Reader who has an incredibly cozy room. Like. So so cozy, but hides it.
Frankly, youâre a little ashamed. Here you are in an elite task force after years of training and being in the militaryâŚand you have upward of 5 stuffed animals on your bed.
Thereâs beanbags and tapestries and string lights (because down with the big light) and rugs and pillows and blankets and stuffed animals and night lights.
And the rest of your team cannot know this. Could you imagine? The big bad Ghost or your captain being surrounded by all this fluff? No doubt they would take the piss out of you for it, so yeah they arenât allowed in your room.
âŚuntil Johnny (because of course it was Johnny) becomes incredibly nosy. He doesnât know how to mind his own business on a good day, so you always skirting around what your room looks like, and refusing to let them in, and making sure you shut the door fast, gets suspicious quick.
Finally, heâs fed up enough that at the end of the day, when youâre all dispersing to your rooms after hanging out in the rec room, he lets you sneak into your room. Lulling you into a false sense of security, before barging into the room before you can shut and lock the door.
You yelp a, âSoap!â but itâs too lateâŚheâs inside and the rest of the team are peering in through the door.
Your hands come up to cover your face in embarrassment as they all take in the spectacle that is your room.
The fluffy rugs overlap on the floor, entirely covering the hard concrete that comes with the room. The cinder-block, jail-esque walls are similarly covered by various pretty tapestries. Johnny isnât entirely sure how, but youâve strung up a canopy above your bed, encasing the millions of pillows and blankets and stuffed animals into its own world. The lighting is extremely pleasant too, warm and orange from various spots in the room instead of the aggravating, cold, fluorescent, big light.
Soap was ready to make fun of you for whatever you were hiding in here, and honestly he still could, butâŚit was nice. You had an oil diffuser in the corner giving off a nice, calm, relaxing scent too and suddenly all he wanted to do was stay here and cuddle up to the beanbag in the corner.
âWell isnât thisâŚcozyâŚâ he settles on saying.
You groan and finally remove your hands, âdonât start, Johnny! I know itâs embarrassing.â
âNoâŚno, hen itâsâŚâ heâs twirling in a circle trying to take in every angle, ânice.â He means it.
The others are encroaching in now too. Kyle being the most bold and coming to join Johnny in the middle. Ghost and the captain linger by the door, but you can tell theyâre intrigued. Ghost is paying a lot of attention to the stuffed animals on the bed. John seems enraptured by the oil diffuser and rugs.
When no one says anything and you notice their faces are more intrigued than anything else, you settle a bit. Could it be they craved a little softness too?
âDoâŚdo you wanna come in?â It was a long shot, you half expected them to laugh and run out.
Instead Simon and John take a step in and close the door.
âYou can sit down,â you inform them as you take a seat on your bed, grabbing a pillow to hug.
Johnny makes a bee-line for the beanbag heâd been eyeing, but Kyle tries to beat him there which sends them into a stupid scuffle. Johnny wins, so Kyle shuffles back dejectedly to take a seat on your bed next to you.
To your surprise, Simon plops down on the ground right where he is, trying to be subtle about how he runs his hands through the fluffy rug. John is canvassing the room, taking it upon himself to touch every single nick-knack you have displayed.
You sit in silence for a moment, watching them all settle in and relax into the environment. You still notice Simon paying particular attention to the fluffy things, so you grab a raggedy old cat stuffie and throw it at him, giving him the plausible deniability that you were just being stupid and trying to annoy him. You ignore how he keeps it clutched in his lap.
They end up asking you questions about where you got everything and how long it took you to set up, even asking if they could poach some ideas for their own rooms. Kyle reluctantly admits he wouldnât mind a night light. Johnny starts snoring on the beanbag.
Theres something about it becoming a safe place for them too that settles your soul. Itâs nice seeing them like this; soft, relaxed. Thereâs too much hardness in your job, they deserve something that doesnât hurt.
your dorm bed was covered in shopping bags and lip gloss tubes ; you sat in the middle of it all , pretty . waiting to be admired .
âlook jabby ,â you said , holding up a glittery tube and twisting it so the light caught . âthis oneâs called starlight . isnât that the cutest name ?"
"and this oneâoh my godâitâs the exact pink i wanted bââ
âyeah , yeah dollface , iâm watchin' ; donât trip .â jabber interrupted , lounging at the edge of the bed . shoes still on and leaning forward like he might crawl into your lap .
his eyes didnât leave your mouth ; every swipe of gloss made him twitch . âthat shineâs crazy . like youâd stick right to me if i kissed you , shitâs wild .â
you giggled , oblivious . leaning into your little mirror , lips pursed . âmm . i think this oneâs too thick , what do you think ?â
jabber didnât even glance at the gloss .
his fingers toyed with your skirt hem . restless . âthink you could wear motor oil on your mouth and iâd still be on my knees . lettin' you drive me nuts . lettin' you sit pretty and talk sweetââ his words spilled quick . tumbling , then dropped low .
almost reverent .
you blinked at him , lips shiny and parted . âjabs⌠youâre not even looking at the gloss .â
he grinned . too sharp . nose brushing yours . ânah , lookin at you . lil' haul could burn in a fire ; donât care . iâd still be stuck right here . watchin you shine .â
his thumb dragged across your lip . smearing gloss . âobsessed babe . likeâyou donât even know . got me gone .â
you tried to grab another tube .
he caught your wrist , pressed it to the mattress and crawled halfway over you . jittery . burning up .
âdonât switch it up now dolly .â his forehead pressed to yours . voice trembling . âshow me that pout again . câmon . lemme see it . lemme taste it . been dyin since the second you sat downâ,â
his mouth crashed into yours .
messy . eager . gloss smeared like syrup .
he groaned , desperate ; grinding against your thigh like heâd lost control .
âfuck , youâre sweet , sweetest thing i ever touched . mine , yeah , say itââ
his words blurred , rushed . kisses all over your face . jaw . lips again . âmine . mine . mineââ
Summary: soft girl of the party has a soft heart. The heart who gains all the hearts of the party no matter what she doesnât mean to do.
Info: this is implied as a fluttershy!reader cause look at the pic I chose as a header?? Anyways will is platonic of cuz heâs gay tf?? Lumax x reader and then mileven x reader. Just greedy yall, and also Dustin is more of a brother figure that now has a little sister figure.
Genre: fluff
Wordcount: 1,190
The softest girl to ever be in Hawkins.
Y/n L/N, friends to Mike Wheeler, Lucas Sinclair, Dustin Henderson, Max Mayfield, and Jane Hopper.
Sheâs homeschooled due to her anxiety peaking every second someone stares at her. Feeling the stares of people, feeling like theyâre just gonna laugh at her makes her sick to her stomach.
She used to eat alone in Mr. Clarkâs classroom, not handling school life very well. Dustin was always there for her, like a brother, as he tried to also eat lunch with her. He even suggested eating in the AV club room.
She enjoyed his comfort a lot, and Dustin enjoyed making her comfortable.
Will and Y/n always had drawing contests because Dustin said she could beat Will at anything he could draw. Which prompted the two quiet kids to immediately click due to their interest in drawings be art.
Lucas was always there to back her up, if someone was talking over her, he would shut everything down to make sure people heard her.
Even Mike did it mostly, heâd always look at y/n to make sure she was comfortable. If sheâs too silent and is looking down at her fingers. Chewing on her nails, picking at the flesh of her fingers.
Heâd put his hand on her shoulder or just put his hand on hers.
Having eleven in the partyâs life brought more things to the table.
After Will went missing, y/n felt sick, sick physically at the thought her beloved friend was dead.
She missed all the action being homeschooled and grieving the potential loss of a friend. But she didnât know that Mike was practically ranting about her to a girl named eleven.
Eleven saw a picture of Y/n, immediately stalking the poor soft girl in the void. She saw y/n writing, wearing a soft yellow cardigan and a pink and white dress.
Y/n didnât know how eleven was just staring at the pretty girl.
âPretty.â Eleven repeated out loud, eleven got out of the void. Knowing who y/n now is. She understands how Mike can just bring her up every 3 minutes.
Time passed, Will was actually alive and well, bringing y/n to a soft relief. Hugging him at the hospital, the party felt restored.
Meeting Max, was kinda weird to say. Y/n was taking a fresh breath of air after being home all evening. While she walked on the sidewalk, wearing her favorite palette clothing of pink, yellow, and white, a girl came rushing in with her skateboard towards her.
Not that she meant it on purpose, itâs just y/n didnât see her clearly.
She ran y/n over with her skateboard, making her fall on her back, and Max fell on her side.
âSHIT!â Max yells, getting up to even grab her skateboard. Y/n got up to also get her skateboard, trying to ignore the stinging feeling in her hands and butt.
âAre you okay?â Y/nâs soft voice did her magic. Ring through someoneâs head. Max felt her hands touch hers, but they left as she got electrocuted. Making the redhead pull her hand back.
âYeah.. Iâm okay. But I should be asking you that.â Max quickly said, ignoring the feeling she felt. She grabbed y/nâs hand, seeing the small bruises on the skin.
âIâm fine,â Y/n spoke, looking at Max. She realized the girl hadnât practically seen before. âAre you new here?â She asked.
Max nodded as she started to grab her skateboard and pull y/n towards the other way. âIâm Max, whatâs your name?â Max says, finding this an opportunity to just know more about this girl who has gotten her attention. And maybe even heart oddly.
âIâm y/n!â Y/n said excitedly, happy to make a friend.
And it went from there as soon as the party had fully known one thing as time grew. The party made a devoted rule towards the girl, and that was never to yell or speak loudly towards her at all.
Everyone took it seriously.
A little too seriously, eleven was by y/n who was shopping. During the summer was fun as y/n softly smiled towards the teenage girl.
âI think this cardigan would look good on me.â She says, Eleven smiled back. Loving the soft smile she and Mike adored.
âYes. Itâs perfect, for you.â She says in the same tone you spoke.
Nodding, you go to the cashier to get this. The cashier seemed to be cranky, not liking how the poor girl was trying to get her wallet from her purse.
âCan you hurry up?? This isnât the retirement home sweetie.â The man said, gruffly and roughly which made y/n flinch a bit while she felt her heart spike. Not cause of the manâs voice. No. Cause was she really holding up the line?
âSorry sir Iâm justââ
âI donât need a backstory, hurry up.â
Elevenâs brows narrowed, not liking how the man was talking to the girl. After getting the money on the counter and quickly leaving.
Eleven stayed a bit behind, squeezing her hand, making most of the clothing rackets fall to the ground. The man was in shock and stumbled at what happened.
âWhat the?!â
Eleven wiped her nose with her hand. Walking quietly by the girlâs side.
Summer came quicker than blinking.
Will and y/n would have a drawing contest at his house, heâd even let y/n play a bit of D&D mostly. She understood most of it, it was nice to know what the boys liked.
âThatâs beautiful y/n!â Will complimented the girl who smiled widely. âBut check mine out!â He exclaimed, showing a picture of him and y/n dancing around with music notes in medieval times.
Y/n put her work down to do some happy claps. âOmg!! Thatâs amazing, you should be an all-time artist.â
Her soft voice mixed with praise and excitement, and even encouragement. It brought will even more up to being open to her.
Sadly she couldnât hang out with Dustin since he was mostly hanging out with Steve instead. But that was fine since she got to hang out with the other party members during the summer.
Although it felt like she was third wheeling.
During the summer, Mike and eleven would persuade y/n to hang out with them a lot at Hopperâs cabin. Due to of course eleven canât be seen out in public.
Not without her pet bunny, named Angel of course. Eleven seemed to freeze seeing the bunny, y/n forgot about the lab while she goes to hide Angel away. But eleven wanted to show that she can get over her trauma.
For their girl, as Mike has said once to eleven. Practically claiming the girl for him and eleven.
And eleven liked that.
Meanwhile, Lucas and Max would plan movie dates at y/nâs house. Making sure they had her perfectly between them both.
Lucas felt like a king, having two beautiful girls with him was heaven. Max and Lucas squeezed both of y/nâs hands
Not even bothering to tell how flushed the girl was.
âWhat is happeningâŚâ y/n thought to herself.
She didnât know that she was the butterfly surrounded by flowers needing her attention.
Summary: A series of interactions. Subtle realizations. Unacknowledged feelings. Your existence to Draco Malfoy was inconsequential, at first. Yet wonders never cease when he decides to acknowledge you.
-
You were the silent type.
He's never talked to you before but he knew of your existence. Like a ghost that lingered at the walls, ever present yet elusive. He knew you from your claimed seat in the Slytherin common room, right by the fireplace. Close enough to his friends' lounging spot yet far enough to be unnoticed.
He knew you were always there with a book in your hand and a stoic expression on your face. He knew that younger Slytherins would sometimes come up to you and ask for help. He knew you from when you would pass his friends when you grab or return a book to the bookshelves.
Other than that, you were just there. Irrelevant. Like a buzz in the air you eventually grew accustomed to. That was your existence: nonconsequential to his life in Hogwarts.
Draco Malfoy didn't give a knut about you until you were partnered up in Potions. After Theo Nott had bolted away from him the moment he heard his partner, he felt the quiet shift of your presence settle beside him on the table. You gave him a small nod as you sat which he deemed not to reciprocate. Chin rested in one hand, he glanced at you onceâupright posture, folded hands, neutral expressionâthen brought his attention back to the board.
-
"Wait."
His hand froze midair, clutching the knife about to slice through the flower heads. He raised an eyebrow and gave you a critical look.
"Don't cut that yet," you continued, undeterred. "Cut that a minute before we add it."
Your tone wasn't condescending, but it was assertive in a way that made his ego curdle. Just a bit.
"And why, pray tell, should I follow what you say?" He sneered.
You merely blinked.
"Well, these particular flower heads are most potent when it's freshly cut." You replied matter-of-factly. "Considering its integrative properties with this potion, we'd want its quality to be as potent as possible when we add it."
Malfoy gave you another skeptical look. He wasn't used to being interfered with in Potions. In fact, he was used to handling the brunt of the work to ensure his stellar marks were left unmarred by his partners' incompetence. So, yes, ego was poked. Just a bit.
"No," he replied as if he were talking to a five-year-old. "Doing that just exceeds the optimal potency level. You'll ruin the viscosity and increase the acidity of the potion." Admittedly, he did feel proud of shutting you down. Ego restored.
"For a freshly harvested flower head, yes, that's true, but..." Merlin, will this witch back down? You gently pinched the ends of the petals between your fingers. "These ones were put on a stasis charm. It's winter and its sensitive period after harvest is significantly shortened in the cold. Hence, the charm. The magical influence interferes with the properties of the plant. Feel the petals? They're not as soft as they should be; there's rigidity. That means the release of its sap will be explosive right after the cut."
Malfoy was silent. Reluctantly, he felt the petals between his fingers and, damn it, you were right. He opened his mouth as if to refute you but nothing came out. What you said made perfect sense. Again, damn it.
He scoffed and rolled his eyes but put away the flower heads. You gave him a small smile and continued your work.
-
"Wait."
Malfoy clicked his tongue irritably. He turned sharply to you.
"What now?" He snapped. To your credit, you did hold an apologetic expression.
"I'll do the stirring." You offered. He narrowed his eyes but begrudgingly passed you the stirring rod.
"For Merlin's sake, the stirring is elementary. Don't muck it up." He grumbled as he moved away from the cauldron.
A few minutes passed as he started tidying up the rest of the station when, at the corner of his eye, he saw what you did.
You stirred counter clockwise at the end. Once.
Malfoy was enraged.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He yelled-whispered, grabbing your wrist away from the cauldron. "The instructions were to stir clockwise continuously. Are you daft? Or are you perhaps mad-"
He stopped abruptly when the potion's color transformed from a muted blue to a vibrant turquoise. Perhaps the most vibrant turquoise he's seen on a potion like this, its color almost emitting a soft glow. Malfoy looked at the potion a few seconds more before shooting you a disbelieving look.
There was a glint of triumph in your eyes as your attention was completely fixated on the potion. He saw the slightest upturn of your lips before you schooled your expression back to neutrality. You turned back to him.
"The potion is similar to Moonseed Poison." You explained. "The procedure is almost identical and its properties are all derived from the same family of ingredients."
He scoffed. "And you thought it would be a good idea to apply the same principle to a potion that has completely different effects?"
You shrugged. "Same principle." You eyed the hand still holding your wrist, and he immediately withdrew his hand. He pinched the nose of his bridge, staving off an oncoming headache.
"Merlin, witch." He groaned. "And you didn't think to tell me?"
That gave you pause. You looked away almost sheepishly and added in a small voice. "...I thought you wouldn't be very cooperative."
You fiddled with your fingers and was adamant to look at anywhere but him. At least you had the decency to look a bit guilty.
He gave you a (barely) long-suffering look before moving past to scoop the potion for submission.
To his dismay, Slughorn praised your potion to the point Malfoy wondered if he would cream his pants. He sat back in his seat with a deep scowl in his face which you deemed not to comment on. You continued to work on your report silently even as Malfoy grumbled beside you.
After a while, he turned to you. "How did you know?"
You gave a questioning hum as you continued to work, refusing to look his way.
"How did you know the same principle would work?"
Your quill stuttered before you resumed.
"I didn't."
He raised a brow, giving you an expectant look. You pursed your lips slightly and glanced at him cautiously.
"Gut feeling."
Malfoy turned away from you, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to calm himself. "Bloody hell."
-
From then on, he began to notice you more. It was more so because he had now acknowledged your existence. You were promoted from the title or "irrelevant ghost" to "insufferable potions partner."
As you continued to be paired with him in Potions (to his dismay), he realized that, despite your penchant for having unconventional methods, perhaps there was a reason you were always close behind on the class rankings as the third or fourth top student. You had an intuitive sense for the interactions in each potion, making you an acceptable potions partner. He also realized that the only reason you lagged behind in rankings is because of your experimentations and your cursed gut feeling. With your potions, it was either a hit or miss.
Despite his initial annoyance with you, he couldn't deny that you were indeed competent. He began to develop a reluctant amicability with you and this was quite unfortunate because you began to do things he didn't understand.
-
One Charms class, he had run late and all seats had been taken up except for the one beside you. After receiving an admonishment from Flitwick, he sat beside you with a scowl, murmuring curses under his breath.
He had just set down his inkpot when you put a green apple in his desk space. Before he could say anything, you leaned close to him and whispered.
"I noticed you weren't at breakfast earlier. Figured I'd grab you your daily drugs." You flashed him a small smile before returning to your notes.
He was so surprised that he forgot all about his earlier frustrations. He managed to mumble a thanks before turning to his parchment.
-
"You have a Quidditch match later, right?"
That startled Malfoy. You two have never talked about anything besides academics. He nodded.
You rummaged through your pocket, and you pulled out a small charm shaped in a broom figurine.
He raised a brow at you inquisitively.
"It's a good luck charm." You rolled your eyes, a smile playing at your lips. "Not that you need it, of course. I know you're a good Seeker, but I figured I'd give you one anyway."
He continued to stare at you questioningly, and you grew conscious. Your fingers slowly closed around the charm.
"Well, you don't have to take it. I suppose I could just give it to another playerâ"
"Whatever." He scoffed and held out his hand. "Give it here. Merlin knows you'll accidentally set somebody on fire with your charms."
Your hand came up to your chest in affront as the other dropped the charm onto his open hand. "Excuse me? That was one time!"
-
Malfoy was met with cheers from the team as he descended from the broom, snitch in hand. He walked proudly, chest out and ego inflated, as absorbed all the praises.
Through it all, the small broomstick charm weighed heavily on his pocket.
-
The two of you were at the library working on a joint Potions project. It was raining hard outside and your table was right beside a window.
"Let me know when the rain gets any more interesting. I'm sure it can write the paper for us."
Malfoy drawled from across the table, interrupting your reverie of watching the rain. You didn't respond, and he paid you no mind as he kept writing down on his parchment.
He felt the prickle of your stare on him instead. He waited a few moments for your gaze to pass, but it didn't. He looked up from his parchment and raised a critical eyebrow at you.
You didn't deem his look with a response. You just kept looking at him as if examining a specimen from behind a glass, chin tucked in one hand and eyes lucid.
"Your eyes have a little blue in them."
That threw him off. What?
"What?" He managed, unable to school the look of shock and confusion from his face.
Again, you didn't respond and simply went back to your work.
-
One particularly boring History of Magic class, he felt a nudge at the side of his leg. He shot you a flat lookâyes, he happened to sit next to you again because he can sit anywhere he pleases, thank you very muchâand you held out your hand filled with candies from Honeydukes.
"Want one?" You whispered, smiling shyly at him.
He didn't say anything and just grabbed from the pile. As he popped the candy into his mouth, he noticed you struggling to open one. He wordlessly grabbed the candy, opened it, and gave it back to you.
There was a flash of surprise on your face before you shot him a smile. He watched you pop the candy into your mouth.
-
Apparently, your title has once again elevated from "annoying potions partner" to "tolerable person to be around."
Yes, he knew of your existence, your presence in the couch right by the fireplace. But when he sat by his friends close to your chair, he also began to notice other things.
He now knew that your expression wasn't as stoic when you're reading. The changes in your face were subtle but he noticed them. A raised brow. Pursed lips. Crinkled eyes. He also now knew that when the younger Slytherins would come up to you, you would also give them small charms or lean into them as if sharing a secret.
He also now has a collection of charms because of you. It could be for a match, an exam, a stressful day, or a random reason you would come up with. He kept telling himself to throw away those junk. He never did.
-
The weather outside was chilly. Which was really something to consider when having a class outside for Care of Magical Creatures. Most of the students were bundled up and huddled together to retain as much warmth as possible.
Malfoy stood beneath a tree, gaze fixed to the courtyard where a certain someone should be walking now that class was about to start.
Sure enough, there you were. All frantic, frazzled, and panting by the time you settled next to him.
He looked at you expectantly as if you owed him an explanation.
"I fell asleep."
"Wonderful."
"Did you miss me?"
"Witch, you must be mad."
You bit back a smile as you tried to tune into the lesson. That was, until you heard him click his tongue annoyedly. You turned to Malfoy questioningly before you felt fabric wrap around your neck.
"If you wanted to die of the cold, you could've just told me to push you into the Black Lake." He grumbled as he adjusted his scarf to be more comfortable on you.
You blinked at him, unsure how to react to such a gesture. By the time, he let go of the scarf, you were positively drowning in his scent. You sunk your head further into the scarf to hide the smile you were struggling to fight.
When you muttered your thanks, all the response you got was a grunt.
-
"Here."
He dropped a bag from Honeydukes beside you as you looked up from your book. You were sitting at one of the larger couches across the fireplace since you had the common room all to yourself. You looked up at him, and he made sure to school a look of nonchalance. Hands tucked inside his pockets and hair mussed just so. That probably didn't work as well because his face was frozen from the cold.
You raised a quizzical brow at him.
He scoffed and plopped down beside you unceremoniously, draping his arm across the couch behind you.
"It's sugar quills. You'd know if you had the decency to at least open the bag."
"Oh."
A pleasantly surprised expression passed your face and you checked that, indeed, there was an assortment of sugar quills in the bag. You still gave him a scrutinizing look as if asking Why?
He rolled his eyes. "You were complaining about running out. You wouldn't shut up about it." A quiet affronted gasp escaped you.
"It was one time..." You pouted, voice small in slight embarrassment. You opened the bag and grabbed a quill. "Thank you."
He only grunted and propped up his head with the arm resting behind you. This gave him the perfect view over your shoulder. And of your nape, apparently. A thought he quickly shook off. His eyes, however, kept drifting to the small hairs that tickled your nape and to the mole nestled at the bottom right.
He blinked his thoughts away. Ridiculous.
Thankfully, a sudden rush of warmth distracted him from his thoughts, realizing that you had cast a warming charm on him. There was a little twinge in his chest at the gesture, although he'd blame the charm for that.
You nudged the bad of sugars quills toward him and flashed him a small smile. "Share?"
He shrugged and grabbed one as you returned to your book. He didn't say anything else and just watched you from the corner of his eye, his head propped up far too closely next to you.
Malfoy didn't know what possessed him to buy those sugar quills. Or to sit down next to you when all he thought about after returning was to lie in his bed. And he certainly didn't know why he kept trying to lean closer to you.
Eager for a distraction, he tried to peek at what you were reading, eyes narrowing at the plethora of unfamiliar words. His curiosity won out.
"What are you reading?" He asked, leaning down to read better.
You startled, and turned to him to explain. This was, unfortunately, a mistake because both of you didn't realize how close he was leaning over your shoulder. This resulted in your faces being mere inches from each other, your breaths mingling. You shared a surprised look before immediately turning away from each other.
"It's 1984 by George Orwell." You finally said, voice small, and eyes adamantly glued to the book. He turned back to you which, again, was a mistake because he now noticed how flushed your nape had become. Damn it. "It's a muggle book. Social commentary on totalitarianism told through a dystopian setting."
A moment passed.
Malfoy cleared his throat awkwardly, attempting to tamper his speeding heartbeat. Merlin, that warming charm must really be overheating him. He blamed your Charms proficiency.
He swallowed, trying to focus on your words than your reddened cheeks.
"Right." He cleared his throat. "So what does doublethink mean?"
At that, the conversation turned for the better as you explained the details of the book to him. Malfoy, thankfully, was intrigued enough to override his earlier thoughts. You both eased into a comfortable atmosphere and, at some point, you had leaned your head against his arm behind.
Whether you noticed it or not, he did not know. But he did not care to comment on it.
When John McTavish was shot and survived, his world fell apart.
Price went MIA after General Shepherd was found dead in his office.
Ghost transferred to another unit and was supposedly in Russia now.
Gaz sent him letters, but didn't have time to visit due to tracking down Makarov with Laswell.
And Soap, well John on paper and on hospital forms and on discharge documents, was left behind.
Soap didn't feel like a miracle. He felt left.
He replayed it constantly, the shot, the heat, his own stupid surprised thought of well, that's not ideal before everything went black.
Then there was the waking up.
Hospital bed. Tubes. Silence. His own heartbeat sounding foreign in his ears.
No one was there to greet him. Just machines.
He got one shaky video call with Laswell instead. Efficient. Polite. Regretful. Telling him the team was preoccupied. Telling him they hadn't forgotten him.
Letters. Neat handwriting. Too measured. Too careful. Like Gaz was trying not to lean on grief as he wrote: Wish I could be there and working leads not done and hold tight, Johnny.
Soap stared at them on the bedside table like they might explode.
Cheers for the letters, mate. Shame paper doesn't help me walk straight.
 -------------------------------------------------------------
Price was confusing.
Not a call. Not a letter. Nothing.
Just vanished off the grid, swallowed by shadows and guilt and whatever hole men like Price crawl into when they fail to save the word and their people.
Come kick down my door, Cap. Tell me you need me. Anything's better than disappearing like smoke.
 -------------------------------------------------------------
Ghost was the one that cut the deepest.
He didn't vanish. He replaced Soap, replaced the team.
Transferred. Redeployed. Wheels up. Gone. Russia, of all bloody places. Probably standing in the snow somewhere solving problems with guns and monosyllabic grunts, same as always.
I got shot in the noggin', you poxy bastard. The least you could is haunt the hospital corridor like usual.
 -------------------------------------------------------------
Soap realized the only later that anger was easier than grief.
Because grief sounded like don't leave me.
And John Soap McTavish never begged for anything in his life.
It was raining the first time you showed up at his flat. A quiet, apologetic kind of rain. The kind that barely tapped, like it was scared too knock to hard.
Soap swung the door open a touch too fast, half-expecting pity, paperwork, or press.
Instead, you just blinked at him.
You held a tote bag against yourself like a shield. Your scrubs a muted color.
You said something short, soft, unremarkable--
Name, role, schedule--
And stepped in when Soap grunted something that could have meant fine or piss off. He didn't know either.
You watered the one suffering houseplant. You re-organized his medication into a weekly tray with colour-coded stickers. You did laundry and folded blankets into neat squares even though he unfolded them just to spite organization.
You also made tea that tasted like warmth and quiet rain.
But the thing was: you didn't act like he was fragile.
You carried groceries up two flights without asking if he needed help. You unscrewed stuck jars without handling them to him.
You stepped around his sharper moods like you'd spent a lifetime dofigin emotional barbed wire without getting snagged.
It pissed him off at first.
Then it unsettled him.
Then, quietly, it steadied something in him he didn't know was still shaking.
He kept excepting you to pry. To poke the scar, metaphorically or literally. To ask if it hurt, if he remembered, if he killed the man who shot him, if he was scared, if he was okay--
A story about what it costs to surviveâand the one person who refuses to let you lose yourself trying.
pairings: randall kirkland x softangelgirlfriend!reader
synopsis: When kindness starts to look like a liability, you learn how to surviveâyou take less risk, give less away, stop reaching for people who wonât reach back.
She learns.
Randall is the one who notices first.
What starts as irritation turns into something sharper when the softness he couldnât stand is replaced by something colder, quieterâsomething that looks too much like everyone else.
The argument that follows isnât really about survival.
Itâs about what sheâs willing to lose to stay aliveâand why he canât stand watching her become someone sheâs not.
CONTENT WARNING: emotional distress, survival setting, loss of identity, behavioral change, being taken advantage of, self-sacrificing tendencies, moral ambiguity, arguments/conflict, harsh environment, implied violence/danger, anxiety, internal conflict, themes of survival, angst, soft randall (if you squint)
word count: 2.1k
a/n: thanks to the lovely anon who requested this!! i had so much fun writing this and love the idea of randall dating someone whoâs like the complete opposite of him. love this concept and the idea of randall noticing her change before anyone else just stuck in my head. considering turning this into like a non plot series type thing, so think of this as like how they were before they got together type thing!
She says thank you too much.
Not in a way that draws attention, not in that bright, performative tone people use when theyâre trying to be liked. Itâs quieter than that. Automatic. Like itâs stitched into her, like she doesnât know how to exist without softening everything around her.
âThanks.â
âThank you.â
âI appreciate it.â
It slips out of her without thinking. For everything. Someone hands her a cup of water, she thanks them. Someone barely spares her a glance, she thanks them anyway, like acknowledgment in itself is something she owes something back for. Half the time, the people she says it to donât even register it. The other half, they take it and give nothing in return.
Randall notices before he realizes heâs watching her.
And it bugs him.
Not because itâs wrongâhe doesnât care about that, doesnât even know if it isâbut because it doesnât fit. Not here. Not somewhere that eats through people until thereâs nothing left but whatâs necessary. Softness like that doesnât last. It gets worn down, traded off piece by piece until thereâs nothing left to take.
Or it gets you hurt.
âYou always like that?â he asks one afternoon, voice cutting in without warning.
Sheâs sitting off to the side, splitting what little food she has into two uneven portions. The bigger half is already gone from her hands, passed quietly to someone who hadnât even asked for it.
She glances up at him, and thereâs no embarrassment in it. No defensiveness. Just that same open, unguarded look that makes it hard to tell whether she doesnât understand what heâs saying or just doesnât agree.
âLike what?â
He tips his chin toward the empty space in her hands. âThat,â he says. âGiving your stuff out like itâs unlimited.â
âThey needed it.â
âSo do you.â
She shrugs easy, like itâs not even worth arguing. Like her own needs donât carry the same weight in her head. âIâll be okay.â
Randall lets out a short breath through his nose, something between a scoff and a laugh.
He shifts his weight against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely over his chest. âYeah,â he mutters. âHeard that one before.â
Thereâs no real bite to it. Not like there usually is when he talks.
She watches him for a second, like sheâs actually thinking about it, like she might take it seriously.
âStill,â she says after a second, âthank you.â
He frowns at her like she said something that doesnât make sense.
âFor what?â
She tilts her head slightly. âFor saying something.â Then continues softer. âFor looking out for me.â
That throws him off in a way he doesnât like.
He hadnât meant it like that. Hadnât meant it as anything, really. It was just⌠a comment. An observation.
âI didnât say anything,â he shoots back immediately. âI made a comment.â
âIt counts.â
âNo, it doesnât.â
She smiles anyway.
That⌠irritates him more than it should.
He looks away first.
âWhatever,â he mutters.
Itâs small, but itâs real, like his intention doesnât change the outcome for her. Like it counts regardless.
And that shouldâve been the end of it.
It isnât.
He doesnât notice the change right away.
Or maybe he does, and just doesnât care enough to name it.
At first, itâs small.
She hesitates.
Someone asks for help, and she pauses instead of moving right away. Just a secondâbut itâs there. Like sheâs thinking about it now, running it through a set of rules that didnât exist before. Sometimes she still steps in. Sometimes she doesnât.
Then she stops offering.
Stops hovering near people who look like theyâre struggling. Stops splitting what she has. Keeps to herself more, stops inserting herself into situations that donât directly involve her. Itâs as if sheâs learned where the invisible lines are and decided not to cross them anymore. Like sheâs finally figuring out how things work.
Smart.
Thatâs what it is.
Smart.
Her voice changes too, a little. Less extra. Less⌠her.
âYeah.â
âOkay.â
âFine.â
The extra words disappear. The softness that used to round everything out gets trimmed away, piece by piece, until whatâs left is efficient. Careful. Distant.
And eventually, the thank yous stop.
Thatâs what Randall notices first.
Not in some big, dramatic way. Itâs just⌠gone. A beat that used to exist, a rhythm he hadnât realized heâd gotten used to until it wasnât there anymore.
She hands him something one dayâhe doesnât even remember whatâand turns away like itâs nothing.
No pause. No acknowledgment. No âthanks.â
Nothing.
He waits for it without meaning to. It doesnât come. He catches himself almost saying something.
Doesnât
Just watches her walk off, something in his expression tightening for a second before it disappears. It shouldnât matter. It doesnât mean anything.
But it does.
Because once he sees it, he canât stop seeing it.
Itâs in everything she does. Or doesnât do.
She doesnât look at people the same way anymore. Doesnât step in. Doesnât react. Someone drops something right next to her and she just keeps walking like she didnât hear it.
Someone asks for help, and she gestures vaguely toward someone else instead of stepping in herself. She keeps her food nowâevery bit of itâtucked away like sheâs finally learned the lesson everyone else picked up years ago.
And maybe thatâs a good thing.
Maybe thatâs what sheâs supposed to do.
But it doesnât sit right.
Not because the behavior itself is wrong, but because itâs her doing it, and it looks⌠off. Like sheâs wearing something that doesnât quite fit, like it pulls in the wrong places.
Randall leans back against the wall one evening, arms crossed, watching her pass by like she doesnât even register heâs there.
âHey.â
âWhat?â
She pauses, but she doesnât fully turn toward him. The distance is subtle, but itâs there nowâsomething measured in the way she holds herself, in how much of her she allows anyone to see.
âWhenâd you start ignoring people?â
âI donât.â
He lets out a quiet huff. âYeah. You do,â he continues, flat. âJust watched you do it.â
âTheyâll figure it out.â
âThatâs new.â
Thereâs something different there. Not colder, exactly. Just⌠shut down in a way it wasnât before.
âPeople said I needed to stop,â she says.
âStop what?â
âBeing stupid.â
The word sits wrong.
Randallâs expression shifts, something sharper creeping in.
âWho said that?â
She shrugs. âDoesnât matter.â
âYeah, it does.â
âNo, it doesnât,â she says, a little firmer now, though her voice stays level. âThey werenât wrong.â
He pushes off the wall then, uncrossing his arms.
âRight,â he says, tone flat. âSo now you just donât do anything.â
âThatâs not what I said.â
âCouldâve fooled me.â
She exhales, already looking annoyed. âIâm just not making things harder for myself anymore.â
âBy whatâacting like you donât see anything?â he cuts in.
âBy not being an easy target.â
âSo this is you fixing it?â he asks.
âYes.â
âYou call this better?â
âI call it necessary.â
Thereâs no softness left in it.
âNecessary,â he repeats, pushing off the wall as irritation sharpens into something more pointed. âNo. This isnât necessary. This is you turning into everyone else.â
âAnd whatâs wrong with that?â she shoots back, and finally thereâs some heat in her voice. âTheyâre still alive, arenât they?â
âBarely.â
âBut they are.â
âAnd you think this is why?â he presses, stepping closer now, frustration creeping in around the edges. âYou think acting like you donât care is whatâs keeping them alive?â
âItâs part of it.â
âNo,â he says, shaking his head. âItâs whatâs left after everything else gets stripped away.â
She exhales sharply, already looking like she wants out of the conversation. âIâm not doing this with you.â
âYeah, you are,â he counters, stepping into her path before she can move past him. âBecause this isnât you.â
âYou donât get to decide that.â
âI donât have to. I saw who you were before.â
âYeah?â she says, turning fully toward him now, something raw slipping through the cracks. âAnd where did that get me?â
It lands.
Not loud, not dramatic, but exactly where it needs to.
âNowhere,â she continues, quieter but sharper. âIt got me taken advantage of. It got me ignored. It almost got me hurt.â
âAnd this is better?â
âItâs safer.â
âIs it,â he asks, voice dropping, âor is it just easier?â
Her jaw tightens. âYou donât know what youâre talking about.â
âI know exactly what Iâm talking about,â he shoots back, something deeper threading through the frustration now. âIâve seen what this place does to people.â
âSo have I.â
âThen you should know better.â
âKnow better than to survive?â
âNo,â he says, the word cutting clean. âKnow better than to lose yourself doing it.â
She lets out a quiet, humorless breath. âThatâs easy for you to say.â
That one sticks.
Because itâs not wrong.
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â he asks, even though he already knows.
âIt means you already know how to be like this,â she says, gesturing toward him. âYou donât hesitate. You donât second-guess. You donât care about people you shouldnât. Thatâs how you survive here.â
Each word lands steady, deliberate.
âAnd I donât,â she adds, softer now. âSo Iâm learning.â
Something twists in his chest, sharp and immediate.
âYeah,â he mutters, jaw tightening, âand howâs that working out for you?â
âBetter than before.â
âNo, itâs not.â
âYou donât know that.â
âI do,â he says, stepping closer again, voice rougher now. âBecause you look miserable.â
That stops her.
Not completely, but enough to crack something in the surface sheâs been holding together.
âIâm notââ
âYou are,â he cuts in, not letting her pull away from it. âYou donât talk to anyone, you donât help unless you have to, you donâtââ He exhales, shaking his head. âThatâs not surviving. Thatâs just existing.â
She swallows, gaze dropping for a second before she forces it back up. âAt least Iâm still here.â
And thatâ
Thatâs it.
âThis place already ruins people,â he says, quieter now, but heavier. âDonât help it.â
He holds her gaze, something real breaking through the usual edge in his voice.
âDo you think I like being like this?â he adds. âYou think this is something you should be aiming for?â
She doesnât answer.
Because she doesnât have one.
âI didnât start like this,â he continues, dragging a hand over the back of his neck, pacing once like he needs to burn off the weight of it. âNobody does. This place takes whatever you were and grinds it down until this is whatâs left.â
He gestures to himself, something bitter flickering across his face.
âAnd you want to speed that up?â he asks, looking back at her. âYou want to do that to yourself on purpose?â
Her expression shifts, just slightly.
âIâm just trying to survive,â she says, but itâs quieter now. Less certain.
âYeah,â he replies. âSo was I.â
The words settle between them, heavy.
âAnd look how that turned out.â
Thatâs what finally gets through.
She looks at him differently then, like sheâs seeing past the surface of him for the first time, like sheâs noticing what it cost him to get here.
âI donât know what else to do,â she admits, and thereâs something fragile in it now, something honest.
Randall exhales slowly, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders.
âYou keep going,â he says. âThe way you were.â
âThat doesnât work here.â
âIt did,â he counters. âYouâre still here, arenât you?â
âBarely.â
âBarely counts.â
She lets out a small breath, shaking her head. âYou donât get it.â
âThen explain it to me.â
âI canât keep being that person if itâs going to get me killed,â she says, voice tightening again, but not as defensive. âI canât keep giving things away, trusting people, acting like things are normal when theyâre not.â
âIâm not saying be stupid,â he says, more controlled now. âIâm saying donât kill the only part of you that makes this place bearable.â
She goes still.
âNot just for you,â he adds, quieter.
Her gaze lifts back to his, something unspoken settling between them.
âYou donât have to be like me,â he says. âThatâs not something you should want.â
A beat passes.
âTrust me.â
Thereâs something almost ironic about it, but neither of them acknowledges it.
Silence settles, but itâs different now. Less sharp. Less guarded.
She looks down at her hands, turning everything over, and for once he doesnât interrupt it. He lets the quiet sit, lets her work through it without pushing.
After a moment, she exhales, her shoulders loosening just slightly.
ââŚOkay.â
Itâs not a promise.
But itâs something.
It doesnât fix everything, doesnât magically undo the shift.
The next time someone asks for help, she still hesitates. Itâs there, that pause, that instinct to pull back, to protect herself the way sheâs been trying to.
Then, slowly, she steps in anyway.
Not like before. Not automatic.
But itâs hers.
Later, when she passes Randall in the hallway, she slows just enough to catch his attention, holding something out for him to take.
âHere.â
He takes it, glancing at her.
She starts to walk off.
Thereâs a pause.
Itâs small. Uncertain.
ââŚThanks,â she says, quieter than it used to be.
Itâs quieter now. A little uncertain, like sheâs still figuring out how much of herself sheâs allowed to keep without it costing her.
Randall nods once, like itâs nothing.
âYeah.â he mutters.
But he doesnât look away as she walks off, watching her as she goes.
And this time, thereâs no irritation in it.
Just something quieter.
Something that looks a lot like him making sure she doesnât disappear into this place the way everyone else eventually doesâeven if he never says that part out loud.
Itâs because heâs decidedâquietly, without saying it out loudâthat if the world tries to take that softness from her again, itâs going to have to go through him first.
dividers/borders by these lovely people: @dollywons @uzmacchiato @mieluno
Your feet pattered against your driveway as you skipped down it, Rafeâs truck sitting right at the end of it. The sound of him opening up his door has your heart fluttering in your chest. He came from the other side of the truck, a grin spreading over his features as he ran his eyes over your outfit. âDonât I look pretty?â You asked, eyes crinkling as you got closer to him. He drew in a sharp breath as you bounced down the driveway, your skirt accidentally coming up so he could see the polka dot print of your lace panties. âFuck, mhm, you look so gorgeous, honey.â He muttered, eyes still trained on the bottom of the frilly skirt you wore. He opened the car door, passenger seat looking warm and cozy.
âBut, I shouldnât have to ask you, you should just tell me.â You whined, a familiar pout covering your face. You stepped up onto the truck step, not even making it inside before he grabbed your hand and spun you around to face him. His large hand gripped your chin firmly, not hard, but firm enough to make you listen. âCâmon, honey. You barely gave me a chance to tell you.â Your eyebrows furrowed at this, shaking your head you began whining again. âBut, You had the entire time I was coming down the driveway to tell me I looked pretty.â Your eyes looked anywhere but him. Yes, you were actually upset. But, thatâs just you getting used to Rafe spoiling you.
âI did have all that time, huh? Shouldâve scooped you up at the front door and carried you allll the way down here, huh?â You nodded in agreement bashfully, face warm as he looked at you lovingly. âLook at me,â Your big eyes met his again. âYou are the prettiest, sweetest girl Iâve ever met. Your hair looks so good, huh, do all this for me?â He asks. âMhm! And I even put this pretty bow, look!â You exclaimed, mood now uplifted after his chain of compliments. You turned around, hand pointing out your white lace bow placed strategically in your half up half down.
âSo pretty.â He exhales, fingers reaching up to graze it. âYou done pouting now? Causeâ you didnât even give me a kiss.â Turning around to face him once more, you began kissing him all over his face. âIâm - kiss - done - kiss - pouting!â You said, ending your sentence off with a kiss. âYou didnât even kiss my lips.â He complained, rolling his eyes in annoyance. Your mouth dropped in shock, âHow come you get to roll your eyes but not me!â You shrieked. He kissed you roughly, tongue slipping between your lips with ease. His large hand wrapped around your neck, holding you there softly. You moved in sync, beginning to let out little whines as his mouth moved against yours desperately. He pulled away, leaving you breathless and your lip combo now on his lips.
âShh, baby.â Was all he whispered, pushing you down into the car seat and buckling your seatbelt. He placed one last kiss on your lips, short and sweet, before closing the door and crossing over to the driver side. He swung open the door, hopping in and buckling himself. âReady, baby?â He questioned. âYes! Yes! Yes!â You bounced excitedly, moving the blanket that was strictly designated for you, over your legs.
As you walked around the mall, hands interlaced. Rafe had to keep a tight hold on you or else youâd run off. But when you peeped Bath and Body Works, you broke away from Rafe who was now talking to a salesman that encountered the both of you. Like a kid in a candy store, you smelled every scent you could, using the tester lotions and everything. 10 minutes after, you were now in line to check out. Two perfumes, two lotions and two body washes. âHi!â You greeted the cashier politely. She muttered something back quietly, âExcuse me?â You questioned sweetly. âI said, looks like you enjoyed shopping.â She repeated, huffing at you.
You were taken aback. Did you come at her wrong? Rough day at work? You looked around wearily, eyebrows furrowing. âOkay, your total is 76.90. How will you be paying today?â Her voice was monotone, expression blank as she stared at you. âCard.â A smooth voice said from behind you, you knew who it was, you could recognize his cologne from a mile away. The cashiers eyes twinkled at the sound of Rafe, who held out his card to her. You leaned back onto him, his arm coming to wrap around your waist. âRunning off, eh?â He muttered. Shaking your head, âCouldnât resist B&BW.â You whispered back.
He chuckled lowly, paying no mind to the cashier as she fronted the prettiest smile she could for him. She handed back his card and looked over at you, watching as his arm around your waist tightened. âBag?â She asks. Girl, what do you think? You thought. Rafe seemed to see straight through you as he answered for you, âYeah.â She began packing the items into the bag, handing it straight to you. âThank you!â You smiled. âYeah, welcome.â She answered, but her eyes stayed trained on Rafe. Meanwhile, his were trained on you. He swiftly took the bag without even so much as glancing at her. He switched the bag to the other hand, which held 3 other bags. âDo you want me to carry one, I know your strong but your making me feel bad.â You whined.
He shook his head stubbornly. âNo. I wanna carry âem. This is my workout for the day, or for right now. If you know what Iâm saying.â He said. You slapped at his chest playfully, face growing warm again at that. âRafe! You canât say that out loud!â You whisper yelled at him. He laughed loudly, finding himself really funny. âItâs funny?â You asked. He struggled to catch his breath, as his face began turning light pink. âUh huh. Whew. That was hilarious, think you brought a tear to my eye.â He sighed loudly as he fake wiped a tear. âYou think I spent too much?â You muttered, looking at the bags he held. Victoriaâs Secret, PacSun, Lululemon and a small pandora bracelet within the PacSun bag.
âYou could never spend too much with me, sweetheart.â
Warnings: 18+, no smut yet, long haired Noah, intense hand kink, finger sucking, shy/flustered reader, tension heavy.
Youâre sitting on the edge of his bed, sleeves pulled over your hands, knees drawn up close to keep yourself still. The room is glowing in that warm, purple-tinted light that always makes you feel like youâre inside a dream. Or a trap.
Noahâs sitting cross-legged across from you, watching with lazy interest as you twist the cap off the bottle of black polish in your hand.
âYouâre sure about this?â You asked softly, looking up at him.
âPaint them.â He said easily, holding his tattooed hand out towards you. âI said you could.â
You take it carefully, gently and like itâs something fragile. It is. His fingers are long, elegant, tattooed and ringless today, but still intimidating in that quiet, beautiful way he always is. You swallow thickly.
It shouldnât be this intimate. Yet it feels like it.
Itâs just nail polish.
Youâve done this a hundred times.
But not on him.
Not on Noah Sebastian, with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, shirt riding just enough to expose the veins on his forearms and the soft dip of his wrist, watching you from under long lashes while you try not to melt into the floor.
His hands are warm.
You place his fingers in your lap carefully, as if you arenât mentally screaming. Theyâre so big compared to yours. Calloused, but controlled. Strong, but resting calmly like they donât know what they do to you.
He shifts a little and leans back on his other hand, smirking slightly.
âYouâre being quiet.â He commented, noticing how quiet youâve been since you sat next to him and started to paint his nails.
âIâm just concentrating.â You replied quickly, almost too quickly.
You keep your focus on the tiny black bottle in your hand, pretending youâre not hyper-aware of how close Noah is sitting. His palm rests warm and still in your lap, fingers relaxed but heavy against your thigh like he knows exactly what heâs doing to you. You try to steady your breathing as you coat the brush, but your hand shakes just enough to give you away.
When you glance up, heâs already looking at you - head slightly tilted, that slow, unreadable smile tugging at his lips.
âTake your time, sweetheart.â He murmured, voice low and soft like velvet. âNot going anywhere.â
âYou nervous?â He asked, tone gentle but laced with something you canât quite read.
âN-No, just concentrating.â You said almost too quickly.
Noah hums softly, unconvinced but amused, and lets it go.
You almost melted then and there.
You felt your stomach flip and let out a nervous chuckle, looking down at his almost completed black nails now.
You feel the brush tremble slightly in your grip as you finish the final stroke, your hand still hovering near his.
He hasnât moved.
He just sits there, legs spread comfortably, hand still resting against your thigh like it belongs there. Like you belong there.
âGood job.â He murmured, voice deep and slightly raspy. âTold you, youâd be fine.â
You glanced up, feeling bashful and smiled shyly. You realised your hand was still holding his, and started to pull your hand away. But Noah catches your wrist with the lightest touch.
âHey, youâre shaking.â Noah said softly, feeling your slight tremble.
Your breath hitches.
He notices. Of course he notices.
âIâm notâŚâ You try, voice barely above a whisper. But the tremble betrays you more - in your hands, your voice, your everything.
Noah tilts his head slightly, studying you. He doesnât press. Doesnât tease. Just holds your gaze with that unreadable expression of his. Which, is somewhere between curious and knowing, like he can see right through your carefully constructed calm.
His touch lingers, thumb grazing the soft inside of your wrist.
âYou donât have to be nervous, itâs just me.â He murmured.
Just him? Like that was supposed to help.
Like your stomach hadnât already twisted into a thousand anxious butterflies the second you sat on his bed. Like he wasnât looking at you with those eyes - dark, patient, hungry for something he hadnât asked for yet.
You nod, forcing a soft laugh as you look down at the almost-finished black polish on his nails.
Just him.
Right.
You continued to paint his nails, trying to not think about the unholy thoughts that you were thinking of.
âThere. All done.â You said, putting the lid on the bottle.
You set the little bottle of black polish back on the nightstand with trembling fingers, finally finished, trying to ignore how warm your face feels.
Itâs quiet for a moment.
You sit back on your heels, suddenly hyper-aware of the weight of the moment. His hand still resting in your lap, the faint scent of nail polish clinging to the air, the low hum of his breathing next to you.
âYou did good.â He said softly, making you look up.
Noahâs watching you, his gaze unreadable under the wash of purple LED light. He flexes his fingers a little, eyes on the glossy black drying over each nail. A slow smile pulls at his lips, not smug, not mocking. Just soft. Impressed.
âThey look sick.â He says, lifting his hand. âYouâve got a steady hand.â
You laugh under your breath, shaky. âI really donât.â
He arches a brow like he knows better, and maybe he does.
Then he reaches behind him to his phone, unlocking it lazily with a few taps. A few seconds later, a mellow lo-fi beat starts playing through his little speaker, filling the space with warm static and soft percussion.
It makes the room feel smaller. Softer. Safer.
Noah shifts back against the pillows, stretching his long legs out as he relaxes fully, the edge of his thigh brushing yours as he settles.
You swallow.
âYou always stare this much?â He murmured.
You blink. Your head snaps up. âWhat?â
He smirks, holding up the hand you just painted. âYouâve been looking at them like theyâre gonna disappear.â
You felt your cheeks burn. âI wasnâtâŚâ
âItâs okay.â He said, his voice lower. âYou can touch.â
Like a magnet, your fingers find his again. You trace one lightly, your touch feather-soft. His fingers curl a little in response.
You feel like youâre floating. And then-
He moves.
Just a little. Just enough to lift his hand, to tilt your chin with two fingers before dragging the pad of his index finger across your lower lip. His touch is gentle, teasing. His eyes never leave yours.
âYou were biting your lip the whole time.â He murmured. âThought maybe you wanted a taste.â
Your breath catches in your throat.
Youâre frozen. Blushing. Dying.
âGo on, sweetheart. Be good for me.â
You donât even think. You part your lips, and take the tip of his finger into your mouth.
Warm. Careful. You swirl your tongue slowly, shyly, tasting skin and polish and something thatâs so completely him, your stomach turns inside out.
Noah exhales, slow, rough and watches you like heâs starving. His other hand slides to your thigh, resting there without pressure, fingers splayed.
âFuck, thatâs pretty.â He said quietly.
You blink up at him, wide-eyed and flustered, lips still wrapped around his finger.
âDidnât think youâd actually do it.â He adds, voice husky now. âYou really are full of surprises, huh?â
You let his finger slip from your mouth, breath shaky, heart slamming against your ribs.
You donât say a word.
You donât have to.
Because heâs still smiling, soft, dark, and devastating - as if to say:
