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TW! for angst, I'm basically ripping all your yumeships (and mine ajhbfwhbskjdb) to shreds and insulting Yuu so teehee
PART 2 IS UP BTW!! Read it here <3
Something I find interesting is the romantic relationships between Yuu and the boys and the fact that they’ll never really work out, though some for more obvious reasons.
Riddle is not an option because, no matter how much you may love one another, his temper is too much for a healthy relationship right now. And even when he gets it under control, do you really think his mother wouldn’t make his life a living hell if he defied her by dating (or, Seven forbid, marrying) you?
Cater will never truly open up. Period. It’s a survival instinct and a self preservation method that hurts him and saves others, and (speaking from experience) he will take a VERY long time to get it to the point that it only sometimes affects your relationship.
Leona, no matter if he loves you or not, is incredibly mentally unhealthy. And his position as a Prince essentially bars you from actually being in a relationship. The second he realizes that? He’s already resigned himself to the fact that you can’t be together.
Ruggie's always gonna be focused on his family first. His main goal will always be survival. A partner doesn't pose anything but new costs. What little money he makes goes directly to his grandma, and he's working all the time. Even if you do end up in a relationship, you really can't expect much time or attention from him.
The Octotrio just isn't interested, period. Azul's goals are very clearly defined, Jade may only date for curiosity's sake, and Floyd is the least likely person to have a healthy, stable relationship. Not to mention the fact that all would ditch you at a moments notice. It's nothing personal, just survival.
Kalim's parents are interested in good-for-busniess marriages only. No offense, but I don't think a magicless, identity-lacking, broke civilian is much of a prospect. Kalim may love you, but it just wouldn't be allowed. Not to mention the fact that he's horrendously incapable of doing things on his own without making a huge mess. Do you want a husband, or a child? Because we all know which one he's more like.
Jamil would never dream of letting you take his name. You mention anything even close to marriage and he's walking out the door. He wants to say it's for your sake, because he'd never want you to suffer what he has, having to serve the Asims... but that's only half of it. If he can't use you as a means of escaping the shackles of servitude, then you're of no use to him, no matter how much affection he holds for you.
Vil is... similar. Stardom is no laughing matter. Putting you in the spotlight alongside him would be a grave mistake, for many reasons. You would have to deal with fans, paparazzi, tabloids, stalkers, unending stress, and the fact that your time (and his, more importantly) would always be taken up by other things. Not to mention the fact that... you really aren't fit for the position of fame. He loves you, but you're nowhere near his standards. He wouldn't dream of marring his image by allowing his partner to act and look the way you do.
Idia, ohhhh Idia.... this man would be such a draining partner to have. The amount of energy needing to continuously reassure him, make sure he's okay in social situations, keep him grounded, keep him healthy, get him to socialize, and overall just take care of him.... yeah, it's not for the faint of heart. This man is one (1) miscommunication away from giving everything up at any point in time. The walking on eggshells needed here just... isn't healthy. And living life on a remote, essentially non-existent island? Yeah, that's not healthy either.
Malleus seems like a good choice- he loves you, you love him, he's aware of and working through his issues, blah blah blah... if only you were a Fae. If only you were some kind of royalty, nobility, at least high class. But you're not. You're just some nameless person from another world, and definitely not good enough to be the royal consort of the soon-to-be king. Honestly, what ever made you think that would work out? Besides, you don't really want to leave your husband all alone with a broken heart in 70-ish years.
𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 —you're married to katsuki bakugou but something isn't right, something won't click. his late wife seems to be the only woman in his eyes despite you being right there, in front of him. you love katsuki, you really do, but going on loving a man stuck in the past is impossible.
cassie.
she was always there—waiting, watching, haunting his every moment like a sorrowful melody woven deep within the marrow of his soul, refusing to loosen it’s grip. she sat, perched upon the fireplace, frozen in time, yet somehow always alive in the corner of his vision. that stare—soft, steady, unbearably warm—had seared itself into his eyes after years of quietly observing.
sometimes you wondered if it had seared itself into his heart long before you had ever arrived.
though her ashes had been scattered across some salty shore years before you had even met him, she was always there—clinging to katsuki like a phantom, a sorrowful memory that refused to wither away no matter how much it hurt. from room to room, dream to waking, from a former life into the fragile, stumbling new one he tried to build with you—he carried her presence, her life upon his shoulders, heavy and bitter like a truth he was too cowardly to face.
he saw her in everything, in the warmth of the dawning sun, the pitter-patter of rain on a dreary evening, in the way your laugh echoed through even the darkest of nights, filling the quiet nooks in every room with you, just as she used to.
her presence was an everlasting reminder of everything he once had, everything he needed, everything you weren't.
you tried to ignore it, but god dammit it was so obvious it was hard not to notice. you caught him every so often glancing at her photo, gaze lingering a second too long, a little too much love behind those eyes.
she was there in the photographs lining the mantel, in the box he kept in the closet, the one he thought you didn’t know about. she was there in the way he hesitated before saying your name—as if he had to remember that it belonged to you. she was there in the way he slept—or rather, in the way he didn’t.
most nights he lay still on his side of the bed, facing the wall, shoulders curled inward. you'd hear his breath hitch, quiet but sharp, and sometimes you swore you heard him whispering something—soft like a prayer, broken like a confession.
her name; never yours.
it was almost unnoticeable—under his breath, even—but you heard it every fucking time. and it never got easier, it never hurt any less, just easier to cope with.
the house felt more like a museum of the past he refused to leave behind rather than a home, your home.
there were pieces of her everywhere; tiny, innocuous things—details no one but a grieving man would hold on to so tightly. her mug collecting dust in the back of the cabinet. her bracelet hanging off the corner of a cracked mirror. her handwriting on a curling post-it note stuck inside a drawer; the ink faded, but her voice somehow still loud, echoing in your ears as if to taunt you.
at first, you told yourself it didn’t matter. removing them felt too cruel, too much like erasing a life that mattered. and she did matter—anyone could see that. you weren’t naive enough to expect him to simply forget someone he loved so deeply, fiercely. you never wanted to replace her, you just wanted him to see you. not the ghost he kept stitching over your skin.
but as the months passed—slow, heavy, suffocating—the house seemed to shrink around her memory. your shadow was smaller than hers. your voice was quieter in the places she once filled.
you had become a guest in your very own marriage.
the first time he said her name in place of yours, you laughed.
it was almost reflexive, a startled exhale you attempted to stifle with a forced smile. he'd been half-asleep, reaching for a glass on the coffee table, muttering something under his breath. it was hardly more than a syllable, and he quickly stopped himself as he snapped back into reality and realised who he was talking to.
you told yourself it was just a slip. you told yourself it didn’t mean anything.
but after the third time, the sixth time, the ninth time—it was impossible to pretend. it had become a pattern, a reflex, a carved neural pathway that still led him back to her. each time only hurt worse than the last.
the tenth time, you were in the kitchen. you heard the faint syllables, soft and warm—warmer than he’d ever said your own name. you gripped the countertop so tightly your knuckles went white, breathing through the sting behind your eyes.
you didn’t correct him. you didn’t say anything at all. you just let the moment pass like every other one. because correcting him meant acknowledging that he had said it. and acknowledging it meant admitting that deep down, you already knew where his heart lay.
tonight will be different.
the evening starts quiet, like everything else in this god forsaken house. dinner sits between you both, untouched, cooling slowly in the candlelight you lit because you hoped, naively, that it might make the evening feel softer. more intimate. more… yours.
he arrives late yet again, shoulders tense, eyes tired, the smell of smoke lingering faintly on his shirt from training. you offer a small smile. one that feels brittle, feigned. he sits, exhales sharply through his nose, and begins eating without a word.
halfway through the meal, you’re telling him about your day—nothing special, just mundane details, something stupid your coworker said, a story you think he might laugh at. he doesn’t.
instead, he answers with a quiet, distracted, “…yeah, okay, cassie—”
her name.
it was spoken so naturally he doesn’t even realize he’s said it. your heart drops to your stomach, a burning awareness churning till it makes you sick. your fork clinks against the plate. the room freezes. bakugou stops mid-chew. you both know what just happened; neither wants to break the sickening stillness settling over your heads. he swallows hard, jaw clenching. he looks anywhere but at you—at the table, the wall, the fucking salt shaker—before forcing out, “i—shit. i meant—”
the damage had already been done.
“i meant you,” he says again, softer, but the softness is an apology, not affection. you wish he had yelled. you wish he had denied it. you wish he had pretended. fucking anything would hurt less than the truth hanging in the stale air. you stare at him, and the ache in your chest blooms into something heavier, something with teeth.
“katsuki…” your voice cracks, anger and pain intermingling into a sickening tangle of splintered truths in your words. “do you...still love her?”
his breath catches and slowly—so unbearably slowly—you watch his eyes flick toward the fireplace. toward her.
that single moment tells you everything. he doesn’t even notice he’s done it. you close your eyes. nausea creeps into your throat.
“you don’t have to answer,” you whisper. “i already know.” the words are cold but your voice shakes, tears brimming and breath catching.
bakugou’s head snaps toward you. “no,” he rasps. “don’t—don’t do that. don’t put words in my mouth.”
“i’m not.” you force a smile that feels like it might shatter your teeth. “your eyes said everything.”
he looks stricken. not angry—never angry with you. just guilty. so goddamn guilty. he runs a shaky hand through his hair. "i’m tryin’, damn it. you think this is easy? you think any of this is—”
“i think you’re still in love with her,” you whisper. “you’re just trying to love me because you think it’s what you’re supposed to do.”
he flinches. you’ve seen him take explosions point-blank with less reaction. “don’t say that,” he mutters. “don’t fuckin’ say that.”
“it’s true.”
“it’s not.” his voice breaks on the last word, hardly audible. “it’s not.”
“katsuki…” you inhale slowly, painfully. “you never came back.”
his eyes widen. you continue before he can speak. “you stayed where she died. you stayed in the life you had with her. you stayed in that grief so long it became home. and now i’m stuck here—loving a man whose heart still belongs to a fucking ghost.” you feel a lump surfacing in your throat as you force out those last words; it all felt too…real.
a cold silence falls upon the room—thick, suffocating, heavy with everything he can't say aloud. bakugou stands abruptly, pushing his chair back so hard the legs scrape against the floor. his fists shake at his sides. he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. he looks like a man drowning.
“katsuki,” you whisper again, softer. “look at me.” he does. and the look in his eyes nearly breaks you—it’s raw, hollow, terrified, and unbearably lost.
“i don’t want to lose you,” he says. it’s not confident. it’s not fierce. it’s barely a whisper. “i’m so goddamn scared to lose you.” you swallow, throat tight.
“then start choosing me.”
he lowers his gaze, shoulders trembling. “i don’t know how.”
your chest caves in around your heart. you step toward him slowly—one breath, then another. you lift your hand to touch his cheek, and for a moment he leans into it like a man starved for warmth. but then his eyes flick—again, reflexively—toward the photograph on the mantle. you feel him retreat. just slightly, just enough. and that tiny, unconscious retreat cuts deeper than any words he’s ever spoken.
your hand falls away; he doesn’t stop you. you step back. one step. another.
“katsuki,” you whisper, voice shaking, “i love you.” his breath shudders. “but i can’t go on loving someone who keeps looking past me.”
that's what finally breaks him.
you don't have to hear his quiet, devastated inhale to know it. you don't have to watch his shoulders curl in like he’s trying to protect a wound so deep he never let heal. you don’t need to see his tears; he won’t let you, anyway. he turns his face away, wiping them quickly with the back of his hand, as if grief is something ugly he has to hide. he whispers your name—your real name, this time—like an apology, like a plea, like he’s trying to anchor himself to the present.
but the moment is already too heavy, slipping through your fingers like sand. you turn away before he can speak again. you walk to the bedroom. he doesn’t follow, doesn’t call after you. you close the door quietly behind you. and the silence that follows hurts more than hearing her name ever did.
the bedroom is dark when you slip inside, the only light a thin sliver from the hallway. you don’t bother turning on the lamp. you just stand there for a moment, hands trembling, chest tight, feeling like the house itself is pressing down on you. your throat burns. you don’t want to cry. not again; not over the same wound that won't stop reopening no matter how gently you try to treat it, no matter how long you give it to heal.
you sit on the edge of the bed slowly, mechanically, like your body is moving without permission. your fingers clutch the sheets. silence settles—thick, cold, uncertain. you hear him still standing at the table. the faint scrape of his chair. the uneven inhale he tries and fails to control. then—a soft, choked noise. one you’ve never heard from him; a sound too broken to be anything but pain. your heart lurches painfully.
before you can process it, you hear a muffled, desperate exhale—something between a gasp and a sob—and then the unmistakable sound of him sinking to the floor. your breath stutters. “katsuki…?” you whisper into the dark.
no response. only ragged breathing. you push yourself up, feet silent against the hardwood, and open the bedroom door. he’s on the floor. katsuki bakugou—pro hero, explosive powerhouse, stubborn to the point of self-destruction—is kneeling on the ground, hands braced on the floor, shoulders shaking. he’s crying. openly, violently, like something inside him finally cracked and the pieces are cutting their way out.
“katsuki—” you drop to your knees in front of him. his head sinks low, hair falling over his eyes.
“don’t—” he chokes out, voice raw, “don’t look at me—”
but you reach for him anyway. he flinches at first, instinctive, ashamed—but when your hands cup his cheeks, he breaks—truly breaks. his forehead presses to your shoulder, and a sob rips out of him so harsh it shakes your entire body. his fingers clutch your shirt like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.
“i’m sorry,” he gasps between sobs, every word shattering. “i’m so fuckin’ sorry. i didn’t—i didn’t m-mean to hurt you—i never—i don’t know how to—shit—”
you wrap your arms around him tightly. he collapses into you, shaking and gasping like he’s been drowning for years and finally surfaced. you stroke the back of his head gently, grounding him, anchoring him.
“katsuki, look at me.”
he shakes his head against your shoulder.
“katsuki,” you repeat, firmer this time, “look at me.” he pulls back slowly, reluctantly, eyes red and swollen, tears streaking down cheeks he never lets anyone see wet.
it knocks the breath out of you. he looks as though he’s grieving two things at once—the woman he lost and the woman he’s afraid of losing—his expression caught between yesterday’s ache and tomorrow’s dread. the sadness in him moves like a slow tide, pulling back from one shoreline only to crash into another, leaving him stranded in the undertow.
you bring your hand to his face, thumb brushing a tear from his cheek. “katsuki,” you whisper, “you don’t have to hide from me.” his breath trembles, uneven.
“i don’t know how to do this,” he admits, voice breaking. “i feel like—like if i let her go, then it means she didn’t matter. and she did. god, she fuckin’ did. she was… she was everything. and losing her—” he swallows, throat tight. “losing her destroyed me.”
your chest aches at the honesty. at the vulnerability he has never shown anyone—not like this. “i know,” you whisper, leaning your forehead to his. “i know she mattered. and i’m not asking you to pretend she didn’t.” his eyes squeeze shut, another tear sliding down.
“i’m scared,” he admits softly. “i’m scared that loving you means i’m betraying her memory. and i hate myself because i want to love you. i want to so fuckin’ bad.”
your breath catches.
he continues, voice trembling: “i look at you and i feel… hope. real hope. and it scares the shit out of me. because if i let myself love you, it feels like i’m leaving her behind.”
you place your hand over his heart. “you’re not leaving her,” you whisper. “you’re letting yourself live.” he opens his eyes, gaze wet and lost.
“i don’t know how.”
“that’s okay,” you say gently. “you don’t have to know how.” you take his shaking hands in yours. “i’ll help you.” bakugou’s breath breaks again.
“you’ll… help me?”
“yes.” you squeeze his hands, firm, steady, sure. “i’m not here to replace her. i’m here to walk with you through the grief so you don’t have to walk alone anymore.” he stares at you, something soft and agonized unfolding in his chest.
“when you’re ready,” you continue, “i’ll help you let go of the guilt. i’ll help you understand that loving me doesn’t erase the love you had for her. that you have room for both.” his mouth trembles. “and maybe someday,” you whisper, brushing a tear from his jaw, “you’ll be able to look at me and see me. just me. and love me fully.”
his face crumples. a sob punches out of him as he throws his arms around you, burying himself in your warmth like it’s the only thing keeping him from collapsing again. his voice cracks against your neck.
“i want that,” he whispers, broken, desperate. “i want to love you right. i want to choose you. just… don’t give up on me. please. don’t fuckin’ give up on me.”
you hold him tighter. “i’m not giving up on you,” you murmur into his hair. “but you have to let me in. you have to let me help you heal.”
his grip tightens. “i will,” he breathes. “i—i swear i will.”
you guide his face back to yours, kissing his forehead gently, delicately, as if reassuring him that he still belongs here, still has something worth rebuilding. he exhales shakily, leaning into your touch. you don’t fix everything tonight, you don’t erase the past, you don’t magically mend scars years deep. but in the dark, on the floor, wrapped in each other’s arms, something shifts—a small, fragile step forward, a willingness, a promise.
and for the first time since the day you married him—bakugou looks at you. he actually looks at you. and you see your name—your real name—glimmering in his eyes.
hiii i saw you write for the pitt i was wondering if you could do dennis whittaker angst? maybe about amy? and ending in fluff up to you tho queen love you
Second Chance
A story about almost getting used to being second-and the night he chooses you first.
pairings: dennis whittaker x girlfriend!reader
synopsis: It starts with something small. A late arrival. A missed moment. Another quiet "I'm sorry" that doesn't change anything.
Dennis Whitaker never means to let you down. He just keeps expecting you to understand-and you always do.
Until you don't.
Because being patient is easy at first.
It's easy to tell yourself it isn't a big deal, that there's always a reason, that you'll get your time eventually.
But eventually never comes.
And somewhere between waiting and pretending it doesn't hurt, you realize you're not asking for too much-just something he's never had to think about giving.
Consistency.
Presence.
A choice.
So when you finally ask him to stay—really ask, for the first time—
it isn't dramatic.
It isn't loud.
But it changes everything.
Because Dennis has always shown up.
He's just never had to prove he could stay.
CONTENT WARNING: emotional distress, repeated disappointment, feelings of neglect/being second priority, conflict in relationship, arguments, unresolved tension, themes of abandonment (non-physical), imbalance in emotional availability, anxiety from waiting/uncertainty, difficult conversations, boundary-setting, mentions of other "responsibilities" (Amy), mild angst with resolution, fluff ending, reassurance, emotional intimacy
word count: 2.1k
The bell above the diner door rings, sharp and familiar, and your head lifts before you can stop it. It’s instinct at this point, something your body does before your brain has time to catch up, like hope refuses to learn no matter how many times it’s been proven wrong.
It’s not him.
You still hold the look for a second too long, watching the stranger pause to shake rain from their jacket before stepping further inside. Only then do you look away, lowering your gaze back to the table like it doesn’t matter, like you weren’t just waiting for that exact moment.
Your coffee has gone cold, having been left to sit a while ago. You just haven’t done anything about it, because replacing it for the fourth time doesn’t really fix the actual problem sitting in your chest.
“Still waiting?” the waitress asks as she passes, slowing just enough to glance at you properly. There’s nothing judgmental in her tone, but there’s a kind of familiarity there that makes your stomach twist anyway.
You give her a small smile, the kind that’s more polite than genuine. “Yeah. He texted—said he was on his way, so he should be here soon.”
She hums softly, topping off your cup without asking, like she’s heard that exact line before. “You want me to hold off on the menu, or do you wanna order something while you wait?”
“No, it’s okay,” you reply, shaking your head. “We’ll order together.”
The we sits heavier than it should, settling somewhere uncomfortable under your ribs.
She nods and moves on, leaving you alone with the quiet hum of the diner and the sound of your own thoughts getting louder the longer you sit there. You wrap your hands around the mug again, even though the heat is barely there it at least it gives you something to focus on.
Your phone is face-up on the table beside it, screen dark except for the message that’s been sitting there for the last half hour.
On my way.
Sent thirty-one minutes ago.
You don’t open it again this time. You’ve already read it enough that the words feel burned into your brain, and there’s nothing underneath it waiting to make it better. No update, no follow-up, no “running late” that at least acknowledges the time passing.
The bell rings again, and your head lifts automatically. You don’t even think about it anymore, just react, eyes flicking toward the door with that same small, stubborn hope.
It’s not him.
You look away quicker this time, jaw tightening slightly as you force yourself to focus on anything else. The flickering light in the corner, the low murmur of conversation from the table behind you, the way your reflection looks faintly distorted in the napkin holder.
It doesn’t help.
Because this isn’t really about tonight, and you know that. If it were just tonight, you could laugh it off or roll your eyes and tease him when he finally showed up frantic and apologizing.
But it’s not just tonight.
It’s the pattern that’s been building slowly, quietly, until you couldn’t ignore it anymore. The way plans shift or disappear the second his phone buzzes, the way “I’m sorry” comes quicker every time but doesn’t actually change anything, the way you’ve started expecting to be the one who waits.
The bell rings again.
“Hey—shit, I’m sorry.”
You look up, and this time it is him.
Dennis stands there for a second like he’s bracing himself, eyes scanning your face quickly, like he’s trying to read your reaction before he even sits down. Then he slides into the booth across from you, movements a little rushed, like he hasn’t quite caught his breath yet.
“I know I’m late,” he says immediately, hands coming up in a half-gesture like he can explain it fast enough to make it better. “Traffic was backed up and—”
He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply as his shoulders drop. “It doesn’t matter. I should’ve texted. I’m sorry.”
You don’t respond right away. Instead, you just look at him, taking in the details you always notice—the slightly disheveled hair, the tension still sitting in his shoulders, the way his eyes keep flicking to your face like he’s trying to gauge how bad this is.
And something in your expression must give you away, because his posture shifts almost immediately, the urgency fading into something more careful.
“…Hey,” he says, quieter now. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you answer automatically, even though it doesn’t sound convincing even to you.
He exhales through his nose, leaning forward slightly. “Don’t do that. You always say that when something’s wrong, and it’s never true.”
You let out a small breath, eyes dropping to the table as your fingers find the edge of a napkin. You start folding it, more to give your hands something to do than anything else.
“You don’t have to keep saying sorry,” you say after a moment, your voice steady but not soft. “Not if nothing’s actually going to change.”
The words land between you, heavier than you meant them to, but you don’t take them back.
Dennis leans back slightly, like he didn’t expect that response. “I know,” he says, slower this time. “I just—tonight wasn’t—”
“Amy?” you ask, finally looking up at him.
He hesitates for just a second before nodding. “…Yeah.”
Of course.
You nod once in return, because there’s nothing else to do with that answer. “Okay.”
“Something came up,” he adds quickly, like he needs you to understand the context. “She needed—”
“I get it,” you interrupt gently, because you do. That’s what makes this so much harder to untangle. “I do, Dennis. I get it.”
“Then why does it feel like you don’t?” he asks, frustration slipping into his voice. “I’m not doing this on purpose.”
“I didn’t say you were,” you reply, your tone still even but firmer now. “But intent doesn’t really change how it feels on my end.”
That stops him for a second, and you can see it sink in even if he doesn’t respond right away.
You take a breath, slower this time, trying to keep your thoughts from tangling together. “It just… feels like I’m competing with her,” you admit, the words coming out quieter but more honest than anything else you’ve said so far.
He flinches at that, his expression tightening immediately. “I don’t want you to feel like that.”
“I know you don’t,” you say, holding his gaze. “But I still do sometimes, and I don’t really know what to do with that.”
He leans forward, elbows on the table, hands clasping together like he’s trying to anchor himself. “It’s complicated,” he says. “It’s not just her calling and me dropping everything for no reason. It’s responsibility—things I can’t just ignore.”
“I’m not asking you to ignore it,” you reply, shaking your head slightly.
“Then what are you asking?” he presses, not harsh but strained, like he genuinely doesn’t know how to fix this.
You hesitate, because this is the part you’ve been avoiding saying out loud. “I’m asking to not feel like I come second every time something happens,” you say finally. “I’m asking to not sit here wondering if you’re actually going to show up when you say you will.”
That lands harder than anything else, and you can see it in the way his shoulders drop slightly, the tension shifting into something heavier.
“I didn’t realize it was like that,” he admits.
“That’s kind of the problem,” you say, not unkindly, just honest.
His phone buzzes.
The sound cuts through everything, sharp and familiar, and you feel your stomach twist before you even think about it. You both know who it is without checking.
He pulls it out anyway, glancing at the screen, and you watch the shift happen again—the way his attention starts to split, the way his posture tightens like he’s already halfway out the door.
“Is it her?” you ask quietly.
“…Yeah.”
You nod, because of course it is. “Go,” you say, the word slipping out automatically. “It’s fine.”
He doesn’t move.
You frown slightly, confused. “Dennis—”
“Or I don’t,” he says, cutting in.
You blink at him. “What?”
“I don’t go,” he repeats, more firmly this time, even as the phone buzzes again in his hand. He looks at the screen, jaw tightening, then back at you.
“You always go,” you point out, because that’s the pattern, the one you’ve both been following without really questioning it.
“Yeah,” he admits, exhaling slowly. “I do.”
Another buzz.
He stares at the phone for a second longer, like he’s weighing something, then presses the button and silences it. The screen goes dark in his hand, and the diner noise fills the space where the buzzing was.
“I can call her later,” he says, more measured now. “Or text. Or figure it out without leaving right now.”
“You don’t have to do that,” you say, because it feels wrong to ask him to stay when you know what he’s used to doing.
“I know I don’t,” he replies.
He flips the phone face down on the table, like he’s removing the option entirely.
“I’m choosing to.”
You don’t have an immediate response to that. It throws you off in a way you weren’t expecting, because this isn’t how this usually goes.
“…Why?” you ask, your voice quieter now.
He looks at you, and this time there’s no hesitation. “Because you’re sitting here asking me not to leave without actually saying it,” he says. “And I’m done acting like i don’t see it.”
Your throat tightens at that, because he’s not wrong.
You look down at your hands, fingers twisting together, and for a second you consider letting it go again, brushing it off the way you usually do.
But you don’t.
“…Can you just stay?” you ask finally, the words coming out softer but steadier. “Just this once.”
He nods immediately. “Yeah. I can do that.”
And he does.
He stays, and it’s not halfway or distracted or temporary. He doesn’t reach for his phone again, doesn’t check it under the table or glance at it every few minutes. He just… stays, and it feels unfamiliar in a way that almost makes you uneasy at first.
The conversation doesn’t fix itself right away. There are pauses, moments where neither of you quite knows what to say, but it isn’t as heavy as before. It’s quieter, more grounded.
“You should’ve told me sooner,” he says after a while, his tone more thoughtful now. “About how it’s been feeling.”
You shrug slightly. “I didn’t want to make it a whole thing.”
“It already was a whole thing,” he replies. “You were just dealing with it by yourself.”
You don’t argue with that, because there’s nothing to argue.
“I’m not trying to make you feel like you’re doing something wrong every time your phone goes off,” you say instead.
“I know,” he says. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
He exhales slowly. “It’s me getting used to reacting to her first and not realizing what that looks like from your side,” he admits. “And not realizing how often I’ve been leaving you to deal with that on your own.”
That lands differently than the explanations from before. It feels less like justification and more like awareness.
You nod slowly, letting that settle.
“Okay.”
The next time you come to the diner, you’re early, and there’s a quiet nervousness sitting in your chest that you don’t quite know what to do with.
You push the door open, the bell ringing overhead, and glance toward your usual booth out of habit.
“Hey.”
You look up, and Dennis is already there, sitting in your booth with two mugs of coffee in front of him. He looks a little unsure, like he’s been there long enough to start second-guessing himself.
“I didn’t know what you wanted,” he says, gesturing to the mugs. “So I just got both.”
You step closer, glancing at the clock on the wall before looking back at him. “How long have you been here?”
He shrugs, trying to play it off. “Not long.”
He’s been there at least fifteen minutes.
Waiting.
For you.
You slide into the booth, wrapping your hands around the mug he nudges toward you, and this time the warmth feels different. It doesn’t feel like something to distract yourself with. It just feels… steady.
“You’re early,” you say, softer now.
He huffs out a quiet breath. “Yeah. I figured I should start showing up like I say I will.”
You look at him for a moment, really look at him, and it’s not a grand gesture or some dramatic fix.
It’s just effort.
Consistent. Intentional.
Real.
“Okay,” you say, and this time when you settle into the booth, it doesn’t feel like waiting.
It just feels like being there.
With him.
a/n: it ended up being more of a slow, quiet kind of angst with amy in the background but still very much there 😭 and i gave it a soft ending because i couldn’t NOT
i really hope you enjoyed it and it was up to your expectations <3
reblogs and comments are extremely appreciated, don’t be afraid to share your thoughts because I love hearing them!! sorry for any typos <3
borders and dividers by these lovely people: @dollywons @angeliicide @mieluno
Your friend leans back like you’ve slapped her instead of just snapped. “I’m just saying—”
“No,” you cut in, grabbing your bag before she can finish, before anyone else can pile on with that same careful tone, that same look that feels worse than yelling ever could. “You’re not just saying. You’re judging.”
“Because we’ve seen him,” someone mutters.
You laugh, but it’s thin. Defensive. “You’ve seen moments. That’s not the same thing.”
A pause stretches too long.
Then, softer—like she’s trying one last time to reach you—
“He grabbed you. Last week.”
Your stomach twists, but you don’t let it show.
“He didn’t grab me,” you say quickly. “He was trying to get my attention.”
“It left a mark.”
“He didn’t mean to.”
Silence.
You feel it shift—the moment they stop arguing with you and start looking at you like they’ve already lost you.
You hate that look.
So you leave before it settles in too deep.
—
Shane’s truck is outside your place when you get home.
Of course it is.
Like he knew.
Like he always knows.
You barely make it halfway up the walkway before he pushes off the driver’s side, arms crossed, eyes locked on you.
“What took you so long?”
No hello.
No smile.
Just that.
“I was with my friends,” you say, trying to keep your tone light as you walk closer. “We got food.”
His jaw ticks. “Those friends.”
You sigh, already slipping into it. “Shane—”
“They talkin’ about me again?”
“It’s not like that.”
“It’s always like that.”
He steps closer, too close, filling your space until there’s nowhere else to stand but right where he wants you.
“They don’t know me,” he says, quieter now. Controlled. “They don’t know what we got.”
“I know,” you murmur.
And you mean it.
Because when it’s just you and him, it’s different.
It has to be.
—
Later, you’re curled up on his couch while he paces like something’s eating at him from the inside.
“They think I’m some kinda asshole,” he scoffs. “Like I’m dangerous.”
You don’t answer.
He turns suddenly. “You think that?”
“No.”
Too fast.
You soften it. “No. Of course not.”
His shoulders loosen, just enough.
He comes back over, crouching in front of you, hands sliding up your arms—warm, grounding, a little too tight.
“Then why you let ‘em talk like that?”
“I don’t let them—”
“You sit there and listen.”
“I told them to stop.”
“Yeah?” His grip tightens for a second. “Didn’t sound like it.”
Your breath catches.
“I did,” you insist, quieter now. “I told them they don’t know you like I do.”
That’s all it takes.
The tension melts from his face, replaced with something softer. Pleased.
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
“That’s my girl.”
Your chest warms.
You hate that it does.
—
He kisses you like he always does after something like this.
Like a reward.
Like everything before it never happened.
Your hands grip his shirt automatically, pulling him closer, letting yourself sink into it—because this part is easy. This part doesn’t ask questions.
He pulls back just enough, forehead resting against yours.
“You know I’d never hurt you, right?”
It’s not a question.
You nod anyway.
“I know.”
You have to.
—
It starts small.
Always small.
The way he snaps at a waiter—
“He’s just stressed.”
The way he talks over you—
“He’s just passionate.”
The way his hand lingers too tight around your wrist—
“He didn’t mean it.”
You get good at it.
At smoothing things over.
At taking something sharp and sanding it down until it doesn’t cut you anymore.
—
“You’re not answering my calls.”
You pull your phone away from your ear slightly. “I was in the shower, Shane.”
“For two hours?”
“It wasn’t two—”
“You think I’m stupid?”
“No. I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t gotta say it.”
Your stomach drops.
“I just didn’t hear it,” you say carefully. “That’s all.”
A pause.
Then—
“Yeah. Alright.”
Just like that.
Like nothing happened.
“Come over,” he adds, voice lighter. “Miss you.”
And just like that—
You go.
—
“They’re gonna stop talking to you.”
You look up. Your friend is standing in your doorway like she’s already halfway gone.
“They already have,” you say quietly.
Her face tightens. “You let that happen.”
“I didn’t let anything happen.”
“You chose him.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It is fair.” Her voice shakes. “We tried. We told you—”
“I know what you told me!” you snap, standing up. “I heard all the bad news, okay? I heard all the bad reviews.”
“Then why are you still with him?”
Because.
Because when he looks at you, it feels like something.
Because when he touches you, it feels like everything.
Because being alone feels worse than being unsure.
Because if you’re wrong about him—
You’re wrong about everything.
“I just don’t want to lose him,” you say instead.
“You’re losing yourself.”
That lands.
Hard.
For a second, everything cracks.
You feel it.
The doubt.
The what if.
But then—
“I know what I’m doing,” you say.
It doesn’t sound convincing.
She hears it too.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she whispers.
And that’s the last real conversation you have with her.
—
The bruise is faint.
Barely there.
You wouldn’t notice it if you weren’t looking.
But you are.
Standing in front of your mirror, turning your wrist just enough for the light to catch it—that soft, purpling shadow under your skin.
You press your thumb against it.
It doesn’t hurt.
Not really.
You open your jewelry box instead.
Pick out a bracelet.
Then another.
Then another.
Until the mark disappears under something prettier.
Something easier.
Your phone buzzes.
Shane: you coming over or what
You don’t hesitate.
—
He’s in a good mood tonight.
You can tell immediately.
“There she is,” he grins, pulling you into him, kissing you hard enough to make your head spin. “Missed you.”
“I was gone for like two hours,” you laugh.
“Too long.”
His hand slides down your arm, brushing your bracelets.
He pauses.
“New?”
Your heart stutters.
“Yeah. You like them?”
He hums, distracted already, pulling you closer again. “They’re nice.”
That’s it.
That’s all.
And somehow—
It feels like relief.
—
“Who was that?”
You freeze, phone still in your hand.
“What?”
“Your phone,” Shane says from across the room, eyes narrowed slightly. “Who texted you?”
“Oh. Just—no one. Spam.”
“Lemme see.”
Your stomach drops. “It’s nothing.”
“I said lemme see.”
He’s already walking toward you.
You laugh, trying to make it light. “Shane, it’s literally—”
His hand closes around your wrist.
Too tight.
The air shifts.
“Why you actin’ weird?” he asks, voice low.
“I’m not.”
“Then give me the phone.”
You hesitate.
Just for a second.
And that’s all it takes.
His grip tightens.
“Shane—”
“Don’t make this a thing.”
“I’m not—”
“Then stop.”
Silence.
Your pulse pounds in your ears.
Then—
You hand it over.
He scrolls.
Finds nothing.
Of course he doesn’t.
Because there is nothing.
But the tension doesn’t disappear.
Not completely.
He exhales, tossing your phone back onto the bed.
“See? That wasn’t so hard.”
You force a smile. “Told you.”
He looks at you for a second longer.
Then—
It’s gone.
Like it never happened.
“C’mere,” he mutters, pulling you into him.
Like a reset.
Like always.
—
Later, you’re tangled together, his arm heavy across your waist.
You should feel safe.
You tell yourself you do.
Your mind won’t quiet.
It keeps replaying things.
Your friend’s voice.
You’re losing yourself.
The way his grip felt.
The way you didn’t argue.
The way you didn’t fight back.
You shift slightly.
He stirs.
“Stop thinkin’ so much,” he murmurs, half-asleep, pulling you closer. “Just be here.”
Just be here.
It sounds so simple.
So easy.
Maybe it is.
You close your eyes.
If you don’t think about it—
If you don’t look too closely—
If you just stay right here—
Everything feels fine.
—
A week later, you see her again.
Not on purpose.
She’s across the street when you’re walking out of a store, and for a second, neither of you move.
Then she crosses.
Slow. Careful. Like approaching something fragile.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
You both hesitate.
“I heard about you and… him,” she says.
You nod. “Yeah.”
A beat.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
She studies you.
Really studies you.
Like she’s trying to see something you’re hiding.
“Can I ask you something?”
You shrug. “Sure.”
“Do you actually believe the things you say about him?”
The question hits harder than anything she’s said before.
You open your mouth.
Close it.
Try again.
“Yeah,” you say.
She doesn’t react right away.
That’s worse.
“Okay,” she says finally.
Just that.
No argument.
No pushing.
And somehow that feels like the loudest response yet.
She steps back.
“I hope that’s true.”
Then she walks away.
And you don’t stop her.
—
That night, Shane’s laughing about something—some story, something dumb—and you’re watching him.
Really watching him.
The way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
The way his tone shifts when he talks about other people.
The way his hand rests on your thigh—possessive, not gentle.
You notice everything.
For once.
All of it.
Clear.
Sharp.
Unfiltered.
Red flags.
Every single one of them.
And for a moment—
Just a moment—
You think:
I could leave.
The thought is terrifying.
Worse—
It’s possible.
You feel it sitting there, heavy in your chest.
Real.
Within reach.
Shane looks at you.
“What?”
You shake your head quickly. “Nothing.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
He studies you for a second.
Then smiles.
And that’s it.
That’s all it takes.
The moment slips.
The clarity fades.
Because his hand is warm.
Because he’s looking at you like you matter.
Because being here feels easier than walking away.
You lean into him.
Let your head rest against his shoulder.
Close your eyes.
If you close one eye—
Just one—
It’s almost like his red flags are blue.
And you can live with almost.
You already are.
—
Because you heard all the bad news.
You heard all the bad reviews.
You felt the bad gut feelings, too.
And you stayed anyway.
Not because you didn’t know.
Not because they didn’t warn you.
But because you chose him.
Over them.
Over yourself.
Over the truth.
And the worst part?
You’d choose him again.
You already know you would.
That’s the part you don’t say out loud.
That’s the part that would make it real.
So instead, you smile when he pulls you closer.
You nod when he tells you what you want to hear.
You ignore the way your chest tightens when he doesn’t.
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Rdr2 oneshot idea, basically reader has the molly dutch relationship but gets fed up with dutch investing his time into other, younger women,so she gets with Arthur and dutch gets mad😚
Temporary Warmth
Pairings: Arthur Morgan x Reader, Dutch Van Der Linde x Reader
A/N: First Rdr2 oneshot, hope you like it and thank you so much for the request!!!🩷🩷
"Dutch..." you release a breathy moan as he thrusts harshly into your entrance. Your eyes shut tightly in an attempt to control yourself as he pushes you over your limit.
"Look at yourself," Dutch laughs between deep grunts, "not very ladylike of you, Miss L/N." A smirk takes over his face as he watches you fall apart because of him.
You're certain that whoever's sleeping next door probably hates the two of you considering how much the headboard continuously bangs against the wall.
Since relocating to Shady Belle, you were secretly excited to finally be able to sleep in a bed. Despite the furniture being old and worn out, so was everything else in camp which means you're already used to it.
Sharing a space with Dutch means that everything needs to be tidy and kept organised. After what happened Rhodes and the kidnapping of Jack, the gang's atmosphere has become distant and cold.
So was Dutch at the beginning. You couldn't really blame him for not wanting to speak a lot considering the stress he's having to undergo, but his words have been what you can only describe as harsh and bitter towards you.
Constantly having to convince yourself that he doesn't really mean it takes a lot of energy. On one occasion, a few days ago, you overheard him complaining about you to Arthur. Saying that you've been irritating him during this time after wanting him to talk about how he's feeling.
Because of that, you stayed quiet. Mostly out of annoyance due to the fact that he would spread this information to someone like Arthur rather than just telling you.
You've stayed like that for the past few days. Hardly speaking to Dutch. And when you did, giving the most short and dry answers. Until today, he finally broke. He began asking you why you haven't spoken to him. Why you haven't been your usual self.
That's when you told him exactly what the reason is. You told him about his little conversation with Arthur being heard. You told him about how much it hurt that he spoke so little of you.
As he listened, you remained very calm and professional. Not giving in to the lustful stare he gave to your body, practically undressing you with his eyes.
A few moments after you finished providing your piece, Dutch was quiet. He had a hungry smirk which made it clear that he didn't process a word you said. At this point, you're used to his routine. Whenever he hurt you, he would never apologise. It wasn't in his ego to do so. Instead, he'd take the initiative to make you feel good through sex.
And that is what's happening right now.
It's embarrassing how much you actually missed him. The way he makes you feel when you're both happy is unmatched. As much as you tried to hide it during the time you decided to ignore him, you were internally screaming for his attention.
You always finish before Dutch. For some odd reason, his body forces him to wait until you've released before he can do the same.
His cock twitches in that moment. His pace becomes irregular and eventually slow as the orgasm shoots through your entrance. Legs squirming slightly as his release briefly catches you off guard.
Because suddenly, you realise you've failed to hold back from his clearly manipulative advances. But in the end, a side of you is happy that he's returned to his usual self. Even if that is for a short while until his temper flares again.
"You always take me so good," Dutch praises, collapsing beside you on the mattress as a relieved smile takes over your face. You begin to wonder if you were both just sexually frustrated and needed a release.
Your hand supports your head as you look into Dutch's eyes. "You know..." he continues, tracing a finger over the side of your hip, "you're the only one who understands me."
"Of course," your brows knit softly together at his touching words, "I love you, Dutch."
"You're a good girl," he smiles at your confession. Having you wrapped so pathetically around his finger, your loyalty seems almost amusing to him. "Go to sleep," he instructs as if you aren't your own person. As if he's in charge of every tiny detail in your life.
Regardless of the fact, your eyes close. You smile at what seems to be kind treatment from Dutch rather than controlling. Due to the hot temperature, even at this time of night, you don't bother to cover yourself with the blankets and instead, decide to go straight to sleep.
Meanwhile, Dutch stays awake to read his book. You can sense the candlelight through closed eyes, but you don't complain. Not wanting to strain your lover with being a burden, you decide to stay quiet and deal with it. After finally getting him back, you don't want to lose him again.
-
In the morning, your sleep schedule allows you to naturally wake up. The torn, sheer curtains bring sunlight into the room as it shines directly onto Dutch's bare back. Your attention is brought to him as his hands cover his face.
"Is everything okay?" Your voice is evidently sleepy. He doesn't respond straight away as his position faces away from you.
He releases a pent up sigh, "with Pinkertons breathing down our necks, I don't know if I can look out for everyone."
"What do you mean?" You straighten up to rest against the headboard. Bringing the thin sheet of blanket higher to cover your exposed chest.
"They're all relying on me..." he brings a cigar to his lips as a puff of smoke escapes. Staying quiet for the next few seconds, he stares straight ahead at the murky wall. Your eyes drift to your surroundings, wondering whether you should say something to lighten the mood or stay silent.
"Dutch..." you crawl towards him until your chest comes into contact with his back. Wrapping your arms around his neck, your fingers brush soothingly against his cheek, urging him to look at you, "we'll get through this."
He releases an empty laugh beneath his breath as if he doesn't believe you. That your optimism is amusing and your reassurance means nothing.
In the end, he gets up from the bed. Your body collapses onto the sheets as he isn't supporting you anymore. Moving around the room, he lifts the clothes which were swiftly thrown onto the floor from the night prior to get dressed into.
Meanwhile, your face and arms hang over the bed. Refusing to get up just yet, you remain in the position Dutch had forced you into.
He doesn't say another word. Just leaves. Not even a single glance at the unusual way you're lying on the bed which looks as if you're dead. You're left to wonder why he's acting this way. Last night, he wanted to know why you were hardly saying anything to him. In the end, he managed to take your clothes off and have his way. Distracting you from the conversation completely. Your problems never get solved.
You begin to blame yourself for even falling into his trap. All you want is for him to honestly communicate with you. Truly tell you how he's feeling. You understand the difficult situation he's in, and the fact he's clearly bottling every emotion inside, but you can't take the dismissive attitude he's portraying anymore.
Eventually, you push yourself off the bed to begin getting dressed for the day. You're slow at completing the task as your mind constantly drifts to how easily you gave in to Dutch.
Once finished adjusting your blouse and skirt, you leave the room to find Karen has just left hers which she shares with the other women. "Hi," you greet her with a polite smile.
"How you doin', Y/N?" She waits a second for you to catch up so that you can both travel down the stairs together.
"Fine," you nod, trying to muster a convincing expression when everything was far from being okay.
"Fine night it was," Karen laughs knowingly under her breath as your face immediately drops in embarrassment.
"What do you mean?" Your head tilts slightly as if you don't already know what she's referring to. Trying to put on the act that you're completely clueless.
She catches the shakiness in your voice, detecting your lies, "we ain't stupid, everyone heard." Her eyes close as she mimics your moans, "oh, Dutch...oh yes, fuck me."
"Shut up," your eyes roll dramatically before breaking into a small fit of laughter. Despite everyone hearing you, no one would even dare bring it up to Dutch. They'll be able to complain in private though.
"There you are," Miss Grimshaw walks angrily towards Karen, the usual moody expression taking over her face, "you're already late." She pushes a tub of soapy water into her chest, "here, laundry."
"Old hag," Karen whispers under her breath once Miss Grimshaw takes a few steps away to shout at Tilly.
You begin to laugh as she does the same. "Would you like some help?" You offer, but Miss Grimshaw interferes before Karen can even get a word in.
"We'll be fine without your help, Miss L/N," her tone completely changes as she provides a warm smile.
"Are you sure?" Your brows knit together supportively, "I really don't mind."
"I know our girls are lazy, but honestly, you don't need to lay a finger at all." Her hand rests against the small of your back, a small gesture to guide you elsewhere rather than the area of doing chores.
Since beginning a relationship with Dutch, she's always been so strangely lenient towards you. Before, she gave you the same treatment as she does with the other women.
"Bitch," Karen whispers again as she crouches to the ground to begin scrubbing clothes. Tilly overhears, snickering loudly as Miss Grimshaw turns to shake her head, already exhausted with the day.
You leave them to it, feeling really bad that they clearly don't want to spend their days doing this. In all honesty, you were hoping to be given a list of chores to occupy yourself with for the day.
With everything that's going on, from Pinkertons to Jack, you need something to distract yourself with. If Miss Grimshaw isn't going to provide that, you decide to seek it elsewhere.
Stepping further away from the house, you're able to identify Mary-Beth hiding from who you assume to be Miss Grimshaw. Behind a ruined wall, she turns the pages of her novel. Deciding to interrupt her reading, you begin to walk closer until the sight of Dutch comes into view and you come to a stop.
Instinctively covering yourself behind the thick trunk of a tree, you're at a safe distance where you can hear the conversation but still remain unseen.
As Dutch approaches, he clears his throat to assert his presence as Mary-Beth lowers her book slightly. "Reading again?" His hands relax against his belt as an amused smile covers his face.
"I like it," she shrugs softly, "gets my mind off things."
Dutch chuckles beneath his breath, "a woman with imagination, that's a dangerous thing."
Mary-Beth laughs awkwardly, "dangerous?"
"That's right," he leans against the ruined wall beside her with a lit cigar against his lips, "most people stop dreaming after a while; you've still got hope in you."
She smiles at the compliment, "I suppose."
"Don't lose that," the side of his lips curl into a smirk as he watches her carefully, "this gang needs people who still believe in something."
Your head shakes in disbelief at the sight. He's hardly spoken to you for the past few days and he's been nothing but cold to you all morning. But here he is, sounding so light with Mary-Beth. Giving her all the attention you starve for.
He walks away once Mary-Beth's eyes return to her book. Your anger doesn't even lie with her. She was clearly trying to be nice, and Dutch was the one who approached her. None of this is her fault. It's not as if she's actively seeking his attention.
He wanders near the pier as smoke from his cigar leaves a trail. You follow closely until he notices and turns around. "What was that?" You immediately confront.
His brows furrow at your question, "what do you mean?"
"You've been acting so off with me, and then I find you smiling with Mary-Beth...why are you like this?" Your voice shakes with emotion. Trying to maintain your composure, it's difficult to do so when you're forced into a vulnerable position.
"This is why," he releases an annoyed sigh, "you just have to be so far up my ass, I can't even talk to anyone."
You scoff loudly, "that's bullshit, Dutch."
"Don't use that language," he drops his cigar to the floor, stepping on it as his head shakes. He always hates to hear you curse, "ladies don't do that. You would know if you had any manners."
"This is the problem," you laugh despite there being no humour behind it, "you treat me like a fucking kid."
"You certainly act like one," he moves closer, clutching his hand around your arm tightly.
"Stop that," you try to remove the painful grip he has over you, "that hurts." He finally loosens it, but his glare remains piercing as he begins to walk away from you.
Watching him disappear, you're holding back tears of anger. Not even fear or shame. He's countlessly proven to be unworthy of your concern.
In an attempt to distract yourself, you walk onto the pier to stare out at the swampy water. It's nothing pretty, but a habit you find yourself doing wherever camp is set.
"You be careful around these lakes, Miss L/N," Arthur's voice breaks your concentration, "John and I found crocodiles when we first got here."
"Hopefully they eat me." You sound very monotone he can't help but take you seriously. "I'm only joking, Arthur," you turn, providing a reassuring smile as he looks totally speechless.
"Oh, right," he nods, glancing down at the wooden planks he’s standing on before looking up at you again, "is everything okay?"
You hesitate for a second, wondering whether you should include Arthur into the messy details of your relationship. He sounds genuinely concerned, as if he wants to make you feel better.
“It’s Dutch…” you begin awkwardly as Arthur adjusts his stance, listening carefully, “he’s just acting like a total bastard.” You explain in simple terms.
“How?” Arthur presses for more information as you sigh, wondering where to start.
“Well,” you pause for a second, trying to collect yourself from becoming emotional, “he doesn’t talk…at all. I’ve been trying to have a normal conversation with him for so long and he just…shuts me out.” Arthur nods with furrowed brows as you continue, “I overheard him speaking about me to you…”
“Yeah,” his hands relax over his belt as he remembers the moment, “it wasn’t nice.” Your hands begin to fumble with one another as even Arthur admits that Dutch was saying horrible things about you.
“Look, Y/N…” Arthur sighs as you immediately look up at him, “I’ve been around Dutch for most of my life, and as much as I respect him, I don’t think you should be with him.”
“You don’t?” It’s the first time you’ve spoken about this subject to someone other than your reflection.
“No,” he firmly answers, “he don’t deserve you. Hell, if you were my girl,” his hand awkwardly rubs the back of his neck at the thought, “I wouldn’t treat you like that.”
“Thank you, Arthur,” you honestly beam at his kind words, “I would really like that.”
His smile drops for a second, “you would?”
“Well…yeah,” you freeze slightly. Many of the women in camp take a liking to Arthur. Especially Mary-Beth. You can’t really blame any of them either. He’s strong. Easy on the eyes. And always helpful.
“To be completely honest with you,” Arthur stays in place, looking around to avoid eye-contact with you as he speaks without thinking of the consequences. “Ever since you joined the gang…a lot of the men have had their eyes on you.”
“They have?” Your eyes widen slightly at the confession.
“Sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable,” he notices your expression.
“You’re telling me Uncle has had thoughts about me?” You clarify as Arthur nods with an amused smile. “Ew, what the fuck.” Your reaction causes him to release a small laugh as you do the same. “And what about you?”
“What about me?” His head tilts slightly to the side.
“Do you like the thought of me?”
“Well,” his voice begins to stammer as you step closer to him, “I don’t want you to think of me as some sort of pervert, Miss L/N.”
He slowly backs away which enables you to stop and cover your mouth at the realisation, “I’m sorry, Arthur. You probably think I’m some whore.”
“That ain’t what I’m thinking,” he quickly reassures, resting his hand over your shoulder, “I just don’t want you to act on any harsh feelings you have about Dutch.”
You blink at your partner’s mention, “actually…I haven’t even been thinking about Dutch.” You look up at Arthur, “I forgot all about him.” You gasp suddenly, “I’m more worse than him.”
“No you ain’t,” Arthur looks as if you’ve just said something which could not have been more wrong. “At least you treat him good.” You freeze entirely as he continues, “I need to find a woman who cares for her man exactly like you do.”
His words cannot get any more kinder. Your attention is suddenly brought to the hand he has over your shoulder. Your lips suddenly press against his hand in multiple kisses as Arthur can’t help but just stare.
You then glance at his face before moving closer to plant your lips softly against his neck. The fabric slightly interferes, but the feeling of your nose rubbing against his Adam’s apple takes him slightly off guard.
In the heat of the moment, Arthur pushes you gently away. “We shouldn’t do this,” his eyes close, trying to fight his impulsive thoughts to give in.
“I don’t think anyone’s around,” you assume they’ll be too preoccupied with their chores, “and Dutch will probably be somewhere where there’s no hags like me.”
“This is wrong,” Arthur further excuses.
You sigh, “it is…I’m sorry.”
He quickly opens his eyes, “there’s no need to apologise. I...almost gave in myself.” He admits slightly embarrassed.
You’re still so close to him. Staring into each other’s eyes despite knowing it’s wrong to. Your gaze drifts to his lips, and before you know it, you’re slowly leaning in to press yours against his.
Arthur sighs into your mouth. Briefly pulling away just to tilt your head and lean further in, each kiss becomes so wet and heated. His hands rest against your waist as yours go around his neck.
“I think about you a lot,” he confesses as your lips press together again. “I can’t help it…” he manages to say between them. “Your body…” You smile against him. The image of Arthur touching himself at the thought of you turns you on.
You pull slightly away from Arthur’s grasp to hook the long skirt you’re wearing and lower it to your feet. Then untying your blouse, you lift it over your head to expose your naked body to him.
Arthur’s mouth parts in surprise that you’re not even wearing undergarments beneath your outfit. His eyes take in your entire body with a hungry expression. After months of picturing what you would look like, it’s even better than he could ever have imagined. Sketching this moment won’t do you any justice, he needs a camera to capture your beauty.
His mind flickers to last night and the noises everyone heard. The way his hand stroked over his hard cock to your moans. He can suddenly feel the fabric strain against his trousers just at the sight of you standing naked in front of him.
You smile at his reaction, unaware that he’d be this speechless. Slowly walking closer to return back into his arms, they instinctively wrap around you to touch every inch of exposed skin. You’re pressed so closely together that his hardened member pokes intrusively against your entrance through the fabric.
His fingers gently pinch your ass as if he’s exploring these areas for the first time on a woman. Discarding his hat onto the floor, your hands brush softly through his hair to continue making out. “You’ve got a sexy body,” Arthur pulls back to look down at your breasts as you laugh against his shoulder.
The moment’s suddenly ruined as the distinct sound of footsteps get closer. You immediately panic at the thought of who it could be as you quickly pull away from Arthur. The next few seconds pass by in a weird blur as you kick your clothes to the side and dive into the swampy water.
“Y/N,” Arthur calls, becoming suddenly conscious of the crocodiles which reside in what you’ve just jumped into.
Dutch appears to find Arthur crouching beside the water. “My boy, what in the hell are you doing?”
Arthur doesn’t answer as he suddenly dips his head in to find you clutching onto the pier’s legs underwater. He lifts you up immediately despite your protest, not wanting to risk the chance of a dangerous animal getting to you.
“Y/N?” Dutch’s brows furrow as he nears the two of you. You’re naked and shivering which confuses him even more. You hold onto Arthur so tightly as you cry into his shoulder after being exposed.
Dutch pats Arthur as a signal for him to move and allow you into his arms. “Dutch,” you cry even harder as your fingers dig into his skin through his now filthy shirt, “I’m sorry.”
“Why were you in the water?” He tries to obtain answers. “Get blankets,” he instructs Arthur as he nods and leaves the two of you alone. His mind keeps drifting to what happened prior to Dutch coming back. He’s always viewed Dutch as a father figure. Touching his lover so inappropriately is a new low even for him.
Meanwhile, dirt from the swamp sticks to your skin. “Was it me?” Dutch begins to ask, mind immediately thinking the worst, “were you trying to drown yourself?”
You remain quiet, just staring at him with wide eyes as he demands an answer. You’d rather jump back into the swamp and get eaten by crocodiles than admit what actually happened.
Your silence acts as its own answer as Dutch assumes his suspicion was true. “Y/N,” his hand cups your cheek, “don’t do that again.”
“Okay…” you slowly nod, relieved that you actually got away with it.
C’s corner: This was an anon request, and let me just say… I showed an impressive amount of restraint by not turning this into full-blown smut. 😌 Because jealous, furious John Walker? A villain ex deliberately pushing every single one of his buttons? John going completely off the rails before you have to pull him back? The material was right there, your honor. I behaved this time, but there’s a very real chance I’ll branch off from this request and turn all that leftover jealousy, possessiveness, and barely controlled anger into a Kinktober prompt. Because apparently my brain saw “emotionally accountable John” and immediately whispered, 'okay, but what happens when they get home? 'Thank you, anon, for planting the seed. It’s already growing teeth. 🫣🔥
WARNINGS: canon-typical violence, blood and injuries, gun violence, toxic/abusive ex, sexual harassment and crude sexual remarks, references to a past controlling relationship, jealousy, possessive behavior, John Walker losing his temper, excessive force, emotional confrontation, brief relationship conflict.
✍🏽WC: 3.3K+
SUMMARY: When your villainous ex crashes a Thunderbolts mission and starts aggressively provoking you, John’s jealousy ignites into a dangerous temper. But while John is ready to destroy the ghost from your past, you remind him that loving you means standing beside you, not fighting your battles for you.
John Walker trusted you. That was the thing people always missed.
They saw the arm around your waist in briefings, the way his hand found the small of your back when the room got crowded, the way his jaw tightened any time a threat got too close to you, and they assumed it was ownership.
It wasn't.
John didn't keep you on a leash. He let you run. Hell, most days, he was the one trying to keep up.
You were Thunderbolts through and through. Dangerous, sharp, reckless in a way that made Valentina sigh like she had stock in migraines. You could turn a room into a battlefield before anyone finished blinking, and John loved you for it.
Loved the chaos. Loved the fire.
Loved the fact that you kissed him in elevators like the cameras weren't there and called him "Captain" only when you were trying to get under his skin. Which was often.
Which was why, when the mission went sideways, John didn't panic at first. Sideways was practically your team's natural habitat.
"Contact left!" Bucky barked through comms.
Ava phased through a concrete pillar and reappeared behind two armed men, dropping them before they could fire.
Yelena slid across the hood of a black SUV, kicked someone in the throat, and yelled, "I hate rich criminals. They all smell like leather and bad choices."
"I smell gunpowder," Alexei announced proudly.
"That's because they're shooting at us," Bob said.
John slammed his shield into a man's chest and sent him sprawling across the wet pavement. Rain slicked his hair against his forehead. His eyes cut across the square, scanning for you.
He found you near the fountain. You were fighting beautifully.
He would never admit how much he loved watching you in the field. Not because you needed admiration, but because you moved like you'd made a private deal with danger years ago. Fast. Fluid. Ruthless when necessary. Graceful in a way that didn't soften the violence, only refined it.
You ducked a knife, caught the attacker's wrist, and drove your knee into his ribs.
John grinned despite himself. "That's my girl," he muttered.
Then the fountain exploded.
Water erupted into the air, stone cracking outward in a violent burst. John lifted his shield on instinct, blocking the worst of the debris. His boots skidded back across the street.
Through the spray, someone stepped into the square. Tall. Black coat. Too calm for the amount of bullets flying around him.
The men around him stopped fighting. That was John's first warning.
Your body went still. That was the second.
The man smiled. That was the third, and by then John already hated him.
"Well," the stranger said, voice carrying through the rain. "There you are."
You didn't lower your weapon, John noticed.
He noticed everything about you. The way your fingers tightened. The way your shoulders lifted half an inch. The way your mouth parted, not in surprise exactly, but recognition.
Bad recognition. The kind that crawled up from somewhere old.
Bucky's voice dropped through comms. "Who the hell is that?"
You didn't answer.
The man looked you over slowly, his gaze dragging in a way that made something hot and ugly snap behind John's ribs.
"You look good, sweetheart. Still look like you'd drop to your knees if I asked nice enough."
John's head turned.
Sweetheart? No, absolutely not.
Your face hardened. "Don't call me that, Riven."
Riven's smile widened, eyes lingering on your lips.
John's grip tightened around the shield.
"Riven," Yelena repeated. "Like the weapons trafficker Riven? The one who disappeared after Madripoor?"
"Not disappeared," Riven said, eyes still on you. "Heartbroken."
You scoffed. "You sold stolen alien tech to warlords."
"And you used to say my ambition was sexy. Used to climb into my lap and tell me how wet it made you when I talked about power."
John moved before he realized it. One step. Then another.
Bucky caught his arm. "Walker."
John didn't look at him. "Let go."
"Not yet."
Riven's gaze flicked to John then, amused and openly dismissive. "This him?"
You didn't answer.
Riven laughed softly. "Oh, that's adorable."
John's eyes narrowed.
The square seemed to shrink. Rain hit his face, cold and steady, but under his skin everything burned.
You raised your gun higher. "You need to walk away."
"From you?" Riven put a hand over his heart. "Never."
"From this fight."
"I didn't come for the fight."
"Then you're stupider than I remember."
That made him grin.
John hated the grin.
Hated how familiar it was.
Hated that this man knew your expressions before John had ever earned the right to memorize them.
Riven stepped closer.
John did too.
Bucky's grip tightened. "Walker."
Riven ignored them all and looked at you like the rest of the world had been built for background decoration. "I missed that mouth. The way it used to wrap around my..."
"Stop!" you cut him off before he could finish.
The air changed, every Thunderbolt in the square seemed to feel the exact moment John Walker's last thread of restraint frayed.
You saw it too. "John," you warned.
He didn't stop.
Riven's eyes lit up. "John." He said it like he'd tasted something sour. "Captain America's angry little replacement."
John's jaw flexed.
You shifted in front of him. "Don't."
Riven tilted his head. "He always this obedient, or is that just when you're watching?"
John smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It wasn't even a John smile. It was sharp, empty, and mean enough that Bucky's posture changed beside him.
"You got a problem with me," John said, voice low, "you can stop talking to her and start talking to me."
Riven's gaze dipped to the shield. "Cute toy."
John lunged. You barely had time to curse before he crossed the space between them like a bullet with a pulse.
Riven moved fast. Too fast.
He pulled a blade from his sleeve, black metal humming with some kind of charged energy. John blocked the first strike with the shield, sparks spitting blue against it. He drove forward with a brutal shove.
Riven laughed. "Temper," he said. "She always did like them unstable."
John slammed the edge of the shield toward his head.
Riven ducked, twisted, and kicked John hard in the ribs. John staggered half a step, then came back swinging.
Not tactical. Not clean. Furious.
"John!" you snapped.
He didn't hear you. Or he did and couldn't reach the part of himself that listened.
Riven struck again. John caught his wrist, twisted, and headbutted him hard enough to split skin. Blood flashed bright against Riven's mouth.
The smile vanished.
There he is, you thought. The real one. The monster under the charm.
Riven spat blood onto the pavement, then looked past John at you. "He doesn't know, does he?"
Your stomach dropped.
John froze for half a second.
Riven noticed. "He doesn't know what you were like before all this shiny redemption nonsense." Riven grinned through the blood. "You tell him how pretty you looked with my knife at your hip? How sweet you sounded when you begged me not to leave you behind?"
Your finger tightened on the trigger.
John turned his head slightly. Not enough to take his eyes off Riven, but enough that you saw the question in his profile.
Pain flared under your ribs.
Riven's voice softened into something obscene. "Or did you only tell him the parts where you got to be the hero? Not the nights you let me ruin you. Not how wet you got when..."
You fired. The shot hit Riven in the shoulder. He stumbled back, laughing again, wilder this time.
John's head snapped toward you.
You walked forward through the rain, gun raised, eyes locked on the man who used to know exactly where to cut you.
"He doesn't need your version of me," you said. "And neither do I."
Riven's smile twitched. "You always did get mean when you were scared."
You shot his thigh. He went down on one knee.
John stared at you. So did everyone else. You kept walking until you were close enough to see the fury in Riven's eyes.
"There she is," he hissed.
You crouched slightly, gun still trained on him. "You don't get to flirt with me like we're sharing an inside joke. You don't get to say my name like you own the syllables. You don't get to crawl out of whatever hole you've been hiding in and act like I'm something you misplaced."
Riven's breathing turned ragged. "You loved me."
You smiled. Small. Cold. "No," you said. "I survived you."
John moved behind you. You felt him before you saw him. Heat at your back. Rage still rolling off him in waves.
Riven looked up at him and made one last mistake. "She always liked it rough, Walker."
John hit him. The sound cracked across the square.
Riven's body hit the pavement hard, and John followed him down, one knee planted beside his ribs, fist already drawn back for another strike.
"John!"
He punched him again.
Riven coughed blood.
Bucky started forward, but you were faster.
You grabbed John by the back of his tactical vest and pulled with everything you had. "John, stop!"
He didn't.
His face was terrifying. Not because you were afraid of him. Because you knew exactly what grief, jealousy, and violence could do when they got braided together too tightly.
"John!"
His fist lifted again.
You shoved yourself between them.
That stopped him instantly. His whole body locked, fist suspended in the rain, breath tearing out of him.
You stood over Riven, staring down at John.
His eyes found yours. Blue and furious. Blue and scared. "Move," he said.
"No."
His jaw clenched. "He touched you."
"A long time ago."
"He hurt you."
"And I'm still standing."
John looked like the words hit harder than Riven ever could.
Around you, the square had gone quiet except for sirens in the distance and Alexei loudly whispering, "Should we do something?"
"No," Yelena whispered back. "This is relationship violence therapy."
"That is not a thing," Bob said.
"It is today."
John's chest rose and fell fast.
You lowered your voice. "Look at me."
He did. Rain ran down his face. Blood smeared his knuckles. His shield lay a few feet away, forgotten.
"You don't get to lose yourself over him," you said.
John swallowed hard.
"He doesn't get that much of you."
Something in his expression cracked.
Your anger softened, but only at the edges. "You hear me?"
John nodded once.
You reached for his hand, the bloody one, and wrapped your fingers around his fist until he loosened it. One finger at a time.
"There you are," you whispered.
His breathing shuddered.
Riven groaned behind you.
John's eyes flickered down.
You squeezed his hand hard. "Don't."
"He doesn't deserve to breathe near you."
"No," you said. "But I deserve to decide what happens to the ghosts that come crawling back."
John stared at you. Then, slowly, he nodded. The fight left his shoulders in pieces.
Bucky stepped in and hauled Riven up by the back of his coat like he weighed nothing. "I'll take this one."
Riven groaned, barely conscious. "She'll get bored of you, Captain. She always does when they stop making her scream."
John surged half a step forward. You caught his vest. This time he stopped.
Riven smiled weakly. "There's the temper."
You stepped close to him.
Bucky held him steady, metal hand clamped around his collar.
"You want the truth?" you asked.
Riven blinked blood from his lashes.
You leaned in. "John doesn't scare me."
His smile faltered.
"You did." The words landed quietly. Brutally. "And that's the difference."
Riven's face emptied.
You stepped back. "Get him out of my sight."
Bucky dragged him away without another word.
For a second, nobody moved.
Then Yelena raised her hand. "I would like to say, for the record, that was extremely attractive and deeply unhealthy."
Ava nodded. "Seconded."
Bob lifted a finger. "The unhealthy part or the attractive part?"
"Yes," Yelena said.
Alexei clapped John on the shoulder hard enough to make him wince. "You have passion. Very good. Also maybe therapy. Also very good."
John didn't answer. His eyes were still on you.
You jerked your chin toward the alley. "Walk with me."
He followed.
The alley was narrow, damp, and half-lit by a flickering sign from the closed shop beside it. The noise of the team faded behind you.
You stopped beneath the awning. John stood a few feet away, stiff as a live wire.
You crossed your arms. "Are you hurt?"
He gave you a look.
You lifted a brow. "Don't start."
His mouth twitched, but it died quickly. "I'm fine."
"You're bleeding."
"It's not mine."
"John."
He looked down.
There was a cut across his cheek. Small, but bleeding. His knuckles were split.
You sighed and stepped closer.
He didn't move. That, more than anything, told you how shaken he was. John Walker was never still unless something inside him had gone very, very loud.
You reached into one of your vest pockets and pulled out gauze.
His voice came rough. "Why didn't you tell me?"
You paused.
"About him," John said.
You pressed the gauze to his cheek. "Because I don't like giving him space in rooms he isn't standing in."
John's eyes shut briefly. "I'm not mad," he said.
"You look mad."
"I'm mad at him."
"I noticed."
His eyes opened, there was shame there now, creeping in around the edges of the adrenaline. "I lost it."
"Yeah."
His mouth tightened.
You didn't soften the answer. He didn't need you to lie to him.
"You scared the team," you said. "You scared yourself."
His voice dropped. "Did I scare you?"
You held his gaze. "No."
His breath caught.
"But I need you to hear me when I tell you to stop."
He nodded immediately. "I know."
"I mean it, John."
"I know."
"I love you," you said, and his face crumpled just slightly, "but I'm not asking for a guard dog."
His eyes dropped.
You caught his chin gently and made him look at you. "I'm asking for my partner."
He nodded again, slower this time. "I can be that," he said.
"I know you can."
His hands hovered near your waist, hesitant. That hurt more than the fight. You stepped into him and took his wrists, guiding his hands to your hips.
John exhaled like he'd been punched. "I wanted to kill him," he admitted.
"I know."
"I hated the way he looked at you."
"I know."
"I hated that he knew you before me."
Your chest tightened.
There it was. The ugliest part. The most human part.
You let your hands slide up his arms, feeling the tension locked beneath the suit.
"He knew a version of me that was trying to survive," you said. "You know me now."
John's eyes searched yours.
"You know how I take my coffee. You know I steal your socks because they're warmer. You know I pretend not to cry at dog rescue videos. You know I sleep better when your hand is on my stomach. You know I hate being called fragile, and you know exactly when to stop arguing and just bring me food."
His expression softened.
"You know me, John."
Rain drummed against the awning above you.
"The real me," you said.
His forehead dropped to yours. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
You closed your eyes. "I know."
"I'm not sorry I hit him."
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.
John's mouth brushed yours, not quite a kiss. "I'm working on that part," he murmured.
"You'd better."
His hands tightened on your hips. "I love you," he said.
You smiled faintly. "Even with the villain ex baggage?"
His face darkened at the phrase, but his voice stayed soft. "Especially with the baggage. Means I get to help you carry it."
You poked his chest. "I don't need you to carry it."
"No," he said. "But I can hold the door while you throw it out."
That made you smile for real.
John noticed. He always noticed. His thumb brushed your hip. "There's my girl."
You narrowed your eyes. "Careful, Walker."
His brows lifted. "What?"
"You're hovering dangerously close to caveman territory."
A little bit of John came back then, smug and warm beneath the bruises. "Pretty sure I passed caveman territory fifteen minutes ago."
"You launched yourself at my ex in the middle of an active mission."
"He was flirting with my girlfriend."
"He was baiting you."
"It worked."
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't stop your smile.
John leaned closer. "He called you sweetheart."
You hummed. "That bothered you?"
His jaw ticked.
You rose onto your toes, mouth close to his ear.
"You know I like it better when you call me love."
John went still.
Then his hands flexed.
"Don't do that," he said, voice suddenly rough.
"Do what?"
"Make me want to kiss you while I'm still trying to be emotionally accountable."
You laughed against his cheek.
He turned his head and caught your mouth.
The kiss wasn't gentle. Not at first. It had too much leftover fury in it, too much fear, too much relief. His hand slid up your back, pulling you against him, and you let him have one second of it. One second to taste the fact that you were there, alive, his, not in the way Riven had meant it, but in the way you'd chosen.
Then you pulled back and tapped his chest. "Accountable first."
John groaned. "Cruel woman."
"Alive woman."
His expression sobered instantly.
You softened and cupped his face. "And yours. Because I chose that. Not because you won a fight."
His eyes burned into yours. "Say it again," he whispered.
You smiled. "I chose you."
John kissed you again.
This time, it was softer. Still hungry, still John, but softer.
Behind you, someone cleared their throat.
You and John turned.
Yelena stood at the mouth of the alley with her arms crossed. "Very moving," she said. "Disgusting. We have to leave before Valentina arrives and asks why Walker turned the mission into a jealous soap opera with blood."
John sighed.
You patted his chest. "Come on, Captain."
He gave you a look. "Don't call me that right now."
You grinned. "Why? You sensitive?"
His eyes dipped to your mouth. "Love," he said quietly, warning and promise all tangled together.
Heat curled low in your stomach.
Yelena made a gagging sound. "I can still see both of you."
John didn't look away from you. "Good," he said. "Then you can see she's fine."
You slid your fingers through his. "No," you corrected softly.
John looked at you.
You squeezed his hand. "We're fine."
His thumb brushed over your knuckles.
The alley light flickered overhead. Rain kept falling. Somewhere behind you, Riven was being dragged into custody, bleeding and furious and finally irrelevant.
John lifted your hand to his mouth and kissed your bruised knuckles.
Then he looked at you with all that fire still inside him, banked but not gone.
Loving an idol was never the problem. The hard part was loving someone who always promised to be back "in a little bit." Between packed schedules, unanswered messages, and postponed promises, you decide it’s time to leave. Now, it's up to James to figure out if there's still time to fix what he let slip away.
Genre: Angst, Idol!James, Open Ending
Warnings: Relationship in crisis, Emotional distance, Lack of communication, Crying, Fear of loss.
James (CORTIS) x Reader!gf "널 더 세게 안을게 right now, even hell, I'm down."
The love between you two never ended all at once. It vanished slowly, fading away in the smallest details.
James debuted with CORTIS, and the invitations started pouring in. Their schedules filled up, and suddenly, there weren’t enough hours in the day.
At first, you understood. After years of training, it was obvious he would do everything to seize every single opportunity.
So did you.
You stayed up waiting when he said he’d be home "soon." You reheated dinner two or three times. You watched his performances hidden in the middle of the crowd, happy just to see him living his dream.
He would always hold your hands before leaving and say the exact same thing:"Just a little bit longer... When this phase passes, I promise I'll make it up to you.
"And you believed him. The first time. The tenth. The hundredth. Until you realized that "just a little bit longer" had turned into months.
There were no big fights... Just postponed birthdays, canceled dates, messages answered at three in the morning with a "sorry...". Calls interrupted by rehearsals. Promises replaced by "sorry...". And without either of you noticing, you stopped living a relationship and started living a waiting game.
That night, James was happy. The filming had wrapped up earlier than expected. For the first time in weeks, he would be able to make it home before midnight. On his way, he stopped by a convenience store. He bought the chocolate you always picked, even while complaining it was way too expensive... He also bought two cans of soda.
He smiled to himself. "She's going to complain that I brought sweets before dinner..." For the first time in a long time, he imagined an ordinary night: the two of you watching a movie, talking, him kissing you with that love he hadn't shown in months... He imagined his fingers touching your soft skin... He remembered how you used to blush whenever he complimented you... Your soft sounds.
Everything seemed perfect.When he unlocked the apartment door, the silence caught him off guard.
"Baby?"
No answer.
He set the bag on the counter and walked over to the bedroom.
The bed was made, your coat was gone from the hanger. Your toiletry bag was no longer in the bathroom.James froze. He looked around again.
"No. No..." He hurried back to the living room.
That was when he noticed a white envelope resting on the table.His name was on it.His hands began to tremble before he even opened it.
"James... If you're reading this, I finally found the courage to do something I’ve been putting off for weeks. I'm not leaving because I stopped loving you.
The truth is quite the opposite.
I still love you so much that I started forgetting about myself.I waited for you on nights that never ended.
I held onto conversations that never happened.
I celebrated your achievements while learning to deal with your absence all by myself.
And I know you never did this out of malice. You were chasing a dream. But I needed to keep living, too.
I don’t want you to choose between me and your career. I just can't keep waiting for a tomorrow that never comes.
Thank you for everything. Please take care of yourself."
The letter slipped from his fingers.
James stood motionless... As if the entire world had come to a standstill. Then he grabbed his phone.
He called.
Voicemail.
He called again.
Nothing.
One more time.
Nothing.
The text messages started sending one after another.
"Answer me."
"Please."
"Let's talk."
"Don't do this."
No reply.
James burst out of the apartment, practically running.
"She left about fifteen minutes ago..."
The doorman barely finished his sentence before James was already outside.
Traffic seemed to mock him. The taxi hit the very first red light.
James was bouncing his knee without realizing it, his hands gripping the phone so tightly his knuckles hurt.
Another call.
Voicemail.
The driver glanced in the rearview mirror, reading the desperation in the young man's eyes. "Everything alright?"James took a deep breath.
He tried to answer.
He couldn't.
After a few seconds, he barely whispered:
"If I don't get there in time... I might lose the most important person in my life." The whisper came out shaky and tearful.
The driver remained silent for a few long seconds, looking at him with a compassion he didn't know he could feel for a stranger in his car.
"Second chances, kid. Don't let this one slip away."
When the car finally pulled up in front of the building, James practically threw the money onto the seat and sprinted out, not even waiting for the elevator.
He took the stairs.
One floor.
Two.
Three.
Four.
His legs were burning... He was gasping for air. But he kept going.
By the time he reached the hallway, he could barely catch his breath. He stopped in front of the door...
He knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again.
Harder.
"Please..."
Silence...
One more knock.
The door handle turned slowly.
You appeared... Wearing an oversized hoodie. Your eyes were swollen. Behind you, a few open boxes were still scattered across the floor. Seeing him completely breathless, your expression shifted.
"James..."
He tried to speak.
No words came out.
He just took a heavy breath, trying to regain his composure. Tears were already streaming down his face before he even noticed. For the first time, you saw him let his emotions completely take over.
"I... I read the letter."
You lowered your gaze. "I figured..."
Another silence.
James took a step forward... Then another. He stopped just short of invading your space. His hands were shaking.
"Y/N... Please... don't let the world decide for us..." His voice came out weak, almost breaking.
"If there is still a single step I can take toward you, I'll take it, Y/N... I’ll face anything... any hell, if I have to... Just don't ask me to learn how to live without you..." Tears poured down James's face, making it hard to understand some of his words through his sobs. He slowly slid down in front of you... Falling to his knees at your feet, looking up at you with eyes completely red and drenched in the tears that wouldn't stop falling.
"Please, Y/N..."
Notes: Ugh, have I mentioned how much I love Please? I'm feeling so melancholic today. Sorry for the poor writing—English isn't my native language and I didn't proofread this. I admit this fanfic is so bad, but I would love to see James crying at my feet, hahaha!
