#so. no anxiety here tonight why in the world would i be terrified about anything right now what are you talking about how could there ever | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

secretstomachache · 1 year

Text

Across the Room

CW: swearing, fade to black sex, casual sex

~~~

Graham was in his element. The college party flowed around him as he made his way back to his friends with a fresh glass of beer.

"Took you long enough!" joked Andrea. "I was starting to think you'd met someone and abandoned us."

Carson laughed. "I'm not in the mood for a hookup tonight, and I'm definitely not looking for a date."

"You don't need to look for it," Jesse retorted. "You could have any guy you want."

"Oh come on!" Obviously, Jesse was right, but Graham had to show a little modesty. "It's not like someone's just going to come over here and say..."

Graham glanced around the room. "I'm not leaving this party until he's leaving with me."

"Lust at first sight," Jesse snickered. "Very evocative."

"Huh?" Graham glanced back at him. "No, not... Who's that?"

He gestured toward a tall, muscular man standing alone in a corner.

Jesse shrugged.

"I think that's Sean's roommate," said Andrea. "I don't know his name."

~~~

Joel stood miserably in the corner of the room, watching the party. He had to walk through the common area to get to his dorm room, and his roommate had demanded that he stay. They weren't friends, exactly, but Sean had made Joel his personal project. Joel knew that Sean's heart was in the right place, but his anxiety was so intense that he felt like he might pass out.

Graham Lawrence, a popular theater major, glanced at him and then turned back to his friends. He was a beautiful man, like a marble statue come to life. Joel was certain that they were laughing at him. He wanted nothing more than to be in his room watching TV - even homework would be better than this - but he had promised Sean that he would stay for at least an hour.

Joel looked around for Sean. There he was, talking to Graham. They were definitely laughing at him. Joel would give anything to simply not exist.

~~~

"Joel?" Sean wasn't sure why Graham was asking about his roommate. "Honestly, I've been living with him for five months and I barely know the guy. He seems nice enough, but he doesn't talk much. He always seems kind of terrified.

"Is he seeing anyone?" Graham asked causally.

Sean couldn't help but laugh at the idea. "No, he... You don't understand. I'm not sure if Joel even has *friends*. I think if he tried to go on a date, he might *actually* die."

Graham smiled, confident that he would have the gentle giant in his bed that night.

~~~

Joel sipped his beer, trying to pretend the rest of the world didn't exist. He suddenly became aware of someone next to him.

"Are you gay?" Graham held the social power in this situation. There was no need to beat around the bush.

Joel stifled a yelp. He hadn't been prepared to *talk* to people.

"I... huh?" he managed.

Graham smirked. "Are you sexually or romantically attracted to men?"

"Y-yes?" Joel knew that there was some joke he wasn't getting.

"Exactly what I wanted to hear!" Graham gave Joel a cocky grin.

Joel stared blankly.

Graham slid a hand over Joel's bicep. "I bet you could just squeeze me until I pop," he purred.

"I... what?" Joel's heart raced. He couldn't breathe. He had to get out of here, but Graham was blocking his exit.

Graham finally noticed Joel's distress and took a step back.

"Hey, man... You okay?"

Joel stared at him, petrified.

"Do you want to get out of here?"

Joel nodded.

Graham kept a hand on Joel's arm and led him outside.

"Come on, breathe. I don't bite... unless you ask nicely."

Once he was away from the crowd, Joel's panic began to subside, although he still wasn't sure why Graham was there.

"S-sorry," he mumbled.

"You are way too hot to be this nervous." Graham looked up at Joel, who didn't meet his eyes. "Why don't we have our own party, away from the crowd."

"I... okay?"

Graham led Joel across campus toward his dorm, slowly moving closer and closer to him.

"I bet you could carry me the rest of the way, and not break a sweat."

Joel looked at down at him, confused.

"Do - do you... Did you hurt yourself?"

Graham threw his head back and laughed. Joel flinched away.

"No, I..." Graham realized that he would have to be very clear to break through Joel's insecurity. "You are just so fucking buff, and I'm into that." He ran a hand up Joel's chest and over his shoulder.

Joel blinked. "Oh. Oh, you... okay."

He scooped Graham up in his arms and carried him up the stairs. Joel had to put Graham down so he could get his key out of his pocket. As soon as he got the door open, Graham dragged Joel over to the bed and climbed on top of him.

"Is this okay?" he asked.

Joel nodded.

~~~

Graham didn't ask Joel to spend the night. He didn't even take his shirt off while they had sex. Ten minutes after they finished, Graham said that he had an early rehearsal in the morning and that he would call Joel later. Joel looked at him for a moment, then left.

Graham sighed. Joel had been amazing in bed. He rarely fucked with the same person twice in a row, but he might make an exception this time.

~~~

"You had sex with Graham Lawrence?" asked Sean incredulously.

Joel nodded.

"You know he's not going to call, right? He doesn't do relationships."

Joel nodded again. "You don't... I'm an adult, Sean. You don't have to take care of me."

Sean sighed. "Someone has to. You clearly don't know how to interact with people. You've never brought anyone back here... God, Joel... I've been living with you for months, and I didn't even know you were gay!"

"Why does it..." Joel didn't bother finishing his complaint. He got the point.

"I'm not expecting him to call," he said quietly.

Sean sighed again. "I just don't want you to get hurt."

Joel smiled awkwardly. "Yeah, I know. Thanks."

~~~

Joel was surprised when Graham texted him the next day.

"I had fun last night," he said. "Maybe we can do it again some time."

Joel didn't reply. Obviously, Graham was just being polite.

~~~

Graham regretted the text as soon as he sent it. A follow up text was just basic courtesy. Joel was a sweetheart, though, and he would read too much into it. He would think that Graham actually cared about him as a person. Which he didn't. At all.

Graham shook his head, a simple physicality to shake Joel out of his mind. If Joel expected too much, that was his problem. Everyone knew Graham's reputation; it wasn't his job to tiptoe around someone's fragile feelings.

He thought about how he would respond when Joel texted back. How could he manage Joel's expectations and still keep his number for a booty call? He'd figure it out when he read Joel's reply. Joel was definitely going to reply. Any minute now.

He didn't reply. Graham was starting to get worried. Obviously Joel was interested. Everyone was interested in Graham. Why didn't he respond.

Of course. Joel could barely manage to string two words together. It must take him hours to answer a text.

Or maybe he didn't know Graham's reputation before. Maybe someone just told him. Maybe he felt hurt, betrayed. Graham pictured Joel staring at his phone, tears running down his cheeks. Should he call? Would that make it worse?

It didn't matter. If Joel was hurt, he was sorry, but he wasn't his problem. He'd already spent way too much time thinking about what was admittedly some of the best sex he'd ever had. But that's all it was. Sex. He didn't care about Joel as a person. Was that even his name? He didn't remember. He didn't care.

~~~

Graham and Joel didn't have any classes together, but Joel had to pass by Graham's dorm to get to the dining hall. On Thursday, Graham happened to be sitting outside when Joel passed by.

"Hey!" he called out casually.

Joel gave him an awkward smile, but he kept walking. Graham could only imagine how hard it must be for Joel to play it cool like that.

Graham took pity on Joel and caught up with him.

"How are you doing?"

Joel shrugged. "Ok."

"There's nothing between us. You know that, right? It's just sex."

"Yeah."

"It was really good sex, though, right?" Graham was surprised when it came out as a question. Of course it was good sex!

Joel smiled. "Yeah."

Graham nodded and went back to his room. He had gotten everything he wanted out of the conversation, but he felt oddly unsatisfied.

~~~

Joel got another text from Graham on Saturday night.

"Bored. Wanna fuck?"

An excited tingle rushed through Joel's chest and shoulders. He had been touch starved for as long as he could remember, and even meaningless connection soothed a part of his soul that he had forgotten was hurting. It was meaningless, of course. Joel was socially useless despite his bodybuilder good looks, and Graham was way out of his league.

Somehow, the certainty made Joel less anxious. He *knew* that Graham didn't actually like him, so there was nothing for him to mess up.

"omw"

Joel threw on his jacket and headed over to Graham's dorm.

~~~

Joel let Graham take the lead; he was just happy to be touched. Graham took him with a rough, animalistic urgency. He kept his shirt on and practically shoved Joel out the door as soon as they finished.

Joel stood in the hallway for a moment before heading home. He wasn't disappointed, exactly, but the abruptness through him off a little bit.

He didn't hear from Graham the next day, or the next. Graham had gotten what he wanted from Joel and moved on. Joel knew better than to get attached, but he would miss being touched.

~~~

Graham wondered if he should text Joel, just to be polite. No, probably not. He didn't want to lead Joel on. That weekend, he brought home a petite, perky girl. Graham enjoyed their rendezvous, and he made sure that she did too, but he wasn't satisfied. He forced himself not to think about Joel's bulk, but she still felt frustratingly tiny.

Graham thought about asking Joel to come over later, but decided not to. He didn't want Joel to get attached.

~~~

Joel was disappointed when he didn't hear from Graham that weekend, but he wasn't surprised. They had been together twice, which was two more times than Joel had expected.

He thought about texting Graham, but he didn't want to bother him. Joel was used to being alone. He didn't really mind anymore.

~~~

"Wanna come over?"

Joel didn't answer right away. He did want to see Graham again, but his loneliness over the past two weeks made him afraid that he was wanting more than Graham was willing to give.

~~~

Graham caught himself checking his phone, wondering why Joel wasn't answering. It's not like Joel would have anything better to do. He was lucky that Graham liked the strong, silent type. By any metric, Graham was way out of his league. Everybody was out of his league. Why was he not answering?

Graham didn't care, of course. He was horny and didn't feel like putting in the effort to pick someone up. He just wanted a booty call. He wasn't wondering what it would be like to spend the night in Joel's strong arms. He was just horny. Not lonely. Just horny.

Why did his stomach hurt? He always got stomach aches when he was stressed, but he wasn't stressed. He wasn't wondering if Joel was still interested. Of course he was still interested! Graham didn't care. He could do better. He would call someone else later that night. As soon as his stomach stopped hurting.

His stomach didn't stop hurting. It must not be stress. He wasn't stressed. He must have eaten something that wasn't sitting right.

~~~

Graham went to bed early, cradling his aching belly. He felt better in the morning, until he saw that he had missed a text from Joel.

"Yeah. Sorry I took so long to reply. Still free?"

Graham's heart sank.

"Ugh, phone tag. I've got nothing but homework today. Come over whenever."

Graham immediately regretted sending the text. It made him sound desperate.

~~~

Joel smiled when he saw Graham's text. It was almost like the beautiful, popular man actually wanted to see him. He shot off a quick reply and headed over.

~~~

Graham was gentle this time, almost tender. He still didn't undress completely, but he let Joel hold him for almost an hour before kicking him out.

~~~

Graham summoned Joel at least once every weekend for the next couple of months. They didn't talk during the week, and Joel never initiated contact. Graham never undressed all the way, and he never let Joel spend the night.

~~~

"How's your boyfriend?" asked Jesse, his tone only slightly mocking.

Graham was genuinely confused. "My what?"

"The wrestler."

"He's not my boyfriend! We just fuck sometimes."

"When was the last time you slept with anyone else?" asked Andrea.

Graham paused. It had been a while, actually. He forced a smile.

"God, you're right! I'm getting into a rut! Let's go somewhere tonight, get me laid."

~~~

The music at the club flowed over and through Graham. He danced with friends and strangers. Finally, he went home with a tall, bulky man.

As they lay in bed together, Graham realized how much he loved resting in strong arms. It was safe to enjoy it with a stranger. It didn't mean anything. Graham didn't even remember his name. It was just arms around him.

It wasn't Joel's arms. The thought came unbidden into Graham mind. Of course it wasn't Joel. It was... whoever this guy was. It didn't matter who the arms belonged to, did it?

Graham's stomach hurt. He told the stranger that he had to be up early and sent him on his way.

~~~

The next day, Graham joined his friends for a late breakfast.

"Thanks for getting me back out there!" His grin was almost genuine.

"We've got your back," said Andrea. "For a while I was afraid you were catching feelings for some random asshole."

He's not an asshole, Graham didn't say. Instead, he laughed.

"Haha, yeah... He's great in bed, but listening to him try to talk gets old fast."

Graham didn't text Joel that weekend. He worried they Joel was getting to attached. Better to give him some space.

~~~

Joel was disappointed not to hear from Graham, but he wasn't surprised. People like Graham might have a fling with someone like Joel, but it didn't mean anything. He knew it wouldn't last.

He sat on his bed with his knees pulled up to his chest, letting the loneliness wash over him. He had always been lonely, but he didn't really feel it before. It was just a constant presence. Now that he had gotten used to having somewhere to go on weekends, the loneliness felt fresh and painful.

Joel considered texting Graham, but quickly put the thought out of his mind. Graham knew that Joel didn't have any friends or anywhere else to be. If he wanted to talk to Joel, he would.

~~~

Graham refused to notice that he hadn't seen Joel walking by his dorm in a few days. He didn't wonder if Joel had started taking a longer route to avoid him. He didn't worry that something had happened to him. He didn't hope to see him again.

"What are you looking for?" asked Jesse.

"Huh?" Graham yanked his attention back to his friends.

"You keep staring out the window." Jesse laughed. "Are you waiting for Santa?"

"No, I..." Graham frantically tried to think of an answer. "I'm just watching people go by."

"Not looking for anyone in particular?" Andrea asked with a wink.

Graham's stomach hurt. Damn it. No, it was fine. He was fine.

"Like who?" he scoffed.

"Dude, you've been weird ever since you fucked the meathead," said Jesse. "What the hell did he do to you?"

He made me feel safe, Graham didn't say.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said lamely.

~~~

Joel passed by Andrea studying in the common room. He walked quickly, hoping she didn't notice him.

"Hi, Joel!" she said brightly.

Joel froze as she walked up to him.

"You've gotta let Graham break up with you," she said.

Confusion and panic fought for control of Joel's brain.

"We... we're not dating," he stammered.

"I know you're trying to play it cool, but Graham feels bad for breaking your heart. Talk to him so he can let you down gently. It'll be good for both of you."

Confusion was winning, with backup from annoyance. Graham had ghosted him and then sent a friend to make assumptions about Joel's feelings. He wasn't heartbroken. He knew that Graham was out of his league, and he hadn't expected it to last.

Joel stared at Andrea for a moment, then turned and went to his room.

~~~

Graham caught up with Joel as he left the dining hall. Joel walked faster and didn't look at him.

"Hey, Joel! Wait up!" Graham forced himself to stay casual. Jesse and Andrea were making a big fuss about Joel, and Graham wanted to get it over with. If it wasn't for his friends, he wouldn't be thinking about Joel at all. Not even a little bit.

"Leave me alone," Joel mumbled, not stopping.

"Hey, stop! I just want to talk to you! Andrea and Jesse -"

Joel stopped so suddenly that Graham almost ran into him.

"I don't care!" Joel snapped. "Whatever you need to tell them to save your image, I don't care! Tell them you broke my heart. Tell them I cried. I don't care! It was just sex. You know that, and I know that, but apparently the rest of the world thinks that you're a golden god with a magic cock! I know you're out of my league, and that's fine. Whatever story you're telling Andrea... Tell them whatever you want. It's not like they can respect me any less. Just stop trying to make me play along. Just leave me alone!"

Graham stood stunned as Joel strode away. Joel barely spoke, but he apparently despised Graham so much that he managed an entire paragraph.

"What do you want?" Graham asked. "Do you expect me to chase you?" He hurried to catch up with Joel.

"I want you to leave me alone!"

"Oh, my sweet Joel," Graham continued sarcastically. "You're the only one who makes me feel safe. I never loved anyone before. I didn't think I could, but you're just so goddamn special that you fixed me."

"Stop it! Stop... Stop making fun of me. I know you're all making fun of me."

"You want me to fight for you? You want me to be your knight in shining armor when Jesse and Andrea are being assholes?"

Joel deflated slightly. "I... I just... It would be nice if you didn't join in."

Graham didn't say anything. His heart didn't break at the badly disguised hurt in Joel's voice. He didn't feel guilty about how he treated him. He fell back and let Joel escape. Good. Joel knew what was going on. Graham could forget about him. Any minute now, he could stop caring. Not that he had cared to begin with.

Graham's stomach hurt. Fuck.

~~~

"What the hell did you say to Joey?" Graham snapped at Andrea.

"Huh? What do you... Oh, right! I ran into him in the common room the other day. He seemed upset."

"What. Did. You. Say?"

"If he can't take a hint, he should talk to you and let you explain that there's nothing between you."

"He knows there's nothing! He doesn't need you to rub it in!"

"Why do you even care?" Jesse moved between Graham and Andrea.

"I... I don't," said Graham. "It doesn't mean you have to be a jerk about it."

Graham's stomach hurt. He'd had worse. He'd be fine.

~~~

Graham slept late Saturday morning. His stomach hurt. It hadn't stopped hurting since Joel yelled at him on Thursday.

He caught himself. His stomach had been hurting since Thursday, but it had nothing to do with Joel. Of course it didn't... Didn't it?

Graham imagined being surrounded by strong arms. He was going to a party that night. Maybe he could pick up a football player.

His stomach lurched. The pain wasn't bad - he was used to it - but he needed to make sure he didn't throw up in public. He fumbled through his drawers and found some Pepto. Hopefully it would help; sometimes it didn't.

Graham lay in bed, waiting for the medicine to work. He imagined strong arms, a warm embrace, his head resting on a broad chest...

His stomach hurt.

He imagined Joel attached to those arms. His stomach lurched, and he barely made it to the trash can before he started throwing up.

He imagined Joel's strong hands stroking his back.

The nausea passed, but the ache deepened.

He imagined Joel.

Sweet, kind, ridiculously buff Joel.

Graham's friends thought he was nothing. A joke. Barely an afterthought.

Graham hadn't argued.

His stomach hurt.

~~~

Graham sat with Andrea and Jesse in the common room of Andrea's dorm. He glanced up whenever he heard the door open. This was Joel's dorm, too.

Jesse noticed how jumpy Graham was getting.

"Oh, hey! The meathead lives in this dorm, doesn't he?"

Graham bristled at Jesse's tone, but he didn't say anything.

"Are you afraid he's going to beat you up for breaking his heart?" asked Andrea.

"I didn't break his heart," said Graham dismissively.

"Even if you did, what's he going to do?" she scoffed. "He's a basket case. Make a sudden move and he'll bolt."

Graham flushed. It wasn't right. Joel hadn't done anything wrong. They shouldn't be making fun of him.

Jesse laughed. "He's basically just a statue. Just... I... I... I..." He did a caricature of a stammer.

It was too much. Graham leapt up and shoved his friend.

"Oof! What is wrong with you?" Jesse cried out.

"Why are you always such an asshole?" Graham snapped, shoving him again.

Jesse shoved him back, and they began to scuffle.

~~~

Joel's phone dinged. It was a text from his RA.

"Fight in the common room."

Joel sighed. His RA had taken one look at the muscular, 6'6" wrestler and decided to use him as unofficial security. Joel's social anxiety made this sort of thing absolute hell, but he was too awkward to say no. He swallowed back the panic and went out to break up the fight.

Graham. Graham and Jesse were fighting, while Andrea halfheartedly asked them to stop. The RA looked expectantly at Joel.

Joel felt like he was suffocating, but he knew what was expected of him. He gently took Graham by the shoulders and pulled him away from Jesse. Graham stared at him for a moment, then ran outside.

The room started to spin. Joel's breath came faster. His heart raced. He had to get out of there. He took a few shaky steps, and suddenly he was sprinting back to his dorm room. He slammed and locked the door, then slid to the floor and sobbed.

~~~

Graham curled up on his bed. He couldn't believe he had lost his temper like that. He didn't lose his temper. His dad lost his temper, and he was nothing like that. He had just been standing up for... No, he wasn't standing up for anyone important. Jesse was being an asshole, and he...

Graham gave up. His stomach hurt. Of course Joel had been the one to break up the fight. Of course he had finally been in Joel's arms, and... No. Not finally. He hadn't been longing for Joel. The feeling of his embrace hadn't been playing over and over in his dreams. It was embarrassing, that's all.

Graham's stomach hurt. Good. The pain gave him a reason not to think.

Joel was huge. Graham felt so safe in his arms.

Graham tried to focus on the pain. It was easier than thinking about...

Joel.

Graham groaned and dragged himself out of bed.

~~~

Joel's head finally stopped spinning. The room was still blurry and tinged with red. He took a few more breaths. Oh. He hadn't noticed his ponytail coming undone. He shoved the mass of sweaty red hair out of his eyes. Now he could see.

Joel swayed slightly when he stood up. He was still trembling, and his head ached. He grabbed some aspirin, peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt, and lay down.

There was a knock on the door. Joel groaned softly. Maybe if he didn't answer it would stop. Another knock. He felt his anxiety growing again. The sharp knocking made his head pound. Whoever was at the door wasn't going away.

He groaned again. The knocking continued as he put on a clean shirt and tried to get most of his hair pointed in the same direction.

Joel pressed a hand to his forehead. His hands were just as warm; it didn't help. He took a few deep breaths and opened the door.

Graham stood in front of him.

Joel started to close the door, but Graham put a hand up to hold it open.

Graham took a moment to find the right words.

"It wasn't just sex," he whispered.

Joel stared blankly at Graham.

"Can I come in?" Graham asked.

"I... You... Y..." Joel struggled.

"Do you want me to come back later?"

Joel froze. He didn't know if he wanted Graham to leave. He didn't know if he wanted him to come back. He didn't know what he wanted. He didn't... He...

Joel's heart raced. He forced himself to take slow breaths. After a long moment, Joel stepped back to allow Graham to enter.

"It wasn't just sex," Graham repeated. "Not for me. I tried to pretend it was, but..."

He stared at the floor.

"... I like being with you," he whispered.

There was a long pause. Joel sat on the bed, trying not to panic. He could barely hear Graham over his heart pounding in his ears.

"Joel?" Graham looked at him uncertainly. "Please... please say something."

"just... just sex." Joel murmured.

Graham nodded sadly and turned to leave.

Joel leapt up. "No!" He tried to speak, but nothing came out.

Graham paused uncertainly.

"Just... I... J... You..." Joel's throat closed around the words.

Graham's stomach hurt. He needed to know what Joel was trying to say. He needed to know that he hadn't just made a fool of himself.

"It... just sex... h-had to be..." Joel struggled to find the words. "I... You're way out of my league. I... I have a great... I work really hard to keep in shape. I'm proud of my body, but... there's nothing else... I don't have... You have an actual personality. For me... just my body. Just sex."

Joel's heart raced. He couldn't breathe. He tried to shrink into nothing. Why had he told Graham all that? Why did he keep telling Graham things?

Graham sat next to Joey and put a hand in his shoulder.

"Joel... You are so much more than your body. You are sweet and kind and... I'm so sorry I couldn't see it soon enough to... I'm so sorry I hurt you."

Joel shrugged.

"Can you..." Graham took a moment to find the words. "Do you want to go out sometime? For an actual date? Not just sex?"

Joel stared uncomprehending for a moment, then nodded.

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devilfic · 2 years

Text

❝where two are joined, relentlessly❞

V. ballroom blitz.

parts: previously / next plot: bruce needs a date, batman needs a partner. to some, there isn’t much of a difference. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: romance, flirting, fake dating, angst, protective bruce, something bisexual will happen to you, brief mention of human trafficking and drugging. words: 8.5k.

a/n: I have toiled with this monster for a bit, so I hope y’all enjoy!

Miss me, baby? xx

The note is written in ink so thick that it’s still wet when he folds it up his sleeve. As for the empty milk bottle it was left in, Bruce imagines the sender had enough foresight to keep their prints off the glass. Gordon leans out onto the balcony, not looking up from his notepad and pen, “Getting some fresh air?”

Tonight’s robbery was residential, another home with what should’ve been a brick wall of security. Within a matter of 45 minutes, the thief had gotten in and out with nearly $400,000 in jewelry. It wasn’t without great work, however: every security camera was smashed, and the airtight security detail the owner boasted of had not only been bested by the thief but incapacitated. Their methods weren’t complicated, but they were thorough. Not a trace left at any scene.

Except for this one note.

The bottle had been in plain sight. Had security or the GCPD gotten there first, he might not have made the discovery... which meant whoever had left it made sure that wouldn’t happen. Bruce’s eyes scan the rooftops of nearby brownstones for any lingering figures, but there’s no one he can pinpoint. If they’d been in the area until recently, they might’ve still been hiding, waiting for Bruce to receive their message. Anxiety starts to build. “You said the family was home during the robbery?”

Gordon nods, eyes trained on the glass. “Yep. Fast asleep, all of ‘em. The guards in the house were knocked out after power to the cameras got cut off. No one heard a thing.” Said guards were off by the bar being scolded by the lady of the house, each nursing their head wounds with ice packs.

“Not even the kids?” Two children sit in the living room, a clear view for Bruce through the balcony’s glass doors. The youngest, a little boy, holds a squirming dog in his arms. “Or the dog?”

“We think some mild drugging was involved. Nothing harmful, but the dog has some residual drowsiness. Might’ve been given a sedative just to cover all bases. Whoever’s behind these robberies does their research.”

Whoever’s behind these robberies doesn’t want anyone to get hurt. Violence isn’t their motive... except for the guards, that is. The anxiety that was building in Bruce’s chest is squashed, replaced with confusion instead. A criminal with this much prowess would make an effective (and terrifying) assassin, and yet they’re dead set on stealing jewelry. Whole collections of priceless artifacts bypassed for strings of diamonds and pearls. Bruce can’t fathom why.

“Anything special about that glass you got there?” Gordon moves closer but doesn’t aim to take it from him.

“No, not that I can tell. It’s spotless.” Bruce considers mentioning the note only to Gordon, but stops himself short. It wasn’t lack of trust; there were few people in the world Bruce trusted more than Jim Gordon, but there was only so much that stayed between the two. Unlike Batman, Gordon’s dedication to the city was hindered by his vow to the law. Burdening him with knowledge that Bruce had yet to fully examine the threat of felt irresponsible. Bruce passes the glass into Gordon’s hands freely.

At Bruce’s declaration, Gordon’s interest in it vanishes all at once, “Maybe one of the kids left it out here. I’ll have forensics run a check for any DNA just in case. Feel free to take off if you need to. I think we’ve gotten everything we can from here... once again.”

The dejection in Gordon’s tone is hard to miss. After all, these robberies were starting to become public gossip. Everyone and their mother in Gotham had an opinion on the GCPD’s lack of progress on the case, but no one more than those affected. Bruce couldn’t count on one hand the amount of stiff-necked victims he’d had insult both the GCPD’s and his own intelligence over the last few weeks. Bruce almost wanted to applaud the thief for their ability to piss off the most annoying people in the city. What he really wanted was to get it over with.

The commissioner heads back inside and Bruce follows. One of the children, the eldest girl, points at Bruce’s cape fluttering behind him in awe. The two children hardly look as roused by the night’s events as their parents do.

Outside, Bruce is seen off on his bike by the pillar lights guiding him out of the neighborhood, a stark change to the streetlights of the inner city. Out here, closer to the edge of the city, people could afford the kind of peace of mind that this thief regularly violated. Unfortunately, crocodile tears didn’t look any more appealing in this kind of light. He’d seen enough of them in the past month to satisfy him for a lifetime.

On his way back to the city, the bluetooth in his ear alerts him of an incoming call. Thinking nothing of it, Bruce answers. “I’m on my way to the tower, Alfred.”

A sniffle meets his ear in response, sounding very little like Alfred. “Bruce?” Your voice greets him instead, uncharacteristically choked, as if you were struggling to speak above a certain volume... or tears.

Bruce nearly crashes in an attempt to pull over on the side of the highway, his bike skidding across the blacktop just as another rider whizzes past. The smell of burnt rubber is the only thing anchoring him to the moment, the only thing not sending him back to that night 4 years ago when he’d last heard you cry. Bruce calls your name, struggling around the sound, and that same anxiety from earlier comes back tenfold.

He can’t hear much on your end other than your labored breathing. You sounded like you’d run a mile before calling him, and you never called him, “Are you back in the city yet? Can you... come get me? I need you.”

Bruce’s own breathing begins to pick up, and he revs the engine of his bike once more to get going. Bringing up the GPS on the bike’s screen, Bruce immediately starts tracking the call, “Where are you?”

“M-My apartment. I was just getting home from the tower when I noticed my front door was broken into.”

The GPS easily plants your location on his map and Bruce veers off the next exit, taking the quickest route it knows to get there. “You didn’t go inside, did you?”

“No, I’m in the hallway. You were the first one I t-thought to call.”

What warmth he should’ve felt at being your first choice was drowned out by the severity of the situation. Yes, he was fast, faster than a dispatch to your side of town would ever be, but the thought of you alone with a potential threat mere feet away from you made his skin sweat. What if he wasn’t fast enough? What if something happened to you before he could get there? He accelerates his bike as fast as it can go, whizzing through traffic lights and nearly clipping the fronts of vehicles. Gordon would have to do him a solid tomorrow morning.

“Keep talking to me,” Bruce commands, turning down an alley to cut through the next block, “what have you got to defend yourself?”

He hears you fiddling around on the other end and the clink of metal against metal. “I’ve got my keys. And mace. Are you almost here?”

Another street passes by. He’s nearly there. “Almost. Keep talking.”

You were good at that, keeping it together even in the face of fear. If he could keep you focused on talking, you wouldn’t have time to be scared... he wouldn’t either. “It’s nice to hear your voice. Even when you do the... the growly thing, it’s weirdly comforting. Maybe that’s why I called you first?” Bruce’s grip readjusts on the handles of his bike as your parked car comes into view. He all but throws himself off his bike when he arrives. “I didn’t distract you from your case, did I?”

There’s a brick keeping the entrance to your complex open that he’s thankful for, but it’s not hard to tell how the intruder got in. “You matter more.” Bruce answers, easy, not having to think about it.

You don’t speak for a few seconds. If Bruce wasn’t so distressed, he might’ve thought you didn’t know what to say to that. Instead, his mind goes to the worst possible option, taking two stairs at a time. He calls your name. You make a noise, “Sorry, yeah. Sorry. I can hear you inside. What floor are you on? I’m on the fifth.”

“Third.”

You exhale in relief. “That’s good. Is it bad that this is the first time I’ve invited you over? If whoever broke in didn’t swipe my nice china, I can still offer you a drink.”

Bruce throws the door to your floor open, spitting him out into the hallway a few doors down from you. The sound of the door banging against the wall has your phone slipping to the floor with a thud, but the call hardly matters anymore now that he’s here. You stand there, shaking, keys clutched between your fingers, and Bruce tries not to think of a younger you.

Because he made it this time.

His heavy boots thunk, thunk, thunk against the hardwood, a sound that drove fear into the hearts of every lowlife in Gotham. If anyone was still lingering in your home, they would be better off running now while he was still gracious enough to give a warning.

Your lip trembles when he approaches, on the verge of saying something: maybe a joke to lighten the mood, or a “thank you”. Whatever you’re going to say must not matter that much when Bruce reaches for you.

His gloved hands dwarf your face in between them and he wonders if he looks frightening in the dark of the hallway. He’d used this body to intimidate so much—to drive fear into the hearts and minds of all those unlucky enough to cross him—that using it to soothe you felt so far left, so out of his intended purpose.

It’s unlike him, so completely unlike the man he’s been to you, but you’re leaning into him. Your own hands cup over his own as if to reassure him of his choice to reach for you. “You got here fast.” You murmur.

His rapid heart’s only relief is that you are safe. “You needed me.” He answers this too, easy, not having to think about it.

Your apartment was thankfully empty, the culprit having made off with only a few valuables your family had collected over the years. After Bruce’s initial investigation (and certainty that you were no longer in immediate danger), he called in the cavalry with his last name alone. Whoever had broken in would have hell to pay and he’d see to it himself.

Bruce hadn’t brought his own change of clothes, so you had offered him the best alternatives you could find (an old sweater, slacks that once belonged to your father). It didn’t matter that he looked so out of place against the background of your humble home; when the first officers arrived, he’d channeled a confidence you’d rarely seen in him. Bruce handed the GCPD his business card, told them to contact him if anything came up, and that if they needed to talk to you, Wayne Tower was where you’d be. It’s where you’ve been for the past week and a half.

It’s an uncharacteristically sunny day for Gotham, so Bruce finds you out on a balcony with Dory’s morning tea, scanning some papers you’d sneaked away from his father’s study when Alfred wasn’t looking. You look up, surprised but not unhappy when he joins you, “You’re still up?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Thought you were supposed to be taking off time from work.”

The truth was that you had been (you’d had no choice with the way Bruce had fretted over you). You did everything to keep yourself busy: reading, visiting your mother more, helping Alfred with house affairs. Hell, you even had Bruce teach you how to ride his bike once when you were particularly restless—the thing had nearly squished you on a bad turn and you’d been banned from riding since then—but no amount of R&R could keep your mind off that night. Not completely.

So paperwork it was. “I think my brain is turning to mush with all the time off, so I thought I’d check over some financial documents.”

Bruce takes the seat beside you, looking over the glass fencing and out onto the city. Along with sunglasses, he was also donning a hoodie with the hood pulled well over his visage. Bruce wasn’t the only Gothamite sensitive to sudden bouts of sun, but his escapades as the Batman made it nearly impossible to enjoy anything before sundown. Your dreams of a Bat team beach day in Bora Bora would remain dreams, you were afraid.

You wait to see if he’ll scold you, or even worse, ask you how you’re feeling, but he remains silent. That was one of the nice things about Bruce that you often failed to appreciate: he didn’t press you to talk. In the beginning, his silences had felt awkward and unusual. Silences had long been something to avoid for you because it always felt indicative of your (lack of) skill: did you belong? Were you interesting enough? Could you really hold your own so young?

Over time, silence started to mean something else with Bruce. You’d always meant to make him more comfortable with talking, but maybe he’d made you more comfortable observing. There was merit to it, a skill that many in his position seemed to underestimate.

By the time you’ve finished all your paperwork, the morning has shifted into early noon. Bruce remained quiet in his seat the entire time, never shifting. You were almost under the impression he’d taken a nap. “Wanna get lunch? I’ve been meaning to try out a new recipe.”

Bruce glances over the rim of his glasses at you, “One of your mother’s?”

A sudden, endeared laugh escapes you. He hadn’t shut up about that soup since the day he first had it, “No, but I will ask her for some since you’re so eager.” Bruce nods, content, and follows you back into the penthouse without any fuss.

On the way to the kitchen, Alfred flags you both down, “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you two.”

Just as you’re about to answer him, you notice something... peculiar out of the corner of your eye: Bruce had stiffened. Turning fully toward him does nothing. He won’t look at you. Alfred looks just as confused. “You have...? Is something wrong?” You ask, looking back to the butler.

It takes the older man only a few seconds to realize what’s going on—whatever that might be—because his expression shifts into one of understanding. And amusement. “Master Bruce?” Alfred only ever used that title when jovial, but there’s humor in the situation that you’re just not picking up on.

Bruce looks uncomfortable.

Just then, you hear Dory bounding into the room with a corded phone tucked to her ear, straining to reach without pulling the plug. She barely acknowledges you in favor of inquiring something of Bruce, “Master Wayne! Perfect timing, the shop wants to know if you’d prefer midnight black or obsidian?”

“Maybe his date should decide, Dory.” Alfred chimes in behind a smile that clearly belies more than you’re privy to.

“Date? You’re going on a date, Bruce?” You tug on Bruce’s sleeve in disbelief.

Oh, Bruce looks agonized. Dory murmurs a “Master Wayne? They’re still on the line” from what feels like somewhere far away from this moment.

Then, Bruce turns to you, face sunken in what you can only assume to be all five stages of grief at once. His voice is barely above a whisper, “There’s a charity ball Friday night. We’re invited every year.”

You can’t quite put together what this has to do with you.

Dory makes an exasperated noise, pressing the phone to her chest. “Oh, heavens. You haven’t asked yet?” Alfred is smiling like he wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else in the world right now.

Bruce flinches just the tiniest bit. He does his best to get through his next words while keeping eye contact with you, “I’d meant to... ask. On the balcony.” Was that why he’d been so quiet? “Would you accompany me? As my... date.”

Oh, heavens indeed.

Lunch ended up being last night’s dinner as the rest of the preparations were finalized in the Batcave. You could tell Bruce was thankful to have escaped Alfred and Dory’s teasing, but neither of you would be safe for very long.

“So, what’s the lead?” You ask, leaning forward with your palms flat to the desk’s surface. Bruce flips through a series of images on his screen: some are of mansions broken into, others are of museums or jewelry stores. According to the file Bruce had compiled, the one string tying them all together was what was missing from each crime scene: a whole lot of diamonds and pearls.

Bruce clicks through a slideshow of broken security cameras, “Everything but a name and a face. They’ve been breaking into high-profile jewelry collections all across the city since the 12th, and I’ve been working with the GCPD on getting an ID but... no dice. Whoever is doing this is better than good: they’re professional.”

“But why are we only hearing about them now?”

“Every single one of these robberies were bound to end up on the news even if they weren’t connected to the others. They’re making a performance out of it for some reason. Gordon thinks they’ve got something to prove.”

“Could it be more than that?” You offer, catching Bruce’s eye, “Maybe they’re setting a trap.”

“For the Batman?”

You inhale deeply, looking over the pictures some more. All expensive jewelry, all high-profile, and all within days of each other, “Maybe. From your files, it looks like they’ve only gotten bolder since you were put on the case, but they’re clearly pulling the strings here. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was leading up to something.”

His eyes narrow a fraction, “Then they’ll definitely be at the ball this Friday.”

“You think so?”

Bruce reaches somewhere amongst the mess on his desk to present you with a small, folded note. Some of the writing is smudged, but it’s clear enough to make out the message. Your eyes widen as you read, “Someone left this for you?”

“Selina Kyle did.”

You just about drop the note altogether, “Selina Kyle? I thought she was in Blüdhaven.”

“She’s supposed to be. I found this one over a week ago. I couldn’t sample any DNA from the note, but it was left in a milk bottle at the scene... as if ‘baby’ wasn’t enough to give it away,” Bruce shakes his head then, as if ridding himself of some thought he shouldn’t share, “I found another a few days ago. Delivered the same way.” He passes the new note to you.

See U at the ball. xx

“Every member of the social elite will be at this ball to donate millions to the city, most likely wearing millions more. It’s no Cartier at midnight, but I doubt the thief could resist.”

You frown, “What does Gordon think about all this?”

“I was the only one to see the notes and, so far, you and I are the only ones who know about them. I would’ve told Gordon by now, except for the fact that Bruce Wayne is supposed to be at this party... and because I’m not sure what Selina’s play is here.”

“Do you think the thief might be Selina?”

“Either Selina’s got info for me or she’s the culprit. Either way, I won’t know unless I go to the ball.”

You take another look over Bruce’s files, trying to find any patterns that either of you might’ve missed. While the pieces stolen were certainly worth a lot, there was a strange pickiness to the thief’s heists. Were they targeting specific pieces for resale value? A lot of these weren’t even the most expensive in their collections. It was almost as if they were picking their favorites, what they would want to own. Bruce hadn’t described Selina as much of an aesthete. Could she really be the mastermind behind all of this? “Well, Selina or not, between this thief and the Riddler, the thief seems more fun.”

Bruce snorts, “Really?”

“Yeah. The Riddler was self-righteous, wanting to be Gotham’s God and flush the city of all its sinners. From what we’ve seen of this thief, the most harm they’ve done is... steal pretty things? Maybe it’s because I grew up on the other side of the tracks, but the people they’re stealing from will have another piece in a week to replace whatever was stolen.”

“They’re not taking innocent lives, but don’t you think this is worth stopping too?” Had anyone else asked you a question like that, you might’ve bristled, but Bruce hadn’t asked to enrage you or trap you in some moral gotcha. The gentle lilt in his voice was curious. He really wanted to know what you thought.

You stand up straighter, clearing your throat, “If theft were so important, the GCPD would care more about people like me getting their livelihoods upended by muggers. What we lose isn’t important enough, even though it’s much harder to get back. They only care so much about this because money is involved.”

Your boss shifts, a hint of discomfort on his face at your assertion, but he doesn’t disagree with you. It’s no mystery why the GCPD had rushed to your apartment the minute Bruce called them in, after all. Had it been you, the frightened victim living in a complex on the “wrong” side of town, who knows how long it would have taken for them to get to you? There was a reason why Bruce had made it clear just who was calling. “Then,” Bruce leans closer, conspiratorially, “you still want to come?”

“Hell yes. Obviously.”

His lip quirks up at the corner, briefly, “We have to set some ground rules.”

“You got it, boss. What’s first?”

“No wandering off,” Bruce starts, watching the way your excitement starts to dim, “the crowd has changed, and I don’t want you getting mixed up with the wrong people when I’m not looking.”

That was fair enough, though it was a shame. It was your first ball and you couldn’t even explore? “Glued to your side all night, got it. What’s next?”

“You’re only going as my extra eyes and ears. If anything dangerous happens, I’m sending you right back to the tower. No arguing.”

“Fine... anything else?”

Bruce hesitates. Worrying his bottom lip, you notice his eyes fixed with conflict. “People are going to speculate. About you and me. I think it might be... easier, if we go along with it. Just for the night.”

Was he suggesting what you thought he was suggesting? “Like... pretend that we’re... a couple?” Bruce can’t bring himself to do much more than nod, cheeks turning rosy. Or maybe it was just the fluorescents. “Why? N-Not that I’m against it, I mean, but won’t it draw too much unnecessary attention?”

“Yes, exactly that. They’ll be emboldened by blurred lines. If we draw a clear line in the sand...” Bruce looks from you to the floor, “...no one will cross it.”

Oh no, you felt like you were a teenager again. It shouldn’t entice you this much, the prospect of being seen as spoken for by Bruce, but who were you kidding? If he was convinced, you didn’t need much else to agree. After all, how many people would ever get to pretend to be the Gotham prince’s object of affection? You weren’t crazy enough to pass this up. Embarrassment be damned. “Just for the night.”

“Three hours, really, if you’re counting.”

“You’ve gotta buy me something nice to wear.” Your eyes flash with mischief. If Bruce regretted this idea, he’d have tough luck talking you out of it now. “I’ve always wanted real diamonds.”

Bruce hadn’t disappointed. The night of the ball, you’d found a sleek, black box laid out on your bed. Inside, beneath layers of wrapping paper, you’d found the most beautiful outfit you’d ever seen—or touched—in your life.

The fabric was a velvety black (obsidian, to be exact, at your request), dusted with small specks of silver that resembled the starry midnight sky. When you’d put it on, you found that every bit of it fit to your body as if Bruce had taken your measurements himself. You fluster at the thought of his hands on your shoulders, on your waist...

“Do you like it?”

You spin from the mirror, seeing Bruce taking up all the space in the doorway, fixing a cufflink into one of his sleeves. His suit matched your own outfit, the same rich velvet that glittered in the dim lamplight. You noticed, too, as he moved further into the room, that something else had changed.

His cheekbone-kissing fringe had been cut to his brow, fashionably mussed and carefree. You couldn’t tell if it was Bruce’s idea or if Alfred had taken the liberty as it looked so unlike the Bruce you knew, but you couldn’t find it in you to dislike it. In fact, “You look amazing.” You mutter, transfixed by how the cut accentuated his features. Had his jaw always been so sharp?

Bruce’s eyes flutter away from yours quickly, “I was... referring to your outfit.”

You blink, as if only just remembering what you were wearing. “Oh! Yes, it’s stunning, Bruce. Thank you. I don’t know where I’d wear something like this again, but it’s making me want to find a place.”

Bruce’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, audible even from far away, “If tonight isn’t catastrophic, I have a few recommendations. Are you finished getting ready?” You nod. Bruce steps forward and brandishes a small drawstring from his pocket, fingers prying it open until you hear something tinkling and tumbling out into his palm.

There’s a pair of matching diamond tennis bracelets, dainty, void of any showiness. You take one, awed by its delicacy. Bruce keeps the other and begins to clasp it around his wrist as you do the same. As soon as yours is fastened, you lean your wrist toward Bruce’s, admiring the way it compares. You try not to focus on how his slender hand compares to yours, too. “Not the thief’s style, but I thought you might like them.” Bruce explains.

“You didn’t have to,” you respond, then jump to sound more appreciative, “they’re beautiful. Thank you.”

Alfred and Dory see you downstairs, gushing over how handsome you both look and sending you on your way. As the doors close and the penthouse elevator descends, Bruce reaches into his pocket and passes you a metal case no bigger than your palm. At first, you think it might be another piece of jewelry, but no; this was so much cooler.

You look at Bruce, full of childlike wonder. “It’ll make things easier,” he explains, watching as you carefully pluck one of the contact lenses from the case, “help you register any faces you don’t know.”

“I get to wear the Batlenses?”

Bruce takes the other lens onto his finger and places it in his eye, “Don’t call them that.”

“You put ‘Bat’ in front of everything else. Like the Batmobile. And the Batcomputer.” Bruce hands you a bluetooth, matching the discreet one tucked away in his own ear.

“We’re not calling them Batlenses.”

You grin impishly, having already made up your mind. You blink a few times before feeling the lens settle comfortably over your eye, “How does it look?”

You look up at Bruce, imagining that he might say something about how it doesn’t look like anything, that it’s not supposed to... but he’s just looking at you. No smile, no grimace. Just looking. If he can actually see anything, he isn’t telling you.

The elevator jostles on the lobby floor, effectively snapping you out of your shared trance. Bruce is faster than the opening doors, twisting his hand over, palm up. At first, you don’t know what he’s trying to show you, but then his hand lowers and flexes into yours, taking it into his grasp. The chains of your bracelets softly clink! when the insides of your wrists brush.

“The press,” he justifies, but you’re hypnotized by the feeling of his hand, a feeling that travels through your fingers and up your arm and settles in your chest, “they’ll be waiting outside.”

“Right.” Your reply comes out more like a breath, a honeyed sigh.

You’d talked to a few people in the upper echelon in the past, all within business hours, but you’d never seen this many all gathered in the same room as you. There were sweeping evening gowns here, a dazzling chandelier there, and the most enchanting music playing from the live orchestra across the room. Bruce was guiding you across the floor like a child steering a kite.

The only thing you didn’t like were the stares. You hadn’t been prepared for the way paparazzi flocked to snap pictures of you arm in arm, but you were even less prepared for the stares you got here. All of them carried a heavy weight. Out there, the press was curious: who were you, and how in the hell had you bagged a Wayne? In here, you felt like a genuine threat being assessed.

You lean up to Bruce’s ear, trying to be discreet, “I can see why you don’t like coming to these things now.”

Bruce’s eyes never leave the crowd, scanning for the thief or Selina or both, but he does smirk, “What was it that you said before? About me dog walking half of Gotham?” He glimpses at you, amused by your sheepishness, “I’d be dog walking wolves.”

He was right. Even though Bruce carried his own formidable air, these people had the claws and teeth to give him a run for his money. It didn’t help that everywhere you turned, you weren’t sure who was friend and who was foe. Everyone had the same smile, but whose champagne-stained lips were hiding their fangs? The lenses could only tell you so much.

You’d expected the interest to die off by the second hour, but you were still finding wandering eyes on you everywhere you turned.

Countless individuals approached the two of you all night, catching up on Bruce’s life and asking questions about your “relationship”, but Bruce danced around them with expertise. You found that the longer he talked, bits of someone else came out. It wasn’t the Bruce you’d known for the last year. This Bruce was a necessity, buried under years of inactivity only to be drawn out for special occasions like tonight. And two weeks ago.

When you expressed concern, Bruce had told you to stay anchored to his side, to keep up the play of the newlywed-esque couple. You didn’t hate it... God, how could you? It felt like you were stuck in a fantasy of your own infatuated design. Like you’d fallen asleep on the balcony and were about to be awakened by Gotham’s sobering rain. If you were, you’d like to keep up this fantasy for a bit longer.

It wasn’t until it drew closer to the end of the night that anyone wanted to talk business.

Bruce invited you into the conversations, citing you as more fixed into the company’s bloodstream than himself, but it’s Bruce they’re really after. He was the one with the name on the buildings.

So you leave them to their discussions and watch the crowd, keeping an eye on him in case he started to look for a way out. After all, the two of you had a mission to accomplish here.

Bruce had been pointing out everyone he could recognize the entire night, making a list of those he’d never seen before, and you’d been keeping mental tabs on them all. To your disappointment, nearly every single suspect you’d compiled was either too smashed to walk straight or didn’t fit the description of your culprit. None looked capable of committing crimes as sophisticated as your thief.

None had the grace, the agility, the awareness to even-

There, head craned over her shoulder, was a person you were certain you’d seen before. It looked like she was scanning the crowd for something. You should’ve known that watching her for too long would spell trouble.

Dark shimmer tracing her eyes deepens the intensity of the stare that meets yours. When you make eye contact, those razor-sharp eyes narrow in on you.

The lenses identify her, pointlessly, as “KYLE, SELINA [Unknown]”.

You couldn’t even blame the crowd that parted for her as she began to move. Move. She was moving. “Bruce... Bruce!” You catch a flash of irritation on his conversation partner’s face, but Bruce has already given you his full attention. “Selina’s here.”

But it isn’t until she’s standing before you in the flesh that Bruce reacts in any real way. He jerks back and Selina smiles up at him as if he’d moved to be polite, the gentleman that Bruce Wayne should be. You’re overwhelmed by the scent of her perfume—something floral that lingers—clouding your senses until all you can focus on is her, even as she addresses Bruce, “I’m sorry, honey. I saw your date melting with boredom over here and thought I might steal them for a dance. Is that alright with you?”

Was she... did she mean you?

One of her hands flutters to your upper arm and her knife-like nails glisten, one misstep away from cutting a tear into your skin. Even with her playful tone, her grip on you is alarmingly stronger than you’d anticipated.

You don’t blame Bruce for not knowing what to say. He stands there, dumbfounded, unsure of how to continue now that he was seeing her as Bruce instead of Batman. Without the cowl to shroud him, he was exposed, naked to her discerning eye. His conversation partners were too busy gawking at Selina to even notice his turmoil, but if Bruce fumbled for much longer, the situation would get awkward.

You hadn’t the faintest clue why Selina had targeted you of all people, but you’d come here to help. After all, what could go wrong with a little dancing?

“I, for one, would love to dance.” You flash a toothy grin at Selina that she matches. Her eyes, though, scan yours for... something.

Whether she finds it or not, she pulls you toward the dance floor.

The orchestra had begun to wind down by this time of night, playing the slower songs for couples who were plump on champagne. You appreciated that, at the very least, Selina didn’t seem too intent on the actual dancing part of dancing. She guides your hand to her hip and takes the other captive, keeping a hair’s breadth between your bodies.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you at one of these before,” you try to sound like this wasn’t your first time at one of these too, “I don’t remember seeing you enter, either.”

Selina hums, “Is that why you were staring so rudely?”

You mouth gapes, embarrassed. You try to stammer out an apology even though she doesn’t look keen on one, “I’m sorry, it was just that you looked... familiar.”

“I forgive you,” she laughs, “to tell you the truth, I don’t like being on time for parties. It’s always better to show up when the fun’s already started, you know?” When you nod, hanging onto her every word, she continues, “But you miss some things, showing up late. I’m just glad I managed to catch you and the Gotham prince together. Last time I was in the city, he was still locked up in that tower of his.”

“Yeah, a lot’s changed in the last few months.”

Selina rubs her thumb along the curve of your shoulder, oddly intimate, but you don’t feel uncomfortable even under her unwavering eye contact. Selina touched you with an awareness, laser-focused on the littlest sign of discomfort. Her perceptive nature leaves you feeling naked, too. “Guess almost getting blown up by a guy in cling wrap really does a number on you.”

You suppress a flinch at the memory of that terrible night, trying to spin the conversation back onto Selina, “Did you come alone?”

“I was supposed to meet someone here, but he stood me up.”

Batman? You hear Bruce make a noise into the bluetooth. “Really?” You recover, “Maybe he was running late. Did you... call him?”

For the first time since you two started dancing, Selina breaks eye contact with you, laughing at an inside joke that wasn’t so inside. “Nah. A girl’s gotta know how to have fun on her own, anyway.” She sways you to the gentle tune, guiding you back to her when your circles get too wide, too impersonal. “I never caught your name.” You give it up easily, wondering how she might answer if you asked for the same, “...is there a Wayne at the end of that?”

“Oh! No.” You stutter. It was just your luck that you couldn’t see Bruce through the throngs of dancing people anymore, nor hear him in your ear, “I... me and Mr. Wayne, we’re not... married.” Why you decided against elaborating escaped you. Perhaps it was petty given your circumstances, the desire to stand before the woman who’d known the Bat and claim to know the man behind him.

“Could’ve fooled me, honey. Word of advice: keep your distance. Men like that’ll try to buy you, and if you’re not careful, they’ll try to kill you too.”

You bark a tense laugh, disbelieving, nervous, “I think he’ll be the death of me but not in the way you think.”

Selina’s uncertain. “Does he feel the same?”

You squirm. She was small, Selina, barely past the 5′ mark in heels, but she had the presence to tower over you. One could mistake the way she looked at you as judgment, but that wasn’t fair to her. There was something deeper there. A genuine concern; maybe not concern for you individually, but for someone like you. Maybe. “I don’t know what you mean.”

You’re thankful she believes you on that, “I don’t know much about Bruce Wayne, I’ll be honest, but I do know that ever since his mommy and daddy died, he hasn’t done a thing for this city with all that money. I don’t lose any sleep over it: that’s what they’re all like. But it’s obvious you’re not from the same world, so if you’re sure about him, I hope you don’t ever end up like... some do.”

You’re stunned. How she had read you like an open book was one thing, but her sincere warning was another. You remembered bits of her file from when you’d first gotten your hands on it and the mention of Carmine Falcone, the now deceased crime lord the Riddler had taken down and her father to boot. While you didn’t know everything, you imagined you weren’t far off thinking this warning was from experience.

But Bruce... he must be more special than you realize if Selina found him at least worthy within the cowl. Her warning was for Bruce, the identity, not the Bruce she didn’t know she knew. “I understand, but I can promise you that Bruce Wayne is different. He’s a good man. He’s the most wonderful man I know, even. I know on the surface it might not look like it, but you won’t meet a more selfless man than Bruce. Out in the light of day or... behind closed doors.” Her eyebrows raise, skeptical. Or knowing. “I feel safe with him, believe me... can I keep you on speed dial, anyway? Just in case things go sideways?”

Selina laughs a hearty laugh that splits her face into a smile, “Yeah, sure. I don’t mind making rich boys jealous.”

“Thank you,” your thanks comes out in a whisper, “I’m not just saying that. Really.” Her deep eyes crinkle up at the edges with a smaller smile, a hint of relief in the action. Just then, the final drag of violin strings carries across the room, signifying the end of your waltz. Your disappointment is evident on your face when Selina begins to pull away, “Oh- you’re leaving already?”

“I’m sorry, honey,” and she sounds genuine in her apology, “I’d love to keep you from your man for another song, but I’ve got some things to take care of.”

“How long will you be in Gotham?” You hope your hopeful tone doesn’t scare her off.

Selina watches you for a few moments longer, seemingly digging for that same something she’d been looking for when she’d whisked you away. Again, you have no idea if she finds it or not.

With an exaggerated sigh, Selina drags her fingers from your shoulder to squeeze your wrist, like a good friend saying goodbye. “It was lovely getting to know you. Enjoy the rest of your night, hm? Tell Brucie I’m sorry for all the trouble.” And then she peels away from you, giving you a longing smile before making her way up the stairs at the back of the venue and off down a hall, leaving you lonely in a sea of couples.

You don’t notice it immediately. Not until you’re looking for Bruce and he’s nowhere to be found. “Bruce? Selina’s leaving.” Wind whistles on the other end. You turn and turn, but you can’t spot him no matter how hard you look. He hadn’t been dragged off by someone, had he? You would’ve heard. “Bruce?”

“Took you long enough, honey.”

Selina’s voice is wispy, so close to Bruce that you almost mistake her for having reappeared by your side. He must’ve been on the roof, waiting for her while you both danced. How she’d known he’d be there, you hadn’t the faintest clue.

“Selina...” Bruce’s voice caresses the sound of her name in a way you’d never heard him say before. It was different when she wasn’t there: a gentle softening, something you could miss. You couldn’t imagine what it was like for him to see her now after so many months apart. You get the sudden, aching feeling that you weren’t supposed to be listening to this.

“Always watching from afar. Just like the first time-” You rip the bluetooth from your ear just then, perhaps with more force than necessary, and make your way back to the entrance of the venue. It’s significantly colder out now that it’s midnight (and Bruce’s broad body isn’t warming your side). It doesn’t take you long before the Wayne’s chauffeur pulls around the curb to collect you. It might’ve felt embarrassing to be leaving without him after all the buzz you’d created on arrival, had you not the restraint to stamp it down and get in the car anyway.

The sudden shift in your mood feels... childish. That teenager feeling from before was truer than ever now, your emotions shifting and twisting while your adult brain struggled to stay in control. You’d accepted your place in Bruce’s life just fine, even when the desire for more came and went. So why... why did it feel like you’d sprinted to the finish line tonight, only to come up second place at the last second?

What else had you expected to happen? That tonight might actually fulfill your fantasy? That Selina wouldn’t show after all and you’d get to dance with- “Just you?” The chauffeur politely asks from the front.

“Yes,” your voice cracks, “just me.”

You sleep horribly.

When your body jolts upright at 3 a.m., the dregs of an incomprehensible dream slipping away, you’re greeted by the moonlit dark of your room. Your clothes—which you’d hastily pried off by the fireplace— still lay by the hearth, glittering. You’d have to return them to Bruce when you saw him next.

Try as you might to get back to sleep, however, your body fights you with wild-running thoughts of the night. Alfred had already been to bed by the time you’d arrived, and the absence of the butler’s comfort had made the sleep you could find even more miserable.

Maybe there was some paperwork you could sneak in to tire your mind. Bruce probably wasn’t home, and Alfred was asleep. No one could really stop you. Mind made up, you slip out of bed and tug on something to cover your state of undress, maneuvering through the dark with unease.

He’s not expecting you there either.

The second you open your door, you see Bruce filling your doorway again. He was still dressed in the Batsuit but his cowl was discarded somewhere else, revealing his haunted expression fully. You can still see the remnants of his signature pomade around his eyes, messily applied on the rooftop stairwell no doubt. He might’ve asked you to help him if you had been there.

Bruce must feel like he’s stared at you long enough. He turns, cape spreading out behind him, and starts to walk away.

“Bruce!” You shout, never more grateful for Alfred’s room being so far away from your own. Bruce stops, but doesn’t turn to look at you. You’re grateful for that too, your own face haunted. “How’d it go?”

Bruce’s head turns, not fully looking over his shoulder, “You’ll see on the news in the morning.”

That pushes you out into the hallway. “Was it Selina?”

“I don’t know.”

His short response frustrates you. “What does that mean?”

He turns more, this time looking less haunted and more annoyed. “We didn’t talk about that.” At your bewildered expression, he continues reluctantly, “She had information on something else; someone at the ball was involved in a trafficking ring. I followed the lead and she was right.”

Was that really all Selina had to say to him? You had a strong feeling there was more, but why he wasn’t sharing it with you... he hadn’t been afraid to divulge the details of his relationship with her in the past. You stop yourself before Bruce notices the green in your eyes. “That’s... good. At least.”

“You left.”

You pause, exhausted brain attempting to keep up with the line of conversation. “You seemed busy.”

Bruce’s forehead wrinkles, fully turning to you. “You didn’t tell me you were leaving.”

“I was just the eyes and ears, remember?” You try your best not to sound petulant, “I’m not arrogant enough to think the Batman needs my help much past that.”

Bruce approaches you, his heavy boots muffled against the hallway runner. You brace yourself against your doorframe, worrying if he got too close—if he saw right through you—he’d know what you were really upset about. “You promised you wouldn’t wander off.”

“What, like you did?” You snap.

“I was watching you from the skylight. Then your comms went dead as soon as Selina appeared.”

You sincerely hoped he hadn’t put two and two together, “I... I didn’t want to invade your privacy. You two haven’t seen each other in months. I thought you might... want to...” You glance up at him and hope he won’t make you finish that sentence. Bruce didn’t look any more understanding.

“You didn’t have to leave.” He insists, and there’s a tenderness in the way he says it, aware that you’re upset even if he’s unaware as to why. It makes the pinch behind your eyes grow sharper. “Did you mean what you said? To Selina?”

You were too tired for this conversation, “Did I mean what? Which part?” And there were many parts, having flowed from your mouth like you’d been under oath.

“That you feel safe with me.”

You hope your sharp inhale isn’t telling enough. Gripping the doorknob, you start to slink back into your bedroom. Bruce follows you. “Yes, I- I don’t want to talk about that right now. Seriously.” Where was the Bruce from minutes ago who was too annoyed to deal with you? Why couldn’t he come back?

Bruce’s eyes widen, innocent. Even with the dark muck around them and the imposing armor of the Batsuit, he looks young. He looks like the glimpses of Bruce Wayne that you’d seen in newspapers when you were younger. “The Return of Gotham’s Prince” printed above a photo of a fresh-faced Bruce Wayne, only 17 on summer break from boarding school. He’d looked just as pretty then as he did now, even with the ghosts of the present weighing him down.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Bruce compromises, “I just wanted to see you.”

You were 17 again too, thinking he was so pretty just like you did then. You wonder why God had to be so cruel as to give you this moment and ask only for you to take the leap. Because he was right there, and all you had to lose was everything. You were too tired for this conversation. “Bruce?” You sigh, as if you were suddenly concerned with speaking too loudly, being caught.

He watches you, waiting.

It’s not hard to pull him into you, not when he’d been waiting for it, leaning into you with nearly all his weight. He only manages not to fall into you with his one hand braced on the doorframe, the other slipping behind your head to keep your lips pressed against his. The sheer want that you share between breaths is more gratifying than you’d been ready to experience and every bit of hesitance melts out of your muscles at once.

You’re not even bothered that he’s out of practice. His kiss is insistent, passionate if not skillful, and it feels better somehow.

The hand on the back of your skull falls to your waist and you’re practically manhandled into meeting him hip to hip. The suit pinching through the fabric of your nightclothes doesn’t even bother you. Bruce is kissing you stupid, numb. It feels too good to complain.

Far too soon—and too soon could’ve meant forever when it came to kissing Bruce—Bruce is parting from you, watching you chase after him with hooded eyes. His compromise is resting his forehead against yours, allowing you to catch your breath.

The tingle in your lips is all you physically have to remember the kiss, but your mind is running wild with scenarios that haven’t even happened yet. “I’m sorry,” you say, unapologetically, but feel the courtesy wouldn’t hurt, “I should’ve asked first.”

Up so close, even in the dark, Bruce’s eyes are the most brilliant blue you’ve ever seen. How you’d managed to hold back this long had to be an Olympian effort, a record-breaker for yearning. “It’s okay. I would have said yes.”

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne scenarios #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne #batman x reader #batman scenarios #batman imagine #the batman #battinson x reader #mjwrites #jesus christ #finally!!!#i'm gonna go read the before the batman novel now adios

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sugarylawliet · 3 years

Text

no good for me (light yagami x reader)

i’m back lol

> warnings: smut, degradation, spit kink, inappropriate use of the death note, VERY toxic relationship, song fic kinda, lyrics are in bold and italics, based off of diet mountain dew by lana del ray

> tag list: @ygm1slt @cradiot28

❛ you’re no good for me, baby you’re no good for me ❜

Nothing on this earth scared you more than the man you were about to see; the pretty boy brunette flaunting good grades and a picturesque family life whose facade of ambitious, respectful young man was a mask almost no one could see through. Some people felt dread at the thought of spiders or snakes, felt fear in their stomach imagining the paranormal, shadow ghosts or criminal stalkers invading their comfort zones. None of these perfectly rational fears scared you the way Light Yagami scared you. There was no fear to be had at the thought of something undesirable creeping its way into your privacy or comfort zone, because Light had manipulated his way into your comfort and trust long ago. He was scarier than a murderer ready to kill at an urge’s call, his blood lust hid in shadows behind his golden boy facade, his words were tools and his touches were negotiations. You couldn’t trust a single thing that came from his mouth, you often questioned your own sanity. Light Yagami had a terrifying grip on you, and it was exactly what he wanted.

Your eyes scan over the text Light had sent you for the millionth time, the words almost ingrained in your head at this point.

Come to my house. We need to talk.

You were sure he kept his words vague on purpose, yet another tactic to keep you at his disposal out of pure fear. You weren’t exactly sure if you loved Light anymore; what was your definition of love at this point? You loved him, yes, but was it out of obligation? Was it survival instinct?

It was true, in the beginning you had loved Light purely and truly. You believed his ambition was justice, to make the world a better and safer place for you. But as time went on, “Kira doesn’t kill innocents” began racking up more and more exceptions, and as the twisted justifications spilled from his mouth, so did the gaslighting. Over and over, his sweet words convinced you to keep coming back. His empty promises were a drug and you were addicted.

His text, you were sure, was a reference to this fizzling out of your love for him. He could sense it, and surely he must have found out you were planning on leaving. You weren’t planning on revealing that he’s Kira- that would cause more commotion you were not interested in being a part of- no, you simply wanted to move states, get away and forget about Light Yagami, forget about Kira and Ryuzaki and Ryuk and everything that has overtaken your life. However, if he did find out your plans to skip town, you may just have to reveal that he’s Kira for safety measures.

❛ you’re no good for me, but baby i want you ❜

Hestiently, you opened the door you had been staring at blankly for what felt like hours. Light had been staying in an upscale hotel during the investigation, so maybe the other tenants could hear you if you screamed for help; the overdramatic thought brought you comfort.

You walk in the room, closing the door behind you. You’re met with the sight of Light’s back as he sits in the rolling chair across the room. In the absence of any words, without even seeing his face, you know he’s mad. Every slight change of Light’s emotions could strangle a whole room by tension alone; his aura manipulated the feeling in the air, which served as a helpful alarm to know when he is upset. And man, is he upset.

You open your mouth to greet him, but he cuts you off, spinning around in his chair to face you, “Don’t talk.” You nod and close your mouth. Why do you even listen to what he says?

“I knew I couldn’t trust you. From the very beginning I knew you would run that pretty little mouth of yours. I know you’re planning on leaving. And then what? Telling the first news outlet you see that I’m Kira?”

“No Light,”

“I said don’t talk.” He stands up from his chair, “If you tell everyone, you’ll also have to tell on yourself. Imagine what everyone would think of you if they knew...You knew I was Kira and you still dated me, you defended me, you kept my secret, you even got on your knees for me. Are you gonna tell that to the media? That you let Kira fuck you?”

You purse your lips, restraining yourself from talking back. You knew it would only make things worse, but you couldn’t stand the way he talked down on you and expected you to take it.

“Come here.” He motioned to his desk and you followed, sitting on his lap per his instruction. He placed the death note open on the desk, handing you the pen. With one hand gripping yours and the other on your hip, he began to guide your hand, the pen spilling out the first letter of your name on the pages.

❛ do you think we’ll be in love forever? ❜

“N-No, Light, you can’t do this, please.” You begged, your heart rate quickening as you realize what he was doing. It can’t end like this, it just can’t.

“Shhh, just write. That’s it, baby. This is what bad girls get, you see?” His death grip tightened on your hand as he spelled out your name, the last letters leering closer and closer before you could register the implications of what he was doing. This was it, this was really it.

Light lets his free hand wander up to your jawline, pulling your face closer to yours and enveloping you in a kiss as he wrote the last letter of your name. You shake your head with a whine, however he disregards your concerns and runs his hand on your upper thigh.

“What’s the matter, Y/n? Don’t wanna spend your last moments with me?~” His nose kisses your neck, and the soft, sensual gestures almost make you forget your life was quite literally slipping away at every second that ticked by. 40 seconds. You had 40 seconds to do something.

You jump off of Light’s lap, reality rushing to your lungs as you felt your world closing in. Your pants become heavier, harsh air ripping through your throat as if they were the last breaths you would ever take because, well- they were.

Your head felt buzzing and dizzy as you fell to your knees, crawling towards Light who had spun around in his chair so his back was facing you; completely apathetic. After all you’ve been through together, after all you’ve done for him, nothing. Nothing at all.

You crawl closer, grasping towards the notebook Light held in his hands, your weakness limiting your reach as anxiety stole your clearness of mind. He only chuckles at your meek attempts to save your own life. Your head was racing as your nervousness blacked out everything in the room except for the little black notebook your boyfriend had a death grip on; ‘I’m running out of time, I’m going to die, I need the death note, I need to cross my name out, I need it I need it I need it I-’

“Goodbye, Y/N. You were fun to play with for a while.” Light kisses your nose with an arrogant smirk, peeling your hands off from his lap and wrists before checking his watch, signaling your last few seconds.

You quit your pitiful attempts to grab the notebook and instead push yourself further and further away from Light until your back hit the wall, lacing your fingers tightly in your hair as you cried your last moments away.

“5, 4, 3 2...” Light spoke.

“No no no no no, please god,” You cried out, squeezing your eyes shut in preparation for the pangs you would soon feel in your chest.

“1...”

And

Nothing.

You breathe. You let the air flood your lungs; it shouldn’t be possible. You dare to open your eyes, revealing the same scene. You, pathetically on the floor with tears down your face, Light before you in his chair with his head thrown back in a maniacal laugh.

He tossed the death note down to you, like a dog being thrown a bone. You frantically grab it and flip to the newest page, your name scratched out with two thick lines.

You were alive- no, he let you live.

❛ hit me my darling tonight, i don’t know why but i like it

“Well?” Light asks expectingly, standing up from his chair and kicking it to the side of the room. You look up at him questioningly, eyebrows furrowed in confusion as tears still brimmed your eyes from the just-curved anxiety attack.

“No ‘thank you’? I spared your life even after you betrayed me- lied to me. You’re so ungrateful.”

“I, I-” You found it difficult to shape your words with your hitching breath. You inhale deeply, eyes closed, calming down, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Light.”

Why were you even apologizing?

“I’m so sorry, please, just take me back. I’m sorry.” The words spilled from your mouth so quickly simply because they felt right. You needed to apologize, you did wrong, you need to be good. You wanted him back more than anything so you can be good.

❛ scary, my god, you’re divine ❜

“That’s right,” Light smiled, his voice softening unnaturally, “Now, how about you come over here and show me just how sorry you are.”

You hesitate for a second before crawling over to him. You sit obediently with your legs beneath your thighs on the floor in front of him.

“Mm, that’s my babygirl.” He pets your head affectionately, coherencing a smile from you. Despite everything he’s done, he always knew how to reel you back in. You needed the approval. You needed his approval.

You look up at him with puppydog eyes, to which he cocks his head to the side. “You know what I want.”

Nodding, you slowly unzipper his khaki pants and pull out his cock. You run your hand up and down, pumping it slowly.

“Don’t be a fucking tease” Light scoffs, raking his fingers through your hair and forcing your mouth down onto him. That sweet, caring demeanor was gone in barley a second- of course it was. What were you expecting? It was a thinly veiled facade and you fell for it everytime without exception.

Light groans, pushing your head further onto him as you try not to gag. You feel the tip of him hit the back of your throat as he thrusts into your mouth faster. “God, Y/N, you take my cock so well. Hah, if only the media could see you now. Poor little Y/N wants to run away from big bad Kira, meanwhile here she is on her knees for him, sucking him off like the dirty slut she is.”

He lets out a deep sigh before pulling out of your mouth. “Be useful for once and get on the bed.” He commands, bringing you to your feet with his strong grip on your hair and pushing you in the direction of the bed. You obey, sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for his next instruction.

Light slinks over to you, standing over your figure as his delicate fingers dance up your inner thigh. He takes off your skirt and slowly rubs your clit through the fabric of your panties.

“Mmm, Light, more...” You buck your hips up to meet his touch, his movements were agonizingly slow and you needed more friction.

“More?” At once he removes his hand from between your legs and grabs your face, your jaw in between the tight hold of his thumb and forefingers. “You want more, huh? You don’t get to make demands of me. You really think i’m gonna give you what you want after that stunt you pulled? Hah, I’m not letting you off that easy.”

You let out a whine, bucking your hips again asking to be touched.

“Aww, poor baby...” Light cooed, “Open up.” You obeyed, opening your mouth before Light brought your face closer to his, spitting in your mouth. “Now swallow.”

You do, earning a smirk from Light. “Mm, good girl. Good girls get rewarded.”

He pulls your panties aside before dipping two slender fingers inside you; wasting no time, he pumps them in and out frantically.

“Oh god Light, fuck,”

“You’re so wet for me Y/N, you like this, don’t you? I knew you would, such a dirty whore. You like when I treat you like this? You like being treated for the slut you are? God, you probably got wet when I almost killed you. It makes me hard, having you under my thumb like this, under my control...”

“Fuck Light, it feels so good, I’m close...”

Quickly, he removes his fingers from you once again, earning a cry from you at the loss of heat. “Please Light, I need you so bad,” You beg.

“What did I say? You’re still not forgiven for that stunt you pulled. Don’t whine.” He wraps his hand around your throat, pushing you down onto your back.

He fully pulls his boxers down, aligning himself with your entrance.

“Beg for it.”

“Please, please light, god, I need it so badly. I want you.”

“Hmm, yeah? You’re so desperate for my cock? I’m not convinced.”

“Please, Light, I’ll never be bad again, I’ll never mess up again. I need your cock so badly, I need you to use me. Do anything you want.”

“Mm, that’s more like it,” Light remarks before pushing into you, earning a loud moan. HIs thrusts were slow, no doubt teasing you.

“Oh, Light, please, faster...”

“More demands? God, you’re such a needy slut. Fine.” His grip on your throat tightens, pushing you further into the bed as he snaps his hips into you without mercy. His pace is relentless, quickly finding your g-spot.

“Fuck, Light. It... it feels- fuck,”

“Hah, stupid slut, what’s wrong? Cat’s got your tongue? Or is it me fucking you so hard you can’t even think straight, can’t form sentences?”

His words only egg on your approaching orgasam, “Hmmph, it- it feels so good. I’m gonna...”

With that, Light pulls you up slightly by your neck before slamming you roughly back into the bed, thrusting into you with speed. “Cum, show me how sorry you are.”

You obey, releasing with a loud moan of his name. He finishes soon after, roughly letting go of your throat. “Clean yourself up. You look like a fucking mess.”

You slip your panties and skirt back on as Light sits apathetically at his desk, his focus buried in paperwork. You heart skinks to your stomach.

Once you finish dressing, Light allows you to leave, informing you of the Kira case work he had to finish and opening the door for you.

“And Y/N,” He catches your attention before you step into the hallway of the hotel, “Let this be a lesson. Don’t ever try to leave me again. You’re mine.” He grabs your jaw and kisses you tenderly- but you weren’t stupid. You knew the motivation behind it, and let you still kissed his soft lips back and let yourself melt into him.

“Goodbye,” He remarks after pulling away, “Behave yourself.”. The door slams in your face.

You can still feel his cum dripping from your heat daring to spill out of your panties. The hallway was empty, allowing reality to rush to you at once. Your senses only seem clear when you were alone- with Light, you didn’t see with your own eyes or hear with your own ears.

You let your back touch the door of Light’s hotel room, slowly sliding down until you were sitting on the carpeted floor. Your life was broken pieces and you cut yourself picking up the glass shards, relishing in the fact that your boyfriend liked the way the blood looked on your pricked fingers.

❛ hurt me and tell me you’re mine, i don’t know why but i like it. ❜

#i did not proof read this lol sorry for mistakes #Light Yagami #light yagami x reader #light yagami x reader smut #light yagami smut #toxic! light yagami #death note #death note smut #anime #death note x reader

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nymika-arts · 2 years

Text

i know, it’s hard enough to love me

established (soon to be married~) buddie, 1.3k

this is part 1 of a pair, part 2 can be found here !

read on ao3

Buck couldn't sleep.

It was nearly 2 am, and he had to be up in the morning, but his mind just kept turning, pulling up pasts and presents and futures, as if just thinking about it would make it all that little bit clearer. There was a small pit of anxiety building in his gut, and it had been there for a while, but tonight it was persistent, gnawing its way through him from the inside out.

Buck had asked Eddie to marry him months ago, and they'd spent all this time talking and planning (and reveling in calling one another fiancé), but somehow it hadn't felt quite real until this moment. Until he was lying in bed staring at the ceiling the night before their wedding, unable to rest.

The thing was, most of him knew that he was living the life he'd always dreamed of, with a man that he loved more than anything in the world. He just couldn't believe it sometimes. And he'd worry that he'd just wake up one day and it would be gone, like it was never there at all, like the universe playing some miserably cruel joke on him.

He didn't doubt Eddie, not ever. Buck knew that Eddie loved him (you're the love of my whole life, Eddie had said to him once, under the stars on a weekend away, so quietly, but with the weight of his heart behind it, and Buck knew he meant it completely), what he had trouble with sometimes was believing he deserved it.

How could he, fractured and difficult and heavy as he was, be something worthy of what Eddie gave to him? Of the warmth, and the safety, and the intimacy; the pieces of him that he'd never trust to anyone else?

Sometimes Eddie got this look on this face when he watched Buck, as if he was the only person in the world worth looking at, and that was impossible for Buck to wrap his head around. When you've spent your whole life being told you're not worth loving, it's harder to understand when it suddenly comes unconditionally.

Buck looked at himself and saw only shards of broken glass, but Eddie looked at him and saw how it glittered. Eddie saw all of his pieces, and all of his insecurities, and loved him regardless.

And Buck was grateful, because of all the people that he had shared himself with, all the relationships he’d clung to, they’d never loved him like this, and they’d never lasted. He’d realized, as well, that he’d never loved them quite like he loved Eddie, either. This was the real thing.

But how real it was, and how good it was, just made Buck all the more terrified to lose it.

He knew it wasn't rational, really, this ever-present fear that there was a limit to the happiness he could experience before everything would come crashing down. He knew this was just his mind getting caught in a loop of telling itself it’s not worthy of the love it was offered. He also knew that Eddie would be the first to tell him so, but how stupid was it to wake up your fiancé the night before your wedding just to say hey, just checking, but you still like me, right? So he tried to stay quiet with his thoughts. He tried to let Eddie sleep, like a good fiancé would, and let his mind wear itself out snapping between nerves and excitement. He managed it for a little while.

But, well, he only had so much self control.

"Hey," Buck said.

"Mmph," the lump beside him replied.

"Hey."

"What?"

"We're getting married tomorrow."

"I know, that's why I'm trying to sleep."

"Eddie, we're getting married tomorrow."

Eddie finally shifted, rolling over to face him. "You having second thoughts? It's a little late in the game."

"I'm having lots of thoughts. Like how I'm gonna be able to introduce you to people as my husband, and how I'm gonna get to spend every day with you for the rest of my life, and... how you actually chose me, out of everyone in the world." Eddie's face softened, and he brushed a hand through Buck's curls affectionately. "But no, not second thoughts. Wouldn't dream of it."

"Buck, I'd chosen you before I'd even realized I had. And I would do it again, in any lifetime."

"You can't know that for sure, you haven't met me in every lifetime. What if I, like, murdered someone?"

Eddie laughed. "Well, I'm sure you had your reasons. I'd still love you."

"I appreciate that."

"Good. Are you gonna go to sleep now?"

Buck smiled at him, and shifted a bit, but that pit in his stomach was incessant, and he still felt it. Eddie clocked it right away, as he always did with Buck. He was amazingly intuitive when it came to Buck's moods.

"Hey. What's wrong?" Eddie prodded, squeezing his arm gently.

Buck looked up at the ceiling, and thought about everything he had in his life, and everything that was coming, and it was everything he'd ever wanted. "Nothing," he said, because it was true. "Maybe that's what's wrong."

"Nothing is wrong, and that's wrong?"

"I don't know, it just..." he grappled for the right words to explain the twisted mess of anxiety in his head. Most of it didn't even make sense to him. "It feels like it's not supposed to be this right, for me. I love you, and I love our life, and asking you to marry me was the easiest decision I've ever made, but... Nothing has ever been that easy for me; I mean, you know what my life was like. But this is that easy. Loving this family is that easy. It just doesn't feel like I'm allowed to have it, you know? Like I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"Buck, look at me," Eddie said. Buck did. "You mean more to me than you could possibly know, and you deserve every single good thing you have and more. And I'll remind you of that every day for the rest of our lives if that's what it takes for you to believe it." Eddie reached over and cupped Buck's jaw in his hand, brushing a thumb across his cheek with such tenderness that Buck closed his eyes for a second, just to take it in. "I love you. It's that easy."

Buck let the words settle on him, seeping into his skin like ink in a tattoo, and then falling deeper; to the bone, to his heart, to his soul. I love you, it's that easy. He held them there.

There were times in his life when he was so alone he could hardly remember the feeling of having someone in his corner. He wondered what his past self would think if someone told him this is where he'd end up. He probably wouldn't have believed it. Wouldn't have even considered it an option for him.

Being with Eddie was the opposite of that. With Eddie he felt so seen, and so loved, that he forgot sometimes the way he used to look at his life and wonder why he tried at all.

Buck pulled himself across the small gap between them that suddenly felt miles too wide, and Eddie drew him in, wrapping Buck in his arms and holding him close. Buck let Eddie’s warmth surround him completely, and pressed a soft kiss to the bare skin of Eddie's shoulder, just above his collarbone.

"I love you," he whispered. "It's that easy."

"Get some sleep, okay?" Eddie said, tracing his fingers in small circles along Buck’s back. "I don't know if you know this, but we're getting married tomorrow."

Buck laughed. "Yeah, I had heard that."

#911 fox #buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #911fic #buddie fic #tuserzee #useralie #laurenlook #userceecee #nymwrites

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typewriting101 · 3 years

Text

you’re safe here.

pairing: tony stark x reader

warning: anxiety, abuse, fluff <3

word count: 2.5k

genre: fanfic romance

⟶ summary: your past is filled with dark hidden trauma, and Tony is right there when it get to be too much

a/n: i just watched the first avengers and i swear something about tony in that– so i came up with this :) I’ve had some personal things going on, and related to this in some ways so i hope if you’re reading it helps you too. xx

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The soft, nighttime, breeze fell through the open doors leading to your little balcony. It moved your white curtains elegantly around your bedroom, as you tossed and turned in your silk covers. Any other night this would’ve been perfect.

Any other night.

Tonight your head was filled with thoughts, too many at that. You haven’t left your room all day, The Avengers had a mission. You were only Tony Stark’s assistant, so you never went on those. You helped him with Stark Industries, so much he had asked you to stay at the Tower with him and his team. You accepted and the others love you. You sort of were a family, you always wanted a happy family.

A happy family. Your heart started beating fast, and you tried to blink away the thought in your mind.

Your real family.

You sat up, sweating. The Avengers didn’t know about your past, and to be fair, you didn’t want to tell them. Everyone considered their family the one right here.

The Tower family.

The Avengers Family.

But what about your real one?

You threw your head back and smoothed away the hair sticking to your sweaty forehead. You could feel it, the familiar inability to sit still, the circle of thoughts deep in motion, rapid heart rate, sweating, nausea.

Crap.

It was definitely an anxiety attack.

Your eyes began to fill up with tears. Why couldn’t you just control your thoughts like any other decent person? Why did you have to live the rest of your life like this?

The rest of your—?

You got out of bed. “The more I think, the worse I’ll be. Calm down y/n.” You said to yourself. You walked across your room in Thor’s old shirt, which despite being too small for him, fit you like a nightgown.

You opened the door and felt the coolness of the tower hit you. It grew hot in your room right under your nose. You shivered as it hit your bare legs and feet, and you closed the door behind you.

You walked to the kitchen and poured yourself some water, when you heard the echo of a clanking sound, followed by a cuss word.

“Tony.” You thought in your head with a slight smile. You felt the nausea creep up again and you slammed your cup, accidentally. It didn’t break thank god, but you didn’t want to wake anybody up.

“Whatchya doing, Rapunzel?” A voice asked behind you.

You spun around to see Tony, leaning against the wall of the open-spaced kitchen with a smirk.

“Rapunzel?” you questioned, knowing Tony has nicknames for everyone in this tower.

“Sure, you’ve got the most hair out of everyone here. Well, second to me of course.” He added, shoulders shrugging sarcastically.

You looked down and smiled slightly at the ground.

His smirk however, slowly worked his way off his face. “Why are you up? It’s witch hour you know. Better watch out, scary thing.” His voice dripped in a joking sarcasm, making you smile softly to yourself again. He waltzed over to the counter, confused, picking up your glass of water, holding it in his crossed hands over his chest.

“I just came for that.” You sighed, pointing at the cup he held. You felt him looking at you, as he set it down again, but you didn’t look at his eyes. “Why are you up?”

“Blueprints for a new sustainable energy program. Plus, I thought I’d repair some slight damage on my suit.” he said it like it was nothing, snapping his fingers while clasping his palms. He watched you nod, still getting no real personality from you. “Wanna see?” he asked.

You nodded, you’d take anything to get this weight off your chest. Your heart dropped at the thought, and your walk wavered. What was worse is Tony saw you.

“Woah there, you alright?” he asked concerned. You nodded at the ground and you felt his hand on your back, guiding you to the elevator without a word.

You hated when Tony was silent. It meant he was thinking way more than usual, or he was upset. You moved your eyes to him, he was dead staring at the elevator doors as you went down, his hand still on you.

You looked at the floor again and bit your bottom lip, he was definitely thinking, and that makes you nervous.

The doors opened. He led you with his hand over to his papers on his glass tech-table and his suit on display to the side. He stared at you as you looked his research and blueprints over. He watched as your skin got paler, and you tried to hide in your large shirt from the silence.

“It’s nice.” you whispered. You didn’t mean for it to come out like that, but you were too lost in your thoughts to even know what you were reading.

“Binary.”

“What?”

He sighed, sitting in the chair you were standing next to. “Everything is written in binary code right now, sweetheart. Bare minimum blueprint for the system. You don’t know Binary, it's computer language.” you could feel that gaze again, he was analyzing you.

“Oh.” you said softly, lost in thought. “Sorry.” You looked over your shoulder at the elevator, then turned your body to walk towards it.

You didn’t even take your first step and Tony’s hands were around your waist, slowly spinning you to his direction. “Hey now, don’t leave.” he whispered.

You looked at him for the first time. “Y/n, what’s going on up there in that cute little head of yours.” his one hand on the side of your head, thumb gracing your temple.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, knowing that he is a literal genius and would see through it.

He hummed a disapproving sound. “No, don’t do that. You’re paler than the moon and look more lost than a puppy, sweetheart.” your eyes slowly began to fill with tears, and Tony’s eyes widened.

You felt him tug at your waist and pull you close to him as he swooped you into his lap on his chair. Your legs hung off the side of his left one and your arms wrapped around his neck.

You couldn’t hold it in as you cried harder than you ever have in your entire life, you have never let your guard down. If you couldn’t trust your family, could you trust the world?

To be honest, Tony was terrified. He had never seen you shed a single tear, and he was desperate to know what shook you so badly.

“Honey–” he whispered, one hand on your back. The other went to your head, your soft hair surrounding it.

“I’m sorry.” you sobbed, almost inaudibly. He felt you lift your head out of his neck, and you were zoning out again, looking at god knows what behind him.

He rested his cheek on your damp one, his hand on the other side of your face. He kissed you at the soft skin he saw and could smell your delicate scent when he did. “Don’t be sorry, you didn’t do anything.”

You took a breath and slowly lifted your head, embarrassed. He moved your hair behind your ear, “Don’t think you’re going to leave without talking to me.”

He looked at you with such patience, as if he’d wait years to hear what you had to say. You took a deep breath and began slowly.

“I never knew how much I could be loved by people around me… until I met The Avengers.” you began slowly. You felt a tear grace your cheek, but Tony was quick to wipe it away.

“You've asked me about my family before, and I always shut it down, or laughed it off… because-“ you had to close your eyes and take a deep breath. Tony’s hands found your arms, his fingers feathering up and down along your skin.

“Because I’m scared of them.” you whispered.

You were sitting on Tony’s lap, so when you saw Tony tense, you could actually feel it. Every muscle in his body tightened, even his grip on you.

“What do you mean they scare you?” he asked, the octave of his voice lowering, dangerously.

“Tony I don’t think–“

“Tell me.” his grip tightened harder. It wasn’t painful at all, he’d never hurt you. It felt protective, you were feeling safe.

“They- they are-” your heart began to beat fast. Tony knew and grabbed your hand, and set it on his arc reactor so you could feel his heart, his other hand moving up your back to your neck, massaging it.

“It’s okay, I’m right here, y/n.” He whispered. He saw your breathing slow and he watched you talk as if you were the most extraordinary thing in the world.

“They were great growing up. Just, one day– one day a switch flipped. I’ll never forget it. I became their target, Tony.” Your voice cracked at his name, but you pulled yourself together.

Tony’s heart dropped when you said his name like that. It was almost a beg, or a desperate call for help. He was aching in pain and outrage as you spoke, his hands finding your waist and tightening them again.

“They would manipulate me. One minute they loved me, the next I’m the center of their games. They’d tell me how proud they were of me, and as soon as I let the pain go, they would start all over again. It would eat me alive, and the memories still do. They’d always end things with ‘I love you’ but they never did. They... they never will.”

You could feel the anger radiating off of Tony. You looked up and saw his face was even a little flushed and his jaw was tense. He wasn’t looking at you, his eyes were narrowed at the ground.

You both sat in silence. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Your eyes widened from his voice, it sounded guilty. “I could’ve done something.”

“Tony, you–“

“Y/n, you've only lived at the tower for months, not years. You’ve been dealing with this while you’ve known me?” his eyes staring deeply into yours, hoping to God you said no.

You only nodded.

“Oh my God. Y/n, that’s abuse. I- they’ve hurt you. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I–“ he ran his fingers in his hair, frustrated.

“Tony, I didn’t want anyone to know. I’ve told people in the past, but people don’t understand. Some thought I was dramatic and others told me I was ruining my own happiness and I was lucky to have a family.”

“Families don’t do that.” he snarled, thinking of someone purposely shattering your heart.

“Which is why I told you, after all this time. I could have told you that my anxiety was bad, because it triggers it. But I told you the truth. I trust you, Tony.”

You took a breath as his features softened, making your stomach flutter.

“I just- i just wanna keep you safe, sweetheart. That’s all I want. The thought of someone coming at you–“ his grip tightened again. He leaned his head against your body, his head hitting your chest. You ran your fingers through his hair, as he locked his toned arms around you, squeezing you close to him.

You trust him. You could tell him.

“They tried to call me.” you whispered.

He sat up quickly, “What?”

“It’s why I couldn’t sleep. They are trying to get me to leave. They threatened me... with you.” you sighed, still playing with his hair.

“Come again?” he asked in fury, his hands subconsciously running up and down your back.

“They threatened to ruin your company. They’ve been trying to get me to leave. It started off with social media, liking all my things and trying to butter me up. Then messages saying hateful things about me, then they started calling and I never answered, their voicemails have been so brutal.”

You took a deep breath and expressed your fears, “Tony, I never gave them my number. I changed it when I left. I blocked them on social media, I don’t know how they are finding me. What if they end up here? What if they–“

Tony’s fingers traced over your cheekbones. “I’m not letting them anywhere near you. Technology’s my thing, sweetheart. I’ll get rid of them real quick.”

“But what if-”

He shushed you kindly. ”Nobody is going to hurt you ever again. You don’t have to think about it.”

He tugged at your waist again and pulled you into a tight hug. His hands ran through your hair as he felt your shaky breath. You were terrified, you wanted to love them. Every family practically loves each other, but you never got to be one of them. Tony’s stomachs turned, thinking how many nights you fell asleep alone and scared in your own home, how you felt heartbroken not being loved, how you even cried here and who knows how long that went on before he heard that loud bang in the kitchen you caused, and caught you.

He squeezed you tighter. “I promise y/n, you should be loved. You are loved. I’ll protect you from them, from anything. God, I promise you I’ll always be here. Will you let me love you?”

You felt his heart hammering against yours. You looked at him, his cheeks with a slight blush, nervous of your answer. A real but soft smile came across your elegant features, he smiled brightly as you played with his hair, and moved your hand to trace his nose, cheeks, and jawline. You let your hand rest there, and you leaned in to kiss him.

Tony Stark; Genius, Billionaire, Playboy, Philanthropist, was practically swept off his feet by the softness of your kiss. It wasn’t steamy, it was overly passionate. It was pure, and just right. The cushioned lips of yours against his. The softness of your hands still tracing his jaw. He wouldn’t trade anything for this moment.

You let go, to his great disliking. But a smile lit up his features when you spoke, “Yes. I’d love that very much, Tony.”

He saw a glimpse of fear as you looked towards the elevator. “Do… you want me to go?” You asked, timidly.

“No.” Tony said, with zero hesitation. He turned the chair with the two of you in it, flipping through his papers so he doesn’t blush again. “I told you I’m protecting you. You’re in no state to go anywhere without me.”

You look at him, eyes full of shock and realization. He looked at you, surprised at your cute expression. “What, you really thought I was going to make you leave?” he sassed. “Not that I’m mad, but why the cute face?”

You opened your mouth, and for a moment nothing came out. He set his hand on your back, “Y/n?” he said in a confused but cautious tone.

“So this is what it feels like to not be afraid anymore.” you said, a quiet tone of amazement and gratefulness lacing in your sentence.

Tony grabbed your head and kissed you quickly, a little harder than last time, and then instantly pulled you into him tightly.

“I’ll never let you forget that feeling. You’re safe here, y/n. I’ll always keep you safe.”

You relaxed into his warm body, your head on his strong shoulder. The glow of the arc reactor in his chest, just visible through the darkness of your now closed eyes. You heard him moving his papers and the sound of his typing on his tech-table, his one hand never leaving you. You opened your eyes and saw a holagram in front of you and recognized the image. He connected to your phone and was reading the messages from your family. You felt him grip you again, and he somehow found a location tied to the phone number that messaged you. You saw him type some strange numbers, and a satellite image of a house appeared. You knew that was your relatives house, and you knew he’d track them all down within seconds. It calmed you, knowing you were safe, so you close your eyes again. You heard the clicking of him gripping a pen in between his teeth, and the soft whirring of his suit beside you, as he scribbled something down. Then, you heard an approving ding from his table.

The soft sounds lulled you to sleep, and you felt one last kiss on your forehead before you fell into a real sleep, for the first time in a long time. You knew something real about your life for the first time:

You’re safe here.

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#fanfic #fanfiction #marvel x reader #tony stark #tony stark x reader #Tony stark x reader fluff #tony stark fluff #Tony stark x anxiety!reader #Tony stark anxiety #protective tony stark #Tony stark x depressed!reader #iron man x reader #iron man x you #Tony stark x you #fluff #abuse #avenger x reader #mcu fluff #mcu avengers

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1994sunflower · 3 years

Note

Hi, I absolutely love your writing and I think you're amazing! Could you do something where y/n has a nightmare and Mickey is there to comfort her, maybe with some cockwarming.

in which you have a nightmare

It was like your mind had found the perfect torture. A mix of horror and stress that combined just perfectly to at once scare you and leave your mind in scrambles of what-if scenarios that just seemed to heighten the fear.

When you finally snapped your eyes open, it was like a bubble popping. Sudden and jolting. You even took a breath that sounded dangerously close to a scream as you sat up, jerking away from the strong arms around your body that had held you tightly into a sleeping Michael’s chest.

Taking in your surroundings with a relief that it was a dream - it wasn't real. But still, you were shaking and breathing heavily. You didn’t even realize you were crying until you heard your gasping breaths in the silence of the night.

It was still dark, you could only see the light of your clock on the nightstand and the outline of Michael’s body next to you in your bed. But the dark didn’t help you in the situation where your mind seemed to remind you of every terrifying detail of your nightmare that refused to be forgotten.

It was almost like you were frozen at it. Until you heard Michael groan groggily before slowly leaning up on his elbow. He yawned cutely. “Baby, what are you doing?”

His voice was deeper than usual, sleepy. And it wasn’t until he took hold of your wrist, as if to push you back down to lay down and go back to sleep that he became more alert. Specifically, when you flinched away from him. That’s when he noticed you were trembling and saw the glint of tears on your cheeks.

It wasn’t his fault. You were just sensitive right then. You were glad the dark hid your face, how pale with fear you had woken up.

Michael sat up then, quickly forgetting his sleep and letting the cover fall down to his waist as he moved closer to you. He would always put you before anything else. His hand moving gently to your cheeks, only touching you when you didn’t pull away. He was still tired, you could see it now that he was closer but he suddenly had an intense look in his eyes. Worry was held there, along with the protectiveness you were used to feeling from him.

“Y/N.” He said seriously, “What happened?”

Your bottom lip stuttered as you shook your head, “N-nothing. I just had a bad dream.” It sounded stupid when you said it out loud.

But Michael didn’t roll his eyes or laugh. But he did push you closer to him. Until you were close enough to hide your face in the crook of his neck and for him to rub circles gently into your hips.

You weren’t sure if it was the early morning that had him being so gentle and comforting like he usually struggled so much to be. But you were thankful nonetheless. Your breathing was still fast and your heartbeat even more so, but you felt your trembling start to subside. Taking in a shaky deep breath, you couldn’t help the comfort he brought you or the gratefulness that he was there tonight, with you.

“What was it about?”

But you shook your head even before he finished his question. You didn't want to talk about it. You were already embarrassed on the effect your own mind had on you, let alone repeating your deepest fears.

And Michael didn’t push you. “It was just a dream. I got you.”

He was right. You both knew it. But it didn’t stop the very real reaction the dream caused you. The intranquillity, the anxiety. And it didn’t even long after your physical symptoms stopped.

Nearly half an our later when you were still in his arms, sat up, but you were no longer trembling or crying. Your mind was still wandering, your body still tense. Even as he littered sweet kisses on your face and whispered sweet nothings under his breath. You were as far from sleep as you would have been in the afternoon. A part of you was scared of what you would be confronted with if you closed your eyes again. Would it be the same nightmare or even worse this time? You were already betrayed by your mind once, what’s to stop it from happening again?

Sure you’d be in Michael’s strong arms just like you were when you went to sleep in the first place. But even his comfort was gone when you were in dreamland. You didn’t want to stop feeling the safety and warmth you felt right then at all.

Part of you felt bad, especially when you could feel Michael wanting to go back to sleep. So you let him slowly move you two down back to laying on the mattress. He was on his side and collected you against his chest and you stayed there, still and evenly breathing. But your eyes were wide open.

For so long you lost track.

And you felt alone. Even with him right in front of you. It felt like the dark was just taking advantage of your fragile state and prickling your skin.

You squeezed Michael for a moment, head resting on his chest, your body suddenly feeling colder until you whimpered. “Mikey, I can’t sleep.”

You weren’t sure if he was asleep by then but he was right there when you needed him either way. And he would always be attentive to you, forgoing anything he was doing to tend to you.

His arms tightened around you, protectively. “Still scared?”

You didn’t answer him, just nuzzling further into him. But you wanted more. You needed more. To feel so fully surrounded by him that he could physically repulse away any straying negative thoughts and memories. You just wanted to feel him.

His fingers played with your hair, moving from your back to your scalp in a way that was soothing. You felt your eyelids droop but your shoulders were still tout and your mouth set in a frown.

“Tell me about it.” He said, referring to your dream and though you hesitated, somehow his calmness in his tone led you to giving in. You trusted him and though you were crying by the time you were done telling it, somehow sharing in your feelings made them feel a little less overwhelming.

But also somehow more real. More possible now that you brought your dream world into the real one.

“I just-I just want to feel you, right now."

Michael never stopped running his hand up and down your figure, humming as he listened, as if there was nothing more important he could be doing; he cared. He held you closer when he felt your emotions start to overtake you. His delicate little girl. He wanted nothing more than to protect you from whatever bad thoughts were plaguing you. Bringing back the bright, happy girl he loved.

That’s why he tugged you up, though your eyebrows furrowed at him in confusion, you knew he couldn’t see your expression. Until he moved you completely on top of him. Your head was right below his chin and he held his arms around your waist, keeping your tiny form on top of him.

You inhaled, this close to him you could smell his comforting scent and you couldn’t help but close your eyes in content. It felt good to be so close to him, felt cocooned in his arms. Your sigh was bittersweet and somehow, your boyfriend picked up on that.

One of his hands left your body and you weren’t sure why until you felt him tug at your pajama shorts. Even if you wanted to spring up in surprise, as if you weren’t used to his hands removing your clothes, he kept you pressed against him.

“Just gonna fill you up.” His voice was sleepy and relaxing, “Let you feel that I’m right here.”

He said it as if it was the most logical conclusion. It wasn’t what you meant when you said it. But you didn’t stop him either as he got rid of your shorts and panties, tossing them to the side of the bed into the darkness that was the floor.

You were reminded of how you felt in the many - many - times he had been inside you. The way your mind focused solely on him and how full you felt with him. Rarely did you ever even want to think of anything else, let alone anything negative. It put your mind is a calm state. Because it was such an intimate moment with him. With your other option seeming to be to wait until your calmness in the moment finally tires you out, hoping nothing else triggers your mind, it couldn’t be so bad to try.

So you nodded and stayed still as he lifted his hips to pull down his own basketball shorts and took out his dick with his hand. He was only semi-hard but still, he had no difficulty with guiding himself into you.

You heard him groan under you as he spread you open, even half soft he was still so big, and felt you hug him tightly. You couldn’t help the breathy moan that you let out either, never opening your mouth but closing your eyes as he filled you up.

It was everything you thought it would be. You felt the same fullness, the closeness, as you two were connected. The unity had you so lost in how good it felt and how, on top of him, you felt more balanced and rational. You were okay. You were with Michael - of course that meant you were okay. You felt loved and taken care of. You didn’t have to worry when Michael was with you - he would take care of you. And there was little more you believed in other than your big, strong boyfriend.

It still felt so good. It was a feat for you not to wriggle in his grasp and attempt to make more friction between your bodies. You weren’t used to doing anything else when he was inside you other than enjoying the pleasure. He was the same way, you could feel the tautness of his body as if trying his hardest to hold back the urge to pound into you like he always did when he was in you. But he stayed still for your sake. This was about you and making you feel better in an intimate way only he could, nothing more.

You clenched around him without even meaning to and he let out a grunt under you, “Fuck, don’t-this is not going to last if you do that again.” In the cold of the night, he felt so warm inside you.

You weren’t used to having him inside you and having that lead to nothing more than that. Part of you wasn’t satisfied with just this. But for a larger part of you, it felt nice to have such intimacy - it felt romantic. And you felt as if you could stay there for hours. You tried not to move much because of the jolt of need that would creep into you if you did.

You only reached slightly below his chest in the new position but his body felt so much better than the mattress had in that moment. And maybe when you snuggled your face into his chest, you knew that because when you heard him mutter something to you, you just nodded even when you weren’t exactly sure what he asked.

You only heard a low, "I love you."

Your mind a little fuzzy, not even sure what you were so scared of earlier. You were finally relaxed - completely and totally. Nothing but Michael was entering your mind. He was overtaking every single one of your senses. And after all the tenseness of the night, it felt good to be unable to think of anything else. That just helped mask of sleep to slowly overtake you as the two of your remained connected.

Listening to each other’s breaths and enjoying each other’s company - the safety and comfort that company brought. You weren’t alone and you felt stronger knowing he was there, he cared about how you felt and wouldn’t let anything touch you. Especially as he was slotted between your thigh, reaching your every crevice as he filled you up completely, like the missing puzzle piece to your body. Even with how much smaller you were compared to him, you fit so perfectly.

It was something you could feel, even when your mind slowly drifted off.

#5sos #5sos imagines #michael clifford #michael clifford x reader #5sos fluff #michael clifford fluff #bad boy michael #bad boy fluff #5sos smut #Michael clifford smut #bad boy smut #college au

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nastybuckybarnes · 3 years

Text

Deep End - Three

Pairing: Dark!Steve Rogers X Reader

Summary: He’s back. After all your best efforts at getting away, he’s found you again. And this time, he’s not letting you go so easily. He’s determined to do whatever it takes to get you to be his. Forever.

Warnings: Dark Themes, Language, Angst, Manipulation, Anxiety

Word Count: 2.6K

A/n: Part three nowwww. I hope you guys enjoy!!! I’m not sure how often I’ll be posting but I hope it’s more frequently than im doing now. Anywho, here you go, and I hope you all have a great night!

Madness Masterlist

Bad Dream Masterlist

THIS IS A DARK FIC WITH SEXUAL AND TRIGGERING CONTENT!!! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!!! 18+ ONLY!!!

~*~

The record player in the corner of the spare bedroom plays softly, the soothing voice of Billie Holiday filling your ears as your eyes skim over the room, lips pursed.

Although it isn’t ideal, having a project does make the time go by faster.

Just as you’re deciding where you want the crib to go, soft feet pad into the room, Sarah’s arms coming up to your leg.

“Mommy, why are you in here?” You glance down at her, one hand coming to ruffle her hair.

“Nothing, sweetheart.” She frowns, looking up at you. “Then why are you in here?”

You raise your eyebrows, a smile growing on your face at her sass.

“You ask a lot of questions, don’t you, missy?” She nods, putting her hands on her hips proudly.

“Yes, I do.” You roll your eyes, grabbing her hand and ushering her out of the room and down the stairs.

“C’mon. Let’s get you a snack.” Her mind is instantly occupied by what she wants to eat and as you’re rummaging around in the pantry, she’s climbing up onto the barstool.

“Your father should be home in a few hours, then maybe you can convince him to order pizza, just until we go grocery shopping.” You look at the nearly empty pantry with your lips pursed, grabbing some crackers and shaking them onto a plate for you and her to share.

“Why did we move out here with daddy?” She asks, making you freeze for a moment. You flounder for an answer but she shoots out another question, saving you from coming up with an excuse.

“Why didn’t you tell me that daddy was coming to pick us up?” That one you’ve thought about.

“I don’t know, honey. I guess it just never came up. And I didn’t know if or when he would come home from work.” She nods, taking a cracker and chewing it thoughtfully, swallowing before asking another question.

“Why do you look sad whenever daddy’s around?” That one catches you off guard even more than the first one did, and you cough twice, trying to gather your thoughts.

“I-I’m not sad, baby. I’m just trying to get used to living with him again, that’s all.” She hums, seemingly pleased with the answer.

A few minutes of silent eating go by before you find yourself wanting to ask her something.

“Sarah,” you begin, waiting until she looks up at you to continue.

When her sparkling blue eyes meet yours, you lower your voice slightly.

“Do you like living here with your dad?” Her face lights up and you have your answer before she speaks.

“I do! I really like living here and Morgan’s my best friend and I’m happy to have daddy back! And I like that we get to see Aunty Nat more and I like Uncle Bucky too!” You nod slowly, pursing your lips.

“So do you want to stay here, then?” She nods eagerly, a smile on her face.

“I really do! I love it here! I’m so happy daddy came to pick us up!” You let out a shaky breath and nod, your one chance at leaving being crushed.

Steve treats his daughter right and she’s happy here. You can’t very well take away her happiness and replace it with longing and instability. Not when she’s been your pillar during those four years away from Him.

She deserves some semblance of peace. And you’re willing to sacrifice yours if it means that she can get hers.

~*~

“Daddy!” Sarah runs to the front door and intercepts her father as soon as she can see him, jumping up into his arms excitedly.

“Hi, baby!” He hugs her tightly, transferring her to one arm effortlessly and walking into the house.

“How was your day at school?” He asks, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“It was good! Can we get pizza for dinner?” He raises his brows, eyes fluttering around the house in search of you.

“Well, we’re gonna have to ask your mom about that, okay?” She nods, shimmying out of his grip and up the stairs.

He sets his work bag down on the counter, following the little blond girl up the stairs and smiling when he sees you in the spare bedroom, a look of concentration on your face and a pretty blue dress on your figure.

“Hi, honey,” he whispers, his arms wrapping around your frame.

“Hi,” you murmur, trying to remember the measurements of the dresser as you inspect the bedroom.

“Pizza!” Sarah exclaims, tugging on the bottom of your dress.

“Oh yeah.” You turn around to face Steve, eyes meeting his for a brief moment before falling to his shoulder.

“Could we order pizza tonight? W-we don’t have much for groceries but I can make a list and we could pick some up tomorrow morning? I just- it’s Friday and b-before...” you take a deep breath, fighting tears as memories of life before start to fill your mind.

“Hey, Sarah? Could you do me a favour please, princess?” Steve glances down at his daughter, sensing that this may be a conversation best had in privacy.

“Yes, daddy?”

“Could you go downstairs and see if there are any snacks that we have that you want? Or any that you want us to buy for you?” She nods eagerly, running out of the room and down the stairs, leaving you alone with her father.

You take another deep breath then explain yourself in depth.

“Friday’s used to be pizza night for her and me. We’d order pizza and watch a movie. Nat or... or my dad would come over too but... we haven’t had a pizza night since coming here and I think it would bring her more comfort and more normality.” He eyes you for a moment.

“It would bring her that or you that?” You swallow hard, eyes cast down to the floor.

“Either answer is valid, darling. I want you to be happy here and if we need to make pizza Friday’s a thing, then we’ll make them a thing. I just want the two of you to be happy and healthy, okay?” You sniffle then nod, your bottom lip wobbling as anxiety courses through your veins.

“Hey, talk to me. What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” You squeeze your eyes shut as a tear slides down your cheek.

“I-I’m scared,” you whisper, terrified to confess this but knowing he won’t do anything with Sarah so close by.

“Of what?” He asks gently, trying to coax it out of you.

“Of you.” His fingers stop their tracing on your waist and he stiffens.

“I-I don’t want you to hurt me. And I know I can’t leave. I can’t run b-because I tried once and you found me. And Sarah loves it here and I don’t want to deprive her of that, of you, but I’m so terrified of you.” He’s quiet for a long moment before wrapping you up in his arms, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“Thank you for telling me,” he whispers. He’s not angry like you thought he’d be. No, he’s supportive and gentle, and you feel more tears fall from your eyes.

“I’m not going to hurt you, okay? Not like I did before. I love you, (Y/n). And I need you. Sarah needs you. I’d never...” He trails off, swallowing hard and shaking his head.

“You’re mine. I want you to do things a certain way, yes, but I’m not going to hurt you the way that I did before, okay? As long as you stay here and you behave. You've done pretty well so far, but I know it’s gonna take time. I just hope that when the baby comes you don't go back to your old ways.” His hand finds your tummy, rubbing gently.

“I’m all alone during the day, Steve. I don’t have any friends o-or any family. You’ve got me locked in this big house all day and I can’t even access the cutlery. It’s hard not to feel like a prisoner when you treat me like one.” Anger flashes across his features for a moment and you tug away from him.

“Just like it’s gonna take you some time to trust me again, it’s gonna take me time to trust you. You’ve hurt me before, (Y/n). A lot. I told you that I won’t treat you the way I did at first and I mean that, but if you even try to take my daughter from me, I’ll stop you. I’ll use whatever force necessary.” You swallow hard and nod, your fingers trembling.

“Now, you go make a list with Sarah while I shower. When I’m finished we’ll order pizza and watch a movie, okay?” You nod again, this one more reluctant.

You go to move past him but his hand grips your wrist, halting you.

“I love you, (Y/n). And I’ll do anything to keep you in my life. But you know that already, don’t you?” You glance over at him, the fire in his eyes making your heart race in your chest.

“Mommy! Is applesauce in the fridge?” Sarah’s voice saves you from having to answer, and you hurry down the stairs.

Steve stands in the spare bedroom, thoughts filling his mind, a deep voice whispering that you need to be punished.

He shakes the thought from his mind and walks to his bedroom, ready to take a shower then relax with his family.

~*~

Beauty and the Beast plays softly on the TV, two almost empty pizza boxes are on the coffee table and the three of you are on the couch.

You’re curled up against his side, if only to be able to watch as your daughter sleeps peacefully in his lap, her mouth open and soft snores falling from her lips.

You’re not sure what comes over you, whether it be fear from your conversation earlier or you wanting to get on his good side, but you speak.

“She says she loves being here, living with you and going to school with Morgan,” you whisper, your eyes trained on your daughter as Steve looks over at you.

“She uh, she wants to stay, more than anything in the world. And even if I had the option, I don’t think I’d take her from here. I... I couldn’t do something like that to her.” Your eyes slowly meet Steve’s and he smiles softly, understanding the meaning behind your words.

You wouldn’t leave him even if you could.

“I’m glad. I love having you both here. Everything’s been so much better since you guys have been back in my life.” You take a deep breath then turn back to the tv, leaning your head against his shoulder slowly.

His arm winds around your figure, hugging you closer to him with a smile.

“It’s all going to be okay, honey. I promise. Everything will be okay.”

~*~

The weeks pass in a blur of dresses, cooking, and reading.

Every day is so much the same that it’s become painful. You’d kill for a new book, a job, fuck, even a better project than the one you have now.

“Well why don’t you order the furniture?” Steve asks when you bring it up to him one Sunday morning.

“I... I don't wanna order anything until we know for sure that I’m pregnant.”

He knows that if you aren’t pregnant already, you will be within a few days. The fertility pills he’s been giving you should’ve already taken effect, but if not he’s more than willing to keep trying for a baby.

“And I don’t wanna pick out colours or anything yet, and if we get the furniture now we’re just gonna have to move it when we paint the room, so it seems like the least logical thing to do,” you explain, fingers twisting around your mug of tea.

“I think it’s prime time to start planting. You could start a little garden out back? Give you something to take care of and whatnot,” he suggests, watching as you purse your lips.

It would be nice to have fresh vegetables and flowers. And getting dirty’s never really bothered you.

“Alright. But I don’t know what grows well out here. Back... where we were before, we could grow lots of things. I don’t know what flourishes out here.” He walks around the kitchen island and takes your hand, leading you to the couch.

“We’ll look it up, and then I’ll grab some seed and you can start the garden tomorrow. How’s that sound?” You nod, sitting down beside him.

“Could you maybe pick up some books on gardening too? I’m not the best and I want this to turn out well.” He smiles, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“Of course, anything for you, honey.”

True to his word, Steve provides you with seeds, gardening supplies, and multiple books on gardening.

You start your garden the very next day, spending hours outside in the sun, trying to get your little garden to look like the ones in the pictures.

It takes all week to get it going properly, but you’re proud of your work, bringing Sarah out after school on friday and showing her all the different plants that will grow.

Now you’re sitting at the dining room table, soft music playing while your fingers fidget anxiously and your mind flutters to your daughter.

“She’s alright, darling. Tony and Pepper will take good care of her, I promise. And they know to call at the first sign of trouble.” You take a deep breath and nod, pushing the food on your plate around with your fork as anxiety courses through you.

It’s your baby girl’s first sleepover.

“I just... I’ve never really been away from her. Every night we read a bedtime story and she gives me a hug and two kisses goodnight. What if she has a nightmare, Steve? W-what if she wakes up and she’s scared because she doesn’t know where she is o-or where we are? What if-”

“Honey,” he cuts you off, a gentle smile on his face.

“It’s going to be okay, I promise. This is just as good for you as it is for her. You’ve got separation anxiety. But it’s all gonna be okay, I promise.” You take a couple more deep breaths, fighting tears.

You miss your daughter.

“Stand up,” Steve orders.

Your eyes flash up to him, nervous for a completely new reason now as you slowly rise to your feet.

He walks around the table, eyes unreadable until he stands in front of you.

The record player whispers Paul Anka, and for a moment that’s all you can hear is the sound of his voice singing out softly.

Steve takes one of your hands gently in his, the other hand finding your waist and tugging you softly against his body.

“Dance with me,” he murmurs. It’s not a command like you thought it would be, no. It’s a request.

A hardly whispered plea for you to dance with him, and you don’t have it in you to deny him.

You’re tense as you nod your agreement, shoulders tight and back stiff as he slowly starts to sway the two of you to the music.

His hand is so gentle on the small of your back, holding you so tenderly that you can’t help but relax in his hold, your tense muscles loosening up.

You slowly lean your head against his chest, closing your eyes and basking in the comfort of being held so softly by him.

He lets out a small breath of relief, a smile tugging at his lips as he hugs you even closer to his body, lips pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head before his chin rests atop it, his own eyes fluttering closed.

He leads the dance, and for a beautifully perfect moment, you feel comfortable and at home in his arms.

#Steve Rogers x reader #dark Steve Rogers x reader #steve x reader dark fic #Steve rogers x reader dark fic #bucky x reader #Steve rogers x reader Dark!fic #stucky x reader dark fic #Steve Rogers/reader dark fic #Steve Rogers/reader #Steve Rogers/you #dark fic #tw dark themes

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candlewaxandp0lar0ids · 3 years

Text

if I can never give you peace — zero || Jungkook

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Summary: It starts like quite a few stories do, in your world. Girl meets boy, who happens to be a hybrid, girl buys him at an auction where hybrids are sold, boy falls in love with her, girl gets bored of him. Then it’s not so typical anymore, when the boy ends up forced into illegal fighting rings, until he makes a wrong move and the girl’s father decides he needs to be killed.

Where does that leave you? Well, you’re the one who handled Jungkook’s fight and generally organized his life, and, when the girl’s father, your boss and mafia leader, tells you he wants him ‘put down’, you’re the one who has to get it done. Except, instead, you let him escape, and everything turns out fine.

Until he comes back.

Also available on Ao3.

Word count (chapter): 5.8k

Genre: Mafia AU, Hybrid AU, enemies to lovers, heavy on angst, slow burn, eventual smut

Warnings & Tags (chapter): Descriptions of Violence, Tension, Dehumanization and general poor treatment of hybrids

A/N: So I have two modes and those are tooth-rotting fluff and angst feast. This is... not fluff. I hope you’ll enjoy this first installment and introduction to the series, and I will see you soon for the next one!

Your eyes follow Jungkook’s every step as he walks through the crowd and enters the cage that serves as a ring. He doesn’t have to look at you to know you’re watching. You’re always watching. You’re standing in your usual corner, from where you make sure everything goes smoothly. Two tall, muscular men stand on either side of you. They look like they’re your bodyguards, but really, they’re here to handle him if he tries to do something. To everyone in the room but the two of you, this looks like every other fight night since the very first time he came to the Circle.

You’re too far for him to smell you, especially over the crowd of excited, sweaty men, but if he did, he’s sure he would pick up on the bitter scent of anxiety, would hear your heart beating a little too fast. He’d say you’re lucky the guards aren’t hybrids, but he knows that’s not the case. You never count on luck. Everybody knows that. That’s what makes you so good at your job. That’s what might just save his life.

He glances at you, finds your eyes glued on him, and gives you a smirk, which reveals his abnormally pointy teeth for a rabbit hybrid. It’s been over a year since they’ve been sharpened for him, to make him look more threatening. You’re used to them, but he still sees you swallow. For the first time he wonders, vaguely, if you had any say in that. You’re the one he meets with nowadays, but you’re not his owner, after all.

Your eyes leave him to look at his opponent. The man’s taller and has broad shoulders, he seems to have some training based on his on-guard position, and he’s older than him. You couldn’t find many informations on him, but based on his attributes, he’s probably some kind of dog hybrid.

You both know he doesn’t stand a chance.

“On my left,” the announcer roars, “some fresh meat! I give you… Jin!”

There are enthusiastic shouts, and the man shoots nervous glances around him at the crowd all around him. It’s clear that he isn’t used to that type of setting, and you feel an unexpected wave a guilt in your chest. He’s going to get destroyed tonight, you’re sure of it. You’re the one who suggested that Jungkook should fight a newbie, for the show. You don’t regret your decision, but you don’t feel good about it either.

“And on my right! The man who needs no introduction, who has won thirty! Two! Fights in a row, I give you… Jungkook!”

The crowd goes hysterical, and the hybrid facing him winces again. If he thought he had chance before that, it’s clear that he doesn’t anymore. You wonder if he’d heard about Jungkook, if his owners had prepared him well enough, if whoever owned him was betting against him. You wonder if he’d just been told he would be fighting a rabbit hybrid and assumed he would be fine.

Jungkook’s long ears are flat against his head, carefully tucked under a headband, and without those, he doesn’t look like a rabbit hybrid, too tall and broad-shouldered. Then again, he had never really been your typical rabbit hybrid.

Truth was, you had been relieved when you had been assigned to working for the daughter of Mr. Xanders. Your whole life, you had known you would end up here. Your dad had worked for the Family since before your birth, and though it was clear your mom disapproved, she had never held any illusion that you would escape it. If anything, you were the sacrifice, a way of making sure your siblings wouldn’t be forced to work for the most powerful crime family in town. That was, if you did good enough.

Getting assigned to the girl who was nicknamed “the Princess” was both a blessing and a curse. It meant you got to stay away from most of the illegal stuff, as the girl was notoriously sheltered from all of that by her father. However, it also meant that you had to basically babysit the spoiled seventeen years old, despite her being only a few years younger than you. You had dressed as professionally and sternly as you could, adorning yourself in a dark woman’s suit, but she hadn’t seemed impressed.

That was how you found yourself here, at an auction for rare hybrids. You thought the whole thing was grim — oh, how naive you had to be back then, to think this was bad — but you had obeyed orders without batting an eye. You had to do this right, and this was a pretty easy job, after all.

You gritted your teeth silently as various hybrids were brought on stage, exhibited and bought, one by one. The status of hybrids was a complicated subject in the country, always had been, but you had grown up in a poor area, where a lot of hybrids lived freely, and the idea of owning what you knew to be a person made you sick to your stomach. At least the Princess hadn’t said a word the whole time you’d been there, and you had hopes that you would leave without — God — buying someone.

Naive. So damn naive.

“I want this one,” the girl had announced decidedly, pointing at the stage with a movement of her chin.

Shit.

You looked at the stage. There, the auctioneer was highly praising the hybrid who had last been brought on stage. A surprisingly tall and muscular rabbit hybrid, with fluffy black hair and long ears falling on either side of his head. He was shaking slightly, sending terrified looks around him, and your heart tightened in your chest.

Naive and soft.

“Are you sure?” you asked, and the girl rolled her eyes.

“Do your job. Get him for me.”

Numbers flashed in your mind, the exact amount of money you were allowed to spend clear as day. It made you feel a little better, for a second. This was what you were good with; numbers, facts, informations. If you thought of the hybrid as just that — a number, an element to compose with — you should be able to do what you were supposed to do. Do your damn job, and ensure your little brother never ever had to work here, because they wouldn’t be as kind to him.

You took a deep breath, and, after a few people had already considerably raised the price, you made your bid.

Jungkook walks to the center of the ring, arms raised high. He’s good at giving a show, good at most things, actually. He looks good here, confident, knowing exactly what he’s worth, and he’s nothing like what he was that first day. There is absolutely no fear on his face as he fists the air and people shout for him. Instead, he seems to be positively thriving on the attention he’s getting.

He’s a favorite here, because he always gives people what they came for. He makes the fight last, makes it theatrical, with twists and impressive moves. It’s been a while since he’s struggled in a fight, really struggled, which has made it easier. You recognize you’ve played your part in that. You have your word to say when picking his opponents, and you don’t want him to— well, to die, or to be too badly injured.

You know it’s not much. You know no matter what you tell yourself, that’s not protecting him. You know you should have acted a lot earlier.

But you didn’t.

They gave you Jungkook as soon as the payment was confirmed, which didn’t take long. People were fidgeting in the room, careful not to stare too long at the Princess. They knew who she was, of course. The bodyguards and your ghostly presence, one step behind her, did not do anything to soothe their nerves. No one actually knew you back then. You hadn’t earned your reputation of efficiency, no one had called you a cold-hearted bitch yet, though that would pretty much become your identifier, but you were still somewhat unnerving, with your stillness and your all black attire.

Which was why you never tried to add color to it.

The Princess seemed to be in her element, not bothered by the silence and people’s obvious fear of her, even for a second. Instead, she was watching her acquisition. The hybrid — Jungkook, you remembered, because you’d heard his name after winning the auction — was staring at the floor, stealing glances at her every once in a while, before quickly looking away again. He was clearly shy, and terrified, and it looked like the Princess liked that.

When they handed the leash to her, she was quick to clip it on his collar, and you held back your disgust. Your mind went to Mark, a kind golden retriever hybrid you had grown up with, and the idea of him being collared like that almost made you retch.

But, of course, none of that could be seen on your face. You had been told that you had the perfect poker face, unreadable at all times. In moments like this, it was a true blessing.

“Hello, Jungkook, I’m Anna, and I’m your new owner. I’m going to take good care of you.”

Then Jungkook looked up at her, briefly, and an adorable smile curved his lips.

You knew then that this could only end in pain and heartbreak.

Once Jungkook is done, he turns to face Jin. The other hybrid looks like he wants to run away, but even if he tried it, he’d be pushed right back in. So he does the smart thing, and prepares himself for the fight, lifting his hands to protect himself. Jungkook does the same thing. There is a brief moment of silence, everyone bracing themselves for what is to come. Despite his earlier display, Jungkook is deathly calm now, every muscle in his body ready for action.

The second the bell rings, Jungkook is moving, so fast he’s almost blurry, and you have to avert your eyes when his fist connects with the other hybrid’s chest.

This all feels like it could have been avoided.

A relationship quickly developed between the shy bunny and the Princess. You didn’t say anything about it; that wasn’t what you were here for. A baby-sitter, sure, but not a chaperone. Anyway, it seemed like Mr. Xanders wasn’t too worried about that, and his daughter was free to do whatever she wanted as long as she didn’t get pregnant. You supposed a hybrid was the perfect choice for that, with how rare it was for them to have children with a human. It could happen, of course, but it was highly unlikely without medical assistance.

Still, you weren’t sure you liked the relationship all that much. It just felt like Anna had so much power over him. He was a couple of years older than her, since selling hybrids under eighteen was technically illegal, but it was clear from the very beginning that he had been sheltered and didn’t have much experience in— well, in any areas. A sickening feeling told you that had probably been done on purpose by the people who had raised him. You were well aware of what rabbit hybrids were usually bought for.

You watched, silently, as they got close, as Anna’s hands started to easily find Jungkook’s, as Jungkook started to rest his head on her shoulder, to scent her, as he fell in love with her. Today, maybe you would have been annoyed at the sight, annoyed by his innocence, but back then, it only made you sad.

You were also there to see Anna grow bored of him. It didn’t even take her that long, no more than a couple of months.

When she insisted on going to another hybrid auction, and asked you to bid on someone else, you knew that it was over.

“Get him to fight,” Mr. Xanders told you dismissively at a meeting you had with him. “I want the money he cost me back.”

“He’s a rabbit hybrid,” you had said, frowning. “He’s not exactly the fighting type.”

“I didn’t tell you to make him win,” he scoffed. “I don’t care if you have to bet against him. Get my money back. After that, I don’t care what you do with him.”

You didn’t realize then that that was a ‘promotion’, and that this meant you would start working in illegal settings. All you knew was the painful weight in your chest at the idea of sending Jungkook to his death. You had kept away from him, not trying to create any bonds with him, but he smiled politely and kindly when he saw you.

God, he was in love with Anna. You were sure he had noticed her losing interest in him, but you also believed he held out hope. This could— This would probably be crushing for him.

So you took the matter into your own hands. You didn’t just sign him up for an upcoming fight, but you also found him a trainer, the best you could.

“Does Anna want me to learn how to fight?” he had asked you, big brown eyes looking at you, when you had told him about the training. “So I can be her bodyguard?”

“My orders don’t come from Anna,” you’d answered, trying to stay as distant as possible.

“But will she— Do you think she’ll like me again, if I learn to fight?”

No. You thought Anna had gotten everything she wanted from him.

“I don’t know,” you had answered. You couldn’t. You couldn’t do it.

The first fight had been brutal. Devastating, in fact. Jungkook had been training, and you’d been told he was good at what he was doing, but, as a newbie, he’d been sent against an expert fighter — “for the show”, you’d heard, the exact same thing you would use as well, years later —, and you were later told he was lucky he’d made it out alive.

You stayed next to him in the hospital room. As a hybrid, he healed quickly, but he still looked terrible, body marred with black and blue, lip busted, and black eyes. When he woke up, he looked around the room, every movement he made clearly painful, and you knew, at his expression, that there was only one thing he thought about in that moment.

Anna wasn’t there.

You would never forget the look he gave you then. The way he set his jaw, the way something hardened in his eyes.

“Get out,” he had said, and you were pretty sure he had meant for it to sound aggressive, but he wasn’t good at it yet, so it was more pleading.

You had gotten up, made a move to— to pat his shoulder, to do something, but you had refrained and your hand had fallen down to your side.

“I’m sorry,” you had said, and you had left him alone in there, with his broken hopes and heart.

That night was the first and last time you considered leaving your job.

But there was no quitting, where you worked.

In the ring, of course, Jungkook is good. He leaves an opening for the guy to place a few punches, ones that can’t hurt him too much. The crowd is delirious, bets are being placed. There’s a rumor that Jungkook was injured at the last fight so tonight could be the night where he loses his title, couldn’t it? The first round is coming to an end, and he doesn’t seem to have done much so, surely, he’s not going to be able to end that guy by the third, like he usually does — and if he does, hey, at least they’ll have had one hell of a show.

The three rounds thing is something you asked him to do after an organizer told you people needed that to feel they had gotten their money’s worth. You had told Jungkook, and he’d growled an answer, but he had never won in less than that since. For all his obvious hatred of you, the organization, and everything that surrounded him, he didn’t actively oppose you most of the time. He had tried to run away, twice, but when those attempts had failed, he had seemed to realize that it was just easier to go with the flow.

When the second round starts, though, he goes wild. His bare feet are light on the floor, his fists quick and precise. He doesn’t leave anything to luck either. Every punch lands exactly where he wants it to, when he wants it to. He dodges his opponent’s attacks easily, and he sees in his eyes the moment when the man realizes that he’s not winning this. He sees confidence turn into surprise, then into fear, and it only makes him want blood.

His right hook hits the man in the jaw with all the power he can put into it, and this time you don’t wince. You’ve gotten used to the violence now — it always takes you a while — and you’re mostly impressed at how good Jungkook is.

But that’s exactly why you’re in this situation, isn’t it?

“We should put him down,” Mr. Xanders said, with the exact same dismissive tone he had used years ago to tell you to make Jungkook fight, and you looked at him in disbelief. Surely, surely, he didn’t mean—

“I really disapprove of that solution, dad,” Anna said, shaking her head, and you realized he did.

You had been surprised by Anna’s presence, when you had walked into the office. You hadn’t worked for her in a long time, having graduated to far worse things. You had served your purpose, you supposed, made yourself practically indispensable when it came to the organizing of the Family’s business, as you knew the workings of the Family in and out, both legal and… less legal aspects. No one had ever said anything about your siblings joining.

“He attacked someone,” her father simply shrugged.

“If I may, Mr. X, it was after a fight and the man was being really aggressive after he lost the money he’d bet against—”

“I don’t care,” he said, waving his hand like you were just an annoying fly. “He attacked a human. We can’t have our hybrids doing that, otherwise it will just be chaos. You’re smart enough to know that.”

You swallowed. Something inside you was screaming. You had long shut down any form of moral compass, but it seemed like Jungkook always awoke the last remnants of it. You were pretty sure he despised you now, and you didn’t blame him for it. But, just like what you’d thought when Anna had bought him, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this just wasn’t right.

“I understand, sir.”

“That’s a horrible thing you’re doing, dad,” Anna insisted. “I thought you’d try to at least reason with him, (Y/N).”

That wasn’t your job. You knew when your opinion was asked on those things, and now was not one of those times. You also knew that you hated that she called you by your first name, like the two of you were friends, and you didn’t say anything about that either.

“I’m sorry, honey,” Mr. Xanders said warmly, like he had just refused to buy her an expensive toy, and not condemned a man to death. “I’ll make it up to you, okay?”

Anna sighed and rolled her eyes, and you assumed she’d probably stay mad at him for a while. But not too long.

Your heart was beating so loud in your chest you barely heard Mr. Xanders dismissing you, and you were relieved to be left alone when you walked out. There was only one thing you wanted to be thinking about now.

How were you going to save Jungkook’s life?

Jin hits the floor and doesn’t get up. It’s not an actual knock-out, because he’s still moving around, but Jungkook doubts he’ll even try to get back on his feet. The guy seems to be smart, he probably realizes that that would be suicide. Another minute with him on the ring? Nah. That would be a really, really stupid thing to do. Jungkook’s knuckles are bleeding — he doesn’t think they’ve been intact once in the four years he’s been fighting — and he’s pretty much unstoppable, right now.

He lets the referee grab his arm and lift it in the air as the crowd screams. They’re particularly loud tonight, because he won in two rounds. It’s not really a surprise when they force the entrance of the cage, flooding it, and Jungkook looks for you, almost instinctively. When he finds you, your eyes are on your phone. You look like you couldn’t care less about what’s happening around you, and he knows you do genuinely dislike the fights. You’ve never made it a secret. You’ve never taken care of the other hybrids owned by the family who participate, either. He doesn’t know if he’s your burden, or if you’re the one who chooses to still do that. Before, he wouldn’t have doubted it. Now… He’s not so sure.

Your eyes flicker up to his for a second, and you nod, imperceptibly. Your heart is probably beating as loud as his right now, though for different reasons.

Jungkook examines you, takes in how out of place you are in that environment, immaculately dressed, small glasses on your nose, hair pulled back, and lets himself be amused by it, one last time.

And then he’s gone.

You only visited Jungkook when there was about to be a fight, and it was clear he really didn’t like it when you showed up. You always seemed to be interrupting him, whether it was a training session or a work-out. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him do something other than those two things. You didn’t know if he had anything else.

You brought some food from a restaurant he liked, as you usually did, and got some things for the guards who would be around. That wasn’t as usual, but you had done it before, so hopefully it wouldn’t make anyone suspicious and it would allow you to have some privacy with Jungkook.

He sat down opposite from you, immediately diving into the food you’d brought, and you watched silently. His shoulders were tense, never completely down but, though he would hate to admit it, he was more relaxed around you than around anyone else. It said a lot about his life, about how desperate he was for any form of companionship, that the way you told him about his opponents almost made him feel like you cared about him. It said a lot that your presence comforted him, and it was pretty pathetic, if you asked him.

“So, who am I fighting?” he asked while eating. He never bothered with his manners when he was around you.

“A newbie,” you said. “Some fighting training from what I’ve gathered, but he shouldn’t be an issue.”

He growled. The sound was unnatural for a rabbit hybrid, but he had mastered it over the years. It was a good way of intimidating people.

“Really? I thought I told you I wanted a challenge.”

You didn’t reply immediately, and that made him look up at you. When he did, you were chewing on the inside of your cheek, hesitant. That was completely out of character. Then, you made up your mind, and your expression turned back to the unreadable one he was so familiar with.

“Keep eating, and don’t raise your voice” you ordered.

He lifted an eyebrow. Normally, he would have done something like folding his arms and waited for more, in a defiant attitude, but this was you. You would never do something like that just to assert your power over him. He hated your guts, but that was one thing he could say about you.

“Mr. X is going to have you killed because you attacked that man at your last fight.”

There. Direct, to the point, not a useless word — though you couldn’t bring yourself to use the words “put you down”. Jungkook froze for a half a second, than resumed his eating, albeit slower than before.

“It was all good as long as long as I brought him money, but he doesn’t want any trouble for it, huh?”

His voice was bitter and low, barely more than a rumble. You were confident no one was paying attention to you, since the guards ate in another part of the house and no one cared about what you were saying. They could see you through the picture window, but they couldn’t read lips. Still, you lowered your voice as well.

“Win your next fight in two rounds,” you said, instead of answering him.

He shot you a dirty glance.

“Do you really think that’s what I—”

“That should get the crowd to lose their mind,” you continued. You had gone through all the possibilities in your mind, over and over again. This was the one that was the safest for you and your family, while giving Jungkook a reasonable chance of survival. “When that happens, you’ll use the hysteria to leave through your opponent’s entrance.”

This got his attention, and he stopped trying to interrupt you, finally focusing on your words.

“I can probably get you somewhere between five and ten minutes before everyone finds out you’re missing.”

He scoffed.

“That’s very generous of you.”

“I also won’t look too hard for you,” you added, because you would obviously be in charge of that as well. “So as long as you don’t do a terrible job hiding, we probably won’t find you. Stay away from hotels, and don’t get noticed.”

Jungkook stayed silent for a while. He didn’t look at you, jaw set, and you were pretty sure he was weighing the pros and cons of your plan.

“I don’t know if there’ll be another chance,” you told him truthfully. “They want you gone after the fight.”

The silence went on a little longer, before Jungkook spoke again.

“Anna’s said yes to that?”

You didn’t miss the way his voice faltered on her name. You didn’t think he had spoken to her in years, but he still had a soft spot for her, and being reminded of it always made you sad. You had accepted, a long time ago, that life wasn’t fair, but that was particularly true when it came to him. None of what had happened to him was fair. The shy boy with the wide eyes you’d helped buy at the auction deserved better. You didn’t, probably deserved every single bad thing that had happened to you, but for him, you wished you had done something — anything — differently. So you wouldn’t be faced with a jaded, cynical version of that boy right now.

“She opposed it, but her father is still going through with it.”

“So she didn’t oppose it much.”

You didn’t answer that. It was true, and you both knew it.

You glanced at your watch. Your time here was almost over, and you had a lot of responsibilities.

“Will you do it?”

Jungkook glanced at you, eyes wary.

“How do I know you’re telling me the truth? You could just do that so you could have me killed and say I tried to escape.”

You shook your head, almost amused by the possibility.

“I would gain nothing from doing that, and if I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t go about it that way. Will you do it?”

This time, he nodded. He didn’t trust you, but he thought you were telling the truth on this. So following your plan would be just as well.

“Good. I’ll see you for the fight.”

This would have been a good moment to wish him good luck, probably, but you didn’t do luck, so you didn’t say anything. You gave him a quick nod, gathered your things, and then you were out.

You didn’t think to say goodbye.

“We’ll get him when the crowd’s dispersed,” one of the bodyguards says, and you hum noncommittally in response, eyes on your phone.

Moron.

If these two were the ones you usually work with, they would know that your usual protocol is to go get Jungkook as soon as the referee’s lifted his hand up. That way, you can get him out as quickly as possible and you don’t have to worry about him getting mobbed. But you’ve changed your team the day Mr. Xanders asked you to ‘put Jungkook down’, so they have no idea. It’s been a week since then, which shouldn’t make it too suspicious. Hopefully.

When the crowd does move enough to see what’s going on in the cage — three minutes — one of the two men says, voice worried, “Hey, can you see him?”

Your head snaps up and your eyes scan the room. You’re relieved to see that Jungkook’s nowhere in sight.

“Where is he?” you ask urgently, and the men seem to shrink under your glare, exchanging worried glances. You roll your eyes and sigh. This may be your plan, but they’re still acting incompetent. Which is good for you, sure, but the perfectionist in you is annoyed.

“You two should pray he’s in the changing room,” you spit out as you march towards it. It takes some struggle, because the crowd isn’t exactly calming down, but it’s not too long.

Of course, Jungkook isn’t in the changing room. It was a bad idea to go look there anyway — usually you would probably have already informed everyone that he had disappeared — but these two don’t seem to realize that.

“Go search the fighting room,” you order, “make sure you haven’t missed anything. Then check the surroundings. I’ll stay there. Let me know if you find something.”

They practically run out, and you allow yourself to sit down. This isn’t even dangerous yet. If Jungkook’s done that part correctly, he should already be too far for them to find him. As far as you’re concerned, you’ve bought him — you check your watch — seven minutes. But even if you don’t doubt him, you still feel terror at the idea they could catch him. You don’t know what would happen then. You don’t want to think about it.

The seconds tick by. It’s been almost exactly ten minutes when your phone rings.

“Hello, Miss—”

“Do you have him?” you bark.

There’s a silence.

“I want an answer!” you snap.

“No. I’m sorry. We’ve lost him.”

You hang up immediately and start to dial another number to let people know Jungkook’s missing.

But, before you actually call, you let out a brief sigh of relief.

This just might work.

You get home late the following night. When you do, you’re absolutely exhausted. You’ve had a terrible day, unable to sleep a wink, and you got thoroughly chewed out over Jungkook going missing. You think Mr. X was suspicious of you, because you basically don’t fuck up, ever, but then Anna started to wax poetics about how “Jungkook was a soul who wanted to live”, and you don’t think he bought it, but it at least got his mind off of you.

You doubt he’d get you killed over that, it just isn’t worth it and you’re pretty valuable, but it would be much better if he didn’t think about it too much.

You’ve organized the searches, pretty sloppily in your own opinion. Of course, it’s possible that they could find him, but if Jungkoook does his part, everything should be okay.

You remove your shoes with a groan when you walk in. You usually never regret wearing heels, thankful for the centimeters they help you gain, but tonight you definitely do. Keeping them on for two days was not how they had been intended to be used.

Once they’re off your feet, you painfully walk to your kitchen. All you want to do is to make yourself a cup of tea before going to bed, but you stop yourself before grabbing your kettle.

Something feels— off. You’re probably the only person who could notice it, because you’re so obsessive with everything that’s in your home, but you just can’t miss it. It’s not much, just some items that aren’t where they should be, or that were moved a little to the side.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you hesitantly grab a knife from your kitchen drawer. You don’t think that would do anything, if someone was in your apartment right now, because you can’t fight and, considering the people you work for, you’re pretty sure if someone wanted to kill you they would, but it makes you feel better.

You make your way through the living-room slowly, heart hammering in your chest. You check the bathroom, first. No one’s in there, but it’s clear that whoever was there used it as well. He didn’t put your toothpaste back where it belonged.

That only leaves your room. You walk in, carefully, to find it empty. Your bed’s done, though not exactly how you do it, and that confuses you. At least until your eyes find the necklace that’s on your bedside table.

It’s the identifying tag Jungkook wore around his neck for fights. You reach out for it, in disbelief, and that only confirms what you thought.

A laugh bubbles in your throat, and you just can’t hold it in. It escapes your lips, breaking the silence that always reigns in your apartment.

Here. He was here, in the eye of the storm, while everyone was looking for him. You have no idea where he is now, but this makes you feel like he’ll be fine. Clearly, he is a smart man and he has resources.

You fall to the ground, lean against your bed, holding the tag in your hand. You give yourself a second. That’s more than you usually get. It’s a second to close your eyes and feel grateful and happy about what happened, a second to think that perhaps not everything is dark and terrible in the world.

A second, because Jungkook made it out.

And then, you open your eyes, and you come back to your reality, which is that you’ll be working for the family tomorrow, and the day after that, and probably for the rest of your life. There’s no out for you. No hope.

But at least Jungkook should be fine. You’ll never know about it, because if he is, then you’ll never hear about him again.

If you ever do, it will only mean bad news.

Thank you for reading! I hope you’ve enjoyed this first chapter and feel free to let me know if you would like to be tagged for future ones!

#jungkook x reader #bts #bts x reader #jeon jungkook x reader #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook angst #jungkook #jeon jungkook #hybrid jungkook #candywrites

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sweetwolfcupcake · 3 years

Text

Allurement: Chills and Creeps

Yandere Namjoon x Reader

She was not liking it at all, not even a bit. (Y/N) knew that she was sometimes a bit too naive and trusting, the girl was well-aware of her follies. But she was no fool. It was the eighth time she had received a gift- not just any gift- it was an item she remembered vividly checking out online, or perhaps it was what she had eyed when she was passing through the street market. The last time had been a book she had been wanting to read, but of course, she could not afford to spend on anything inessential, (Y/N) had to save money.

There were handwritten notes with each bouquet of flower, or 'gifts', (Y/N) did not know what else to call, them, even though they were gradually making her paranoid.

But as she read the hand-written note, while a bouquet of burgundy roses in her grasp, she felt chills running down her spine.

'The love of my life. I think it is time, we must leave this vain world behind and create one of our own. I shall pick you up tonight when you would be off to your home from your draining shift at the restaurant. You would never have to worry about a thing when you would be with me. I have everything prepared. And tonight, we shall elope. And we will live happily, ever after.'

- Your faithful and devoted soulmate.

The girl felt sick reading the note. Her stomach churned and her eyes welled up with unshed tears as her heart dropped to her stomach. Until now, she had been unsure what to do with all of it, the notes had been getting creepier, first, it was a comment on how her hair seemed to be in perfect sync with the wind, the next one had been a compliment on her dress, even her voice, the person then had commented on her sneakers, and how to smelt like a rare, sweet, untouched flower he wanted to 'bloom in his garden alone'. She could not take it anymore, it was turning terrifying and she was already regretting not going to the police. She felt her cheeks dampening as the terror set in. What would she do now? She could not afford to miss even a day at work! All (Y/N) had ever wanted to support her mother, complete her education and live in peace. Her lips quivered as she sniffled, trying to stifle her sobs, or she could wake up her mother- the woman needed to rest.

"What do I do? Whom had I ever wronged to deserve this?" she whispered, feeling the panic brewing in as more tears cascaded down her flushed cheeks.

-----

(Y/N) had gone to work anyway, she could not even think of missing it, it would take a strain on her bills. And she did not want that. Despite her requests, her employer had not let her off earlier than usual. It was close to midnight when she had stepped out of her workplace and had begun to briskly walk towards her home. Her legs were tired, but she knew that if she would slow down, she could be in danger. She prayed that whoever it was, they were playing a sick prank on her, just a sick prank. Yet, all such thoughts vanished the moment she heard footsteps behind her, it was at a distance, but it was fast approaching. And without a second thought, she broke into a sprint. With her mouth open, gasping air as she forced her legs to move faster as she ran, she ran for her life, the sound of boots chasing her pushed her further into the edge of fear. She huffed, feeling short of breath. Her lungs burned and her feet ached, but she did not stop, she could not.

Not until she crashed right into another body and screamed in surprise, expecting the worst, but the familiar soothing voice floated in as the person held her close, breaking her out of her panicked state-

"(Y/N)! (Y/N) what happened? It's me, Namjoon! It's alright, you are okay, you are fine, (Y/N), look at me."

She blinked, getting her breathing back into normal, at least that was what she tried. The dreaded footsteps ceased at a distance and as Mr Kim's eyes focused ahead of her, with his jaws clenched and eyebrows drown together, she knew that he could see the person, "L-let's just get out of here, please." she pleaded while finally letting a single tear escape her eyes. Her voice had caught Mr Kim's attention as he looked down, eyes reflecting deep concern

"Are you hurt, he hurt you? Why were you running?"

"I-"

"Just stay here, okay?" with that, before she could protest he was marched past her, she turned back, only to catch sight of a man running away before Mr Kim could confront him, but instead of returning, he took off behind the man. And she was left alone, shivering, sniffling, frightened and incredibly tired.

"Please..." she whispered out to the air. Footsteps floated in once more, only this time, it was the familiar silhouette of Mr Kim that had greeted her sight before she felt relief flooding her tensed nerves.

"He got away, bastard!" Mr Kim hissed, despite the sense of relief and security she felt in his presence, the sliver of his rage had her gulping as she realised that after all, he beyond those polite smiles and benevolent eyes. As soon as his gaze flickered at her, the anger simmered down "Are you alright, Darling? You are trembling, here," he generously took off his coat and dropped it over her quivering form.

"Tha-thank you." fear had not left her yet, if anything, the withdraw of adrenaline hit her all at once and her already weak legs turned completely boneless, but Mr Kim was there to hold her, pull her closer to his comparatively warmer body as he supported her weight.

"Careful there, calm down okay? My car is right here, I have some water. We will talk when you are better, hm?" his voice was soothing, gentle, calm, the depth only added to the calmness as he gently rubbed her shoulder with his thumb.

Under any other circumstances, she would have been uncomfortable, but at the moment, it was addictively reassuring and she wanted nothing more than to lean on him and go to sleep. She was exhausted. A weak squeak escaped her lips as he felt his hand on the back of her thighs before she was heaved up. "W-wait, Mr Kim, you don't need to!" Now pressed flush against his chest as he carried her in his arms, she could feel the vibration of his deep chuckle.

"Don't worry, I won't drop you. Besides, you need to rest." she protested no further, only held on to him in silence.

The short walk was silent until he reached his car and put her on her feet again. Opening the car door, he gently ushered her inside. The warmth of the car added to the relished feeling of safety, and it also made her realise how vulnerable she was. Had Mr Kim not been there...She did not want to even think about what could have happened.

"Here, have some water." he offered her a bottle of water as soon as he was inside the car, as well.

"Thank you," she whispered before accepting and opening it and attaching her lips to the opening straight away, she was parched and the lukewarm water felt like nectar of immortality.

"Slow down, you will choke otherwise, slowly." he fussed and her cheeks warmed up as soon as she realised that she had rendered the bottle useless to him.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I-I" she could not hold back the sniffle, the fear and anxiety had never left her

"No, no, relax, it's okay, I have other bottles, but I want you to relax first, okay? Here, have some." he cooed as he produced a lollipop from the dashboard, it smelt of fresh lemon and honey "Whenever I am tensed or upset, I used to pop open my favourite lollipop, it helped me relax." suppressing yet another sniffle, she accepted the candy with her shaky hands "Relax, okay? Let's get you home first." she nodded mutely, that was the best he could do for her. All she wished to do was to curl up on her bed and let sleep take over. With that thought, she passed Mr Kim a smile as she put the lollipop inside her mouth. He smiled at her, yet, it seemed sharp. But she was sure she was thinking too much, she was a bit shaken after all.

The car started and Mr Kim took to driving, the silence was comfortable, added to the smooth motion of the car, and the tiredness taking over her, she felt her eyes turning increasingly tired with each passing moment. But she fought it, she did not want to fall asleep in his car, he was already being too kind, too generous. At least she could wait until she fell on her bed. The sweet and sour taste of the lollipop was addictive, it made her realise how long it had been since she had bought herself a stack of her favourite candies. She could not ponder over it long enough but, the tiredness was too much and the call of slumber was compelling enough for her to finally give in and sag against the passenger seat and let her droopy eyelids flutter shut.

****

Taglist (Kindly remind me later if I missed anyone)- @whatpageisthis @amoc94 @theresa-nam-nam-me @dearbambideer @casualminiaturetimemachine @njrwifey @kpopisnicee @illnevertrustmyselfagain @potterbrooke @luvaffaire @bighitfics @rkive-diary

#yandere bts #yandere namjoon #yandere namjoon x reader #yandere rm #yandere bts x reader #yandere rm x reader #yandere ceo namjoon #yandere dom namjoon x innocent reader #yandere ceo namjoon x reader #yandere dom namjoon #allurement

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ellsbclls · 3 years

Text

The Fire Escape

warnings ➛ A couple of swear words here and there, mentions of death, endgame spoilers, and a dash of far from home erasure.

word count ➛ 4.7K

synopsis ➛ After the events of End Game, Peter Parker takes a break from his crime fighting persona, but when Spider-Man is called to a mission in Sokovia, he realizes that you might not be ready to handle the life of an Avenger’s girlfriend. There’s a little bit of angst, but not enough to keep you up at night.

“Y/N… Earth to Y/N.”

Peter ropes you back to reality with a light squeeze of your hand, a simple gesture that you return two-fold. On normal dates, the competition would ignite almost immediately, squeezing each other’s hands back and forth, under varying degrees of pressure, until one of you cried uncle — but this is far from a normal date.

It had started innocently enough. Peter had begged Dr.Banner to let him leave his “internship” an hour early just so he could surprise you at work. You assumed — after some superb groveling on Peter’s part — that Bruce agreed, because the end of your shift was met with a parchment wrapped dozen of blushing roses, accompanied by your equally blushing boyfriend. The two of you were able to snag one of the emptier carts on the N train, and were accompanied by a small Greek woman who sent a warm smile when you nestled your head into Peter’s shoulder. The smile disappeared as soon as he started using the poles as his personal jungle gym, but your laugh made up for its loss as he offered his hand out, begging you to join him with a Gene Kelly-esque flair. He ushered you into one of your favorite ramen places during your stroll down Ditmars, pulling out your chair when you were given a table, pretending not to notice how you snuck a noodle or two from his bowl when he wasn’t looking. Your heart felt so warm, you’re surprised it didn’t melt.

So why does everything seem so off now? You and Peter are walking side by side down 37th avenue, he’s rambling excitedly about some new enhancement he made to his web slingers, the evening breeze is kissing your cheeks as it waltzes around the autumn foliage, and somehow, you feel like you’re in the eye of a hurricane.

“Where’d you go?” Peter tries to reel you back in once more and succeeds, craning his head to meet your gaze.

“Oh, just a quick jog.” you tease. There’s a thin edge underlying your sarcasm, and you wonder if he can hear it, too. You’re only a block away from your apartment, and the tiny voice in the back of your mind rationalizes that nothing could ruin your impromptu date night if you were tucked away in your home — because you always feel safe when you’re home. Yet, with no solid evidence to confirm or deny the thought, you’re in a race with the block to dig through your purse.

“Oh, well don’t forget to warm up.” he teases back. His caramel hues, once alight with a mirthful glint, start to descend into an uneasy resolve that only confirms your suspicions, but you’re too occupied by the whereabouts of your keys to notice. “Speaking of warm up, actually, there’s something I have to ask you.”

“Shoot.” you reply offhandedly.

“Well, I- I don’t know how to say this.” The tremor in his voice is subtle, but just present enough to pull you from your search. “There’s- uh- there’s something going on in Sokovia, or at least what’s left of it. There’s a lot of feedback coming off the maps, like a… a hotplate of cosmic activity, so Captain wants the entire team there.”

There it is — that dark cloud that hung over your head this evening finally drenches you in a sharp, cold blanket of realization. Your heart stops, aches, and then crumbles to the pit of your stomach, waiting to be washed away by the waves of terror that crash upon your airways, and despite the wash cycle of emotions you’ve just endured, you feel far from clean. In fact, everything feels heavy — from the weight of your heart to your ragged breath — paralyzed by the idea that each thump, each exhale, brings you closer to the moment where Peter has to leave.

You started dating a year and a half ago, and two years have passed since half of the population was restored to its rightful plane of existence. Iron Man’s death left a massive hole in Peter’s morale, as well as a nagging doubt that he would never be able to take on the mantle he was left with. So, for the first time since he was bitten by that radioactive spider, he cowered in the face of adversity. Not only had he lost a mentor, he had lost his friend — and when Tony Stark sacrificed his life, he was under the impression that the heroes he saved would continue to protect the world, but sometimes Peter wonders if that still reigns true. If Mr.Stark knew just how easily the team had crumbled, how easily he had crumbled, would he still leave? Three and a half years later and Peter still can’t find the answer.

Meanwhile, when it seemed like the world needed him most, Spiderman slipped into obscurity. Now he only makes an appearance when the newscast is a little too bleak to ignore, and even then, he usually sticks to the rogue bank heist or back alley mugging.

You try not to pry, knowing that each time you ask about his brief hiatus is like poking an open wound, and, albeit selfishly, you relish in the fact that your boyfriend isn’t throwing himself in harm's way. However, now seems like a better time than ever for an interrogation, seeing as this is not only the first Avengers mission he’s attended in your relationship, but the first mission to ever span past the Hudson.

No obstacle prior has conjured a looming sense of dread and anxiety as palpable as the one you’re toting now. You can already feel it bubbling in your chest, like a cauldron of endless toils, expelling a hazy fog that makes your head spin.

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t give out on me now.” You don’t realize that your knees buckled beneath you until Peter comes to your rescue, and you silently wish that all of his heroic excursions could be this simple. The warmth of his hand bleeds past your winter coat and business casual blouse as it settles against the small of your back, and your body betrays you as it melts into his touch. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m actually not CPR certified.”

“I- I’m sorry.�� Your mouth is bone dry, and you can barely muster a laugh convincing enough to counter his attempt at humor, so you don’t. You opt on settling your gaze upon the entrance of your building, just over Peter’s shoulder, and trying to ground yourself enough to stand without his help.

Peter’s hand still lingers on your form when you shuffle away from him, moving from the small of your back to the curve of your elbow. He can tell that you’re shaken, he expected that much from the get go, so he doesn’t leave your side, encroaching on the space you so obviously seek.

“I don’t know- I don’t…” You muster just enough courage to counter his gaze, and a tiny frown creases between your brows, confusion riddling every other feature. “What exactly are you asking me?”

He pauses, searching for the answer himself. “Well, I guess- I just wanna know how you’re feeling.”

You chalk it up to your sudden sense of irritability, but his question just pisses you off. How dare he throw out a semblance of hope, a faulty impression, that you’d have any choice in this matter. You climb the three steps up to the front door, dolled up in dismay, and still try to find purchase in the illusion that you have any control in the matter. Maybe that’s what pushes you over the deep end, your once honeyed voice now curdled by venom — the hopelessness of it all. “Oh, I’m fine! I’m amazing, Peter. After the way you buttered me up all evening, how could I possibly be upset?”

“Y/N, that’s not fair-” Peter’s visibly taken aback, his features mimicking your own. You can see the cogs turning in his head, formulating some way to diffuse this situation before it really begins, but now that the gates are opened, it’s too late for you to hold anything back.

“Why not? Cause it’s the truth?” You cut him off, freshly manicured nails digging into your palms in an attempt to keep your tone even. “Let me tell you what’s not fair — You don’t even know how long you’re gonna be gone, do you?”

You’re met with a mutual silence, which confirms just how equally unaware you both are.

“Exactly.” At this point, your nerves are getting the best of you. Whether you lay all of your feelings out to him tonight or not, a sickening thought will remain — Peter is going to leave, and there’s a chance he won’t come back. So you persist, your hues boring into his own with each word. “You don’t know what it’s like to sit in our bed and wonder if you’re gonna be in it the next morning. You don’t know how terrifying it is to watch the news and pray to god that you’re not a part of it. You’re never going to be in my shoes when it comes to all of this, and I pray to god that you never have to be because I never want you to feel this way. That’s what’s not fair.” You wish your voice hadn’t grown weaker with each blow, you wish you could utter your last few thoughts with an unwavering certainty, but you know you can’t — not when a sob threatens to bubble up from the back of your throat. “That you can just decide to swing across the globe and put your life in danger while I sit at home and worry about you, and the worst part is that it only makes me love you more.”

“Y/N, do you think this is easy for me?” he’s never raised his voice at you, especially not like this, but it looks like tonight is a series of firsts for the both of you. “I haven’t been on a mission with the Avengers since high school, since —” Since Mr.Stark died. You know.

It’s not like he didn’t try to say it, he did, but the name just felt so foreign on his tongue. After years of inactivity, the threat of unearthing all those memories, all those bright eyed, bushy tailed endeavors, was almost as bad as remembering that he was gone — or even worse, not remembering them at all. But where could he retreat to now? He’s stuck between a rock and a hard place, forced to choose between the thought of losing Mr.Stark, or the thought of losing you. His thoughts are raw and earnest as he tries to placate the latter. “I don’t want to leave you. It terrifies me to think of all the things that could happen to you while I’m gone —”

“Obviously it doesn’t scare you enough, because you’re still going!” You punch the last two words, as if you’re suddenly trying to talk to him from across the street.

“I don’t have a choice, Y/N! I don’t-”

Your argument skids to a screeching halt, rivaling the groan of the metal door that guards your apartment complex, and with it appears Ms.Nunez — the single mother that lives a floor below you, whose ability to juggle her graveyard shifts at the hospital with her two rambunctious toddlers is almost as impeccable as her timing.

She appears to be in a rush as she skirts past you, but not enough to stop her from sending Peter an all too knowing look — one that screams “what did you do to that poor girl?”, with only the view of your red, puffy eyes and guarded stance to back up her assumption.

And with an opportunity so golden laying at your feet, who are you to ignore it? You catch the door before it hits the frame and slip into the yellowed entryway, barreling up the stairwell before he can question her weighted stare. You leave Peter no choice but to slip past Ms.Nunez in your pursuit, without so much as a goodbye, but a few choice words still sit on the back of his tongue, waiting to be swallowed.

Normally, the five stories of stairs leaves you winded by the third, but you chalk your superhuman stamina up to adrenaline. Luckily for you, you’re able to reach the last flight of stairs as Peter climbs up the first. Unluckily for you, you seem to forget that your boyfriend actually does have superhuman stamina, and you swear to fucking god that he’s flying up the stairwell by the time you shut the door behind you.

The door slams twice more after that, one loud bang to signal Peter’s entrance and one to punctuate it. His voice pierces through the apartment, firm and unyielding. “This conversation isn’t over, Y/N.”

He has no idea where you’ve run off to, ruling out the kitchen once he drapes his jacket over the center island. All he can hear is your voice, muffled behind one of the walls, calling out to him with little emotion to spare. “Oh, yes it is. I’m over it. It’s over.”

“Well, that’s mature.” He mutters under his breath, not expecting you to hear him, let alone respond.

“Oh, I’m so glad you think so!” You chuckle dryly, ”‘Cause your judgment of maturity is oh so rational and not at all fucking batshit.” And he thought he had enhanced hearing.

“You know what? You’re right.” He scoffs, letting the slam of the bathroom door punctuate his final words. “I’m over this, too.”

🕷 🕷 🕷

“Y/N?” Peter calls out, but to no avail. It’s on nights like these where he wishes you weren’t fighting, knowing fully well that you would command him to the bed with a downward pointing finger and the best glare you could muster. You’ve always loved the way his hair curled into soft, chestnut waves, so you didn’t mind weaving through his damp tresses before he went to sleep. You would make up some excuse about how the process helped give his curls definition, and he would always end up way too tired and relaxed to call you out on it.

You’re nowhere to be found, though. Your comforter is still as haphazard as it was this morning, and the kitchen is void of your late night snack ravaging. The only sign of your presence is found in the open window next to you bed, and way the curtains float against the evening breeze, leaving him to ponder your whereabouts at a breakneck speed.

A million visions of paranoia screen through his mind all at once, but he’s quick to dismiss them, oddly familiar with the prospect of losing someone, and all the fretting that comes with it.

And you know better than to wander the streets of the city so late at night — but with all of the venom being spewed throughout the apartment, Peter wouldn’t be surprised if you needed a small reprieve. Even for just a quick trip to the corner market. He’s well aware of the eagle eye you sport in the moonlit streets, as well as the switchblade that sits in the side pocket of your bag, but he knows better than anyone that you have to expect the unexpected in these streets.

He pulls out his phone, ready to shoot you a quick text when the bars of the fire escape let out a metallic groan. Despite your apartment’s... adequate amenities, you’d never had a problem with the fire escape. The finicky oven? Maybe, but never the fire escape.

Even without his spidey senses tingling, he has no choice but to poke his head through the window pane, and to his surprise, he ends up killing two birds with one stone.

“I didn’t know you were out here.” Peter balances on the window sill, crouching in a near feline stance as he surveys your position — bundled between the metal grates of the fire escape and your downy comforter. Your lips are parted in a tiny “o”, eyelids blanketing your hues, and with the street lights flickering to life across the seam of thirty-eighth avenue, you’re nothing short of angelic — features now outlined in a seraphic, dewy haze.

If he wasn’t feeling guilty beforehand, the sight before him guarantees he is now.

“Yeah, that was kind of the point.” you murmur. You don’t bother to open your eyes, not even when the iron beams start to squeak under Peter’s weight. “Can I help you with something? I’m pretty sure this thing has a weight limit, and this is a weighted blanket.”

You’re met with silence, and you hate to admit it, but you’d take his silent presence over your self-induced isolation any day. Despite the fact that you only moved in together four months prior, your body has grown accustomed to his presence, subconsciously weaving it into your daily routine. There were nights when you would splay out like a starfish in your childhood bedroom, waiting restlessly for the gentle wrap of his knuckles at the window pane, and that same restlessness bleeds into nights in your shared apartment, which then bleeds into now. Sure, you can trick your body into sleeping, but rest seems to be boroughs and islands away when Peter’s not there to wish you a good night.

A terse silence settles between the two of you, and you blink up at Peter, expecting him to break it since you surely wouldn’t.

“Why here?” Peter exceeds your expectations with his query. His gaze is fixed on Manhattan’s skyline — even from the tippy top of the complex, he can still make out the jagged glittering, crust of the city’s bustling core — and it’s then he finds the answer to his very own question.

“I used to sneak onto the fire escape at my parents place, too.” you reminisce, the corners of your lips curling into a bittersweet grin. “The apartment walls were thin, and whenever they would fight, or talk shit about something I did that day, I would just sit on the fire escape until I fell asleep.”

“How?” He breaks yet another lengthy pause, and you fight the urge to chuckle at his candor, settling with a lazy grin. “I mean, no offense, but Astoria isn’t exactly a library.”

“Yeah, but inside, I knew exactly what they were saying, how they were feeling — it was all in the air. At least out here everything just… blends together. It’s kind of peaceful in a way.”

Your voice is so timid and gentle as you recall your childhood, reflecting on moments that seem lifetimes away despite the handful of years in between. Peter’s gaze is transfixed on your profile, skating down the slope of your nose and skirting the curves of your lips until he realizes just how small you are. He tends to hold you on a pedestal, a habit he’s retained since the very beginning of your relationship, so sometimes it still baffles him to know that you can be anything but perfect — that you too can be human, and make human mistakes.

“How come I’ve never seen you out here before?” He feels like a little kid, question after question slipping past his lips before he even has the chance to filter them.

“‘Cause I haven’t had a reason to hide since I moved in with you.”

And just when he thought he couldn’t feel even guiltier, he’s soon overflowing with it. It kills him to know that you felt the need to escape, and you’ll never admit it after tonight, but he was the one who pushed you toward it.

“I’m sorry.” Peter blurts out, not expecting you to say —

“I’m sorry.”

You furrow your brows, cutting him off before he can even open his mouth to protest. “I’m just so used to my Peter. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that I’m sharing him with the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”

“Hey, hey — look at me.” His thumb traces the spot right under your eye, using his pinky to nudge the curve of your jaw upward, toward his gaze — heavy and drenched in a type of resoluteness that leaves your mouth bone dry. “It may not always seem like it, but trust me when I tell you that you’re always going to be my top priority.”

“Peter, you’re being dramatic.” You sigh, finding it hard to believe that your life could take any precedence over the safety of mankind itself.

“No, I’m being honest.” His voice, his gaze, they leave no room for protest. You feel a little awkward being the center of their attention, and so it’s a relief when they shift to the city’s skyline once more. “Look over there, you know what that is?”

“Central Park?”

“Mhm, good girl.” Crimson blooms across the valley of your cheeks at his choice of nickname, no matter how innocently he uttered it, but your attention still remains undivided. “I figured out that I can get home quicker if I cut through it.”

You quirk a brow, and he doesn’t need to ask to know exactly what you’re thinking — So what if he hasn’t figured out which trains he needs to board in order to make a dent in his homebound commute? It’s the thought that counts.

“Sometimes like to just stop for a second and watch some of the people in the park, but not in, like, a creepy way? You know what I mean?” A subtle hint of embarrassment tinges his features, but dissolves once he notices your understanding nod. “Is there a word for that?”

“Yeah, it’s called people watching.” You snickered, trying to imagine your boyfriend and his attempts at roasting the New York natives. “MJ and I do it all the time.”

“No, but with less… shit talking.” He counters.

Ouch.

“Oh…” You’re stumped, unsure of where he’s heading and, quite frankly, a little humbled by his read. “Hmm… Carry on?”

“Well,” Peter lets his hand rest palm forward on his knee, fingers gently curled, and you’re well acquainted with the gesture. Almost instinctively, you hover your hand above his own, digits clumsily dancing with one another as he speaks, and for a fleeting second, everything is back to normal. “It’s just… mind-blowing sometimes. There’s so much life there, all at once. All of these people are just living their lives, making their way home, falling in love, falling out of love, buying overpriced hotdogs from the street vendors — The other day I saw this mom fishing her two toddlers out of that fountain on Terrace road and honestly, if they don’t end up with superpowers, I’ll be shocked.” He can tell he’s drifted wildly off track by the way you nod, slowly and unsure, as to not offend him and his train of thought. “The point is… I used to protect all of that, and it used to make me so happy.”

“You still do,” You murmur, not one to discredit the risks he does take in the name of New York. Just because his enemies aren’t held to the same caliber as, say, Thanos, doesn’t mean they aren’t worthwhile. “All that matters is that you’re doing what you can.”

You hesitantly intertwine your fingers with his, in just a delicate enough hold to let him reject it if he so chooses. Your lips softly quirk upward when he only tightens the grip.

“Thank you.” He offers a comforting smile, one that barely reaches his eyes, and you can tell that he has more to say. So, you squeeze his hand, silently urging him to continue. “Well, I just- after Mr.Stark… passed away… it was really hard to remember why I started doing all of it in the first place. Like- I hate saying this, but why do we keep protecting all of these strangers when all the people we do know just keep getting hurt?” He winces at his own words, so far removed from such bitterness that he can barely believe he once thought such selfish things. “But then- then I get to see all of the people that I’ve been protecting, and suddenly it all makes sense again. All I want to do is make sure people are safe, and happy, and hopefully… Hopefully, when we’re older, and we have kids that jump in the fountains at Central Park, someone like me will be watching… and they’ll feel the exact same way.”

When we’re older, When we have kids... Those promises of marriage, of a loving family, of a future — they bounce off your eardrums like a mantra. Soon, you can’t even imagine thinking about anything but Peter’s words, and how much you love him right now, and how you’ll love him until your heart can’t possibly take it anymore. You can read what he’s trying to portray loud and clear — He loves you, he can see a future with you, and if there’s ever a doubt in your mind that his feelings may have changed, you can look out into the world and find pieces of his heart in every passing face.

“I haven’t been doing everything I can to make sure that’s possible, though.” He breaches your lovesick trance, reminding you that there’s still a thread of discord dangling between you. One that you can see rapidly disappearing with each passing second. “I have to go on this mission, Y/N. I wanna start helping people again. I wanna do right by him.”

“I know.” You whisper, conceding to the fact that you will always want what’s best for him, even if you aren’t a fan of the circumstances. “It doesn’t make it any less sucky.”

“C’mere.” He can barely pat his thighs before you’re crawling toward him. He passes a warm hand under your thigh once you straddle his waist, scooping you further into his lap, and uses his free hand to encompass the nape of your neck. You feel like you could melt, being cradled between his strong, toned arms, and the feeling only intensifies when his lips seek out yours. His lips are soft, and warm, and taste like listerine, and you couldn’t ask for anything more perfectly suited for you.

“I love you.” He murmurs against your lips, without a trace of uncertainty. His thumb wipes the corner of your mouth, and he continues to plant a series of sweet, soft butterfly kisses over every patch of skin he can get his lips on — your cheeks, your nose, your temple.

He’s so wrapped up in his gentle ministrations that he barely hears you return the sentiment, eyes fluttering to a close as you breathe out, “I love you.”

“Please come inside,'' he whispers against your forehead, punctuating his plea with a chaste kiss.

You pretend to entertain the thought, tapping your index finger against your chin, before shaking your head with a waggish simper. Fortunately for you, it doesn’t take long for him to take the bait, and he disappears through the window. You can just barely make out the harmony of wild rustling and hushed obscenities coming from your room before Peter is returning to your makeshift bed, clad in the cheesy “The Floor is Lava!” hoodie you snagged from a street vendor during your trip to Pompeii the summer beforehand.

“I’m not gonna lie to you, Y/N,” Peter’s voice is tight, shuffling his knees across the fretted ground as he crawls into your lap. It takes him all of three seconds to make himself comfortable, collapsing between your thighs, and you seize the opportunity to weave your fingers through his soft, chestnut locks. “I don’t think I can make this a recurring thing. I can already feel the scoliosis forming.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” you scoff, only to be met with a scandalized set of caramel hues. “I think you can make it through the night without any permanent damage to your spine.” With droopy eyes, your body starts to hum with the tell-tale signs of sleep, and your voice drips with drowsiness as you murmur, “And I wanna savor as many nights with you as I can.”

“I know,” he whispers back, the aftertaste of guilt intermingling with the abashment that follows your sleepy confession. ”I know. I’m right here, babe.”

And he swore, in that very moment, that nothing would change that.

#peter parker #peter parker imagine #peter parker oneshot #peter parker x reader #this plot is not the same plot i started with #[tiktok vc] what happened to the original plot of the movie?#but i hope that everyone enjoys? im a little nervous since it's my first one but #please be gentle and most importantly ENJOY #dear god i hope this shows up in the tags #mine

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dumbikawa · 3 years

Text

Being Stressed About Exams & HQ Boys Comforting You

GN!Reader | Comfort/Fluff | Warnings: stressed reader

Characters: Atsumu, Oikawa

A/n: This is extremely self-indulgent as school has been kicking my butt and the future post-graduation is very terrifying lol

ATSUMU

You stare at the computer in front of you, the text you’re supposed to read for class beginning to swim together as your eyes fill with tears. Everything is happening too fast and you feel completely unprepared to take any of it on. What if you spent all of this time and money on schooling only to fail so close to the end? What if you finally do finish, but then can’t find a job in your field? Should you have studied something else? The questions become more exhausting and constant the closer it gets to exams.

Small droplets roll off your cheeks and begin to pool on your keyboard. You haphazardly wipe them away before powering off the computer and tucking it back in your bag. Out of sight, out of mind, you figure. It’s not like there’s any use in trying to finish it tonight when you can already feel another wave of stress induced tears coming on. Those have also become a regular thing.

You click the volume button on your phone so that the sounds of music fill the room before leaning back in the desk chair, testing the limits of how far you can recline before gravity takes over. Atsumu had made this study playlist for you when he first noticed how stressed you were. It contained a mixture of your favorite songs, his favorite songs, and a few ‘motivational’ songs he pulled from his work-out playlists. It was a bit of a weird Frankenstein mash up with the large variety of genres, but it quickly became one of your studying must haves.

Over the sound of the music, you couldn’t hear the shower click off and the door to the bathroom swinging open. When Atsumu steps out, he sees you sitting where he’d left you, although, in a more dangerous position than you’d been in before as he notices the way the desk char teeters back and forth. His attention is quickly caught by the music choice, though, recognizing one of the songs playing as a favorite of his he added to the playlist he made for you a couple weeks ago. A smile breaks through his face as he hurriedly jumps into a pair of sweatpants before approaching your quiet figure.

As he comes up behind you, though, he notices a slight glisten upon your cheeks and a few fresh tears that tumble from your closed eyes. His upturned lips quickly sink as worry floods through him. Exams had been taking a toll on you, it wasn’t hard to tell, but he would never get used to seeing you cry.

“Baby,” he whispers, gently wrapping his arms around your shoulders. “What can I do for ya? Food? Cuddles? Cry it out?” You nod, resting the chair back on the ground and practically launching yourself into his arms.

Atsumu catches you with ease, his strong arms holding you against his chest. His hand rubs up and down your spine, sending shivers racing down you back, but there's no ulterior motive to his gentle touches. He continues the soft touches as he guides you to the bed, only letting you go for a second before allowing you to bury yourself in his side again.

“What if I can’t do it?” you whisper, trailing your fingers across Atsumu's toned chest. “I’ve studied for so long, but what if it doesn’t work out? What if--What if I don’t actually know anything and I crash and burn and--”

Atsumu shushes you gently, placing a few comforting kisses to your forehead. He notices your breathing beginning to grow heavier as your anxiety takes over. There's a few moments of silence as you try to match your breathing to his, the two of you taking slow, deep breaths in sync.

“The future might be unsure and stressful, but I know you’re going to do your best and make it work. All you can do is continue to work towards your goals and handle everything as it comes. Not to mention, I’m always going to be here to remind you of how strong you are even if you don’t see it.”

A new wave of tears begins as his words echo through your ears. You bury your face in his chest as your arms wrap around his waist in an attempt to pull yourself as close to him as you physically can be. Somehow he knew exactly what you needed to hear and a part of you wonders if he’s ever repeated those sentiments to himself when things felt unsure.

He continues to whisper reassurances as you fully relax against him, your tears finally beginning to dry up. You lift your head and offer him a weak smile.

“Thanks for letting me cry on your abs,” you sniffle, allowing yourself to truly laugh.

Atsumu feels lighter as he watches you smile and joke, hopefully being able to forget about the more stressful parts of life for a while as he holds you close. There’s been countless times where you eased his worries about the future, so he’s just happy that he can return the favor and create a safe space where you’re allowed to simply be.

OIKAWA

The cup in your hand is warm and comforting as you trudge towards your bedroom, a sense of dread washing over you as soon as your eyes land upon the laptop you left sitting open on the bed. With finals coming up, you thought it would be a good idea to transfer the notes you had written down during lectures onto your computer, figuring it would make them easier to access and that the process of going back through the information would be a good way to ensure you remember the material.

What you didn’t realize, however, is how absolutely time consuming and exhausting it was going to be. Your neck hurts from constantly looking back and forth between the paper and computer screen, your back hurts because somewhere along the way you abandoned any semblance of healthy posture and decided to go full cave gremlin in the way you hunched over your work, and instead of absorbing the information for a second time it seemed as if your brain had completely abandoned you and gone on autopilot. Shoving the computer off the bed and taking a nap feels like the best course of action right now, but you know if you stop now there’s no way you’re going to want to finish later.

Begrudgingly, you settle back onto the bed and take a large swig of coffee before stretching your fingers and placing them back on the keyboard. It couldn’t take that much longer right? All you have to do is push through and get it done.

And, for the next few hours, that’s what you do. You jump back in where you left off and race through the next few, gruelingly long chapters. The daylight outside quickly dwindles away until you’re forced to turn on the bedside lamp when you realize the sun has sunk far below the horizon and is beginning to cast bizarre shadows around the room. It was no bother, though, because you’re so close to being done. The issue is that neither your brain nor your body could keep up anymore.

Your fingers keep hitting the wrong keys, typing made up words that have you constantly backspacing and starting sentences over again for a third of even a fourth time. The breaking point comes when you go to take a sip of your now cold coffee and look back at the screen after attempting to type an entire paragraph from your notes in one go. Little did you know your finger placement was off, yet again, and the entire paragraph is an unreadable mess that even spell check doesn’t want to touch.

The tears that sting your eyes make you feel stupid. It was entirely too dumb to cry over something as superficial as misspellings that could be easily fixed and cold coffee. But once the tears start they won’t stop. Suddenly, you’re not crying over the notes or even school work in general. You’re crying about the crushing weight of change that's soon to come once you finish with classes and how impossible everything has begun to feel.

You’re too exhausted to focus on anything anymore, letting the hot tears run down your cheeks freely, which is why you don’t hear the rushed footsteps of your boyfriend who could hear your hiccuping breaths from down the hall.

He doesn’t say anything when he sees you curled up on the bed, your face buried in your arms. Oikawa sits on the ground closest to you and lays his head near yours as he begins to run his slender fingers through your hair. It doesn't take a psychic to tell you've been stressed with the quickly approaching exams, and from the collection of notes littered all around to the half closed computer the dots practically connect themselves.

The slight dip on the bed near your head alerts you to his presence, but you don't move. His hands guiding themselves over your scalp is quick to relax your body, but your mind feels like it's about to burst any moment as the thoughts continue to race.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispers against your temple, planting soft kisses after every word, “and you deserve to take a break. Remember when you used to have to tell me that all the time?" The feeling of his quiet laughter against your skin makes you smile, along with the memories of simpler times before either of you had barely begun to grasp how harsh the world could be.

"I picked up dinner for us, it was an apology for coming home late," he admits, kissing the top of your head. "But let's go heat it up and you can either tell me everything you're worried about or we can try to forget all about it for now and watch a movie. I'd really like it if you talked about it eventually, though. I know I'm not going to be able to fix it all, but that doesn't mean I can't try."

You turn your head to the side, exposing your tear stained cheeks that are quickly wiped away by Oikawa's calloused thumbs.

"I will," you say, voice heavy. "For now could you just hold me?" There isn't a second of hesitation as Oikawa slips his arms beneath your figure and presses you tightly against him.

"Movie it is," he announces, laying you on the couch with the remotes so that you could put on whatever you want. Your brain would never stop the constant anxious thoughts, but losing yourself in those chocolate brown eyes made it easy to imagine a future where it all works out somehow. Little do you know, Oikawa sees the same thing reflected in your eyes as he wonders about the right time, perhaps a couple years from now when you've both settled down in your careers, when he can finally buy that ring he's been looking at.

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beautifulletdownfics · 4 years

Text

Nothing To Him - A Harry Styles One Shot

Harry Styles is a liar.

He lied your whole relationship.

He promised to love you forever and then he walked away.

A lovers to nothing break up fic feat. blisters, heartache & two sides to one story.

Word count: 15k (Sorry! You’re going to want to open this little pal in a browser window probably. Eek)

Story Playlist:

The First Lie: Damn This Love - Thirsty Merc The Second Lie: Do You Remember - Jarryd James The Third Lie: Nebraska - Oh Wonder The Fourth Lie: I Saw You - Jon Bryant The Fifth Lie: Here We Go - Emily Hearn The Sixth Lie: Crying Dancing - Nina Nesbitt , NOTD

MY MASTERLIST.

The first lie was that you were different.

Harry felt different with you.

You just slipped into his routine and his life. You didn't buy into the spectacle of it all. You told him on your first date that you didn't play games, and that it wasn't often you connected with someone on an intellectual or emotional level. Harry sat there and listened to the woman across from him say she didn't expect to finish the date still attracted to him.

And he fucking loved it.

The next morning he called you at quarter past eight, because he figured you either started work at eight-thirty or nine o'clock, so he'd catch you on your commute or just before you walked into the office. You answered your phone like you would a business call. He teased you for it, but really he was just glad you answered at all. It felt like getting test results telling Harry he was in the clear.

The truth was when Harry first met you at the birthday party the night before he'd been angling towards you being a hookup. He saw you across the bar as soon as he arrived, gaze zeroing in on your legs in That Dress, his ears leaning to the sound of your laugh pulling eyes from around the room. Harry wanted you, and he'd been through a bit of a dry spell. You radiated the kind of energy Harry could get drunk on, the sort of body he wanted to lose himself in for a night.

It was almost an hour before he managed to edge into the same circle of bodies as you. You knew the birthday girl the same way he did; through work. Harry caught early on that you didn't still work for his record label, but did a few years before and stayed in touch with everyone. You seemed like the kind of person who collected people, who everyone wanted to keep in touch with. Harry just wanted to touch you.

Two tequilas in he got you to himself.

You were good at flirting, which excited Harry initially. You had a quip for everything or an interesting addition to each story he told. You were well-read and well-travelled, and you weren't hesitant in showing Harry that you had opinions and ideas of your own. Over the years he'd become good at getting people to talk, good at asking questions that make someone share themselves because the alternative—Harry sharing himself—wasn't something he could do. But something about you and the way you framed questions made Harry feel like it was safe to share a little more, you'd disarmed him quietly, and by the time he noticed Harry didn't feel the need to protect himself anymore.

"That's bullshit," you'd told him when he said he wasn't all that into contemporary fiction. You hated the artsy elites who listed off the Hemingway's and the Kerouac's and the Vonnegut's as though the only literature worth mentioning came from lifetimes ago. Your hair swished back and forth at your cheeks as you shook your head emphatically, "You're being lazy. Imagine saying the same about modern music."

Harry's lips ticked up into a smile, and he raised his eyebrow in concession, "That would be bullshit," he agreed, thinking of the album he'd just released and how he wanted to know if you'd listened to any of his stuff. (Very quickly he decided he probably didn't want to know because it stuck Harry the answer would be no.) His eyes couldn't pull away from watching your lips as you spoke, admiring the shade of lipstick you wore.

"Right," you continued, "Modern fiction teaches me about myself, about my life. It gives words to what my friends and I are experiencing. The classics are amazing—don't get me wrong—but I don't see myself in them."

"Seems like your criteria stem from narcissism," Harry was sure he had you there. He grinned at you happily.

"Exactly," you agreed without hesitation, "Maybe 'Hills Like White Elephants' is genius, and as a woman, I should be grateful to Hemmingway for horrifying his audience in 1927 with a normalised view of abortion but … I don't think he wrote that for me. He was challenging ideas then. I feel more connection and loyalty to an Instagram poet who's painting the world that actually matters to me, the world I'm trying to survive now."

Harry hums into his drink and says nothing. He expects you to back away a little, or ask him some question that watered-down your view and opened up the table to his. But you don't. You let your view sit on the slice of the bar between you and don't apologise for it.

"There's a reason artists burst out of every generation," you add, sitting forward on your stool. "If the classics were the perfect form, the perfect commentary of humanity, then there'd be no need for anyone after them to bother trying to put the world and life into words, or pictures, or music. You can't just dismiss a generation of voices because some smelly, old, white, university hasn't decided to name a building after them yet. I don't think being published as a little orange Penguin Classic is the singular hallmark to good literature."

He didn't entirely agree with you, (he thought it was vital to learn from the past, thought those great authors you reeled off and dismissed set the benchmark artists today should aspire to) but Harry liked hearing your thoughts and seeing the passion burst out of you. He liked seeing how you didn't second guess yourself or try to soften your opinion by asking for his. You just said what you thought, and that was always one of his favourite characteristics in a person.

That night you met him, you were the designated driver for a few of your friends. He should have noticed the way you switched to pineapple juice after you finished your first drink, but he was too busy trying not to look at the curve of your thigh when you crossed one leg over the other. Trying to ignore the smell of your perfume or how you kept licking your lips and he wanted to taste them, desperately. Harry didn't like to say anything when he offered to buy you another gin and dry. Still, when it eventually came out in conversation—that you were strictly only having one tonight—he felt his excitement deflate. His warm buzz suddenly felt pervy and presumptuous.

"Well, that's bloody annoying, isn't it?"

His response surprised you, "Me getting my friends home alive?"

With his hand comfortably resting over your knee, Harry shook his head, "I was hoping to go home with you."

"Oh."

You blinked at him, not having expected him to be so bold. You didn't hate it though, you felt the twinge of realising you were going to miss something that could have been good. Could have been great, probably. The last time you had sex had been … sad. And disappointing. Still, you hadn't come out to meet anyone tonight, why the sudden rush of despondency? These were old work colleagues you rarely saw, and you figured it would be a night of catching up before six months of not seeing each other because life got in the way.

Then Harry asked for your number. Asked if you'd go out with him the next night. He didn't beat around the bush with it, he wanted to see you again and told you so. The way you said you would filled him with relief but also fear. Harry knew he'd need to really deliver with you, he couldn't half-arse it. He was terrified he'd overshoot it and lose the change to be someone who impressed you.

He settled on a Sunday evening picnic where the two of you ate takeaway on a beach towel at the top of a park halfway between your houses. Something told Harry you would be happier with him underplaying the date than you would be getting taken to an expensive, showy restaurant. You wore jean shorts and a long sleeve jumper which churned his body more deeply than the dress with the split from the night before. He was hooked.

"Do you not like olives?" Harry asked, sucking the oil off his fingers after just depositing one into his mouth. You instantly loved the way the inflection of his words rose at the end of his sentences, and you'd mock him for it your whole relationship.

You looked at the plastic container sitting between you, you'd been picking at the cheese and crackers, the antipasto was not your thing, "They don't seem like something humans should eat … Salty and rubbery with a tiny stone on the inside? No, thanks."

A laugh burst out of Harry's mouth as he picked up another green olive, "More for me then."

"I'm happy about the rosemary in these though," you held up a cracker before digging it into the hummus, a plastic-stemmed wine glass with a dry rose in your free hand, "You got the fancy ones."

"Only the best," Harry returned with a smile and then went on trying to playfully wedge more information from you about the secret poetry Instagram he was convinced you had. He was already feeling buzzed from the wine, but more from the way you kept looking at him and he couldn't catch a hint of you being anything other than yourself.

You didn't go home together that night either, despite The Kiss at the end next to his car. Despite Harry's hands on the back of your thighs as things got heated. The way the tips of his fingers feathered against the elastic of your knickers, just slipping under before pulling away. Your chests heaving together in a rhythm you'd never found with anyone else.

He felt like he had just auditioned for a part he wasn't sure yet that you were going to give him. Wine always heightened his anxiety, so Harry also wanted to appear controlled and measured. He wanted to be as thoughtful as you were. As connected to himself as you were to all your wonderful opinions and facts. There was some part of him that feared taking you home too soon might risk that being the only night Harry got. So he pulled away, kissed your cheek and promised to call you later on.

Somewhere along the line, Harry decided he wanted more than a little bit. He was greedy. Harry wanted the whole pie all to himself.

That was a theme, him wanting more. Even now, months since you've seen or heard from him. Harry always knew how to get you to take that one step out of your comfort zone, take that little bit extra risk. Letting go of him in one way felt like small release valve finally letting go. A tiny bit of your safety net tucking closer around you. A little quiet moment to take stock and check every part of you was still connected, still there. A deep breath in. A short pause of calming silence. Like getting your heart back … But then finding it didn't fit in your chest the same way anymore.

So you found it particularly cruel to have received a follow-up email from his assistant this week, checking to see if you were able to attend his show tonight.

The show that six months ago Harry drew you a mock ticket for and hand-delivered to you sitting outside in his garden with a tea and a biscuit. Even then, even as his girlfriend, you'd feigned not knowing if you could say whether you would attend. Now it felt foreboding, the way you'd pulled your features together thoughtfully and told Harry you'd have to see closer to the date. You waited just long enough for him to switch over into thinking you were serious before you laughed and told him of course and where else would I be?

Where else would I be, was right, in a sense. Because this is still your city, and you're here tonight. It's not his anymore. He moved soon after you broke up … Relocated to one of his—what was it you used to mockingly call them?—" location" homes. Houses you never saw in person. Places he never took you. Either Italy or France. Somewhere he could hide, be creative, recenter himself. All three of those things filled you with dread for different reasons.

Were you really going to go tonight though? Walk in through the front door of the venue with a ticket and barcode on your phone, sit in a crowd and listen to Harry for two hours? Look at him from across the room and just take it on the chin?

It certainly seemed you were dressed for it. And you were out of the house with time to get there. Would you get off the train at the stop though? Would you walk down the street with the bright sign his name lit up? Would Harry even know if you didn't go?

Part of you wonders if his assistant didn't mean to email you. Maybe she forgot you were no longer in Harry's life? Perhaps it was a scheduled email she forgot to stop? Probably it was Harry just being fucking nice, and polite, and worrying about how you'd feel if you were uninvited. Or if he didn't check in on you while he was here.

You accepted the reminder too easily and scolded yourself for it. His team was expecting you. Harry was expecting you. And now, sitting on the train and counting down the stops you felt caught. Felt like he had you again, even if it was just winning whatever tonight was.

Harry did always enjoy the chase. Admitted it himself, admitted to loving the beginning of meeting someone. Loving the audition process, the figuring each other out, the get. The Catch.

You wonder now if it was the chase he liked back then. Was it a thrill having you make him feel as though he had something to prove? Or was it Harry experiencing for the first time not having the upper hand, not having even the tiniest amount of weight around who he was count for anything. Now it felt like Harry was nothing but upper hand.

Whatever it was—the Chase, or your endless facts, pancakes on a Sunday morning—the part of Harry's lie about you being different that hurts the most is the way you bought into it so proudly. Wore it later as his girlfriend like a badge of honour. As though it signalled to others you'd been hard-won, and Harry was lucky to have you.

Different turned out to be such a dirty word.

Different turned out to mean nothing. To get you nowhere.

All different got you was Nothing To Him.

The second lie was that he saw a future with you.

Harry didn't shy away from talking about it. He made plans for you both.

Sometimes it was in the moments right before you both fell asleep at night, or in the final seconds before the kettle finished boiling. Always in some small window where his mind drifted and sat comfortably stagnant when all there was to think about was the next holiday you'd take together. Or what breed of dog you might have one day. Whether you wanted your kids to be close together in age or have larger age gaps between them. What you thought about silent retreats in Thailand.

He stored your answers away in the file full of you in his head or added them to the note on his phone with ideas for gifts for people or things going on in their lives he wanted to remember.

"My family have always had cats," he told you one night, fingers drawing circles around your bare kneecap, your naked thigh resting across his stomach, "When I'm settled I'd want to get a few of my own."

It was one of those hot summer nights no position felt comfortable for sleep, you raised your arms up over your head and stretched out further on the mattress, fingers dangling off the edge of the bed to feel the cold stream from the air conditioning unit above, "I don't trust cats. Isn't there something about them being evolutionarily build to hunt their owner?"

Harry turned his head to face you, "A fact for everything," he recited fondly, his common quip for your always having an answer for everything, "I'll let the cats hunt me, you'll be spared."

"As long as I can name them," you murmured, your eyes finally closing.

Close to three months later, an hour into unsuccessfully putting together a flat-pack shelving unit in Harry's garage, you heavily plopped yourself down on the concrete floor and hailed defeat. You tossed the small, silver Allen key onto the floor in Harry's direction and rested your chin in your palm.

A few minutes of watching his embittered attempts passed before he spoke.

"Hey Sulky, I can feel you looking at me," Harry was frowning at the short piece of timber in his hand, he was holding it next to what was supposed to be the base of the structure. This was your second attempt at pulling apart the shelves and starting again while you cursed the entire Swedish furniture empire. You were enjoying seeing Harry's stubborn frustration immensely.

He could be such a man sometimes.

"Yeah, 'cause you're hot," you said, mocking him dreamily.

"Ha ha," he drawled, rolling his shoulders back to try to regain his focus.

When he paused a moment later and looked up at you, his arms dropped as his brow softened and he let out a breath.

You grinned at him, "I'm pretty cute too, right?"

"All this shit is going to end up living on the ground because you're sabotaged the assembly!" He gestured wildly at the tools and spare paint colours for the house lying around you. His bike parts and the weird assortment of garden tools Harry collected were leaning against the wall waiting to be put on their new home as well, the shelf neither you nor Harry were skilled enough to put together.

"Baby," you began, but Harry waved you off, and you saw genuine frustration start to emerge on his face, "Okay! Okay, I'm sorry," you stressed, "Are you sure we're looking at this thing from the right way around? Maybe the designer meant for it to be wonky?"

He rolled his eyes at you. As if the mere thought anyone would design anything to look like the mess currently on the floor was purely preposterous—his temper for small frustrations on full display.

"Don't be rude!" You admonished, "It's a fucking shelf, we can do this, Harry."

It took you another hour and a half, but when it was done, Harry draped his arm around your shoulders, kissed you on the head and told you that you were the person he wanted by his side of all his future crisis. Someone to say to him, whatever the challenge was, it wasn't beyond him, wasn't something he couldn't handle or wasn't capable of.

You felt like you were floating that night.

It was one of those few times you could see your imprint on his life. See some evidence of it. There were shelves in his garage only there because you told him he needed storage there, and then you pushed him to keep trying assembling them. It was some proof you'd been in his life. An impression of your influence. A memory that would hover in his garage forever.

Two days after putting the shelves together, you and Harry had an argument about the plastic tubs he went off on his own to buy for all the loose bits and pieces he wanted to go on the shelves. You were annoyed he didn't purchase wooden ones, and he couldn't understand why it mattered that they were white plastic which would apparently be impossible to keep clean.

It's a garage, he thought, who's cleaning their garage?

And because arguments always dredge up things that they aren't supposed to, you made a jab about your relationship being secret.

You said something like, If I'd been able to come with you, we wouldn't be having this row!

Harry knew what you really meant straight away. You'd been together for more than nine months at that point, and nobody knew about it: nobody but your families and very very closest friends. There were no photos of Harry having lunch with you at a cafe, or of you walking a few steps behind him at the shops. Nobody had snuck a picture of you backstage at a show of his. He'd never appeared on your social media, even by suggestion, and Harry had never taken the risk including you on any private Instagram Stories.

Those photographs didn't exist, because those circumstances never had. There wasn't even a celebrity paper trail linking you to knowing Harry, let alone dating him. Harry didn't dedicate performances to you, or even to an unnamed significant other. You never got a song or an album dedication. Harry was so adamant on nobody getting wind of the relationship that sometimes it felt like … Like he enjoyed the sneaking around. The having a secret. (Later on, when you reflected on the relationship once it was over, you really weren't sure how there'd never been even one instance of you being seen coming or going from Harry's house. Hindsight made that feel suss to you.)

Most of the time you liked it, though, liked not having any fuss or interruption to your life but sometimes—a lot of the time—it felt like something silently eroding you from the inside—a silent acid eating your spirit.

But you'd never tell Harry that. Then anyway. Now … You're not sure what you'd tell him now.

The truth was a lot of the time you weren't sure how you'd managed to keep it going so long. Part of it was obvious, maybe, like not being in public together. But still, surely after being together months and having arguments about shelves you could afford a platonic appearing coffee trip or going for a run at the same time, together?

Instead, you'd gear up and run in opposite directions down his street. Or Harry would stay in the car while you went in for the coffee. You'd sit in a nosebleed seat if you went to a show, sneaking through some fire exit and into the main hallways of a venue with the public to get to it. You looked like a sad woman attending a gig on your own, not the girlfriend of the star.

Nobody would know you even knew the man up on stage. That you had something in the slow cooker at home for you both to eat when you got home, or that he'd stolen a tube of your favourite lip balm and had it in his blazer pocket for his set. Nobody would guess you made him late for the soundcheck with just a smile and the undoing of a zip.

Seeing him tonight would be just like it always was, you and Harry from across the room. But then not like always, because Harry wouldn't see you tonight. You wouldn't have the taste of a good luck kiss on your lips. Or the sound of Harry's warm-up in your ears. Yours was always an invisible connection that was kept invisible by design, and now being broken up, it looked no different than together. Not really.

Tonight though it would only be you seeing Harry. Like you see him on late-night talk show promotions and billboards. Like the times you get into an Uber, and his song is playing. How strange it feels, to have your heart crack in your chest again while also lifting somehow. Singing along with a song about you. Or hearing his laugh or even just Harry speaking, and being able to picture the exact expression that would go along with it.

Every raised inflection. Ever breathy giggle. Every brow crease at a thought that Harry was chasing or somehow unable to articulate. All of those turning into you picturing what he looked like every time he knew he was disappointing you. Every whined sorry and all the instances of him loving on you to move your mind away from his deficiencies.

"What's the plan for Y/N?"

If your relationship with Harry was a t-shirt, that would be the slogan across the chest. Those would be the words under the cartoon impression of you banging your head against a wall Harry's standing on the other side of.

How will Y/N get in? Who's staying behind with Y/N? Where will I meet up with Y/N?

There was always a question. Always a plan for you and it was decidedly separate to the plan for Harry. His team organised a second car or an earlier flight for you. A back entrance or some other smokescreen to keep you concealed. In the beginning, it felt like a kindness, but in the end, you were embarrassed by it. The bother, the way what started as a careful consideration for your wellbeing turned into something rotten that painted you a different colour to Harry and his public inner circle, the circle you were never invited or initiated into.

It was exhausting. But Harry assured you it was for the best.

You wonder what the future he saw for you really was though. How much further did Harry see a life like that going? A life with you perpetually operating under cover of darkness. A life of you decidedly not existing. Not really.

So when he said he saw a future with you, you're really not sure what Harry meant.

Did he mean one day he saw himself lifting the veil and telling the world he had a Someone? Or did he mean that he saw himself forever hiding you, forever living that lie?

Maybe he actually saw nothing.

Sometimes you could be convinced the fact Harry hid you was an action pointing to a more profound truth.

That the future he saw was an imagined indulgence; a convenience, and a comfortable lie. Comforting on a temporary level, like bowling alley bumper rails or the plastic covering on a new watch face. The fake sense of security—of protection, of immaculacy—was just that, artificial and temporary. It ceased to exist the minute you plucked the corner and pulled back the protective layer. Crashed as soon as the bumpers were flipped down.

You were a secret only Harry had any power over. He led from the front because you didn't know there was any other option. And in letting yourself be that, you made yourself easily dispensable.

Disposable. Replaceable. Erasable.

Which is precisely what happened when he left.

Harry left, and the You of the two of you ended. But more than any other relationship ever could, the silence that followed felt deadly. It wasn't just a relationship that once was, it was a relationship that never was. A year of your life made no imprint on his. Nobody looking at him could know there was anything—anybody—missing, and maybe that was the whole point.

Maybe that was the design of it.

The third lie was that you could tell him anything.

Harry's golden rule always was honest communication.

There's no such thing as an overshare, he'd say when you naturally hesitated.

He was all about that. All about hearing what was worrying you, or the mundane things that were going on in your world. Sometimes you felt like maybe it was an act because nobody had ever found your family, or your friends, or your life in general as interesting as Harry seemed to. He was always telling you he loved hearing the funny text conversations going on, or who was having a row and why, or what each of your friends was stressed about in their jobs or relationships or themselves. And Harry always said he loved hearing it from you the most.

(Now, that struck you as a strange thing to say. Where else would he hear anything about you? Harry was the only line connecting you back to him. You didn't have mutual friends or people who'd known you both before you dated each other. There was nobody for Harry to hear anything from. It's not like your friends were going to reach out to him with gossip about you. Not like how you could sneak a look at update accounts or read about his performance online while he was away.)

Still, you loved the stories he told from the road, ate them up. The missing coffee mugs where everyone got their caffeine fix served in wine glasses and lemonade tumblers for almost two whole weeks. And then the tour t-shirts accidentally ordered in bulk in children's sizes that Harry hand-delivered them to a local children's charity. The crumbs of gossip Harry picked up about who in his team was sweet on who (he loved a setup, loved watching crushes silently and awkwardly orbit around each other).

Your secrets were safe with him, he promised. He wouldn't ever judge you. Wouldn't dismiss your feelings or what kept you awake at night next to him. So you did it. You believed him. And you slowly drained everything inside of you into him. Harry got all your stories, even the ones you vowed to leave exactly where they sat in your past. Even the ones you felt like might kill you to dredge back up. The ones that made you look like a shitty friend or sister or daughter. He got them all.

And even now, he's still got them.

"What's the biggest lie you ever told?" He asked you one night in his kitchen, both of you elbow deep in making dinner. Harry rolled out the lines of gnocchi and cut the inch long pieces while you pressed them over a fork to decoratively indent them. (Although Harry likes to tell you how when he was in Italy he learned in patterns weren't just aesthetic—it was all about soaking up more of the sauce, For the sauce, of course! He'd sing out in an Italian accent, proud of himself.) "Like, a proper lie," he clarified, "Not like how you told my mum you didn't take sugar in your tea when you first met her."

You hinged your knee out to attack his calf for the teasing comment but then rolled your lips together in thought, "I lied to my parents a lot growing up," you told him honestly. "I think about eighty per cent of the time I wasn't where I told them I was. Definitely wasn't with who I said I was with."

Harry shook his head as he rolled out the next lump of dough, "No, I mean like … Like a lie."

A moment passed as you thought more deeply about the question, travelled around your memories until you landed somewhere suitable, "I lied to my boyfriend at university," you begin. "A pretty bad one, I guess."

"And the lie was …" Harry prompts.

"I told him I was a virgin before him."

Harry eyes raised, and then he nodded, accepting it, "I think that's probably a common one, really."

"I thought he'd like me more if I said it," I admitted quietly, pausing the work with your hands. "Wasn't too proud of losing my virginity in a tent in the sixth form … And I mean, at that age you just so desperately want to be the version of you that you think the people around you will like the most. A whole group of us went camping at someone's grandparent's farm during the summer holidays. Not sure how our parents let us, to be honest. Anyway, I had awful, painful, embarrassing sex in a tent with a guy named … Dylan Fraiser."

You were surprised by how long the name took to come to you. Years ago, that was such a defining event in your life. Now it hardly mattered at all anymore.

Progress, you thought.

"A tent," Harry winced.

"Really came back to bite me in the arse when my uni boyfriend went on to tell a group of his mates he was my first and—

—Tent Guy was one of them?" Harry guessed. Correctly.

"Yep. Small towns are a curse."

"I promise never to have sex with you in a tent," Harry teased, grinning at you over his wine glass and then leaning over to kiss your temple. He looked down at the line of gnocchi pieces you'd made together proudly, "We're alright at this."

"Hmmm," you hummed, now lost in the past, "I told that uni boyfriend him I loved him … I didn't though," you say without thinking, shrugging as the words came out, "I thought he was boring. But it was cool to have a boyfriend, so I didn't break up with him … Guess I've told more whoppers than I thought."

Harry gives you an understanding look, "I've said I love you to protect someone's feelings too. Thought it might come a little later, that I was just not feeling it as quickly as them."

It should have made you question whether Harry meant I love you with you. But it didn't. He was speaking in the past tense, and you were imaging that version of him being younger than the almost thirty-year-old you were dating. Now though … You wonder what love meant to Harry when you were together. Whether your wires were crossed by different definitions. Even now, you couldn't vilify him. Not completely. He was too thoughtful in general, there'd be a reason for it. There always was with Harry.

"What's your biggest lie?" You turned the exercise back on him, smiling as he refilled your wine glass and skipped a few songs on the playlist. These were your favourite moments with Harry. The end of the day, where you were the only thing on his to-do list. There wasn't a lingering work call, or a meeting to prepare for, an email to reply to. Harry was just finishing his day with dinner and some time at home. With you.

Harry gave you a withering look, "I think you know already."

"I don't," you said because you really didn't, "What was it?"

"There's no way I'll ever do anything else with The Band," he said tonelessly as he turned to rinse his hands in the sink, unable to look at you while he said it. And even then, Harry didn't admit to the lie. Didn't name it. He just said what the truth was instead.

"Why wouldn't you?" You asked, instead of what you were sure Harry thought you'd ask.

You weren't interested in why he told that particular lie though, the answer to that was pretty apparent to you: he cared about his fans—they all did—and didn't want to disappoint them. And they probably hadn't been able to deal with thinking about the ripples ending it completely, right off the bat, would have caused. Saying you were taking a break was a much nicer way to let a world of fans down. An easier pill to swallow than 'We're done' straight off the bat.

You gave Harry time to respond. He fiddled with the gnocchi pieces in front of him, waiting for the water to boil in the pot behind you both, "Not sure, really."

He was lying now, and you could tell. He was ashamed of the truth.

"You're not sure?"

"I just wouldn't, there's no one reason. No big thing. It's not like I hate them all or anything, I just …"

There was one big thing, though. And it was typical Harry to not be able to name it. He was always so in denial about his own arrogance, about what it was that drove him. Harry thought he was above them. His success since The Band far outweighed anything any of the others had done. Going back to that would be diminishing for Harry's career. Wouldn't help him any. He was stronger on his own, more successful. More widely appreciated. That chapter of his life was done, it had been a stepping stone—yes, a life-defining one—but Harry had moved to bigger and brighter stages on his own.

"It's not what you think," he told you lowly when you didn't ask anything further.

It was so typical of Harry to not see the forest for the trees. To not see how he, yet again, was blurring and confusing the lines between a business decision and an emotional, personal one. He was speaking about The Band emotionally, but his reason for distancing himself from it was all to do with business.

"It's not?" You asked plainly.

"I don't think I'm better than them or some shit," Harry said, "I just … That part of me is done. I'm not who I was back then, and I don't want to go back to that person."

"You also wouldn't get anything out of it," you prod, knowing that you shouldn't have. But it was true. So much of Harry's life was a business decision. Everything was so carefully done, so deliberately set into place by him and his team that results and his successes were almost guaranteed.

At the time, you didn't understand how he couldn't see it. Or you couldn't believe that he didn't. He was so calculating, and he hated you telling him so. But he was. He liked to say he wasn't defined by his job, but Harry's whole life was defined by his career, by the who he was.

He loved to spout off his public shit about staying grounded and having a life away from being Harry Styles ™, but he didn't let anyone see even a skerrick that life. The only thing Harry ever let be projected about him was his job, that was all was ever on the table for discussion. And so it was hardly surprising that became who he was away from the cameras and lights as well.

Hiding you was a business decision, you figured out in the aftermath of The End. It was his way of keeping the narrative about his music and career on track. As soon as there was a You, Harry's private life would distract from his real focus and goal, his career. And you mean, it's not like it didn't work for him. Because here you were, standing outside in the chilly night looking at his name up in lights.

Harry's name always looked so good up on billboards and the fronts of stadiums. You always used to tell him even the letters of his name were visually pleasing, they looked good together, like they fit. So you stand on the street across the road from tonight's venue and take it in—HARRY STYLES, SOLD OUT—for several minutes.

You don't know that you're ready for this. Seeing him. You've so perfectly avoided it until now. Until you felt like there was a promise you made lifetimes ago you now can't break. Even if you felt like he'd broken a thousand promises between the two points in time.

Where else would I be? you'd said when he first drew that stupid mock ticket.

Where else, indeed.

You scuttle across the street and sneak between people to get yourself in through the doors. Dodging lenders selling merchandise and ticket holders excitedly covering their painstakingly planned outfits with t-shirts Harry—aided by his perfectionism, you were sure— probably spent months deciding on.

The barcode won't scan though. And the usher at the door doesn't appreciate you pulling your phone back and trying to adjust the backlight, as though that will help the loud, angry sound his scanner is making each time he aims it at the email on your screen. He eventually reads part of your email and then tells you that you need to stand off to the side, barks something gruffly into his walkie talkie and dismisses you in favour of getting through the backlog of people behind you. You're filled with a white-hot embarrassment as you shuffle over and stand under a neon EXIT sign. A moment later you step forward and ask him to try again, but that doesn't get you anywhere different, and you think you're going to get in some kind of trouble when he insists Just stand back over there for a moment.

Your feet have already started hurting in your too-tight boots when finally the wall behind you opens up, and you very quickly come face to face with Harry's assistant.

"Y/N," she smiles, "I thought I said in the email to call me when you got here?"

You're dumbstruck, you didn't read the email, not properly. "I … I …"

"It's good to see you again," her smile hasn't moved, and it's genuine. She reaches one hand out towards you and deposits a VIP lanyard around your neck, "Follow me."

You get halfway down the emergency exit, and she sidesteps a security guard through a doorway, leading you into the veins of the backstage area where there's a familiar buzz of busy people you'd not realised you missed being around until now. Your heart is racing because you weren't prepared for this. You'd been deliberately dragging your feet getting here, and you've arrived barely fifteen minutes before Harry's due to go on stage. She's walked you right to the side of the stage where there's a curtain just to your left and scaffolding all around. You can hear the audience, and you know that one step through that curtain will take you to the pit side of the stage, where you'd seen Harry's family stand during shows before.

"He wanted to say hi beforehand but," his assistant looks at her watch, "But it's a touch too close now so are you okay if I leave you here for just a second? I'll be back in …" her eyes go back to her wrist, "Probably about twenty-five?"

"That's fine," you nod dumbly. "Are you sure this okay?"

You're looking around wondering if this is where Harry meant you to be. Really, you're sure this isn't where he intended you to watch his show at all. A few people are milling around but nobody you recognise, and you figure the majority of them are probably venue employees. Harry and his band would only walk through here at the very last second. He didn't like standing around beforehand with anyone who wouldn't be on stage with him. Harry got in his zone and needed to stay there.

When you look back at his assistant she's giving you a look you don't want to read too deeply, but it almost looks like pity, "Of course," she tells you, "I'll be back by the end of the first song."

"I might go stand through here now," you point to the curtain, preferring the thought of standing in the dark by yourself than waiting for Harry to walk straight past you during his thirty-second countdown. "Is that okay?"

You get a nod, and she tells you to grab a drink off the table behind you. Leaving you with your heart rattling and the heaviest lanyard you've ever worn burning through your shirt to your chest.

Finding a spot to watch the show was easy. You picked the furthest side of the pit, under the concrete overhand of the seats above, and stand in the shadows, only half the stage in your line of sight. It felt like a little cave almost, and you lean your back against the cold concrete and tap your boots together on the ground below you.

The area starts filling around you as members of Harry's team finish their part in preparing him for the show. There are a few women wearing belts with makeup brushes and combs peaking out of them, and two familiar faces from Harry's executive team. They don't see you, though, and you're glad. You watch the roadies' torches flash on the dark stage as they neaten up leads and manoeuvre over amp boxes double-checking the guitars are in the right order for the sets.

There's a movement in your periphery that draws your attention back, the group of people who joined you in the pit all gravitating towards something back at the curtain. And it's not until one of them steps to the side that you see the floating head that's poking through the dark material.

Harry.

He's staring right at you: no expression on his face, just his searching, green eyes that stop when they see you standing in the dark as far from him as you can possibly be. He takes half a step forward, and the shoulder of an expensive suit peeks out. You hear in your head echos of a moment in Harry's living room unpacking a delivery from Gucci, the way you nearly choked on your tea at the cost of a tailored trouser and his half frustrated dismissal, 'It's nothing, that's standard for me.' You felt small at that moment, thinking about how one of Harry's suits could pay for your education for a year, and that would be nothing for him.

You feel small now too. This isn't the space you're supposed to occupy.

The shadow of a frown barely cross his features, but then Harry tries to pull his dimples up to give you a small smile. But it's testing, it's not a confident smile or one he looks sure he's giving. Like he's smiling at someone he's not sure will smile back.

There's no way I'll ever do anything else with the band, he'd said.

But that wasn't the biggest lie he'd told, just the most public, the widest.

His deepest, biggest lie was you.

The fourth lie was that he loved you.

Harry was the one to say it first.

It came out like a compliment. A response to a fact of yours he'd particularly liked. A sort of well done, that was a good one.

It was nearly two months since you'd met, and what started as three or four dates a week morphed into you staying at Harry's house most nights. You spending your weekends off work trailing around after him on his errands or to work things, or hanging out alone at his place until he returned from them. A couple of times, you went to the same exercise class, which involved the two of you going separately and not interacting at all. Still, you'd peek at him from across the room and have to hold your giggles for later when Harry spent the hour concentrating beyond anything you'd ever seen just to stay in the seat of the spin bike.

Saturdays and Sundays he started taking off too though, around a month into dating you. No more 6am weekend PT sessions or midday conference calls with creative teams. The only work Harry allowed himself to do on weekends was housework. Laundry. Food prep. Touching base with his mum.

"Did you know blueberries are actually false berries?"

"No, I did not know blueberries are actually false berries," Harry parroted back to you. You catch the half rolling of his eyes at you where you're sitting up in your favourite spot on the bench next to the hob, peering at him keeping careful watch over breakfast: blueberry pancakes. He was wearing just his pants, chest bare and cool in the autumn morning air. You were rugged up in leggings and a sweater, unsure how he could stand being in such a state of undress.

"It's true," you reaffirmed your tidbit, popping a false berry into your mouth while Harry—with far too much concentration for the job at hand—dropped the small round berries on top of the batter sizzling in the pan. "Berries by definition are fleshy, pulpy ovary fruits that have their seeds embedded on the outside. Blueberry seeds are on the inside. So they aren't really berries."

"Ovary fruits?" He questioned, with a look of mild distaste.

Your shoulders dropped as you realised Harry knew less than you thought he did, "All fruit are ovaries, Harry. Think about it."

He does for a moment, and you can practically see the cogs turning. Harry thinking about how fruit grows on their plants and bushes and shrubs. The fact of what an ovary is when it comes to basic anatomy. And when he comes to the full circle of it, he groans, "That is so weird."

"I think it's cool," you grinned. "Like a little bit cannibalistic in a way."

He barked out a laugh at that, "I don't think that's what it is."

"Well, maybe not technically," you conceded, "But it's something … Really makes you rethink eating eggs."

"Oh my god," Harry was truly laughing then, "Stop, please."

"Sorry," you peeped with a cringed look, tossing back half a handful of the small, round fruit in front of you.

He was shaking his head at you, laughter bubbling out between his perfectly straight teeth, and then it just slipped out, "Fuck, I love you."

The words didn't bump over any hesitation. I love you, Harry said.

Your stomach dropped instantly, but the fond happiness dancing across Harry's face didn't go anywhere. He didn't look back at the pancakes or to where your hands were wringing together on your lap. Harry held your gaze and didn't dodge away from what he said at all. Like he knew you'd need a moment with it, that you weren't expecting him to just come out with that.

"I love you," he repeated after a moment, smiling when he saw your lips start to turn up, "I mean it."

Hearing him yell the same words through the microphone from stage sizzles your heart a little, like the pancakes that day crackled in the pan as Harry pushed himself into you on the kitchen floor. You remember the feeling of his hands under your clothes, your leggings barely halfway down your thighs before he was claiming you in a wave of lust, pushed by the new, invisible force in your relationship—love.

The floor under you now vibrates as everyone gets to their feet to join Harry dancing through his first song. You stare at him, daring him to look over at you but knowing he won't. The longer you stand there, the more you thaw out to it, the more you find yourself with a smile on your face and a slight sway to your hips. His music is fun and familiar and feels like clicking into place.

It's mesmerising. He's mesmerising.

You don't like admitting you'd forgotten how good at this he was. He has the whole crowd eating out of the palm of his hand. Even his crew around you are grinning ear to ear and singing along. Sharing private jokes between them and cutting dance moves in small groups as they watch the show. It's fun. And it reminds you that so much of your relationship with Harry was like that. That there were countless nights spent dancing in the living room or screaming at laptop screens doing board game nights with his family.

You'd forgotten that you could laugh so hard your belly hurt and that Harry was one of the few people who'd ever been able to get you to that point of joy. Watching him throw joy off the stage now at thousands of people was reminding you how very good Harry was—used to be—at making you feel like the only person in the world to him.

"Babe," his giggles filtered down the hallway and into the bathroom where you were plucking your eyebrows, "Babe! Come … Come see this."

You rolled your eyes as you put the tweezers down and padded into his living room, not at all surprised to see Harry pretzeled on his yoga mat in a fit of laughter. He did this a lot, called you away from a task or from work for something hilarious that ninety-nine per cent of the time wasn't hilarious at all. You'd end up snorting out laughter of your own though, at him.

Now, Harry had one of his feet hooked behind his neck while the other was prostrate on the floor behind him.

"You're doing great, baby," you condescended lightly, tilting your head to the side and frowning at his position. It looked awful and not at all calming, let alone comfortable. He wasn't a very good advertisement for yoga at all.

"They say this one's great for—great for," he giggled too much to get the words out, his arms holding his torso back so his legs would do what he wanted them to, he took a deep breath, "It's meant to be the yoga colonic."

Harry was heaving with laughter as he finally got it out, his position faltered, and you watched as his limbs all fell back to the mat as he leant forward cackling. You were grinning too, amused by how amused he was.

"Been feeling backed up, have you?" You asked him, crossing your arms as you hitch one hip out.

He rolled over on his back and wheezed out the final string of laughter, one hand holding his lower tummy as if it ached from the whole spectacle, as his other hand reached out for your ankle, "Come down here with me."

"Hmm," you hummed, pretending to be unhappy to be dragged down on top of him, your hips resting on his thighs as your chin propped up on your hands at his chest, "It's very entertaining how entertaining you find yourself," you mused.

Harry rubbed the tears from his eyes and then settled his hands on your back, breathing in the pleasant weight of you there, "I just—I was thinking about what they think the yoga colonic is going to do." His giggles started again, "Imagine being in a class and it literally working? Everyone just—everyone just shits themselves!"

You can feel his laugher, his bones pushing yours up as his whole body fills with his happiness. The stream of tears coming from the corners of his eyes start again as he squeezed his eyes shut while the sound of Harry's deep, uninhibited laughter filled the whole house again.

The memory brings back a smile, like so many with Harry do.

But there's still the Too Fresh Sting of your final moments with him, your last moments with him. You've not seen him since that evening months ago where you both yapped at each other things that couldn't be unsaid, unhappinesses that couldn't be reverted or unadmitted. It wasn't like the fights you had about Harry's casualised view of money and how he'd drop thousands of pounds on seemingly nothing without thinking how small it could make you feel. Or the times you'd snap in frustration when Harry tuned out of you complaining about an issue with your friends he deemed as superfluous or rooted in something silly or not as essential as the Important Thing He Was Planning. He could be so dismissive when he didn't think something mattered highly enough on his scale of measuring things.

The Harry dancing around on stage in front of you wasn't the man who said you were independent like it was a dirty word. Yelled across the kitchen that it was too easy for the two of you to be apart, you didn't miss him enough. The man who told you he didn't feel like you needed him, thought you were always standing with one foot out the door the whole time you were together. And you can remember being flabbergasted (still are, really) by what he was saying because it just wasn't true at all. You? Too independent? You spent every night at his house, and were at Harry's beck and call the whole relationship. And you can hear all the times you said 'what would I do without you?' when he talked you off a ledge or had answers to questions you believed to be unanswerable.

You can see how it was another classic example of Harry telling a non-truth to cover up what was really there. To distract from his own shortcomings. He accused you of what he was feeling, of his flaws. Making them your problem meant he didn't have to be vulnerable. Didn't have to take a risk his business manager hadn't guaranteed. Didn't have to gamble on your future together.

In the relationship, he always had the upper hand. And maybe you did have one foot out the door emotionally, but that was only because you had to. Harry never invited you in with him completely. You were always on the outer. After nearly a year of dating you were still The Girlfriend He Didn't Have.

But I fucking love you, he'd said when he sensed where that night was going. Like Harry had a list of grievances, and it wasn't until he got to the end of reading them out to you that he realised where it landed him. He told you he loved you as though it would erase all the things about you he seemed to dislike so much. Things about yourself you apparently couldn't see.

Hindsight has taught you that if anyone was too independent, or hesitant to commit fully in that relationship, it was Harry.

Halfway through his set, Harry's assistant comes over to check on you, and you end up chatting for a few minutes about how you've been. She speaks to you like there was some club you were a member of and she missed your meetings. Although neither of you references the breakup, or acknowledge in another life you had a lot more to do with each other, the unspoken things weigh on your chest. You find yourself wiping away a quiet tear when she walks back over to the main group watching Harry.

Of course, that's when he teeters over to your side of the stage and looks straight at you. His expression falls instantly, and you're sure that he only meant to glance at you in passing, but what he sees has him doing a double-take and fixing his gaze on you for two lines of the song he's midway through. He tugs on the collar of his shirt and Harry's eyes are desperately trying to read what you're thinking, just like that day he told you he loved you at the end of the breakup, as though you'd forget everything that came before it.

You stick your thumb out to him and give him your best fake smile. Like he might be led to believe you were crying about something else. As if you hadn't just pulled his attention from a room full of people who'd paid for his attention tonight. At that moment you think the fact there's a secret love and life between you must be too obvious to everyone else. There's a connection, something whirls around the room between you and it feels threatening and perilous to how you've been trained to think things have to be.

You wait until Harry turns and goes the other way across the stage before you push off from the wall and walk out.

At first, love was an encouragement between you. It was approval, a showing of appreciation. Love was a promise that was just for the two of you. A declaration that validated everything you were doing together. Love was a feeling that proved what every action meant.

Then, love was a bandaid, was a line used in desperation to fix something unfixable, and you walk the world with skun knees now because of it. Love was never just love. It was used to fix the wrong things.

And in the end, nothing healed at all.

The fifth lie was that he'd always fight for you.

Harry promised you that the two of you would make it work.

You'd make up after every argument, big or small. The little ones that were those tiny bickerings in the car which somehow roared into yelling matches. Or when one person's grumpiness from the day leaked into your evening together. You always expected his call or the long sigh that would precede his apology. You never got halfway home to your house if you left his after a row. He'd call and beg for you to come back, that nothing was worth you physically leaving being near him. You left knowing before the night was done the two of you would reconcile.

Until it was That Fight you were leaving after. The one that began The End.

It started because Harry was overseas for a few weeks. While he was away, you suggested the two of you going on a holiday together during the summer. An anniversary trip. From the other side of the world, it was easy enough for Harry to worm his way of out of it. He went off on a tangent about there being no holidays (rest) for the wicked and then got you talking about something else until you forgot how you'd been sold on the idea of lying on a beach with him for a week.

When Harry got home, you had it stored in an unhappy little pocket in your mind. Top of the agenda for when he returned.

"Can we talk about the holiday thing again?" You asked his first night home.

He sighed against you, his body gearing up for a reunion that didn't involve speaking, lips attached to your neck while his hands danced around the band of your bra, "Do we have to right now?"

"Well," your instinct was to back away from the tension rising between you, "I'd like to."

Harry pushed his hair up off his face and briefly looked at the ceiling, "I don't see how we can, babe. It's too hard, logistically. Just take a week off work and stay with me here."

"I already stay here," you counter, "I'm talking about a holiday somewhere. A beach. Or a ski resort. Something fun and different."

"Those places are all busy," Harry complained, his hands off you. He started to pack the dishwasher from dinner.

"I just want to go away with you, do something normal, you know?"

He clipped the side of the sink with a dinner plate and swore angrily under his breath, "Fuck."

"Don't get angry."

"I'm not fucking angry," he growled, tossing your forks into the plastic crate, "I just fucking got home, and you're straight into this. No 'I missed you so much' or 'It's so great to see you'… Just straight into going on a holiday as if I have endless time to mess about."

"What do you mean? We've just eaten dinner together, you told me all about your trip. I said I was happy to have you home!"

"Yeah, well, feels like you just don't give a fuck that I'm back."

You frowned at him starting to get annoyed yourself, "I cried on our FaceTime call on the weekend because I missed you! You have a lobotomy since then?"

"Don't yell," Harry instructed quietly like he was chastising a child for not controlling themselves.

"What's this about, Harry?" You asked. "Why is it such a crime for me to want to go away with my boyfriend?"

He sighed again, "It's not."

"Right," you crossed your arms over your chest and wondered how many times he could wipe down the chopping board.

Probably one more time.

"So …"

"So what?" Harry repeated, "What do you want from me?"

His words and their harshness shocked you, and that was the exact moment you started worrying this was going to turn into Something Else. Not just a Normal Fight.

"I want you to tell me why you're so annoyed by this?"

It would have been so easy for you to break down and scream about how insane it was that you were talking about celebrating your first anniversary with him and the relationship was still a secret. How badly you wanted to throw that out there, but there was a wise fear in you which said that would be a death wish. (That fact haunts you today, how you knew he'd never step out with you. There wasn't any hope in you or promise from him it wouldn't always be that way. You knew your place and where the boundary line was, don't push past this point. And you always behaved. Never peeped out of your box.)

"It's like you don't even need me," Harry said bitterly, "You're so fucking independent. What's the point?"

"What are you talking about?" You gushed, nearly swallowing your tongue when he turned back to look at you for the first time.

"You don't need me," he accused, "You've always got one foot out the door."

"I don't," came your defence, but you both knew it was the truth. You were halfway out the door because you hadn't been invited all the way in yet.

"You don't want this life with me," Harry shook his head, "You've never been happy where we are. Relationships don't work that way, you can't just keep demanding the same thing hoping you'll wear me down. That's not fair."

Tears shake out of your eyes slowly as your body catches up with what he's saying, "Harry."

"It's not fair!" He repeated loudly. "You can't keep on about it."

About what? You want to ask him because you hadn't mentioned a holiday until the week before. That's not what he was really angry about. He was talking about The Secret. And his guilt was showing. His anger was misdirected, aimed at the wrong thing. He muttered something to himself you didn't hear.

"I didn't hear that."

"I said," Harry looked up at you, and when your eyes clicked together you saw surprise rise and then quickly disappear as if he hadn't expected to see you there. "I said, I don't think we can keep doing this."

"You don't think we can keep doing this?" You repeated it because the words hardly sounded like English the first time you heard them.

I don't think we can keep doing this.

Harry stood across from you with no expression on his face. And it took a few moments for him to own up to what he said, but he does. He nods his head once, awkwardly, and then nods again.

"We can't keep doing this," he tells you, sounding defeated, and then his voice rises again—in pitch, not in volume—"But I fucking love you!"

But I fucking love you.

As if that was enough.

It was days of you expecting a call, and a make up that never came. Expecting the fight for your relationship Harry promised you he'd always put up. You wanted him to prove that you were someone he couldn't do without. You hated the thought of him walking around his house and not feeling the absence of you as some impossible weight he couldn't bear.

"Y/N!" Your name sounds out behind you, but you keep walking, an instantaneous decision that pretending not to hear her might work.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't.

Harry's assistant keeps chasing you down the hall she initially led you through, calling your name and eventually getting you to stop and turn around because, well, you can't keep pretending she's not there forever.

"I'm just finding a loo," you lie.

"There's one this way," she points over her shoulder, in the direction you both came from, "Harry said if you tried to leave I had to go with you, which, for my own dignity I'd really prefer not to have to do."

You find yourself scoffing, "Who said he's in charge of how long I stay?"

Her expression softens somewhat, "He just wants to see you after."

How dare he think he can control this still, you think.

You know she's not the person to be frustrated with. You should be frustrated with yourself first, for coming, and then with Harry for deciding he could orchestrate this … This whatever it was. Still, you find yourself biting out your reply, "He saw me from stage," you tell her bitterly.

"And he'll have seen that you're not there anymore," she replies patiently,, "It'll throw off his focus if he's worried you've gone home halfway through."

You fall into step beside her but can't give him the win, "Quite frankly, it's not my concern or responsibility anymore if his focus is thrown or not."

She wordlessly points out where the bathrooms are just in front of you. You're trying not to make eye contact with anyone who's in these backstage hallways. They feel like ghosts from a life that's not yours anymore.

The first time you met any of Harry's People you'd felt absolutely mortified. The whole thing felt awkward to you, meeting assistants and managers and creative directors. Putting faces and humans to jobs done for Harry. He was a lot of people's boss, and it made you uncomfortable because you'd not seen that side to him before. You knew things like how hot he liked his showers and what yogurt he liked on his muesli in the morning.

That first—and only—step into his professional world, was in a venue just like this one where Harry was filming a music video for a few days. The stage was set up like it was for live a show, and you overheard someone saying setting up for a shoot was more involved than for an actual performance. Harry wanted you to see what this part of his world looked like and despite them not fitting in either of the Friends or Family categories you'd laid out for People Allowed To Know About You, his "Team" were people Harry felt safe introducing to you. (NDAs were a powerful thing) He led you through the hallways by the hand and stuck his head into every room with a cheery, 'Hullo, just bringing Y/N around to meet everyone.'

You remember one person declaring they were happy to be meeting you. Harry was too young to be married to his job, they said with a relieved tone, That it was good he'd found his Someone. Harry beamed at that, looking down at you as if thinking, Yeah, I have found my Someone.

Now you stand back in the pit side of stage, and Harry looks down at you with a hesitation that makes you more uncomfortable than when you were watching him film that music video. His assistant has brought you back to where his team are standing, and you feel more than one set of eyes take stock of you returning, a shared glance between a manager and the girl shadowing you. A wide-eyed exchange that says, That was the last thing we needed. When Harry comes to the side of stage between songs, he's hunting for a bottle of water, but you can see he's come to that side because his eyes are focused on hunting for you.

When he sees you've returned, he slowly takes a sip of water, eyes not leaving yours. You feel like he's admonishing you in his head, seeing how weak you were, that you ran away after a little eye contact. There's a distaste there, you think, and as he's putting the cap back on the bottle, Harry opens his mouth like he's going to try to say something to you, but he stops. He frowns at his hands as he puts the bottle down and then turns away, bringing the microphone back up to his lips and slipping back into entertainer mode.

"In a lot of ways, I hate this next song," he starts slowly, speaking over the band as they begin to slow down the tempo of the night. A smoke machine whirls to life and pumps out a few big clouds, shrouding the stage behind Harry. "I really hate it."

He pauses. And your insides freeze in your chest. You're hanging off his every word, just like every other body in the room. Harry stands right on the front of the stage, toes almost touching the drop off. He's looking out at the audience and lets the microphone hang at his side. Makes no move to keep talking. Was he looking for someone out there, or was he running over what he was about to say in his head? Rehearsing it, making sure it was exactly what needed to be said.

Where you used to see thoughtfulness you now see calculation.

Give nothing away. Sell only the product. Push the song. Let people come to their own conclusions.

"This is a song about," he says carefully, a crack to his voice that sends adrenaline shooting straight down your legs, "About regretting that you've hurt someone. And about the helplessness of wishing you could make them forget what you said, but … Knowing you can't take it back."

You watched Harry trail around to the upright piano on stage and sit himself down on the stool. He stares at his hands hovering over the keys for a moment too long, but you're sure Harry's audience would let him take a hundred more. You see what perhaps they don't—the hesitation. You'd witnessed it enough to spot it, even across the stage in the dark from thirty feet away.

He's not sure about playing the song.

You think about contacting him by telepathy. Saying, I'll leave so you can go back to your show. You don't have to pretend I'm not here, I'll just go. Like I wanted to. Like I tried to.

But he plays it.

You've not heard it before, but the rest of the room has, and they sing along with him. You hear a couple of thousand people sing with your ex-boyfriend about him regretting the way he treated you. And you're almost able to talk yourself out of believing it's about you, you can nearly reason with yourself that it's kind of vague. Other than naming the cafe he'd sat in the car park of a hundred times waiting for you to return with a takeaway, it could be about anyone, really.

But he sings out a line and looks straight at you, and his eyes say it's yours. The song. The apology that's not been said yet.

I get the feeling that you'll never need me again.

His voice cracks again as he sings it. And the hurt part of you says it's just a vocal technique Harry's trained to call on at any time. It doesn't speak to anything other than a creative choice on his part. But the vulnerability is hard to ignore, the low hanging, remorseful unease in the room. He fumbles a string of notes on the piano as he sings and you're hit by the overwhelming need to make him stop.

Witnessing whatever he's currently feeling with this song is more uncomfortable than you've ever been, and a switch in you to protect him flicks on. You look around at his assistant, his manager, trying to see if there's even a hint of anyone else feeling like this moment needs an intervention, needs to be stopped.

The song ends. And you're glad.

Harry takes a few moments on stage to get ready with a guitar for the next song. He doesn't come over to your side of the stage for a drink, or to ask the roadies for anything. Instead, he flies straight into the next section of the set. Seemingly recovered from the heavy moment you felt as though you nearly drowned in. He'd never sung about you before.

Nothing remotely personal about your relationship ever left Harry's house.

And you find yourself wishing it would all just go back there.

The sixth lie was that he wouldn't break your heart.

Harry did though.

He broke your whole life.

So when he comes off stage at the end of his gig, there's little in you that wants to hang around. As soon as the lights go down and you see Harry's silhouette cross the back of the stage and hop down the stairs to the floor, your gut churns, and you wish you were one of the people in the rest of the venue. The ones now turning and slowly filing out of the building. Going back to their lives peacefully.

Instead, you're ushered behind the curtain again, into the small area that's immediately buzzing with life. You watch Harry as if he's moving in slow motion though. As soon as his boots hit the concrete floor somebody is tugging the suit jacket from his shoulders and swapping it for a grey hand towel that he uses to wipe down his face. His hand pushes his hair up over his head as he smiles at a handful of people, and then his eyes find yours. The smile drops, and he takes a steadying breath in.

"Y/N," he says loudly. Straight. Without expression. It's a statement, but also you sense a question there too. As if you might not turn out to be the person who was standing there. He holds your gaze over and through the people walking around and in front of him. He's handed a bottle of water and offered a second one which he takes, "Y/N," he says again, pulling his head back to beckon you over.

You roll your lips together when you've made it to the vacant space in front of him. Harry passes you the extra water bottle and cracks the lid off the one he keeps for himself. You grip yours with both hands but don't make any move to open it. Standing in front of him didn’t feel like you thought it would. It’s less of a kick I in the gut, and more a reinforcing of things that you’d figured out since being without him.

"Hi," he says hesitantly, briefly looking at someone behind your left shoulder. Then, you feel his eyes back on your face.

You speak to his forehead, not ready to have things inside you unlocked by eye contact, "Hello."

"This way," Harry says after a moment, running the towel down his sweaty face again.

He leads you down a hallway, wiping his face on the towel two more times as he walks. Harry continuously looks over his shoulder at you to make sure you're still following him, as if there was somewhere for you to hide in the concrete hallway. When he gets to his dressing room door, he kicks it open and holds his arm out to let you in first. The room smells like his cologne, a whiff of his final moments before going out on stage and a time portal back to mornings you'd spritz it on yourself before leaving the house, it was your scent then too. There was a small sofa and table, a long mirrored table with his laptop open next to a stack of papers, his screen saver bouncing back and white photos across the locked screen. His overnight bag and its contents were sprawled out over the floor in the corner next to where you can see his phone charging.

"You look good," is the first thing he says to you. Trying to pull your attention probably. Maybe hoping to get on the front foot charming you. You could tell him he looked good as well, particularly in the cream suit they had him in tonight, but you were sure there were no shortage of people who already had.

"Your show was good," you deflect away from the personal, eyes tracing the bottles in the corner of the table, "Great setlist."

"Needs a shakeup, if we're honest. Getting stale," Harry shrugs, and you see it in the mirrored wall. He's still standing by the closed door, watching you walk into the centre of the room and take stock of what's around you. "How have you been?"

"Fine."

Harry coughs uncomfortably, "Thanks for coming, wasn't sure you would."

"I wasn't sure either."

You sense Harry realising this conversation was going to be exactly as difficult as feared it might be, he nods his head and moves over to the sofa but doesn't sit down, "Did you want a seat?"

"I'll sit here," you perch yourself on the chair in front of his laptop, crossing one leg over the other and hitching your elbow at the back so you're facing Harry. Keeping the room between you.

Harry sits on the arm of the small, burgundy sofa, and tosses the towel onto the seat next to him, "Looked like you were a little upset there for a moment."

"My boots are new," you quip, kicking your top foot out towards him, "Blisters."

He sighs again, and you start to feel chastised, but there's a more substantial part of you that stubbornly bunkers on down to playing this role, taking power when you'd never had it with Harry before. He knew it wasn’t blisters that had emotion welling up in you during his set. But just the same it wasn’t his place anymore to be privy to your feelings. And you weren’t going to let him gallantly try to take it. You weren’t old friends who could pick up where you left off. You were broken lovers.

"I just thought we could do with talking," Harry says finally.

"You could have uninvited me, you know, I assumed—Well, it's not like I've been expecting to still attend any of your shows the last six months. This one didn't have to be different."

He almost looks hurt, "You live here."

"How was Italy, Harry?” you turn the conversation around abruptly because you didn't like where it was going, and he was starting to frustrate you. You didn’t need him pointing out you lived in this city alone now since he left. As if you didn’t know.

Where watching him on stage hit you with longing and heartbreak, memories you found yourself irrevocably attached to, being in the same room as him now is only making you see the real Harry. The one who's so good at rearranging the energy in the room to make you feel you need to give more of yourself. The one who's an expert at asking a leading question and relying on the other person to be vulnerable first, lead the charge out the gates.

The man who lied to hide you every day for nearly a year, even when it was hurting you more than protecting you. The hurt from him was worse than the invasion of your privacy would have be. The distrust you felt didn't counteract the security you were still afforded by anonymity. The way you felt you still had something to prove—something to earn from him—and that you just needed to earn the right to your place in Harry's life.

"I've missed you," he said finally, "Just …"

"You've been lonely?" You raise your eyebrows at him.

"What?" Harry's defences click into place, "No, it's not that—obviously yes, I've been lonely—but also I just—I miss you."

You start nodding, and your gaze drifts around the room, "Yeah, I … What exactly do you miss, Harry? Because—I mean, it was kind of shit, don't you think?"

"Shit?" he looks horrified, "What was shit?"

"Harry," you say simply, telling him to cut the bullshit with your expression. "Come on."

"I loved you," he declares loudly, proudly, “We had a great time together. I don't think it was kind of shit at all."

That's when you feel tears come to your eyes. Of course he didn't think it was shit. He still didn't see where the problem was. Couldn't see it. He would go right back to That Fight and keep going the way you had been if he could. Harry would keep living that life with you, he would have kept on going the same way. You'd still be the secret. A fight about a holiday would have resolved itself with compromise and make-up sex, and you would have gone right back to sneaking out of venues and pretending not to know him in crowded rooms.

Your lips turn up in a smile of sorts as your tears beg to fall but don't, "You haven't changed," you state with a small, incredulous laugh, "You've not figured it out. Nothing's changed," you repeat, shaking your head.

Harry's confusion is plain, and if he thought your tears were because you miss him there's something like a flicker of doubt, as if he's reading what's in front of him again and maybe getting a different story.

"You can't have a life with someone who doesn't want anyone to know you're in their life," you state simply.

And that was it, really. That was the nuts and bolts of it.

The secrecy eroded any meaning your relationship with Harry had. The doubt that cast. The burden on you to continually prove yourself, to audition for the role every day only to never graduate from understudy.

You watch Harry's throat constrict tightly as he thinks about the words that come from his mouth, "I loved you," he repeats, "I didn't want anything outside of us to fuck us up."

"You can't control the world that way, Harry," you're observing him carefully, "You definitely can't control people that way. I get why we started that way, but a year in, Harry? A year."

He looks at his feet, and it's the first bit of remorse you've ever seen him show over it.

"I know you loved me," you keep going, "But you can't use that as some bandaid for the lying, for the hurt that was. You can't erase the consequences because you thought you were protecting me or us or yourself. The truth doesn't cancel out the hurt of the lie."

Harry's still starring at his boots, "You could have said something."

You blink once.

"Fuck you," bursts out before you can stop it, and Harry's eyes snap up to yours, you laugh at his nerve and rise to your feet, "Fuck you, Harry. I couldn't have. I felt like I had to earn it. Like maybe I was one gold star away from getting there. And then when I did push it, you ended it."

"That's not—

"—It is," you insist, shaking your head at him, "You put all your insecurities and shortcomings on me and then had the nerve to tell me you loved me as if I was the defective cog in the wheel. As if you saying you loved me put all the onus on me spoiling it."

"I'm a private person—

You put your hand up to silence him, turning on your heel to face Harry as your pacing halts, "Stop. I don't … I don't care," you breathe out simply, "I really don't. Our relationship wasn't The One. It's one we'll both learn from for the ones that are coming. I hope you learn from it," you add quietly, "Because I have."

"Y/N," Harry says your name like it's an idea he's unsure of.

"That song wasn't about me, was it?" You ask because on stage he said it was about regretting hurting someone and there's been no hint of a 'sorry' from Harry since.

His brow creased, "It is. I am. I wanted you to hear me play it tonight. It's for you."

You smile, the idea that you've grown beyond this situation blooming inside you, "You've not said it."

"What?"

"You haven't said you're sorry," your head shakes again, a fresh wave of your new perfume—the one that's just yours—filling your nose, "You've said you missed me. And that I look good, but you've not said you're sorry. You can put an apology into the song on stage, but you can't admit you were wrong to the person you wrote the song about."

His shoulders sink, just the slightest amount, and you know that you've seen enough. You've said enough. He's not going to have an epiphany on this, not in this conversation with you. You've gone as far as you can with this. As far as you're willing to.

"I'm going to go," you take a step forward, "Thanks for the song, your voice sounded really nice on it."

And you walk passed him with just a final wave and the slightest touch to his shoulder. He doesn't move from his seated position, but his neck cranes and he watches you leave. Eyes hunting your back for answers, like the manuscript for what just happened might show up there. But it doesn't, and you slip out the door, the clip from your shoes fading from his hearing quicker than he wanted it to.

Your insides are shaking by the time you make it out onto the street. No part of you wants to turn back and look up at his name in lights again. You're done with seeing the best of everything in him. Harry's one of the shitty boyfriends you'll tell someone about one day in the future, and they'll call him a dickhead with anger dripping from their tongue, promising to never treat you the same way.

And they won't.

You'll both have bumped and bruised your way into each other's lives, and there'll be a satisfying click with them there wasn't with anyone else. You'll have journeyed through all the maybes and not-quites, and you'll land in that forever place with the person who wears the badge of Yours with a fervour nobody before them has.

And Harry … You'll go and be Nothing to Him.

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