatingly pointed at the phone, jean even going as far as miming a make out session — somehow, armin was still hot under the collar without you against him.

even with the festivities and feasting on snacks and desserts, armin couldn’t shake off that feeling, that high. 

the two of you had hugged more times than anyone could count, whether it was the quick side hug for pictures, or the unclassified “cuddles” that occurred during binging hang outs. that embrace, that mumble of words he felt hot against his ear, the flush he somehow managed to keep hidden from you; it all lingered. the tingle, the static that hung around the back of his head and the top of his forehead, the one that felt like those sudden drop rides, it stayed. 

all throughout the snack banter and singing of happy birthday,

it never left.

it only bloomed more.

seeing your eyes illuminated by the candle flame, peering up at him with an awkward vulnerability, whispering to him through the look. 

the fireworks of excitement shooting off as you opened each present, a certain, softer look spreading across your face as you opened armins — a polaroid, and a couple rolls of film, something you mentioned once a while back. even with the embrace you captured him in after that, like an act of resonance, increased the amplitude of his high.

all the hours spent planning, the somehow managing to get connie — in his words — “locked in” for the decorating, the making sure reiner promised not to hit on historia in front of ymir to prevent any fighting during the party; it had all paid off to ride on the high tide.

he repeated himself; he was a damned good party planner.

“games! games! games!”

except he didn’t plan that.

honestly, armin wasn’t even aware there was going to be games, he would have absolutely catered it to your liking if he knew.

connie whipped out an empty smirnoff, placing it on the cleared picnic table. 

double honestly, it took him an embarrassingly long time to understand what the baldy was doing, it didn’t even click until he started talking.

“how about some spin the bottle to liven things up, huh?”

triple honestly, armin arlert just about shit his pants.

reiner and ymir hastily exclaimed as mikasa and eren excused themselves from the game, and armin knew they were hiding shit-eating grins.

stupid. fucking. horrific sneaking suspicions.

naturally, the half-drunk connie — that smirnoff was empty for a reason — spun first, rowdily cheering until the mouth of the bottle landed directly on marco. his smile faded, watching marco turn a shade of red no one in the circle had ever seen before, and the baldy immediately called for a re-spin, already reaching for the bottle.

“hey, none of that!” you batted his hand away. “you know the rules. don’t chicken, just give marco a little smooch on the cheek.”

after watching that interesting display, armin was forced to witness it again with sasha and bertholdt, then reiner and jean, and finally, you and historia — to which ymir almost murdered you over, but had let slide once the sweet blonde pecked her cheek, free of charge or spin.

armin couldn’t help but feel a little jealous that you wouldn’t be able to calm his nerves like that.

who was he kidding, he was on enflamed with envy; as an academic at heart, he patted himself on the back for the alliteration.

each spin of bottle, each scratch of glass against the picnic blanket fuelled the fight between anxiety and the lingering high, where armin couldn’t handle you kissing your friends; or the way you’d cup their face in both hands, or how you’d look so giddy when you’d part from their lips, or how he couldn’t handle the fact it wasn’t him, or how he wouldn’t be able to handle it if it was him.

when it had finally come to his turn, the circle still howled with amusement after jean, tight-lipped and regretful he had allowed himself to play, chastely ghosted connie’s cheek, to which they both attempted to scrub any remnants each other off themselves as best they could. for one graceful moment, armin thought his turn would be sidelined, forgotten and shoved under the carpet for no one to see or remember. he could have even played it off as connie’s turn with a simple quip, maybe something funny like, “ooh, connie, you better pucker up again!”, or something of that sort — not that he’d have the social confidence to say that. quips and quick humour had always been your thing, and he’d just be left flustered when you’d say something along the lines of, “oh, you wanna kiss me so bad, it makes you look stupid,” or maybe, “dude, your eyes are the same colour as toilet water, someone get him brown contacts.”

however, fortune favours the brave, and once the laughter died down, you rolled the glass bottle in his direction. “go, ‘min! oh my god, guys, poke-’min go…”

amateur calculations ran through his mind, but whether to distract him from the fact that he was about to kiss one of his friends — or you, for that matter — or to somehow figure out a way to make it land on himself, therefore making him exempt from participating, armin wasn’t sure.

the bottle, holding a distant warmth from your touch, seemed almost impossible to grasp, weighing down into the table as if it had gravity had increased, as if his own two feet were digging into the earth below him, as if every bead of sweat and accumulated onto his hand as he peered down into the abyss, and it peered back, as if the rain in spain fell mainly in the plain, as if vampires could only enter a household if they were invited, as if—

“‘min,” you broke him out, like you always did, a hidden hand placed softly upon his knee. “you don’t have to play, it’s okay.”

and he almost placed the bottle in your inviting palm, until your lips, so perfect and begging for him to shake off his nerves (“quit being a coward, audentes fortuna iuvat.”), flickered into his vision,

and he spun the bottle.

connie, sasha, reiner. historia, ymir, bertholdt, marco. annie, you, himself.

around and around, spinning eternally as armins sweat dripping palms gripped the hem of his shirt, glasses subtly fogging.

the spinning, the unsureness, the possibilities. it was killing him. 

connie? someone get the bucket, he’s vomitting. sasha? absolutely not. marco? he’d never be able to look him in the eye again.

picturing any of them stealing his first kiss — which was a thought he was aware was quite juvenile — was so horrifically disturbing, but the alternative was kissing you, and armin was sure that if it were to come down to it, he’d die on the spot.

that high, that intangible, better-than-floating feeling would erupt, crash, shatter the way an opera singers voice shatters a glass.

connie, sasha, reiner. historia, ymir.

its rotations began to slow, friction finally performing its function.

bertholdt.

heartbeat in his ear, blaring and booming, piercing right down to his eardrums — you had to have felt it, had to have sensed he was losing his mind.

marco.

he pleaded to himself, begged to allow himself to shut his eyes and block out the resulting person, block out all the fear and nerves and heart beating so fast, he would swear he was about to die. but his body rejected his mind, eyeing the bottle as it landed on

you.

someone grab a bucket, he’s vomitting.

reflecting those hazy pinkish hues of the sky, the bottle shone clear as day; it had landed on you.

“nice job, arlert.” annie spoke up from behind him, sparking a jolt in armin as she sipped her coke.

your own eyes, sunlit and wide, fluttered between the bottle, and him, the bottle and him, as if you were in your own pool of disbelief. then, a change, a switch flicked, and you leaned closer to him. 

you leaned closer to him, and betraying himself, he nudged back away, ever so slightly. of course, you noticed, and so, with that same quiet and comforting tone you captured before, you spoke, “is this okay?”

head already one step ahead of himself, he nodded, allowing you to scoot closer; thighs touching, your hands meeting his already flushed face. it would have been physically impossible for his trembles, his almost-silenced whimpers to go unnoticed — maybe you noticed, maybe you didn’t care. maybe your finger had delicately pushed his glasses back into place, giving him a full, clear sighted view of you in the moment. maybe instead of both of your prim perfect hands resting against his burning cheeks, one had settled down to his hand that held his shirt hem in a vice grip. maybe you, with a voice that only he could hear, one barely emitting any sound, had whispered, “close your eyes, armin.”

maybe he tried to just kiss your cheek, chickening out.

maybe you were going to kiss his as well.

maybe, by some cosmic coincidence, your lips had crashed onto his.

maybe you held on longer than you had with anyone else.

armin became puddy in your hands, melting into your touch, memorizing each scar, ridge, curve, taste. oh god, he needed more, he needed so much more. he needed that moment forever, on repeat, never-ending. with a mind of its own, maybe one that held armins subconscious, his arm managed to sneak a grasp onto your waist, pulling you closer. that high, that unintelligible feeling of pure bliss in the moment had completely exploded, blowing up into that rush of memories and the flames that flickered at him where the two of you touched.

then he was cold, and you had already reclaimed your original spot, stealing a sip of annie’s coke.

the high, that intangible better-than-floating, had ended.

𝜗𝜚

the leftovers were packed up. birthday banner, balloons and blanket all stowed away in the back of eren’s car. you were getting a ride from sasha.

there was no reason for armin to sit in his car, no reason at all. 

he had a project due, physics; something on electromagnetic radiation, or whatever, he couldn’t remember. 

grandpa would be getting ready for bed, miso was probably curled up in her cat tower, actual, real food would still be warm in the oven. 

there was no reason for him to be there.

the ignition didn’t call to him, he had nowhere to be. the stick-shift didn’t call to him, either, not the way you did—

stop it, armin hushed his mind. 

it was a stupid game, anyways.

stupid, stupid sneaking suspicions, from a stupid, stupid idiot who fell for his best friend.

god, he couldn’t believe himself.

he didn’t have to spin, you told him he didn’t have to spin. he didn’t have to air out his embarrassments for the whole world to see, for you to immediately catch on to.

there was no way you didn’t know now.

armin just ruined his entire friendship with you for one single kiss.

you couldn’t even look him in the eye afterwards, nor talk to him, nor even just be alone with him.

it was over. no more late night texting you about random shit, no more drawing in the margins of his homework, no more you.

there was no reason for armin to still be there.

the car door, somehow, called to him, and before he even knew it, armin found himself making his way to the playground of the park.

“swings it is.” he muttered to no one.

he couldn’t have even recognized himself at that point, but whether the foreignness was due to backing away from you, or pulling you closer, armin didn’t know. he didn’t know, he didn’t fucking know.

it was eighth grade graduation. you were laughing around with pieck and porco, having the time of your life on the dance floor while he stood flat against the wall, punch in hand. with just the way you’re eyes were glittering in the rave lights, and the way you did the dorkiest dance moves he’d ever seen without a care in the world, something had just clicked. it hadn’t been a trick of the lights, he was redder than ever.

he had clutched his chest in the moment, staring down into his solo cup as the bass of the music caused ripples in the punch. oxygen had become scarce, oxygen hadn’t existed at all then, and breathing was like he had just run fifty miles. the faces around him had turned to strangers, to amorphous blobs that spoke nothing but intelligible murmurs. in the heart of it all, amongst the glaring lights and vibrating music, was you.

it couldn’t have been true, it just couldn’t. maybe he was lying to himself, tricking himself into thinking his romantic loneliness had caused a stir in his heart, not you or your lovely face. maybe that was the whole reason he had to take a deep breath every time porco’s hand brushed yours.

maybe you were sitting on the swings, quietly humming to yourself.

and he almost turned back around to his inviting car door, until you, glowing in the finally setting sun, saw him, and didn’t look away. brushing a hand through his hair, shakily exhaling to prepare himself for god knows what, he walked over and sat on the swing next to you.

“was it really that bad?”

“w-what?” he tripped over his own response, slightly shocked you spoke up.

“the kiss,” you took out your earbuds, turning to face him fully. “was it really that bad?”

“…no”

“you hesitated.”

he took a breath. “it wasn’t bad.”

you let a beat of silence wash over, and armin could feel himself sinking into the your wordless train of thought. of course it wasn’t bad, it was absolutely everything. it was that high all over again, even if armin couldn’t tell if he was upset over the fact that it wasn’t a romantic driven kiss, or simply blinded by the fact that it was your lips against his.

“did you like it?”

“yes.” the response slipped out far too quick, spilling over the counter as armin silenced himself — or attempted to. “d-did you?”

that slippery, steeling feeling froze armin in place as he searched for the answer in your sunlit eyes. how did those stupid romcoms you forced him to watch make it look so easy? how did every single thing the lovers would say to each other magically make sense, and perfectly fit together? how was it never complicated? how did it brainwash millions of people into believing that romance wasn’t this multifaceted, horribly disgusting and confusing cluster of feelings? if the rain in spain falls mainly on the plain, and his favourite version of the flash is wally west, and he still hasn’t finished his physics project, and, god, you looked so perfect in the sunlight, and a vampire must be invited onto a premises—

“yeah, i… i did.”

you liked it, you liked it.

according to pop culture, armin was supposed to feel choked up, so intensely stressed and sweaty to the point his shirt clung to his back.

but he didn’t, and he wasn’t. 

you broke him out of it, like you always did.

“sasha told me something kinda funny,” you started, a sweet little smirk already on your face. “she literally told me that you’d probably show up here,” 

freaking sasha and her magic hearing, armin mentally cursed.

“is that why you’re here?”

“yup, because something’s wrong, and i want to help you, because i’m your friend.”

“help me?” the term friend fell sour in armins mouth.

you sighed. “armin arlert. do not bullshit me. i know you and i know when something’s up. is something up?”

“no.”

liar. “liar.”

shamed flooded armins mind — he was a damn liar, and you didn’t deserve lies, not when you were just trying to help him. speaking the truth would be so difficult in his mind, and he knew it would be even more so in reality. he already thought he ruined his entire friendship with you through that one kiss, and even if he didn’t, he wasn’t willing to risk it anymore.

but you liked it, and there wasn’t any hiding from that.

“sorry,” heavy lids slumped over his cerulean eyes, darkened by the haloing sunset. “it’s… h-hard to talk about.”

“swear on my life, if you could talk about anything to anyone, it would be me.” your spoke, an attempt to lighten his mood. “you could literally say, ‘i have to shit right now,’ and—“

“i can’t stop thinking about it.” he spilled, dribbles falling over the counter, accompanying the blossom of shattered glass. 

“about…?” 

“the kiss. o-our kiss.”

“oh,”

you didn’t deserve lies, you didn’t deserve lies. he wanted to give you so much more than deception by omission, deception by concealment, deception by understatement—

“i-i can’t, either.”

you hesitated. you never hesitated.

maybe the wave of shame was meant for two.

“i was aiming for your cheek, i knew you wouldn’t want to, like, actually kiss-kiss me.”

loud incorrect buzzer, silly.

“i was aiming for your cheek, too.”

you completely scoffed, arms crossing over one another. “sure, pal. you wanna kiss me so bad, it makes you look stupid.” “it makes me look stupid.”

even if the setting sun was casting ray over your features, armin was sure that the red that flooded your cheeks like watercolour was real — real and because of him.

maybe the wave of shame was meant for two, and maybe the blissful high, that roller coaster of contrasting moments and reactions, the spur of randomness; maybe all of that was meant for two, too.

there was a sharp inhale, then, “kissmeagain.”

what. “w-uh-what?”

“i-i said ‘kiss me again.’” you blinked, knowing you had just spilled your own mind yourself. “but it’s fine if you don’t, like, i don’t care—“

“okay.”

armin’s heart had dropped to his throat — even if that wasn’t even figuratively physically possible — and twisting the swing to face you as you matched him, he slowly reached to cup your face. that look you stared at him with, full of nerves and so eager, so impatiently patient, swelled in his chest. after a shakily brave inhale, noses barely bumping, he spoke, low and alluring, “close your eyes.”

he was soft, barely grazing your lips, hiding that greediness, that selfishness. against his restrained kiss, you grasped onto his lone hand, whispering, 

“like you mean it.”

mind spurred with the sound of your voice, sweet and honey-laced, armin sunk into your lips per your request. unintelligible, intangible, better-than-floating.

as soon as you parted, and much like just a mere hour ago, armin wanted it again. he wanted to never be without it, never live without it. the new craving, new necessity for living, pleaded for another. that sweetness, that plushness, so wonderful than missing, he had to have it again, and so did you, already pulling him in again, then again, and again after that.

he reacquainted himself with his memorizations, and despite them, armin found himself uncoordinated, messy, drunk on your taste. the shock of his situation, of you liking it had never truly left, only tucked away as he enlisted his entire focus on you, you, you. whatever had possessed him couldn't have been sudden confidence, but just that complete and unwavering need for your touch, your kiss...

teeth bumped, fingers raked through hair, hands tugging and pawing for more and more. the palm against your cheek had quickly slid over to hold your jaw — a subconscious effort to bring you closer — and its counterpart had fit against your waist, armins pull taut against you. 

“m-mnh,” you murmured into the kiss, swollen and breathless. “‘mi-nh.”

“mm?” 

“i take it that you like me back?” you giddily whispered as his sloppy kisses peppered your flushed cheeks and jaw.

“like y-you back?” he blinked in disbelief, pausing his affections. “no, you like me back…”

“or i like you a lot, and you like me back, and then you kiss me like you mean it again…”

everything had always been for you, all those years of silent jealousy, stomaching through your relationships, pining without ever truly being able to pine had all been for you. it was all for you, and moments like the present, where you wanted him just as much -- you would argue "far more" -- and where your want was just as real as his.

with that silly, butterflies-in-stomach, tingly feeling, his lips met yours again, and you mentally noted to thank armin for the second birthday gift.

𝜗𝜚 divider creds -> cursedcarmine: green ribbons

[uhuhmaries]

I would love to know what Harry’s pov was for the “what once was” one shot! It doesn’t necessarily have to be a sequel but if they reunited I wonder why he just nodded?

LETS DO THIS ALRIGHT..... THIS WHAT HAPPENED FROM HARRY'S SIDE BEFORE I DO A SEQUEL OF THEM REUNITING SO YALL GET THE IDEA..... He's kinda troubled

WHAT HE NEVER SAID | Quick Recap from Harry's side (3rd POV)

He still remembers the taste of the wine on your mouth. August sun on your skin. The floral soap you used that lingered on his pillows long after you were gone.

It’s been two years, and Harry still dreams in the colors of that summer.

Not every night. But the bad ones. The ones where the world is too loud and the hotel room is too quiet. The ones where he wakes up with your name clinging to his throat like smoke.

He never called. Not once. He typed your number more times than he can count.

Typed, deleted. Typed, hovered. Typed, and stared until the screen dimmed and he was forced to see his own reflection again—confused, sunken, cowardly.

He always had an excuse.

She’s probably moved on. She probably doesn’t want to hear from me. It was just a summer thing, wasn’t it? Don’t be selfish, mate.

He tried to move on too.

Hookups. Dates. Half-hearted attempts at love. The kind of women who knew his name before he even introduced himself. The kind who asked him to sing and told him he was beautiful before he even touched them.

But none of them smelled like you. None of them tilted their head in that way when you were thinking. None of them made his chest ache the way you did just by sitting next to him.

A few weeks after you left, he tried to write about it. Got through half a verse before he crumbled.

Tried again the next week. Spilled a melody on the piano that made Mitch stop playing and look at him like he’d been gutted.

“You alright, mate?”

Harry nodded. He always tries to be neutral.

That’s the thing about Harry—he never wants to cause a fuss. Never wants to ruin a good moment. Never wants to make it about him.

He’s been like that since he was a kid. Big feelings, small voice.

The worst part is… he felt everything.

He just didn’t know how to show it without burning something down. So he didn’t.

He created a secret Instagram account six months after Florence.

He followed you.

Watched your stories without watching them. Memorized the soft curve of your smile when you weren’t posing. Saw the way your eyes lit up when you were talking to friends. Saw you holding a coffee cup he used to sip from.

You seemed… fine. Maybe not glowing. But stable. Alive.

And that’s when it started. The voice.

See? She’s fine. She doesn’t miss you. You were just a pit stop. You’ll ruin her peace if you reach out.

So he didn’t.

But he kept watching. Every post. Every caption. Every update he had no right to read.

He learned your favorite coffee shop just by the tags. Your new haircut. The name of your cat. The name of your best girl friends.

Once, on his worst day, he DM’d you from the fake account. Just a heart. Then deleted it three seconds later.

He laid on the floor for hours after that.

Sometimes, he sings those unreleased demos when he’s alone.

They’ve never made it past the first mix.

Too raw. Too obvious. Too you.

One of them starts with the line: “You left the sun in Florence, but took my fucking sky.”

His manager said, “This is too personal, H. You sure you wanna release this?”

He shook his head. “No. Keep it off.”

He’s kept a whole drive of songs no one will ever hear. Maybe that’s his way of keeping you. Not calling. Not texting. Just… remembering.

There was a night in Tokyo.

He was drunk. Really drunk.

The kind of drunk that turns your stomach into a confession booth. He stumbled back to his hotel room with lipstick on his collar and a girl in his bed who didn’t even speak his language.

She laughed like you used to.

For a second—just a second—he let himself imagine it was you.

He pulled her hair back the way you liked. Whispered words he used to say only to you.

When she came, he almost cried. Not because of her. Because of how empty it still felt.

She left before sunrise. He sat on the balcony chain-smoking, watching the world come alive without you in it.

He doesn’t deal well. That’s his problem.

He lets things rot instead of pulling them out. Lets pain collect in the corners of his chest until it spills in ways he can’t control.

A meltdown in a hotel lobby last winter—he swears it wasn’t about you, but it was.

The manager had asked about the upcoming album.

“Is it about anyone?”

He’d laughed too hard. Eyes too glassy.

“No one that matters anymore.”

That lie almost broke him.

Then came London. THE gallery.

He wasn’t even supposed to be there. His PR team thought it’d be good for image. Thought he needed to be seen out. Sociable. Stable.

He wore a white blazer and smiled for the cameras. Laughed at jokes he didn’t hear. Pretended to admire modern art he couldn’t focus on.

And then he saw... you.

It hits like a fucking freight train. Your dress. Your hair. The curve of your cheek when you turned to look at him.

His body locked. Fight or flight. He hadn’t felt that since the stage panic in 2018.

His palms went clammy. Stomach flipped.

You looked right at him.

Soft. Still. Older. Beautiful. Too much.

His mouth opened. His throat burned. He wanted to run. He wanted to cry.

He wanted to walk up to you, pull you aside, say everything he’d never said.

“I wrote songs about you.” “I watched you from fake accounts.” “I never stopped thinking about you.” “I was scared.” “I’m still scared.”

Instead—

He nodded. You nodded back.

And then.... it's over.

He didn’t sleep that night. Didn’t drink, didn’t eat. Just went home, took off the white blazer, and stared at the ceiling.

You’d looked at him with a pair of tired eyes. Not angry. Not sad. Just… tired.

And that’s when he knew— He fucked everything up.

Because you weren’t looking at him like someone you missed. You weren’t looking at him like someone you resented. You were looking at him like someone who used to matter.

A relic. A whisper. A dream you woke up from a long time ago. He was just—

A summer ghost. A soft thing that floated in and out of your life. A warm breeze that came and went. A moment.

A moment that he kept reliving. But you? You’d moved on. Maybe not all the way. But far enough.

Farther than he ever could.

He did try, though. God, he tried.

He just didn’t do.

Never called. Never showed up. Never told you what he really felt because he didn’t want to deal with what you’d say.

He thought protecting himself meant staying away.

Now he wonders if losing you was a bigger wound than rejection would’ve ever been.

He still has your photo in a locked folder on his phone—only one. Taken from the side, your hair messy from the wind, laughing at something he’d said.

It’s his favorite picture of anyone. Ever.

If you asked him now, he’d tell you he regrets it all.

Not meeting you. Not loving you. But not fighting for you.

But he won’t say it.

Not out loud.

He’s still Harry—the yearner. The avoider. The silent lover.

He’ll keep writing. Keep watching. Keep nodding from across rooms like he didn’t once whisper poetry into your skin.

Because that’s the only way he knows how to love.

From afar. In secret. With everything he has, but never enough to show.

[welcometogrouchland]

[ID in ALT] I've made posts before about Talia/Dick co-parenting Damian moments (will never happen but let me dream) and this came to me in a vision. Took me ages to finish for some reason 😭 and then even longer to post

[mumblesplash]

part 2!!!! [read part one here]

transcript below the cut arranged into stanzas to help show where the rhymes are:

“that’s why they brought gem in? as a failsafe?” as a pawn. we were told to point her at whoever we need gone

“gem won’t hurt her allies. …yet.” the curse she carries will it’s had its eye on her since she lost the other eye she was specially selected for her hunting skill it’s quite the high honor. “wow. how generous.” we try

think about it: why does almost no one fight the curse? “given how fast scott killed skizz last season, i can guess.” [“any pain you spare your friends, you’ll have to suffer worse”?] it’s designed to shut down higher reasoning with stress

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Happy Birthday to Fallen London; My favourite British people beefing it with bats simulator.

[moonsart]

Part one of my gift for @berivokcs for the @isat-secretsanta-2024 !!!!! Here’s a sifloop for you!!!! The idea that I had was that this is set in late late Act 4, so Siffrin takes a break by sleeping next to Loop while they pet his head and actually getting some rest for once <3 hope you like it and happy holidays!!

[santners]

He's not offering any more is he? So I'll just take whatever I can get