#yeah this is long enough to go in the tag I think

[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.” 

---

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[bunnynova]

LET ME IN YOUR OCEAN, SWIM

𐙚⋆.˚ - Pairings: Blade, Dan Heng, Anaxa, Phainon, Mydei (seperate) x Fem!Reader 𐙚⋆.˚ - Warnings: Multiple Orgasms/Several rounds, Pussy eating, Fingering, Pet names, PnV, Creampies, filthy tbh, rough sex, dirty talk, praise?, degrading? spitting, cockwarming, marking? choking kinda ? aphrodisiac usage in Anaxas (all I could think of?) 𐙚⋆.˚ - Words: 5.1k

𐙚⋆.˚ - A/n: This content is 18+ MNDI. I hope you enjoy it! Requests are open!! I want it to be known as well all of my fics are written with a plus sized reader in mind - but that doesn't mean you can't read it with a different body type! I do not mention hair textures/color same with skin tones. I do try to be as inclusive as possible. Not proofread either. 𐙚⋆.˚ - Notice: You can filter your content in the event it is not for you, under blog settings if any of tags used you will not see content relating to this. MINORS, AGELESS, BLANK BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED. UPDATE YOUR PROFILE BEFORE INTERACTING OR FOLLOWING.

You weren’t sure how it started, maybe it was the teasing brush of his fingers under the dinner table, or the way he’d whispered filth into your ear in passing, voice rich with promise. But now, your wrists were bound behind your back, the leather biting softly into your skin as you straddled Blade’s lap. His cock sat heavy and full inside you, stretching you so deeply it ached, in the most delicious, maddening way.

He reclined like a king on his throne, arms tucked lazily behind his head, chest bare and gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat. Those sunset hues raked over your trembling body, half-lidded and brimming with heat. That smirk, gods, that wicked smirk, curled at the corners of his mouth like he already knew just how wrecked you’d be by the end of the night.

“Go on then, baby,” he rasped, his voice rolling like thunder low in his chest.

 “Been whining for my cock all day. Let’s see you work for it. take what you need. Such a greedy little thing," Blade taunts, voice a low rasp against your ear. "So desperate for my cock, you don't care about anything else."

Your legs were already trembling from the relentless grind, thighs aching as you tried to keep pace, to stay steady. The stretch of him inside you was near overwhelming, and every motion, every slow, downward grind of your hips sent waves of pleasure rippling up your spine. You moaned softly, breath stuttering as your walls clenched around him.

His gaze darkened.

“There you go,” he murmured, finally reaching up, fingertips skimming up your sides before curling around the soft weight of your breast. He thumbed your nipple, circling it slowly, then pinching just enough to make you gasp.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Just like that. Such a good girl when you're desperate for me.”

You whimpered as your hips stuttered, sinking down onto him again with a wet slap. He was so deep it felt like he was in your throat, and the drag of him inside your soaked cunt sent sparks dancing across your vision.

“You’re not getting help until I feel you fall apart,” he growled, tightening his grip on your tit as he sat up slightly, nipping your collarbone with his teeth. “And even then… fuck. I might just keep watching. You look so fucking perfect like this. Fucked-out. Shaking. Begging.” His voice rasped, laced with a lustful tone. 

Blade’s hand left your chest just long enough to reach beside the bed, fingers curling around his phone. He flicked open the camera, switching to video mode without missing a beat. “Yeah... I need to remember this,” he muttered as he hit record, holding it up to capture your flushed, ruined expression. “Don’t stop, baby. Show me how hungry you are.”

He slammed his free hand down on your ass with a sharp smack, the sting radiating through your body and making your walls flutter around him. The sheer force of it knocked you forward, a sharp gasp falling from your lips as your forehead dropped to his shoulder.

“Please, Blade,” you choked out, voice thin and high. “I can’t, too much.. please”

His eyes flicked up, full of smug amusement, his phone still recording. “Is that right?” he mused, tongue flicking over his lower lip. “Didn’t you say you needed it so bad earlier you’d do anything for me?” He clicked his tongue, slipping the phone aside. “Tired already, and I’ve barely touched you.”

He set the device down, then reached around and untied the binds at your wrists with deliberate slowness. The moment they fell free, he gripped your hips hard and flipped you with practiced ease, pinning you beneath him before you could even gasp.

The loss of control made your breath catch.

“Brace yourself,” he murmured against your throat, his cock still buried to the hilt inside you, pulsing with anticipation. “You’ve had your chance to ride me, now it’s my turn to ruin you.”

His mouth found yours, devouring you with a kiss that tasted like lust and triumph. One hand laced with yours above your head, the other gripping your thigh and hitching it up, opening you wide. He pulled back just enough to meet your dazed gaze, his voice low and reverent:

“You’re not walking tomorrow, doll. But gods help me, I want you wrecked.”

A smirk curled at his lips as his hands came to grip your waist. Holding your body in place as he began a relentless pace. 

The headboard slammed against the wall as your cries grew louder, the room thick with the sound of skin meeting skin, breathless moans, and his low groans right in your ear. 

It was going to be a rather long night. 

—

You’d only meant to assist in a simple energy-enhancing elixir. That was the assignment. But one misstep in measurement, a droplet too much of a rare herb with latent aphrodisiac properties, and now the air in the alchemy room felt thick, like molten honey clinging to your skin, every breath laced with heat and desire.

Your body trembled, flushed from the inside out, and you barely had the clarity to steady yourself as Anaxa pressed you over his cluttered desk. The wood was cool against your feverish skin, but the relief was fleeting, especially when his hands found your thighs, stroking upward with an excruciating slowness.

"You're burning up," he murmured, his voice deeper than usual, heavy with restraint and want. His palms were rough from handling vials and tools, but they moved over your soft skin reverently, memorizing every inch. When he lifted your leg and placed it on the desk, spreading you open further, a shaky breath escaped your lips.

Then his fingers found your slick folds, parting them to slide between with maddening ease.

“Fuck,” he rasped, dipping one finger inside you with a slow, deliberate curl. “You’re dripping, sweetheart. I barely touched you.”

He watched your back arch, his eyes hooded, devouring the sight of you writhing under his touch. “So wet for me already… so ready. You're like a flower trembling open under the sun’s first kiss.”

“Anaxa…” you whimpered, turning your flushed face toward him, eyes glassy with need. “Please. It’s too much, I need you. I feel like I’m on fire.”

A low, pleased chuckle rumbled in his chest as he leaned over you, pressing a kiss to the back of your shoulder. “My love,” he purred, “the last thing I want to do is hurt you. Let me take care of you. Yeah?”

His fingers moved with more purpose now, two sinking inside and scissoring open, brushing expertly against that spongy spot that made your thighs tremble and toes curl. Your breath hitched, nails digging into the wood of his desk.

“There we go,” he coaxed, his voice velvet and grit. “That’s it, thats my good girl. Just like that.”

When he slid his fingers free, glistening with your arousal, he brought them to your lips with a smirk. “Taste yourself for me, yeah?”

You sucked his fingers in without hesitation, your tongue swirling around them eagerly, and the dark look in his eyes nearly made your knees buckle.

As you suckled, he undid his belt with one hand, pushing down his trousers. His cock sprang free,thick, flushed, and already leaking. He hissed through his teeth at the sight of you, lips wrapped around his fingers while your hips subtly rolled against the air in anticipation.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled, guiding your hips into position. “Ready for me?”

You nodded, whimpering your assent, but that wasn’t enough for him.

“Say it.” he breathed, his eyes narrowing as he looked at you.

“I’m ready, Anaxa. Please. I need you inside me.” You cried out, the desperation dripped off your voice in waves. 

And just like that, he snapped. 

He lined himself up, the thick head of his cock brushing your soaked entrance before slowly, deliberately, pushing into you. Inch by inch, stretching you open, dragging a guttural moan from deep in his chest,and a strangled cry from your lips.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” you gasped, forehead pressed against the desk, legs trembling.

Anaxa groaned, head tilting back. “You’re so fucking tight. Gods, the way you grip me, like your cunt was made for me.”

His thumb returned to your clit, drawing tight, deliberate circles that had your walls fluttering around him, clutching him deeper. His other hand wrapped firmly around your waist, pulling your hips back against every hard thrust.

The room echoed with wet, obscene sounds,the slap of skin, your mewls and moans, the throb of shared desire amplified by the lingering effects of the potion. Your body felt electric, every thrust sending sparks up your spine, your nerves raw and alive.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he growled into your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “To feel me like this? Deep and hard, filling every inch of your needy little hole?”

“Y-Yes,” you cried, voice trembling. “I wanted you. I've always wanted you, Anaxa..”

He groaned as your walls clenched around him again, his grip on your hips tightening. “Fuck, don’t do that, baby. You’re gonna make me come, and I’m not done with you.” He leaned forward, chest pressing against your back, lips brushing your ear.

“It’d be a shame to end this now, wouldn’t it? When we’ve barely scratched the surface of what I want to do to you.”

His cock throbbed inside you, thick and pulsing, and his movements slowed,just slightly,enough to drag out every second, every breathless moan. His fingers didn’t stop moving on your clit, and it was too much. You were unraveling. “Anaxa,I'm-!”

“Let go for me,” he murmured, voice like smoke. “Come on, doll. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And when your climax crashed into you it was violent, soul-shaking, you cried out his name like a prayer. He followed you moments later with a strangled groan, grinding deep as he spilled inside you, breath catching in his throat.

The room was still, again. Heavy with the scent of sex and alchemical oils. Your chest heaved as you lay against the desk, limbs trembling, heart pounding in your throat.

Anaxa brushed your hair gently from your face, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Are you alright?” he murmured, voice quiet now, low with concern.

You nodded, lips parted as you caught your breath. “Yeah, I just didn’t think today’s lesson would turn into that.” you laughed a bit as you tried to catch your breath. 

He chuckled softly, as he rested his head against your shoulder. “We’ll call it an experiment in practical alchemy.”

You snorted weakly, unable to help the smile tugging at your lips, even as your legs refused to stop shaking.

—

Mydei had lost so much, too much. The grief, the blood, the burdens he bore had hollowed parts of him, left him starved for something warm, something anchoring. And that anchor was you. He clung to you like salvation, like he’d drift into the abyss without your body pressed to his. At night, he was never far, always buried deep inside you, cockwarming with his face nestled into the crook of your neck, your scent his lullaby, your cunt his comfort. 

One arm slung possessively around your waist, the other lazily cupping your breasts as he whispered soft, broken things against your skin.

But this? This was different.

This was worship.

Because Mydei would never kneel for anyone. Never bow. Never submit. Yet now, here he was, on his knees before you, his mouth hot and hungry between your thighs as you sat like a goddess on his throne. Yours now, it seemed. The power shift made your skin tingle, made your core throb. It made his mouth water.

Your thighs were thrown over his broad shoulders, heels digging into the tense muscles of his back as he devoured you like he’d been starved for days. His tongue was relentless, slick and deep, lapping up your arousal with obscene enthusiasm. The room echoed with the wet, messy sounds of him feasting on you, slurps and growls and the occasional gasped praise, incoherent and ragged: “fuck, so sweet.. s’perfect..  can’t get enough..”

Your head lolled back against the velvet lining of the throne, your body arching, quivering beneath his mouth. Every drag of his tongue, every suck on your clit made your back bow, your hands fly to his hair. You gripped his golden strands tight, guiding him with desperate, breathy pleas.

"Mydei.. please, feels so fucking good," you moaned, voice cracking as pleasure shot up your spine. Your hips bucked forward when he sucked harder, sharp and unrelenting on that aching bundle of nerves.

He groaned, almost feral, his fingers bruising into your thighs as they trembled around his head. "Gods, Princess, look at you. Trembling from just my mouth. Let me hear those sounds. I need them."

The words were muffled, smothered by your slick and his determination. But you heard them. Felt them. Your fingers tugged tighter as you rolled your hips against his face. He moaned again, the vibration sending shockwaves through you.

And then, you gasped. Sharp, high-pitched, your whole body twitching when two of his fingers slid inside your fluttering, dripping hole. They curled just right, just so, and your thighs clenched around his head like a vice.

"Yeah, right there, Mydei! fuck, don’t stop," you begged, voice cracking, eyes rolling back into your skull.

He couldn’t hear you anymore, not really. His head was spinning. Your taste coated his tongue, your scent filled his lungs, your cunt clenched around his fingers so tight it made his cock throb and twitch helplessly in his pants. He hadn’t meant to finish. He really hadn’t. 

But when you cried out his name, when your slick gushed around his fingers and your thighs spasmed against his ears, he came. With a guttral goran, shamefully untouched, his release soaking into the fabric of his pants as he fucked you through your orgasm with tongue and fingers with a desperate need to drown in you.

He was panting when he looked up at you. His cheeks flushed, chin wet, lips red and swollen. His eyes were glassy, ruined, drunk on you. And when your gaze met his, just as hazy, just as fucked out. He let out a soft, breathless laugh.

“Well,” he murmured, voice hoarse and reverent, “suppose we can finish this properly once I get out of these damn pants.”

His cheek rested lazily against your thigh, one hand still cradling it, thumb stroking the soft skin there. “C’mon, princess. Let’s get cleaned up.”

But neither of you moved. Not yet. You stayed like that tangled, flushed, trembling lost in the afterglow, in each other.

—

Phainon’s tongue drags up your slit again, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the last taste before a kill. His nose brushes your clit, and you twitch under him with a broken gasp. Your thighs try to close, but his arms keep them locked open, biceps flexed, forearms solid as stone. He’s already pulled two orgasms out of you. You’ve cried, begged, sobbed his name, and he’s still hungry.

Your voice is hoarse. “Phai.. please..”

“Please what, baby?” His voice is dark, taunting. He curls his fingers again. “Please don’t stop? Please ruin me? Tell me what you want. Come on baby wanna hear ya” 

You don’t answer, your voice dying on your tongue as he curled his fingers just right making your mind go blank. 

“Didn’t fuckin’ think so.” He grins, teeth dragging lightly across the crease of your thigh. “You’ve got more for me. I know your body better than you do.”

“Mmm,” he hums. “You said you wanted to come again. So I’m making sure you do. Gotta get this pussy ready.”

“For what?” you gasp.

He pulls his mouth away just long enough to meet your gaze. His lips are shiny, chin soaked. His eyes burn straight through you, “For me.”

You try to pull away, but he drags you right back into his mouth. His fingers dig into the plush of your thighs hard enough to bruise, pulling you down like he’s drowning in you. His mouth latches onto your clit again, tongue flicking in a brutal rhythm that makes your vision blur.

“Pussy’s so fuckin’ good, baby. I could stay down here forever.”

You try to catch your breath, chest heaving. “You already have. I can’t feel my legs.” You breathed out, although it sounded more like a laugh. 

He chuckles against your skin, licking back up with an almost lazy motion. “Then you’ll stop runnin’ from me.”

“I can’t, I can’t take it” you stammer, thighs trembling.

“You will,” he growls, pausing only to spit on your pussy before slapping your clit with the flat of his tongue. “You will, baby. Give me another. I wanna feel you fucking break on my tongue.”

As if his voice was like the law, your orgasm hits like a crashing wave. You cry out, your whole body shaking under his mouth as you soak his chin. He moans into you, licking you through every twitch and clench, groaning as if he’s the one coming.

By the time he pulls back, his face is wrecked. Lips swollen, chin shiny, eyes glazed with hunger. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. He looks high. Feral.

Then you see it, the bulge straining hard against his sweatpants, twitching. Leaking.

“Get on your stomach,” he says suddenly. Your muscles are barely functioning. “Phai..”

“I’ll move you if I have to princess, come on.” He spoke as he pats your thigh with a chuckle.

You roll over slow, weak, trembling. He pushes your back down with one hand, keeping your ass raised. He peels down his sweats, cock springing free. It was thick and veiny, already beeding with precum at the tip. He runs it through your folds, dragging it up and down your overstimulated pussy with a groan.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice like gravel. “So fuckin’ wet. So ready for me.”

You scream into the pillow, arms shaking. The stretch is insane, unforgiving. He gives you no time to adjust, already pounding into you with deep, brutal thrusts, hips slapping hard against your ass.

You moan weakly, trying to gather yourself, but your body is boneless. He lines himself up and sinks slowly inch by inch, each achingly blissful inch. The stretch is too much, no, it was perfect. You whimper, nails digging into his shoulders. “You’re too big..”

“You always say that,” he groans, voice frayed as he bottoms out. “Still take every inch like a good fuckin’ girl.” He pulls back and slams into you hard. You cry out, body jolting, already sensitive and raw.

“You feel that?” he growls in your ear, hips slamming against yours again. “Feel how deep I am? This pussy knows me.”

“Take it. All of it,” he growls, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip. “You asked for this. You said you wanted me to fuck you dumb, remember?” You nod desperately, choking on moans.

“You love it,” he sneers, dragging his cock out to the tip before slamming back in, right to the hilt. “This tight little cunt’s fuckin’ made for me. You come on my face, you take my cock, and you beg for more.” Your fingers claw the sheets as his hand leaves your hip to deliver a sharp slap to your ass, the sting making your eyes tear. 

“Fuck.. Baby, you sound so pretty when you cry. Makes me wanna ruin you all over again.”

You sob into the mattress, but it’s not from pain. It’s too much, deliciously so. 

“You hear that?” he pants. “That sloppy little sound? That’s how hungry your pussy is for me. Sucking me in like you never want me to leave.” He leans over you now, chest to your back, his voice hot and dangerous in your ear.

“Tell me it’s mine.” You moan, barely audible.

“Louder.” He growled. He wanted to hear you. 

“It’s yours, Phai Ah-yours.” You cried out as your breath hitched in your throat. 

“Say it while I’m buried in you.” He thrusts deep again, cock grinding right into your sweet spot. You cry out, voice cracking. “It’s yours! All yours, fuck! don’t stop!”

He groans, dragging his teeth along your neck. “That’s it, baby. My fuckin’ girl.”

He flips you over with no warning, manhandling you like you weigh nothing. Now you’re beneath him, his body caging yours, sweat dripping from his brow as he slides back in, deep and slow this time. His eyes never leave your face.

“You good?” he asks quietly, breathing rough against your cheek. He knew he was being a bit rough. You nod, tears still in your eyes. “Please, keep going.”

He kisses your lips messy, tongue curling into your mouth—before he starts fucking you again. Harder now. Purposeful. Like he’s chasing something. Like he wants to fuck his name into your bones.

His hand finds your throat, thumb under your jaw. Not squeezing. Just claiming. “You take it so good,” he grits out, watching your tits bounce with each thrust. “You were made for me.”

Your mind was a mess, head thrown back, your words barely coherent. Just babbles of his name, singing it like it was prayer. And fuck was it music to his ears. 

He lowers his mouth to your neck, biting hard, marking you. His thrusts grow messy, erratic. You feel him twitch inside you, hips jerking. “I’m gonna come,” he pants, voice nearly desperate. “You want it? You want me to fill you up?”

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Yes! fuck, yes, Phai! Fill me up Ngh!”

His thrusts become erratic, rough, deep. He slams into you one final time and holds there, cock pulsing as he spills into you. He shudders, mouth open against your shoulder, panting like he’s just been dragged back from the edge

His groan is broken, guttural, as he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you. You feel it, hot, thick, deep and your own orgasm rips through you again, triggered by the sound of his moan and the stretch of his cock pulsing inside your fluttering walls.

“You fuckin’ ruin me,” he growls, voice cracked, almost pained. “Every time.” You’re both still for a moment, bodies twitching, sweat clinging to your skin. He brushes your hair back from your face, eyes still wild but softer now.

“You good?” he murmurs, voice low. You nod slowly, dazed. “Yeah..Just, Holy shit. What got into you?” A crooked grin tugs at his lips. “Don’t fall asleep yet.” You blink up at him, eyebrows lifting. “Why?” you ask breathlessly.

“Because you’re not done,” he says, shifting his hips. “And neither am I.”

—

Dan Heng was hot tempered, questionably hostile at times, but when it came to you? He was always a blushing mess. With you, he turned shy, uncertain, his confidence unraveling under the weight of his affection. The first time you mentioned wanting to be intimate, he had blinked at you like you’d spoken in an entirely foreign tongue. His hands clenched in his lap, ears tinged with scarlet, eyes darting to anywhere but your face.

It wasn’t reluctance. He wanted you. You could see it in the way his gaze lingered on your lips too long, in the way he sometimes flinched when your hand brushed his, like the contact physically startled him. 

He just didn’t know what to do with the need burning under his skin. But with time, with whispered encouragement and soft patience, Dan Heng shed his nervousness like molten armor.

And once he did, he became devastating.

He knew every single thing that made you tick, every single nook and cranny of your body. That alone made him dangerous. Your body, your sounds, the way your eyes fluttered when he kissed just under your jaw, the delicate shiver that ran down your spine when his breath warmed your ear. 

He’d approach you quietly, sometimes catching you off guard with how fast he’d close the distance. Strong arms slipping around your waist from behind, the rough heat of his palms pressing into your skin, his lips brushing your neck just so, where your pulse fluttered beneath your skin, quickening the ache that curled low in your belly. That subtle spot where the softness of his mouth made your knees tremble, and your breath hitched, trembling with need.

More than his hands, more than his mouth, it was his voice gravelly and warm that ruined you most.

“Look at you,” he whispered one night, voice thick with desire as he settled between your thighs, the subtle musk of his skin mixing with the sweet, salty tang of your arousal. His fingers ghosted up your inner thigh, brushing over the delicate skin until you trembled under the featherlight touch. “Such a pretty little dove. Dripping wet, and I’ve barely even touched you.”

Your cheeks heated with embarrassment and anticipation, your panties clinging damply to your folds, the slight pressure already unbearable. He hadn’t even removed them yet, but the slick heat pooling between your legs begged for more. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and full of hungry promise.

“Use your words, my little dragon,” he murmured, breath fanning over your skin, warm and intoxicating. “Tell me what you want.”

You squirmed beneath him, thighs trembling. “Jus’ wan’ you, Danny.. want you to touch me.”

He smiled a slow, wicked curve that sent shivers crawling down your spine, and leaned in to press a heated kiss to the corner of your mouth. The taste of him is rich and addictive. “Good girl.”

The words settled inside you like fire.

His hands slid beneath your shirt, fingers tracing the curve of your ribs, sending sparks wherever he touched. Slowly, reverently, he peeled away your clothes, the faint rustle of fabric the only sound in the quiet room. His palms warmed your skin, kneading your breasts as his mouth descended, lips sealing around your nipple. His tongue flicked and teased, gentle but insistent, and a soft sigh escaped you, fingers threading into his thick, silky hair.

He lingered there, worshiping your body like a sacred offering, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

Then, moving downward, he left a trail of wet, hungry kisses—a path of fire across your belly, the soft pulse of his tongue tracing your hip bones. His hands gripped your thighs firmly, holding you open as he lowered his mouth to your slick folds. The taste of you, sweet and salty, filled his senses, intoxicating and pure. His tongue circled your clit with slow and deliberate flicks, while his fingers spread your lips wider, exposing every inch to his skilled touch.

A moan tumbled from your throat, raw and unguarded, your hips arching involuntarily toward him. His groan vibrated through the room, a low rumble of satisfaction as he savored your response, his mouth and hands worshiping your trembling body.

You writhed beneath him, hips grinding softly against his mouth, desperate for more. He encouraged it, his voice thick with need as he whispered your name, coaxing every shudder, every gasp.

He didn’t stop until your legs shook and your breath came in ragged gasps, your body unraveling under his devotion.

Only then did he rise, lips pressing tender kisses to yours, the lingering taste of your essence on his tongue making him dizzy with desire. His hands cradled your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he murmured, “So beautiful. So good for me.”

You kissed him back, soft and needy.

Without warning, you felt the heavy heat of him pressing against your entrance, thick and pulsing. He slid inside you inch by inch, slow and deliberate, watching your face for every flicker of pleasure and hesitation. Your hands clung to his broad shoulders, your breath catching as he filled you completely—deep, hot, and endless.

He stayed still, letting you adjust, savoring the way your body clung to his.

“You’re taking me so well, my love,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion. “So tight around me... like you were made for me.”

His movements began slowly and measured and so very deep. Languid thrusts that sent delicious fire rippling through you. Every drag of his cock inside your warm, slick walls made you gasp, your breath hitching in time with the slow, agonizing rhythm. His mouth was everywhere, licking your neck, nipping at your collarbone, and planting bruising kisses on your shoulder.

His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he pulled you flush against him. The scent of sweat and sex filled the room with a heady, intimate perfume that bound you to him.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, his voice cracking with need. “Can’t get enough of you. I want to stay inside you forever.”

His praise tumbled from his lips in a torrent now, each word a caress against your skin as he stirred you from within. “So soft. So perfect. I love you.” His voice was raw, vulnerable, bared to you entirely.

You cupped his face between your palms, brushing your lips over his in a messy, desperate kiss.

“I love you too,” you whispered, voice trembling with emotion. “More than I know how to say.”

Dan Heng’s hips moved faster, harder, every thrust sending sparks of pleasure exploding through your nerves. You were tangled together, body and soul, riding the edge of bliss. His fingers slid between your bodies, finding your clit and rubbing slow, steady circles that sent waves crashing over you.

“Come for me,” he urged, breath hot against your ear. “Show me how much you love me.”

Your release shattered over you in a torrent of heat and sound, your body clamping down on him as your cries echoed through the room. Dan Heng’s own growl of your name was rough and desperate, his hips stuttering before he spilled deep inside you, trembling and spent.

He didn’t pull away.

Wrapped around you, the two of you caught in the quiet afterglow, skin slick and sticky, breaths mingling in the dim light. His face was buried in your neck, fingers tracing lazy patterns over your back. The scent of sex and sweat and something infinitely tender surrounded you.

“I don’t know how to say everything I feel for you,” he murmured against your skin. “But when I’m like this, with you, I hope it’s enough.”

You kissed the damp curls at his nape, fingers threading through his hair.

“It is,” you whispered. “It always is.”

I hope you enjoyed! Requests are open.

Do not plagiarize my content. Do not repost my content, or translate it either. Do not post my content on any social media. Do not steal my content or feed it into AI.

[mishappeningss]

MORE THAN A DRIVER

CHAPTER ONE

more than a driver masterlist

formula one + fem!driver!reader smau + irl

Once a rising star in MotoGP, YN LN enters Formula 1 as the only woman on the grid — racing not just her rivals, but a sport built to doubt her.

warnings: covers the theme of misogyny, foul language

to be added to the taglist, kindly dm me or leave a comment!

f1

liked by mercedesamgf1, lando, and others

f1 Just In 👀

A new face races into the paddock and into Mercedes’ arms! 🏎️ 

First full-time female driver in F1 and Mercedes — 26 year old YN LN to race in this season alongside 7-time world championship winner Lewis Hamilton. 

For more information, check our bio! 

tagged: yourusername

view all comments

username i was wondering why i felt an aura three scrolls away 

username i just clicked open her account and shit shes gorgeous 

username female driver srsly? someone let hamilton know he’s in for a shit season.

username Already have all my trust put on her, can’t wait to see her on track

username OH SHITTTT

username Does Lewis even approve of this lol

username and that’s the start of mercedes’ downfall 

mercedesamgf1 We’re lucky to have you on our team! 🙌 yourusername

yourinstagram

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yourusername 👀

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username drivers already in the likes i see yall

username you deserve your seat girl, don’t listen to anyone who says otherwise liked by yourusername

username we lost her to a pile of cars man 💔

username why can’t yall just give her a chance? her first race is literally next week

username chance to what girl … to crash her car?

mercedesamgf1 See you on the track! 🏎️

username Yeah, let’s see if she can even last until the first turn lmao

username suddenly it’s a crime for women to work?

username she can work somewhere else and ruin herself there for all i care, just not in formula one

username ur already my new favorite driver btw

f1gossip

liked by username, and others

f1gossip Mercedes’ new pair Lewis Hamilton and YN LN has entered the paddock at Melbourne, Australia. 

view all comments

username oh shes GORGEOUS

username first day at work and she’s serving already

username i saw them earlier! they were both having a conversation with toto i think theyre having a press conference 

username this isnt a fashion show, i think she forgot she’s a racer. 

username okay so when lewis does the same thing, its okay?

username lewis has competition now 😭😭

The interviewer leans forward, smiling.

“As we all know, you guys have a new driver in your empty seat. How did that go?”

Toto straightens slightly in his seat, hands folded neatly in front of him. His voice is calm, but proud.

“Well, we’ve been watching YN’s performance for a while now, even since her time in MotoGP. I really saw potential in her and her character and I really think that she’d be a great fit in our team, and a great teammate to Lewis,” Toto replies.

The camera cuts briefly to YN, who smiles modestly, fingers tapping lightly on her thigh — a subtle sign of nerves or excitement

“Lewis, how does it feel having a new partner on the track?”

Lewis leans back with a relaxed grin, the warmth in his tone instantly noticeable. He gives YN a brief glance before answering.

“It takes some time getting used to another partner after having one for so long, but yeah — I’m really stoked to work alongside with YN”. 

“We’ve had some time together, talking about racing and I really admire her background in MotoGP. I’ll have to get her to teach me soon. I’m glad she’s in the team already.”

The energy shifts slightly as the interviewer turns toward YN. The camera zooms in just enough to capture the gleam in her eyes as she sits forward, clearly buzzing with emotion.

“YN, How is the Mercedes family treating you?”

YN exhales, a soft smile forming before she even begins speaking.

“They’ve been nothing but welcoming to me. Oh gosh— just thinking about it makes me happy. Honestly, it didn’t even feel like it was my first time there. It all feels surreal.”

The camera lingers on her for a beat longer, her words hanging in the air like fuel on fire — sincere, hopeful, and burning with drive.

“Coming from someone who’s raced using motorbikes like, half of her life — along with training for Formula 1, it all feels exhilarating. I want to race against the very best and see how far I could go.”

The interviewer nods, clearly impressed.

f1gossip

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f1gossip Mercedes’ new driver YN LN today.

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username she really seems so genuine, bless her 

username Didn’t know she raced in motogp. She definitely caught my eye today

username and what is she gonna race with exactly? with her intense makeup?

username melbourne is yn’s week i can feel it

username js because u all found out that she raced somewhere else doesnt mean she’ll be any good here lol

f1gossip

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f1gossip Lewis Hamilton on YN LN’s first entrance in the paddock.

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username I KNOW THATS RIGHT yourusername

username they match each other’s vibe so well already

username fav duo already ???

username seducing her partner already? can’t she control herself?

username literally what there screams seducing??? all she did was walk…

username i can feel the bitches coming YN GET BEHIND ME RIGHT NOW

yourinstagram via instagram story!

[steddieas-shegoes]

he likes you, you idiot

for @steddiemicrofic prompt ‘sign’

rated t | 507 words | cw: mild language, implied sexual content | tags: friends with benefits, friends to lovers, idiots in love, platonic Stobin, good friends Nancy and Jonathan trying to talk Steve into not being dumb, and max is here

💟💟💟💟💟💟💟💟💟💟💟💟

“What do you mean you don’t know if he likes you?” Nancy smacks his arm. “He had your dick in his mouth!”

“And in his ass,” Jonathan adds from the couch, flipping through a magazine that Steve can’t see the cover of. “Which I think is a better qualifier.”

“Those aren’t signs that he likes me. Those are just signs he likes getting fucked!” Steve throws his arms up and sinks down in the chair. “You guys aren’t helping.”

“I told you they’d say the same thing I did,” Robin says from the floor. “He likes you. These are signs.”

“Why would you think these aren’t signs?” Nancy asks as she settles on the arm of the chair, patting Steve’s head. “Is this because of the concussions?”

Robin snorts. Steve glares at her. She looks out the window to avoid his gaze.

“Because people hook up all the time without having feelings for someone,” Steve explains. “I’ve hooked up with tons of people and don’t even remember their names!”

“People might, but Eddie doesn’t.”

Steve turns to look at Max in the doorway to the living room. He didn’t even know she was here. She stays with him when her mom’s being…her mom.

“You shouldn’t be in this conversation.”

“Steve, I’m 18. I’ve had sex.”

“Shut up!” Steve covers his ears. “You don’t even know what sex is.”

“Anyway,” Max crosses her arms and rolls her eyes. “Eddie’s been in love with you for, like, years. He’s been lying about going out with other people so you wouldn’t know you’re the only person he’s fucked.”

Steve moves his hands into his lap. The room is silent. Max leaves, halting any chance Steve may have had to ask questions.

“You guys saw her too, right?” Jonathan asks, magazine on his chest and eyes wide.

“Yes, Jon.” Nancy stands up and stands in front of Steve. “Do you think you should call Eddie? See if he’d be interested in talking about things?”

“Talking about what things?”

Steve jumps up at Eddie’s voice. He’s standing awkwardly at the front door, letting himself in like he always does, no idea what he’s walking in on.

“Eddie! You’re here!”

“I’m…yep. I’m here. At the exact time I said I’d be. You okay?” He’s looking around the room, but finally settles on Steve. “You look like you just got caught doing drugs by Hop.”

“Nope! No drugs!” Steve laughs awkwardly.

Eddie raises a brow and walks further inside, closing the door behind him. He checks the coffee table, sniffs at Jonathan, then stops right in front of Steve.

“What are you up to?”

Steve bites his lip. Nancy smacks his shoulder and mouths ‘ask him.’

“Do you wanna go to dinner? Sometime? With me?” Steve clears his throat and looks down at his feet as he asks.

“It took you long enough,” Eddie laughs. His hands grasp Steve’s tight, a vice grip that makes him feel tingly. “Gave you every sign I could think of.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Eddie kisses him. “I like you.”

[butyoudidthis4what]

Congratulations on the 1k milestone!!! Could you write something with a female reader and Abbot where he’s says "Let's get you in the shower and we'll take it from there." to her? 💜

Hi friend, thank you so much for sending this in! I hope you enjoy this little drabble and thank you so much for your support!! ♥️

Celebrate 1k with me by requesting a drabble! Read this post for prompts and characters! 🙂

If you'd like to be tagged in the 1k drabbles please read and interact with this post!

Tepid

Jack Abbot x F!Reader

1.5k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: None, really. General cold/flu discussion. The slightest bit of angst if you squint in the form of Jack being worried about you for thirty seconds. Fluff.

Summary: Jack arrives home from work to you sick in bed.

AN: Fluffy sick fic! That's about it, really! I hope it's okay!

Even wrapped in the cocoon of blankets you’ve brought to bed with you, you’re still shivering. And miserable. Very, very miserable. 

“Honey?” Jack’s caught off guard when your purse is still on the console table just inside the door. It makes his pulse rise just a little. He hates it, but he always goes to the worst case scenario, it’s what he’s trained for. He knows you must’ve overslept or fell back asleep on accident, but his brain runs through every possibility of you being injured or dead somewhere in the apartment you share.

He walks back to your bedroom and is glad to see you’re in bed. You look so fucking adorable wrapped in all the blankets you’ve brought in, but he knows it means you must be sick and that hurts his heart. He doesn’t want to disturb you but he does want to know what’s wrong, if you’ve taken meds, how long you’ve been like this. Why you didn’t call him the second you weren’t feeling well. 

“Jackie?” Your small and raw voice resolves his conflict for him. You don’t open your eyes yet.

“Hi sweet girl, what’s going on?” He sits on the edge of the bed next to you and puts the back of his hand to your forehead. “Definitely have yourself a pretty good fever.”

“You should go,” you whisper. He’s not sure if it’s really a whisper or just as loud as you have the strength to speak right now. “You shouldn’t be close to me, you’ll catch it.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he murmurs. “You taken anything?” 

“No, I just woke up enough to tell work, pee and get more blankets.” You finally blink open your eyes to look at him. “You need to sleep and I got the sheets all gross with my sweating before I got cold. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care, don’t apologize. You’re sick, you can’t help it. And sweat doesn’t bother me. Especially not yours.” He runs his hand up and down your side, though he’s not sure you can feel it under all the blankets. But it soothes him just as much so he continues. “Feel like a bad cold? For how long?”

“I guess, yeah. My throat is killing me. I can feel congestion coming in and some settling in my lungs. Nauseous too.” You cough a little to clear your throat, wincing at the jolt of pain it causes. “Went to sleep with a vaguely sore throat. Didn’t think much of it. Woke up at my alarm and was like this but I was so hot and sweaty the sheets were almost soaked, I swear. My whole body hurts, it feels like I’ve been hit by a semi.” 

“I’m sorry, Baby, I wish I could take it on for you or kiss it away.” Jack leans down and presses a couple of kisses to your forehead and one to the tip of your nose and both of your cheeks. He smiles brightly when the kisses pull a smile from you, even if it’s smaller than usual. It reaches your eyes. “You could’ve called. You know that, right? I would’ve left,” he murmurs. He’s not chastising or chiding you, just reminding you. 

You nod, roll a little so you’re not quite on your back but not totally on your side. “I know.” 

“Good.” Jack kisses your forehead again. “I’m going to get you some meds, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper, eyes fluttering closed again. 

Jack walks into the bathroom and looks through the medicine cabinet. You sound a bit more flu-like than cold. He could ask Robby to drop by a test. Maybe an IV if he can’t get you to drink enough fluids. It’s almost certainly viral so it’s not really a matter of treatment but of controlling symptoms. He decides on some meds, makes sure there’s a pain reliever and fever reducer in there somewhere. He also grabs the thermometer. He wants to know exactly how hot you are. 

He goes and grabs you some water before heading back into the bedroom. “Alright sweet girl, can you sit up for me?” He takes his place on the edge of the bed next to you again. You whine at the request as you open your eyes. “Please?” Jack gives you a little pout. 

You let out a halfhearted sigh and let Jack help you as you force yourself up and your blankets open enough for you to get your arms and hands out. You hold your hand out for him. 

“Thank you for sitting up. Under your tongue,” he instructs softly as he puts a single pill in your hand. “Zofran. For the nausea.” You do as he asks and once it’s dissolved he hands you the other pills and you swallow them. 

“Thank you.” You give him an exhausted smile. 

“You’re welcome.” The smile Jack gives you in return is a little sad. You know he hates seeing you sick, just like you hate seeing him sick. “I’m going to get your temperature really quick, okay?” You nod and Jack takes it, gives a kind of noncommittal frown at it. “102.5. Too hot, but not get you to the ED hot. And we need to keep it that way. So I think we should get you a shower and I’ll change the sheets okay?”

You groan. “I don’t want to shower. I don’t want to leave the bed. And I’m cold, Jackie. I don’t want a cold shower.”

“I know, Baby, I know.” He grabs one of your hands and brings it to his lips, presses a few kisses to it. “It won’t be a cold shower. But it won’t be hot, either. We need to keep it tepid.” 

“I’ll be fine,” you whine a little. Showering sounds exhausting. Getting out of your blankets sounds freezing. Making Jack do work and change the sheets sounds unfair. “Just give me a minute or so and I can change these sheets for you and then go in the guest room so I don’t get you and your sheets gross.”

“Yeah, because I’m ever going to let that happen.” He gives you a knowing look with a soft smile so you know he’s not mad or upset or anything. “Showering will help. Feeling cleaner will make you feel at least a little better.”

You shrug. Your brain isn’t firing on all cylinders and you feel too tired to keep yourself upright for any extended period of time. “Well, I don’t think I can stand.”

Jack blinks at you for a few seconds to see if it registers. It doesn’t.

“Well, it’s a good job there’s a bench in there.” He gives you a little smirk and winks at you. You cringe and grimace a little for a second. How could you forget that? It’s just become so normal you don’t even notice it.  

“Don’t smirk and wink at me you cruel man.” You pout overdramatically at him. 

“Cruel?” he laughs. “How am I being cruel taking care of you?”

“You know how hot you look winking and smirking and doing the two together. Teasing your poor sick woman.” Before you can say anything else you start coughing and are quick to bring your blankets up to cover your face. It hurts. All of it. The sudden movement of your arms, your throat, your chest muscles.

“It’s okay,” Jack soothes you, slips his arm behind you to help hold you up and rub your back. Eventually you’re able to catch your breath again. “I’ll make it up to you once you’re feeling better, I promise.” 

“Yeah, if I haven’t passed my misery on to you,” you huff a little, a decision you regret immediately when the fire that is your throat flares again.

“I think I’ll be just fine. I come into contact with this type of thing almost daily.” He leans in and kisses your forehead again. He’ll stay away from your lips, in part because he knows you’ll just push him away if he even tries to keep him from getting sick. “And if I do get sick then I get sick.”

“Well if you do then I’m taking care of you and I don’t want any pushback.” You give him the sternest look you can muster which is clearly not very stern judging by the way he bites his lip to hold back a laugh at how adorable you are. 

“Okay, Baby.” Jack stands up, holds his hands out for you. “I’m going to help you to the shower and then once I’m done changing the sheets I’ll help you shower and get clean, okay?” 

You don’t move. “I’ll just make the next set gross. There’s no point.”

“You might not. Not if we can get your temperature under control here a little.” Jack nods in encouragement. “And it’ll be nice to feel clean after sweating that much.”

“But what if I do just get them all sweaty again? It’s not fair to you.” You start to worry your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Then I’ll change them again.” He shakes his head as you go to argue further. “Hey, let’s get you in the shower and we’ll take it from there, okay?” 

I hope it was alright and you enjoyed! Thank you for reading and your support and your interactions mean the world to me! ♥️

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[mafiadad5]

Teach me to not love || L. HC (part 3)

𐙚 fuckboy!haechan x fem!reader (ft. best friend jaemin)

𐙚 Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 + bonus epilogue

𐙚 synopsis- Jaemin's out for revenge after Haechan slept with the girl he liked. You're just supposed to be a distraction, something pretty to keep Haechan's mind off of what Jaemin was doing. He's cute, addictive- you should stay away... you really should, but when he touches you like that how are you supposed to remember what's right?

𐙚 genre- college au, smut/ porn with plot (MDN/ 18+), angst, slight fluff, second chance.

𐙚 warnings- alcohol use, black out, mentions of throwing up, sexual activity under the influence, fingering, masturbation, dry humping, markings, arguing, heartbreak, betrayal.

𐙚 W/c- 15k

Now playing: Exit Music (For A Film) - Radiohead

a/n- here it is, the finale. I want to thank you all for the support and I hope you liked it— let me know what you thought. Luv y’all, mwah mwah 💋

tags- @dnylwoo @haeclips @millis-diary @bbhbungee @sooohey @captainchrisstan @chocojiji @imnotrosiee @meatballsub420

══════════════════════════

Wednesday, a few days after he appeared.

Your mind was still spiraling— just a bit less now. You hadn't called him even though he told you to, it didn't feel right. Well, that and the fact that you were buried in projects, trying to keep yourself distracted, productive, anything but still.

You were sitting there, a little too idle now, having wrapped up your milestone for the day. 8:49 PM. You stared at the time for a moment, chewing at your bottom lip. A few more minutes passed like that. Fuck it. What could really go more wrong at this point?

You picked up your phone and clicked on his contact. It rang long, long enough for you to start regretting it. You were just about to hang up when his voice came through the speaker.

"Hello."

Your brows lifted, eyes widening slightly in surprise. "Oh— hello?" You said, the shock in your voice unmissable.

"Yo, wassup." He replied casually, his tone unreadable.

"Nothing, I'm just bored, y'know."

"Yeah, I feel you." A second passed. "Listen, sorry but I'm really really busy right now so I'll just hit you back later or something."

"Oh. Oh, okay." Your voice softened.

He hesitated for a second. "Oh, um— party tomorrow. You coming?" His words were quick, like he forced them out before changing his mind.

"I'll think about it. Kinda have a lot to do." You said honestly.

"Cool. Bye."

And just like that, he hung up. Alright then. It was the first time he'd picked up your call ever, so there was that at least. You didn't let yourself overthink it, just let it be.

The next night came quicker than expected. You finished everything you needed to do earlier than planned, you actually hadn't been this productive in a while. So, with little left to distract yourself, you went to the party.

You arrived, same scene, same crowd. Scanning for familiar faces, one in particular.

You found him quickly— but your smile dropped. There he was, same cocky grin, same glint in his eye, but this time he was standing with a girl too close... way too close. His arm lazily slung around her, leaning in, sharing sips from her drink.

Your stomach sank, breath turned shallow. Your body froze and burned all at once. Your thoughts scattered, unsure what to do, but before you could process anything your feet were already moving toward him.

"Um, hey." You said carefully.

He looked over, eyes changing when he saw you, but smile dropping. 

"Can we talk privately for a second?"

He exhaled dramatically, annoyed, but nodded. He followed you down the nearby hallway, away from the noise and attention.

"What are you doing?" You asked, your voice low but firm, eyes fixed on his.

"Chilling. Why are you being extra?" He snapped back.

"Why am I being extra?" Your voice lifted with disbelief. "You know what you're doing, you literally invited me. If this is still about what happened with your brother I told you I was sorry."

He scoffed. "First of all, I never invited you. I asked if you were coming and you said maybe. I didn't fucking beg you to show up tonight."

"Oh, but I'm 'always invited' right? That's what you said." Your voice cracked.

"Okay, Y/n." He said flatly.

"Okay? That's it?" You asked, hurt surfacing.

He sighed again and looked away briefly before turning back. "You know, honestly Y/n..." His tone shifted— colder. "I'm fucking bored with you, okay? I'm tired. I want something different tonight. Someone who doesn't make a big deal out of me not answering their calls. Someone who doesn't take everything so seriously and emotionally."

 He paused. "Someone who doesn't make me wear protection for casual, regular, simple sex."

You blinked, stunned as his words sank in.

"This is only about sex to you?" You asked quietly.

"Literally, yes. That's all it was ever supposed to be. We're not dating, we're not anything special. So just get over it."

His words stung like a slap. You stood frozen, chest tightening, breath catching as your mind scrambled to make sense of it.

"Get over it?" You questioned, voice shaky. "I can't believe you."

"Seriously, why are you surprised? You knew what you were getting into, you knew what this was— who I was. So yeah, get over it."

And just like that, he turned and walked away quickly, unapologetic, like none of it mattered.

You just stood there. The sting of his words burned beneath your skin. Your mind replayed it all— his kisses that felt too careful, the way he used to listen when you rambled like he cared. It didn't feel casual, it never did. You thought it meant something.

You should've left then. Should've gone out to your car and cried it out alone, but instead, you ended up in the kitchen, grabbing the nearest bottle, the biggest one. One shot became two, then three, then you chugging half the bottle while strangers  cheered like it was a show. You couldn't even hear them, everything blurred. 

You stumbled back down the hallway for a break, sliding against the wall until you hit the floor, bottle still in hand. You closed your eyes, maybe to stop the spinning, maybe to hold back tears, maybe both.

"Y/n?"

Your eyes fluttered open. You turned slowly to the voice.

"Jaemin? What the fuck?" You said, standing a little wobbly.

He stepped closer, a cautious steadiness in his eyes. "Can we talk?"

"You're fucked up." You replied.

"You're fucked up too. If we can still speak, we can talk." His voice was gentle, not defensive.

You looked at him for a long second, trying to focus through the fog before nodding. "Alright, talk."

He ran a hand through his hair, pausing before speaking. "Listen... I'm seriously sorry about everything I said to you."

"That all?" You mumbled.

"No." He said quickly. "I haven't been the best friend. I just... I wanted to keep you away from a guy like him. I know I wasn't always nice about it, but you didn't deserve that. You didn't deserve anything I said to you and I'm sorry. I love you, Y/n. I always have."

You smiled faintly. "It's cool."

He looked like he wanted to say more, but someone else's voice interrupted.

"There you are."

You both turned. It was the Mark guy from last time.

"Do you know where Haechan is bro?" He asked Jaemin.

Jaemin shook his head, lips in a tight line. "Naw."

Mark rolled his eyes slightly before pausing, turning to you. "What about you— do you know where he is?"

"Why would I know?" You questioned, laughing a bit. 

His brows furrowed slightly, confusion twisting his face. "You're like— his girl."

You paused for a second the word echoing in your mind 'his girl'. He didn't act like it, all that he said tonight and his friends are calling you his girl? Right. 

"Last time I seen him he was with a girl— he's probably fucking her." You said, the words coming out your mouth too easy, too bitter.

"Naw." Mark said, staring at the ceiling like he was thinking. "He wasn't with a girl when I saw him a few minutes ago. I don't know, I checked in his room, the backyard, everywhere— nothing. His car is still here though." 

He isn't with a girl? Since when. Your mind started racing again, trying to think as logically as you could in the state you were at right now. 

"I'm getting kind of worried." You said without thinking, eyes glossy.

"I'm sure he just took a car somewhere or something." Jaemin pipped in. 

Mark nodded in agreement, scratching his head, cursing slightly under his breath. 

"What do you need with him?" You asked, curiousity taking the best of you. 

"He has my blunt." Mark said in a sigh.

Jaemin chuckled lightly, honestly, more of a scoff. "Man, if you don't get the fuck on." He said, pushing Marks shoulder slightly.

"Shit, my bad. Didn't know it was that serious. Let me know if you see Haechan." Mark said, walking down the hallway, scratching the back of his head. 

You stared at him as he left, zoned out for a second too long before turning back. Jaemin's eyes were already on you— focused, something glinting in them.

"Why the fuck are you looking at me like that?" You asked, your words slurring slightly.

"Like what?" He replied, inching closer to you with casual ease that felt far too practiced.

"Like... that." You motioned vaguely, a tired, crooked smile tugging at your lips.

"I don't know." He said, smirking. "I guess I just missed you. Missed seeing your face, your eyes, your—" His gaze flicked down."...lips."

You just giggled lazily, your head falling back slightly as your eyelids drooped.

"You didn't miss me just a little bit?" He pressed, now standing directly in front of you, his expression filled with something light, teasing.

"What am I gonna do with you?" You murmured, shaking your head, half amused, half dazed.

"I've got a few suggestions." His voice dropped lower, smoother.

You opened your mouth to say something back, but then suddenly the room spun.

Your smile fell.

Everything hit at once, shutting your eyes, hand instinctively reaching for Jaemin to stay grounded.

"You okay?" He muttered, steadying you quickly. "Fuck— can you make it upstairs?"

You just nodded weakly as he wrapped your arm over his shoulder, raising you up. He guided you through the crowd, shielding you from the curious glances.

"Hang in there, I got you." He said, his breath a little rushed. He led you straight into the bathroom, flipping the toilet lid up and helping you kneel in front of it just in time.

"There you go, let it out." He said gently, one hand holding your hair, the other rubbing slow, comforting circles on your back as everything poured out of you.

You didn't say anything, just coughed, groaning softly, trying to breathe through the burn.

"I'll be right back, okay? Gonna grab you some water." He stood, hesitating for a moment, watching you slump against the wall before disappearing.

You sat there for a second, catching your breath. Once the spinning calm downed, you forced yourself up on shaky legs. You splashed cold water on your face with a washcloth, numbing your flushed skin. Your eyes found the bottle of mouthwash under the sink, and you took a quick swig, trying to rinse away the taste of shame and alcohol.

When Jaemin returned, he handed you a red cup of water and closed the door softly behind him.

"Thanks." You mumbled, taking a sip. The cold relief hit your throat like glass.

"You feeling any better?"

"Yeah." You nodded, slowly. "I just... I think I need to rest. I'll be okay after that."

"You drove here?" He asked.

"Yeah." You nodded.

"Then let me take you home. You can grab your car tomorrow."

"No, that's too much. I'm not leaving my car here." You said, waving a hand lazily. "I'll crash here a bit. I'll leave when I'm sober."

He stared at you like you just confessed a felony. "Y/n, that's a fucking terrible idea."

"Jaemin, seriously." You said firmly, cutting him off. "I'm not doing this with you tonight. I really don't have the energy."

He sighed, lips pressed into a tight line before nodding. "Alright. Just... text me when you get home. I wanna make sure you're alright."

"Noted." You gave him a soft, exhausted smile. "Thank you."

He lingered a second longer, like he wanted to say something else, but didn't. Then he left.

You pulled out your phone and shot Haechan a quick message— told him you were sick, asked if there was a room you could rest in, promised you'd be gone by morning... no reply.

You rolled your eyes, of course.

You made your way to his room anyway, tugging off your shoes and the uncomfortable pants digging into your waist. You sank into the bed, eyes shutting before your head even hit the pillow.

About an hour and a half later, your eyes snapped open.

Your chest rose quickly as you sat up, heart beating fast. You rubbed at your face, trying to blink the haze away. Everything still felt off— your body heavy, your mind foggy. You weren't even sure if it was just the alcohol anymore. You turned toward the nightstand, eyes catching on an unopened can sitting there, no label, no clue what it was. You picked it up, squinted at it, turning it in your hands.

The door creaked open.

"Was throwing up the first time not enough?"

Your head snapped up. Haechan.

You scoffed quietly, setting the can back on the nightstand without a word.

"Oh, you're ignoring me now?" He said as he stepped in, closing the door behind him and locking it.

You didn't look at him. "Your friends are looking for you." You said quietly, your voice flat. "You disappeared."

"They found me." He replied. "Was with my sister. The stupid fucker had my location."

He walked toward your side of the bed. "I got you some water." He said, placing a red solo cup down next to you.

Then, like nothing had happened, he sat at the edge of the bed and pulled his shirt over his head.

"Why are you acting like nothing happened?" You asked suddenly, voice cracking under the weight of your restraint.

He paused, head tilted slightly. "Huh?"

"Everything you said earlier. All that shit. You just walked away like it didn't matter."

He paused, then bent down, taking his shoes off. "Oh, that?" He said with a shrug. "Yeah, I changed my mind."

Your eyebrows shot up. "You changed your mind?"

"Didn't even fuck her." He added carelessly, like that erased it.

"I don't believe you." You said, voice cold.

He stood and began tugging off his pants. "Did you believe what I said earlier?"

You hesitated, then shook your head. "Honestly... I think I'm sober enough now. I'll just go."

You swung your legs off the bed, but the moment your feet hit the floor your body caved under its own weight.

"Yeah." He said quickly, pulling the blanket aside. "You're not going anywhere."

He settled beside you again comfortably... too comfortable.

"Just drink some water and chill. You'll be fine."

You didn't answer, you just turned your back to him, facing the wall.

"Are you really that mad at me?" He murmured, breath warm on your skin.

You didn't answer him, just exhaled irritated, flipping over onto your side, your back facing him. You rolled your eyes when you felt the bed dip as he moved closer, his chest pressing up against your back.

He wrapped an arm around your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck. "C'mon." He murmured, coaxing. "You know I didn't mean it."

You scoffed, unmoved. "You know, you're the most exhausting person in the entire world."

"Yeah?" He replied lowly. His lips ghosted the shell of your ear, then drifted down to your neck, the touch barely there.

"Yeah." You snapped, though your voice was softer now. "And you're... you're the worst person I've ever met."

"I know." He whispered again, a little grin in his tone, like he liked the way you hated him, like he wanted to see how far you'd go before breaking.

His hand slid lower, trailing slowly down your torso. His fingers dipped under the waistband of your underwear, grazing the skin there before slipping inside.

You inhaled sharply as his fingertips brushed against your slickness, teasing your folds slowly. He pressed a kiss to your neck, hotter now.

"Wow." He breathed, lips dragging over your skin. "So wet."

You swallowed back a moan, breath hitching. "You really think you deserve to be fucked right now?" You murmured, voice low and shaky, but still sharp.

"I don't." He admitted softly, the words brushing against your skin. "But you do."

He flattened his tongue against your neck, licking a slow line up to your ear before whispering, "Use me."

That made you stop.

You turned your head slowly, facing him now. His eyes met yours, darker and glossier than before. He meant it, you could see it in the way his mouth parted, in the way his breath caught when your eyes locked.

"What do you want me to do?" He asked, voice eager in a way it's never been before.

"Keep going." You said quietly.

He smiled, but it vanished the second he dipped his head, mouth devouring your neck again, lips,  tongue, and teeth dragging across your skin. His fingers moved more now, rubbing slow circles over your clit before dipping down to tease your entrance, just barely pushing in.

"I'll do whatever you want." He whispered, fingers still working you open. "Just tell me."

His mouth stayed on your neck, trailing open mouthed kisses, tongue dragging across the skin like he was trying to taste every sound you made. But it was his fingers that kept you gasping, pushing deeper now, curling perfectly inside you while his thumb rolled slow circles over your clit.

You arched into his hand. He groaned lowly against your throat, the sound muffled, almost like he was trying to stay quiet, but couldn't help himself.

His fingers fucked into you harder, knuckles brushing slick heat with every movement. You were so wet, your arousal coating his hand and sliding down your thighs, the sound of it filling the room.

You cried out when he slipped a third finger in without warning, stretching you wider. Your hand shot out, gripping at the sheets trying to ground yourself.

Your body jerked when his thumb pressed harder, rolling faster circles right over the spot that made you twitch. He felt the way you clenched around his fingers, and he didn't let up.

He fucked you with his fingers like he knew you better than you knew yourself. Like he wanted to pull every sound out of you, every reaction, until there was nothing left of your pride— just need.

He buried his face in your neck, teeth grazing your skin, breath hot as he kept moving his fingers inside you.

Your thighs clenched around his hand, your body tensing, even then his fingers didn't stop. They kept driving into you, rough and fast, curling just right inside you. He had you locked in place, your back flush to his chest, his other arm wrapped firm around your waist, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

You choked on a moan, your head falling back against his shoulder as your hips bucked.

"Fuck." You whimpered out.

Your whole body jerked, clenching around his fingers as you came with a loud cry. Your thighs shook uncontrollably as your orgasm hit you hard.

He didn't slow down, even as you finished, he kept fucking you with his fingers, your nails were digging into the sheets.

Your body fell against him, boneless, twitching slightly as the aftershocks rolled through you.

Your breath was still shaky, body still twitching, but something shifted in you. You turned in his grip, and before he could process it you pushed him back, flipping him onto his back with force that even surprised him.

He hit the mattress with a grunt, eyes wide, caught between confusion and anticipation.

He reached for your underwear, fingers sliding to the waistband like he thought he was still in control.

"No." You said flatly, grabbing his wrists and pinning them down against the bed. 

He blinked up at you, eyebrows raised. "Seriously?" He muttered, cocking his head. "You're gonna make me wait like that?"

You didn't answer. Instead, your grip tightening on his wrists. "Did I ask you to speak?"

His mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out. He stared up at you stunned. For once, he had nothing to say.

You released one wrist and tapped his cheek lightly. "Aw, look at that. You're doing good already, such a fast learner."

He didn't respond, just stared at you like he didn't recognize this version of you— and maybe he didn't. Maybe he never knew how far you could push him.

You slid your hips forward once, just enough for your soaked underwear to press against him— enough for him to feel how close you were, how warm you were, without giving him anything.

He gasped.

You froze immediately, smiling wider. "I barely even moved." You whispered, tilting your head. "And you're already gasping?"

His hands curled into fists against the sheets, his jaw flexing, trying to hold it in.

Too late.

You rolled your hips again slower, dragging yourself against him, the heat and friction driving him crazy. He let out a low groan, biting his lip, but the noise still slipped free.

You laughed softly. "That's pathetic." You said, voice silky. "Already whining like I've done something special."

He arched into you slightly, but you pressed your palm against his chest, holding him down.

You didn't give him time to recover.

Your hips started moving again, slow at first, rolling into him with that same cruel precision, but the moment you felt the way he twitched under you, the way his breath caught and his fingers tightened in the sheets, you picked up the pace, faster and rougher.

Your nails dug into his chest for balance as you rode him, hips snapping against his, your soaked underwear still pressed between you both, friction building unbearably fast. His eyes were locked on you now. His mouth parted in a soundless moan, like he couldn't even form words anymore.

You leaned in close, lips brushing his jaw without kissing him. "Feels good, doesn't it?" You whispered against his skin, your breath heavy. "Getting used like this."

He didn't answer, couldn't. He just whimpered and it only made you grind down harder, circling your hips once slowly before slamming down again.

You were close, too. You could feel it starting to burn low in your stomach, spreading fast. Your rhythm grew more erratic, desperate even, but you refused to lose control. You kept him pinned, your hand against his chest, pushing down hard.

He bucked his hips up, trying to match your movements, chasing it, gasping now. His hands flew up to grab at your waist like he needed something to hold onto. 

His mouth was moving, voice cracking. "Fuck, please, I'm gonna—"

You slammed your hips down harder, cutting him off, and he cried out. You could feel him trembling under you, his whole body tightening.

"Please let me come, fuck. I need it, I can't... I'm so close, please—"

You smirked through your own breathing. "You're begging now?" You murmured. "Look at you..."

He nodded, barely able to breathe, a wreck beneath you.

You were right there too, your body shaking with restraint, trying not to come first— trying to hold on long enough to decide if you were going to let him finish at all.

You didn't slow down. Not when his moans got louder, not when his hands clawed at your hips, not even when his head tipped back and his mouth dropped open with a gasp that sounded more like a sob.

You felt it— his whole body tensing beneath you, a sharp cry coming from his throat as he came in his boxers, hot and messy between your bodies. His thighs jerked uncontrollably, his chest heaving, hands gripping you tightly, but you didn't stop, you didn't even pause.

You kept moving, dragging your soaked heat against him through the aftermath of his high, hips grinding harder.

"Look at you." You murmured with a soft laugh. "Didn't even last, came in your fucking boxers like some desperate boy."

He whimpered under you, blinking up at you like he couldn't believe you were still moving.

You rolled your hips again slowly, and his whole body shuddered violently.

"Fuck— fuck, please." He gasped, voice shaking, louder now, eyes wide. "I can't, it's too much."

You grabbed his jaw, forcing his face back towards yours. "Then take it."

"Please, I can't. I'll come again— please stop, please."

But you didn't.

You kept going, eyes locked on his, breathing heavy. His moans turned to gasps, then to whines, his body twitching violently with every pass of your hips.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, his voice cracking.

Your hips moved faster, and the more he squirmed under you, the louder he got, the harder you rode him. His boxers were soaked now— warm and sticky.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum." You said, head falling back as your movements became messier. 

Your body tensed, a choked moan coming from your throat as you reached your climax, your thighs trembling. And under you he was still squirming, overstimulated, but you stayed on him, letting the last shocks of your orgasm pulse through both of you.

You finally slowed, thighs trembling slightly as you lifted yourself off of him.

He looked ruined— flushed, hair a mess, his boxers soaked and sticking to him in the most humiliating way. His chest was still rising and falling hard, but as you sat beside him, a smile broke across his face.

"Shit." He exhaled, glancing over at you with a dazed grin. "That was... fuck, so good. Round two? Can we— can we actually fuck now?" He said, with faint left over arrogance.

You didn't say anything right away. You just stared at him, eyebrows slightly raised, lips parting like you were considering it. Then you tilted your head and gave him a look so cold, so dry, it silenced him instantly.

"Honestly?" You said. "You can go fuck yourself."

His smile dropped. "W— what?"

"You heard me." You leaned back, propping yourself on your elbows. "You can go fuck yourself."

He blinked clearly confused. "Wait— like... actually?"

You gave him a dark smile. "Right here. With me watching."

He stared, completely stunned.

"Well?" You asked. "I'm waiting."

He swallowed hard, then his hand started to move, slowly slipping beneath the waistband of his ruined boxers, his eyes locked on yours the whole time.

You didn't blink, didn't look away, you just leaned back fully, legs still slightly spread, gaze sharp as you watched him obey.

He was flushed, chest still heaving from everything you'd already done to him, and now here he was... obeying you, shame blooming across his face as he started to stroke himself.

You tilted your head, eyes fixed on the motion, the slick sounds already starting to fill the quiet space between you.

"God." You exhaled, voice low and amused. "Look at you."

His eyes flicked up to yours, like he was searching for something, permission, praise, maybe relief? Whatever it was, you weren't going to give it to him.

"Didn't even last five minutes, and you're already hard again?" You taunted. "You're actually pathetic."

His pace faltering for just a second before picking up again— faster this time, more desperate.

"Don't slow down." You warned, shifting slightly to spread your legs wider, giving him a full view as you sat back, one hand dragging down your inner thigh casually. 

He bit his lip, nodding quickly, his hand moving faster now, breathing turning shaky again. His eyes stayed locked on you, taking in the way you sat there, smug, but still a bit flushed from your own orgasm. Your presence alone had him falling apart again.

"You gonna come again just from your hand?" You whispered. "With me watching you like this?"

He let out a shaky gasp, his hips jerking upward slightly and you caught it instantly.

"Oh my god." You said, laughing softly. "You're gonna do it, aren't you? Finish like this all messy and pathetic with me just sitting here." You reached forward, dragging a single fingertip up the inside of his thigh, not touching him where he needed, just enough to make him twitch.

His whole body tensed again, a broken moan escaping his throat as his hand sped up, gasping, eyes locked on you like he needed your gaze just to fall apart.

"Fuck, I'm gonna—" He cried out, voice cracking.

You leaned in, lips nearly brushing his ear.

"Do it." You whispered.

His whole body tensed up, a loud whimper escaping his throat as he came for the second time.

You just watched, your legs spread lazily, one hand propping you up while the other dragged absentminded patterns against your inner thigh like you weren't even all that impressed, like he wasn't anything special.

"Aw. Was that hard for you?" You asked, voice filled with condescension. 

He didn't answer, couldn't. His lips parted like he might try, but nothing came out. Just a shaky exhale as he turned his head to look at you, face red, chest flushed, hands twitching slightly like he didn't know where to put them now.

"Twice in one night." You said, dragging your finger up your thigh again. "Didn't even need to touch you the second time." You said, laughing under your breath.

You stayed still for a moment longer, watching him breathe, his chest still rising hard. 

You tilted your head slightly. "Come here."

He didn't hesitate, just nodded, crawling forward slowly. His knees shifted across the mattress until he was right in front of you waiting, still caught in whatever trance you'd pulled him into.

You gave a soft sigh, pausing for a second, looking at him. "On second thought... I'm bored with you."

His face dropped slightly, eyes growing just a little wider, and his mouth opened like he didn't know if he'd heard you right.

"W— what?" He said, blinking fast. "No, no, wait, I can— I can make you not bored. Just tell me what to do, I'll do anything, really."

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You're really this desperate?" You said flatly. "For... casual, regular, simple sex?"

He paused, didn't answer right away. "I'm sorry." He said quickly, too quick. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean— I mean I just.. please, I didn't mean to make it feel like that. I didn't mean to ruin it—"

"Stop talking." You cut in. "I'm done with you."

His mouth hung open, chest still moving, eyes searching yours for any sign of mercy.

"Now please..." You said, voice dropping colder than ever. "Go shower, you're fucking disgusting."

He froze, letting out a faint exhale.

And then absurdly, he smiled. Just a small twitch at the corner of his mouth, nodding. "Yeah, okay."

He stood up slowly, and left the room without another word. You laid back down, flipping onto your side again, the exact same position you'd been in before all of it started, your lips curved up just slightly in a satisfied smile.

══════════════════════════

You woke up to the soft light filtering through the blinds. For a moment, you didn't know where you were, but sheets smelled faintly like him— distinctly Haechan. You blinked the haze out of your eyes, gradually sitting up.

Next to you, Haechan sat propped against the headboard, absently scrolling through his phone like it was any normal morning. You turned slightly, watching him for a second. He looked relaxed, completely unbothered, like last night never even happened.

"Oh, you're awake." He said, glancing over at you.

You didn't respond right away, just swung your legs off the side of the bed, grounding yourself with your hands in your lap as you stared down at the floor. Your head still felt slightly heavy, the remnants of everything from the night before pressing down on your chest.

"Um, you hungry?" He added, his tone light.

"I'll probably just pick up something on the way home." You muttered, about to stand.

"Wait—" He said quickly, sitting up straighter. "I can... I can just cook us something."

You shook your head gently, already pushing yourself to your feet. "You're good, I swear—"

"And I have to talk to you about something." He added, cutting you off mid sentence.

You froze.

A long moment of silence stretched before you gave in with a quiet sigh and nod, slowly settling back on the edge of the bed.

"Okay." You said simply.

He offered a faint smile before hopping up and leaving the room. "Okay, I'll call you when it's done."

Twenty minutes passed before he called your name from downstairs. You took your time going down, still slightly dazed, still unsure what exactly he had to say.

When you got to the kitchen, the table was set. He was already sitting down, looking up as you walked in.

"Wow." You said with a small smirk. "Didn't know you knew how to cook."

"Surprise." He said with a casual shrug.

 You took a bite of the food, eyebrows lifting slightly in approval.

"Good." You muttered, almost reluctantly.

"Oh, thank you, thank you." He grinned, but then: "Oh, what the fuck was that last night?"

You looked up, expecting to see his defenses up, ready to brush things off as a mistake. Instead, his face was lit up with amusement, a grin on his face, no shame.

You giggled, the corner of your mouth twitching. "What do you mean?"

"What do I mean?" He echoed dramatically, setting down his fork. "I mean, how you acted. I've never tried anything like that before."

You tilted your head. "Did you like it?"

"Did I like it? I loved it." He said without hesitation. "I've always wanted to try something like that out before, but I just didn't really trust anyone like that. It just turned me off with other girls, you know? But you—"

He was rambling now, his words flowing fast and unfiltered. "We definitely have to do it again, I mean— if you were into it?"

You smiled faintly, but there was a heaviness sitting behind your eyes. "Oh, so you're not bored anymore, huh?" The words left your mouth before you could pull them back.

The atmosphere immediately changed. He stilled, the brightness in his face dimming as the sound of your fork scraping the plate echoed like thunder in the silence.

"That's what I have to talk to you about, actually." He said, voice low.

You nodded, waiting, watching him gather himself, but then a loud knock suddenly hit the front door.

Both of your heads turned.

He frowned slightly, standing from his chair and walking over. You exhaled slowly, your lips tightening into a strained expression when the door opened.

It was her— the girl from last night.

"Hey, cutie. I think I left my bra here, can I come in?" She said brightly, smiling at him like you didn't exist.

"It's not here." Haechan said, his voice noticeably hushed, like he hoped you couldn't hear.

"No, I'm sure it's here." She said, taking a step forward. "C'mon, let me just take a quick look. Won't take me long— unless you want it to be long."

You didn't have to see him to know he looked exhausted. "Make it quick." He muttered.

She walked in, eyes scanning the place like she owned it. She made a dramatic turn toward the stairs.

"You know it's not up there, so cut it out." Haechan called out, annoyed.

She giggled. "Oh right, silly me. I just figured you would've put it away for me after I left it. Didn't think you'd seriously leave it in the bathroom for anyone to pick up."

Your jaw clenched.

She spun around again, searching the room, and then her gaze landed on you, her smile widening.

"Oh my goodness, this must be your sister? Hi! You're so pretty!"

You scoffed, an actual scoff, sharp and disbelieving as you turned toward Haechan. His eyes were already on you, guilt written all over them.

She disappeared around the corner and returned moments later, holding a black lace bra between her fingers like a trophy. "Found it!" She said, beaming.

"Good, now get out." Haechan snapped.

"Aww, okay." She said playfully, heading for the door. "See you later, cutie."

"Right." His voice was hollow as he shut the door behind her with a loud slam.

Silence.

Then you stood up slowly, pushing your chair back.

"Y/n, I swear—" He started, voice low and cautious.

"Yeah." You said softly, turning towards the stairs.

"Fuck. Y/n, wait—" He reached for your wrist.

You yanked it back. "Get the fuck off of me."

"Can you just let me explain?" He pleaded.

"Let you explain what? Every time you explain, the story changes. There's nothing to explain!" Your voice cracked at the edges, anger and betrayal spilling out in equal measure.

"Look, I know how it looks, but I swear I didn't fuck her."

"Oh?" You scoffed. "Her bra just teleported into your bathroom and now nobody knows what happened? You knew exactly where it was."

"Yeah I know, but we didn't do anything." He insisted.

"So what— she took her bra off for shits and giggles?"

"Yeah." He said, voice shaky.

You just shook your head. "You're a fucking joke."

You walked past him, storming back into his room to grab your pants. He followed you, desperate.

"We didn't fuck, we didn't even kiss— you've gotta believe me."

"Well, I don't. How can I fucking believe you?" You shouted, your voice breaking now as you shoved your shoes on. "You're nothing but a sex addicted, sorry excuse for a human being, and you think I'm seriously gonna believe you?"

He stood there quietly, his chest rising and falling, then something in him snapped.

"Oh, I'm a sorry excuse for a human being?" He shouted. "All that shit you did a year ago and you're talking about me? Take a look at yourself. You run back, don't you? You don't believe me, but you still let me touch you last night, right?"

You stopped dead in your tracks, your whole face twisting, rage bubbling up in your throat.

"Fuck you." You spat, venom in your voice.

"Fuck you." He shot back, almost automatic.

You stormed up to him, eyes burning, jabbing your finger into his chest. "I loved you. I gave you chance after fucking chance and you still fucked it up. People like you will always be lonely, no matter how many girls you fuck or how many you break. No one wants to deal with you."

He didn't speak. His mouth opened slightly, but the words didn't come as his eyes glistened.

"I really thought— God, I really thought that somewhere in there, you had love. That you actually cared about something more than yourself, but you're just a selfish fucking prick."

He opened his mouth again. "Oh, I'm a selfish prick?" His voice cracked now, raised but not loud— just hurt.

"Yeah." You said bitterly. "And I give up, I'm done with you."

You turned and headed for the stairs. He followed again, footsteps frantic behind you.

"Done with me?" He scoffed. "Leave then. I don't give a fuck."

You were already crying as you hit the bottom of the stairs, rushing toward the door. Tears streamed down your face, but you didn't care.

"You're nothing but a body to me. You really think I care?" He called after you, the words landing like a slap.

You stopped cold, hand on the doorknob. Then turned back to look at him one last time.

"Fuck you, Haechan." You whispered through your tears. Then you yanked the door open and slammed it shut behind you, storming to your car without looking back.

The drive home was chaotic, your mind spiraling the entire way. Your grip on the steering wheel was tight. Everything blurred together: Haechan's voice, the girl's face, the slam of the door behind you, it rang in your ears long after you pulled into your driveway.

The second you stepped through the door, you headed straight for the shower. You didn't bother to undress carefully— your clothes were on the floor within seconds. The water was scalding, but you barely noticed. You stood there, letting it rush over you like it could wash away the ache, the sting in your throat from screaming and crying. You scrubbed until your skin was aching, but no matter how hard you tried, the weight inside your chest stayed exactly where it was.

After drying off and pulling on a pair of shorts and an oversized shirt, you dropped into bed, damp hair soaking into the pillow. You sat there in silence, the room was still... too still.

You didn't want to be alone— not right now. Your roommates were out, like always. You stared at the ceiling for a moment before biting your lip, reaching for your phone. Your fingers hesitated over your screen, but then instinct took over.

You dialed Jaemin.

It rang once... twice.

Then his voice. "About time I hear from you."

"Jaemin." Your voice cracked around his name, tears you thought were gone welling again.

"What's wrong?" His tone changed immediately. You could picture the way his brows furrowed, his whole face shifting into concern.

"Can you come?" Your voice was so small.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course. I'll be there in... fifteen minutes." He paused, then sighed. "Thirty."

"Okay." You whispered.

Thirty five minutes later, a knock landed at your door.

You opened it slowly— and there he was standing with your favorite takeout in one hand and a small bouquet of flowers in the other. His expression was soft, warm, like he was showing up for someone he deeply cared about, and he was.

Your lips wobbled, a pout forming as you tried to keep it together, but your chest caved in again.

"Oh my gosh..." You mumbled.

"Aw, poor baby." He stepped inside immediately, shutting the door behind him before pulling you into his arms.

The moment you buried your face in his chest, you broke. Your tears poured out, soaking his shirt as your fingers clutched at him like you'd drown if you let go. You stayed like that for a while— no words, just his hands gently rubbing your back, his chin resting on your head.

When you finally pulled away, a large wet patch stained his shirt.

"Damn, girl." He said with a soft laugh, tugging at the fabric and inspecting it.

"Sorry." You sniffled, letting out a half laugh through your sorrow.

"It's okay. C'mon, let's go to your room."

His hand settled on your back, guiding you down the hall.

You sat on the edge of your bed, eyes still swollen, nose stuffy, while he placed the food down and peeled off his shirt. He paused, looking down.

"Through the tank top too." He laughed, pulling that off as well.

That's when your eyes landed on his skin— and the faint outline of hickeys scattered across his chest and collarbone.

"Wow." You blinked, eyes widening.

His brows furrowed at first before realization hit him and he chuckled. "I could say the same thing to you." He murmured, walking toward you. His fingers gently ran along the markings on your neck, ghosts from the night before.

You hummed, a quiet sound in your throat as you looked up at him with a small smile.

"Are you ready to tell me what happened now?" He asked gently.

You looked down for a second, then back up at him. "I don't wanna talk about it. Can you just... stay?"

"Yeah, of course." His smile was soft, understanding.

You both climbed into bed. His arm rested around your shoulder, his fingers tracing slow circles into your arm. Your legs brushed under the blanket, your body gradually settling into the quiet comfort of his presence.

After a while, you turned to him. "Why did it take you so long to reach back out?"

He didn't look away. "I just wanted to give you space. I didn't wanna overstep. I figured when you were ready, you'd talk to me, but I couldn't wait anymore so I took the initiative."

"Oh." You nodded slowly, then turned to face him fully. "You really thought I'd reach out first after everything you said?"

He looked at you, guilt flickering across his features. "I realized how stupid that was."

"Mmm." You hummed softly.

Silence followed again. You moved closer, wrapping your arms around his waist and laying your head against his bare chest. His skin was warm against your cheek, the steady beat of his heart grounding you.

That's when the thoughts came back, rising fast.

"Bro... I don't know." You whispered into his chest. "I really thought he loved me."

His voice was gentle. "Yeah?"

"He acted like he did— sometimes." You said, pulling your head back to look up at him, your eyes glassy again. "I don't know why I'm even still crying over him."

"I understand." He said quietly. "I told you he was trouble."

"I know." You sighed. "I should've listened. Ugh— I really thought I could change him."

That made Jaemin chuckle softly.

"It's not funny." You muttered, swatting his chest lightly.

"I know, I know." He smiled, brushing your tears away with his thumb.

"Listen, it's over now." He murmured, hand sliding down your cheek to cup it softly. "And everything's gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay, right?"

You groaned, turning your head away, but his fingers caught your chin and gently guided your face back to his.

"Okay?" He repeated.

You nodded, barely. "Okay."

The space between you changed. His eyes stayed on yours, soft but intense. His hand didn't leave your face and you didn't move either. You leaned in slightly, then stopped yourself.

"It's okay." He whispered, his voice low, his breath brushing against your lips. "Do it."

You hesitated again, but then he leaned in,  pausing just an inch away. "Or I will." He added, before finally closing the space.

His lips met yours gently at first, then deeper. You didn't pull away, you melted into him instead— his mouth, his touch, the comfort you hadn't known you needed. His hand slid behind your neck, pulling you closer. The kiss intensified, growing heavier with each second. His tongue slid into your mouth, slow but sure, as his hands roamed across your body, searching and warm.

Your phone buzzed beside you.

Neither of you paid attention.

He pushed you gently onto your back, settling over you. His lips trailed from your mouth to your cheek, then down your jaw.

Your phone rang.

You glanced over, blinking— and froze.

Haechan lit up the screen.

You closed your eyes, heart twisting, fingers tangling into your hair as Jaemin's lips moved across your neck, leaving kisses— soft at first, then rougher.

His mouth found a sensitive spot, and you gasped, your body reacting before your mind could keep up.

The phone rang again.

Then again.

You tried to ignore it, tried to stay in the moment, but the name flashing on the screen was too loud.

Jaemin kissed you again, lower now, but your mind was somewhere else.

The phone rang once more.

"Wait— wait." You interrupted, breath catching as your eyes snapped open.

Jaemin pulled back immediately, eyes wide with concern as he sat up. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"Yeah." You replied quickly, trying to steady your breathing. "I'm just— my phone's blowing up, and I'm really distracted and like..." You paused, pressing your lips together before biting down on the bottom one. "Sorry, can we just... do this later?"

His expression softened, cheeks still a little flushed. "Of course." He said gently, offering a small smile. "You don't have to be sorry."

You exhaled slowly, sitting up further and grabbing for your phone. "Who's blowing up your phone?" Jaemin asked, shifting beside you, propping himself on an elbow.

You thumbed through the notifications, scanning them from the bottom. "Spam." You muttered, dismissing a message from an unknown number.

"And... Haechan." You added, your voice quieting. You turned your phone toward Jaemin. "Four missed calls, two voicemails."

Jaemin scoffed, his jaw tensing slightly. "When did he get so fucking desperate?"

You shrugged, trying not to let the knot in your chest twist tighter, but something poked at you— nagging and insistent. "I never asked." You said, turning to him with a squint. "But... how do you even know this guy?"

"Oh." He said, blinking like he hadn't expected the question. "I met him last year. We had a class together, I don't know how he was a junior and I was a freshman, but hey. I started hanging out with his friend group, got super close, and that's it."

"So you're close?" You asked, head tilting.

"Yeah, something like that." He said, casually shrugging.

"Mmm." You hummed in response, nodding slowly. Then your thumb hovered over the voicemails. "Do you wanna listen to the voicemails with me?"

You tried to play it off with a smile, but truthfully your heart was racing. You were going to listen to them anyway— you just didn't want to be alone when you did.

Jaemin leaned back, resting against the headboard. "Sure, sweetums. Whatever makes you happy."

You gave a faint laugh, then opened the phone app and turned your volume all the way up. The first voicemail clicked on.

For a second, there was only heavy breathing, then his voice burst through the speaker— shaky, broken.

"Now you can't answer the fucking phone, huh? I know you see my calls, Y/n."

Your mouth dropped open slightly as you and Jaemin froze, listening.

"I fucking loved you— I love you, and you're just gonna walk out on me like I'm nothing? You're nothing—"

His voice cracked, like he was barely holding back tears.

"I'm gonna kill him." Jaemin shook his head in disbelief.

"Shh." You cut in quickly, swatting at his arm, your eyes not moving from the phone.

"I— and you're probably with Jaemin right now, aren't you?" Haechan's voice rasped.

You glanced at Jaemin with a twitch of a smile, but it dropped instantly.

"Like he isn't the cause of all this— like he didn't set this whole thing up. Yeah, bet you didn't know that, did you? That little jealous, selfish fucker. Trying to take you away from everyone, but can't even love you himself. And you're there? With him? Pitiful."

The room dropped into silence, tension thick enough to choke on.

You turned to Jaemin slowly, your expression tight, unsettled. "What the fuck is he talking about, Jaemin?"

His eyes stayed on yours, but something darker lingered in his gaze now. "He's lying."

"He's lying?" You echoed, brows furrowing. "Yeah, well it doesn't sound like he's lying."

"He's fucking lying to you, Y/n." Jaemin said firmly.

You shook your head, struggling to breathe evenly. "Why would he— he wouldn't— why would he say that though? Of all things, why that? He has no reason to lie... not about you. He doesn't even know what you are to me, he doesn't know we're this close, he probably doesn't know we even know each other."

"You're really about to question me right now?" Jaemin asked, voice rising with disbelief.

"I just don't know why he would say that." You admitted, voice cracking, hands shaking slightly as you stared down at your phone.

Then, something sparked in the back of your mind— the unknown number from earlier. You'd thought it was spam, but the area code was local, and something about it gnawed at you now.

"He's lying to you. You're seriously gonna let him shake you up like this—"

"Just shut the fuck up for a second, Jaemin. Please." Your tone was urgent, as you unlocked your phone and opened the text.

Unknown [4:28 PM]:

"Hey girly. Sorry to text you like this, I'm the one who left her bra at Haechan's house and I'm sorry about that. I didn't know stuff was serious between you two or that I was wrecking anything. I was completely left in the dark... I would never purposely do that. I was told you were just one of his hookups. Me and him never even fucked— he rejected me and left. I left my bra there on purpose so I could come back, just in case you were there in the morning. I hope this clears everything up. I'm sorry for the mess we caused."

You stared at the message, heart thudding.

You [4:48 PM]:

"Who's "we"?"

She replied instantly.

Unknown [4:50 PM]:

"Jaemin. That asshole. He knew I liked him, and he told me to be all up on Haechan, to try to hook up. Told me to leave my shit there so I could come back if the girl (you?) was still there in the morning. He described your car, said to be as annoying as possible. Told me he'd get with me if I did and I was stupid and believed him. We met up earlier today, he got head and left. Said 'this was fun' but he had to go. So fucking sick of men lol. Sorry again girl, I hope you get everything sorted out."

Your entire body went cold. Your hands trembled as you read the message once... then again.

"Jaemin." Your voice was flat now as you turned to him slowly. "The girl just told me what you did."

He rolled his eyes. "Great, now he's got a bitch lying on me too."

"You really believe that?" He added. "You believe them over your best friend?"

"I don't know what to believe right now." You said, breath unsteady. "But all I know is that Haechan would not go this far to lie...  about you."

"Right, okay." He scoffed, shaking his head. "This dude broke your heart a million times, fucked a girl, had her pop up outta nowhere with a literal bra as evidence, and you believe him over me? After everything? I've always had your back. Yeah, I fucked up once or twice, but I always looked out for you— and you're really gonna believe them?"

You opened your mouth to respond, to agree with him, honestly, but then something snapped into place.

Your eyes narrowed. "How the fuck did you know that?"

Jaemin blinked. "Know what?"

"How did you know that she left her bra?" You repeated, voice rising. "I never told you that. So how do you know?"

His silence was immediate.

"How do you know, Jaemin!?" You sat up in the bed, your voice cracked and full of betrayal.

He let out a sharp breath, a bitter laugh escaping his throat. "Shit."

Your eyes welled up, you couldn't believe this. "It's you." You whispered.

"Y/n—"

"It's been you." You said, more firmly now, shaking your head in disbelief.

"Will you just relax." He muttered, calm in a way that only made it worse.

You stared at him, stunned. "Relax? You tried sabotage my relationship."

"You weren't together. So I didn't do anything." He said flatly.

"I loved him." Your voice trembled as tears filled your eyes. "I actually loved him and  you ruined us— you ruined me."

"I ruined you?" He said with wide eyes, voice incredulous. "That's not how I remember it. I remember saving you. Keeping you from drinking too much, from drugs, from dying, but I ruined you?"

"Yeah." You said, voice sharp through the sob in your throat. "You're the reason."

He scoffed again. "I protected you. I was knocking out obstacles. Look what happened with the last guy, you healed when you were with me. You didn't need him, and you don't need Haechan either. As long as I'm here, you'll be fine, you'll have someone who actually loves you."

"You rejected me." You said, your voice a whisper.

"Yeah?" He shrugged, unmoved. "But I want you now, so..."

You froze. A single tear slipped down your cheek and you wiped it away with shaking fingers.

"You... you want me now?" You said with a bitter laugh.

"Mhm." He nodded. "Not like you haven't chosen me before. Do it again. e can be together."

Your jaw clenched. "I don't want to be with you."

His expression dropped, his eyes finally showing emotion.

"I don't want to see you again." You said, standing up. "I don't even want to know you."

"Wow. After everything I've done for you?" He snapped.

"Get out." Your voice cracked through the air.

"Seriously?"

"Get your shit and leave— now." You pointed to the door.

He scoffed again, rolling his eyes. "Whatever. Let's see how long until you come crawling back."

You stood there, arms crossed, chest aching as you watched him gather his things, not saying another word, and when the door slammed shut behind him, you didn't cry. You just stood there in the silence, your thoughts racing like a storm you couldn't outrun, crashing into each other with no direction. 

You paced around your room, feet dragging over the floor like they couldn't decide where to go next. Then your eyes landed on the flowers and takeout bag sitting on your dresser— Jaemin's "comfort gifts" a gesture that now felt so calculated.

Before you could stop yourself, you grabbed them both with trembling hands and marched to the trash can, shoving them inside like they were toxic. The flowers crumpled, petals breaking beneath your force. The food spilled open, untouched, as the bag collapsed into the bin. You stood over it, chest rising and falling, arms tense at your sides.

That's when you realized tears were falling now. They slipped quietly down your cheeks, and you didn't even feel them until they hit your lips. You wiped them away hastily with the back of your hand, sniffing hard as you made your way back to your room, sitting down slowly on your bed. 

You grabbed your phone, thumb hesitating over the screen before you tapped back into the voicemail from earlier. You played it again, letting Haechan's broken voice echo through the room, analyzing every syllable, every pause, hoping— desperately hoping that you'd catch something off, something that would prove he was lying, that Jaemin hadn't been the villain after all.

But deep down, you knew.

You weren't looking for the truth, you were just looking for something to hold onto.

Your eyes drifted to the second voicemail— the one you hadn't played yet. It sat there like a wound you hadn't touched. You stared at it, your thumb hovering over the play button, part of you wanted to delete it, let it die in the silence, move on.

You needed to, you knew that. It was the healthy thing to do.

But your heart didn't want clean, it wanted closure, connection. Something... anything, to explain why this all hurt so much.

You took a deep shaky breath, then hit play. There was silence at first like the last, then his voice— rough and cracked, the sound of someone unraveling.

"Fuck, I'm sorry. I don't know what to do, Y/n. I really don't."

You blinked, heart already pulling tight.

"I didn't do anything— I didn't do anything with her. Can you just come back and I'll explain everything, I swear. Just please... come back. Fuck, please, I love you. I'm sorry, I do. Just come back."

A pause. You could hear the faint clatter of something in the background. Then... a breathless, broken sob.

"Come back."

The voicemail ended, but the silence afterward felt louder. You sat there for a long moment, your mind numb, your heart in your throat. You swung your legs off the bed, planting your feet on the ground, tapping one nervously against the floor as your hand curled into a fist. You bit down on your lip, hard, then stood. You didn't even grab a jacket, you just grabbed your keys and walked out the door.

The drive was a blur.

Your thoughts were spinning too fast to keep up. What were you doing? What were you expecting? Maybe he wasn't even home anymore, maybe he'd already moved on or maybe— maybe this was you being weak.

But still, you kept going.

When you got to his place, you knocked. Once... twice, then harder— nothing.

You waited another moment before pulling out your phone and dialing his number. No answer, your fingers hovered over the doorknob. You hesitated, then tried it and it was unlocked.

"Haechan?" You called softly, peeking your head inside.

No answer.

You were ready to walk away. You were so close, so close to leaving it all behind, but then your eyes landed on the full sized bottle sitting open on the counter, almost empty.

You stepped inside cautiously, shutting the door behind you. "Haechan?"

No response.

Your fingers tightened around the bottle as you picked it up, eyes narrowing in worry. Something didn't feel right. The air was still, too still. You moved through the kitchen, then slowly up the stairs, calling his name again, voice low but urgent.

You checked the bathroom, empty. Then you turned to his bedroom— and your heart stopped.

He was there, sprawled across his bed, deathly pale. One hand rested limply on his stomach, the other clutched his phone, your contact still lit up on the screen. On the nightstand beside him sat another half drained bottle of liquor.

"Shit." You whispered, rushing over.

You dropped to your knees beside the bed, pressing your hand to his cheek... ice cold.

Your panic surged, but you quickly placed two fingers against his neck. There it was, a pulse. Weak, but steady.

You exhaled, body trembling in relief. "Jesus." You muttered, rubbing your temples as you looked around the room. You reached for the trash can, dragging it beside the bed in case he threw up, turning his body to the side. Then you grabbed the bottle from the nightstand and carried it downstairs, pouring what was left into the sink.

You filled a glass with water, your hands shaking slightly as you brought it back upstairs and set it down beside him. You watched him for a second, debating. You should probably go, he wouldn't even remember this, but as you looked at him—his lashes resting softly on pale cheeks, his chest rising and falling slowly, the phone still gripped in his hand, your feet didn't move. You sat on the edge of his bed, scrolling through your phone, not even seeing the screen. You stayed there, just... watching him, listening for changes in his breathing, checking to make sure he didn't roll onto his back again or get sick.

Eventually, your body gave in to the weight of the night. You curled beside him, not too close, but close enough, eyes slowly beginning to drift shut.

Your eyes opened slowly, a low throb at your temples as you blinked through the dim room. It was dark, the soft hum of the ceiling fan above breaking the stillness. You glanced at your phone. 1:02 a.m.

You sighed, sitting up carefully. The air in the room was heavy and quiet, your body aching in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. You rubbed at your eyes, brushing away the fuzz, and glanced over at Haechan.

He was still knocked out, body sprawled carelessly across the bed. You noticed the empty water glass on the nightstand, then the trash can beside the bed— once empty, now not. You scrunched your nose at the smell, stepping past it and picking up the glass quietly.

You hadn't even heard him get sick.

Downstairs the faucet's low pressure fell into the cup. You stood in the kitchen in silence, the chilled water settling in the glass as you stared out the window. When you returned and placed the glass down beside him, his voice cut softly through the quiet: "Thank you."

You jumped, not expecting him to be awake.

He was lying there, eyes open now, watching you with a mixture of exhaustion and something else.

"Mmm." You hummed in response, brushing it off with a nod. You turned away without another word and headed for the door.

"Your stomach's been growling all night." He said behind you, voice low but casual.

You paused, half smiling bitterly. "Yeah." You murmured, then kept walking.

"You wanna get some food? We could go downtown or something."

You stopped again, letting out a slow, heavy breath. "Kinda far, I'll probably just hit a late night diner."

"Let me take you." He offered.

That was it. You turned, already irritated. "You really think I'm gonna let you drive me anywhere after the state I found you in tonight?" Before he could answer, your voice cut sharper. "That means no, you cannot take me."

He hesitated, eyes flickering down, before looking back up. "Can I come with you then?"

You stared at him, unblinking. "You just don't give up, do you?"

He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You wanna talk, don't you? Why else would you be here?"

"Not over food. So there's no reason for you to come."

He didn't respond, just gave you that look— soft.

You rolled your eyes and exhaled. "Fine, come on."

The car ride was dead silent. The glow of the streetlights washed over both of you, passing over your face like waves. You stared straight ahead, gripping the wheel, jaw tight. When you pulled into the diner parking lot, the familiarity hit like a punch to the chest. You didn't know why it stung— maybe because you'd sat here before with Jaemin, laughing, maybe because it used to feel warm. Now it just felt like a graveyard of memories.

You walked in, Haechan following behind. At the counter, the cashier's eyes flicked between the two of you.

"Is it separate or together?" She asked.

"Separate—" You started, but was cut off.

"Together." Haechan said quickly, pulling out his wallet without even glancing at you.

You looked at him coldly, then turned back. "Tenders and fries, please."

The cashier nodded. You walked away without waiting for him and slid into the booth by the window, arms crossing over your chest as you stared out into the parking lot. Your fingers fiddled with the napkin dispenser, anything to avoid thinking about the seat across from you— the one Jaemin had used to sit in.

Eventually, Haechan made his way over, setting two drinks down and sliding one across to you. You didn't look up, just took a sip.

"Look." He began, voice careful. "I know it's a lot right now, but—"

"You need help." You cut him off sharply. "I seriously thought you were dead."

He blinked, surprised at the force of your words. You looked up for the first time, and the look in your eyes stopped him mid thought.

"I didn't even drink that much." He said, trying to justify it.

"If I didn't come, you would've been gone." Your voice cracked slightly. "You were on your back when I found you, you could've choked on your own vomit."

His expression softened. "I'm sorry I worried you."

"Don't apologize to me. Get help."

He went quiet, then his brows furrowed slightly. "Are you sober?"

You shot him a warning look, eyes narrowing. 

He swallowed hard, nodding. "I'm— I'm gonna go get the food." He slid out of the booth and walked away, his eyes lingering on you until the last second.

When he returned, he set the tray down gently. You didn't speak— you just picked up a tender and took a bite, the warmth immediately grounding you. Your shoulders relaxed slightly, the food didn't solve anything, but it filled the aching pit in your stomach you didn't realize had formed. You ate quickly, staring at the plate the whole time. When you looked up, Haechan was staring.

"What?" You asked.

"Nothing." He smiled. "You just... look like you feel better. You were definitely hangry."

You shook your head, almost laughing through your nose, he wasn't wrong. Hunger mixed with betrayal and heartbreak made a vile combo.

"I just can't believe this. Why is this happening to me?" You said softly. You paused, staring into your cup. "He was my best friend."

Haechan nodded. "Yeah, I understand."

You looked at him suspiciously. His words felt... rehearsed, familiar, like they weren't really his.

"Are you hiding anything from me?" You asked, eyes locked on him.

He avoided your gaze. "You said you didn't want to talk over food."

You nodded slowly... that was not a no.

Once the meal was over, you got back in the car.

"Can we make a stop? Please?" He asked before you pulled off.

"Haechan—"

"Please." He said again. "It's not far."

You sighed heavily and handed him your phone. He typed in the destination quietly.

The drive wasn't long, but the confusion in your chest grew stronger with every mile.

You pulled into a small, empty parking lot surrounded by nothing but open land. Before you could ask questions, he was already getting out of the car.

"C'mon." He said, walking around to your side.

You followed slowly, suspicious but curious. He took your hand gently, guiding you down a gravel path, and there it was.

A glowing rose garden, soft lights woven around the path like stars had melted into the earth and at the end sat a single bench facing the sea of red.

You froze, heart twisting. It should've been beautiful— romantic even, but all you felt was suspicion.

The flowers, the food, the timing. It was all too perfect... too planned.

"Why are we here?" You asked, voice low and guarded.

He turned to you. "You said red calms you down... so I thought it would be the best place for us to talk."

You swallowed hard, blinking back the heat in your eyes. You nodded once, quietly, and sat beside him. Your hands folded in your lap, your gaze locked on the roses.

"How much did he tell you— what did he tell you?" Haechan said, voice steady.

You didn't answer at first, you just turned your head toward him, eyes heavy with exhaustion— not just from the night, but from everything. The silence was answer enough.

He nodded slowly, inhaling through his nose. "Okay." He said, the word landing like a weight. "I'll just start from the very beginning."

You turned back toward the glowing field of red, letting the gentle sway of the roses distract your thoughts as you waited.

"I guess this whole thing started the third time you came to one of my parties— when he tried to get revenge on me through my sister."

You turned your head, surprised. "You knew about that?"

He gave a dry chuckle, his gaze lowered. "Yeah, I'm not stupid. I figured it out the second time, it didn't take much."

You just nodded, letting him continue.

"I confronted him about it, kind of threatened him, I guess, but I wasn't really worried about him and my sister. I was more worried about you. I was... interested, wanted to know more about you, but I didn't have your number and nobody seemed to know much, except Jaemin."

He shifted slightly beside you, hands in his lap.

"So I told him to bring you again. He got weird— defensive even. Kept saying it wasn't a good idea. Seemed like he was genuinely trying to protect you, but I didn't care. I told him it was gonna be a problem if he didn't, and next thing I knew, you showed up again." He shrugged faintly.

You blinked slowly, jaw clenched. A lot of the missing pieces were starting to surface now, things that once seemed random now had weight.

"That's when we started to get close and he started to distance himself from me. I figured he was still wrapped up in the whole thing with my sister. He probably thought I'd flip out or get hurt, but I didn't care. He thought I would... but I didn't." He gave a bitter laugh. "I knew my sister, I knew she'd never really fall for someone like him."

You stayed quiet, your arms folded tightly against yourself.

"Then that one night— where I was really fucked up and you were there... I don't remember much, but I remember waking up and holding you. And I panicked, I kicked you out because I didn't know how to process it, I've never felt that way before. So I sat on it for a while and ended up telling my friends, including Jaemin, that I liked you— that I thought I was ready for something real."

Your breath caught slightly in your chest. You turned to face him again, eyes wide and glassy. He liked you, he had wanted something real. You thought you would never hear those words from him. Your heart clenched as your gaze slowly fell away again, back to the roses.

"It took a lot of growth for me to get there." He continued. "I'd been through so much shit— things that made me feel like I wasn't capable of love. My friends knew that, they were happy for me. All of them, except Jaemin. He just... went cold, looked almost sad."

Haechan's voice lowered, like he was reliving it. "I asked him what was wrong. That's when he told me— told me that you were the one who hurt my brother badly. I didn't believe him at first, but then he showed me the picture."

Your jaw clenched instantly. Of course.  Jaemin was the only one who had it, you should've questioned how Haechan ever got it, but you hadn't. You didn't think you needed to.

"I felt like everything shattered at once." He said quietly. "Everyone just stared at me. They knew how bad that whole situation with my brother had been, it broke me. So I panicked, I called you over to confront you. But I didn't know how to handle it— I was overwhelmed, scared you might hurt me the same way, so I lashed out. I hated myself for it right after. I felt ashamed, like I could never get things right. So I told you not to talk, not yet, because I needed to think."

He let out a long sigh. "I ended up talking to my brother. Told him about you, about how I felt. And you know what he said? He told me to do whatever felt right, that he didn't care about the past, that he wouldn't stand in the way just because of what happened before, that he wasn't gonna cockblock me over something that was done."

He chuckled softly, almost with disbelief. "God, I love him."

You swallowed the lump rising in your throat.

"After that, I started thinking again, really thinking, and then I realized something didn't sit right. Like... why didn't Jaemin tell me this before? He's known my brother so long, if he knew about what happened, why wait until now?"

You bit your lip, voice low. "He probably didn't think it mattered. Thought I wouldn't fall for you."

Haechan nodded slowly. "Yeah, exactly." He shook his head. "None of it added up. That's when I knew— I had to hear your side for real this time. So I texted you, I wasn't sure if you'd even reply. I could tell you were checking out, but you did and when I came over and you told me everything... it clicked." His voice softened.

"It was not you that was problem with my brother, at least not the after math, it was Jaemin. He took you when you were most vulnerable, and he manipulated you, he manipulated you and hurt my brother while doing so."

You stared ahead, the numbness seeping back in. A slow burning cold spread through your chest. He was right, that's all Jaemin ever did. Took what he needed when he needed it, made you feel like something valuable— until he didn't. 

"I confronted him a few days later." Haechan went on, voice bitter now. "I was about to beat the shit out of him, honestly. My friends held me back. I told him straight up that I was going to be with you, and there was nothing he could do to stop me."

He paused, jaw clenched.

"That's when he threatened me. Said he had nudes of my sister, and he'd expose them if I didn't back off. I didn't know if it was true, but I was terrified. He already hurt one of my siblings— I wasn't about to risk another."

Your hand trembled slightly in your lap, but you said nothing.

"Then you called. Of course, perfect timing. He told me to answer, told me to invite you to the party. Said we were gonna make sure you left for good and made up some big plan— some twisted scenario where I'd hurt you, make it so bad you'd never come back. I told him you wouldn't come, but I think... deep down I knew you would. I prayed you wouldn't, but I knew you would."

His voice cracked slightly.

"I called my sister after, desperate for clarity, but she was on some trip with no data, I was alone in it. Then you walked in and everything fell apart. I couldn't stop anything, I didn't know what to do, there was nothing I could do. So I disappeared to the bathroom, that girl followed me, started undressing— I wasn't into it. And then finally my sister called back and came to pick me up so we could talk in person at her place. She said she had never sent Jaemin anything. He was bluffing, just buying time and I'd let him."

He ran a hand through his hair.

The memories from the night flooded in, seeing them together, Jaemin slipping in and apologizing out of nowhere, his friends looking for him and saying he wasn't with a girl. 

"I was gonna confront him again. Do worse this time, but you texted me... you needed a place to crash and I realized, that was it. That was my chance, I needed to be there for you, not focus on him."

You swallowed hard.

"I wanted to tell you everything that night." He said. "But you were out of it, I just needed to keep you there till morning, and when I was finally about to explain... she showed up and it ruined everything. I knew it was Jaemin, but before I got the chance you started leaving and saying all that stuff to me. I panicked again, said things I didn't mean. I didn't even know why, I just wanted to hurt you before you could hurt me anymore."

"She came back later. " He continued. "Crying, saying Jaemin ghosted her. I gave her your number, told her to tell you what she told me. I didn't know if you'd believe it, I just... hoped. I started calling you, figured you were with him and the next thing I knew... I blacked out and that's it."

Silence.

You stared at the roses, their soft red glow blurring in your vision. You felt raw, carved out.

"You okay?" He asked, gently placing a hand on your thigh, rubbing it with slow comfort.

You didn't answer. Just sat in the silence, letting the hum of the wind and the ache of everything fill the space.

Then finally, you whispered: "Did you mean it?"

"Mean what?" He asked.

"When you said you love me."

He paused, looking away, then back again. "I think so." He said honestly. "I can't stop thinking about you, I only want you. That... feels like love to me."

You parted your lips, about to speak, but stopped. You sat with it, with everything.

"Haechan, I know most of this isn't your fault, but you've never really treated me well. You've made me feel like shit about myself. Like I deserved this, and I don't."

"You don't." He said quickly. "I know you don't. I just... I don't know how to do this, Y/n. I'm trying."

"I know." You whispered. "And I get that. But you're not a child, Haechan. I can't keep sitting here, waiting for you to figure it out while I bleed for it. I'm tired and I'm hurt."

His eyes glistened under the low lights, lips slightly parted.

"Yeah." He said, voice tight. "Okay, I get it."

Minutes passed in silence again. You took a deep breath. "I'm ready to go now."

He nodded slowly. "Okay."

Back in the car, the drive to his house was quiet again. He didn't get out right away. He looked at you, something fragile in his expression.

"I'm just gonna give you space, okay?" He said. "Tell me when you want to be near me again. Just come over... I'll be here. Waiting."

You nodded. "Okay."

He offered a small, sad smile, then got out and closed the door behind him. And you just sat there, still, the glow of the roses lingering in your mind like a memory you weren't sure was real.

When you got home that night, everything crashed down on you. The silence in your room was deafening, your thoughts tangled and felt heavy like they were weighing on your chest. Nothing felt real, and everything felt like too much. You sat on the edge of your bed, running your hands through your hair, heart pounding in your ears.

You needed out. Out of this town, out of yourself.

Without thinking twice, you grabbed your laptop and stayed up the entire night researching— flights, hotels, long stays, trains, trails, anywhere with space to breathe. By morning, your eyes were bloodshot and your screen was filled with confirmation emails. You were going, it was done.

══════════════════════════

One week passed. It was quiet, almost suspiciously so. You packed everything you needed into the back of your car— luggage tucked neatly, passport ready, playlist queued. There was only one stop left before the airport.

You pulled into the familiar street, parking in front of his house. It looked the same— quiet, still, like the world didn't know everything that had happened inside it. You stepped out, the air thick and warm, and walked up the steps. Your knuckles hesitated before they knocked softly.

He opened the door after a few seconds, hair tousled like he'd just woken up. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of you. There was surprise there, but not disbelief.

"Okay... I didn't expect it to be this soon." His voice was soft.

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head as you stepped inside, the faint scent of him still lingering in the air.

"I'm going abroad for a bit." You said it casually, looking around the space like it was already behind you.

"What's... 'a bit'?" He asked, his voice hesitant.

"A month, maybe two, possibly three." You turned to face him, eyes honest.

His brows lifted. "Wow, that's not 'a bit', that's a full on escape plan."

You chuckled softly. "It's short for me. Honestly, I wanted to leave for a year."

He paused, then nodded like he understood. "Yeah I get it, but... I'm gonna miss you." His eyes met yours. "You're not gonna ditch me completely, are you?"

"No." You said quickly, then hesitated. Your voice softened. "But I need you to not contact me, at all. I felt guilty blocking you, so... I just wanted to let you know before I go."

He pressed his lips together, nodding slowly. "Mmm." There was a flicker of hurt there, but he tried to mask it. "I'll try not to."

You gave him a look.

A small smile cracked across his face. "Okay, fine. I won't."

There was a pause, a quiet tension building in the stillness. You looked down at your watch. "Well, I should get going. Don't want to miss my flight."

"Right." He nodded, stepping forward as you turned to leave. His arms wrapped around you tightly, pulling you against him in a familiar, grounding way.

"Do you know exactly when you'll be back?" He asked, his voice muffled against your shoulder, like he didn't really want to know the answer.

"I'm not telling you." You laughed softly into the hug.

"So how am I supposed to know?"

"You'll feel it in the air." You teased. "Or... I don't know, just call me or something."

He leaned back to look at you, rolling his eyes. "Oh. I see what you did there." He sighed. "Whatever. Just... have fun, okay? Stay safe and let me know if you need anything, anything at all."

Your eyes locked with his— warm, sad, familiar. You reached up, gently cupping his cheek before leaning in to press your lips against his. The kiss was long and quiet, full of everything you couldn't bring yourself to say out loud.

When you finally pulled away, his eyes were glossy, searching yours like he wasn't ready to let go.

"I don't know... that felt like a goodbye forever." He said quietly.

You took a breath. "More like... I need some time alone to heal."

He nodded, eyes soft. "If I figure everything out before you get back... will you be ready?"

You paused, looking away for a moment before meeting his gaze again. "I don't know." You were honest.

"But you should try anyway." You added. "For yourself."

He nodded. "Okay, I will."

"Promise?" You asked, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

He held out his pinky. "Only if you promise to at least come check when you get back."

You shook your head with a soft laugh and linked your finger with his. "You better hold your end of the bargain, Haechan. I'm not playing."

"I will, I promise." His pinky curled tight around yours.

"Bye." You smiled.

"See you." 

You walked out, the door clicking shut behind you and just like that, you left.

Not running, not escaping, but reclaiming something— space to breathe, space to think, space to heal.

A whole year's worth of chaos packed into a suitcase, and finally... you were letting it go.

══════════════════════════

Two months later, you finally landed in the city again. As the plane wheels slid across the ground, the familiar skyline greeted you like a memory— familiar, once suffocating, now softened around the edges. You had expected the ache in your chest to return the second you stepped back onto this soil, but it didn't, or maybe it did just a little less loudly this time.

You made it back to your apartment and set your bags down quietly, eyes scanning the room. Everything was exactly how you left it. The old memories echoed in the walls, but they didn't scream anymore, they just... lingered.

Your phone buzzed in your hand and you glanced at the time.

10:33 PM.

Thursday.

That day used to mean something else, something bittersweet, familiar, the quiet routine of wanting more but never asking. You stood there for a moment, torn. You made a promise, just to check, just to see.

You weren't sure what you expected— maybe to find he moved on, maybe to prove to yourself that you had. But hope, as annoying as it was, always knew how to sneak in.

You threw on something a little nicer— something that made you feel a bit like yourself again, and headed out. The house was alive with sound, music pulsing through the walls, laughter spilling. You wove your way through the crowd, faces both familiar and distant flashing past, but no Haechan.

You ended up in the kitchen, where a neat line of unopened bottles sat on the counter. You picked one up absentmindedly, turning it over in your hands, unsure if you even wanted to open it.

"You're drinking without me?"

You froze, smile appearing on your lips before you even turned around.

And there he was. Standing there with that same crooked smile, looking at you like you never left— like he'd been waiting.

"I'm sorry, who are you again?" You teased, eyebrow raised.

He laughed. "I knew you were back, I felt it in the air."

You rolled your eyes, but smiled. "I guess that's just the effect I have, huh?"

He took a step closer. "How have you been?"

You exhaled softly. "Good. Refreshed...happy."

His face broke into a genuine smile. "I'm really glad."

"And you?" You asked, studying his expression.

He shrugged, eyes still warm. "Been hanging in there."

You paused, tilting your head. "I came to check on you. I kept my end of the promise... did you?"

His grin turned sheepish, but he didn't answer. Instead, he gently took your hand and led you upstairs. The hallway felt familiar beneath your feet, but quieter now, less heavy.

When you entered his room, you noticed the small things first. A vase of fresh roses and sunflowers sat on his nightstand— alive and blooming, next to it a journal.

He picked it up and held it out like it was a metal.

"My therapist told me to start writing stuff down. My feelings, my thoughts, all of it. It was hard at first, like... really hard, but I did it and it helped— a lot." His smile was proud but a little shy.

"I'm so proud of you." You said, eyes soft. "Can I read it?"

He nearly choked. "Uh uh, absolutely not. Not yet."

You laughed, backing off with your hands raised. "Okay, okay, don't freak out."

He carefully placed it back on the nightstand, then turned to face you fully. "I'm trying, is that good enough for you?"

You stood there, caught in a quiet moment, eyes on him as your thoughts swirled. You missed him, that was undeniable, but there was still that voice— the one that warned you not to fall back into something that hurt.

You took a deep breath. "I— I don't know." You said honestly.

His face didn't fall, he just nodded patiently.

"I understand."

"But." You added, meeting his eyes again, "I'm willing to take things slow... something calm."

His face lit up instantly, hope returning to his eyes. "Really?"

"Really." You nodded. "But I swear— one wrong step, one moment that hurts me again, and you're done."

"Okay." He said quickly, almost too quickly. "Deal, a thousand percent."

You let him pull you into a hug, arms wrapping around you tightly like he wasn't quite convinced you were real yet. You didn't let go either, not for a long moment.

When he finally leaned back, his hand cupped your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin gently.

"Is this too fast?" He asked.

You blinked. "What?"

"If I kissed you, and didn't stop."

You stopped, a small grin on your face. "Yeah..." You said slowly. "But... I can make a few exceptions."

His grin deepened, and without another word, he closed the distance, pressing his lips to yours in a slow, lingering kiss. It wasn't rushed, or messy, or desperate.

It felt like relief, it felt like trying again.

For once you weren't chasing clarity in someone else— you had found it in herself. You've done the hard work, peeled back the layers, and realized that your healing didn't have to mean shutting everyone out. You could choose love and still choose yourself. You could stay, not because you needed to be saved, but because you wanted to give love a chance without losing who you were in the process. Maybe that was the difference this time— you weren't afraid to walk away, but you didn't have to.

═���════════════════════════

Epilouge: Haechan’ s Journal.

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[bellasweetwriting]

call it what you want { clark kent x f. reader }

masterlist

part one. part two.

plot: an incident forces clark kent to see you in a different light

request: Clark Kent x popular mean girl reader? Would love to see how they would react in school and others pov of them especially Lana maybe - anonymous

tags: mean girl!reader x goldenretriever!clark / just so much fluff you can melt / i love witty characters so a lot of witty dialogue, back and forth between clark and reader, sarcasm and just bad humor

a/n: i love receiving requests to write so keep them coming. also this one is kind of long because i love to write characters beginnings rather than already established relationships, so, enjoy !!

You were definitely not keeping your eyes on the road. You would never admit that though.

But when you crash your car, you beautiful, far from new, restored car you got with your own money, against the back of that red old ugly pick up truck, you can’t help but to get as angry as possible.

Naturally, you get out of the car tossing that red lipstick as it is nowhere to be seen, not letting the guy you just hit be able to tell it was your fault. Okay, what was the plan? You definitely had to remain firm on a posture. What posture could that be? It wasn’t your fault. He was the one backing up! That didn’t make any sense. Uhm… think think think.

You hear the door of the truck closing, your eyes opening widely.

“Did you just rear end me?” Clark Kent, from your class, you definitely sit behind him in biology. You’ve seen that amount of hair before, and yeah, his height matches the one of the guy that never let you see the whiteboard.

“No, you caused it!” You defended yourself, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “You should be more careful, you know? Stopping like that in the middle of the road. You didn’t give me enough time to react.”

“There’s a stop sign.” You looked at the red sign, smacking your lips together. “And your lipstick, by the way, is smudged. Probably because you crashed my car while applying it.”

“Well… Your car is fine, alright?” Clark raised his eyebrows. “Fine, you want me to pay for your little dent that you probably won’t fix? Alright. Just so, I probably fixed that other dent over there, you know? You should change that truck. It’s old and… dented. And the color… it’s not… it’s not it, you know? I didn’t see it while driving.”

“Didn’t you, huh?”

“No, I didn’t. It’s the same color as all the corn that is around us! I probably thought your truck was a pile of corn on the road. Yeah…” You bit your lower lip, knowing you were definitely not making any sense.

Clark stared at you before turning around, walking back to his truck.

“I’ll send you the bill,” he said.

You looked back at the dent of your car, noticing something that was even more terrifying than having to pay Clark Kent for a dent in his truck.

The crash had slashed the front tire and you needed to change it.

“Kent, wait!” You said, gaining the tall guy’s attention once again. Clark Kent turned back, staring at you with his icy blue eyes, clearly annoyed by you. Most people looked at you that way. “Could you help me out?” He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know how to change a tire.”

And then he dared to laugh. He laughed! In your face. When he approached you, you hit him on the arm, that was as harsh as steel, and you held how it backfired for you, as it hurt like hell.

“Would you stop?” You asked him, watching him as he kept laughing. He approached the trunk of your car, opening it and getting first seat view to your mess. As his laughter seized, he looked at you in amazement. “It’s my second closet.”

“I’m afraid a rat is going to jump at me.”

“Only if rats fancy burnt Nirvana CDs,” you pointed out as he lifted the floor of the truck, and took out the spare tire and the replacements. “So you live around here? In the middle of nowhere?”

“Yeah, at the Kent farm,” he said, shutting the trunk closed before approaching the slashed tire. “What are you doing here? Don’t you live near the sheriff’s department?”

You frowned, crossing your arms. “How do you where I live?”

“I’ve been there before, y/n,” he said as he took off his jacket, placing it on top of the hood of the car. “School project? Eighth grade? You dropped lemonade on my pants and said I peed myself.”

“Ha! Classic,” you said, too loud, looking down at Clark with a smile. “I’m sorry. I was a mean kid.”

“Was?” He said, smiling.

You watched him as he changed your tire. He was wearing a white t shirt, his forearms and biceps visible to your eyes. They were the size of your head, practically. You looked down, noticing how the light of the sun helped you see through the fabric, the framed abs of Clark Kent visible to your eyes. Maybe you never noticed before, but Clark Kent grew up to be much more than a regular man. He was fairly attractive, even more so: hot.

“You should drive to a mechanic so you can get a new tire. Don’t you dare drive on this tire for a long time. You can get hurt. They are just for short distances,” he started explaining you. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Which was?”

“What is this year’s Miss Sweet Corn doing in the middle of, well… a corn field?” He asked, looking up in your direction.

You smiled, lifting up your sunglasses and placing them on top of your head. “Well, if you must know,” you began, walking towards the center of the road you guys were in and pointing to the direction you were going to. “You see that windmill over there?”

He stood up, standing by your side, narrowing his eyes in order to see where you were pointing at.

“I see it.”

“Have you ever climbed it?” You asked, looking back at him with a smile.

He looked at you. “Have you?”

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

Getting Clark Kent to climb that windmill had been a harder challenge than you had ever expected. You laughed when you saw that six-foot-four guy trying to keep himself from looking down and shitting himself. You laughed, helping him up by pulling his arm as soon as he reached the last step of the ladder, both of you falling on the platform.

You laughed, harder than ever, at the sight of that gigantic man falling down on his back, scared for his life.

“You’re insane!” He yelled, laughing even louder than you. “What on Earth are we even doing?”

You sat down, patting him on the side, making him sat down as well.

“See that?” You asked, even if you already knew the answer. “That’s the Metropolis skyline, Clark Kent. I come here when I try to remind myself that life is far more than waking up in the morning and going back to sleep at the end of the day. It’s about working for what’s to come, for tomorrow. That’s my tomorrow!” You point at the buildings you could see of the big city. “I’m going to play every bar, every club, every stage there is on the city. Everyone that’s anyone is going to hear me sing. I’m going to make a name of myself, some that doesn’t start with Mrs. nor comes with a crown and a satchel. That’s what I’m working for. I’m making my future.”

You turned, looking at Clark Kent staring at you at what you could only call fascination, and inquiry. You smiled, blushing by the way he kept looking at you, kept staring, as if you were something he was trying to decode, something he was trying to read but was in a different language. Your cheeks flushed red as you looked away, your eyes focused on the view that normally brings you peace, but not even that could keep your heart from racing.

“What?” You finally asked.

“I would’ve never guessed you had that in you,” he admitted. “I find it incredibly you’re so driven. I don’t know what I’m going to do in a week from now, let alone in the years to come. It’s admirable how you know exactly what you want.”

You looked at him, giving him a tiny smile. “Thank you, Clark Kent.”

He turned his eyes towards the skyline. “Why did you decide to share this with me?”

“Well, you change my tire… I change your world,” you joked, making him laugh.

“You’re funny.”

“You’re surprised,” you pointed out as well. “Am I that despicable?”

“I would say… unapproachable,” he described it, staring back at you. “My friends believe a Queen Bee like yourself has troubles coming down from the top of the hive to check on the rest of us mortals.”

“What did I ever do to give such impression?”

“Well, you can be…” He stopped himself, and you saw the search for a word in his eyes. “Direct.”

“Mean?”

“Honest,” he continued, smiling. “When honesty is best avoided to maintain good manners and good relationships.”

“So rude?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“You’re lacking the courage of putting them yourself.”

He clicked his tongue. “See, that’s what I mean. Direct.”

“Maybe more people should be like that.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

You snorted, surprised by the invitation. “Where did that come from? I thought you hated me. Or at least the idea of me.”

“Yet, you keep me on my toes,” he said, softly. “Let’s do this: let me buy you a cup of coffee and I’ll forgive you for rear-ending my truck.”

“It’s that what it is, huh?”

“It is what it is,” he joked, making you laugh. He was funny, and charming, and handsome. You needed someone funny, charming and handsome in your life.

“That easy, huh? I get a coffee and free of charge. I think that’s a win for me.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” he murmured, placing a strand of your hair behind your ear. It came natural to him, as if he had done it a million times before, even if it was the first time he had ever touched you, the first time he was ever this close. Everything just seemed natural, easy. “What I want in exchange… it’s you telling me more about that future of yours.” You smiled. “And, goes without saying, letting me hear you sing.”

“Is that what you want?” He nodded. “Okay…”

“Okay?”

You smiled. “Okay.”

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“I don’t know about this, Kent,” you said as he parked his truck in front of the school entrance.

Whatever it was that was going on between you and Clark had being going on in secret for more than two weeks. A couple of stolen kisses, several cups of coffee, and the promise of a sweet serenade still being held over your head, and you guys had come in quick pace from acquaintances to friends to definitely more than friends. And now, he wanted to make whatever was going between the two of you public.

“What? I want to tell people I’m dating Miss Sweet Corn,” he mocked your irrelevant title, turning off the engine of his truck. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“My popularity crashes so far down the Earth it reaches its nucleus and dies?” You joked, making him raise his eyebrows. “Your friends hate me and I cry?”

“They won’t hate you… a lot.” You rolled your eyes at his bad joke, trying to hold back a smile. “Come on. I’ll be there, I’ll defend you. I’ll show them you’re a lot more than a mean face and a skirt.”

“You’re saying I have a mean face?”

“Yeah, let me kiss it,” he said, planting his kisses all over your cheeks and face, as loud as he could, tickling you and making you laugh.

Inside the school, Chloe Sullivan was putting down his books when Lana Lang interrupted the solitude she was in. Lana was nervous, jumpy, unable to stay still, and she knew Chloe could help her.

“What’s up?” Chloe asked her best friend, holding back her laughter. “You seem… tense.”

“I haven’t seen Clark much these past few weeks, have you?”

“I see him at the Torch and in class, not more than usual, but not less,” she pointed out. “Are you okay?”

“He hasn’t been at the Talon as well. I think he’s hiding something,” she said, placing her hair behind her ears. “I know things haven’t been great between us ever since we decided to be nothing more than friends, but he has never pulled a disappearing act before. Has he said anything to you?”

“Nothing strange enough to alarm concern. In fact, I think he’s happier than usual.” Chloe looked behind Lana, her smile turning upside down. “I think I now know why.”

Lana turned around, noticing it as well.

Clark Kent walked in holding hands with you. You looked incredibly beautiful, maybe because it was the first time anyone had ever seen you with a true smile on your face. Your hair was straight, shiny, longer than common. Your eye makeup highlighted your eyes, making them bigger and sweeter. And your signature red lipstick not only was on your lips, but had left a trace on the neck of Smallville High’s most elegible bachelor.

“Looks like farm boy found himself a cheerleader,” Chloe scoffed behind Lana, which only made the brunette even more jealous than she already was.

“Hey guys,” Clark finally said as you reached them, placing his arm over your shoulders. “You know y/n?”

“We’re familiar,” Chloe said, extending her hand in your direction. “Hi, I’m Chloe, you egged my house on Halloween.”

You smiled, shaking her hand. “Hi Chloe. I’m sorry about that. I was not the most well-behaved kid.”

“Last Halloween,” she highlighted, making you look at Clark, who was holding back a laugh.

“Sorry again,” you whispered.

“Hi Y/N,” Lana said, a sound of disgust coming from her mouth. You stared at her, handing her a tiny smile. “How’s the cheerleading squad?”

“Good, we’re going to regionals. We really miss you on the team, Lana,” you said, handing her a tiny smile. You’ve never felt as uncomfortable as you felt now.

Clark clicked his tongue. “That’s awesome, right? Guys?”

Chloe nodded. “So awesome. I’m a big fan of deadly turns up in the air. So, not to force the elephant in the room to talk but how long have this been going on and why didn’t we know anything about it?” Lana turned to look at Chloe. “Seems like a valid question.”

You and Clark immediately looked at one another, sharing a small laugh when you did.

“Uhm… Two weeks ago? Yeah?” Clark said, looking back at Chloe. “She rear-ended my truck.”

“He stopped abruptly.”

“There was a stop sign.”

“It was his fault.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Typical Y/n, always blaming someone else for her mistakes,” Lana interrupted, surprising everyone.

You stared at the girl, letting out an awkward chuckle just to release the tension that had built up.

“You know what? I have to go, I have Mr. Turner, and you guys know how he is about tardiness,” you excused yourself, turning to look at Clark with a smile. “I’ll see you later?” You whispered to him, telling him with your eyes how much you wanted to leave.

He nodded, understanding. “Okay,” he whispered just to you, kissing your lips quickly, just a tiny peck, as if you had done it a million times before and it was usual between the two of you. “Save me a seat at lunch.”

You nodded before walking away.

Clark turned to look at Lana and Chloe, giving both girls a smile that shared more distaste than happiness.

“Well, she’s very pretty, lad. You got yourself a charming new gal,” Chloe mocked in a southern accent, trying to ease the tension.

“Good thing my gals were so nice,” he said, alternating his eyes from one to the other. “I really like her. Really. And since I tend to not ask things from you, I’d really like if you guys to do me this favor and be nice to her.”

“Like she’s been nice to us?” Lana argued, raising her eyebrows. “She’s a menace. A pompom girl. Pirouettes in the air, high kicks on your face, or whatever you want to call it. I thought you hated girls like that.”

“Weren’t you a cheerleader?” Chloe asked Lana, making the girl look at her. “Not helping. Sorry.”

“She’s more than that,” Clark said. “And if happened to get to know her, you’d agree with me.”

“I know her fine, thanks,” Lana said.

“Not like I know her,” Clark argued.

Chloe scoffed. “I don’t want to know her that well, thank you!” Clark raised his eyebrows. “Just saying.”

“Just… Give her a chance?” Chloe nodded, giving up. Yet Lana remained still. “I’ll see you guys around.”

And with that, Clark walked away, leaving the two girls alone once more. Lana turned to look at Chloe, her eyebrows raised.

“Are we going to let Miss Sweet Corn swoop into our lives that easily? I believe there’s something weird going on. Wall of weird weird.”

“I don’t know,” Chloe said. “I know Wall of Weird, trust me. But I also know Clark.” The blonde grabbed her books, holding them against her chest. “I think he really likes her.”

[five-rivers]

Experiment: Monochrome Maniacal

This is the first entry of the first of my two experimental audience participation fics. Participation instructions are below the fic segment.

Tags for this section: Pitch Pearl (Danny Fenton/Danny Phantom), ghost catcher

Masterpost

.

Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.

That stupid aphorism ran through Danny’s head as he looked at the Ghost Catcher and clenched and unclenched his hands.  This… This was a bad idea.  He knew.  But he was going to go crazy if he couldn’t talk to someone.

He might be going crazy now, seeing as his brilliant idea was to split himself in two and talk to himself.  

But lots of people talked to themselves to work out problems, right?  As long as they didn’t think they were talking to another person it was fine.

This was just a more extreme version of that, that’s all.  

(If he stared at the Ghost Catcher anymore, he might not do it.)

Danny breathed in deeply, transformed in a flash of light, then flew through the glowing green threads of the Ghost Catcher.  

There was a moment of sharp disorientation, of vertigo, of feeling simultaneously caught on the lines, like walking through a spiderweb, and falling through them untouched, of skin pulling stickily away from skin, of looking down and up at himself at the same time, and then–

Phantom caught Danny by the wrist, and, carefully, lowered himself– him the rest of the way to the ground.  

“Wow, that– So, that worked,” said Danny.  The last time, he– they had only been separated for a few seconds.  Long enough to note it as happening and then re-merge.  He'd half expected to get sucked back together just as fast this time.  

Phantom looked up at the Ghost Catcher, then back at Danny.  He nodded.  “So… you wanted to talk to me?”

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” asked Danny.  “I mean, it’s about ghost stuff, isn’t it?”

“And lying to everyone in our human life,” said Phantom, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.  

Ugh, did Danny really look like that in ghost form?  All… upright.  And shiny.  It didn’t seem real.  Was it real?  Danny never had to interpret his body language from the outside before.  

Danny slumped.  “Maybe this isn’t going to work.  We should just… go back together.”

“What?  No!” said Phantom.  “We haven’t even tried yet.”

“Then you say something.”

They glared at each other for a second, then Phantom clicked his tongue.  “Fine,” he said, “but it's not like you don't already know.”

“Yeah, that was the point.”

Phantom didn't reply right away, instead looking around the lab with an expression of increasing distaste.  His eyes fell on the portal and he scowled before looking away.  “Can we go somewhere else?  I hate it here.”

“You do?” asked Danny, surprised.  Did… did he hate it down here?  He wasn’t sure.  

“Uh, yeah?” Phantom looked down at Danny, incredulous.  “It's full of weapons made specifically to hurt me.”

“Not specifically you,” objected Danny.  “They made a bunch of these before they even knew you existed.”

“Wow, that makes me feel so much better,” said Phantom.  “They’re just for hurting and hunting down ghosts.”

.

Thank you for reading this far! If you would like to participate, please reply to this post with what you want to happen or want to see in the fic next. This can be an event (e.g. the lab suddenly explodes), a character appearing (e.g. Wes, Sam, Undergrowth), a headcanon being added to the story (e.g. ghost hunger), a POV switch (e.g. switch to Jazz), a setting element (e.g. the year is 2104), a ship (e.g. Everlasting Trio), or something else I've forgotten to list here.

To be used in the poll, your suggestions must:

Fit in a poll option (80 charaters or less)

Not include crossover elements

Not include minor/adult ships

Be compatible with already established story elements

Other feedback is also welcome! Feel free to send me an ask!

[thattimdrakeguy]

Yeah, Tim SHOULD still be Robin.

When it comes to the discussion of whether or not Tim should still be Robin, especially when I see so many comic book site articles about it--it bugs me. It's almost always written from the perspective of artificial rules, rather than the characters themselves.

And I won't lie to you.

That's sort of dumb.

I think if you write your characters based on superficial rules and not what they'd naturally do, you are almost definitely not a good character writer. You're instead kind of a hack.

If you wanna be convinced that Tim should be Robin still, you'll probably want to read this. We go through it all, from origins, to character development. To even bringing up Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, EDDIE BROCK, and even FLASH THOMPSON. To make the point as clear as it can be. So strap in, or strap on if you really have to do that while you read this. What ever floats your boat Time management is important and I hear that's been a lucrative industry for quite some time now.

Originally I was just going to be annoying and force this post to be super long on your dash and in the tags, but I don't have the heart to do that. But please, check out what's said down below.

Robin was never meant to be specifically a children's role, there was no reason to believe Dick would ever stop being Robin, until the 80s, when continuity was held in lot stronger regard, and they cared possibly way too much about the marketability of Batman and Robin as a duo.

Any time they showed an older Dick beforehand, if he wasn't already Batman to take the place of Bruce specifically, he was still Robin, because why would he not be? Seriously, why wouldn't he be? This is what was going to be expected from Robin.

So they made another Robin, in this case Jason, to be the Robin of Batman and Robin, and they honestly just got pretty lucky Dick at that point had been in a continuing character arc about getting out of Batman's shadow to begin with. So wanting a name less associated with Batman worked.

They got lucky that worked as well as it did.

And people still complained, because let's face it, it's kind of stupid to a degree. But there was enough logic that it stuck.

And then readers and writers didn't like Jason. Sure, maybe the vote was rigged. But there has been enough stated that would still greatly imply enough people didn't like Jason enough to motivate the idea to have the vote to kill him off to begin with. You simply don't normally do that with a beloved character.

So they made Tim Drake, a character who's entire existence, revolves around being Robin.

And allow me to explain what I mean by that, because given nearly every Robin was made with the intention to be Robin, that sounds like a pretty stupid statement.

For example.

Why is Dick Robin?

Because he is Robin. That was his crimefighter alias. What are you talking about?

Stupid question.

Why was Jason Robin?

Better question.

Because he was taken in, and depending on the continuity, was either gifted the title from Dick, or just plain freaking gave it by Batman, because, boy I don't know why they went with that. Certainly didn't help Jason's case when they were in the process of making him a rough around the edges character, people weren't gonna naturally like when his violent tendencies were revealed.

Why was Tim Robin?

Marv Wolfman basically had to make sure this character HAD to be Robin when making him. If they had another child die on Batman, Bruce may be seen as an f'n sadist for picking up more orphans almost as if he got enjoyment out of it.

Tim's life story was basically leading up to the point he became the third Robin.

He was there when the Grayson's fell, he figured out Batman and Robin's identity, he tracked down Dick to try and get him to be Robin again because he believed in Robin so much. He loved Robin over Batman.

And as even stated by Marv Wolfman himself, had no aspirations to be anything but Robin.

So do you now hopefully see the difference between a character that was made Robin, and a character that was made specifically to be the defacto Robin going forward, with his entire real world backstory entirely designed to be Robin, where as other characters were made to be themselves first and for most? (after post-crisis for Jason, but still.)

Robin was just who Dick was.

Robin was what Jason was given to try something new after Pre-Crisis Jason was a creative failure.

Robin was everything that motivated and powered who Tim is as a person and character.

You can take Robin away from Jason, and he'd still be who he is, just not Robin. A street kid, with bad mental health, but a heroic heart.

You take Robin away from Tim and what are you left with? Nobody really. Because so much of who Tim is, is specifically dictated by ROBIN.

Now obviously character development is a thing, but if you try to look at me straight in the eye and tried to convince me that DC handled everything amazingly in the transition from Tim to Damian, I'll laugh straight in your face.

Writers can write whatever they want. These characters aren't real people. I'm not gonna take what just any writer wrote as gospel, because this is a creative medium, and I can have my own opinions on rather or not I think an art piece achieved its goals. And I think having characters contradict past behaviors and beliefs to make something happen is some pretty awful character writing.

Seriously, I dare you to read Tim's entire Robin existence and act like you can give it a character analysis the same way you could a character like Jesse Pinkman or someone.

You'd be lying to yourself if you said you could because you couldn't. After a while they couldn't even keep consistency between series. Read Tim during One Year Later, both in Teen Titans, and his own Robin series, it's like two totally separate people. You'd have to do mental gymnastics to try and make it work.

We had mentally worn down, but still idealistic Boy Detective Tim going on the same time as--

Angsty, miserable, obsessive super genius scientist Tim--

Tim had never even been a scientist before, he's just a bit geeky. How the hell did he do this?

So let's not bother, shall we?

If we're gonna talk quality decisions, we have to deal with quality writing.

And I actually like Damian as Dick's Robin. It's the only time that character personally worked for me. But the way they handled it happening was absolutely terrible. This is not me hating on the character. You'll catch me shitting on a lot of Damian comics, nearly all of them even, but the character himself? I actually quite liked him when Grant Morrison was writing him, and I don't normally like their stuff.

Hell, I'd make the argument Damian should move on from Robin.

Maybe that sounds stupid to some. 'Oh but he's still a kid' some of you may say.

To which I say, okay cool, if that's still how you feel. But I'm gonna apply the same logic to him as I do Tim and say his character doesn't revolve around the role of Robin, if anything he was made to be the anti-Robin, which was the charm of the Dick-Bats Batman and Robin series.

Damian wanted to be Robin initially during his first appearance, because he thought it would get him closer to his father.

Then he found out that was a superficial belief he only believed because the League of Assassins taught him a superficial belief, and it was a cool moment that sparked the beginning of Damian's evolution as a person.

Damian only became an official Robin because marketing wise it looked better than 'Batman, and the Son of Batman, but not the Son of this Batman, the Son of That Other Batman, The Other Specifically Believed To Be Dead Batman That In Fact Isn't Actually Dead'.

And it would be less confusing why Robin, in this hypothetical, Tim, isn't with Batman, and this other guy is, because companies have to assume everyone isn't gonna spend the time to research it. They wanna coax you into an impulse purchase. That helps money be made. Making you have to think about what the title means it takes away the impulse part of the impulse purchase. Or even worse, confuses you enough if you take a gander inside to the point you back off entirely because it seems far too complicated. That's no way to do business.

Now, of course, all Robins are made with potential dollar signs in DC's eyes. We're not going to kid ourselves here either. It's just pretty obviously done to a whole different extent with Damian.

And to a degree that's fine, because that's how comics often work, because it's a floundering industry and people get desperate, so they throw something that's bound to get immediate attention in your face in hopes you'll get curious enough to purchase it.

But we're talking about the writing here.

Giving an entitled child what they want after nearly murdering a character is absolutely stupid logic though. Certainly when your writing characters that are meant to be very intelligent. Gets even worse when you realize within the universe's own timeline, they show Tim regularly calls Dick to discuss his mental health only weeks (months at best) prior.

And Dick was also there when Tim said he doesn't want to be anything but Robin.

So they end up making Dick look either apathetic, or like an idiot, or even worse, an apathetic idiot, who makes bad decisions.

Because given the context that Tim was very mentally ill (even if not, honestly, it'd still be crooked regardless), and barely recovered (or not at all recovered depending on the series you were reading) from his depression, and that's before Bruce was believed to be dead--How else is he supposed to take this beyond being kicked to the curb.

Grieving makes you care more about the ones you love, not do something that'll cause the low-key suicidal kid to maybe jump off a roof.

Why would an intelligent, and caring, downright protective person like Dick Grayson make a decision like this? Saying 'because Damian needed it' doesn't quite cut it when you look at more of the details, and is quite a narrow minded excuse that only looks at a minor percentage of it.

People make excuses for this, mostly because they love Dick and hate the idea of him looking bad, but let's take a moment to ground ourselves and be real. These are not real people, and they do not make their own decisions. Writers make their decisions. Characters are illusions of personalities and physical appearances created by consistency and expectations of what these characters look, do, and say.

This is how we have the term 'out of character'.

And no character is safe from that fate forever.

Dick can say he views Tim as an equal to do it, and the artist can randomly draw Tim to look more mature and adult despite that completely contradicting known things about the character (made all the worse when you have the same exact artist that drew Tim being called out for being baby faced and short drawing him to look like Season 4 Sam Winchester when only weeks passed by, by the end of the Robin series).

You don't even have to take a look that far back in the past and you can still see neither of those things were done because it was a natural development. It was only done because they wanted an excuse to shove Tim out of the role, or at the very least because they didn't care about the character.

Hence why this is considered out of character.

Does this help you see the logic of the issue now?

And that isn't me criticizing the character of Damian, because that's just who he is, and I like who Damian is. I hate comics that seem to hate having to write Damian for who he is actually. I'm criticizing the writer's decisions in the process of making this transition, and the aftermath, and effect it has to this very day with these characters.

Damian existing is fine.

Some might argue it's not, but oh well.

It's the writing quality and real world decision making that isn't fine, when it concerns our primarily topic.

But point being is Tim's entire motivation as a character revolves around being Robin, being there for Batman, the entire symbolism of the character Robin. It was him who defined the role out loud for readers who were starting to not understand why Robin should even be around still, to understand why Robin is still around.

I don't care how unimportant Tim's been in recent history, that's thanks to a lack of care, not the character himself--Tim is, as far as the role itself is concerned, possibly the second most important Robin in history after Dick.

Jason's death is clearly important, but for years more so do to the effect it had on Batman's personality, not the role of Robin and what it represents, given it was not that long before Tim became Robin. Understand me from that context. I don't know if people think there was a larger space between them, but there wasn't. So they went from murder of a kid to 'Batman Needs a Robin' pretty fast.

And I don't care if someone is a woman, or a blood son in the role. That furthers their own characters, but ultimately does nothing for the role itself outside of themselves. Once they're done being in that role, that aspect of the role is gone.

Tim's addition retroactively yet thankfully accurately and thoughtfully established important aspects of the role that gave people a whole new perspective and appreciation of the role, granting a new level of popularity to something that was beginning to grow tired. That's permanently seared into the character legacy now thanks to Tim. To the point bad writers have Dick to be the one to say it, either because their bad at their job, or they just assumed.

Being the character who was able to do that is huge.

That's how important Tim Drake is to Robin.

I can't think of anything that would be more important to the history of Robin past being created at all than that.

To be honest, thinking Tim shouldn't be Robin anymore, shows a lack of understanding of Tim as a character, what he wants, what makes him tick, what makes him feel successful.

He would become comparatively boring and generic without Robin. Think of all the aspects of his drama, thought processes, motivations that would be removed. I know he'd still have other aspects to him that'd remain, he isn't literally only Robin and nothing but...but he's going to suffer a whole lot worse than any other character taken away from Robin.

This doesn't make him a bad character like some may claim. I'd argue against the notion very much. All characters simply aren't created for the same purposes. Tim is a magnificent character when handled well, and works amazing when allowed to be in the role he was built to be in.

We're not gonna start pulling artificial standards of what makes a good character, like we aren't obviously all aware Luke Skywalker and Han Solo were made for totally different purposes, and are still both extraordinary characters in their own right.

Don't play dumb.

And I say that with respect, despite the harsh wording, because I understand not everyone is going to be familiar with these decade old comics, and interviews you have to search out to find. I'm not a crazy person. Well, I am a bit, for caring this much, but I have limits to my insanity.

And I used the word dumb to keep your attention, because this post is going on for an unusually long amount of time, but it's a subject I am passionate about. So please excuse me for that.

A lot of you will likely have came in during the time Tim wasn't Robin, and would have no reason to assume there's anything inherently odd with Tim not being Robin. We are humans, and aren't granted the ability of omni-knowledge of all things.

Think of it like Venom--yes, Venom is often not Eddie, but it always goes back to him, yeah? Because these detours can be fun, but ultimately Venom was meant to be with Eddie.

You can bring up Tim not being the original Robin. I can hear some of you thinking that right now.

(Yes, I can hear thoughts, it's my cross to bear. And for that person in particular, close that tab, you know that's morally wrong, don't try to excuse it.)

But also it was Peter Parker that first had Venom wasn't it?

(I know the symbiote by itself isn't supposed to be called Venom, and how that's a modern thing, but I'm not gonna talk about a completely irrelevant topic so I can make this point.)

And we didn't even know the 'suit' as it was known as at the time was even sentient.

It's an example of a thing growing and becoming more developed, with logic and great character work backing it up, to make it a good development that can be long lasting, because it was built with a good base to keep the structure up. Like building a long lasting house.

Not one of those Amazon build a houses, that would get blown over in a mildly harsh breeze.

And I don't mean that as an insult to Stephanie or Damian, but it is factual to my knowledge that these characters were made Robin to be killed. They were both literally killed, and we have to acknowledge this truth to their characters. These weren't even decisions made to last.

You can like them in that role, but it doesn't change the facts.

If anything I think both characters are blessed that they have enough to them, to be brought back, and they have lots of potential...if they'd let them actually be expanded. They aren't cemented to Robin in anyway the same way Tim is for better or worse, and they don't have to be Robin to work to their full ability like how it is for Tim.

Besides if the character is worth it, they stick around in a different way.

Agent Anti-Venom for Flash Thompson as an example. Agent Venom was great, but it was time for Venom to go back to Eddie. But we gave him a place to stay around and he's great there too.

This was sort of what Red Robin was going to be turned into for Tim when they realized having Tim go against everything he stood for was a really bizarre decision that likely wouldn't last with any lasting success, but it was just kind of weird to have the person that fills the role of Robin not just be Robin, while the other person is going around mostly doing their own thing.

Why should Tim Drake actually not be Robin really? He's not even as old as Dick was when he stopped being Robin if you wanna bring up the Robin is a kid's role thing.

And I do know Dick said Robin was a kid's thing after all, but you are aware that these Robins are individuals and not all the same person, right?

Tim isn't Dick, and clearly has a very different opinion of what Robin is to him. Otherwise why wouldn't Dick become Robin again himself? See what I'm saying?

Dick literally implied Robin was a kid's role to Tim's face, in Tim's origin story, and Tim continued to not give a shit, because Tim still believed what he believed despite that.

If you like Tim being something other than Robin, and you like those identities, and series, I am happy for you. Because more enjoyment in the world is a positive thing.

But ultimately even Red Robin was never anything more than a very-very modest success the more it went on, it made enough to stay afloat, yet not enough to carry it past the reboot (though Didio hating legacy characters he wasn't involved with may have to do with that) and the entire theme of the book was "What if we have Tim do things Tim would never do" to the point it's out right said in the book. Which sounds like a terrible model of what Tim should be to me.

If you wouldn't want that same fate with any major character like an Avenger or Justice Leaguer, or your own favorite character whoever that may be, why would you want that with Tim beyond you just not caring as much? And if you don't care that much, why are you so concerned with what Tim is or isn't?

I just want it to be understood from a more objective (if you can even call it that, because, I know, strong word to use here. i'm not ignorant of that, nor that arrogant) point of view, based on the simple idea that, hmm maybe the best character writing is just writing the characters being the characters--it makes the most sense for Tim to be the Robin that stays aboard as Robin.

So, I say to you, humble reader, let Tim Drake remain Robin. It's what works best.

[redemptive-truth]

A Time to Pretend | Bucky Barnes x Reader (Part 4)

Summary: Four years ago, she survived the impossible—going toe-to-toe with the Winter Soldier and living to tell the tale. Now, Bucky Barnes is on her balcony, broken and bleeding. And her? She’s always had a soft spot for lost causes with blood on their hands.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post-CATWS Parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 AO3 Link Warnings: N/A Word Count: 7K

Author's Note:

I'm a day late, I am so sorry! Had too many adult things to deal with pop up yesterday -- plus my husband and I are traveling to Florida for the week, so packing took far too long.

Enjoy this next part! Little bit more emotion, little bit more of a deep dive into both characters. This is a slow burn so be patient with them -- I personally don't think Bucky would fall hard and fast right away especially right after the events of CATWS.

And thank you so much for the comments and praise! The feedback means everything :) If you are not on the tag list, and want to be added, let me know!

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Part 4: June 2014, West Virginia

She spent part of the night unpacking, taking quiet inventory of the place. The weapons were the first priority—tucked into drawers near entry points, behind cupboard panels, in the closet behind the coats. Just in case. She sent off a few messages to the people who might wonder where she was—Maria, a few old friends from work. Nothing detailed, just enough to keep suspicion off her back.

The exhaustion from the drive and the sleepless night before hit her hard once the night fully crept in. Despite the unfamiliarity of the house, sleep came quickly, pulling her under before she could dwell too long on the past.

She hadn’t spent much time here before, really. Just a few childhood visits with her father: a week here and there during hunting season, or for quiet, firelit weekends in the fall. She remembered counting stars with him under thick wool blankets during the fall, eating hot dogs roasted outdoors – but after he died, she hadn’t returned more than once or twice. It felt too empty. Too haunted.

She wouldn’t tell Barnes that, though. No sense in layering guilt onto everything else he was already carrying. He had enough ghosts of his own.

The sun was high in the sky when she woke. Her muscles ached from the restless travel and heavy sleep, and her hair was a mess when she shuffled out of bed. Barnes’s door was open. The bed inside looked untouched—pillows and folded blankets stacked neatly on the floor instead.

Her stomach twisted at the sight. She knew what that meant, she’d seen it before. A lot of vets couldn’t handle sleeping in beds when they got home. Too soft. Too uncomfortable.

She found him out back, sitting on the steps of the porch, the morning air still clinging to a bit of chill. He had one of the new flannels on, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. His hair was a mess, slightly damp from washing, and he hadn’t shaved yet—but he looked calmer. Grounded.

She stepped outside and sat next to him without saying a word. He didn’t look at her, but she knew he’d heard her coming before she even touched the screen door. She could tell by the way he straightened slightly as she approached, his shoulders tensing a bit once her footfalls were heard.

“How was the floor?” she asked, her tone light.

The corner of his mouth tugged upward. Not quite a smile, but not a frown. “Better than you’d think.”

She gave a soft hum. “Yeah, I slept on the floor for a few months after my first tour. Beds felt too… fake. Took me forever to get used to them again.”

That earned her a glance. His eyes flicked to her, expression curious. “You served?”

She nodded, brushing a leaf off the step beside her absentmindedly. “Army. West Point grad. I was in until I was twenty-six. Best and worst years of my life.”

He twisted his hands together absently, metal one covered with a black glove. She noticed, but didn’t comment.

“Lot’s changed since I was in,” he murmured after a pause.

She laughed. “Yeah, I bet women weren’t exactly getting combat roles back in the forties, huh?”

He shook his head, looking into the distance at something she was sure wasn’t there. “No, ma’am.”

She smirked. “Technically, that means you’d have to salute me, then.”

That got him—a faint smile, almost shy, tugging briefly at his mouth. “Hopefully you’re not one of those officers who made the grunts do push-ups for breathing too loud.”

She grinned, “You remember some of the fun stuff then, I see.”

He shook his head, the smile lingering just a second longer. Then, softer, with something like respect in his voice: “Just impressive, is all.”

Her chest tightened a bit at that, unexpected warmth settling behind her ribs. She leaned back on her hands, letting the morning sun warm her face for a moment before speaking again.

“I’m gonna head into town in a bit,” she said casually, eyes scanning the treeline in the distance. “Pick up some groceries, supplies. This place hasn’t exactly been lived in for a while. We’re out of almost everything but coffee and canned soup.”

Barnes didn’t say anything, but she saw the slight tilt of his head in acknowledgment.

“I was also thinking… I’ll stop by the library,” she added, glancing over at him. “Pick up some books. Stuff that might help you catch up on the world. History, politics, pop culture—whatever you’re interested in.”

That made him look at her fully. His brows pulled together slightly, not in suspicion, but in something closer to confusion. Or maybe hesitation.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said after a second. “You’ve already done enough.”

She shrugged, brushing some hair out of her face. “It’s not a big deal. I figure you’ve got a lot to piece together. Might as well give you some tools.”

He looked back toward the woods, jaw tight. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“You don’t have to,” she said gently. “Start wherever you want. No pressure.”

A beat passed. Then, quietly, he muttered. “Books might be good.”

She smiled faintly. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “I used to read a lot. Before.”

There was a pause between them. A heaviness in that word—”before”. Lost time.

“Well,” she said, standing up and brushing off her sweats. “Anything in particular you want me to look for?”

He shook his head, his lips twisted. She couldn’t tell if that was apathy or just an unwillingness to open up. “No idea what’s even out there anymore.”

“Fair enough,” she said, stepping toward the door. “I’ll surprise you. Maybe something that would really knock your socks off. Like space travel. You know about that?”

He shot her a look, a mix of displeasure and amusement. “HYDRA had me frozen and brainwashed half the time, but I still saw more than you think.”

She snorted. “Good point! You were born before the Depression. You’re pretty much dust now.”

She caught the ghost of a smile on his face before she turned away — small and barely there, but real. It was the first one that looked like it didn’t hurt him to wear.

The drive into town was quiet—just miles of thick woods and winding roads until she hit the sparse heart of the county. The town was tiny, home to fewer than a thousand people, most of whom had been born here and would die here. Folks kept to themselves, didn’t ask questions, and liked it that way. It made for the perfect place to hide someone like HYDRA’s former greatest weapon.

Not surprisingly, the town just had one grocery store. She stocked up on enough food to last them at least a month and grabbed a few extra sets of clothes and some basic toiletries she figured Barnes might need. Nothing flashy. Just essentials.

Barnes wouldn’t know - no one really did - but her inheritance from both her parents’ was enough to last her nearly the rest of her life without working again. She hadn’t touched it beyond putting herself through Westpoint. Everything she earned and used so far had been with her own money. Given what was going on now – hiding on the fringes of society – she supposed she would rely on the money if it came down to it. She hated the idea of it, hated not working for herself, but it wasn’t like she could get a steadily paying job out here without raising flags.

After the store, she made a quick stop at the small, locally-owned gun shop nearby. She replenished her ammo and picked up a few more weapons—nothing out of the ordinary for this part of the country, but enough to keep them safe if anyone did come looking. She didn’t expect HYDRA to find them out here. But she wouldn’t be surprised if they did.

And while she wasn’t a super soldier with a vibranium arm, she was experienced and had killed her fair share of men. Out here, especially if HYDRA was still searching for him, owning weapons and staying armed wasn’t unusual—it was just practical.

The town’s library sat on a quiet corner just off the main road, nestled between the post office and a feed store. It looked like something out of time—a squat brick building with ivy creeping up the sides and a rusted bike rack no one had clearly used in decades. Inside, it smelled of paper and wood polish, the faint must of forgotten old texts lingering in the corners. She was the only one there aside from an elderly librarian with silver hair and glasses perched on her nose, who barely looked up from her crossword puzzle when the door creaked open.

She wandered the narrow aisles, trailing her fingers along the spines of anything of interest. Most of the books here had to be decades old – donations from personal collections, worn hardbacks with yellowed pages and fading jackets. Perfect, really. She wasn’t about to hand Barnes a stack of books filled with pop culture references and modern slang. He needed to catch up, yes, but gently. Gradually.

She gathered a few well-worn copies of classics: Steinbeck’s East of Eden, Capote’s In Cold Blood, a beat-up edition of Catcher in the Rye. She added Fahrenheit 451 and Slaughterhouse-Five to the pile. Maybe they’d resonate. Maybe they’d just give him something to think about that wasn’t his own past.

She paused at a shelf marked “NON-FICTION – HISTORY”, running her hand over the titles until she found a slim book on the Cold War and another on the civil rights movement. She hesitated over Vietnam: A Retrospective, then added it too. He’d missed all of that. The decades had passed without him. He deserved the chance to fill in the blanks. If he wanted to. Plenty to keep him busy.

By the time she pulled back into the long gravel driveway, the sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting gold rays through the trees and stretching shadows across the yard. Barnes was outside still, stripped down to just a pair of dark pants and a dark tank top, the latter clinging to him with sweat. He stood at the edge of the clearing with an axe in one hand, a growing stack of split logs at his feet.

His metal arm caught the fading light with each swing—gleaming like liquid steel. He was precise and methodical, like he could handle the blade with his eyes closed. She didn’t doubt that he could.

She watched him for a moment through the windshield, how mechanical the movements were—and yet how human he looked. Sunlight caught in his unkempt hair, muscles coiled tight with each clean strike. He was a man clearly built for war — or transformed to be one — and still somehow oddly ordinary.

She unloaded the groceries quickly, hauling bags inside and setting everything down on the kitchen counter. When she stepped out onto the back porch, Barnes glanced at her from the corner of his eye, pausing his movements. He stared at her for a moment intently, looking like he might say something. Instead, he turned back to his work, driving the axe down into another log with brutal precision. Everything about him seemed uncertain - the hesitant, stiff way in which he stood, the drawn look on his face. She doubted he had had any social interaction beyond whatever HYDRA conditioned him with, beyond the torture. Hopefully, in time, he would open up more. Learn how to speak up.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him with a faint smirk. “I see you found a job for yourself.”

He didn’t look at her when he replied, just shrugged one shoulder and split another piece clean through. “Might as well be useful.”

“Hey, you’ve got free range here,” she said, raising her hands in surrender. “I’m not gonna police you. But if you're working, I’m not paying.”

That earned her the ghost of a smirk, though it was fleeting. She nodded toward the house. “I left some books on the table for you—classics mostly. Stuff from the '40s and '50s. Figured they’d make more sense than, you know, the Internet.”

He finally glanced at her properly, sweat dripping from his brow, the weight of his stare heavier than it should have been. Soft. “Thank you.”

There was something sincere in the way he said it, not just polite gratitude, but something quieter…more complicated. Maybe he wasn’t used to people thinking of him like that. Maybe he didn’t expect anyone to.

She gave him a small nod, brushing her hair out of her face. “Don’t mention it.”

She stayed in the doorway, eyes drifting instinctively—curiously—to the metal arm gleaming in the sun. It was hard not to stare. The plates caught the light like a mirror, fluid in motion even as they cut through solid wood like it was nothing. But it wasn’t just the shine or the tech that drew her attention—it was where it ended, where steel met flesh.

There, along the skin of his left shoulder and upper ribs, were ridges of faint scars. Scratches, indentations—places where skin had been torn, healed badly. She could tell even from where she stood that it hadn’t always been a clean graft. It looked like it had hurt. Probably still did.

And the scratches looked a lot like marks from human nails. Like he had tried to claw his own arm off long ago. The thought made her stomach twist.

Barnes straightened suddenly when he noticed her looking, spine stiff. He didn’t look at her right away, just pulled in a breath through his nose. “I can keep it covered,” he said gruffly, grabbing the shirt he had slung over a nearby railing. “If it bothers you.”

Her gaze snapped up to his face. “No. No, it doesn’t bother me.”

He stared at her with furrowed brows, skeptical, as if he wasn’t sure if she meant it.

She took a step off the porch and into the yard, hands in her sweatshirt pockets. “It’s just…” Her eyes dropped to his shoulder again, softer now. “Does it hurt?”

That stopped him. His mouth twitched slightly, and his eyes followed hers to the thin red scars where metal fused to skin. For a moment, he didn’t speak and stood there silently, like he had to search for the answer within himself.

“Not the way it used to,” he said finally, voice quiet. Drawn. “But yeah. Some days it still does.”

Her heart ached quietly in her chest. Not with pity, but with something heavier – empathy, maybe. Or the recognition of pain that never really goes away.

“You don’t have to cover it,” she said again, firmer now. “You don’t have to hide anything here.”

Something passed across his face—surprise. Or discomfort. She wanted to think that it was gratitude that looked too raw to name.

He gave a tight nod and looked down, shifting his weight slightly. “Alright.”

She let the moment sit, the quiet thick with things neither of them said. Or had the heart to ask.

“Let me know if you need painkillers,” she added after a beat, saying something just to break the silence. “I keep some inside.”

“Will do.”

And then he turned back to the axe and wood, his movements a little slower, more deliberate. Like he was still turning the conversation over in his mind.

—————————————-

The next couple of weeks passed in a quiet, predictable rhythm. She’d wake early to an empty house, the sound of birdsong and the wind through the trees her only company until Barnes returned from his morning run. Always gone before sunrise, always back by the time the coffee finished brewing. She never asked where he went. She got the sense he wouldn’t answer anyway.

He spent the rest of the day keeping busy. Working out with a near-militant intensity, chopping wood even when there was already plenty stacked, rebuilding parts of the house that needed some care, or sitting silently on the back porch with one of the books she’d brought him. She introduced him to the television, keeping it simple—just the local channels, a handful of news networks, the occasional old movie. He used it sparingly. Never seemed interested in the headlines or sports, rarely changed the channel once it was on.

He barely spoke.

It wasn’t for lack of trying on her part. At breakfast, over the clatter of pans and the hiss of bacon, in the afternoons when she passed by him reading, when they ran into each other in the house. But outside of dinner, he said almost nothing – just communicated with shrugs, nods, and grunts.. And even then, it was only a handful of words exchanged while they ate. She couldn’t tell if it was dislike or distrust, or maybe just the weight of realizing things from his past he didn’t know how to carry yet.

Still, he was staying. That, at least, mattered.

He looked more at ease here, if not exactly comfortable. He didn’t flinch at every noise anymore. He spent hours outside, sitting under trees or walking the edges of the woods. But he refused to do anything with her. She invited him to hunt, but he declined every time. The same went for trips into town or even the solo runs she took at dusk. Always a quiet, firm no. If she got more than a full sentence out of him each day, it was a miracle.

In the third week, she made the mistake of pushing.

They were eating dinner—a simple meal of grilled steak, potatoes, and greens. The silence wasn’t exactly awkward, but it wasn’t easy either. It had never been easy. She never knew what to say, when to ask things…it was like a constant dance of avoidance.

She cleared her throat softly and glanced at him across the table. “Do you…” she hesitated, fork halfway to her mouth.“Do you remember anything more from your past? Has anything sparked your memory?”

Barnes stilled. His fork hovered over his plate, unmoving. Metal creaked softly and she glanced at his left arm – the metal looked stiff, like he had his hand clenched in his lap. His jaw locked hard enough that the tension in his neck was visible from across the room.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t blink. When he spoke, it was flat. “Just past…missions. People I killed. Things I’ve done.”

She froze. The bite of steak she’d just cut sat like lead in her mouth. Her throat closed up, and she reached for her water, trying to swallow it down, heat rising up her neck.

“I—” she started, unsure of where the line was. “Do you…want to talk about it?”

He looked up then. His eyes weren’t cold, but they were hollow. Tired.

“No,” he said. Quiet, but firm.

The silence that followed was thick, uncomfortable. She nodded slowly, backing off, pushing a piece of potato around her plate with the edge of her fork.

And then, for whatever reason that came over her — there was a fine line between boldness and stupidity — she decided to risk it.

“You know none of it was your fault, right?” she said softly, not looking at him directly when she spoke. “What HYDRA did… they controlled you. You didn’t have a choice.”

The effect was immediate. And exactly what she had been afraid of.

He stilled. The fork in his hand trembled slightly as his grip on it tightened. Slowly, he looked up at her, expression darkening like a storm rolling in.

“Don’t,” he said, voice quiet still — but it wasn’t calm. It was a warning.

She didn’t back off. “I’m just saying—”

“I said don’t.” His voice cracked louder this time, rough and raw. “Don’t tell me what was or wasn’t my fault. You don’t know. You can’t know.”

He stood up, the air between them thick with a sudden and terrible heat. His breathing had grown sharp, his shoulders tense. His metal hand was clenched so tightly around the edge of the kitchen table that the wood beneath it began to creak—splintering slightly under the pressure.

“I remember all of it,” he hissed, not looking at her now, eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder. The anger in his eyes was a cold, churning sea. “Their voices. The faces. What I did to them. I felt it. I watched it happen. I couldn’t stop it. Doesn’t matter if they were pulling the strings—I was still the one holding the goddamn gun.”

The table gave a sharp crack. She flinched, eyes darting down to where his metal fingers had sunk into the edge of the wood, bending it inwards like aluminum foil. He didn’t even seem to notice.

“Barnes,” she said gently. “Hey—”

Then he saw it.

His breath hitched. Slowly, he uncurled his fist, staring at the damage he'd done. At his hand next. The rage drained from him in an instant, replaced by something worse—shame, hollow and heavy.

He backed away from the table like it had burned him, blue eyes wide, chest heaving.

“I didn’t…” he started, barely above a whisper. She tried to meet his gaze, doing her best to keep a neutral expression to not frighten him more, but he wouldn’t look at her. Guilt was tangible in the air around them, all of it exuded from him. He looked utterly lost…like he had no idea what to do.

Then, without another word, he turned — fast and silent — disappearing down the hallway. She heard the door to his room shut with a quiet finality.

She waited a few minutes before she followed, heart hammering, uncertain if she should even try. But something in her gut told her she had to. She moved slowly down the hallway and stood outside his door, the wood scarred slightly near the handle, like it had been slammed too hard too many times. She hesitated, then raised her hand and knocked.

“Barnes?” she called gently, voice barely above a whisper.

No answer.

She rested her knuckles against the door, just listening. No footsteps. No breath. He was either holding completely still, or…no, he was still there. She could feel it somehow. His presence sat behind the door like tangible tension. But he wasn’t going to answer her. Not tonight.

She sighed quietly and stepped back. She wasn’t going to push him. It was her fault this had even happened this way. She should have held her tongue.

She cleaned up the table quickly and in silence, doing the dishes with her mind churning. There was no way she was equipped to undo decades of guilt. She had no idea where to start. Maybe she was in over her head here — she wanted to do the right thing for the broken man a few doors away…but what the hell could she offer him?

Her feet felt like bricks when she walked back to her room. The house felt colder now, hollowed out and echoing in a way that hadn’t been there this morning. Maybe she had crossed a line. Or maybe the wound was just too deep.

She curled under the covers, staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours, the shadows from the trees outside dancing across the wood-paneled walls. Her chest ached, not just for him, but for the silence that sat like stone between them.

—————————————-

Eventually, exhaustion pulled her under, despite the hours she spent tossing and turning. But this time, it wasn’t the soft call of birdsong that woke her. It was a loud crash, sharp and jarring, somewhere nearby.

She bolted upright — heart pounding — groggy but alert. Her vision swam with dark spots as she reached for the glowing screen of her phone on the nightstand. 2:03 A.M.

Her first thought was that she’d imagined it — just another dream, maybe. But then came another sound. A thud. Heavy. Muffled.

Barnes.

Instinct took over. She grabbed the handgun from her nightstand, flicking the safety off with practiced fingers, and slipped out of bed. Her bare feet made no noise on the cool hardwood as she crept toward the door. She paused only to press her back to the frame, listening. The house was still save for the occasional creak of old wood. But she could hear it now — soft shuffling, the distinct sound of movement coming from Barnes’s room.

Without a word, she turned the doorknob to Barnes’s room slowly. Silently. No announcement. If someone was in there with him, if he was in trouble, she wouldn’t risk giving them any warning.

She let the door fall open just a crack first, letting the shadows shift. Then, she eased it open further with the barrel of her gun, breath baited, body tensed and ready. The room was dark, lit only faintly by moonlight filtering in through the half-closed blinds.

She stepped outside cautiously, eyes adjusting to the dim light. That’s when she saw him —Barnes, tangled in his sheets, chest heaving, sweat slick on his brow. He was thrashing, legs kicking at the blanket like he was trying to escape from it. A lamp had been knocked off the nightstand and lay shattered on the floor, the bulb cracked and flickering weakly.

It wasn’t an intruder. It was him. Having a nightmare.

She exhaled slowly, lowering the gun and placing it quietly on the dresser. “Barnes,” she said softly, approaching the bed. “Hey—Barnes, it’s just a dream.”

He didn’t hear her. His eyes were shut tight, lips parted as he murmured something she couldn’t quite catch—words in Russian, maybe? His face was twisted in pain. She saw his metal hand claw at the air, fingers twitching violently.

She reached out, hesitating for a second before placing her hand gently on his shoulder. “Bucky,” she said again, louder this time. “Wake up. You’re dreaming.”

The response was instant—and brutal.

His eyes snapped open but there was no recognition in them, only sheer panic and adrenaline. Before she could even speak again, his metal hand shot up and clamped around her throat, cold and unrelenting. The weight of him sent her stumbling back onto the mattress as he rolled over, pinning her halfway beneath him, grip tightening.

She choked, instinctively grabbing at his wrist, trying to break the hold desperately. “Barnes—” she rasped, her voice strained. “It’s me…you’re okay. You’re with me.”

Nothing. His grip on her throat tightened, his eyes dead and unfocused, like he was still in the middle of his nightmare. She gasped, straining for air, clutching at his arm desperately. “Bucky….stop….please.”

For a few terrifying seconds, he didn’t let go. His breathing was wild, ragged. But then, thankfully, something shifted. His eyes flickered at his name, recognition starting to bleed into them—first confusion, then horror. Another moment passed and the haze cleared out of his blue irises, clarity seeping back in quickly.

“Shit—” he released her at once and backed off like she physically burned him, his whole body trembling. “Shit, I—I didn’t—I didn’t know where I was—”

She sat up, coughing, hand instinctively holding onto her neck. “I know,” she said, her voice hoarse. She swallowed hard, doing her best to sound as collected as possible. “You were dreaming. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” he whispered, folding in on himself near the edge of the bed. His hands—both of them—were shaking. “I could’ve killed you. I nearly— Christ, I…”

“You didn’t.” She reached out, slowly, carefully, and placed a hand on his shoulder again. He flinched, but he didn’t move away. “You stopped. You’re here. You’re not him anymore.”

But he still couldn’t meet her eyes. He just stared down at the broken lamp on the floor, jaw clenched, shame practically radiating off him in waves. Her neck was throbbing, and her heart was certainly still pounding a war tune in her chest, but she willed herself to keep it together enough to calm him down. The night had already gone bad enough, she didn’t need this driving him over the edge to leave.

She sat beside him slowly, her hand still resting gently on his shoulder. “What just happened… it’s not uncommon,” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “I’ve known a lot of soldiers who’ve gone through it. Hell, I’ve been through it.”

Bucky’s eyes flickered over to her for the first time since letting go of her throat. There was doubt in them—guilt, too—but she held his gaze.

“I used to wake up screaming,” she continued, brushing a hand over her neck subconsciously. “I once put my fist through a bathroom mirror because I thought I saw someone behind me. I’ve bolted out of bed with my heart going a thousand beats a minute thinking I was back in the desert. The brain can’t always tell when you’re safe after coming home from war.”

He said nothing for a while, just sitting there silently, watching her. The room was filled with the hum of silence, heavy but not cold.

Finally, his voice came, low and cracked. “It’s most nights. The nightmares.”

She nodded, unsurprised. “How long?”

“Since HYDRA,” he said, staring down at the floor. “Since I got out. They never stopped. Sometimes I don’t even remember them. Other times it’s… everything. Like I’m still him. Like I never left.”

Her heart gripped in her chest. “You did leave. You got out.”

His jaw clenched. “Doesn’t feel like it. Not when I’m in it. And now I’ve hurt you…I could’ve killed you. I shouldn’t be here…with you. You’re not safe around me.”

“No,” she said, firm this time. She turned more to face him fully, forcing him to look at her. She grabbed his flesh hand in her own tightly, like the contact would anchor him. “Don’t say that.”

He shook his head but looked down at their hands, guilt still stamped all over his face. His skin was warm against her own. “You don’t understand—”

“I do,” she interrupted. “More than you think. You weren’t awake. You weren’t yourself. It was a reflex, Bucky. That wasn’t you choosing to hurt me.”

His brows pulled together, like he was trying to fight her words. “I’m not safe.”

“You are,” she said again, her voice gentler now. “You’ve been here days and haven’t so much as raised your voice. You barely even talk. And tonight wasn’t your fault.”

He looked at her, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. “But I could’ve.”

“But you didn’t,” she asserted. “That’s the difference.”

He looked away, running his metal hand down his face, exhaustion prevalent in his expression. Like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

She reached out and squeezed his forearm, warm skin and cold metal beneath her palm. “You’re not the man HYDRA made. You’re someone who survived them. You deserve peace, Bucky. Just like anyone else.”

He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders starting to melt, just barely. The haunted look in his eyes dulled, but it didn’t disappear. “I’m sorry,” he muttered again, glancing down at his hands. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know where I was. I swear.”

She offered him a small, tired smile. “I know. You already apologized.”

“I just…” he shook his head. “I’ve hurt enough people. Last thing I wanna do is add you to that list.”

“You haven’t,” she said softly.

He looked over at her then, really looked, something gentler replacing the tired expression in his eyes. “You said my name.”

She blinked. “What?” He gave her a small shrug. “Back there. You said ‘Bucky.’ First time you’ve said it.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, caught off guard by the observation—and by the way he said it. Her ears felt hot suddenly. “I—I guess I did.”

He didn’t tease her, didn’t smile, but his expression softened just enough. “I like hearing you say it. Makes me feel like a person again.”

The words caught her off guard in a different way. She cleared her throat, not trusting her voice for a moment, then shifted a little on the edge of the bed. “You are a person, Bucky.”

He looked away, but she saw the way his jaw relaxed a little at her words. Not a full surrender, but close.

She glanced toward the window, focusing on the moonlight spilling through onto the wood floor. “Do you want me to stay?” she asked. “Just until you fall asleep.”

He hesitated — he always hesitated — but after a beat, he gave her a small nod. “If… if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t.”

She let go of him, shifting to sit up straighter and get a little more comfortable on the bed. He didn’t lie down right away—just leaned back against the headboard, his hands loosely folded in his lap, gaze distant.

The room was dim, bathed only in the soft spill of the moonlight through the window, but even in the low light, she could see him clearly. He was all sharp lines and quiet strength — lean, dense muscle stretched beneath pale skin marked with faint scars that caught in the light like stories left untold. His arms—flesh and metal—rested easily at his sides now, but the coiled tension in his frame never fully faded. He looked like he was always prepared to run. Or fight. Or both.

His hair, still long, hung in clean, damp strands that brushed against the curve of his jaw, and though he shaved only occasionally, he often wore a layer of rough stubble that suited him. Rugged, unpolished. Real.

There was nothing soft about him. And yet, something about the quiet way he held himself now, the way his expression loosened just enough to let the silence settle, struck her as deeply human. Undeniably masculine too. Undeniably him.

She didn’t realize she was staring until he shifted slightly, and she looked away, pretending to adjust the blanket beneath her. Hopefully he hadn’t noticed.

After a few minutes of silence, she spoke again, her voice quiet in the stillness. Trying something to distract his mind. “Do you remember anything from…before HYDRA? Like childhood stuff?”

He was quiet for a moment, thinking. “Some,” he said eventually. “Not everything. But a few pieces are coming back.”

She watched him from his side, eyes locked onto his face. “Like what?”

He scratched at the stubble on his jaw, thinking. “My ma’s hands. She used to pull my ear when I was getting mouthy. And the smell of my old apartment building—like boiled cabbage and laundry soap.” A faint smile tugged at his lips, barely there. “I remember running down the fire escape with Steve when we were kids, trying to catch pigeons. Dumb idea. We fell into a garbage can.”

She grinned. “Sounds like a good memory.”

He nodded slowly, eyes distant. “Yeah. I think it was.”

She shifted a little closer, the bed creaking softly beneath her as she leaned in, just enough that their legs were nearly touching. Close, but not quite. She was careful with touch — he didn’t usually respond well to it. The hand-hold from earlier had been a first…for both of them. A fragile kind of milestone.

“Tell me more,” she said gently. “As much as you can remember. I want to know it all.”

He turned his head toward her, slow and deliberate. His blue eyes met hers, and something in them changed. Less guarded. More open.

His shoulders eased up and the tension in his frame began to melt. He let out a long breath, sinking a bit deeper into the headboard, like he’d finally stopped bracing for the worst. He was quiet for a long moment, gaze cast toward the window again. The moonlight traced the angles of his face, catching in his lashes. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady.

“I remember a night before I shipped out - couple of days before,” he said. “Back in Brooklyn, with Steve. Went to the docks with some guys we knew, drank cheap beer under the stars. It was freezing, but none of us cared. We were just… having fun.”

She leaned in, her arms resting on her thighs. “Were you scared? Of going to war?”

He hesitated. “Yeah. I was. Not that I ever said it out loud.” A soft huff escaped him. “I remember putting on that uniform for the first time, thinking it would make me feel bigger somehow. Braver. But all it did was remind me of what I was leaving behind.”

She tilted her head. “Like what?”

“Late nights at O’Malley’s,” he said, a faint smile flickering. “Dancing with girls I barely knew. Laughing too loud. Getting into fights just because I could win them.” His smile faded slightly. “I didn’t have much, but I had… freedom. Friends. We were just kids havin’ some fun..”

“And then the war came.”

He nodded, something dark flickering in his eyes. “Everything changed. I changed.”

She watched him for a moment, then asked gently, “Do you remember what you wanted? Back then. Before the war.”

He let out a slow breath. “I thought I wanted to be something. A name. Someone people remembered.” He glanced at her, eyes shadowed with something heavier. “Careful what you wish for.”

Her heart ached at the weight in his voice, but she didn’t look away. “You are remembered. Maybe not in the way you’re thinking. But you’re a hero. There’s a whole exhibit in the Smithsonian with your name on it. You’re a war hero.”

He didn’t respond to that. Just sat there with his head down, the silence stretching between them again — but not uncomfortable.

“I used to dream about opening a garage,” he said finally, looking back up at her. He was making direct eye contact now, taking in every detail of her tone and expressions. “Fixing cars. Maybe owning something that couldn’t be taken from me. Thought it’d be a good life.”

She smiled softly. “I could see that. You, in coveralls, covered in grease.”

That actually earned a faint, genuine laugh from him. It was a gorgeous sound, husky and deep. “Yeah? That your type?”

She rolled her eyes but gave him a sharp smile. “I’m just saying it fits.”

Bucky leaned back a little further into the headboard, the tension in his frame easing, if only slightly.

“You ask good questions,” he murmured.

“Lots of time spent sitting in tents,” she said with a sigh, leaning back in her chair. “Nothing to do but talk to the same people every day for months on end.” Their shoulders brushed lightly, and she noticed—almost with surprise—that he didn’t tense or pull away. “I’m sure you did the same.”

Bucky’s eyes drifted, not toward her but somewhere far beyond the room, seeing something she couldn’t. His voice, when it came, was quiet. “I think we did. I went to that exhibit you mentioned. After… D.C.” His fingers flexed lightly in his lap. “Helped me remember a little. Some of the guys. The war. What it felt like.” He turned to look at her, his eyes clearer in the moonlight. “Guess we got that in common, huh?”

She scoffed, biting gently at the inside of her cheek. “Your war was a little more impactful than mine.” Her voice was casual, but her gaze had dropped, heavy now. “I lost friends for pretty much nothing. Lost some of myself too, if I’m being honest. But at the time, it felt like the right thing to do. Like I was helping.”

There was a pause. Then his voice, soft, softer than she’d ever heard it from him.

“Doesn’t make you any less of a hero.”

The words hit harder than she expected. She looked at him, and his expression was steady, sincere.

“None of that takes away from what you did,” he added.

Now it was her turn to fall quiet, eyes drifting into the blur of memory. The weight of years pressed on her chest in a way she hadn’t felt in a while. Her eyelids were growing heavier by the second, the warmth of his presence beside her pulling her into something calm, something safe.

He didn’t interrupt her silence. He sat with it, respected it.

But after a moment, his voice returned, tentative. “Was that…the Medal of Valor I saw back at your place?”

Her breath caught slightly, just for a second. The haze of sleep threatened, but his question pulled her back.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “It was.”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his brow knitting. “Was it your father’s?” he asked, voice low.

She shook her head, her eyes still half-lidded from sleep but her voice steady. “No. It was mine.”

He blinked at that, genuine surprise flickering across his face before giving way to something softer. Respect. “You don’t seem like the type to bring that up.”

“I’m not,” she said quietly. “It was a rough mission. One we barely got out of. Two of my team didn’t. I just happened to be the one still breathing when the dust settled.”

He was silent for a moment, his gaze settling more fully on her. Not as a soldier or some distant past version of herself—but as someone present, vulnerable. Real.

“You got it for a reason,” he said gently.

She let out a breath through her nose, not quite a laugh. “Sometimes it feels like a mistake. Like I got it because I lived and they didn’t. I didn’t do anything heroic. I just made it back.”

His voice was quiet but firm. “That’s exactly how I feel now. Now that I’m remembering.” She turned to him slightly, eyes meeting his.

“Every name,” he said, “every face from the war, from the missions after… I remember all of them. And I’m still here. Don’t know why. Don’t know what for. But I get it.” He paused, then added, “Survivor’s guilt doesn’t mean you didn’t earn what you’ve lived through. It just means you still care.”

Something in her chest ached at that, something she didn't realize until now. The likeness between them. The commonalities.

She nodded, the movement small — almost imperceptible — and settled deeper into the bed beside him. It felt strangely good to be next to him. Comfortable. The most relaxed she had felt in months, really.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

He gave a faint nod, blue eyes focused on her. “Anytime.”

—————————————-

tag list: @frog-fans-unite @multifandomneeerd @hiraethmae @chocopaintus @eviaandjacks @mawmaster @cokewhoreio @quartzbimd @0cr4b @bridgeoverstrawberryfields @torntaltos @kreishin @iyskgd @miss-chuchu @resting-confused-face

[sceletaflores]

HELL OF A VISION…

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｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 2.6k

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, post-outbreak, established relationship, jackson joel mmmh, domestic joel mmmh, both tags that are good for the soul, set in a sweet and lovely place where nothing bad happens, old man joel RAAHHH, the readers stay on, lots of dirty talk cause he’s old and gross, dry humping, finger sucking (still on this bullshit), lots of come and come talk…like verging on hyperspermia, yeah ik he’s old but he comes like a fire hose because i just can’t help myself y’all, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: i love fucking men who should be on AARP. thank god for them. this fic was actually meant to be the one i posted for rylea and i’s challenge, but i fucked up and accidentally made it over a thousand words…oops. of course i’m all about that reduce, reuse, recycle life sooo here we are. hope y'all love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune and @saradika-graphics!

you and joel spend a night reading in bed, amongst other things…

It's rare that you get to see Joel like this.

Relaxed, completely.

Propped up against the headboard of your bed, a pillow behind his back and his legs stretched under the quilt you finally finished up last year.

The copy of Lonesome Dove Ellie found a few weeks before his birthday rests open in one hand, the other slipped up under the hem of an old shirt you stole from him to absently stroke over the skin of your back.

You lay with your head on his chest, legs tangled with his as you count the beats of his heart against your cheek. It soothes you in a way nothing else can, listening to the slow turn of the pages and the occasional rumbling hum in his throat when he comes across a line he likes.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been curled up next to him, quietly watching the tiny shifts in his expression.

Letting your eyes glide along the side of his face bathed in the warm orange glow of his bedside lamp, the messy silver curls of his hair catching the light enough to almost shine. You’re tempted to reach out and run your fingers through the strands, even more than you did earlier tonight, to feel just how soft it is.

Your gaze traces down the slope of his forehead, the caress of his lashes fanning out over his cheeks, the arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips and all the way back up to do it over again.

However long it’s been still isn’t enough. You could watch Joel for hours without getting bored, just a silent spectator drifting in the warmth of his presence. 

There’s always something. A new project, patrol shifts, repairs. New everyday things you get to experience with him here in Jackson that you do love, but that keep him just out of your reach for longer than you like.

That’s why moments like these feel so special. There’s no crisis, no issues or problems to keep him out of your bed. 

You don’t say much. You don’t need to.

You just…you have him tonight. And that’s enough.

Well, it's almost enough.

You’re in his t-shirt for Christ’s sake, wearing it like a brand. In his t-shirt and just your panties. And he’s so warm beneath you, big and solid, the kind of comfort you ache for. In more ways than you could even think of naming.

You shift your hips slowly. One tiny move that has his thigh pressing between your legs a little more firmly than before. Testing.

Joel’s hand pauses on your back. The subtle drag of his thumb stutters where it was gliding just beneath the hem of your shirt before it starts up again, slower than before. He doesn’t look at you right away. Doesn’t say anything either. Just flicks his eyes further down the page and keeps reading.

You try not to smile.

You do it again. Another slow drag of your hips—like it’s an accident. Like you’re just getting comfortable.

But Joel knows you too well. He knows every part of you now—the tiniest hitch of your breath, the way you go quiet when you want something, the shift in your touch dragging over his chest. Knows that the heat blooming between your legs has nothing to do with the cozy warmth of the blanket.

“Somethin’ on your mind, kid?” Joel drawls without looking up from his book, but his hand slides a bit lower, the tips of his fingers brushing over the hem of your panties.

You hum noncommittally, shift again, letting your hips roll forward with a little more intent. You feel the twitch of his thigh, the stutter of his exhale. “I’m just getting comfortable.”

The flick of a page, his fingers drag a little lower. “That so?”

“Mhm,” you murmur, all mock innocence as you press in closer, lifting your leg just enough to drape it over his hips. You’re practically straddling him now, your bare thigh flush to the soft cotton of his sleep pants.

“Doesn’t look it.” Joel’s tone is bland, uninterested. You know it’s just for show, part of the game. It’s always better when he fights you for it. “Looks like you’re tryin’ to take advantage of me.”

You muffle a laugh in his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of pine and skin and musk. Your hand trails down his chest, down his stomach until you can toy with the drawstrings of his bottoms. “Maybe…are you offering?”

Joel peers at you over the edge of his readers, skeptical. It’s the first time he’s looked at you since he opened up his book. You try not to preen under his gaze. “I’m too old to be grindin’ like a damn teenager.”

“It’ll be good, promise. Just let me…” You sit up, swinging your leg over him to straddle his hips properly. “Let me rub on it a little, Joel. Please? I just wanna feel it.”

Your voice is all sugar, and Joel’s a sucker for it.

His cock softly jerks to life in his bottoms, lazily hardening under you. It tattles on him, gives away how he really feels seeing you perched on top of him. Your hips are moving before you can even think, rocking down against the rigid plane of heat. 

You fit together perfectly, and Joel’s cock slipping between your soaked cunt has your mouth going slack, a soft moan passing through your lips.

"Jesus." His book snaps shut and lands somewhere by the lamp. His hands find your hips, not to stop you, not really—just to hold. You meet his heavy gaze, the blown pupils of his eyes shine like an oil slick under the dim light. He squeezes you hard, holding you in place as he huffs a dry laugh. “I ain’t dry humped since high school.”

You grind down again, fighting his grip. “Then I’d say you’re due.”

You roll your hips again and again. Back and forth in slow and deliberate motions, dragging that damp cotton across the length of him. You know he feels it—feels the heat of you, the slick mess you're making. You're working your clit right along the swell of him, jaw slack as your rhythm picks up.

And Joel is just watching, head tipped back against the headboard. Letting you use him. Eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted.

There’s been days where it’s harder for him to really roll around in the sheets with you, especially in the last couple months. Joel’s age catching up with him, hitting fast and slow all at once.

Joel hates it, not that he'd ever tell you that. He doesn’t have too, you know. Of course you know, you’re not stupid. You knew how old he was when you met him, and it never made you second guess that you wanted anyone else in your bed. 

You’d never let Joel’s recent struggle to get it up ruin all that you have. You were more than content to find other ways to be intimate with someone you love, maybe a little excited even.

That’s not the case tonight.

Joel’s cock is fat and hard under you, twitching up through the soft cotton of his pants like it’s straining to get to you. The thick ridge of it bumps perfectly against your clit every time you roll your hips, dragging against the soaked crotch of your panties. The fabric clings to you, flimsy and so drenched with arousal that it’s barely even there.

“You’re soaked through, pumpkin.” Joel’s grip on your hips tightens until his fingers dimple your skin. His thumbs run over the edge of your panties, pressing hard enough that you know it’ll leave behind lacy imprints in your skin when this is all over. “Gettin’ my pants all wet and I ain’t laid a finger on you.”

Your brow arches, lips tugged into a smug grin that you can’t hide. “Is that a complaint?”

Joel squeezes your hips once, hard. A light warning, don’t be a smartass. “Don’t sound like I’m complainin’, do I?”

“I don’t know.” You hum, coy as your fingers dance over the hem of your shirt—his shirt—bunching it up around your hips, the dip of your waist visible in the lamplight. “You sure were talking a whole lot of smack earlier.”

You sneak your hand down the front of his pants before he can respond. His cock jerks when your fingers brush against it, his hips twitching up off the mattress and into your loose grip. You tsk softly, shaking your head as you lay it flat over his stomach, trapping him between the waistband and the coarse gray hair of his happy trail.

Joel hisses through his teeth, hands tightening around your hips. “Shit–”

“Don’t get too excited, Miller.” Your tone is teasing, even when your cunt clenches weakly at the sight. The rosy tip of his cock oozes pre-come onto his shirt, wetting the fabric enough that a dark patch blooms across the thin blue cotton. You want to press your lips to it, to trace the ridge with your tongue so you can taste him—salty, musky, and heady. “I just wanted a better view.”

Joel grunts like he doesn’t believe you, like he knows you’re full of shit, but his hips are shifting under you anyway. His cock nudging up into the hot mess between your thighs, seeking friction, contact—you. 

His hands curl around your thighs, pulling you down harder against the heavy bulge in his pants. He’s soaked through too now, the front of his sleep pants dark with it, sticky and wet where you’ve been grinding down. 

And his cock—god, his cock is leaking. Fat beads of precome drool out from the tip, smearing slick over the dark hair of his happy trail and dripping down between your folds. You can feel it every time your hips circle down.

“Dirty fuckin’ thing,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “You look so pretty like this, baby. Just like this.”

Your eyes flutter shut on a breathy moan, your hands falling to rest on his chest as your hips rock and rock. 

There’s a spot, right where his cock curves, that keeps catching against your clit every time you rock forward. You keep grinding into it, chasing that pressure, whimpering with every pass of it.

Joel notices. Of course he fucking notices.

“There,” he grunts, holding you in place and angling his hips up. “Right there, huh? That’s it, baby? That’s the spot.”

You whimper, nodding so fast it’s dizzying. “Feels so good, Joel. I can’t—I can’t stop, you feel so good—”

Your hands drag up his chest, lingering on the tan column of his throat. You run your nails over the thin skin, stretching over the coarse hair he must’ve missed cleaning up his beard. Your thumb rests just over his pulse, right where you can feel the beat of his heart pounding like a hammer on a nail.

Your hand slides up before you can stop yourself, cupping the side of his face like you’ve got the whole world cradled in your palm. Your thumb glides along his bottom lip now, wet with spit. Your nail presses into the fat of it, firm enough to drain the color before you lift up and do it again. 

Joel can’t swallow down his noises like this, with the way you’re forcing his lips to part. Deep grunts and groans ring out from around your finger. His eyes never stray from yours as he closes his lips around the tip of your thumb, watching you through the steamy glass of his readers.

You let out a pathetically broken moan, pushing your thumb deeping into the wet heat of his mouth. “Fuck, Joel…”

He doesn’t hesitate. Just parts his lips and sucks it into the heat of his mouth, deep and greedy. His tongue curls around your thumb, wet and filthy, moaning low in his throat like he’s starved. His brows pinch like he’s feeling it somewhere deep, deeper than he’s letting on.

You rock your hips while he sucks your fingers like he’d suck your clit—like it’s nothing to him, just muscle memory now. Your cunt clenches weakly with every pass of his tongue, fire shooting up your spine as your rhythm starts to falter. 

Joel feels it, the shift. The way you start to get messy with it, desperate. He knows you’re close.

He groans around your thumb and lets it go with a slick pop. “Go on, girly. Mess up those pretty panties. Rub that sweet cunt all over me—fuck yourself on it. That’s it.”

Your nails dig back into his chest as your stomach clenches with the first signs of your orgasm sneaking up on you. You rock faster, chasing it, slick soaking through the thin cotton. The shape of his cock is so perfect under you—thick and wide and right—even through your clothes.

You whimper something broken, grinding down hard, over and over, as pleasure builds sharp in your belly.

Joel grits his teeth. “You gonna come for me like this?”

“Yes.” You nod again, frantic. “Joel—I’m gonna—god, I’m gonna—”

Your thighs seize and your body jolts against him as you come, trembling in his lap, cunt spasming against soaked fabric. 

Joel groans like it’s killing him, watching you fall apart. His voice breaks as he groans your name, “Keep goin’, baby, just like that—fuck, fuck, you’re gonna make me—”

Your eyes are locked on the drooling tip of his cock, you don’t think anything could tear your attention away from it. Not even gunfire. Your hips don’t stop moving, even when your clit pulses with overstimulation each time it bumps up against him. 

But you can’t stop. You won’t stop, not when Joel asks you so nicely.

His grip on you tightens, his hips twitch up off the bed. Once, twice, three times. “Fuck–” 

You watch as he comes, mesmerized. His cock jerks against his stomach, painting the front of his shirt with rope after rope of thick come. 

Joel groans, loud, from deep in the chest. An intoxicating, raw sound, like it’s being pulled out of him with a tight fist. His head knocks against the headboard, jaw clenched, eyes screwed shut like the pleasure hurts.

“Jesus—shit, baby,” he grits out to the ceiling, voice wrecked. His hands are basically doing all the work now, shifting your hips back and forth, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “That’s it, ride it out of me—goddamn.”

He just keeps coming, shooting up high, nearly hitting his chest with it. A slow, filthy mess oozing out of the flushed head of his cock. The shirt’s a lost cause, but you could care less when his come drips down the sides of his stomach as it clenches deliciously.

You stare, panting as the last sparks of your high fizzle out. You want to taste it, to smear it around and dirty him up even more.

By the time he slumps back against the pillows, he’s panting like he just ran ten miles. His chest is heaving, the front of his pants an absolute wreck, and he’s still twitching under you like he hasn’t fully come down.

You lean down, nose brushing his. “Still think you’re too old for dry humping?”

Joel gives a weak chuckle, hands smoothing up and down your sides. “You’re laughin’ now, bet you’ll be singin’ a different tune when you’re the one nursin’ my bad back tomorrow.”

You grin, pressing a kiss on his chin. “Worth it.”

And then you rock your hips once more, dragging your soaked cunt over his softening, come slicked cock.

He groans, his hands twitching over your hips. “You just don’t know when to quit, huh?”

“Probably not. Guess you better read faster next time,” you murmur, mouth against his ear. “Because at this rate? You’re never finishing up that chapter.”

The swat on your ass stings, but you knew it was coming. It’s not enough to hide the low rumble of laughter ringing out over your head, and that’s all that really matters anyway.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: this got waaay fluffier than i thought it would when i started it. it’s probably the fluffiest thing i've written in a while. this isn't what i planned on posting, but it's hot and my knee hurts and i can't sleep...and this was basically done so i finished it up as a distraction from my chronic pain :))) and insomnia :))) yay me! yes the title is a lonesome dove quote because i’m texas trash and so is joel miller.

to the anon who sent me an actual banger of an ask, i am working on it! don’t worry babe, i almost cried tears of joy when i saw it in my notifs…i’m just on the struggle bus rn and the ideas are suffering…

thank you so much for reading, love you!

[nayrawrites]

Wanda Maximoff x Fem Oc

Title: Three Simple Knocks

Summary:

Wanda unexpectedly gets a new roommate, and doesn’t know that the stranger isn’t who she claims to be. Secretly, the woman is there to give Wanda Maximoff the happy ending she deserves

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female OC

Status: Ongoing

Words: 23k+

Tags: strangers to lovers, roommates, slowburn, soulmates

Ao3:

Wattpad:

Chapter 1: A Stranger

The weirdest things happen on the most ordinary days.

And it was one of those ordinary days when the witch heard a knock on her untouched door. Just three simple consecutive thuds on dusty wood. The sound of it was so unknown to her, it took a while until she was capable of placing it.

The visitor waited patiently, as Wanda made her way to the door in caution, her steps hesitant. She'd never really liked visitors and she liked the unannounced kind even less.

It could've been anyone from S.W.O.R.D. or maybe even a former colleague from her time as an Avenger — though that was unlikely, given how little of them were left, and how even less of them cared to think about her.

She turned the knob and opened the door. However, she was not greeted by either of those options —at least not to her knowledge. Instead, she was facing a beautiful woman in simple attire. Quite young, or maybe that assumption was just the effects of the vibrant energy she exuded.

"Can I help you?"

"Hey, yeah, it's me," silence. The smile she was sporting grew more awkward. the longer the silence stretched. "I'm Lucy." she clarified.

Wanda raised an eyebrow in confusion, as she scrutinized the woman in front of her. But there was no way Wanda knew the stranger.

"What do you want?", no matter how friendly the almost forced smile was, Wanda was not going to let it fool her.

"Oh, didn't Clint tell you? He said I could crash here." Only now did the witch notice the yellow backpack almost slipping down from one of the shoulders and the slightly bigger suitcase leaning against the wall of the house.

"Kinda figured he'd have sorted that out with you first...", she trailed off.

Her stern resolve falters slightly at the mention of him. Though that only added to the prominent confusion.

"Clint Barton, guy with an arrow, hearing aid?" The woman nodded hastily at the description. If the situation had been different, the uncanny resemblance to a bobblehead would've been pretty amusing. But the situation wasn't different and ever since her last fiasco, Wanda had to be on guard.

"Why would he say you could crash here?"

Ever since the funeral, Clint and her hadn't really stayed in touch. She didn't mind. She knew the loss they had both suffered and she also knew that he would use up all his time to be with his family. Five years was a lot to catch up on. She would have done the same.

After the events of the Westview Anomaly, he had texted her.

It'll be okay.

That was all it said and quite frankly, it was enough for her to break down. She assumed, he most likely waited for her to call him, not wanting to pressure her into confiding in him, but the call never came. It's not like she didn't try but no matter how long her thumb hovered over the call button, she couldn't ever actually make herself take that leap. She was too ashamed. And she was too afraid he'd think that sentiment was deserved.

So maybe it wasn't too far fetched for him to send someone. Perhaps this was his way of calling her.

"Well, I'm new here and don't really have...anything actually," she chuckled awkwardly, "Clint found out through a mutual friend and said you'd have some space." Lucy explained.

"You sure he didn't mention me?"

The witch resisted massaging her temple at the womans babbling and just motioned for her to come inside. This required a cup of tea, or five.

"I think I'd have remembered, if he did." She watched Lucy grab her belongings and rush through the door with a small smile on her face. One step closer to the goal, she supposed.

As Wanda closed the door behind Lucy, she pulled her phone out of her back pocket and gestured with her hand to another door further down the house.

"I gotta make a call. Just- stay.", at this point, she could've told her to fetch a stick or walk in a circle too, but she just shook her head and left the room.

Now that she was alone, her back slumped against the door, she took a second to herself and just breathed. She wasn't sure, if she needed that second because she was just blindsided with that strange woman or because she knew, she had to contact Clint now.

Most likely the latter.

Her finger hovered over the call button yet again, and she hated it. Hated her hesitance.

God, just do it.

So she finally did, her phone now resting against her ear, as she waited. Wanda always disliked the beeping of a ringing phone and the anticipation during it. She just wanted to get it over with. The call, however, almost immediately went to voicemail. She tried dialing his phone number two more times but it was of no use.

Sighing in defeat, the redhead went back to the living room, where she left Lucy.

The woman in question was busy inspecting the coat rack, her luggage tossed next to the front door.

"Nice red jacket," she commented, before turning around to face Wanda.

"Thanks, I guess."

She never actually got to give it back to Nat.

"Listen...Lucy, was it? You can't stay here." short but at least straight to the point.

Wow, she could've at least pretended to think about it, Lucy thought.

This was probably the first time she saw an expression that didn't include a smile on her face, her mouth parted and eyes widened instead.

"What? But Clint-"

"I can't reach him and he didn't ask. I don't know what he was thinking but this isn't a bed and breakfast. If what you're claiming is even true." The raise in her voice was more imminent by the end but Lucy didn't let that rattle her. It's not like she had any other options after all.

"It's true! Have I ever lied to you?", she protested.

"Well, no, but we also just met, so."

"Fair point." she sighed.

Lucy took a couple steps closer towards the uneasy woman, her hands lifted, to show that she came in peace. "Wanda, please. I-I could help out around the house, you know, I make a mean bowl of instant ramen. And it won't even be that long. Just until I find something else."

The pleading look was hard to resist but Wanda didn't know her and there was no way to confirm her story. Oh, how easy it would've been to just slip inside her mind for a second. Yet she knew she couldn't do that. She wouldn't, not after Westview. It was her own rule ever since. In no way would it ever redeem herself for all the pain she caused, but it was a start. Besides, it was already difficult enough focusing on her own mind.

Nevertheless, that meant she could only rely on whatever Lucy was claiming unil she got a hold of Clint.

Pinching the bridge of her nose with her fingers, she stepped closer to Lucy and looked at her. She could sense the awkwardness it caused in the woman but chose to ignore it, too busy with making a decision.

She examined her, starting from the dark hair, reaching barely past her shoulders, and trailed her eyes lower, ending at the minions socks on her feet.

If she ever looked back on this moment, she would probably admit that this was the reason for what she was about to say.

"Fine, you can stay."

A woman with a pair of minion socks couldn't possibly harm someone.

She really hoped she was right.

Lucy let out the breath she was holding and a bright grin adorned her face. She clasped her hands together in exuberant glee.

"Yay," a tad too much excitement, "you won't regret it, I promise."

And there was something —maybe a glint in her eye, that showed the determination and certainty behind that declaration.

Wanda almost believed it.

If you liked it, feel free to check out the whole ongoing fic

[ellswritings]

In My Corner

(Part 9), Part 10, (Part 11)

Phil Brooks/CM Punk x reader

Colby Lopez/Seth Rollins x reader

TW: We get dangerously close to smut here lmao. Y/N gets very competitive. Other than that I think that’s it.

Tags: @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling , @scream4mami , @mandmilovehim, @dummylovewp, @insomnia-bookworm, @mill7531

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Staring at herself in the hotel bathroom mirror, Y/N wasn’t sure if what she was wearing was the right attire for the occasion. She didn’t know what the right amount of effort was for something like this. It was just coffee. But it’s who she’s having coffee with that’s making it feel nearly impossible to be pleased with how she looks. He won’t care what she wears. She knows that. But she didn’t want to show up and appear like she was trying too hard. But she also didn’t want to look as if she didn’t care.

This was an important moment. Their first one on one conversation, that’s civil anyways, and not on live television. She didn’t know how it was going to go. They could end up putting on a whole match in front of a bunch of unsuspecting patrons. Y/N sucks in a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. It’s gonna be fine. It’s just coffee, she tells herself. It’s been a decade, if he has a problem with how she dresses when he’s the one who wants to talk, he can kick rocks.

With that, she walks out of the restroom, grabbing her purse and luggage. She didn’t want to tell anyone where she was going. Her hope was to be back before she and Colby had to catch their flight to Atlanta. They would be staying with the Runnels family for the week before she had to head to SmackDown. She knew Colby would still be sleeping. Their flight isn’t until two and it’s eight. He will most likely sleep until nine after the long night they had and then go to the gym. She had already gone earlier in the morning and got her workout in. It wasn’t easy to sleep when her mind was reeling with the possibilities of what could go wrong at this coffee shop.

Y/N had convinced herself it was better this way. It was better to keep it to herself. If she were to tell anyone, they would just get worried. There was no point in making something out of nothing. She could handle it. Phil had sent her the address to the place he picked without her even needing to ask. She just clicked the link and was on her way. It wasn’t too far from the hotel, but it wasn’t close enough that anyone else would end up walking in. It was perfect for what they were trying to do. The outside of the building was cozy but in a cute way. It reminded her of a place she would see at Hogsmeade in the Harry Potter franchise. It was whimsical in a down to earth way. She walked inside and she was met with a wall of freshly brewed coffee. The inside was just as nice as the outside. Different kinds of greenery line the walls, the color scheme very easy on the eyes. It made her posture relax instead of tense.

She takes a moment to soak in the atmosphere before turning to look around. It didn’t take long before she spotted him. A quiet little table next to a window on the emptier side of the shop. He had a comfortable hoodie on and a baseball cap that hung over his eyes. His hands are folded around his coffee cup, steam dancing upwards into the air. Her breath catches when she notices a cup sitting across from him in front of the seat she assumes is meant for her. She convinces herself not to run away and slowly walks towards the table. He doesn’t look up until she’s practically in front of the table. She grabs the chair, pulling it out for herself to take a seat.

“You came,” is the first thing he utters.

Y/N hangs her purse around the back of her seat, “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“Maybe I am,” Phil admits. “I kinda convinced myself that you’d change your mind. That you’d just hop on your plane. That’ve been easier.”

“Yeah, well, when have I ever done things the easy way?” She counters, her voice much softer than what he’s gotten used to. “Not really my style.”

He nods, the air still stiff around them. “I’m glad you decided to show.”

“We’ll see if you still feel that way when we’re done.” She reaches for the cup in front of her, taking a sip as the warm liquid cascades down her throat. She tries to hide her shock, but she knows Phil saw. He remembered exactly how she took her coffee. A latte with oat milk and lavender. Her staple. Maybe she shouldn’t be surprised that he remembered, but it caught her off guard that he cared enough to file away such a small detail. And seemingly never forgot it. “You still remember my order?” Y/N asks, putting her mug down.

He doesn’t directly answer her questions. Just shrugs, the corner of his lip twitching. “Didn’t think you’d want to waste time in line.”

Y/N pokes the inside of her cheek with her tongue, leaning back in her chair. “Right… Efficient.”

It’s clear both of them want to say something more. Years of pent up aggression and hurt simply boiling under the surface as they find a way to confront each other without causing a scene. Y/N’s fingers flex and release over her cup as they sit together quietly for another beat. Phil drums his fingers once on his cup before curling both hands around it again, his gaze flicking between her and the window. “You always did hate small talk,” he mutters, not quite teasing, not quite annoyed.

Y/N shrugs, bringing her cup up again. “Figured we didn’t have time for it. Not if we’re actually gonna say the things we’ve been avoiding.”

He huffs a breath through his nose. “Alright, then. Go ahead. Say it.”

She swallows. There’s a million things she wants to say, and all of them are tangled together in her chest. But one comes out first. “You left,” she says simply. “And you didn’t just leave the company, Phil. You didn’t just leave the toxicity Vince created. You left me. You didn’t say goodbye. You didn’t even text back.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then another. “I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

Her jaw tightens. “Are you serious right now?”

Phil lifts his eyes to hers. “I thought you were mad. You were always loyal to the machine, even when it chewed you up and spat you out. I figured I’d just be another thing you learned to resent.”

“You didn’t even give me the chance,” she snaps, the words cutting out before she can stop them. “You didn’t give me the goddamn chance, Phil. You walked away and I—” She shakes her head, trying to steady her voice, but it’s too late. “I texted you. I called. I waited, like an idiot, thinking maybe you’d need time. But then weeks passed. Months. And then when a year rolled around, it finally hit me. You were never gonna reach out.”

Phil doesn’t say anything. He just watches her. He always had that look—like he was peeling you back layer by layer without ever lifting a finger. Y/N kept her hand curled around the cup, her thumb rubbing the edge absently as her gaze dropped. She didn’t speak for a few seconds, but the tension in her shoulders said everything. “I tried,” she murmured. “I really tried not to be angry. But you left. You just… left.”

He blinked slowly, barely reacting. “You could’ve followed.”

Her head snapped up. “Don’t put that on me.”

“I’m not putting it on you,” he said, holding her gaze. “I’m saying you had a choice.”

“Bullshit,” she bit out, louder than intended. A couple at a nearby table shifted uncomfortably. Y/N exhaled, lowering her voice again but not the edge in it. “You left without a word. You dropped your stupid pipe bomb, took off, and shut your phone off. You didn’t even say goodbye.”

“I was done,” he said, more controlled than defensive. “With everything. With the company. With the noise. I couldn’t breathe in that place anymore.”

“And what was I?” Her voice cracked slightly, and she hated that it did. “Just more noise?”

Phil’s jaw clenched. He looked away, one hand flexing on the table. “You weren’t supposed to be part of the exit,” he said, quieter now. “But I couldn’t find a way to say goodbye to you and still go through with it.”

Y/N scoffed, blinking rapidly. “So instead you ghosted me and just hoped I’d forget?”

“I thought it’d hurt less.”

“Well, it didn’t.” That confession lingered between them like fog. She looked down at her lap, then back at him. Her voice dropped to a raw whisper. “It felt like part of me left with you. Because you weren’t just some guy I slept with, Phil. You were my best friend. You knew everything about me. And the way you cut me off like I was disposable—it broke me.”

Phil’s expression faltered. For the first time, his bravado cracked. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I figured… you’d move on. You always did.”

“That’s the thing,” Y/N said, leaning forward, “I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not from that. Not from you. I didn’t even realize how much it fucked me up until years later.”

Silence hung thick around them. Phil cleared his throat, eyes dropping to his untouched coffee. “I never forgot you,” he muttered. Y/N couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “I tried to,” he said, finally looking at her again. “I tried to stay away. I tried to forget. April and I—hell, we even had a system. We didn’t say your name.”

Y/N blinked at that. “What?”

Phil smiled humorlessly. “She knew. April always knew I loved you. Even when we were trying to fix things, even when we pretended I didn’t. She knew.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “You never said that to me.”

“You think I didn’t want to?” he snapped. “You think I didn’t rehearse it a thousand times and choke every time? You were always just out of reach. And I was always ten steps behind.” He looked away, the fire in his chest giving way to exhaustion. “We never worked out,” he said simply. “We tried. But we both knew I left part of myself somewhere else.”

Y/N stared at him, stunned. A beat passed before she spoke again. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, though she didn’t sound all that sorry.

“You don’t mean that.”

“No,” she admitted with a slight smirk behind her cup, “but I’m trying to be polite.”

Phil chuckled, shaking his head. They sat like that for a minute—old ghosts drifting between them. Then he shifted, leaning back in his chair “So,” he said, his voice measured now, “what does Colby think about you being here with me?”

Y/N froze just for a second. Then she brought her mug to her lips, sipping slowly, thoughtfully. Phil’s eyebrows lifted. “You didn’t tell him.”

She placed the mug down gently. “I didn’t want to worry him about something that could end up not meaning anything.”

A slow smile crept over Phil’s face. Not smug. Not cruel. Just knowing. “So you’re already keeping secrets.”

“Don’t read into it,” she warned.

“I don’t have to,” he replied easily. “Cracks start small.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You always did think you were smarter than everyone.”

“Not smarter,” he said. “Just… familiar. I know you. Better than anyone else.”

He let that settle before leaning forward slightly, voice lower. “You know, if I had said something back then… if I hadn’t left… do you think we’d be here right now?”

Y/N opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Phil gave a small nod like he expected that. Then he leaned back again and shrugged. “Too late to rewrite it now,” he said. “But if there’s one thing I’ve learned—timing’s a bitch. Doesn’t mean the feeling goes away.”

He held her gaze, and for a moment, the room felt still. “Whatever this is,” he said, gesturing between them, “whatever it turns into—I’m not walking away again.” And that? That was the line that changed everything. Y/N didn’t answer. She just stares at him, the weight of that sentence sitting heavy between them. Her fingers trace lazy circles on the rim of her mug, eyes flitting down to the swirling remnants of her latte. It’s quiet. For once. Then Phil leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. His voice is quieter now, less sharp, almost… curious.

“So… who are you now?” he asks. “I mean, besides the woman who just chewed me out so thoroughly I’m surprised I’m still sitting here.”

Y/N’s lips twitch. “You deserved worse.”

“Probably,” he admits, then tilts his head. “But I’m serious. I wanna know. Ten years is a long time. You’re not the same girl who used to steal my hoodies and punch dudes for staring at your fries.”

She lets out a quiet laugh, the memory catching her off guard. “God, I forgot about that.”

“I didn’t,” he says softly. “That was still one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen.”

She shakes her head with a smirk. “Yeah, well… I’m still stubborn. Still mouthy. Still get a little too emotionally involved when I shouldn’t. But I’ve changed too.” She pauses. “I had to.”

Phil doesn’t press. Just nods, eyes staying on her like he’s trying to memorize every version of her. “I saw you got a dog,” she says suddenly.

Phil’s brows lift. “Larry?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

There’s a beat. “Didn’t think you’d know about that.”

Y/N shrugs. “You didn’t call. Media was the only way I could keep up for a while. Until I realized I was mad and didn’t care.” Her tone is flippant, like a joke, but the barb lands anyway.

Phil winces. “Okay, fair. I deserved that.”

“You did.”

He huffs a small laugh into his coffee cup. “Larry’s great, by the way. Lives like a damn king. Sleeps with his head on a pillow like a person.”

“I always said you’d be the type to let a dog take over your whole life,” she teases.

Phil smirks. “He’s better company than most people I know.”

“Still doesn’t excuse you ghosting your actual best friend.”

“I know,” he says, and his voice dips into something raw. “I know it doesn’t.”

A moment passes. And that’s when Y/N leans forward just slightly. “So what specifically happened with you and April? I get it, she knew. But there has to be more to it than that.”

Phil shifts, fingers curling around the mug like he’s bracing for impact. “We made it work longer than we should’ve. She tried harder than I did.” Y/N doesn’t say anything—just watches him. Listens. Phil sighs. “She used to tell me I lived in the past. At first, I thought she meant the business… the travel, the chaos. But eventually, I realized she meant you.” Y/N blinks. Her brows raise, but he keeps going. “She never said your name,” he admits. “Never once accused me of anything. But I could feel it… every time you were brought up. Which wasn’t often. Usually just when the USA network was on and we forgot to change the channel or if we were watching a baseball game and you just happened to be there to throw the first pitch. But…when you were mentioned?”

He huffs out a humorless laugh. “She’d get quiet. Not mad. Just… resigned. Like she’d already decided she’d never be able to compete with you. And the shitty part?” He looks her dead in the eyes. “You weren’t even trying.” Y/N’s breath catches in her throat. “She didn’t hate you,” Phil says after a beat. “But she hated what you represented. That no matter how long we were together, there’d always be this... space between us that I never let her into. Because you used to live there.”

The words hit heavier than Y/N’s ready for. “I told myself it was nothing,” he continues, eyes fixed on the table now. “But I kept comparing things that didn’t need comparing. Little things. The way she said my name. The way she argued. I’d find myself thinking, ‘That’s not how you would’ve said it.’”

Y/N swallows thickly. “Phil…”

“I know it wasn’t fair to her. I tried to shut it down. To be present. But the problem is…” he looks up again, his voice lower now, almost unsure, “You left a mark I couldn’t scrub off, even when I wanted to.” The silence stretches again, but this time it feels heavier. More honest. Y/N doesn’t know what to say—so she sips her coffee instead, as if that’ll slow the thundering in her chest. Phil notices. “So… back to you and Colby.”

She glances up, surprised by the pivot. “What about him?”

Phil leans back. Too casual. Calculated. “How long’s that been a thing?”

Her brows lift at his tone. “A while.”

“That’s vague.”

Y/N tilts her head. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he says too quickly. “Just curious what the expiration date is.”

She rolls her eyes. “Jesus, Phil.”

“I’m just saying—” he raises both hands in mock surrender— “He doesn't seem like your type.”

“And what is my type?”

Phil shrugs. “People who don’t need to be center stage to matter.” She glares, but he smirks. “Relax,” he adds. “It’s not like I’m wrong.”

Y/N glares at him but says nothing. Phil leans forward again, tone shifting. “I’m not saying I deserve anything. Or that I haven’t screwed up a thousand different ways. But if you think he’s gonna love you better than I did—you’re lying to yourself.” She blinks but he doesn’t blink back. There’s a long silence again, but this time it’s charged in a different way. “I’m not the same guy I was back then either,” Phil says. “But the way I felt about you? That hasn’t changed.”

Y/N’s pulse ticks faster. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. So she looks down, masking her thoughts behind her mug again. “You always do that,” he says gently.

“What?”

“Hide behind something when you’re scared to say something real.”

She glances up through her lashes, irritation flaring. “You don’t know me anymore.”

“I don’t,” he agrees. “But I want to.”

She’s quiet. A breath leaves her lungs like it took something heavy with it. This meeting was by no means perfect. It wasn’t clean, and it most certainly wasn’t easy. But it was a start.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Y/N was lucky. She managed to get back to the hotel right as Colby finished up at the gym. He greeted her with a bright smile and a kiss on the cheek. He talked to her with such warmth that it made her feel slightly guilty for keeping her coffee with Phil a secret. She just didn’t want to make him upset. She knows how he feels about Phil. He would have just managed to convince her not to go. But she needed to. She needed to hear what he had to say.

He laced his hand through hers as they got out of their rental once they reached the airport. Spending a whole week in Atlanta is exactly what they needed. Time with friends, with each other. It was perfect. But maybe it also served as a distraction for Y/N. To mull over what was discussed, how she feels, what he said at the end. She wasn’t quite sure where that left them. What Phil was trying to say by openly admitting he still felt something for her. She didn’t know if she believed it. Maybe it was just residue after being that close in proximity after all these years. But something in his eyes told her that he meant it. And if there’s one thing about Phil Brooks that always stayed consistent, he’s not a liar.

The plane ride was peaceful. Both of them sharing Colby’s headphones as they drift in and out of consciousness. Y/N’s head naturally falls onto his shoulder, making the Visionary smile softly. It’s nice seeing her sleep like this. She’s always running faster than anyone could physically catch up with. He wasn’t even sure if she got more than four hours of sleep at one point in time. Arriving at the Hartsfield-Jackson airport went much smoother than at JFK. Y/N rubs the sleepiness out of her eyes, her heart fluttering as Colby goes out of his way to grab her carry on. “You don’t have to do that every time we go on a plane,” she says with a soft smile.

“Yes I do,” he insists. “It’s my job. And I like doing it.” He slings the strap of her bag over his shoulder with that same cocky grin he always wore after a good match. “Besides,” he adds, “what kind of man would I be if I let my girl lug her own bag?”

Y/N rolls her eyes, trying to focus, to lock in on the moment. “You do realize I could probably bench more than you, right?”

“I’ll let you try,” he teases, brushing his knuckles gently under her chin. “Later. When I’m not distracted by how cute you look in my hoodie.”

She laughs. Or tries to. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate him. Colby was good. Really good. He always knew the right things to say, always knew how to make her feel seen, taken care of. He looked at her like she was the only woman in the world—and a part of her felt like she should be content with that. But the guilt settled heavy in her stomach like lead. Because while he’s looking at her like he’s in the middle of a fairytale… all she can think about is someone else’s eyes. Someone else’s words. That café table that suddenly doesn’t feel as far away as it should. She blinks, trying to push the thought down. Smile. Breathe. Be present. “Cody said they were parked in the short-term lot, so they’re probably already—”

“Y/N!”

A small voice cuts through the noise of the crowd like a bell. Y/N’s head whips up just in time to see Liberty bolting toward her, those bouncy little pigtails flying behind her as she breaks into a full run. Her pink glitter sneakers squeak against the floor. Y/N immediately crouches, arms wide and heart full. “There’s my girl!” she beams.

Liberty launches into her like a tiny missile, giggling as Y/N scoops her up and spins her around. “I missed you so, so, so much, Auntie Y/N!”

“I missed you more,” Y/N says, pressing a kiss to her temple and holding her a little tighter than necessary.

Colby steps up beside them, and Liberty’s eyes flick to him curiously. She tucks her head into Y/N’s neck, suddenly shy. Y/N smiles and adjusts the girl on her hip. “Hey, don’t hide! Liberty, this is Colby.” She lowers her voice like it’s a secret just between them. “He’s super cool, but don’t tell him I said that. His ego’s already huge.”

Colby lets out a mock gasp. “Wow. Betrayed already.”

Liberty giggles, peeking up at him with wide, inquisitive eyes. “She’s just shy,” Y/N says as she gently brushes Liberty’s hair out of her face. “She’ll warm up. Right, bug?”

Liberty nods bashfully, her cheek smushed against Y/N’s shoulder. Colby smiles—soft, genuine. There’s something about seeing her like this. So natural. So nurturing. He can’t help but imagine what it’d be like if this was theirs—if the kid was theirs. He shakes the thought before it goes too far, but his heart’s already too far ahead. They head toward the exit, and sure enough, Cody and Brandi are standing just beyond security, arms raised and waving. Cody’s in a backwards cap and hoodie, Brandi stylish as ever, holding her phone up like a paparazzi. “There’s the woman of the hour!” Cody calls out, grinning from ear to ear as they approach.

“About time!” Brandi adds. “I was two minutes away from texting where the hell are you in all caps.”

Y/N sets Liberty down just in time to be engulfed by Brandi’s hug. “You look amazing,” Brandi says, rocking her side to side. “Seriously. Like, stupid amazing.”

“You’re biased,” Y/N laughs, hugging her tighter. “But I missed you like crazy.”

Cody pulls her into a quick, one-armed hug next. “Glad you guys made it. The girls have been bouncing off the walls waiting for you.”

Y/N chuckles. “Hopefully not literally.”

Colby gets a handshake from Cody, one of those mutual-but-measured things—friendly, but still sizing each other up a bit. “Colby,” Cody says with a nod, “good to see you again, man.”

“You too,” Colby replies warmly. “Thanks for letting us crash your week.”

“Oh please,” Brandi says, waving it off. “We’re thrilled. We’ve got all kinds of stuff planned. Pool day, movie night, brunch reservations, maybe even a board game showdown. Hope you brought your A-game.”

“I always do,” Colby says, grinning.

Y/N smiles too, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Because as Liberty grabs her hand again and tugs her toward the parking lot, and Colby gently slips his arm around her back… that damn coffee shop creeps back into her mind. Phil’s voice. That look in his eyes. I’m not the same guy I was back then either. But the way I felt about you? That hasn’t changed. Y/N clenches her jaw, willing herself to stop thinking about it. This week was supposed to be an escape. A breath. A break. But the thing about ghosts is… they don’t care about your vacation plans.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The warm Georgia air greeted them as they stepped out of the car. Cody’s place was just as picturesque as Y/N remembered—big front porch, string lights, that Southern charm Brandi loved so much. The second they walked inside, the scent of vanilla and fresh laundry wrapped around them like a welcome hug. “Make yourselves at home,” Cody said as he closed the door behind them. “You already know where everything is, but your room’s down the hall, last door on the right.”

“We put you guys in the guest room,” Brandi added, stepping in with Liberty perched on her hip. “You’ll have to share the bed if that’s okay.”

Colby barely flinched. “More than okay,” he grinned, shooting Y/N a look that made her chest tighten with anticipation. “We’re good at sharing.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the laugh that pushed through her lips. “Ignore him,” she told Brandi and Cody as they headed toward the hallway. “He’s incapable of saying normal people things.”

“I’m just honest,” Colby muttered behind her, voice dipping. “Besides... I only talk like that when I know I’m gonna back it up later.”

Y/N glanced over her shoulder at him, trying—and failing—not to grin. “You’re awful.”

“That’s a weird way of saying ‘sexy’ but I guess I’ll take it,” he shot back, low and smooth, eyes twinkling like he knew exactly what he was doing to her. Once they got into the guest room, Y/N kicked off her shoes, flopping down onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. Colby shut the door behind them and tossed his duffel on the chair, watching her with that lazy, warm gaze of his. “You sure you’re alright?” he asked, shrugging off his hoodie. “You’ve been kinda quiet since we left the airport.”

She nodded, sitting up slightly. “Yeah, just tired.”

Colby crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, facing her. “Tired, huh?” he echoed, eyes narrowing slightly as if he didn’t quite believe her. He brushed her hair off her shoulder, fingers lingering. “Or is it your brain doing that overthinking thing again?”

Y/N sighed. “Little bit of both.”

“Mm,” he hummed, leaning closer, his hand now sliding down her arm with careful intention. “I could think of a few ways to help with both…”

His lips were brushing against the corner of her mouth before she could even tease him back. He kissed her slow—lazy and deep, like he had all the time in the world. She felt her body sink into his touch, the warm weight of his hands finding her hips and pulling her closer, like he knew exactly how to get her to unravel. “You always know how to distract me,” she murmured between kisses.

“Not a distraction, sweetheart,” he muttered into her skin, his lips grazing her jaw. “I’m a solution.”

She let out a laugh that turned into a breathy moan when his hand slipped under the hem of her shirt. “You’re worse than a teenage boy.”

He chuckled, nipping at her neck. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“You wear the title proudly.”

“As I should. You’re the best fuckin’ thing on any menu.” Before her retort could form, a knock came at the door. They both froze, Colby muttering a quiet, “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” against her collarbone.

“Hey,” Cody’s voice called from the other side, “we’re about to fire up the grill. You guys cool with barbecue?”

“Yeah!” Y/N called back quickly, trying to keep her voice even.

“As long as we’re allowed to help,” Colby added, smirking as he rested his forehead against hers.

“Sounds good!” Brandi chimed in. “See you two out there.”

As the footsteps faded down the hallway, Colby’s hand slid down her side again. “So... quickie and then brisket? Or brisket then quickie?”

Y/N laughed, shoving his chest gently. “Get up, you heathen.”

He grinned, rolling off the bed and pulling her up with him. “Whatever you say, baby. Just know I’m collecting interest on that later.”

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The smell of grilled food drifted through the Georgia air like a promise—charcoal, spice, and something sweet in the marinade. Cody’s backyard stretched wide and familiar, bordered by a weather-worn fence and strung with lights that would start to glow the second dusk took hold. The playlist was a mellow shuffle of country ballads and classic rock, just scratchy enough to make you feel like someone put effort into it without trying too hard.

Colby and Cody stood by the grill, both armed with tongs like proud soldiers of summer, poking at ribs and laughing over something Y/N couldn’t hear from across the yard. Their easy camaraderie added a warmth to the evening that had nothing to do with the humidity. She smiled to herself, pushing her sunglasses up on her head as she turned her attention back to Liberty. The little girl was scaling the small playset in the corner of the yard with all the confidence of a mountain goat. “Alright, Lib, careful with that slide,” Y/N called out, holding her arms out automatically.

Liberty squealed as she launched herself down, colliding into Y/N’s lap like a bowling ball. “I win!” the toddler beamed.

Y/N let out a soft oof and gathered her up with ease, tickling her sides. “You always win, you little turd.”

Brandi chuckled from her spot on the picnic blanket, lemonade in hand, sunglasses perched on her nose. “You know she’s been asking for you nonstop. Like, borderline harassment level. ‘Is Auntie Y/N coming over today?’ ‘Can we call her?’ ‘Did she forget about me?’”

“I could never,” Y/N said dramatically, letting Liberty tumble into Brandi’s lap as she shifted to sit beside her. She dusted grass off her jeans. “Can you blame her, though? I’m obviously the most fun.”

Brandi raised a brow. “Modest too. Just a paragon of womanhood.” Y/N leaned back on her palms, glancing toward the grill. Cody was mock-fighting a flare-up, and Colby was laughing so hard he had to hand over the tongs. His face was open, eyes crinkled in that way that still caught her off guard sometimes. She didn’t say anything at first. Just watched him. Brandi did too. “Okay,” Brandi said after a beat. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Y/N blinked. “With what?”

Brandi gave her a pointed look. “Don’t play coy. With Colby. You’ve got that... mushy face. The ‘I think I accidentally fell for someone’ face.”

Y/N groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “God, is it that obvious?”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Brandi said. “I mean, he clearly adores you. The way he looks at you? Girl, that man would carry you out of a burning building with his bare hands.”

Y/N laughed, soft and a little embarrassed. “He’s… different. In a good way.”

“Different how?”

Y/N took a second before answering. “He’s easy to be around. He’s funny, but not like, always ‘on.’ He listens. He gets me. And when I start spiraling, he doesn’t try to fix me—he just stays. Which, weirdly, helps me fix myself faster.”

Brandi looked impressed. “That sounds like real grown-up love.”

“Yeah,” Y/N said, almost to herself. “I think it might be.”

Brandi sipped her lemonade, watching her with quiet affection. “So what’s with the storm cloud you’re trying to hide behind your smile?”

Y/N paused. She didn’t answer right away. Across the yard, Liberty had abandoned the slide and was now trying to pluck petals from Brandi’s flowerbeds. Cody pretended not to notice, shaking his head as Colby held up a sausage with dramatic flair. “I… had coffee with someone before we flew out here,” Y/N said, keeping her voice low, her fingers starting to pull at a loose thread in the knee of her jeans.

Brandi turned slightly, her body language shifting with immediate interest. “Okay. Who?”

Y/N hesitated. “Phil.”

Brandi’s eyebrows shot up. “Like… your Phil? Like CM Punk Phil?”

Y/N nodded once, jaw tight. Brandi leans forward, sucked into the drama, “When?”

“The morning after Raw. He had asked me for just ten minutes. Then this morning, he sent me a message—just an address. I almost didn’t go, but…” she trailed off, frowning. “There were things we never really said. I guess I wanted to say them.”

Brandi exhaled slowly. “Alright. So what happened?”

Y/N pulled her knees in toward her chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. “It wasn’t dramatic or anything. We sat. Talked. Caught up, kind of. It was calm. Actually… it was kind of peaceful.”

Brandi studied her. “And that’s it?”

Y/N looked down. “He said how he feels about me hasn’t really changed.”

There was a long silence. Brandi didn’t react right away—didn’t gasp or make a face. She just nodded, once. “And how did you feel hearing that?”

Y/N chewed her bottom lip. “Thrown, honestly. We’d had so many ugly endings, I thought all that was dead. But hearing him say that… it stirred something. Not feelings, exactly, just… memories. Guilt, maybe.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Brandi said gently.

“No,” Y/N agreed, but there wasn’t much conviction in it. “But I didn’t tell Colby either.”

Brandi’s head tilted. “Why not?”

“I didn’t want to hurt him,” Y/N said quickly. “Or make him question us. I thought if I just… had the conversation and moved on, then I could keep it all clean.”

“But now it doesn’t feel clean.”

Y/N nodded. “It feels like I’m holding something sharp behind my back.”

Brandi was quiet for a while, letting the weight of that settle between them. “You know, there’s a difference between protecting someone’s feelings and protecting your own comfort,” she said softly.

Y/N winced. “I know.”

“If it had been the other way around?” Brandi continued. “If Colby had coffee with an ex without telling you? Even if nothing happened?”

“I’d be pissed,” Y/N admitted. “But mostly because I’d feel like I wasn’t part of the full picture.”

Brandi offered a small smile. “Exactly.” They sat there, listening to Liberty giggle and the grill hiss and the cicadas start to chirp in the trees. “Do you think he’ll be upset?” Y/N asked finally.

“Probably,” Brandi said honestly. “But Colby’s a grown man. And he seems like the kind who values truth over comfort. You have something good—don’t risk it by keeping secrets.”

Across the yard, Colby was making his way over now, two plates in hand, one comically stacked with meat and one more balanced for her. He caught her eye and smiled, wide and warm and easy. Y/N smiled back—but her heart gave a quiet thud. Because she knew. Sooner or later, she’d have to stop holding the sharp thing behind her back. And hope it didn’t draw too much blood when she handed it over.

———————-

Colby’s POV

The sizzle of ribs hitting the hot grill filled the air with the kind of smoky scent that made Colby’s stomach rumble. Cody, sleeves pushed up and tongs in hand like a man on a mission, stood beside him with a beer dangling from his fingers, smirking like this was some sort of competitive event. “You keep poking that meat, it’s never gonna trust you again,” Colby teased, flipping a set of burgers with a flick of his wrist.

Cody snorted. “You sound like Brandi. She watches one episode of MasterChef and suddenly thinks I need grill therapy.”

Colby chuckled and took a swig from his own drink. The sun was still high but dipping lower now, casting warm gold across the yard. Kids' laughter rang out from the playset, and Liberty's tiny shriek of triumph cut through the air as she barreled into Y/N’s lap. Colby’s gaze drifted toward them automatically— toward her. Y/N sat in the grass, her legs crossed beneath her, grinning as she caught Liberty and spun her around. There was something about that image—sunlight in her hair, the softness in her eyes—it tugged at something in his chest he hadn’t quite figured out how to name yet. When her gaze flicked to him, he held it, just for a second, and sent her a wink.

The corner of her mouth tugged up, but something in the look didn’t quite match her smile. He shook it off. Cody noticed. “So,” he said, bumping Colby with his elbow. “How long you gonna pretend this is just casual?”

Colby didn’t look away from the grill. “What?”

“You heard me.” Cody plucked a sausage off the top rack and tossed it onto a plate like he was making a point. “You and Y/N. You’ve got that look. Like a teenager writing poetry in his head every time she walks by.”

Colby smirked. “Wow. That’s rich coming from Mr. Fireworks-Proposal.”

“Hey,” Cody said with a grin, “I earned my cheesiness. Years of groundwork.”

Colby didn’t answer right away. He flipped another burger, then leaned on the edge of the grill, staring out at the yard. At her. “It’s not casual,” he said finally, quieter now. “At least not for me.”

Cody glanced sideways, sensing the shift. “I’ve always kind of had a thing for her,” Colby admitted. “Even back then. After Punk left, and she joined the Shield? She was so… wrecked. She wouldn’t show it, not to most people. But we saw it. Me, Joe, Jon. None of us really knew her, not deeply, but it was obvious something in her had been gutted.” He paused, swallowing thickly. “She was this force, you know? Sharp and funny and stubborn as hell. And then all of a sudden she wasn’t. Just… quiet. Guarded. Like someone had flipped the switch off.”

Cody’s expression softened, eyes tracking to where Y/N now sat beside Brandi, brushing grass off her jeans. “We wanted to help,” Colby went on. “All of us. Maybe out of guilt. Maybe because she was suddenly shoved into a faction as a way to replace what she had with him. And even that couldn’t have been easy considering we were literally created to help him—” He stopped. Exhaled. “Anyway. Watching her like that… it hurt. And the more time passed, the more I started seeing her again. Little pieces of her would show up—smart-ass remarks, that look she gets when she knows she’s right. And somewhere in that mess, I caught myself… just looking at her.”

He laughed softly, more to himself than anything. “Even when we were on opposite sides of the ring after the whole chair shot betrayal, when she was gunning for me like I was the villain of her story… I still thought she was the most beautiful person I’d ever seen.” Cody stayed quiet, listening. “I don’t know when it turned into more,” Colby added. “Maybe it always was more, and I was too busy being an idiot to realize it. But I fell. Somewhere in the middle of all that time—between war and truce and everything in between—I fell for her.”

Cody let out a breath, nodding slowly. “Yeah. I can tell.”

Colby looked over. “You cool with it?”

Cody met his eyes. “Man, I’ve been protective of her since the day she kicked my ass in front of my dad. I’ve watched her go through hell more times than I can count. So, yeah, I take it seriously. But with you?” He clapped a hand on Colby’s shoulder. “I’ve never seen her this settled before. I think you’re good for her. I think she might actually let herself be happy with you.”

Colby’s throat tightened, a quiet sense of gratitude creeping in—but it was short-lived. Because his eyes flicked back toward Y/N, and that’s when he saw it. The smile she gave him wasn’t the same one she gave Liberty. Or Brandi. Or even herself. It was thin. Heavy. Her posture was off, just slightly hunched inward. She was picking at a blade of grass like it had offended her. Cody caught it too. His jaw tensed. “What’s up?” he asked.

Colby tore his gaze away. “I don’t know. She’s just been… weird. Since this morning.”

“What do you mean?”

“When we were getting ready to fly out. We left the hotel, and she looked tired. Said she didn’t sleep well, but…” He frowned. “She’s been saying that a lot recently. I don’t know. Something’s just been… off. Like she’s somewhere else in her head.”

Cody followed his gaze again, watching as Brandi leaned in and said something that made Y/N’s eyes drop. “You ask her about it?”

“Couple times. She brushes it off every time. Says she’s just tired. Jet lag. All that.”

Cody was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned in, voice low and steady. “You want my advice?”

“Always.”

“She doesn’t open up easy. Not about real stuff. You’ve probably figured that out by now. But if she’s carrying something, you can’t wait for her to hand it to you. You gotta make her feel safe putting it down.”

Colby looked over. “And how do I do that?”

“You don’t corner her,” Cody said. “Don’t press. Just… keep showing up. Again and again. Make space for the truth. She’s stubborn, but she’s not careless. If she hasn’t told you something, it’s not because she doesn’t trust you. It’s because she’s scared of what it’ll do to you.”

Colby’s jaw flexed. “Yeah. That sounds like her.”

“Just be steady,” Cody added. “She’ll come to you when she’s ready. And if she doesn’t?” He paused. “Then maybe she needs you to go to her anyway.”Colby nodded, his fingers tightening around the tongs. He didn’t know what it was she hadn’t told him yet. But he knew—felt—that it was there. And that it was already sitting between them, waiting to be named.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The night had settled in soft and slow. Liberty was half-asleep on Y/N’s shoulder, her little hand fisted in the collar of Y/N’s hoodie as they stood in the hallway. “C’mere, bug,” Brandi murmured, gently lifting her daughter with practiced ease. Liberty made a sleepy protest but didn’t wake. Brandi turned to Y/N, her voice quieter now. “Thank you. For being here. She loves you so much.”

“I love her too,” Y/N said softly, brushing Liberty’s hair off her face. “She’s the best part of my day.”

Cody gave Colby a light slap on the shoulder. “You did good today, man. Grill wasn’t even burnt, and the vibes were top tier.”

Colby grinned. “That’s what happens when you let me DJ.”

“Absolutely not,” Cody deadpanned. “Fleetwood Mac and Rage Against the Machine on the same playlist is criminal.”

Y/N laughed—tired, but genuine—and leaned into Colby’s side. “Night, guys.”

“Night,” Brandi echoed with a smile. “Sleep good, y’all.”

As they slipped into their guest room, everything turned quieter. Colby shut the door behind them with a soft click, and the sudden silence felt heavier than it should’ve. She peeled off her hoodie slowly, folding it neatly even though she never did that at home. He watched her from near the bed, not saying anything, just… watching. Like he didn’t know what to say or where to start. They each climbed under the covers at the same time—silent, still. The tension lingered between them like humidity before a storm.

And then—together simultaneously: “I—”

“Can we–”

They both stopped. Colby let out a quiet, awkward chuckle. “Okay. That’s not ominous at all.”

Y/N gave a tired smile. “You go.”

He didn’t move for a second. Then he sat up straighter against the headboard, rubbing his hand over his mouth. “Look,” he began, slower now. “I don’t wanna push, okay? I’m not trying to force anything out of you. But you’ve been off all day. Like, I look at you and you’re here—but you’re not here. You’ve been in your head so bad you probably don’t even know what we ate for dinner.” Y/N stayed quiet as Colby continued, voice soft but raw, “And I keep asking what’s wrong and you keep saying ‘I’m just tired,’ but babe—this isn’t tired. This is something else. And it’s freaking me out a little.”

She sighed, long and heavy, and sat up next to him, knees pulled to her chest beneath the blanket. She looked down at her hands. “Can I ask you something first?” she said. He nodded. She runs a hand over her face, “Promise you won’t get mad?”

That made his stomach twist. “I’m not promising that,” he said gently, but honestly. “But I will listen.”

She was quiet for a long beat. Then: “I had coffee with Phil.”

Colby’s whole body stilled. “…What?”

“This morning before we flew out here,” she said quickly. “He had come up to me after the show ended when you went to change. He asked me if I’d be willing to just give him ten minutes over coffee. I wasn’t even sure I was gonna go. But then he messaged me this morning after I went to the gym. Just sent me an address. I didn’t tell anyone. I just… went.”

He exhaled hard and sat forward, running both hands down his face like he needed to physically wipe the reaction off. “You went to see Phil,” he said flatly. “And you didn’t tell me.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it, I—”

“Yes, you were,” he snapped. “Come on, Y/N. You know how I feel about that man. You didn’t tell me because you knew how I’d react.”

“Exactly!” she said. “That’s why I didn’t say anything! Because I didn’t want to make a big deal out of something that wasn’t.”

Colby looked at her, eyes narrowed. “You having coffee with the man who broke you into pieces isn’t a big deal?”

“It didn’t mean anything,” she said, voice rising with frustration. “It wasn’t some secret meeting. It was closure.”

He stood up from the bed, pacing across the room like he couldn’t sit still anymore. “God, I hate him,” he muttered. “You know that, right? I hate what he did to you. I hate the way he treated you like you were disposable. I hate that the second you start to move on, he just shows back up.”

Y/N stood too, fists clenched. “You think I don’t hate it? You think I haven’t spent the last nine years wishing I could just erase him from my memory? But I can’t. And it’s not about him. It’s about me trying to get rid of whatever pieces he left behind.”

Colby turned to her, his voice sharp now. “Did he say something to you?”

She looked down. His eyes darken, “Y/N.”

She exhaled. “He said how he feels about me hasn’t changed.”

Colby laughed, short and bitter. “Of course he did.”

“And I didn’t say anything back,” she added quickly. “I just needed to hear it. I needed him to answer the questions I’ve had for almost a decade. I needed to finally understand what he thought—why he left. And once I did? It was done.”

He stared at her for a long beat, jaw tight. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

Her voice cracked. “Because I didn’t want to lose you.”

Colby’s voice softened—more confusion now than anger. “You really think that little of me?”

“No,” she said. “But I think that little of myself sometimes.” He blinked. “You think I want to be like this?” she went on, eyes glassy now, her breath coming fast. “You think I enjoy being a brick wall that shuts people out? I don’t. I hate it.” Her voice broke. “I don’t want to keep things to myself, Colby. I don’t want to feel like I’m surviving instead of living. But the one time I opened up to someone— he walked away. He walked away when I was at my most vulnerable. And ever since then, I’ve been terrified that if I open that door again, someone else I love will leave too.” Tears spilled over before she could stop them. She sniffed, trying to wipe them away angrily. “And now I’m crying, which just makes it worse, because it makes you feel bad, and you shouldn’t. You’re allowed to be mad. Don’t let this make you feel like you can’t be upset.”

Colby stared at her for half a second, then crossed the space between them and pulled her into his chest. “Shut up,” he murmured into her hair. She froze as he held her. “You’re crying. I’m still upset. Both can be true,” he whispered. “But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna let you stand here and hate yourself while I just… watch.” Her fingers gripped the back of his shirt like a lifeline. Her face was buried against him, sobs quiet but real. He held her tighter, rocking slightly, like if he kept still, they might both break. “I’m not mad you went to see him,” Colby said after a long pause. “I’m mad you didn’t tell me. Because that means I haven’t earned that part of you yet. And I thought I had.”

She pulled back just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were rimmed with red. “You have. You do. I’m just—” she shook her head—“I’m scared. I’m so damn scared.”

He cupped her face. “So am I.”

They stared at each other for a long moment before Colby guided them back to the bed. They climbed under the covers wordlessly, but he pulled her into his chest without hesitation. Her head rested over his heartbeat, her body curled around his like she was finally, finally letting herself fall. “I’ll work on it,” he said quietly. “The Phil thing. I won’t pretend to like it. I won’t ever like him. But if having that closure gives you peace, then I’ll deal—as long as you promise to tell me. No more hiding. No more ghosting in your own head.”

She nodded against his chest. “I promise.” He kissed the top of her head and exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all day. And for the first time that week, they both slept. Not perfectly. But together.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The roar of the crowd was still thrumming in Y/N’s ears as she tore through the corridor backstage, rage rolling off her in waves. Sweat clung to her spine beneath the worn leather of her jacket, her knuckles still burning from the final stiff shot she’d delivered in the ring minutes earlier. Another match. Another win. Another hollow ovation from a crowd that didn’t know she was running on fumes.

Three weeks. Three fucking weeks since Phil walked out—and she still hadn’t heard a word. No call. No text. No explanation. Not even a goddamn voicemail. Just... silence. She yanked at the tape on her wrists with jerky, angry fingers, leaving red marks as the adhesive peeled away. Her boots struck the concrete like hammers. Heads turned as she passed through catering—everyone pretending not to stare but failing miserably. Let them look. Let them whisper. None of them had the guts to say it to her face.

“Y/N,” a production assistant called out, barely able to keep pace beside her. “Vince wants to see you in his office.”

She didn’t stop walking. “Tell him I’m busy.”

The guy flinched but pushed ahead, nearly tripping over his own headset cord. “He said now. Not later. Now.” Her jaw clenched. Her fingers curled into fists. Of course he did. Of course the second she started getting traction on her own again, Vince would try to yank her into some half-assed plan to milk sympathy or bury her under a new storyline she didn’t want. She already knew what this was. She didn’t need it spelled out. Grumbling under her breath, she turned down the hallway toward gorilla, her blood hot beneath her skin, the tension knotting behind her eyes like a migraine waiting to explode.

She didn’t knock when she got to the door. She never did. “What do you—” The words died in her throat.

Three men stood inside. Joe Anoa’i. Colby Lopez. Jonathan Good… The Shield.

Her expression twisted in confusion as her gaze bounced from one to the next. All three were dressed in their usual gear—black tactical vests, combat boots, fists taped and ready for war—but their expressions matched hers: surprise, suspicion, and more than a little discomfort. “What the hell are they doing here?” she asked sharply, not bothering to mask her tone.

Vince didn’t even look up from his notes. “Take a seat.”

“No, I think I’ll stand.”

“Suit yourself,” he muttered, shuffling a few pages before finally glancing up at the room like a director prepping a final scene.

“I’m reconfiguring The Shield,” he said, as casually as if he were ordering lunch.

Colby was the first to speak—measured, cautious. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m making an adjustment,” Vince replied. “Punk’s gone. Y/N’s not. We’re keeping this group relevant. Strong. And unpredictable. Last I checked, she was all three.”

Dean cocked his head. “So you're saying you want her runnin’ with us? No offense, sweetheart, but you don’t exactly fit our style.”

“None taken,” Y/N snapped. “Because I’m not interested either.”

“I’m not asking,” Vince said. “As of next week, Y/N’s in the faction.”

The room fell into a stunned silence. Joe blinked once, then stepped forward. “Vince, man, with all due respect, we’ve already got our rhythm. This isn’t just plug-and-play.”

“You’re not gonna change the whole dynamic,” Vince replied, gesturing vaguely. “You’re simply evolving.”

“Bullshit,” Y/N said immediately, venom coating the word. “This is about Phil.”

“It’s not,” he bit back.

She took a hard step forward, fire in her eyes. “He walked out on you. He walked out on this company. And now you’re trying to fix the mess by throwing me to the wolves so everyone forgets it happened.”

Vince leaned forward, voice sharp. “You’ve got fire. Edge. The crowd believes you. You’ve got pain you’re not using. I’m giving you the perfect place to channel it.”

“I’m not a storyline bandage. I’m not some dramatic substitution to keep your cash cow alive.”

“You are under contract.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t own me.”

He stood now too, nose to nose with her. “If you want to keep wrestling in this company, you’ll be Shield. You’ll walk beside them, you’ll work with them, and you’ll play the game. Or you can walk just like your boy did.”

She didn’t even blink. “Go to hell.” And then she was gone—shoulders squared, jaw locked, slamming the door so hard behind her it rattled the picture frames. Vince exhaled through his nose and looked to the men. “She’s your responsibility now.”

Jonathan made a low, unimpressed sound. “Oh, fantastic.”

“Get her in line. Or don’t bother showing up next week.”

They ended up finding her eventually—tucked behind the far end of the loading docks, seated on a lonely production crate in the shadows where the travel trucks lined up. Her back was to them, hunched slightly, arms curled around herself, her phone lit up in one hand. She hadn’t heard them approach. Colby motioned for the others to hang back. They heard her voice before they saw her face.

“—You could’ve just said something,” she whispered into the phone. “Even just... ‘I need space.’ Anything.” Her voice wavered on the last syllable. “I defended you,” she said, quieter now. “To everyone. I stood by you. When they called you selfish. When they said you cracked. I was the one still there.”

Jonathan shifted, his arms crossing, expression unreadable. “I was there,” she repeated. “And now you’re not.” She let out a small, broken laugh, but there was nothing funny about it. “I still check my phone like an idiot. Every morning. Every show. Like maybe this time you’ll care enough to say something.” Silence stretched. She let it. Then—softly, almost to herself: “You said you loved me. Said we were a team. You said—” Her voice cracked mid-word. “—You said you’d never leave.” She hung up before the message ran out, her fingers trembling as she dropped the phone into her lap. And then she felt them. Her head whipped around, eyes wide, raw, and red-rimmed, already defensive. “What the hell do you want?”

Joe stepped forward slowly, hands out at his sides. “Take it easy.”

“Don’t tell me to take it easy.”

Jonathan gave a lopsided shrug. “Look, we just figured since we’re all contractually bonded now, we might as well find the ticking time bomb we’ve been assigned.”

Colby stepped into her line of sight. “We’re not here to crowd you. We just didn’t want you sitting out here alone.”

Y/N scoffed. “I’ve been alone since the second he left.”

“You think we don’t get that?” Joe asked, more gently this time. “We were brought in for him. Day one. We saw how much you mattered to each other—even if we weren’t close. That wasn’t fake. Not to us.”

Jonathan added, “You weren’t our enemy. Just a different fight.”

“We saw the fallout,” Colby said finally, voice steady. “And yeah, we’re not best friends. But we’re not blind either. You didn’t deserve to be collateral damage.”

Y/N didn’t speak. Her eyes stayed locked on the concrete. “We’re not asking you to pretend this doesn’t suck,” Joe said. “It does. And you don’t have to be okay with it.”

“But if we’re gonna survive this thing,” Jonathan added, “we can’t keep swinging at each other like it’s a steel cage match every time we breathe.”

Colby stepped closer. “You don’t have to trust us. But maybe... maybe let us carry some of the weight.”

Y/N blinked hard. She hated that her throat burned. Hated that it felt good—dangerously good—to hear someone say it wasn’t all on her. “I don’t want to be like this,” she said suddenly, voice rough. “You think I want to be some brick wall that shuts everyone out? I don’t. But the one time I opened up—completely, fully—he walked away. No warning. Just silence.” No one moved. No one looked away. She laughed, but it was hollow. “I’m not this bitter, angry person because I want to be. I’m like this because it hurts less than letting everyone know I’m bleeding.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but the distant whine of loading trucks and the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Then Colby spoke, his voice quiet and deliberate. “Then bleed with us.” Y/N looked up at him. “You don’t have to fix it all tonight,” he added. “You don’t even have to like us. But if we’re going to walk into battle together, you deserve to know we won’t disappear on you.”

Joe nodded. “You don’t have to carry the weight alone anymore.”

Jonathan tilted his head. “Besides, pissed-off you might actually be the missing piece we didn’t know we needed.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. She wiped her face with the edge of her sleeve and exhaled, long and slow. “I’m not promising anything.”

“We didn’t ask for a promise,” Seth said. She stood slowly, pocketing her phone. “Then I guess we’ve got work to do.” And as she walked past them—raw, exhausted, but standing—they fell in behind her. Not as strangers. Not as saviors. But as something that, one day, might be called family.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The sunlight filtered in warm and golden through the gauzy curtains, casting soft patches of light across the guest room walls. It was still early—maybe not by normal standards, but early enough that the house hadn’t fully woken up yet, save for the faint sounds of cartoons coming from the living room. Colby lay on his side, half-covered by the sheets, watching her. Y/N was sitting at the edge of the bed, legs dangling off the side, slowly pulling her hair into a loose ponytail. The stretch of her back. The quiet rustle of fabric. The soft sound of her breath in the stillness. He couldn’t stop watching. She turned a little, feeling his eyes on her. “You’re staring.”

He didn’t bother denying it. “Yeah. I am.”

Y/N gave a small, tired smile. “Is it weird I didn’t sleep great?”

He sat up behind her, letting the sheet fall away. “Not weird. I didn’t either.”

There was a beat of silence. Not awkward—just full. Last night still lingered. The weight of honesty. The sting of hurt. But also the relief. The quiet understanding that somehow, despite everything, they were still here. Still trying. Colby reached forward and rested his chin on her shoulder, arms loosely circling her waist. She leaned back against his chest without thinking. “I meant what I said,” he murmured. “About not being mad. About wanting to understand.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“And I know it’s hard. Trust, I mean. I know what it cost you.”

Y/N closed her eyes. “Sometimes I wish I could just… turn it off. The fear. The second-guessing.”

He pressed a kiss to the curve of her neck, slow and grounding. “But then you wouldn’t be you.”

She laughed lightly, the sound colored with sleep. “So I’m just doomed to be emotionally constipated forever?”

“Hey, it’s kind of part of your charm.”

“Oh, great. That’s what I’ll put on my Instagram bio.”

Colby chuckled and tightened his hold around her middle, then rested his cheek against her shoulder. “You don’t have to change overnight. Just… keep letting me in, okay?”

She turned her head enough to meet his eyes. “I will.”

Another kiss, this one softer. A little longer. A little fuller. Then her stomach growled loudly between them. They both broke into laughter, and Y/N pulled away, rising to her feet. “Well,” she said, stretching, “guess I should go get dressed for the day.”

Colby flopped back onto the bed with a groan. “Can’t we just stay in here and pretend we’re still emotionally wrecked?”

She smirked over her shoulder. “You’re such a baby.”

“Only for you.”

Ten minutes later, he was still lying there when she walked out of the bathroom, drying her hands on a towel. Her hair was up now, sunglasses perched in it, skin still dewy from moisturizer. And then—then—he saw the swimsuit. Colby had been sitting on the edge of the bed, still shirtless, flipping through his messages when he looked up—and stopped cold. The phone slipped from his hand and landed face-down on the comforter. His breath caught in his throat. The swimsuit was deep green, a rich, almost-black emerald that made her skin glow. It was a one-piece but barely—cut high at the hips, cinched at the waist, dipping low in the front like it had been designed to test his self-control. The back was all skin. The straps sat thin and delicate over her shoulders like they could slide off with the slightest tug. She adjusted one of them absently, glancing up. “What?” Colby didn’t answer. She frowned, giving him a once-over. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He stood slowly, eyes dragging over every inch of her with a hunger so quiet it stole the air from the room. “C’mere.”

“Colby—”

“Don’t play dumb,” he said softly. “You knew what you were doing when you put that on.”

Y/N crossed her arms, a shaky breath escaping before she could stop it. “It’s a swimsuit.”

“It’s a distraction, is what it is.” He closed the space between them in three slow steps, his body heat crashing into her like a wave. He didn’t touch her at first—just hovered close, head tilted slightly, like he was studying her. Then his fingers brushed her waist. Barely there. She swore she felt it in her knees. Colby dragged his hands up slowly—fingertips grazing over her sides, tracing the curve of her ribs, his thumbs pressing just beneath the swell of her breasts. “You’re unreal,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Standing there like that, looking at me like this is just any other Tuesday morning.”

She didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t remember how to speak. One hand slid up, tracing the line of her throat with his knuckles. When his palm finally cupped her jaw, she leaned into it instinctively, breath hitching. “I’ve got half a mind to lock that door,” he said, tone low and sure, “and make you forget why you ever bothered getting dressed.”

Her whole body burned. He dipped his head, lips brushing the corner of her mouth—not kissing her yet, just teasing the edge of it. Testing. Her hands found his chest, fingers splaying over warm skin, grounding herself. “This isn’t very nice,” she whispered.

He chuckled, and the sound was dark, husky. “I haven’t even started.” When he kissed her, it was deep. Not rushed. Just full of slow-burning need, like he wanted to memorize her mouth. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her flush against him, and her body molded into his like they were made for this. For each other. She gasped when his mouth left hers, trailing kisses down her jaw, her neck. His teeth grazed the spot just beneath her ear and her legs damn near gave out. “Colby—” she breathed.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice rough, “or I swear I’m not letting you out of this room.” Y/N didn’t answer. Her fingers curled into the waistband of his sweats, heart pounding, breath shallow. She was seconds away from pulling him in. From giving in completely.

And then— “AUNTIE Y/N! YOU’RE TAKING FOREVER!” Liberty’s voice rang out down the hall like a bullet through glass. Colby groaned into her shoulder. “I hate that I love that kid.”

Y/N giggled, forehead pressed to his chest, trying to catch her breath. Her skin felt electric. “We’ll never make it out the door if you keep touching me like that.”

He pulled back enough to look at her, eyes still dark. “That’s kind of the idea.”

She kissed his cheek, then his lips—quick, teasing—before grabbing her cover-up off the chair. “Keep it together, Lopez,” she murmured as she walked away, not bothering to tie the cover-up closed. He watched her go, jaw clenched, fists balled loosely at his sides. Steam fogged the bathroom mirror. He hadn’t even touched her properly. And he already knew: he was screwed.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Steam curled lazily off the water like breath in the air. The heated pool was almost surreal against the chill of January, nestled in Cody and Brandi’s sprawling backyard like a hidden oasis. Trees stood bare behind the fence line, the sky pale blue and washed out by winter. But the pool shimmered— clear and inviting—and Liberty had been counting down to this day for weeks. Brandi had caved first. “She was so damn persistent,” she’d said, laughing as she adjusted Liberty’s goggles. “Told Cody she didn’t understand why people had pools they couldn’t use in the winter. Like, excuse me?” So Cody installed the warmers. Naturally. “It’s warm in the water,” Brandi added with a grin, “but get out and you’ll feel every inch of January slap you in the face.”

Y/N laughed, already chest-deep as she coaxed Liberty into her arms. “That’s what towels and cocoa are for.”

“Or bribing your aunt into carrying you like a sea slug from the water to the patio,” Brandi called to her daughter.

Liberty squealed, paddling toward Y/N with uncontained joy. “Auntie Y/N! You have to do the dolphin voice again!”

Y/N grinned, scooping her up. “Alright, alright—hold on tight, little barnacle.” She spun them both in a circle before dropping below the waterline and letting Liberty “ride” her across the shallow end like some kind of deranged aquatic pony. The five-year-old’s laughter filled the air, loud and bright. Cody watched from the pool steps, arms resting lazily on the ledge, a wide smile tugging at his lips. “You two suck,” he called out, teasing. “Unfair advantage. I’d kill for that kind of energy.”

Y/N surfaced with Liberty clinging to her back, both of them breathless. “That’s because you’re old, Cody.”

“Old?” he gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Excuse me—excuse me, ma’am. I will have you know I’m in the prime of my dad-bod era.”

Liberty giggled from behind Y/N’s shoulder. “Daddy says he’s ripped. Mommy says he’s full of it.”

Brandi cackled from her spot on the float. “She ain’t wrong.”

Y/N beamed, treading water. “You gonna take that, Rhodes?”

“I’ll take it if I get to toss someone into the pool. Come here, wiseass.”

Liberty squealed again and bolted off her aunt’s back, swimming away like a pro while Y/N floated back, feigning terror. “You wouldn’t dare,” she said, eyes narrowing. “I’m fragile. I’m delicate.”

“You’re full of crap.”

She was already laughing as he lunged forward, caught her mid-drift, and hoisted her up. “Cody, I swear to—”

“Too late!” With a heave, he launched her. She flew, twisting, shrieking midair before crashing into the water with a splash that sent waves lapping against the tile. Colby, sitting at the pool’s edge, wiped droplets off his face without looking away. She came up beaming, hair plastered to her cheeks, and he felt it again—that warm, low ache in his chest. He didn’t even realize he was smiling until Cody sat down beside him, shaking the water from his hands.

“You’re quiet,” Cody said.

Colby shrugged, eyes fixed on Y/N as she helped Liberty adjust her goggles again. “Not much to say.”

“Mhm.” Cody followed his gaze.

Colby chuckled, sheepish. “She’s just… kind of amazing, man.”

Cody’s smile softened. “Yeah. She really is.”

“She’s good with Liberty.”

“They’re thick as thieves. She’s been in Liberty’s life since before she was born—helped Brandi set up the nursery, coached me through midnight bottle panic, everything.”

Colby looked over. “You ever worry she’s doing too much? Giving too much of herself to everyone but herself?”

Cody exhaled. “All the time. But you can’t stop Y/N from loving people. She’s stubborn as hell. But when she loves you, it’s for good.”

Colby nodded, watching her now crouched at the pool’s edge as Liberty clung to her back, pretending to be a sea turtle this time. “Yeah. I know the feeling.” He slipped into the water without another word, swimming slowly toward her. She was laughing again, something loud and unfiltered as Liberty shouted, “You’re the BEST sea turtle ever!” Colby came up behind her, quiet, until she turned and smiled like the sun was hers to command. “You’re smirking,” she said, blinking at him.

“I can’t help it.”

“I’m covered in toddler, Colby.”

“Still the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

She rolled her eyes, cheeks flushing even as she tried to play it cool. “You’re ridiculous.”

He dipped in closer, voice low so only she could hear. “You have no idea the things I’ve thought about doing to you since you put that swimsuit on.” Her breath caught—and for a moment, she forgot Liberty was attached to her back. “Colby—”

“I’m being good,” he added, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “For now.”

“You’re being risky.”

“Wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t.”

Y/N shoved water toward his face, laughing as he spluttered in mock offense. Liberty gasped. “No fighting in the pool!”

Y/N turned to her with mock seriousness. “Right. Pool rules.” Colby floated closer, brushing his knuckles against Y/N’s hip under the water, subtle but sure. “For the record,” he murmured, lips nearly brushing her ear, “I’m only behaving because she’s watching. The second we’re alone, all bets are off.” A shiver raced down her spine, her skin prickling even beneath the water. She didn’t have time to respond as Liberty pulled her under again.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The movie ended in a sleepy blur of credits and crumpled popcorn bags. Liberty was curled up like a content little burrito between Y/N and Brandi, her blanket tucked under her chin and orange juice sipped down to the last drop. The room glowed with soft lamplight, cozy and golden, the air filled with that familiar, happy tiredness that always came after too much laughter and just the right amount of sugar. Then Liberty stirred. “I got to pick the movie,” she announced dramatically, sitting up with all the flair of a tiny queen. “Now I pick the game.”

Brandi gave her daughter a weary side-eye. “That was not the deal.”

“It is now,” Liberty said sweetly, batting her lashes. “And I pick… Pictionary!”

A groan went up from Brandi immediately. Colby blinked. “We’re really doing the one with the drawing?”

Y/N smirked as she leaned forward, stretching her arms like she was about to enter a wrestling ring. “Yes. Yes we are.”

Colby turned toward her, skeptical. “You’re unusually hyped for this.”

Cody stood up with a big stretch and a creaky dad-sound. “Oh, buddy. You messed up big time.”

Colby furrowed his brows. “Why?”

Brandi pointed at Y/N. “Because she doesn’t lose.”

Colby laughed. “It’s a drawing game.”

Y/N turned her full body toward him with a gleam in her eye. “Say that again after the first round. I dare you.”

“She once made my cousin cry,” Brandi added. “Like actual tears. We had to pause Thanksgiving.”

“She drew a platypus with a blowhole!” Cody cut in. “And your cousin thought it was a dolphin!”

“Because he’s an idiot,” Y/N said sweetly. “Anyway, Liberty, I accept your challenge.”

“I wanna be on your team!” Liberty shouted, scrambling into Y/N’s lap.

Colby raised his hand like he was in school. “That feels unfair.”

“Then pick your own five-year-old,” Y/N shot back.

Cody planted his hands on his hips. “I’m callin’ dibs! Me and Y/N, we’re goin’ to war.”

Brandi groaned. “Absolutely not. You always go rogue when you’re on a team with her.”

“’Cause she’s the GOAT!”

“Can I get that in writing?” Y/N teased.

“Nope,” he pops the p. “Should’ve recorded it.”

Colby raised both hands. “Fine. Me and Brandi. We’re the real underdogs.”

Brandi rolled her eyes. “We’re naming our team ‘Please Let Liberty Go to Bed Soon.’”

Liberty gasped. “I’m not even tired!”

Brandi side-eyed her. “Sure you’re not, baby.”

The coffee table was moved, the whiteboard propped up between a stool and the ottoman, and a set of mismatched markers dumped in the center like colorful grenades. Colby knelt beside Brandi, cracking his knuckles like he was warming up for a cage match. Y/N was already bouncing, barefoot and giddy. Cody stood like he was holding a press conference, pulling the first card. “Alright,” he said with theatrical flair. “Team Bedtime Blues versus Team Dynasty and Destruction—round one!”

Brandi grabbed the marker and eyed the card. Her brows furrowed, lips pursed. “Okay, okay. I got this.”

The timer beeped. She drew fast: a long, swoopy shape, a couple of circles, squiggly things that might’ve been claws. Colby leaned in. “Uh… dinosaur?”

“Nope.”

“Dragon? Weasel? Gremlin?” He rapid fires until the timer runs out.

“It’s a damn raccoon, Colby!”

There was a long pause. Then a collective burst of cackling from the other team. “Where are the ears?” Y/N howled. “Why does it have six legs?”

“They’re in motion, okay?!”

“Looks like a gremlin with mange,” Cody said through a wheeze. “Babe, I love you, but that’s a crime.”

Brandi threw the marker. “You try drawing under pressure!”

“I will!” Y/N called. “Watch this.” Cody passed her the next card like it was sacred scripture. She glanced at it once and nodded confidently. “Timer?”

“Ready.”

She drew three strokes. One rectangle. One small circle. Two vertical lines. “Vending machine,” Cody said immediately.

“Boom.”

Colby stared, blinking. “Wait—what?”

“Snack window,” Cody said, pointing. “Coin slot. Genius.”

Brandi groaned into her hands. “Oh, God, it’s happening.”

“Elite,” Cody whispered.

Colby tilted his head at Y/N, narrowing his eyes. “That was suspiciously perfect.” Y/N leaned back on her heels, smiling wide. “Stay jealous.”

“You’re awfully cocky tonight, aren’t you?.”

“And yet you can’t stop looking at me,” she teased.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. The way his jaw flexed said enough. Liberty’s turn came next. She stood up proudly, marker in hand, the card wobbling slightly in her grip. “Don’t help me. I got this.” She drew big and fast—two circles, a rectangle, a smiley face with a stick arm. “A cake?” Cody guessed.

“No.”

“A robot?”

“No!”

Y/N squinted. “Wait. Is that… a TV?”

“YESSS!” Liberty fist-pumped. “I told you I was good!”

Colby looked over at Brandi, incredulous. “We are getting annihilated by a five-year-old.”

“I want dessert,” Brandi muttered.

Then came Colby’s turn. “Colby, you’re up!” Cody called, tossing him the marker with a lisp-laced cackle. Colby caught it, but not before Y/N chimed in: “Try not to draw a crime against nature while you’re up there.”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from the human cheat code,” he shot back, walking to the board.

“I don’t cheat. I’m just good,” she said, stretching out like a panther on the carpet. “God-given talent.”

“God’s probably ashamed.”

“Not as ashamed as I am watching you draw.”

Cody let out a bark of laughter. “Jesus Christ.”

Colby glanced at the card, eyes narrowing. The second the timer beeped, he started furiously sketching. “Okay, okay…” he muttered, brow furrowed. It was… round. With what looked like noodles coming out of it.

“Spaghetti monster?” Cody guessed. Y/N squinted at the same time. Are those… legs?”

“No.”

“Is that a dog on fire?”

“It’s a damn octopus!”

Y/N stood, pointing furiously. “Octopuses have EIGHT limbs, dumbass, not SEVEN AND A SMILE.”

Colby whirled around, completely thrown off by her shouting. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Cthulhu! What is that abomination?!” Brandi’s shoulders shook from silent laughter while Cody legit rolled over on the floor, gripping his side. Colby couldn’t even be mad. Y/N was fully standing now, red-faced and fuming, hands on her hips like she was about to tear him in half for botching basic sea life anatomy. “You get paid millions of dollars to perform under pressure,” she continued, circling the whiteboard like a shark. “Yet here you are, drawing an octopus that looks like it came out of a toddler’s fever dream.”

“Oh, so now you’re judging marine biology?”

“I’m judging you, Lopez.”

Colby’s mouth twitched. Then curled. That smile again. That slow, shameless one. “You’re hot when you’re angry,” he murmured.

Y/N blinked. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t blink. Just leaned in a little and whispered, “Call me a dumbass again.”

“Shut up,” she hissed, flushed and thrown.

“Say it slower this time.”

Cody groaned from the couch. “Jesus, get a room!”

Liberty popped her head up sleepily. “What’s a dumbass?”

“NOTHING!” they all yelled at once. Y/N turned away, trying to hide her grin, brushing past Colby’s shoulder as she returned to her spot on the carpet. “You’re lucky I don’t disqualify you for that drawing,” she muttered.

“You’re lucky I don’t kiss you mid-game,” he replied under his breath.

Her eyes shot to his, cheeks pink. “Keep it up and I might throw the board at you,” she warned.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The game night chaos wound down in a sleepy blur of belly laughter and empty juice boxes. Liberty lay curled in Brandi’s lap, one chubby hand still holding the corner of a crumpled Pictionary card like it was a trophy. Brandi brushed a few curls off her daughter’s forehead and whispered, “Alright, game queen. Bedtime.”

“Noooo,” Liberty groaned, barely lifting her head.

“Yes,” Brandi chuckled softly, already lifting her in her arms. “Say goodnight.”

Liberty gave a bleary wave toward the room, whispering, “Nigh’night…”

Y/N leaned over to press a kiss to her cheek. “Sweet dreams, monster.” As Brandi headed toward the hallway with Liberty nestled against her shoulder, Cody looked over at Y/N with a shit-eating grin. “Hey,” he whispered, nudging her with his elbow. “You gonna draw me a Cthulhu for my birthday?”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “I hate you.”

He laughed through his teeth. “Love you too.”

Colby stood nearby, arms crossed, watching them with a quiet smile—until Cody bumped him on the way out too. “Good luck, champ,” he muttered low enough for only Colby to hear. “She’s feisty when she’s high on winning.”

Colby’s grin spread slow. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I can tell.” Y/N turned to him just as Cody disappeared down the hall. “You ready?” She asks.

Colby didn’t answer with words. The moment the bedroom door shut, Colby had her. One second she was reaching to turn the lamp on — the next, she was spun around, his chest against her back, his hands already up under her sweatshirt, hot and heavy on her stomach.

“Colby—”

“You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me all day.” His voice was already gone, all gravel and restraint. She turned in his arms just as he backed her into the bed, crashing their mouths together like he couldn’t wait another second. Y/N moaned into it, fingers in his hair, dragging his shirt over his head between kisses. He yanked her hoodie off with one hand, and they stumbled backward onto the mattress, mouths still moving, tangled in limbs and breath and hunger. Her thigh slid over his hip and he growled, low and real, hands gripping her ass like a man barely holding on.

“You wanna talk about being unfair?” he muttered, kissing down her neck. “Walking around all day, laughing, looking like a damn fantasy? Playing Pictionary like you were trying to make me hard?”

Y/N laughed breathlessly. “I was literally drawing stick figures—”

“Yeah, and I wanted to crawl under the table.” He mutters against her. She straddled his hips, flushed and breathless, pulling his belt open while his hands skated up her sides, thumbs brushing the underside of her bra. They kissed like they were trying to shut each other up. It got hotter by the second — grinding, panting, tongues dragging — her fingers slipping under the waistband of his boxers when he suddenly said it.

“I’ve been dreaming of this—of you—long before I had any right to.”

Y/N froze beneath him, breath caught in her throat. Colby didn’t try to take it back. Didn’t soften it. He just stayed there, bracing himself, like a man who knew he’d just stepped off a ledge and was waiting to see if the landing would kill him. “What does that even mean?” She asks softly.

“You weren’t mine,” he said, quieter. “Not when we started all this. Not when he left. Hell, not even now, technically.”

Her brows lifted. “Technically?”

Colby leaned on his elbow, eyes locked on hers. “Don’t play dumb, sweetheart. You know what this is. Maybe we haven’t put a label on it, but that doesn’t mean it’s nothing.”

She swallowed. “You always act like you’ve got it all figured out.”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “But I know how long I’ve been looking at you like this. Even when I wasn’t supposed to.”

“That was after he left.”

“After he left you, yeah. But even when you were pissed at the world and throwing chairs backstage like you were auditioning for Raw’s Strongest Woman, I still looked. You were grieving, and I had no business thinking about you like that. But I did.”

Y/N turned to fully face him now. Her voice was smaller. “You never said anything.”

“You were still stitched to him,” Colby said. “You had all these open wounds and I knew I couldn’t be the guy to fix them. But I could wait. And I did.” She stared at him. “And now,” he added, “you’re here. In bed with me. Sporting my hoodie that is now clear across the room. Laughing like that. Looking at me like this.”

Y/N shook her head, a soft smile breaking through. “You’re scary when you’re sincere.”

“Better than being cute when I’m desperate.”

“That too.”

They both chuckled, the tension softening at the edges. “Listen,” Colby said, voice dipping low again, “I don’t want to rush this. I don’t need to stamp my name on your chest and call it a day.”

“Oh my God.”

“But I need to know,” he went on, ignoring her teasing, “that I’m not the only one in this for real.”

She was quiet for a long moment. Then: “You’re not.” That was all she said. But it was everything he wanted to hear. He leaned over and kissed her — not desperate this time, just steady. Full of meaning. When they pulled back, she pressed her forehead to his. “Still not yours, though.”

Colby smiled, slow and certain. “No,” he said. “But you’re close. Real close.”

[idk-who-you-are-man]

Hey guys, guess who's alive? You're right, it's me and my fic :D

As a bit of a heads-up, I do think the ending turned out a bit rushed because I really wanted to post it. I'm also a bit iffy on how I managed to portray romance, but I think I did better than I expected, which is a win in my book. Lastly, this fic does include some of my personal abo headcannons, and if one (1) person asks me about it I will make a lore post both for general abo and Gravity Falls headcannons.

No onto the actual stuff

Description: The universe must hate Stanley Pines, because why else would he be having his first heat in thirty years at the very appropriate age of fifty-seven?

Tags/warnings: Stancest, ABO, accidental self-harm, love confessions (sort of), may seem a bit dubcon in a way but it's really not

Stan doesn't usually consider himself lucky. With his penchant for bad decisions and ruining just about everything he got even remotely close to, the definition just didn't quite seem to fit. Often unfortunate, sometimes ill-fated, occasionally even jinxed, but seldom ever lucky.

But, well. Seldom isn't never, is it? Stan is lucky to have his car, his mind, his family. He also certainly couldn't complain about his lack of heats. He only ever had a few between the ages of eighteen and twenty-three, and while every single one of them was horrible in a different way, it was infinitely better than having more of them continuously over the already miserable decades.

At least, that's what he thought until about two hours ago since the multiverse just couldn't let Stanley Pines have this one good thing for himself. And yeah, in hindsight, his nonexistent heats were probably something he should have been more concerned about, but you don't look a gift horse in the mouth, right? Except he should have, because as it turns out, the lack of heats was only temporary, and as such probably caused by one of Stan's countless underlying health issues. Who woulda thought.

And really? Who would have thought that at the ripe age of fifty-seven, Stan would apparently be back to having heats? He's supposed to be finally enjoying himself, on his dream boat with his brother, who he was maybe theoretically a little bit in love with, but no! No, Stanley Pines can't have good things, so instead he just curls in on himself, desperate to ease the pain quickly spreading through his lower belly. Ford's blanket, conveniently hanging over the edge of the top bunk, smells so comfortably familiar that Stan has to bite his palm to stop himself from grabbing it. He was above nesting, dammit.

A metallic taste fills his mouth in a sudden burst. He unclenches his jaw, feeling blood trickle down his palm from where his fangs pierced the skin. Eugh. Blood is a bitch to clean, especially when it's dry, which is how it's going to be when Stan finally gets enough strength to care about something so trivial.

Ford would probably have a fit if he heard that last part. Stan was actually kind of glad that Ford wasn't here when he woke up despite the ache in his chest that screamed otherwise. At least he doesn't have to deal with the guilt-induced fussing, because, well. It's just that, isn't it? Just squeezing his hand through a particularly bad flashback, just holding him after a nightmare that left him shaking, just scenting his clothes when he mentioned feeling alone, just... Being a brother. Definitely not whatever Stan's messed up brain wants it to be. Just another reason for him to stay in bed and be miserable.

And then, because the multiverse is an asshole, the door leading down to their cabin opens with an almost insulted squeak.

"Stanley! I'm back! Sorry it took me so long. Who knew finding quality coffee would be this hard? Why would people like 'decaf', anyway? It's not coffee anymore, it's just..." His voice trails off, replaced by confused sniffing. Moments later, Ford steps into the room, hands full of coffee bags and expression puzzled. He looks around for a few seconds before his eyes settle on his brother. "Stanley?"

"Hey, Six." Stan grunts, words rough and scratchy in his throat. Ford's scent spikes in a way Stan doesn't quite understand. He hopes it's not anger, though, because the last thing he needs right now is dealing with an agitated alpha in a small space that only has one exit.

"What- What's going on?" Ford stammers, arms tightening defensively around the bags of coffee. Cute.

"Oh, c'mon, Ford. You're smart, you can figure it out."

"I- You- You're in heat?"

"Congrats, you won. Cheers to the genius."

"But- How? Are... Are you an omega?"

"Wow, you are on a roll today." Ford's face flushes at the comment, brows furrowing slightly in embarrassment.

"I... I don't understand. You're supposed to be a beta. When did... When did this happen?"

​"Six, I love ya and all-" Ford chocked on a gasp that sounded almost offended, "-but do you really think that it's a good time to talk about this?"

"I think it's a great time to talk about this! You're an omega, and you've never told me! What the hell, Stanley?!" Coffee bags hit the floor with a loud rustle as Ford's hands fly up to tug at his hair. He's growling now, a low rumble that means that yeah, Stanley, you made him angry, good job.

"I just didn't think it was that relevant!" With great effort, Stan pushes himself into a sitting position. The blood from his palm smudges onto the white sheets, but neither man seems to notice.

"How would it not be relevant?!"

"I haven't had a heat in, like, thirty years! How was I supposed to know it would just- just come back like that?!" Stan's body aches relentlessly, head spinning from the scent of an angry alpha. He needs to leave, but he's so exhausted that he can barely sit. Old, familiar panic rises in his throat along with a quiet whine. Ford stumbles back like a man burned, eyes widening in some sort of realization.

"You haven't been having heats?" His scent mellows, anger replaced by something akin to pity. Stan almost liked anger better.

"I just said that."

"For the last thirty years?"

"Yep. Just said that too."

"Oh, would you stop that?!" Ford almost growls again, but catches himself with a deep, calming breath. Stan still tenses up despite himself. "Just- Can you elaborate on that a little?"

"Not much to elaborate on, really. Got my first heat at eighteen. Had a few more over the years. Then, when I was twenty-three, they just... Stopped. Didn't have one again until today."

"That's not- That's not good, Stanley," Ford stammers, face pale and voice shaky. Stepping over the coffee bags, he starts pacing the limited space of their cabin. At least he's not trying to rip his hair out anymore, so hey! An improvement!

"Not having heats was pretty nice, actually. Really wish I wasn't having one right now."

"No, Stan, do you know what that means?" Ford ceases his pacing just for a moment to look Stan in the eyes before resuming his movement. He looks a little too concerned for Stan's liking.

"Am I supposed to?"

"Yes! Yes, you are supposed to know, Stan! You know why? Because you should have gone to a doctor and taken enough care of yourself to find out that lack of heats is usually a sign of extreme physical distress!"

"This again? Leave it alone, wouldja!"

"I will not be leaving this alone, Stanley! You've been suffering for years, and you're still refusing to admit it! Refusing to let me help!"

"I don't need your help!"

"Yes, you do!"

"No, I don't!"

"Just let me fix it!" Ford suddenly stops in his tracks, breath catching on a quiet sob. Stan straightens up, heaving his leaden legs over the edge of the mattress. He almost manages to stand before Ford crosses the small room to plop down next to him, fingers digging into the stained sheets.

"Ford?"

"I'm sorry, Stanley, it's just... So many horrible things that happened to you are my fault, and I just-"

"Six, stop that. It's not true."

"I'm just worried, Lee. Do you really not know what your lack of heats means?" And then Ford looks at him, sad and sort of yearning, and it's all Stan can do not to bury his face in his brother's neck. Instead, he slumps forward to ease the ache in his belly and sighs.

"No, Ford, I don't. And I'd really appreciate it if you could skip the lecture for today because I don't know if I can handle it right now."

"I just- Stan, omega's body only stops having heats when it feels like it wouldn't be safe enough for them to have one. The fact that you haven't had one for thirty years is just..." Stan's breath hitches as Ford lets his head drop onto his shoulder, voice softening. "I'm so sorry that you had to live like that."

"I could say the same about the portal." Ford's arm wraps around his shoulders, glasses squishing into the skin of his neck.

"It wasn't your fault."

"You should listen to yourself, genius," Stan snickers, gently patting Ford's arm. Ford nuzzles closer, burying his nose the omega's scent gland. Stan flushes when a purr starts up in his throat, only for it to be drowned out by the rumble of a content alpha. "Ford?"

"Mm? Oh!" The noise stops abruptly, as Ford tears himself away, face twisted in an expression of humiliated horror. "I'm sorry, Stanley!"

"You should stop being sorry, you've done enough of that for today." Stan lets his head hit the pillows, tugging Ford along with him. He should probably be embarrassed, but he's exhausted and in pain, and Ford's feels so warm against him that he can't bring himself to care. "Just stay with me, Six."

"Are- are you sure?" Ford stutters, but his happy rumble returns in a way that suggests that he doesn't mind.

"Mhm."

"Oh. Okay."

"Mhm."

"I, uh... I have been in love with you, you know. Ever since we were children."

"Mhm."

"You're not listening to me, are you?"

"Mhm."

"Fair enough," Ford smiles at the purr rising through Stan's chest, lips meeting the scent gland on his neck in a soft kiss. Stan chirps happily and buries his nose in Ford's hair. Ford is back. Ford is here. Ford is with him.

Losing himself to the comforting scent, Stan lets himself drift. Somewhere in the back of his foggy mind, he thinks that he feels pretty lucky right now.​

[abbysreal-wife]

Extra Credit

Teacher!Abby x Student!Reader

Video Games

Heaven is a place on earth with you

Tell me all the things you wanna do

— Lana Del Rey

————-————-————-————-————-——

Tags:: Oral, Fingering, age gap (18 and 29–33 smth like that), semi public sex, masturbation, mommy kink, good girl used a bit, praise kink, fat shaming mentioned.

A/N:: I’ve read over this 1million times and it still looks horrific

Little notes!:: ily guys sm, I’ve been encouraged to add smut💔 if it’s ass I’m sorry cause I’m a bit rusty..😥 also, unless the fic REALKY needs the summary, ima stop putting it cause my mind always goes to a blank when I put it there….

Currently playing…

————————————————————————

The bell rang loudly in your ear, causing you to jolt out of your sleep.

Snickering and other loud conversations could be heard from behind you as you attempted to reach your books that were now on the floor.

“Hey tp,— a name that your 3rd grade bully had been dragging since 6th grade cause he toilet papered your house on Halloween “did you get a lot of sleep last night?” A boys voice spoke out to you. You rolled your eyes “yeah actually, you should asked your mom, she knows.” Your clap back cause the blonde boys smile to drop and his friends to laugh and playfully punch his arm.

An array of ‘oo’s and ‘damn’ was spreading across the half empty classroom. You finally stood up and walked towards the door.

Then you were shoved. Not hard enough to knock you to the ground, but hard enough to give you a little fright.

You stumbled into a desk, the sight behind you was almost scary. Jason and all his little football goons towered over you with their broad figures.

“Say something about my mom again. Next time I’ll put my full weight into you. Or at least I’ll try— fatass” he hissed at you, his face was red with frustration.

Him and his friends all shoulder checking you as they walked by to the exit.

“Mr. Smith, can I have a word with you?” A firm voice boomed from the door.

Ms. Anderson was leaning on the door frame her arms flexed under her black dress shirt.

Jason and his friends stopped dead in their tracks.

He laughed nervously turning around to face her “uh, hey Ms.anderson”

She bounced off the door frame and began to walk to you, placing a hand on your shoulder “don’t ‘hey Ms Anderson me’ don’t you have something you want to say to this young lady here?”

Jason sucked his teeth and let out a long sigh “I’m sorry.” He said it in a questioning manner. Like he didn’t mean a word he just said.

“I’ll deal with you later— go now.”

The 3 boys scrambled away and disappeared into the moving hallways.

Ms Anderson on the other hand was making her way to the wooden desk. That had papers and stacks of binders and other items of hers on top of it.

“I came here to discuss your grades with you.” Her words caused you to tense up in your spot.

Grades?

She took out her laptop and begin typing, the keyboard was the only thing keeping this room non silent.

“C’mere” her tone was cold, but demanding. It made your heart flutter.

You took slow steps toward her desk, your converse scooting across the floor,holding your books close to your chest.

Once there you looked at the computer screen.

“Oh” a small noise came out of your mouth.

Ms. Anderson sighed “you’re failing all the classes you have with me, and those classes make up half of your grade. She paused to take a breath and look at you “what’s going on?” She was concerned.

Oh, you knew what was going on.

You were failing her classes cause you would to busy staring at her to understand what she was saying or telling you to study.

And when you did hear her. You tried to study.

You really, really tried to study.

But somehow, someway, you would always ended up trailing your hand down your body, and into your underwear, then played with yourself while thinking of her.

You didn’t mean to. It was an accident.

“Uh, uhm..” you stammered as you rocked back and forth on your feet.

“I don’t know.” Your sentence came out quiter than intended, which cause her to lean into you and try and hear you better “louder sweetheart I can’t hear you”

Oh God.

Clearing your throat and standing up more straight you stated “I don’t know why I’m failing your classes Ms. Anderson.”

She hummed in amusement.

As she stood up she walked past you to go get some papers sitting on the window sill you could smell her aroma of pine cones cinnamon and an outdoorsy hint.

She took the papers and sat them in your hand “take a look at some of your test”

She took her finger and pushed up the middle of her glasses.

Those damn glasses.

Once you put your own books down on a nearby desk you began to slowly scale through the pages.

Drawings of flowers and other plants were the only thing filling the paper.

“Jeez” you silently cursed to your self.

The questions on the other hand? It looks like you spun 5 times and answered them blind folded.

The “A,B, or C” opinion circles or turned into a sun and more flowers.

And when the answer was obvious like ‘B’ you chose ‘A’

“This behavior is honestly childish for a 17 year old” Ms Andersons voice scolded you.

“18, ma’am” you corrected her as you stared down at your feet.

Her eyebrow arched “excuse me?”

“I’m 18, miss, not 17” you were now making eye contact with the woman in front of you.

“Is there anyway I could get any extra credit?”

Ms. Anderson’s face lit up when those words came up.

“Sure there is. You could study, or you could get a tutor. She paused “there’s other ways as well.”

You tilted your head “what do you mean?”

Her mouth twitched into a smirk, the one where you know exactly what she means.

But she would never say anything like that to a student.

Never.

“I’m sure there’s apps and what not, yeah?” She hinted towards your bag which was vibrating from an app notification.

You took a deep shaky breath “I should get going i need to be home at a certain time.”

After what felt like hours you finally stepped aside her and practically ran down the hallway.

ᥫ᭡.——————————————————————

“And that should cover the chapter for now” Ms. Anderson’s voice was muffled, the sun hit down on her like it was made too, and her hair was finally out the braid.

Meaning the golden blonde locks could fall freely down her back and shoulders. Which also meant that even if you wanted to try and pay attention to whatever the hell she was teaching you mentally, physically couldn’t.

Her glances at you was enough so make you and the seat you were sitting on wet.

Then you finally snapped out your trance and faced towards your friend. Your only friend. The only girl that could “understand” what you go through. She used to be like you too, till she got on the volleyball team and erased any image or chance you had of being even noticeable around this school away.

“Ellie” Your voice called out to the auburn haired girl who was talking to another girl she obviously had a crush on.

Ellie’s eyes turned toward you as the other girl also looked at you. Before she soon realized who you were and turned to snicker to her other friends.

You just rolled your eyes in response, you’re used to it now. Being known as the ‘weird one’ in 6th grade really shaped your mentality.

“What’s up?” She made her way to your desk leaning on it, palms face down.

“Who’s the girl?” You hinted towards the dark haired girl who Ellie was flirting with.

She raised an eyebrow glancing back before realizing “oh, you mean Dina? She’s on the cheer team remember?”

Finally, the flashbacks of Dina tripping you in front of your 7th grade girl crush flooded your mind like a tsunami.

You fucking hated her.

Scoffing you picked up pens and pencils sitting on your desk “whatever, can you come to study hall with me?”

You batted your eyelashes like that ever worked on her “hell no, I got volleyball practice at 2.” Her announcement caused you to roll your eyes so far you swear they got stuck for a second.

Then she grabbed her backpack and headed to the door, “I’ll see you tonight!” Dina, Jesse, and some other dark haired girl; you think her name is Kat or something, all followed behind her.

Then the door slammed dramatically.

Leaving you and Ms. Anderson alone.

This was a scenario in your wet dream before.

She was sitting at her desk working on some papers of some sort while you walked to her desk setting your tote bag down.

“So when you said there’s other ways to get extra credit what did you mean?” Your words caused her ears to perk up like a dog and her eyes to drift down your body and back up to your eyes “What’d you think I mean?” She questioned with a smug smile on her face.

Her tie was loosened so it hung off her chest in a tease-full manner.

And she was still looking at you with that look, that look when someone is mentally undressing you but trying to keep it respectful. Yeah, that look.

“Maybe I could… the pause you took was very long “work extra hard for the extra credit?”

Her grin grew larger as she stood up, her figure rising to cover your whole body “what are you trying to imply, [ᥫ᭡.]?” When Your name came out of her mouth it sounded unintentional, like she was trying not to say something she shouldn’t.

Now you two were basically chest to chest.

“What’re you doing to me?” You scoffed looking up at her with some sort of “innocence” behind your eyes.

“I don’t know what you mean, Ms. Anderson”

You were giving her the same treatment she gave you.

Clueless.

A soft kiss was placed upon your lips, the type of kiss you could tell she’d been needing.

She had been holding back.

The kiss felt as if she was pouring every emotion out of her and into your mouth.

Her hand snaked around your nape, Finger tips brushed against the back of your neck, the touch felt like it would be there forever, almost as if it stained your skin.

Gentle moans emerged from you as she pulled your waist in closer to her.

Hands wrapped around her neck, pushing her in closer to your mouth.

Both of you guys heads were moving in an almost synchronized manner.

Before you could pull away to take a breath she spun you around making you take a seat on the desk behind her.

Now your leg was propped up on the wooden drawer handles, soon after, she took that same leg-and wrapped an arm underneath it.

Her other free hand found your breast, then your waist, and then your thigh.

The touch of her hands were warm, it left a trace of unforgettable feelings.

This is actually happening right now.

You should stop it. You really, really should stop this.

You ignored the thoughts, instead you leaned back on the desk, Ms.Anderson chuckled, she was gonna do it herself but a little help never hurt.

“You want this right?” She managed to question between open mouth kisses.

Nodding your head you kinda subtly lifted your hips, the warm sensation between your thighs was getting unbearably uncomfortable.

She pulled away, her glasses were foggy from the gasp of air you were letting out.

“Don’t just nod, I need to hear you say it, verbally” her tone was clear “Yes, yes I do want this.”

She hummed before kissing your neck and then down your body and eventually made it to your core.

Placing small kisses against your hips, your dress was already pulled up because of her smooth hands.

Your underwear was now see through with your own pleasure. She took a sharp breath in, before bringing her thumb up to the soft cotton and rubbing the visible bud.

“Mmfh..” you bit your lip as a noise you didn’t know you could make escape from your mouth.

“I know baby, I know” her praise caused more pleasure to almost gush out of your desperate entrance.

Her thumb pulled away, you pouted at the action whining pathetically “Aw, you want me to touch you?” She teased.

You nodded aggressively “yes, yes I do.”

She huffed at your pleading “say please for me”

“P..Please, please touch me”

A smug grin played over her lips “Please what?”

“Please, mommy?” The word ‘mommy’ came out of your mouth by accident, not she was expecting from a girl like you, she was thinking maybe a ‘daddy’ or her name could’ve worked but, ‘mommy’ sounded better.

It made her feel better.

“Good.. Good girl”

Her hands drifted back down to your underwear, swiping them off in one swell movement.

The cold air of the classroom cause you to tense up in your position.

Without warning she took your cunt and engulfed it fully within the warmth of her mouth.

Her mouth worked in ungodly rhythms, you grabbed her hair tugging and tangling your fingers between the blonde strands.

Eyes fixed on you as your eyes fluttered open and closed.

“You’re such a good girl for me aren’t you?” Ms Anderson asked before circling her tounge back around your sensitive clit.

Your lips puffed out at her words “yes, mm…”

The slurping and squelching sounds of her working her fingers in and out of you while you clenched filled the room.

“So fuckin’ pretty f’me” her eyes caught your every reaction, the little gasp you would occasionally give when her fingers curled back and forth, the ‘o’ shape your mouth would form.

“Shit, so good..” your words made her mouth move faster, you groaned throwing your head back and taking your hand to cover your mouth.

It didn’t do a great job covering your constant high pitched moans, Ms Anderson pulled away “don’t cover your mouth, I wanna hear your pretty sounds” her sentence was dragged on before she took tongue and ran it flat up your leaking cunt.

Ms. Anderson pushed her fingers onto the spongy surface inside of you that made you cry out her name, well, not really, it was more of a desperate attempt at saying her name but it instead came out as ‘mommy’

“F-fuck, mommy” it was embarrassing, really. But in your mind at that moment, nothing mattered right now.

She smirked against your dripping cunt as she heard her name falling off of your lips.

Her glasses were now foggy,and her nose bumped into your clit. Her knees were now starting to ache from the squatting position she was in. She could care less though. She was to focused on your climax.

“Mm, mommy, m’gonna cum” you’ve never came this quick before, not even on your own, not with previous partners. Never.

Your climax didn’t come in ripples, it came in waves, it washed over you, from your feet, to your legs, all the way up through your chest and neck, then it came out your mouth “god, mommy!”

ᥫ᭡.——————————————————————

“Shit, I totally forget my notebook in Ms. Andersons class” Ellie cursed to herself, “go get it then” Jesse told Ellie who was already gathering her things to head down to the class.

As she walked down the hallways, tiny but muffled moans could be heard throughout.

Ellie just laughed it off, thinking nothing of it, since this school is the kind of type for stuff to happen like that.

She slid her headphones on and started to play her music

Finally she made it to the light blue door the name beside it read “Ms. Anderson Class 5”

Yup, she’s at the right classroom.

She paused the music to brace herself for the conversation she’d have to have with Ms Anderson and explain why she’s bursting in her classroom.

She twisted the doorknob.

The sight she saw, was…

Horrifying.

You, your dress pulled up to your waist, your legs draped over Ms Andersons shoulders and you gripping her head like it was the last thing you’d ever touch.

“Holy shit.”

You snapped your head to the door quickly pulling your dress down and hopping off the desk, Ms Anderson moved quicker than you she was already on her feet wiping your pleasure off her chin.

The door was slam shut in a matter of seconds.

Fuck.

ᥫ᭡.——————————————————————

A/N:: AGIAN, sorry if the smut is kinda bad and confusing I was nervous☺️

@kissedbykhloe @graciedollie @korn-dawg @vyeris @valeisaslut @ellieswife4ever @ellies-moth-to-a-flame @lluxentzz @liliofabby @yokedtablet @elliezlils11utt @andieprincessofpower @abigail-andersons-wife @doodl3wr1t3s @lolitalovess @look-me

(If I forgot you ITS NOT NT DAMN FAULT😕💔)

[gilbertscurls]

in the quiet between buttons — chris sturniolo

You’re both late.

Not by much—just enough to feel the tick of the clock pushing against your back like a hand between your shoulder blades. The hotel room still smells like warm cologne and the clean steam of your shared shower. Chris stands in front of the mirror, trying to loop his tie with distracted fingers, brows furrowed in frustration. You, behind him, half-dressed in a black slip dress that’s still unzipped halfway down your back, watch him with soft amusement as you fasten an earring.

“You’re doing it wrong,” you murmur, stepping up beside him.

Chris sighs, letting the ends of the navy tie fall limp against his chest. “I knew I should’ve looked up the YouTube tutorial again.”

“You’ve tied it like… three times already.”

He meets your gaze in the mirror and shrugs with that lopsided grin that always makes your heart tilt. “Yeah, well. I’m nervous.”

You pause, earring forgotten. “Why?”

Chris’s eyes flit to yours in the mirror, then away, suddenly bashful. “Because you look like that. And we’re going to this big thing with everyone we know, and you’re—you.” He laughs quietly, then scratches the back of his neck. “Makes me feel like I forgot how to function.”

Warmth crawls up your chest, slow and fond. You set your earring down on the dresser and move to stand in front of him, eyes focused on the crumpled tie.

“Come here,” you say gently. He does. You smooth the fabric between your fingers, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat just beneath where your hands brush his chest. The two of you are quiet for a while as you loop the tie around, cross and pull and tighten it until it’s snug beneath his collar.

“You know,” you say softly, not looking up, “I could get used to this.”

His hands find your waist lightly. “What? Me being helpless with basic adult tasks?”

You smirk, finally glancing up at him. “No. Helping you get ready. Tying your tie. Watching your face in the mirror while you sneak glances at me when you think I’m not looking.”

He flushes—beautifully. “You noticed that?”

“I notice everything.”

You reach behind and guide his hands to the zipper on your dress. The fabric is silky under his fingers, the zipper delicate and almost shy in the quiet of the room. You turn around slowly, your back to him now, bare skin brushing his knuckles as he starts to pull the zipper up, slow and careful.

“You sure about this one?” he murmurs, voice low in your ear, like it’s not about the dress at all.

You turn your head, catch his reflection in the mirror. “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

He finishes the zip, lets his fingers linger just a second too long at the nape of your neck, like he doesn’t want to let go. You turn to face him again, the dress now molded to your body, his tie perfectly in place.

“Let’s be fashionably late,” he says, eyes locked on yours.

You grin, grabbing your clutch and lacing your fingers through his.

“You mean hopelessly in love and pretending it’s just coincidence?”

Chris chuckles. “That too.”

And when you walk out into the night, the world doesn’t know how intimate it is, the simple act of dressing together. But you do. And that quiet, sacred softness lingers between you long after the zipper’s been pulled and the tie’s been knotted.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming, @backwardshatnick, @whore4chris, @ivysturnss