#I just wasn’t enough of a person when I needed to be and now I feel like it’s too late

[sweettu1ips]

PAIGE BUECKERS x SINGER!FEM READER

SYNOPSIS: "Between tangled sheets and whispered apologies, they find each other again—lost in heat, regret, and the promise of something new."

WARNING(S): (18+) ⋮ smut ⋮ fuck buddies gone wrong(idfk) ⋮ explicit sexual content ⋮ oral r!recieving ⋮ strap usage ⋮ pnv ⋮ edging(ish) ⋮ overstimulation ⋮ rough(ish) ⋮ dom!Paige ⋮ sub!Reader ⋮ teasing ⋮ praiseing ⋮ light choking (if you squint) ⋮ soft aftercare ⋮ angst ⋮ reconciliation ⋮ aruging ⋮ situationship

WORD COUNT: 18.8k [ yes, I went over board....]

| MAIN MASTER LIST ⋮ PURPLE LACE BRA[P1] |

PAIGE'S POV | THIRD PERSON POV:

THE ECHO OF THE BASKETBALL thudding against the polished wood reverberated through the near-empty gym, a hollow, rhythmic pulse swallowed by the cavernous space. 

Overhead fluorescents flickered faintly, their sterile glow casting elongated shadows across the court, the hum of electricity a quiet, nagging presence. 

The air smelled faintly of sweat, old rubber, and the lingering trace of cleaning solution, a scent so familiar it should have been grounding.

But Paige felt anything but grounded.

Her body moved on autopilot—elbows tucking in, follow-through clean—but the ball clanked against the rim, bouncing off at an awkward angle, a sound that gnawed at her nerves. 

Her rhythm was off. Her mind, untethered. 

Her thoughts stretched thin across miles, pulled toward a place where the lights burned hotter, the air buzzed electric, and a voice—low, raspy, a whisper against her skin—now belonged to a stage, to an audience, to a world that wasn’t hers anymore.

"Paige."

KK’s voice cut through the haze, sharp but laced with the ease of someone who had known her long enough to recognize when she was spiraling. "You look like shit."

Azzi, cross-legged on the floor, barely glanced up from her phone, the glow of the screen illuminating her face, brows drawn in a mix of amusement and mild concern. 

"Like, actually. I was gonna let it slide last week, but we’re two weeks deep now, and you look like a sleep paralysis demon."

Paige exhaled sharply, rolling her eyes, though even that felt exhausting.

 The ball slipped from her hands, bouncing lazily toward the sideline, its rhythmic patter swallowed by the quiet. "Thanks for the support. Really feeling the love tonight."

KK raised a brow, arms crossing over her chest. "Nah, for real. You good? ‘Cause ever since you got back from–– whatever the hell that trip was, you’ve been off."

Paige dragged a hand down her face, the heel of her palm pressing into her eye socket like she could physically rub away the exhaustion clawing at her. "I’m fine, just tired as fuck."

Azzi snorted, finally looking up. "Tired, my ass. You barely miss free throws, and you’ve bricked, like, five in the last ten minutes."

Paige clenched her jaw, the tension so tight it ached.

She didn’t want to talk about it.

Didn’t want to say that every shot that missed felt like another way she was unraveling. That her head wasn’t in the game because it was still trapped in a dressing room somewhere across the state, waiting for something—someone—that never came back.

KK studied her, eyes narrowing just slightly. "Or maybe this has something to do with Y/N?"

The name hit harder than she expected, like a punch to the ribs, sharp and unexpected. Paige stiffened, her breath hitching for just a fraction of a second—too fast, too subtle for most people to catch.

But KK and Azzi weren’t most people.

Azzi sighed, locking her phone and resting her chin against her knee. "Listen, we don’t need the details. But if you wanna talk—"

"There’s nothing to talk about," Paige cut in, too quick, too clipped. Her hands found her hair, fingers gripping at the roots, grounding herself in the pressure. "We fucked, fought. She left. End of story."

KK let out a low whistle, shaking her head. "Damn, man. Y’all really did a number on each other, huh?"

A bitter laugh scratched its way out of Paige’s throat, short and humorless. "She’s fine. She’s out there, killing it, selling out arenas, living the dream. She’s—" Paige swallowed, forcing the words out like they didn’t taste like ash. "She’s good."

Azzi watched her, her voice quieter now. "And you?"

Paige dragged in a breath, held it, then let it out slow. "I’m playing basketball."

KK clicked her tongue. "That ain’t an answer."

Silence settled between them, thick and heavy, pressing against Paige’s ribs like a weight she couldn’t shake. Her fingers twitched at her sides, aching with the urge to check her phone. 

To see if maybe—maybe—Y/N had left something for her. A text. A call. A sign that she hadn’t imagined it all, that she hadn’t been just another fleeting moment in a life too big, too loud, too unstoppable for someone like her to hold onto.

But she knew better.

She had waited in that dressing room too long, let the seconds drag into minutes, let hope stretch thin and fragile in her chest until it finally snapped.

 She had checked her phone too many times since then, only to be met with silence.

She had never known silence could be so deafening.

"It doesn’t matter," she muttered finally, voice tight. "We’re done. Plus–– it ain’t nothin’ serious anyways."

KK and Azzi exchanged a glance, something unspoken passing between them. They didn’t push, didn’t pry. Instead, KK jerked her chin toward the ball rolling idly near the sideline.

"Well, at least get your head out of your ass before practice tomorrow. Geno’s gonna eat you alive if you play like this."

Paige forced a smirk, but it barely touched her eyes. "Wouldn’t want that."

Azzi stood, stretching. "Let’s head back. Maybe you’ll get some actual sleep tonight."

Paige nodded, trailing behind them as they made their way out of the gym. The moment the doors shut behind her, she yanked her phone from her pocket, her chest tightening at the sight of the notification blinking up at her.

@lexington_y/n

New city. New show. New pictures.

Paige stared, thumb hovering over the post, her pulse thrumming in her ears. The images would be the same as always—Y/N bathed in golden stage lights, a crowd screaming her name, a world that Paige had never been a part of.

She locked her phone before she could look.

Before she could wonder if Y/N ever hesitated the way she did. If she ever hovered over Paige’s name, fingers itching to type something but never following through.

The world thought Y/N had left her behind, untouched and unaffected.

Only Paige knew the truth.

She was wrecked.

… and she knew she needed to do something about it. 

Y/N’S POV:

The hum of the jet was constant, a soft vibration that lived in my bones, steady and unwavering—so unlike the storm inside my head. 

It was the only sound in the dimly lit cabin, save for the occasional clink of my wine glass against the polished wood of the table in front of me. 

The turbulence outside was minimal, but inside me? A different kind of turbulence brewed, thick and relentless, curling around my ribs and refusing to let go.

I leaned back against the cool leather seat, exhaling slowly, willing the tightness in my chest to loosen. 

The rim of my glass pressed against my lips, the deep, velvety notes of the wine resting on my tongue, but I barely tasted it. It was expensive—I knew that much.

 A ridiculous, aged bottle that probably had some sommelier waxing poetic about its oaky finish and hints of blackberry, but to me, it might as well have been water.

My gaze drifted to the window, where the night stretched endlessly, a vast ocean of black speckled with distant city lights and constellations too far away to touch. 

Dallas had been electric, the kind of high only a sold-out stadium could bring, the energy of it still clinging to my skin like static. 

My body still hummed with the aftermath of adrenaline, but the crash had begun. And with it, the thoughts returned.

Her.

Paige.

My jaw clenched.

God, why?

Why did she still live in my mind like this, creeping into the quiet spaces, filling them with echoes of things I swore I had left behind? 

I was the one who finally walked away. The one who ended it. The one who told her we couldn’t keep pretending that this thing between us was something it wasn’t.

So why did it still feel like she was holding all the strings?

I closed my eyes for a moment, pressing my temple against the glass, the cold a stark contrast to the warmth burning beneath my skin. 

The tour was exhausting, an endless loop of flashing lights, deafening screams, and hotel rooms that all started to look the same after a while.

 I had convinced myself that it would be enough—enough to drown out the lingering ghosts, enough to forget the way her name still tasted like something sweet and forbidden on my tongue.

But it hadn’t been.

And now I was here, in the sky, suspended between destinations, trying to outrun a feeling that had already caught up to me.

At least I didn’t have to worry.

Paige wouldn’t be in Connecticut.

The team was in Ohio tonight—some game, some tournament, some obligation that kept her far enough away that I could breathe. 

Far enough that I could let my guard down, even just for a day or two, without the risk of seeing those sharp blue eyes and that maddening smirk that always made me forget what I was supposed to be running from.

I sighed, setting my wine glass down, watching the way the liquid swayed inside it—deep red, rich, curling against the sides of the glass like ink bleeding through water.

 I stared at it, the way the light hit it, the way it moved, fluid and restless, a mirror of the thing inside me that refused to settle.

And then my phone buzzed.

A single vibration against the wood, barely a whisper of sound, but it may as well have been a gunshot in the silence of the cabin.

I flinched.

My eyes dropped to the screen, my fingers hesitating for just a fraction of a second before I reached for it, flipping it over.

And just like that, all the air left my lungs.

@paigebueckers liked your post.

The words were simple, harmless even. Just a meaningless notification. A tap of a finger. A fleeting acknowledgment.

But to me, it was a match dropped in gasoline.

A sharp inhale lodged itself in my throat, something heavy pressing against my ribs, spreading through me like wildfire.

It was nothing. It was everything.

It was a ghost of something unfinished. A whisper of a connection that refused to sever completely.

My fingers tightened around the phone, the pad of my thumb hovering over the screen, as if clicking on it would give me something—an answer, a sign, a reason.

But I already knew better.

I set the phone down, flipping it facedown like that would make it disappear, like it could erase the sudden, all-consuming awareness that I was still tethered to her, still caught in the gravitational pull of something I had spent months trying to escape.

The jet hummed around me, steady, relentless, indifferent.

I closed my eyes, trying to breathe past it.

But all I could see was her.

Laughing. Touching me. Kissing me.

And then—slowly, painfully—turning away.

Her fingers, once tangled with mine, slipping free like grains of sand through my grasp, leaving nothing but an aching absence in their wake. 

Her shoulders, tense at first, then relaxing, as if she had made peace with something I hadn't. The subtle hitch in her breath, the fleeting hesitation in her step, before she forced herself to move.

And then she did.

Walking away with the kind of quiet finality that didn’t need words, her silhouette shrinking with every step, swallowed by distance, by time, by everything I wasn’t ready to let go of.

Not once looking back.

I drifted off without realizing, the hum of the jet and the gentle sway of the clouds lulling me into a soft, unspoken surrender. 

The seat, which had once felt stiff beneath me, had now molded to the curve of my body, and the wine glass I had held in my hand had long since gone forgotten. 

Time slipped through my fingers like water, and before I could even blink, three hours had passed in what felt like mere moments.

The jet, with its pristine leather seats and velvet curtains, became a cocoon, a world that moved at its own pace, indifferent to the world below. 

The city lights of Dallas had long faded from view, and in the haze of sleep, the only thing that anchored me was the weight of my thoughts—the ones that were always there, always waiting in the corners of my mind. Paige. That damn blonde. 

The one who had never truly left me, no matter how much I tried to move on.

And then, just as I was lost in the flicker of half-conscious dreams, a soft voice broke through the fog of my mind.

“Miss Y/N?”

I blinked my eyes open, the sudden rush of reality hitting me like a cool wave. Maddy, the flight attendant, stood beside me, her gentle hand on my shoulder, her face lit by the soft glow of the cabin’s lights. 

She had a warmth about her, a kindness I had grown accustomed to during our flights.

She was always so poised, so effortlessly graceful, but tonight, her expression was a little softer, like she knew I needed a nudge back into the world.

“Sorry to wake you, but we’re almost there. You might want to gather your things.”

I nodded, my body sluggish as I sat up, the remnants of sleep still clinging to my eyelids.

 I glanced out the window, and for the first time in hours, I saw the skyline of Connecticut rising like a beacon. It was surreal, the way it hit me in a wave. Time had passed, and the night was creeping forward, inching into the early hours, a place I wasn’t sure I was ready to be.

The jet had barely touched down before my mind was already rushing ahead. I stood up, gathering my carry-on with clumsy fingers, the exhaustion weighing heavy in my chest. 

The quiet hum of the engines seemed louder now, the finality of it all settling in my bones. Connecticut. An hour ahead of Texas, and now, here I was. 1 AM. The darkness outside the plane felt colder somehow, more real, like it was waiting for me to re-enter it.

The doors to the jet opened, and the cool Connecticut air greeted me like a breath of relief. Maddy followed me down the stairs, offering a final, quiet smile as I made my way to the ground. 

The pilot waved from the front, his face still unreadable in the dim light, but there was a comfort in the routine of it. These people, these small moments—strangers who had become familiar—had woven themselves into the fabric of my life, even for just a brief stretch of time.

“Thanks again, Maddy,” I said, my voice a little hoarse, but sincere. “I’ll see you next time.”

“Of course,” she replied, her tone warm and steady. “Safe travels, Y/N.”

I turned to the pilot, offering a quick nod, my muscles still sluggish as I adjusted my bag over my shoulder. The cool night air wrapped around me, and I made my way toward the awaiting car, the sounds of the airport already starting to fade into the background.

As I reached the car, my phone buzzed in my pocket, the vibration cutting through the stillness of the night. I glanced down, my heart giving a small jolt when I saw the name. 

My mom. Of course.

I answered the call with a soft sigh, trying to steady my breath. “Hey, Mom.”

“Y/N? You made it?”

“Yeah, actually,” I replied, stepping into the car and sliding the door shut behind me. “Just landed.”

“Good. You sound tired, honey. Long flight?”

I let out a small laugh, a touch of irony in my voice. “You could say that. But, yeah, I’m exhausted. Gonna head back to the apartment and crash for a bit. Connecticut’s always a bit of a wake-up call after Texas, you know?”

She chuckled, the sound familiar and comforting. “I bet. Well, take it easy. When you’re up, come on by. I’ll make us something to eat. You know how it is.”

“Mhmm,” I said, leaning back into the seat, letting the warmth of my car wrap around me. “I’ll drive down in the morning. Thought I’d spend a couple of days. Bother you guys.” 

The words felt good, slipping out like a secret I hadn’t realized I needed to share. My laughter came easily then, a lightness I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in too long. 

It was something I hadn’t done in what felt like forever—let myself enjoy the simplicity of being home, of being surrounded by the people who knew me best.

“Alright, honey. I’ll see you in the morning then.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I ended the call, the quiet hum of the car filling the space between us, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I let myself exhale. 

Tomorrow would come. It would be messy, it would be complicated, but for now, I had this—a moment of peace, a fleeting one, but it was enough. The city skyline of Hartford glowed in the distance, like a soft pulse in the dark, beckoning me home. 

The wheel in my hands felt familiar, grounding me in a way I didn’t realize I needed. I could already feel the fatigue setting in, my mind heavy with the weight of the past few days, but I pushed it down, keeping my focus on the road. 

The late-night quiet was almost too perfect, the night cradling me in its gentle arms.

The tires hummed steadily beneath me as I veered onto the highway, and I let myself drift for a moment. The city lights twinkled like distant stars, each one a promise, a memory of the home I’d come back to. 

There was something about the cities of Connecticut at night—its streets always quieter, its corners always darker, yet the heart of it still pulsing with life. A small comfort, one I didn’t know I needed until now. 

I could almost taste it, the familiarity. The places, the streets, the air—I knew them all, and for some reason, that felt like enough for tonight.

Then, without warning, Frank Ocean poured from the speakers, smooth and haunting, the first notes of Moon River filling the car and curling around my thoughts like smoke.

 The deep, rich timbre of his voice carried me, a lullaby for the restless. I sighed, one hand still steady on the wheel, the other resting against the window, my fingers tracing the cool glass. 

The wind outside caught against the car, brushing through my hair, a soft reminder of the night, of everything I was trying to escape from.

But then it happened.. again.

the ghost of her.

Her presence slipped in beside me like it always did. A whisper of blonde hair floating in the air beside me, the breeze curling around us, carrying her scent with it. 

I could almost feel her hand on my thigh, warm and familiar, the subtle pressure of her touch making my heart skip in a way I hated, a way I had come to both love and resent.

 The memory of her fingers grazing my skin lingered like the faintest shadow, and for a moment, I allowed myself to sink into the feeling.

But then reality slammed into me. I remembered us—or more accurately, what we weren’t. We weren’t the kind of people who could just exist in a space together, letting the quiet stretch between us, letting the little moments settle in. 

No, we were desperate.

 We always had been. Our time together was a series of fleeting touches, stolen moments, like we were always on the edge of something—something that neither of us dared to cross. 

We weren’t in the car to enjoy each other’s presence, to laugh or linger in the warmth of shared smiles. No, we were there to burn, to need—to satiate a hunger that never seemed to quiet.

The thought of it made my chest tighten.

I couldn’t do this anymore. Not the way she wanted, anyway. I had spent so long pretending that the flashes of passion, the late-night rendezvous, were enough. They weren’t. 

And as much as I missed her, as much as I could feel her presence like a phantom beside me, I couldn’t keep lying to myself. I was exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally. 

A year of this, of whatever this was, had drained me more than I realized. And it wasn’t even just the frustration of endless hookups, of empty promises wrapped in lust. It was the ache of wanting more, of needing something that wasn’t just skin-deep. 

I wanted her—not just in the way she would slip into my bed, leaving with the scent of her still clinging to me. I wanted more than just the raw, desperate need that only came in the dark corners of the night.

I wanted the little moments—the ones that didn’t require a bed or an empty apartment. I wanted her to stay past the hour she always slipped out of, her departure as fleeting as she was.

 I wanted to care about her in a way that went beyond wanting her. I wanted to share more than just the surface. I wanted her here. With me. 

For more than a night. I wanted to wake up beside her, talk to her in the morning, laugh with her like the world wasn’t collapsing at the seams.

And yet, here I was, still stuck in this dance, still lying to myself, pretending that the desperate moments we shared were all I needed. 

How did I let myself slip so far into this? Into her? Into the lie that I could pretend this was all I ever wanted?

Why did I bother answering her DM? Why did I keep coming back, every single time? Was it the thrill of the chase? The danger? 

The way she made me feel like I was alive, like I was seen, but only in the ways that made me feel empty in the end? I had promised myself I wouldn’t get attached. 

I had promised that it would be nothing more than a passing thing, something that didn’t ask anything of me.

But somewhere, deep down, I knew that promise had broken the second I let her back into my life. And now, I was the one paying for it.

I glanced at the rearview mirror, my face reflected back at me—tired, confused, a little worn, but still here. Still alive.

The city was growing closer now, and I could feel the weight of the moment pressing against my chest. 

The road stretched out before me, endless and unwavering, but I was no longer sure where I was headed. Hartford? Yes. But even that felt like just another place to run away from the thing I didn’t want to face.

I gripped the wheel tighter, the song in my ears fading into the background as I let the rhythm of the road take me. 

The soft hum of the tires against the asphalt was all I could hear now, my thoughts swirling like storm clouds above a calm sea. One step at a time, I told myself. One step. But the road ahead felt long—too long. 

The city lights on the horizon flickered, a constellation of possibilities that seemed so far away. And yet, they were right there. Within reach, if only I could hold on long enough.

The exit to Hartford appeared in front of me, the sign flickering in the glow of the streetlights. My heart beat a little faster as I veered off the highway, the familiar roads beneath me pulling me closer to home. 

The city wrapped itself around me like a well-worn sweater, the streets I had walked so many times now feeling like an old friend that I hadn’t seen in too long. 

The familiar hum of the city at night filled my ears, but it didn’t feel comforting—it just felt… there. As though the world was moving on around me, and I was stuck in place.

I drove through the streets of Hartford, past the coffee shops and streetlights, past the bars and restaurants that were closing for the night. 

The city was quiet now, save for the occasional car or the distant sound of laughter from a group of friends lingering on the sidewalk. 

It was the calm after the storm, and for a moment, it felt like I was the only one awake, the only one still carrying the weight of the day.

When I finally pulled into my condo building’s parking lot, the security guard waved at me, opening the gate with a press of a button, like it had done a hundred times before. The metallic squeal of the gate echoed in the silence, and I couldn’t help but feel like I was slipping back into the routine of it all. 

The night was supposed to feel different, but it didn’t. The familiar sights—the guard waving, the low hum of the parking lot lights—felt like a song I had heard too many times. And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to turn it off.

I parked my Bronco in its usual spot, taking a slow breath before I opened the door. The air was crisp, cool against my skin as I grabbed my carry-on bags, the familiar weight of my luggage heavy in my hands. It felt like a thousand tiny reminders of where I was—who I was, and what I was running from.

I made my way to the elevator, the soft click of my boots against the concrete echoing in the underground parking garage. 

My hand brushed against the elevator button, pressing the number five without thinking. The elevator doors slid open, the faint hum of the machinery filling the small, quiet space as I rose upward, toward the floor where everything I had been avoiding waited for me.

The door opened to my floor with a soft ding, and I stepped out, the familiar hallway stretching before me. The soft carpet beneath my feet was a small comfort, but it didn’t stop the weight of everything that had been building up inside me. 

My hand shook slightly as I fumbled for my keypad, my fingers lingering for a moment on the numbers. When the door finally clicked open, I stepped into the condo.

Home.

I hadn’t realized how much I had missed the smell of it—the light fragrance of fresh flowers and the faint undertones of something sweeter, something comforting. 

It enveloped me like a hug, familiar and safe. I shut the door behind me, the soft thunk of it closing resounding in the quiet apartment.

I flicked on the kitchen light, the soft glow of the bulb spilling across the counter, casting long shadows in the dimness. The city below seemed far away now, the lights twinkling like stars scattered across the black sky. 

The world seemed small from up here—almost too small. And yet, I felt lost in it.

I stood there for a moment, leaning against the counter, my eyes tracing the outline of the city below. The noise of the world was muted here, in this space that I had made for myself. 

But even now, in the silence, the questions lingered. The uncertainty. The ache. The longing for something more.

I set down my luggage and carry-ons beside counter, my movements slow and deliberate. There was no rush now. No one waiting for me, no one to answer to. 

The weight of the day—the weight of everything—pressed down on me, but I couldn’t bring myself to unpack just yet. I needed a moment. A breath. A chance to feel like I wasn’t drowning in it all.

I took another step, walking to the large windows that framed the city below. The lights sparkled, distant and cold, like a world I was no longer sure I belonged to.

 I stood there for a while, my hands pressed against the cool glass, watching as the night stretched on. It wasn’t enough to make me feel whole again, but it was something. It was a moment of calm. Of clarity.

I sighed deeply, my breath heavy with the weight of everything that had built up inside me during the day, during the months, during the years. 

The familiar hum of the apartment was a dull comfort, but it felt foreign, like a memory I was trying to hold onto but couldn’t quite grasp. 

My hand lingered against the frame of the window for a second longer than necessary, the cool metal grounding me in the present before I moved on.

My feet made the softest sound against the hardwood floor as I walked through the apartment, checking the locks on the front door with automatic precision, as if these rituals could shield me from the restlessness swirling beneath my skin.

 The lights flickered off one by one, leaving the apartment in shadows that wrapped around me like a second skin. My purse hung loosely from my arm, the weight of it so small, yet it felt like an anchor, like everything I carried in it—the past few weeks, the exhaustion, the unfinished conversations—was pressing on my chest.

I moved toward the stairs, my body aching, each step a reminder of the stiffness from the long flight, the hours spent cramped in a chair, the echoes of the concert still hanging in my bones like some distant memory that refused to fade.

 The smell of airplane air, sterile and empty, clung to my clothes, mixing with the faint remnants of the concert—the noise, the people, the rush of adrenaline. It was all too much, too close, too loud. I needed space. I needed silence.

By the time I reached my bedroom, I was already starting to feel the weight of the day melt off of me—just a little, just enough for the edges to blur. 

My room was just as I had left it: neat, untouched, almost too still. It had been two weeks since I had last stepped through the door, and in that time, everything had moved on, yet nothing had changed here. 

The same soft light from the bedside lamp. The same bed, untouched by anything but the fabric of time. The silence was thick with a thousand unsaid things, and for a moment, I just stood in the doorway, letting it all settle around me.

I dropped my bag onto the bed, the soft thud echoing in the quiet room, before letting out a long, exhausted sound, my shoulders sagging with the release of everything I had been holding in for far too long.

 It was like stepping into an old, worn-out pair of shoes—comfortable, yes, but so very, very tired.

My clothes felt too tight, too heavy against my skin. The material clung to me as if reluctant to let go, still holding on to the remnants of the day.

 The air inside my clothes was suffocating, the lingering scent of airplane disinfectant mixed with sweat and the faint traces of the concert—a place where I had poured every ounce of my energy, but now it felt so far removed from the person I was here, in the stillness of my bedroom. 

I needed to shed it all, to strip away the layers of exhaustion and confusion that clung to me like the weight of my thoughts.

With a soft, almost absent gesture, I pulled my clothes off, one piece at a time, until I was standing in the center of the room, my body bare and exposed. 

I felt a fleeting sense of vulnerability, but it was different now—like the vulnerability had been there all along, just waiting for me to acknowledge it. 

I wasn't sure whether it was the weight of the day, the weight of the weeks of silence between Paige and me, or just the constant ache of being too much and never enough, but I couldn’t stand being in my own skin any longer.

I walked into the bathroom, the cool air of the room brushing against my bare skin as I turned the handle of the shower. The sound of the water starting to run was a relief, like the first breath after holding it in for too long. 

I stood there for a moment, just watching as the steam began to rise, filling the small space with the promise of warmth. 

I didn’t know why, but the sound of the water rushing over my skin always made me feel like I could wash away everything that had been holding me back.

I reached for the shower gel, the familiar scent of lavender and vanilla filling the air, soothing the sharpness of my thoughts. 

The rhythm of my routine was mechanical, each motion automatic, as though the very act of cleansing myself would somehow make everything else disappear. I lathered the soap between my hands, letting the bubbles form before running them over my shoulders, down my arms, across my chest. 

The sensation of the warm water and the smooth gel was comforting, but it didn’t erase the tension from my body. The tightness in my chest. The exhaustion in my bones.

As the last streams of water cascaded down my body, I exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the day swirl down the drain with the steam. 

My skin was flushed from the heat, my muscles finally unwinding in a way they hadn’t in weeks. With a tired sigh, I reached for the dial and twisted it off, the sudden absence of water leaving behind a silence that felt deafening.

I stepped out onto the soft bath mat, droplets clinging to my skin, catching in the dim glow of the bathroom light. The mirror was fogged over, a blurred reflection of myself barely visible through the condensation.

 I dragged a hand across it, but the moment my fingers left, the fog returned—like it didn’t want me to see myself too clearly. Maybe that was for the best.

Reaching for the plush white towel hanging on the rack, I wrapped it around my body, securing it just above my chest before moving to my sink. 

My fingers worked methodically, reaching for the cleanser on the marble countertop, twisting the cap open with a soft click. 

The cool gel foamed between my palms as I massaged it into my skin, small circles over my cheeks, my forehead, my jawline—washing away the remnants of the day, the exhaustion, the tension buried in my bones.

Patting my face dry with the towel, I reached for my toner, pressing it into my skin with slow, deliberate motions, letting the calming scent of rose water settle my nerves. 

Next was my serum—three drops onto my fingertips, warming them between my hands before pressing them gently into my face, feeling the way my skin drank it in. Finally, moisturizer—rich and thick, sealing everything in.

 A touch of lip balm. A swipe of eye cream. Routine. Predictable. Safe. The only thing I could control in a world that constantly felt like it was slipping through my fingers.

I let my towel drop to the floor, reaching into my dresser for the first set of lingerie I could find.

 My fingers brushed against lace, soft and delicate, a contrast to the quiet storm inside me. Black. Lacy. The kind of set that made me feel something—powerful, maybe, or just put together in a way I hadn’t felt in a while. 

The thong sat high on my hips, the delicate straps hugging my skin, while the matching lace bra fit perfectly against my chest, a teasing hint of sheer fabric that was for no one’s eyes but my own.

I ran a fresh towel through my damp hair, squeezing out the excess water as I padded barefoot to my bedroom. The air was cool against my skin, sending a small shiver down my spine.

 I reached for my body lotion—warm vanilla and sandalwood, something soft yet deep, something that smelled like home. 

My hands moved slowly, spreading the lotion over my arms, my legs, across my stomach, taking my time, savoring the moment, grounding myself in it.

With a sigh, I made my way to my bed, pulling back the plush duvet, already craving the warmth of the sheets. But just as I was about to slip in, the sharp ding of my doorbell sliced through the silence.

I froze.

Every muscle in my body tensed, the sound sending a jolt of adrenaline through my veins. My heart lurched against my ribs, a sudden, erratic rhythm that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with fear.

My breath caught in my throat as I reached for my phone, fingers hovering over the keypad, ready to dial 911. But something inside me hesitated. Who the fuck would show up at my condo at 2:25 a.m.?

My eyes darted to the clock on my bedside table, the glowing numbers confirming what I already knew—this was not the time for casual visits.

I had watched way too much Criminal Minds to take this lightly.

My mind raced with worst-case scenarios as I silently reached for my nightstand drawer, pulling out my taser with steady hands. The weight of it was reassuring, even if my pulse was anything but.

The doorbell rang again.

I flinched. A sharp inhale. My grip tightened around the taser as I moved quietly, my bare feet soundless against the floor. 

The condo was dark, save for the silver slivers of moonlight streaming in through the windows. Shadows stretched across the walls, making everything feel larger, deeper, more uncertain.

Another ring.

Fuck.

I sucked in a breath, slipping into the kitchen. My fingers wrapped around the cool steel of a knife before I even had time to think about it.

 I really need to invest in a Ring cam, I thought bitterly, my grip tightening around the handle as I moved toward the door.

I didn’t plan on entertaining whoever was on the other side. In fact, I wasn’t even sure why I was creeping toward the peephole instead of calling the cops. 

But curiosity—or maybe sheer stupidity—had me stepping forward, pressing onto the tips of my toes, peering through the tiny glass lens.

And the moment I saw her, a breath of relief escaped me, mixed with frustration so thick it almost choked me.

I let out a groan, my head dropping against the wood for half a second before unlocking the door.

I swung it open, eyes narrowing as I glared at the woman standing before me.

“Why the fuck—”

Paige stood in the dim glow of the hallway lights, wrapped in an oversized hoodie and regret. A mess of contradictions. 

Her eyes flickered—hesitation, exhaustion, something unreadable—but it didn’t matter. Not anymore. I swallowed down the bitterness rising in my throat, gripping the doorframe just to keep steady.

"Is this how you open your door now?" Her voice was sharp, but beneath it, something else—softer, unspoken, maybe even shaken. 

Her gaze raked over me, dragging from my damp hair to the black lace barely covering me, lingering a second too long before landing on the knife in my hand. 

Her lips parted slightly, the muscle in her jaw clenching like she wanted to say something, but I was already scoffing, already done with this before it could even start.

I moved to shut the door in her face, the finality of it sweet on my tongue—but then her hand shot out, fingers curling around the edge, voice suddenly quieter.

"Wait."

I stilled. My teeth ground together as I stared at her, waiting, because that was all I had ever done when it came to Paige—waited for her to come around, waited for her to give a damn, waited for her to realize that I was always right here.

This time, she hesitated. Swallowed. Her fingers tightened on the frame, eyes darting over my face like she was searching for something—something I refused to give her.

"Can I—" Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper. She exhaled sharply, blinking hard. "Can I come in?"

I scoffed, shifting my weight, exhaustion settling into my bones like a slow ache. "Why are you even here?" I demanded, arms crossing, fingers tapping against my bicep. "Actually, how the fuck did you even know I was here?"

Her gaze faltered. Guilt flashed across her face, quick but unmistakable.

"I—" She exhaled, dropping her shoulders. "I asked Renee."

Of course, she did.

I shook my head, laughing humorlessly. Disbelief curled in my stomach, bitter and sharp. It was two in the morning.

 I was standing in my damn hallway, barely dressed, exhausted beyond belief, and the girl I had spent the past weeks trying to forget was just standing there like she had every right to be.

I should have slammed the door. Should have told her to go to hell, to find someone else to ruin, to stop haunting me like she didn’t even know she was doing it.

But instead, I exhaled through my nose and widened the door.

Because I was stupid.

Because I was weak.

Because despite everything—despite the ache she had left me with, despite knowing exactly how this night would end—I still wanted her.

Paige stepped inside, slow, careful, but I didn’t miss the way her gaze dragged over my figure, the way her throat bobbed when she caught the scent of my body wash wrapping around her like a taunt.

Her eyes fluttered closed for half a second, inhaling.

I hated that it made my stomach tighten.

Clenching my jaw, I turned and locked the door behind us. The condo was mostly dark, save for the silver glow of the city bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

 Shadows stretched long across the hardwood, over the countertop, over Paige’s silhouette as she stood there, hands stuffed into the pocket of her hoodie like she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with herself.

And for the first time since I opened the door, I became fully aware of how little I was wearing.

It was nothing new—Paige had seen me in far less. Had touched, kissed, devoured. Had mapped out every inch of me like she was the only one who had the right to. 

And yet, standing here now, her eyes flickering between me and the floor, something about it made my skin prickle.

I turned away sharply, scanning the counter for something—anything—to throw on. Placing the knife I had in my palms onto the counter top as I searched.

My lips pressed into a thin line as I grabbed the oversized hoodie draped over the stool, tugging it over my head before facing her again.

Silence.

Thick. Suffocating.

Paige shifted on her feet, glanced at me once before looking away, exhaling like she had something to say but didn’t know where to start.

I broke the silence first.

"Paige," I said, arms crossing over my chest, voice flat. "Why are you here?"

She hesitated. A muscle in her jaw twitched, her lips parting like she was going to say something, then thinking better of it.

"I wanted to talk."

I scoffed, shaking my head. "Seriously? This couldn’t wait until morning?"

Her mouth pressed into a tight line. "Look, I’m sorry for how—"

"There’s nothing to talk about," I cut her off, voice sharp, cold. "You were right, though. I mean, it’s what we agreed to in the beginning, right? No strings attached?" My laugh was bitter, hollow. "It’s my bad for getting too deep."

She exhaled, frustration laced in the breath she let out. "Listen, please."

I shook my head, glaring at her. "Why would I, hm? When all I ever asked was for you to do the same? When all you’ve given me is shit."

Paige winced. Just slightly. But it was enough. Enough to tell me she knew I was right. Enough to tell me that maybe—just maybe—she was feeling it too. Whatever this was.

Her hands twitched at her sides, her tongue running over her bottom lip like she was trying to taste the words before she spoke them.

"I—I don’t know what I’m doing here," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loud would make it real. 

"One second, I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and the next I was…" She sighed, shaking her head. "Standing at your door."

I swallowed down the lump rising in my throat, shoving my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie. "And?"

Her brows furrowed. "And what?"

"And what do you want, Paige?" My voice was quieter now, something softer lurking beneath the edges. Dangerous.

She blinked, looking at me like she didn’t have an answer. Like she hadn’t thought that far ahead. And maybe she hadn’t. 

Maybe she really had just ended up here on autopilot, driven by some force neither of us could name.

The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Her mouth opened, then closed. Her shoulders rose and fell. My heart hammered in my chest, and for the first time since opening the door, I wished I hadn’t.

"Y/N…" She breathed my name like it hurt, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to say it anymore.

I shook my head, stepping back. "No," I said, voice trembling slightly. "You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to show up at my door in the middle of the night and expect me to just—"

"I don’t expect anything," she interrupted, stepping forward, closing the space I’d just put between us. "I just… I don’t know."

I let out a humorless laugh. "That’s your problem, Paige. You never know."

Her breath hitched, and for a split second, I saw something crack behind her eyes. Vulnerability. Uncertainty. Maybe even regret. But I couldn’t let it be my problem anymore.

I turned away, exhaling sharply. "You should go."

Paige hesitated, and I could feel her looking at me, feel the battle waging in her chest. But she didn’t move. Not for a long moment.

And when she finally did, it wasn’t toward the door.

Paige stood there for a heartbeat—just one, but it felt like a thousand years of silence wrapped in a veil of unspoken things. 

Her shoulders hunched as if carrying the weight of the world, the weight of the tension between us, and every single word that hung in the air but never found its way out.

I could feel her eyes on me, tracing the lines of my body like they were searching for something lost. 

She wasn’t looking at me—no, she was looking past me, through me, to the place we used to occupy in each other’s lives. It was suffocating. 

The air thick with memories we’d tried to bury, yet they kept creeping up on us in the quietest moments, like shadows in the corner of a room we couldn’t escape.

She exhaled a shaky breath, as if her lungs had forgotten what it felt like to breathe freely in my presence. I watched her throat work, the muscles in her neck tightening as she swallowed whatever it was she wanted to say but couldn’t. 

And then, with a small, hesitant movement, she stepped forward, closing the gap between us, one inch at a time.

I felt the shift in the air as her presence filled the space around me, the familiar scent of her perfume—something musky, something floral, like fresh rain on dry earth—lingering in the room. 

My heart skipped, once, twice, before sinking, pulling itself back into my chest like a piece of me was being pulled away.

 I wasn’t sure if I hated it or wanted to drown in it.

Paige’s hand reached out, fingers trembling slightly as they hovered in the space between us, a silent invitation, or maybe a plea, for something I wasn’t sure I could give her anymore. 

Her palm wasn’t open, but it wasn’t closed, either—just hovering, a tentative truce waiting to happen, a touch waiting for permission.

My breath hitched in my chest. “Don’t,” I whispered, not trusting my voice, not trusting myself to say the words any louder, any more forcefully. It was a plea and a command all wrapped up in one broken syllable.

But she didn’t stop. Of course, she didn’t.

Her hand gently brushed against my arm, just barely a whisper of skin on skin, but it was enough to send an electric current through my veins, through every nerve I had buried so deep inside me for so long. 

Her touch was a memory—one I had spent months trying to forget—and now it was flooding back, too familiar, too raw, too everything I didn’t want to feel.

I jerked back, but my feet were rooted to the floor, frozen by some invisible force. 

Paige’s face softened, the sharp edges of her expression dissolving into something vulnerable, something real. 

She was searching me, every inch of me, as if she was trying to read the broken lines on my face, the shattered pieces of who I used to be when she was everything to me.

Her voice broke the silence, a whisper that felt like glass, fragile and cutting. “I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d said it, but it felt different this time. It felt like the first time she meant it. “I know I’ve hurt you, Y/N. I—I never meant to, but I did. And I—”

She faltered, and for a moment, she seemed so small, so uncertain, like a shadow of the girl I had once known so well. I opened my mouth to speak, to say anything—don’t apologize, it’s too late—but the words tangled in my throat, too heavy to lift.

I couldn’t do it. Not with her standing here, not with that look in her eyes.

I turned away, needing space, needing distance, needing something to stop the aching, bleeding mess in my chest from spilling out all over the floor.

 I stumbled toward the windows, where the city’s lights flickered below us like distant stars, too far to touch, too far to reach. 

The silence stretched between us again, thick and suffocating, but this time, it felt like an ocean, pulling me under.

I could feel her watching me, feel the weight of her stare on my back like a brand. “Why are you here, Paige?” The words left my mouth before I could stop them, jagged and raw, as if I had been holding them in for far too long.

She didn’t answer at first. She just stood there, her fingers twisting in the hem of her hoodie, unsure, waiting for something, for the right moment to speak. But the right moment never came.

Finally, she spoke, and it wasn’t what I expected. “I came because I wanted to be here. Because I thought… maybe I could fix this. I thought maybe if I could just find the right words…”

Her voice wavered, a tremor in the quiet. “But I don’t even know what I’m supposed to fix.”

It was a punch to the gut, the truth of it, the way she admitted she didn’t know, had never known, that the brokenness between us wasn’t just my fault or hers.

 It was both of us, tangled together in a mess of misunderstandings and mistakes, and now we were just two people standing in the wreckage, pretending we could still build something from the ruins.

My hands balled into fists at my sides. “You can’t fix this, Paige,” I said, the words spilling out sharp, desperate. “You don’t get to waltz back in like suddenly something matters. You don’t get to—”

But I didn’t finish. I couldn’t.

Instead, I turned back toward her, and there she was, standing in the same spot, eyes wide and glistening, her lips trembling like she was trying to keep it together, trying to hold herself together long enough to get through whatever this was.

I wanted to scream. To yell. To do anything to stop this pain from bleeding out of me like a wound I couldn’t close. But there she was, still here, still in front of me.

I stepped closer, closer than I had intended, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I let my gaze soften. “I don’t want this,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, barely even mine anymore. “I don’t want you to hurt me anymore.”

Paige’s breath caught, and the vulnerability in her eyes was enough to break me. “I don’t want to hurt you either.”

But the truth of it, the harsh truth that both of us knew, was that we had already hurt each other too much to ever go back to what we were before. We were too broken, too fractured, too caught in the gravity of our own mistakes.

And as she took a tentative step forward, a single tear slipping from her eye, I knew, deep down, that this was the last time we would ever be standing this close again.

But I couldn’t make her leave. Not yet.

So, we stood there in the silence, the air thick between us, and I hated every single moment of it—yet I couldn’t seem to stop myself from breathing her in once more.

The air felt like it was wrapped in a fine, invisible web, delicate and stretching thin, pulling tighter with every passing second. 

We stood there, both of us, a breath apart, yet separated by miles of unspoken words. The tension between us was a quiet storm, one I could feel pressing in on all sides, suffocating, overwhelming, yet somehow familiar. 

It was the weight of everything we hadn’t said—the things we’d buried underneath layers of silence, of quick kisses, of moments stolen in the dark.

Her eyes never left mine, but there was something different now. A shift, a crack in the armor that had once felt impenetrable. 

Paige’s hand, still hovering in the space between us, slowly fell to her side, like she’d realized the touch she had longed for wasn’t just a reflex anymore. 

It had been something she needed to let go of, something that no longer fit in the puzzle of who we were.

But I wasn’t ready to let go. Not yet. Not when I could still feel her lingering warmth like a bruise on my skin. Not when I had spent the last few weeks pretending I didn’t care—pretending I hadn’t caught feelings, pretending this wasn’t as real as the beating in my chest that seemed to echo every time she said my name.

 “Y/N,” she whispered again, like it was a prayer, like it was a plea, a question she was afraid to ask but couldn’t keep silent anymore.

I looked away, unable to hold her gaze any longer. My heart hammered in my chest, a staccato rhythm that matched the panic clawing its way up my throat.

 I didn’t know how to respond to the weight of her stare, to the question in her eyes that I hadn’t been able to answer before.

 I was supposed to be indifferent, detached, just another name in a long list of names she had danced through. I wasn’t supposed to feel anything. I wasn’t supposed to want anything.

But I did. And that was the part that hurt.

I took a step back, trying to find the space between us, trying to reclaim what was mine before she got too close. “You should have never done this,” I muttered, more to myself than to her, as the words spilled out like regret—too fast, too sharp, too real. “I was fine. I was fine before this. Before you—”

She winced, the pain flashing across her face before she could hide it, before she could shut it down with that same defensive wall she always put up, that wall I had come to recognize but had never wanted to face. 

It had been easier, safer, when we didn’t feel anything—when we were just two bodies in the dark, nothing more than a brief, heated exchange of desire that was never supposed to linger past the morning.

But now, here we were, caught in the aftermath of something that neither of us had planned for.

Paige took a breath, steadying herself, and I could see the fight in her, the fight I knew so well, the one where she refused to let anyone see her break. 

“I know,” she said, her voice tight, rough with emotion she was trying to swallow. “I know I shouldn’t have pushed you away, Y/N. I never should have done that to you. But it was easier to leave before I—”

She stopped, closing her eyes as if the words had cut too deep, too quickly. I could hear the pain in her voice, the rawness that she tried to hide behind her bravado, but it wasn’t enough to cover the cracks. Not anymore.

I couldn’t help it. My chest tightened, the urge to close the distance between us pulling me forward even though every rational part of me screamed to keep my distance.

 “Easier to leave?” I asked, my voice cold, trying to put the distance between us again, trying to keep my emotions wrapped up tight in a box where they belonged. 

“Easier than facing me? Easier than facing what we were?”

She shook her head, her hair falling in waves around her shoulders as she took another step closer, a slow, hesitant movement, as if she was waiting for me to reject her again. 

“It was easier to walk away before I realized I—before I realized how much I was hurting you.”

My breath caught in my throat. I could see it then—the vulnerability in her eyes, the one she never let anyone see. 

“You didn’t think you were hurting me?” I asked, the question dripping with disbelief, the irony of it stinging my tongue. “You didn’t think I’d be hurt when you used me like that?”

The truth was, we were both using each other in ways that pained us both.

She winced again, like my words had pierced something deep inside her. “I didn’t mean to use you. I thought I could handle it. I thought we could just... keep things casual. No strings attached, no feelings.”

Her voice faltered on the last words, and I saw the truth in her eyes. “But then... you kept looking at me like that. Like I was more than just a body. And I—”

Her hands trembled as she reached out again, this time not hovering but fully extending toward me, a plea that wasn’t just physical, wasn’t just the echo of the lust that had driven us together in the first place. It was more than that.

I wanted to pull away. I wanted to step back, keep myself safe, keep my heart locked away from her. But I couldn’t.

Her fingertips brushed against my arm again, this time lingering, as if they were silently asking for something I wasn’t ready to give. But my walls were crumbling, piece by piece, and I could feel it. 

“I don’t know what I want anymore,” I admitted, my voice low, breaking in the middle of the sentence like it was a confession, like it was a sin I couldn’t wash away. 

“I don’t know if I can go back to what we were. But I can’t just—forget, Paige. I can’t just walk away from this.”

She pulled back then, sharply, like I had burned her, like my words had stung too much. But I saw the vulnerability in her eyes. 

The realization that she had messed up, that this was a mess of her own making. And for the first time in this broken dance, I saw her desperate to fix it.

“I wasn’t supposed to care, either,” she said, her voice small now, quieter than I had ever heard it, filled with regret. “I wasn’t supposed to let this get to me. But it did. And now all I want to do is make it right, make you see that I wasn’t playing you, that I—”

I reached for her then, my hand finding her wrist, holding her in place, the skin of my fingers burning where we touched. “I don’t know if you can.”

She swallowed hard, the words so much heavier than either of us had expected. Neither of us was ever supposed to want this, want each other. 

But here we were, tangled in the mess of our own desires, unsure whether we could ever untangle ourselves. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath against the storm between us. “I never meant to hurt you.”

And as the last bit of the distance between us vanished, I couldn’t help but wonder if the damage had already been done. 

Would we be able to fix what we had broken, or were we destined to fall apart in the spaces we had made for each other?

The tension between us was palpable, a charged silence that seemed to stretch out endlessly, heavy with all the things we hadn’t said, all the things we couldn’t say.

 I could feel the weight of her gaze on me, every flicker of emotion she didn’t let herself express—how her eyes betrayed her strength, showing the cracks she thought she could hide, how the uncertainty in them mirrored the chaos in my chest.

I could feel her heart pounding through her chest, the rhythm of her pulse matching the thrum of my own.

 It was as if the air between us was charged, filled with the kind of electricity that made every touch, every glance, every movement feel like an explosion waiting to happen. 

Yet, somehow, it felt fragile—like a delicate thread holding us together, only waiting for one wrong move to snap it in half.

We stood there, locked in an unspoken battle, neither of us willing to give an inch, neither of us knowing where to go from here. 

The weight of everything—of the nights we spent tangled in each other, of the words left unsaid, of the hurt we hadn’t acknowledged—pressed down on us.

 “I didn’t mean to—” she started, her voice shaking slightly, a quiet confession in the space between us.

But I couldn’t hear it anymore. I couldn’t keep listening to her excuses, to her guilt, to the echo of all the things she wished she could take back.

 I was tired of the push and pull, tired of being caught in the back-and-forth, in this constant cycle of wanting something that would never be more than what it was supposed to be. 

Something casual. Something temporary.

I wasn’t sure how we got here, but I knew I was done being patient with the uncertainty. I was done pretending I didn’t care, pretending I didn’t feel the ache in my chest every time I saw her pull away.

 I wasn’t going to let her keep running from this, from me.

I didn’t even realize what I was doing until it was too late. My body moved before my mind could catch up, before I could think it through, before I could stop myself from doing what I knew would hurt but also felt so damned right.

In an instant, we were crashing into each other, the force of it as wild as the storm raging inside me.

 Her lips pressed to mine, barely a whisper at first—clumsy, hesitant—but then it deepened, and I couldn’t stop it. It wasn’t a kiss anymore, not like before. This was something heavier, something realer. 

This was a reckoning.

Her hands, shaking at first, slid over my chest, pressing against the heat of my skin like she was trying to pull herself closer, like she was desperate for something more than just this. 

My hands moved instinctively, fingers tracing over the curve of her waist, feeling the warmth of her body through the thin fabric of her shirt, grounding me in the moment. 

There was no space between us anymore. No distance. We were wrapped up in each other, breathing each other in, every inhale sharp with the need we couldn’t deny any longer.

And yet, even as the kiss deepened, the intensity rising like a tidal wave, I could feel the weight of the past pressing in on me. 

I could feel it in the way her lips trembled against mine, in the way her breath hitched in the space between our kisses. 

We had both been here before—caught in the heat of the moment, tangled in the confusion of everything we had tried to bury—but this time, it was different.

 This time, there was something raw, something unspoken, that neither of us could escape.

Her body pressed against mine, her chest heaving with every breath, and I could feel the frantic urgency in her touch, in the way she grabbed at my hoodie, pulling me closer, as if she was trying to erase all the distance between us, all the walls we had put up. 

Her hands moved over me, frantic and unsteady, like she was searching for something she didn’t know how to find.

I could feel the heat of her skin seeping into mine, every touch igniting something deep inside me, something that felt dangerous, something that felt like it might burn us both. 

But I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop.

We were lost in each other now, lost in the moment, in the intensity of the kiss, in the desperation that had taken over our bodies. 

It was a new kind of intimacy—familiar yet strange, like we were finally seeing each other for the first time in a way we never had before. 

Every movement felt like a step closer to something we hadn’t been ready for, but now couldn’t escape.

My hands roamed over her back, feeling the shudder that rippled through her as if she was trying to ground herself in me, trying to anchor herself in the chaos.

 Her lips left mine, breathless, and before I could think, I found my hands on her neck, pulling her closer, guiding her down to my level. 

She lowered herself to me, her forehead resting gently against mine as we both tried to catch our breath.

For a moment, we were silent. But the silence wasn’t empty. It was full of all the things we hadn’t said, all the things we hadn’t allowed ourselves to feel.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” I whispered, my voice barely audible in the quiet that surrounded us.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she tilted her head, eyes searching mine, her breath still coming in uneven gasps.

 “Neither do I,” she confessed, her voice soft but laced with something raw, something vulnerable. “But I know I can’t keep pretending.”

And in that moment, the world outside ceased to exist. There was no more confusion, no more questions. 

Just the two of us, tangled up in the mess we had created, and the quiet realization that we couldn’t go back. The thread between us, fragile as it was, had already snapped.

The moment Paige's lips found mine again, it was as if the world fell away completely.

 My breath hitched, a soft sigh escaping me as her hands tangled in my hair, fingers threading through the strands of my blond locks with a tenderness that belied the tension between us. 

There was a pull to her touch, an urgency, but also a sense of reverence, like she was trying to memorize every moment, every second of our closeness.

Her hands slid beneath the fabric of my oversized hoodie, the warmth of her fingertips brushing against the exposed skin of my hips. 

I couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran through me, her touch igniting a fire inside that burned brighter with every second. Her fingers, so deliberate, so careful at first, traced the line of my skin before dipping lower. 

The thin elastic of my black thong caught between her fingers, a whisper of tension that made my heart race. Her touch became more daring, more possessive as she ran her hand farther down, pulling me closer to her. 

I could feel her every movement, the way her hands shifted, finding their way around the curve of my ass, squeezing softly as she groaned into our kiss.

I pulled away slightly, my lips just a centimeter apart from hers, breath mingling heavily in the space between us.

 My chest heaved, the weight of everything crashing down on me, and all I could manage was a quiet, desperate "Fuck me," slipping out of my mouth like a confession, like a plea.

The words hung in the air between us, raw and vulnerable, yet undeniable. Paige’s breath caught, and for a moment, time seemed to stop.

 Her hands paused, her fingers still buried in the fabric of my hoodie, the weight of her touch as heavy as the silence between us. 

But that silence shattered when her lips crashed against mine once more, this time with a hunger that made my knees weak. She pulled me closer, closing the space between us, her body pressing into mine with a force that left no room for doubt, no room for hesitation.

The intensity of her touch sent waves of heat through my skin, every inch of me coming alive beneath her hands. 

She gripped my hips, pulling me against her, and I felt the unmistakable hardness of her body beneath the thin layers separating us. Her hands were everywhere—sliding up my back, cupping the back of my neck, fingers tangling in the strands of my hair like she couldn’t get enough.

 Her lips left mine only to trail down to my jaw, my neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Each kiss felt like an imprint, like she was marking me as hers, like I was hers—trapped in the pull of her gravity, unable to escape even if I wanted to.

I gasped as her hands moved lower, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin just above my waistband before dipping beneath it, slipping past the fabric of my underwear with a smoothness that made my pulse spike.

 Her touch was steady, sure, like she knew exactly how to make me burn without ever needing to ask. 

My breath hitched again as her hand slid over the curve of my ass, groping, squeezing, pulling me closer still, as if she couldn’t get enough of the feel of me, of the way our bodies fit together so perfectly.

I moaned softly, unable to hold it in, my hands falling to her chest, pressing against the hard planes of her body, feeling the steady rhythm of her heartbeat beneath the fabric of her shirt. 

The sensation of her skin under my fingertips made my thoughts scatter. She was everywhere—her lips, her hands, the heat of her body. I wanted her. I needed her.

"Paige..." My voice was barely a whisper, thick with need, my hands tugging at her shirt as I pulled her even closer, if that was even possible. 

She didn’t wait for me to finish, her lips pressing against mine again, her tongue pushing into my mouth with a force that left no room for anything but her.

"Jump," Paige murmured against my lips, her voice low and filled with intent.

I didn’t hesitate. Without a word, I wrapped my legs around her waist, my arms around her neck, clinging to her as she lifted me effortlessly, her muscles flexing beneath me. 

The air around us felt thick, every movement heavy with the weight of what we were about to do. We didn’t need to speak anymore. 

There was no room for doubt. We were here, caught in the gravity of each other, and nothing else mattered.

As Paige carried me toward the stairs, it was as if our bodies knew the way.

 Even in the pitch black, she navigated her way through my condo with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before. 

Every step was instinctual, every movement fluid as she guided us toward the bedroom. I could feel her pulse beneath my fingertips, the rhythm of her breath matching the frantic thrum of my own.

 My mind raced, my thoughts scattered, but all I could focus on was the sensation of her touch, of the heat radiating from her body, of the way she made everything else disappear.

Her hands were everywhere—running along my back, sliding down to my hips, her fingers digging into the flesh of my thighs as she carried me. 

Her touch was possessive, as if she was claiming me in a way that left no room for anyone else, as if she needed me in the same way I needed her. 

The world outside of us was nothing but a distant memory, the noise of the city muted by the sound of our heavy breathing, the pounding of our hearts.

The moment we reached the bedroom, she set me down gently on the bed—but as soon as my body met the softness of the mattress, I was back in her arms, her lips crashing into mine, as if even a second apart was unbearable.

 She hovered over me, her breath mingling with mine, her fingers threading through my hair, tugging just enough to make me shiver.

 My hands were frantic, pulling at her clothes, desperate to feel more of her. Every inch of her skin was like fire against mine, every kiss a promise, every touch a declaration.

 I was lost in her, in the pull of her gravity, in the undeniable need that had taken over both of us.

I could feel the world slipping away, unraveling around us as the distance between us closed. The air, thick with the scent of desire, clung to my skin like a second layer. 

Every brush of Paige’s fingers, every press of her lips, sparked something inside me—something primal, something fierce. She was a wildfire, a storm I could never outrun.

 She consumed me, and I let her.

Her hands—strong and sure—were everywhere. Tugging at the fabric of my hoodie with a desperation that mirrored my own, the fabric slipping easily from my body, falling to the floor like leaves caught in a windstorm. 

She kissed me again, harder this time, her lips urgent against mine, as if trying to force me into the same frenzy that was building in her.

Her tongue, hot and demanding, slid against mine in a dance we’d perfected over the months, and I found myself lost in it, in the way our bodies fit together like two halves of a whole.

 My breath hitched as her fingers ghosted over my skin, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

Then, she pulled away just enough to look at me, her gaze dark, nearly predatory. 

Paige was practically drooling at the sight beneath her—the way the lacey thong clung to my hips, the delicate bra pushing my breasts together so nicely.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, eyes drinking me in like she’d never seen anything so perfect.

I spread my legs just a little more, inviting her in, watching the way her jaw clenched as she moved up the bed, positioning herself between my thighs.

“Look at you,” she whispered, voice thick with hunger. “So damn pretty.”

And then, she was on me again—touching, tasting, making it impossible to think about anything other than her.

"God, I need you," she murmured against my lips, her voice raw and ragged, thick with emotion. Her breath was hot against my ear as she pressed her body into mine, every inch of her warmth seeping through me, setting me ablaze.

I could feel her heartbeat under my fingertips, steady and strong, as my hands moved over her skin, memorizing every curve, every inch of her. 

My fingers trailed down the hard lines of her arms, her sides, grazing the soft skin of her waist, before slipping lower, finding the familiar curve of her hips. 

She was a map of desire, every part of her calling to me, pulling me closer, deeper into the orbit of her body.

"Paige..." I gasped, my voice trembling, my fingers curling around the drawstring of her gray sweatpants. There was no room for hesitation now—only raw, desperate need.

 I wanted her, wanted to feel every part of her, to melt into her completely. Words felt useless when my hands could say so much more.

She let out a low, guttural sound, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she watched me. Her eyes—dark, smoldering with hunger—never wavered. She didn’t stop me, didn’t rush me. 

Just watched, her lips curving into a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver straight down my spine.

The moment I tugged at the tie, loosening it with deliberate slowness, her breath hitched. I slid the soft fabric down her thighs, my touch lingering, savoring the heat of her skin beneath my fingertips.

Paige exhaled sharply, her own impatience surfacing as she kicked the sweatpants off the rest of the way, tossing them somewhere into the room without a second thought. Her movements were fluid, unbothered, like she knew exactly what she was doing to me.

My hands roamed over her, tracing the curves of her hips, the smooth expanse of her stomach, every inch of warm, inviting skin. 

And when my fingers skimmed the waistband of her boxers, barely brushing the fabric, she gasped—sharp and sudden.

Her eyes met mine then, locked in a silent challenge, an unspoken dare. An invitation.

And I wasn’t about to turn it down

“You’re so beautiful,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion, the weight of the moment pressing into my chest. 

My hands found her again, pulling her closer, desperate to feel every inch of her against me. 

Every touch, every glance, was a promise—a silent confession that neither of us was going anywhere, that we were caught in this storm together.

Her breath hitched as I let my fingers trail lower, slipping past the waistband of her boxers, teasing over the soft warmth between her thighs. 

A quiet gasp left her lips as I traced my fingers through her folds, feeling the heat, the slickness, the way she trembled under my touch.

"Don’t stop," she breathed, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me to her again, her lips crashing into mine in a kiss so intense I thought I might lose myself in it. 

Her hands were everywhere now—pressing against my waist, guiding me closer, urging me to forget the world outside of us, to forget everything but her, but this moment, this feeling that was consuming us both.

I could feel her warmth, the steady pulse of her heart, and the shallow breath she took as it synced with the frantic beat of my own. 

Every inch of her was an electric current running through me, pulling me in closer, as if our bodies were desperate to become one. 

The air between us was thick with the heat of our desire, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid, but still, neither of us could get close enough.

I slowly pulled my hand away from Paige's boxers, my fingers brushing against her skin as if reluctant to let go. She stood before me, her chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths.

 My hands found the familiar curve of her back, my fingers gently gliding up her spine as I pushed both her shirt and her hoodie over her head. 

Her skin was smooth and warm, illuminated by the soft glow of the room's light.

Now standing before me in nothing but her Nike sports bra, Paige's abs were perfectly defined, each muscle a testament to her strength and dedication. 

I couldn't help but trace the subtle lines of her body with my eyes, marveling at how effortlessly beautiful she was.

She let out a soft sigh, and without hesitation, I leaned forward, my lips brushing the curve of her neck.

 I kissed her slowly, savoring the feel of her pulse against my mouth as I moved down to her collarbone, leaving a trail of warmth behind. Each kiss was a mark, a promise, staking my claim on her in the most intimate way possible.

Her hands were back on me, pulling at the waistband of my thong, and I couldn’t stop the moan that slipped from my lips as her fingers skimmed the bare skin of my inner thighs.

 She was always so sure, so confident in everything she did, and I loved it, loved how she knew exactly how to touch me, exactly how to make me lose myself in her.

 She knew my body the way a painter knew their canvas, and each touch, each caress, felt like a stroke of genius.

She paused for a heartbeat, her hands still on me, as though she were savoring the feeling of me beneath her touch. 

Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, a softness in her eyes that only made her intensity more magnetic. 

“Are you sure?” Her voice was a low murmur, a vulnerable question that tugged at something deep within me. Despite the hesitation in her tone, there was an undeniable fierceness in her gaze, a fierce need I could feel just as strongly as she did.

I reached up, my hands trembling slightly as they cupped her face, my thumbs brushing the softness of her cheeks. 

The warmth of her skin burned through me, making my heart race. 

"Yes," I whispered, the word thick with need, with desire, with everything I couldn’t hold back. “Please, baby. I want you.”

Her eyes softened at my words, and I saw the shift—the sudden deepening of the heat between us. It was as though something had cracked wide open, something neither of us could hold back anymore. 

The world seemed to narrow, just the two of us, the air between us charged with the promise of something we both needed desperately.

Then, with an urgency that took my breath away, Paige tore the thong from my body, the fabric tugged roughly from my skin. 

My breath hitched as she widened my legs, a groan escaping her lips as she took in the sight of me laid bare for her– glistening with desperation. 

Her eyes drank me in, hunger evident in every glance, her heat matching my own. I whimpered, the sound slipping from my lips before I could stop it.

“M’gonna take my time with you,” she whispered, her voice thick with raw desire, and there was something about the way she said it, like a promise that sent a shiver down my spine. 

Slowly, deliberately, she lowered herself, never breaking eye contact, her lips trailing over the curve of my body.

 Every touch was a caress, a teasing kiss, a nip that sent jolts of electricity through my veins. I gasped, my body arching toward her as she kissed, licked, and nipped her way down, her lips hot against my skin. 

She paused just above my hips, pressing two gentle kisses against my hip bones, before trailing lower still, teasing me with the lightest touch, until her lips brushed over the most sensitive part of me.

The sensation hit me like a tidal wave, the rush of heat flooding my veins, pulling every breath from my chest, leaving me dizzy with longing.

 Each touch, each kiss, was a jolt of pleasure that surged through my body, igniting every nerve. The intensity was overwhelming—an insatiable craving that I couldn’t escape, couldn’t contain. 

The air around us felt thick, almost suffocating, as the weight of our need pressed in from all sides. My heart raced, my chest tightening as I fought to breathe, and in that singular moment, nothing mattered but her—her touch, her presence, the way she made me feel.

Paige moved slowly, deliberately, settling between my thighs with an ease that was both possessive and tender. She draped my legs over her strong, muscular shoulders, the warmth of her skin radiating against mine.

 I could feel the roughness of her hands as they slid up my thighs, her touch firm but gentle, tracing the sensitive lines of my body like she knew exactly where to make me shiver. 

Her lips were warm against my skin, and as she shifted, I felt her breath against me—soft, almost reverent, before she pressed a long, slow kiss against the inner curve of my leg.

Then her tongue—oh God—her tongue slid up my skin, slow and smooth, until it reached its destination. 

Every inch of me seemed to pulse with the sensation, my body aching with an intensity I couldn’t name. Her groan, deep and guttural, vibrated through me.

 “Fuck, I’ve missed you so much,” she whispered, her voice low and filled with raw, unfiltered desire. It wasn’t just words—it was a confession, a promise, something that was carved into the air between us.

A shiver ran through me at the sound, my entire body responding to her touch, my skin tingling with need. 

“Paige… please,” I begged, my voice barely a whisper, the words thick with desperation.

 I didn’t know if I was asking her to stop or begging her for more; all I knew was that I needed her, needed this, needed her to feel just as consumed as I was.

She didn’t hesitate. 

Her tongue flicked out, teasing me with long, languid strokes that made my back arch and my breath catch in my throat. 

She moved with an expertise that made it feel like time was stretching, each second lasting an eternity as she lavished me with her touch. 

My entire body was alive with sensation—heat pooling low in my stomach, my pulse thrumming in time with her every move. 

When her tongue circled around my clit, the world tilted, spinning out of control. 

My breath hitched, my hips rising instinctively toward her as I felt the first surge of pleasure ripple through me, a wave of warmth that made my body tremble in her grasp.

But she was steady, her hands gripping my thighs, her lips never leaving me, as if she had all the time in the world to make me feel every inch of her. And I wanted it. Needed it. 

Her touch, her breath, the quiet intensity that passed between us, felt like the universe had narrowed down to just this, just us, connected in ways that were raw, beautiful, and endlessly consuming.

Her lips were everywhere, teasing, tasting—each movement calculated but dripping with desire.

 Paige’s hands held my thighs firmly, her fingers pressing into my soft skin as her mouth worked over me, lips wrapping around my sensitive clit, pulling gently, then flicking with quick, precise motions. Each time, I gasped, a desperate sound falling from my lips, my back arching slightly in response.

She alternated between dragging her tongue slowly across my folds and lapping at me with quick, heated strokes, her tongue now darting, now pressing against me, just enough to send tremors through my entire body.

 I tangled my fingers in her hair, my other hand gripping the edge of the bed, barely able to hold on as she continued to drive me wild. I could feel the warmth of her mouth, the sharpness of her movements, and I wanted more.

 "Fuck," I breathed, unable to stop myself as she sucked on my clit, her mouth fully enveloping me. "Don’t stop."

Paige hummed against me, the vibration sending a wave of heat through my core, and I moaned loudly, pushing my hips up in response. 

Her eyes met mine, dark with want, a slow smile curving her lips as she pulled back for just a second.

“You like that, huh?” she asked, her voice dripping with confidence, though it was breathless.

 “You like the way I make you squirm?” Her tongue flicked over my clit, just a quick pass before she pulled back to stare at me, her face inches from mine. She loved watching me unravel.

"God, yes," I gasped, the need coursing through me. "You—" I couldn't finish the thought, my words cut off by the sensation of her tongue plunging deep into me, flicking inside, then pulling back, teasing me just enough to make my head spin. 

My hips bucked, desperate, as she pressed into me, finding the perfect rhythm, sliding in and out with precision, her lips wrapping around my clit, sucking it, pulling it, making me forget everything but her.

Her mouth moved against me like it was an art, a need, every flick, every thrust of her tongue taking me higher. 

"You taste so fucking good," she murmured against my skin, and her voice—low, guttural—sent a fresh wave of heat through me. 

Her tongue flicked back to my entrance, teasing the sensitive area with just enough pressure before pushing in again, her lips kissing my folds as her tongue slipped deeper.

“Shit, Paige," I gasped, my fingers tightening in her hair, pulling her closer. The way she moved, relentless, her tongue flicking in and out of me, then circling my clit with maddening speed... I couldn’t take it much longer. "Please, I need—"

She cut me off with a sharp, deliberate thrust of her tongue, her mouth pressing harder against me as she moved with precision, lips wrapping around the bud once more. 

The tight coil in my stomach tightened, and I couldn’t hold back any longer.

"You're gonna make me cum," I whimpered, my voice rough with need. I felt her smile against me, smug satisfaction radiating from her as she hummed in approval.

“Then do it, baby,” she urged, her words muffled as her tongue flicked across my clit once more, pressure building with every pass. "Let me feel you come all over my face."

And with that, my body gave way. I cried out, my hips jerking as I came undone under her, waves of pleasure crashing over me, my hand gripping her head to keep her against me as my orgasm tore through me. 

Paige didn’t stop, not even when I begged her to. She kept going, her tongue still working against me as I shuddered, my breath coming in gasps. 

Only when I tried to push her away, my hand finally urging her back, did she pull away, her lips glistening with my slick, eyes locked on me with a satisfied grin.

"Fuck," I panted, breathless, utterly wrecked. "You... you know how to make me lose control."

Paige pulled away slowly, her lips still glistening from the mix of my arousal. Her eyes locked onto mine, a smirk spreading across her face as she wiped her thumb over the slick on her chin, collecting it. 

Without breaking eye contact, she slid her thumb into her mouth, sucking it clean, all while keeping that smug, almost predatory grin.

“You taste even better than I remembered,” she purred, her voice thick with satisfaction. “I’ve always known, baby. Jus’ too good.”

Paige hovers over me, her lips finding mine with an urgent heat, a hunger that I can’t help but feel deep in my bones.

 Every kiss she gives me feels like a promise, a slow burn of need that echoes through every part of me. Her mouth on mine is intoxicating, and I feel every inch of it. 

My body is still humming from the pleasure I just felt, the bliss lingering in my core. 

The sensation of her lips against mine only makes it more intense, like a beautiful reminder of what just passed and what’s still to come. 

 My core aches with that emptiness, the quiet pulse that calls for more, even as I try to savor the moment.

When her tongue slides between my lips, I taste myself on her, a raw, sweet flavor that sends another wave of heat through me. 

The realization hits me, and the thought of her carrying my taste on her tongue, the way her lips move against mine, makes my breath hitch. It’s almost too much, the connection, the way it feels like we’re melting into one another.

,Paige’s hands move with purpose, slipping behind my back to unclasp my bra. When the fabric loosens, I feel the heat of her fingertips against my skin, sending shivers all over me. 

The moment my bra falls away, her touch doesn’t stop—it lingers, tracing fire over my skin. But even as the bra drops away, our lips stay locked, refusing to break the connection. 

I feel it in my chest, in my breath, the way she consumes me in every kiss.

I can’t help but return the favor, my hands sliding down to touch her, to feel her. 

My fingers find the waistband of her boxers, already pulling them down, but before I can go any further, she stops me. I look up, confused, and the look on her face is intense. 

Her breath is heavy, and her voice is low, full of desire. “Ride me,” she breathes, her eyes locked on mine with that same hunger, and it shoots straight to my core.

I stare at her for a moment, my brow furrowing. “But what about—”

Before I can finish, she silences me with another kiss, a soft, quick peck that shushes my concerns.

 “Don’t worry about it,” she whispers, her lips brushing against mine as she pulls away. Without another word, she leans over to the bedside drawer, her movements smooth and fluid.

 I watch, feeling my heart race in my chest, my anticipation growing with every motion.

She pulls open the drawer, retrieving the strap-on, and I can’t tear my eyes away from her. 

My breath catches as she begins to slip it on, her legs shifting beneath her as she adjusts the harness, pulling it up her thighs.

 The sound of the strap tightening against her skin fills the room, each deliberate motion heightening the tension between us.

I watch her, feeling my pulse quicken. The heat in the room is thickening, and I can feel the desire between us, an undeniable pull that I can’t escape.

 My body buzzes with the need for her, the ache in my belly growing again as I take in the way she moves, how she looks, how she’s getting ready for what’s to come.

I swallow hard, my breath coming quicker now, my stomach fluttering with excitement and anticipation. I feel that familiar warmth deep within me again, the longing that never seems to fade.

The bed shifts beneath me, the sound of the sheets rustling as Paige settles back onto it, her back sinking against the headboard, her body relaxed but her eyes burning with something dangerous.

 She pats her thigh, the gesture casual but commanding, like she knows exactly what it does to me. “C’mere baby,” she murmurs, the tone rich with unspoken need.

I don’t hesitate. My body moves on instinct, trembling slightly as I climb over her, straddling her thighs.

My skin tingles, the cool air hitting me while the heat between us is palpable, thick enough to taste.

 Paige’s gaze trails over me, from the way my chest rises and falls to the slickness pooling between my legs, and I can feel the pressure of her eyes on me like a physical touch.

She’s watching me carefully, waiting, like she’s savoring the moment before she makes her next move.

 I feel the weight of her gaze as I reach down, my fingers brushing against the smooth surface of the strap. With a quiet breath, I spit into my palm, slicking the strap with my saliva. 

The action feels so simple, yet so intimate, like it's the most natural thing in the world, and yet it stirs something deep inside me.

I stroke it once, twice, feeling the warmth of my hand glide along the silicone, the motion steady and confident. Her breath catches, sharp and shallow, her eyes locked on mine as she watches every movement with hungry anticipation.

“Fuck, ma,” she whispers under her breath, the words thick with desire, sending a shiver down my spine.

"You're so fucking wet," Paige says, voice low and thick. "Look at you baby, want you to ride me." Her words hang heavy in the air, but it's the dark hunger in them that makes my pulse quicken.

My mind spins, a tight knot of desire and uncertainty twisting in my stomach. "Paige, are you sure..." I start to protest, but she cuts me off, her lips brushing over mine in a soft kiss that’s anything but gentle. It’s a claim, a promise.

 Her hand slides up to grip my waist, urging me forward with an urgency that stops any further thought.

"Shh," she whispers against my lips, "don’t worry ‘bout me, baby."

Her hands are everywhere—on my hips, guiding me forward, pulling me closer, and I feel myself obeying without question. 

My breath quickens, the tip of the strap brushing against my entrance. The sensation is already so much, yet it’s nothing compared to the aching emptiness inside me.

 I lower myself slowly, inch by inch, each movement deliberate, as the strap stretches me open.

The fullness is immediate, overwhelming, and I gasp, trying to adjust to the slow, steady pressure. 

Every inch fills me more, deeper, until I’m fully seated on her, and I can't help but moan at the sensation—the way it fills me so completely, the way I feel every inch of the length inside my walls.

“S-shit, baby.”

I stay there for a moment, letting the waves of sensation crash over me, feeling the stretch, the heat, the way my body pulses around her. 

Paige’s hands don’t leave my waist, holding me still as her eyes watch me with a mixture of lust and satisfaction.

“Good girl,” she growls, her hands gripping tighter as I begin to move, rocking my hips slowly at first. "Take it all, baby. Show me how much you need it."

Her words break something in me, and I begin to ride her, the motion slow at first but quickly growing desperate. I feel my brow furrow, the way my jaw slackens as I lose myself in the pleasure. 

My body is responding to her, each movement pushing me closer to the edge. The strap slides in and out, the friction making my insides tighten around it, the sensation of fullness overwhelming me.

 I bite my lip to hold back a moan, but it slips out anyway, quiet and needy.

Paige’s gaze is fixed on me, her eyes dark with hunger, watching every inch of me, every little shiver that runs through me. 

“So fucking perfect. The way you move for me, the way you ride my dick—God, you drive me crazy. You’ve got no idea how good you look right now.” She licks her lips, eyes never leaving mine, her voice low and commanding.

“Could watch you fall apart like this for hours, baby. You're fucking breathtaking."

The words send a thrill through me, and my hips move faster, harder, as I try to chase the feeling, that deep ache in my core that won’t stop building. 

“Fuck, Paige,” I mewled, moaning as I felt every inch of the strap stretch me open, the pressure building inside me. I moved with it, desperate for release, each thrust making my breath hitch. 

My chest rose and fell with the rhythm, my hands gripping her thighs for balance as I rocked against her, craving more of the sensation, more of her.

My body is trembling now, on the verge of losing control, the pressure mounting with every second.

“Look at you,” Paige growls, her voice rough with need. “So fuckin’ wet f’me. So desperate.”  She grips my hips tightly, her fingers digging into my flesh as she helps guide my movements. 

“You love the way I make you feel, hm? Love this pussy, fuck– can’t get enough of you.” 

The rawness in her voice pushes me further, and I feel the wave of heat build between my legs. My body is betraying me, aching for more, moving faster on its own as I reach for the release I’ve been desperately chasing. 

My legs tremble, the tension coiling so tightly inside me that I feel like I’m about to snap. My lips part, desperate to form words, but all that spills out are breathless, broken moans.

Paige’s thumb finds my clit, pressing down in slow, deliberate circles, each one sending a fresh wave of pleasure through me, dragging me deeper into the overwhelming bliss.. 

A low, needy whimper slips from my throat as I press harder onto her, my head tilting back slightly, eyes fluttering closed, overwhelmed by the waves of pleasure crashing through me. 

I can’t stop now, not when I’m this close—my hips grinding desperately, each movement drawing me closer to the edge.

“You’re perfect for me, baby. Just like this,” she pants, her voice dripping with praise, her eyes wild with lust. 

“You take me so fucking well. Keep going.” Paige continued to mewl, her teeth grazing her bottom lip as she groaned at the sight of me clenching around her. 

 “Don’t stop, just like that. I’m never going to get enough of you, not when you’re this fucking beautiful.”

"Paige—I can't," I sigh, my words breaking off as my movements grow more erratic. The sensation of her inside me is overwhelming, too much, too fucking good. My hips grind down harder, chasing the intensity that’s building deep in my core. 

My breath comes in shallow bursts, lost in the frenzy of it all. I can't think, can't focus—only the feeling of her filling me, the sharp edge of desire that pushes me forward, deeper into the bliss I crave. Every inch, every movement is too much, yet I can't stop, can't slow down.

“This dick too much for you, ma?” she mocks with a grin, pressing her lips to one of my nipples before pulling away with a soft pop. The heat of her mouth lingers on my skin, and I shiver, my body reacting before my mind can catch up.

“C’mon, baby,” she growls, her hands tightening on my hips, guiding me as I ride her. “So close, I can feel it. You’re so fucking tight, so perfect." Her voice dips low, sending a shock of pleasure through me. "Be a good girl and keep ridin’ me. Move with me, baby—just like that.”

Her words spill from her lips like a command and a promise, urging me to find the rhythm, to move faster, deeper. 

Every thrust is a jolt of electricity, and her hands help pull me closer, pushing me harder onto her. I feel every inch of her inside me, the heat building, and my breath comes out in soft pants as I chase the pleasure she promises.

I obey, my body responding to her command as if it's the only thing that matters in this world. The air around us seems to vanish, replaced by the overwhelming sensation of her filling me, the stretch of the strap deeper than I ever expected. 

The rhythm of our bodies colliding sends shockwaves of pleasure through me, every thrust pulling me further under her control.

 I can hear the slap of skin against skin, the desperate, breathless gasps that escape my lips, and it only makes me want more.

Each inch of her pushes me closer to the edge, the heat between us like an inferno, smoldering beneath the surface. 

The strap is a thick, unrelenting force inside me, and with every stroke, I feel the pressure build, that tight coil of tension winding inside my belly, threatening to snap. 

My legs shake, trembling with need, my body so close to release I can already taste it. The pleasure is a wave, building higher, and my entire being is focused on that one beautiful moment where I can finally let go.

"Shit—baby, I’m gonna come," I gasp, the words spilling from my lips without any thought as my body burns with the need for release.

Paige groans, her grip tightening on my hips as she thrusts harder, faster, making my whole body jerk with each motion. "Yeah? Gonna come on my dick, ma?" she growls, her voice rough, sending an electric thrill through me.

Before I can answer, just as I’m about to lose myself, to surrender to the bliss that’s been building within me, Paige pulls out with a sharp motion, lifting me effortlessly and tossing me to the side. 

The sudden emptiness inside me is a shock, and I can’t help but whine in protest, my mind hazy, still clinging to the remnants of pleasure. 

I open my mouth to argue, to demand that she finish what she started, but my words dissolve into a breathless moan, high-pitched and desperate.

“Paige, please…” I start, but the words catch in my throat, swallowed by the sensation that still lingers in my core.

Before I can say anything more, Paige’s hands grip my thighs, and in one swift motion, she’s back inside me, sliding deep with a single, forceful thrust. 

My legs are immediately lifted, thrown over her shoulders, and my body trembles beneath her power. A gasp escapes my lips, a primal sound that I can't control.

“Oh my fuck!” I yell, my eyes slamming shut as my jaw slackens, the shock of her re-entering me overwhelming every other thought in my mind. 

My body burns, every inch of me pulsing with the deep, heavy sensation of her inside me again, rearranging my guts.

The new angle has me seeing stars, my vision blurring as pleasure crashes over me in dizzying waves, leaving me breathless and utterly undone.

 My moans become louder, more guttural, rising from the depths of my chest as I feel the delicious ache of fullness. 

The pressure builds again, only this time it’s faster, more frantic. I can feel her deep in me, her movements deliberate and slow at first, but I can’t stop myself from pushing against her, desperate for more, aching for release.

Every snap of her hips slams into that devastatingly perfect spot, the one that has my vision blurring, my mouth falling open in a silent cry, my entire body surrendering to the waves of bliss crashing over me.

"Fuck, Paige!" I whine, my voice strained, filled with need. "Don’t stop, please!"

Paige’s groan fills the room as she picks up the pace, her thrusts deep and relentless. "You feel so fucking good, baby. You’re mine, you hear me?" She growls, each word like a command, making me ache even more. "You’re gonna come all over me. I can feel it, ma."

The pornographic moans echo through the room, and my body arches involuntarily, lifting as if I’m trying to take every inch of her, desperate to lose myself in the sensation. 

Paige keeps me trapped beneath her, driving into me with a relentless precision that leaves me trembling, completely at her mercy—my body hers to command, my pleasure hers to ruin. 

Each thrust drags me deeper into a haze of overwhelming sensation, my mind slipping further as she moves against me like she was made for this, like I was made for her.  

“Come for me, baby,” she grits out, her voice thick with need, her grip on my hips tightening as she drives into me.  

The tension inside me snaps, and I break with a choked sob, my entire body seizing as a rush of pleasure consumes me. 

Liquid spills between us, soaking everything—sheets, skin, her lower abdomen. I barely register the wrecked sound Paige makes, nearly undone herself at the sight of me falling apart for her.  

“Oh, fuck,” she groans, grinding into me as she helps me ride it out, dragging out every last wave of bliss until I’m nothing but a trembling, breathless mess beneath her.

“Shit, ma— look at that. Jus’ squirted everywhere.” 

Paige pulls out slowly, deliberately, as if she knows exactly how fragile I am in this moment. A soft whimper escapes me, melting into a breathless moan, my body still trembling from the aftermath. 

My limbs are useless, boneless, my chest rising and falling in uneven, heavy breaths as I lay beneath her, utterly wrecked—flushed, spent, undone.  

She lingers above me, eyes roaming, drinking me in with something raw and possessive.

 I can feel the heat of her gaze mapping every inch of me, lingering on the way my skin glistens, the way I’m still dripping from her, the way the sheets beneath us are damp with the evidence of her destruction. 

Paige exhales, a low, shaky sound, her fingers trailing over my thigh, barely grazing, teasing—because she can. I twitch beneath her, too sensitive, and her lips curl into a smirk before she leans down, capturing my mouth in a slow, languid kiss.  

It’s teasing, indulgent, her teeth grazing my bottom lip just enough to make me exhale a quiet, breathy laugh against her mouth. 

Paige chuckles too, the sound deep, warm, sending a shiver down my spine as she melts into me, pressing closer, stealing another kiss, and then another—soft, lazy, unhurried.  

And then she pulls back just slightly, lips still brushing against mine, voice nothing more than a hushed murmur.  

“Is it too late to tell you I’m releasing another song about you… in an hour?”  

My words take a second to sink in, her mind too dazed, too hazy, before I force my eyes open and glance at the clock on my bedside table. *3:00 AM.* The realization has me groaning, too exhausted to be annoyed but awake enough to tease her.  

“So “Purple Lace Bra was about me,” she muttered, her voice hoarse, thick with exhaustion.  

Paige’s lips curl into a playful grin, her teeth grazing my jaw with a soft, teasing nip before she presses another kiss there—gentle, featherlight, almost too tender for the intensity we just shared. 

Her eyes flicker with a quiet satisfaction as she pulls back, her hands reaching for the strap-on. 

The movement is slow, deliberate, and somehow reverent as she carefully slips it off, tossing it aside with a casual ease that contrasts the wildness of the moment.

“Obviously,” I hums, my voice laced with amusement as Paige rolls onto her side, pulling me against her chest. Her arms settle around me, warm and firm, her fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns against my damp skin.  

We settle into a quiet lull, our laughter fading into something softer, something more fragile. Paige exhales, her hand reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear before she stills, her touch lingering.  

“Hey,” she murmurs, so soft it’s barely above a whisper, as if anything louder might shatter me completely. “I just want you to know that I’m truly sorry.”  

I blink up at her, my breath catching slightly.  

“I’m sorry I was being a dumbass,” she says, her tone edged with something raw, something real.  

I don’t hesitate. I lean in, capturing her lips in a slow, deliberate kiss, not to distract, not to avoid, but to answer. She melts into it instantly, her fingers tightening on my waist as if grounding herself in me. 

And when I pull back, just enough to press my forehead against hers, I murmur, “Why don’t we—” I pause, considering, letting the thought take shape before I say it aloud. “Why don’t we take this slow?”  

Paige exhales, something deep and unspoken passing between us before she nods. “Yeah,” she breathes. “Slow.”  

The moment lingers, stretching into something infinite, before she pulls me closer, wrapping herself around me completely.

 The tension fades into something softer, something warmer, as her hands continue their slow, soothing exploration—tracing, praising, worshipping.  

She whispers against my skin, her voice a low, reverent murmur. “You were so perfect for me, baby. So good. So fuckin’ beautiful.” Her lips find my temple, my jaw, the shell of my ear. 

I hum in response, too exhausted to do anything more than nuzzle into her warmth, and Paige only holds me tighter, whispering soft praises against my skin—again and again—until we finally drift off, tangled in each other, in the quiet, in the aftermath of something that feels like a beginning.

No note today, I go sleep now.

P.S I haven’t written smut in a shit long time, but I hope you enjoyed <3

xoxo,

J.

© sweettu1ips.tumblr 2025 do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

[unabletonotlovesatoru]

nanami keeps his old photo albums in a neat row on the bottom shelf of his bookcase, tucked away like a secret he hopes no one will ever stumble upon. but you, being the curious and mildly intrusive person that you are, find them on a quiet sunday afternoon while he’s in the kitchen making tea.

“what are these?” you call out, already pulling one from the shelf. the leather-bound cover is worn but well-kept—of course it is, knowing nanami.

“old pictures,” he replies from the kitchen. “nothing special.”

but the moment you flip open the first page, you realize that is a blatant lie.

nanami kento, age sixteen, stares back at you with an expression so blank it loops back around to being hilarious. his hair—oh, his hair—is a relic of the mid-2000s, all long, choppy bangs swept dramatically over one eye. the unmistakable mark of a teenager who either listened to a lot of my chemical romance or read too much philosophy for his own good. maybe both.

your laugh bursts out so suddenly you almost drop the album.

“oh my god,” you gasp between wheezes. “nanami, get in here. now.”

he doesn’t respond right away, but you hear the kettle click off and his resigned sigh as he makes his way over. when he finally appears in the doorway, tea in hand, his eyes land on the open album and immediately narrow.

“no,” he says, completely serious.

“oh, absolutely yes,” you counter, turning the book so he can get a full view of his past sins. “look at you! the brooding! the aesthetic! did you—wait, did you straighten your hair?”

his jaw tightens, and you swear you see the ghost of a wince.

“occasionally,” he admits, as if the word physically pains him.

you collapse onto the couch, clutching your stomach from laughing so hard. “this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. why have you never told me about your emo phase?”

“because it wasn’t a phase,” he mutters, taking a slow sip of his tea like that’ll protect him from your merciless teasing.

you choke. “nanami.”

“i was a serious teenager.”

“you were a walking funeral.”

he glares at you, but there’s a hint of amusement beneath his exasperation. “i fail to see why this is so funny.”

you flip another page, revealing a rare candid shot of him sitting in what looks like a bookstore, engrossed in either a kafka novel or a collection of poetry. “oh, i don’t know, maybe because you look like you were one bad day away from writing poetry about how the world doesn’t understand you.”

he pinches the bridge of his nose. “i did write poetry.”

you wheeze.

“where is it?” you demand. “i need to read it.”

“absolutely not.”

“i’ll trade you my embarrassing high school photos.”

“you’ve already shown me those.”

“damn it,” you mutter. “okay, what if i—”

before you can finish your sentence, nanami smoothly plucks the album from your hands, closing it with a decisive snap.

“i think that’s enough reminiscing for today.”

“coward,” you huff, watching as he tucks the album back onto the shelf. but there’s a fond smile on your face, and you don’t miss the way his ears are just slightly pink.

he exhales, giving you a long-suffering look before finally relenting. “one poem,” he says. “and then we never speak of this again.”

you beam. “deal.”

[littelovelunette]

Hello!!! I love your work, I was wondering if you could do Sevika x Reader but sevika gets jealous, not possessive or sexy jealous like GENUINELY jealous and she doesn't know what to do about it, it's a rare feeling like she isn't control of the situation becuse she sees reader being genuinely happy and a lil bit too excited to see idk maybe grayson or somebody who's kind of sevika level amazing, maybe more?

Only if you'd like though!

Not In Control

Jealous!Sevika x Reader

Sevika wasn’t the kind of person to get rattled. She was solid, unshaken even in the worst of fights, a force of nature with a cigarette between her lips and shimmer in her veins.

She knew how to handle people—how to read them, manipulate them, and if necessary, crush them underfoot.

But this? This was something else entirely.

You had been talking to Grayson for the past ten minutes, and Sevika could count on one hand the number of times she had seen you this animated.

You weren’t just smiling—you were beaming.

Your eyes were alight with something rare, something Sevika usually only saw when you were with her after a long day, rambling about some stupid joke you heard or teasing her just to get a reaction.

But now, all of that attention—your enthusiasm, your warmth, your happiness—was directed at Grayson.

And Sevika hated it.

Not because she thought you’d leave her. Not because she thought Grayson was trying to take you from her. No, it was worse than that.

Sevika hated it because for the first time in a long time, she felt small.

The feeling curled inside her gut, ugly and unfamiliar. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, trying to appear casual, but her grip on her bicep was a little too tight.

She wasn’t used to this. She was used to being the one people looked up to, the one people noticed.

But right now? Right now, she felt like a shadow, watching from the sidelines while you looked at someone else the way you used to look at her.

And it wasn’t sexy jealousy either—the kind that came with a smirk and a possessive hand on your waist.

This was raw, twisted in her ribs like a knife.

She had no control over it.

Grayson said something, and you laughed—not a polite laugh, not the kind you gave when someone made a half-decent joke.

This was full-bodied, genuine, the kind of laugh that made your eyes crinkle at the edges.

Sevika felt something inside her chest tighten.

She needed to leave. Leave before she lost her shit.

But she didn’t.

She just stood there, silent and still, jaw clenched so hard it ached.

You turned then, catching sight of her, and that damn smile was still on your lips. “Sevika!” You waved her over, oblivious to the storm raging inside her.

She hesitated. A beat too long.

Then, forcing her body into motion, she pushed off the wall and walked over, slow and deliberate, as if she hadn’t just been standing there drowning in something she didn’t understand.

Grayson nodded at her, ever the picture of calm authority. “Sevika.”

“Grayson,” she greeted, voice even. Too even.

You, meanwhile, were practically buzzing, still caught in whatever conversation you’d been having. “Did you know Grayson used to—”

“I know,” Sevika interrupted, sharper than she meant to.

You blinked, surprised by the sudden edge in her voice. Grayson raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.

And Sevika hated that too. Hated that Grayson probably knew exactly what was happening.

Hated that she didn’t.

“Anyway,” Grayson said smoothly, clearly picking up on the tension, “I should get going. It was good catching up.”

You nodded, smiling. “Yeah! You too.”

Sevika didn’t watch Grayson leave. She was too busy watching you, studying the way your face still held that same brightness, the way you still looked so damn happy.

She didn’t know what to do with it.

You turned back to her. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” It came out too fast. Too clipped.

Your eyes narrowed slightly, sensing the shift in her. “You sure?”

“Fine.”

That clearly wasn’t enough for you. You stepped closer, studying her face, and Sevika had to fight the instinct to look away.

“What’s wrong?”

Nothing. Everything.

She didn’t know how to answer that.

So she just shrugged, rolling her shoulders like the tension there wasn’t enough to snap steel. “Nothing.”

You didn’t buy it.

She knew you didn’t buy it.

But you didn’t push. Instead, you just tilted your head, watching her like you were piecing something together. And then—so casually, so effortlessly—you reached out and took her hand.

Her fingers twitched, startled by the sudden warmth.

“You wanna get out of here?” you asked, voice softer now, like you knew she needed an escape but wasn’t quite ready to talk about it.

And for once, Sevika wasn’t in control. She just nodded, letting you lead her away from whatever the hell had just happened.

Maybe later, she’d figure it out.

But for now, she just held onto your hand a little tighter.

[persicipen]

hi hello! i saw in your reblogs that you’re unsure how to respond to reblogs so pleasee no pressure at all! 💗 anyway, my thoughts are a mess and honestly it’s hard for me to gather them in place because i got so invested and quite literally consumed by the world that i wasn’t even thinking of “what should i say to you after reading this paragraph” BECAUSEEE 🥹 this story was so captivating and i wanted to sink as deep as possible into the events!

10/10 story i need a hundred chapters of that /lh but i genuinely wish you feel rested and happy enough to continue it in your free time and without any stressful responsibilities that’d otherwise take you away from writing. i will be patiently waiting for future updates! 💗 if threefold story has no fans, then i am dead. and if the threefold story has any hater, then i will shield you from them <3

first things first — i adore reader here. she’s such a balanced mix of being slightly spoiled by her royal origins but also at a visible disadvantage now that she’s been taken far away from her home. and i love that she sometimes uses it so naturally even though deep inside she’s a very gentle and thoughtful person (like her recognising the palace patterns or acting almost childish when reminding the husband that mydeimos is “hers” — it didn’t feel out of character at all even though she was scared of overstepping) 🥺

such an amazing characterisation and how cold and lonely she feels in that new place T-T and that memory of her father saying that the sea is his second most beloved treasure eoughghhhhh tears in my eyes </3 SUCH AN AMAZING WORLD-BUILDING I MUST SAY !!! THE ‘3’ NUMBER BEING SO SPECIAL AND REAPPEARING SO MANY TIMES THROUGHOUT THE WHOLE STORY AND EVEN THE STORY HAVING THREE CHAPTERS MWAHHH ✨ POETIC CINEMA !!!

BUT anyway i am literally so scared of that husband. he is charming!!! scarily so!!! partially thankful that content warnings are only how they are because I FEAR for reader especially when he can so easily surprise her even during her talks with his cousin or even enter her chamber at night !!! AT NIGHT !!! what if he came to visit her a bit too early and saw her missing??? LET ME NOT— stoppp!

but i’m so so stressed because he is disturbingly well and very much alive at this moment and i just KNOW he’s the ultimate obstacle between reader and mydei AND I AM TREMBLING AT THE THOUGHT HOW THIS STORY CAN PLAY OUT 💔

let me not… let me not… i’m so fascinated by the whole world and reader as a person without even “inserting” myself in her place BUT allow me that one time, BECAUSE !!! BECAUSE MYDEIMOS CALLED HER A MOUSE OF A GIRL— the way my hand flew to my mouth after reading this… i know i know it’s just a metaphor and so fitting at that moment but as someone who associates with mice, very much so… it was a powerful blow. a critical hit, if you will. i gasped… 🥹 but genuinely i enjoyed this bit a lot because it broke the very first impression he had about reader — that she would be her husband’s pawn. it must’ve been a surprise even if mydei didn’t show it!

he…… mydei… mydeimos… i’m literally sprawled on the floor because everything about him is so heartbreaking in this story. he is still so proud and gleaming gold despite the sickness and awful treatment… reader is so me (and us all lol obviously) because how could you NOT visit him just to check on him and then unknowingly so fall for his pure and fierce charm… ❤️‍🩹

iughhhhh tears in my eyes AGAIN his characterisation here is so beautiful, like, obviously a lot can change because this au is completely different than the canon story but his very core remains the same and he really stole my heart poof just like that AGAIN <3

you say you don’t write smut but that last scene WAS EROTIC TO ME !!! it made me more emotional than any explicit love scene and I CRIED at that first tangible moment of trust between them. CALL ME BORING AND OLD-FASHIONED BUT SHARING BREAD WILL FOREVER BE SUCH A SPECIAL TROPE AND THE MOST POWERFUL OF SIMPLE GESTURES !!! <3

beautifully written across all 10k words ✨ i feel like a new person and YES even if it wasn’t so beautiful from a technical point of view I WOULD STILL DEVOUR THE STORY BECAUSE IT’S AMAZING but that is just one more thing to compliment !!!

you are such a skilled writer in conveying the story, the emotions, the atmosphere, the world-building, and the paragraphs themselves WOW i’m such a fan 💗 and i’m sorry for swooning and gushing over this piece so much but it really MOVED ME !!! thank you for posting this !!! <3

Series Synopsis: When the husband you’ve never met returns from the war you’ve never understood, he comes bearing a strange and inexplicable gift — a prince in chains who he refuses to kill.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Mydei x F!Reader

Chapter Word Count: 10.2k

Content Warnings: pls check the masterlist there is. a lot. and i’m not retyping all of that LOL

A/N: I AM SOO SCARED TO POST THIS NGL LMAOAO like i said in the warnings i literally. have not played amphoreus yet. idek anything about mydei SDKJH i am so worried i will disappoint everyone who's expressed interest in reading this HAHA i was also. not expecting anyone to do that tbh. BUT thank you all for your kind words on the masterlist and i hope this lives up to expectations at least a bit!!

You spent the day of your wedding with a man made of marble — a stand-in for your new husband, who was off fighting in a war of the kind which had neither cause nor, seemingly, end. The statue was carved in his image and sneered down at you as you whispered to it, swearing vows of duty and obedience and docility, but, in spite or maybe because of its detached lifelessness, you found its presence to be a kindness. What did it say of your husband, that you preferred the company of that dead stone to him? Perhaps very much, or perhaps very little. 

He is a generous man, the servants assured you, giggling amongst themselves, exchanging knowing looks as they dragged you into the foreign palace where you would spend the rest of your days. You will want for nothing.

It was draftier than your home, the wind bouncing off of the white walls and nipping at you skin. You spent your time buried under seven-and-twenty layers of furs and fabrics, lying in an unfamiliar bed and flinching away from the shadows upon the ceiling. This was an idle and dull way to waste away your existence, and yet you could not bring yourself to do anything else, trapped in the mire of waiting and waiting for your husband’s return.

He came back in the third month, which was as auspicious as anything. They loved that number here, you had come to find: three, the symbol of fortune and fate, of magic and mischief, of power and punishment. Three vows sworn; three blessings granted; three months passed before you finally met the man you had married.

There was much fanfare about his arrival. When you peered out of the window, you saw that the streets were stuffed to the bursting with throngs of people shoving one another around, hissing and biting as they craned their necks. At first it surprised you — was he truly so loved here, even when he was elsewhere despised? — but then you realized that it was not your husband upon his charger that they were all lined up to meet. Rather, it was the procession following him which captured their interests, the spoils of war which he displayed with a juvenile, worthless pride.

A triad of elephants covered in finely wrought armor, their heads hung low and resigned, their plodding walks spiritless and lame. A herd of sheep with silver wool, dotting the dark cobblestones like a cluster of stars, stumbling along at the prodding of a soldier-turned-shepherd. A wagon filled with spears and swords, ostensibly once neatly stacked, now a matted mess of steel and bronze. Vases carried in the arms of the younger men, overflowing with coins that trailed after them like breadcrumbs, snatched up by the most daring of the onlookers, who did not fear rebuke. And, finally, in a place so honorable it could only have been mocking—

“Lady,” a soft voice said. You drew your coat tighter around you, although today was, by all accounts, warm for the season, and pretended like you did not hear the girl. She sighed and then tugged on your arm insistently; perhaps it was improper, but there wasn’t anyone who would chide her for it. “You have been summoned by his majesty.”

Hadn’t you known this would happen eventually? Hadn’t you expected it? You had had your time to come to terms with it, which was more than most got, and so there was no excuse for the reluctance which choked your throat and stilled your footsteps. This was your duty, this was what you had sworn, and so — and so you could not hesitate.

“Lady…” the girl said with another sigh. You pretended to be all-consumed with the action of closing the curtains, your back to her as you struggled to force a smile onto your face. When you deemed your expression acceptable, you spun around and nodded at her.

“It will not do to keep him waiting,” you said, motioning for her to lead the way. She did so without complaint, perhaps relieved that you were not giving her further trouble; even now, the servants did not know what to think of you, could not quite fathom what category of being you were. Some were fond of you, but most treated you with a careful distrust that you could not blame them for, even though you sometimes wanted to.

The grand entrance hall of the palace opened to the mouth of the road, which swelled out into a sprawling courtyard. Its centerpiece was an enormous fountain which sprayed a fine, cool mist into the air no matter the time of year, and it was by this fountain that you waited, wringing your hands as your husband drew nearer and nearer. Belatedly, you thought that you should try to conceal your distress, but there was nothing to be done about it now. The best you could do was say, if you were asked, that it was simply the joy of a bride faced with the prospect of a reunion with her beloved. Nobody would question that, although then again, nobody questioned you very much in general, so it was doubtful that you’d even have to use the quick excuse.

Your husband’s warhorse was a sprightly, slender beast, its coat the dappled grey of royalty, its face pretty and dished in the way of the Eastern breeds. When it paused in front of you, it shoved its black muzzle into your shoulder, nearly knocking you down, and then it stomped its hoof when your husband tightened the reins, pulling it back before dismounting and handing it off to a waiting stableboy. 

“My apologies, dear lady,” he said, bowing before you with as much gallantry as you had been told he possessed. His voice was gentle and amused, his face even more handsome in flesh than it had been in stone; you should’ve, by all rights, felt pleased. You were married to this man. You belonged to him. How many women wished to be in your place? Yet all you could muster was fear, throttling and all-consuming. He was beautiful in the way of a snake, and you knew without knowing that he was poised, in some way, to strike.

“It is alright,” you said, disguising the tremble of your voice with a broad, false grin. “I am glad to finally make your acquaintance…my lord.”

The address was unfamiliar on your tongue. What would your younger self, that girl who had never known subservience nor strife, say if she saw you ducking your head in defeated compliance? How she would laugh! How she would pity you! My lord. But he was exactly that.

“The sentiment is returned in full,” he said, and then he extended his arms in a grand, sweeping motion. “Indeed, to celebrate this momentous occasion, I have arranged for you a gift!”

“A gift?” you repeated. Certainly, you had asked for no such thing, and you did not have the time to school your face into neutrality, naked surprise flashing across it. Your husband chuckled at the sight, nodding at you.

“I have brought the finest of plunders for you, dear lady,” he said, and your stomach twisted into knots at the familiarity with which he spoke to you, as if you were affable lovers instead of strangers. “Even your father’s treasures, vast and bountiful as they may be, cannot compare to this!”

The mention of your father stabbed at your heart, and hidden in the folds of your coat, you clenched your fists. Your father, the richest man in the world…and yet your husband dared compare his meager gift to that? You wanted to spit in his face that for your third birthday, your father had gifted you a villa made of gold, the walls inlaid with gemstones and painted with flowers. Indeed, you might’ve goaded him in such a way if you had the capabilities, but then you noticed what the army-men were bringing forth and your mouth suddenly refused to move.

It was the prisoner, the one kept in a place of honor by your husband and his soldiers, the one who the entire empire had ridiculed as he had been paraded through it like a champion hound. He was tall, towering over the army-men flanking him, and although his eyes drooped nearly shut, there was a heat to his demeanor, a severe, ferocious anger which shone through his exhaustion. He seemed like more of a half-tamed jungle cat than a man, and indeed when he halted before you, you half-expected him to snarl, to bare bloody fangs and lunge at your throat with fingers like claws, like swords, tearing through your neck as if it were paper.

“When he’s like this, you almost forget what a monster he can be,” your husband mused, reaching out and flicking the man on the forehead with a snicker. “Isn’t he all but lovely? Oh, don’t worry, dear lady, he can’t do anything to you. He’s under the influence of a sleeping draught at the moment, and anyways, those chains are thrice-blessed. It’s perfectly safe.”

The chains he spoke of were as gold as the man’s hair, looping around his wrists and forearms, curling over the red marks emblazoned on his shimmering skin, weaving in between his legs and around his torso. They were sturdy and gleamed with the power of their three blessings, and although you still understood little about this strange place with its strange power, you could tell that it would take a great force, greater than was possessed by any mere man or deity, to break them.

“He’s the prince of Kremnos,” your husband said when your shock stretched on. “A right beast, I’ll say. We almost fell to his efforts, but in the end, we bested him — as you can see. What do you think? Do you like him?”

“He’s — it’s — horrible,” you said, your skin crawling the longer and longer you stared at the prince, your words a jumble, your head spinning. You wanted to be anywhere but in this courtyard, in front of this fallen man, who was kept alive for — for what? For amusement? For play? As a gift?

“Isn’t he?” your husband said, patting you on the shoulder with a grim smile. “And now he is yours.”

The thrice-blessed chains flashed in the sun, and you shook your head, both in refusal and to clear your vision of the blinding, searing spots they left in it.

“I have no need of a prisoner,” you said, and although your tone remained ever-muted, you spoke as cuttingly as you could manage to. “What will I do with him? Why do you torture him so? You bested him; if he was as fierce an opponent as you claim, then the least you owe him is a death with dignity. Kill him and be done with the matter. Why have you brought him all this way? I don’t want him.”

“He will die, eventually,” my husband said. “I shall execute him myself when it comes to it, but the time is not yet right. I don’t expect you to understand such matters, and neither should you trouble yourself with doing so…but know this, dear lady: you cannot give back a gift once it has been freely given. You can do what you’d like with him now that he is yours, but you cannot refuse him. Perhaps that is how affairs were conducted in your backwards land, but here it is not so.”

You wanted my land, you longed to say. You took me from my father and wed me to a statue in search of it. And still you call it backward? But you could not, so instead, you turned away — away from the prince, who was close to crumpling and only remained standing out of sheer will, and away from your husband, who beamed as if he had done something great or wonderful.

“I will retire now,” you said. Do not follow me. This remained implied, unsaid, but a fool your husband was not, and so he only hummed in agreement.

“Be well, dear lady,” he said. “My messengers have told me that you are having difficulties adjusting to the climate here. I shall be sure to pray for your feeble constitution.”

“Thank you, my lord,” you said, stiffly, primly. It scratched like bile and you hated every minute of it, but you had no recourse for the matter, so you swallowed it down, as you always did and always would.

“And what of the prisoner?” he said. “Shall I send him to a jail? Do you think he is better suited for deprivation or pain?”

They meant to make him shatter, to methodically yank him apart until he faced death with the dull eyes and swayed back of an over-aged broodmare. You supposed to them it was meaningless — why should they show consideration or kindness to a man who would never show them the same? — but you were no warmonger, and that apathy did not cling to you yet. The prince was a beast born of sun, a wild, vicious creature, and if he really was slated to die, then you wanted him to meet his end as just that, nothing less. 

“Leave him be,” you said. “Treat him as well as you are able.”

“He would’ve killed me,” your husband said, a low note of warning in his voice. You shrank into the safety of your clothes, as if they were a shield against his vexation.

“But instead you will kill him,” you said. “So how does it matter? You said I could do as I like; well, this is what pleases me. Don’t prolong this anymore than necessary.”

You darted back into the palace without waiting to hear his answer, your jaw burning and your footsteps heavy against the mosaic floor as you ran all of the way to your chambers and slammed the door shut behind you.

For three days and three nights you did not leave your room, taking all your meals in seclusion, refusing any visitors that might attempt entry. You could not help it; the thought of seeing your husband or any of the soldiers made you want to weep — you! Who never wept, even as a baby! So you claimed that you were terribly unwell, that you could not stand for fear of collapse, and that managed to ward away your husband without incurring his wrath, even though it was only a temporary solution.

As the sun set on the fourth day, there was a knock on your door, and you were about to call out that you had no interest in conversation when someone hissed through the crack in the entrance: “Lady, I come not on your husband’s behalf but another’s. There is trouble, and you must attend to it.”

“What?” you said, scrambling to your feet, crouching by the entrance, pressing your ear to the wooden door without opening it. “Who is this? Who are you? Speak plainly, so that we may understand one another!”

There was a shuffling sound, and then an exhale. You worried with the collar of your shirt as you waited for them to continue, your arms pulled tightly around yourself, your brows furrowing together as you chewed on your lower lip.

“The prince of Kremnos,” they whispered. “He calls for you.”

“Are they mistreating him?” you said, straightening and flinging the door open. “The prince, are they — hello?”

The hallway was devoid of life. You peered down it, craning your neck this way and that, but it was placid, showing no signs of having been disturbed. Shutting the door slowly, you leaned against it, holding your head in your hands. Was this place driving you to insanity, then? And if it was, then why could you not have thought of something more pleasant than summons from a prisoner — prisoner!

Wasn’t it your duty to make sure your husband had held good on his word? The prisoner was yours, though the notion of ownership sent unpleasant shivers down your spine and didn’t feel quite right — perhaps a better way to think of it, then, was responsibility. He was your responsibility, and maybe the strange vision had been nothing more than a reminder of what you owed the man.

You waited until it was midnight, when you could be certain that your husband would not rise from his slumber at the sound of your activity, and then you donned a pair of slippers and a cloak, throwing the hood on and retreating into the billowing depths of the fabric, so that your face was obscured from prying eyes. Of course, there would not be very many of those, not at such a late hour, but you did not want to risk even one person recognizing you and reporting back to your husband, whose reaction to this escapade you could not foretell.

Although you were not so familiar with the palace’s layout, as you had never spent much time exploring it, most constructions of this nature followed a similar plan, and you had grown up in exactly such a grand, sweeping home, so you found the doorway to the cellar in record time. As the palace had no towers, the cellar was the only logical option for the keeping of such a dangerous prisoner, and you had no doubt in your mind that this was where you would find the prince, if he was still somewhere that you could find him.

The half-moon was your only witness as you fumbled with the lock, trying every key in your possession until one finally slotted into place and turned. Wincing as the door heaved open with a profound creak, you yanked it shut behind you quickly, without ceremony, lighting a small candle and using it to guide your way down the dark stairs, rushing so that you were out of sight in case someone came to investigate.

You did not know how long you walked for, but eventually the stairway ended, giving way to cool, damp earth. The must of uncut stone permeated the thick, heavy air, and the adjustment of your eyes to the surrounding blackness was slow, the pain of it only alleviated somewhat by the little candle’s valiant flame.

“Come to toss scraps at me?” The voice was rumbling and low; in spite of its weakness, you could hear a sneer in it, a disdain in the rough baritone. “You needn’t try again. Like I told you, I won’t eat your trash.”

“No,” you said. “I’ve brought nothing with me.”

There was a brief pause, and then: “You sound different than the others.”

“This tongue is foreign to me, as it is to you,” you said. “I cannot speak it in the same way as those who were born here. Verily I have been instructed in the art since I was but a child, for my father must have known in that manner of his what would eventually become of me, but I will never lay claim to it the way that a native of this empire would.”

“You’re his wife.” Chains clanked, the harsh drag of metal against stone reverberating in the cellar, and then you felt more than saw his looming countenance, filling what you had mistakenly believed upon arrival to be an empty room. Swinging your candle before you so that it was close to your heart, you gasped when it reflected in a pair of eyes glaring at you from mere paces away, the irises possessing a hollow and impossible brilliance in the way a pair of fading embers might. 

The chains now only encircled his left leg, binding him to the wall but leaving him otherwise free to move as he liked within the length of his confines. He had been stripped of armament and adornment alike, his mane of hair tangled and falling lank about his broad shoulders, yet for all of these injustices, you had no doubt in your mind that he was anything but a prince. He had a dignity to him, a hard-won pride to the straightness of his back and the firmness of his gaze; before you could chase it away, the thought came to you that there was far more intrinsic nobility to this man than there was even your husband.

“I suppose that I am,” you said.

“Have you come to gloat about your craven lord’s cowardly victory, then?” he said. The chains were pulled taut, so he could come no closer to you than he already was — you were sure of this, but you were still a slave to your instincts, which urged you farther and farther from him with every second. He watched you go with some measure of delight, like he was relishing in this power which you had inadvertently gifted him, and when you skittered to a stop, he huffed. “There is nothing to be proud of, and you look a fool for suggesting there might be.”

“I was just…” you trailed off, because it suddenly felt entirely absurd to suggest that you were inquiring after his wellbeing. What did it mean, the wellbeing of a doomed man? What reason would he have to believe your intentions? “What is your name?”

“My name?” he said with a brittle, incredulous laugh that rapidly descended into a cough. “Why? Do you wish to curse your husband with it? Does your language not have gods you can swear on?”

“You’re sickly,” you said, frowning and ignoring his jabs.

“You have torn me from the sun and chained me in this dingy room, and yet you have the gall to be surprised by that?” he said, scoffing. “You’re more of an idiot than that husband of yours.”

“I did no such thing!” you said. The defiance took you by surprise. You had forgotten what it felt like to defy someone, to disagree and resist their words, to feel alive with resentment and bad-temper. “I didn’t wish for this. I didn’t wish to keep you here anymore than you wished to be kept!”

“Is that so?” he said, and then he grinned at you, but it was less of a smile and more of a threat. “Then free me.”

“What?” you said.

“If you don’t want me, then free me,” he said.

“You’ll kill me if I do,” you said uneasily, shifting from foot to foot. 

“I give you my word that I will spare you,” he said, placing a solemn hand over his heart. 

“Not the others?” you said.

He did not respond, which in and of itself was a response. It was one you shouldn’t have liked as much as you did, but in truth the prospect of such a slaughter made your fingers twitch towards him. Only for a moment, and immediately, you shoved your hands behind your back, but it was too late — he had seen, and he raised his eyebrows at you in return.

“Well, anyways, it doesn’t matter,” you said hastily, hoping to distract him before he could comment on the treason. “I couldn’t free you even if I wanted to. Your chains are thrice-blessed. I didn’t know what that meant until recently, but now that I do, I understand why you have been kept without even a permanent guard.”

“Blessings,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t tell me you put genuine stock into that drivel.”

“Perhaps the gods of other lands have forsaken their subjects, but this empire is known as the birthplace of every divine act, and so deities still sometimes glance upon its people and offer up their favor. Thrice-blessed chains are one such offering, for they are in fact more like contracts than they truly are chains,” you said. When he did not interrupt you with any snide remarks, you were emboldened to continue. “They can restrain anything, even a god, but this strength comes at a cost: they are conditional. If their captive can understand this condition and meet it, they will crumble into dust, but until then, the chains remain unbreakable.”

“What is it?” he said insistently, reaching out his hands like he was going to grab you and shake the answer out. He fell short, grasping at empty air, his muscles straining against the chains which, true to legend, did not falter. “This condition. Whatever it is, I will do it. You only need to tell me and I will do it!”

“I don’t know,” you said. His lip curled, and you shook your head frantically. “No, no, I’m telling you the truth, I really don’t know! Only the wielder and the gods he prayed to can know for certain. The conditions are decided arbitrarily, without trend or reason. It could be anything from singing a song to moving a mountain! At least, that’s what I’ve gathered from the little I’ve read on the topic.”

“The wielder — your husband, then? That’s easy enough. Bid him to tell you, and then relay to me his answer,” he said.

“Easy enough? Not in the slightest. He would just as soon do your bidding as he would mine,” you said. The prince squinted at you, and evidently he must’ve determined that you were serious, for he broke into that awful laugh again, the one that must’ve once been handsome and full-bodied but now was little more than a rattling plea for air. 

“You are pitiful,” he said. “I thought that you must be some great, fearsome empress, as wicked as your husband, but you are just a frightened mouse of a girl. You would not survive a day in Kremnos, you know. It would crush you.”

Duty. Obedience. Docility. They were branded onto you, swirling letters that you had unwittingly carved into yourself with every wedding vow you spoke, and you could not escape them any more than the prince could escape his chains. If only you could argue with him, tell him that once upon a time, you had been someone unrecognizable from who you were now…but already, you had tested their limits. Your tongue was frozen in your mouth, refusing to move in anything but accordance with your oaths, and so you only clasped your hands together.

“If you say it is so, then it really must be the case,” you said. “Farewell, prince of Kremnos.”

“Farewell,” he said, but it was clear he did not mean it. “Dear lady.”

“Don’t call me that,” you said, recognizing the provocation for what it was. “You are not my husband, nor do I wish for you to be.”

“Then what should I refer to you as?” he said. “Your excellency? Your grace? Your most exalted highness? Your holiness, the saint of the realm?”

“Here, I am only known as lady,” you said quietly. “But I bore a different name before. I cannot…I cannot say it anymore, but if you ever come to know of it by other means, then please call me as such.”

Morning brought with it a freezing palm pressed to your brow. It startled you to consciousness both because of its temperature and its temerity, for you could not fathom who had dared to enter your room without your permission, and while you were asleep, at that! In the haze of your sleep-addled mind, a rebuke rose to your lips, but then someone clicked their tongue and you fell silent even as you clambered to a more alert state.

“Your fever has finally broken, dear lady! You do not know how overjoyed I am to hear it,” your husband said, helping you into a sitting position, one hand cradling the back of your neck and the other holding up a glass. You blinked, trying to clear the fog from your vision, swallowing down the water he poured down your throat without objection.

“Fever?” you said.

“The ailment you have been suffering from,” he said. “I was told it was a fever of some sorts. I bore it quietly, the prospect of your malaise, but today I could not stop myself from checking on you. I had some dreams of playing the nurse, but here you are, entirely well! Such a miraculous recovery.”

His grandiose words masked suspicion with affection, but he did not make any further accusations, for just as you had sworn to heed him, so too had he promised to trust you. His vows had been made to a portrait of yours, as well as written in pig’s-blood and sent to you in a sealed envelope. You could recall them with perfect clarity, the way the stench of iron clung to the parchment as you unfolded it and rang your fingers over the lines, which were grouped in stanzas of three. 

Trust. Favor. Companionship.

You spent the entire day with your husband, although you had neither the desire nor the will for it. You hardly ever had the desire or the will to do anything, of course, not nowadays, but this was the worst of all, because your husband was not just a reminder but the very reason for everything which had happened to you. Still, you could not refuse, so you trotted along at his side, motionless as he showed you off to his officers, his advisors, and even, at one point, his cousin, who could not be less interested in you if he tried.

“Brother,” he said boredly, for indeed he and your husband were the only children of their respective fathers, and so were more like siblings than anything, “you have better things to be doing than showing off a woman who doesn’t bear showing off in the first place.”

“Are you saying that she is somehow deficient?” your husband said, swelling up with righteous indignation. Anyone else might’ve lost their head for the statement, especially given how blandly he had said it, but his cousin was above reproach, being the only person he really loved.

“I’m saying that she looks ill with misery,” his cousin said, and then he sighed, returning to his book. “I’m not so sure the lady has recovered from her illness. You ought to be more cautious with her, that’s all.”

His cousin was younger and handsomer than he, and as the two of you walked away, you thought that you would not have minded marrying him as much. Though perhaps this was a paradox — after all, if he had taken you in the manner that your husband had, then you would have hated him, too. It was your lot in life, then; always you would detest whoever you wed, whoever stole your freedom in that way and bound you to them with the cruel ropes of matrimony.

The hall where you took your dinner was like an enormous cavern, so large that you felt like your voice might echo if you spoke. You and your husband were the only ones in it, which heightened the effect, and every clank of his silverware against his porcelain dishes resounded in your ears like discordant bells.

“My prisoner,” you said after a long time had passed wherein the two of you discussed nothing. Your voice was dry with disuse, and you pushed the food on your plate around without attempting to eat, although it was all appetizing and you were certainly hungry.

“What?” your husband said, covering his mouth with his hand as he chewed.

“My prisoner,” you said, clearing your throat but keeping your gaze trained firmly on your food. “The prince of Kremnos. Is he well?”

“You’re asking after his health?” your husband said with a chuckle. When you did not laugh or otherwise indicate that you were joking, he frowned at you. “You needn’t fret. As you requested, I am treating him as well as I am able. Far better than he deserves.”

The image of the prince, chained and kept in darkness, the only sound his persistent cough and unsteady breathing, given scraps for sustenance and mice for company, flashed across your mind. 

“I wish to see him,” you said. There was a warning in the back of your head — duty, obedience, docility — but you ignored it as best as you could, stabbing oversharp fingernails into your thighs, hard enough to draw blood and distract you from the dangerous line you tread. “My lord, I wish to see the prince and ensure that he is alright with my own eyes.”

At this your husband did not even pretend to humor you. He burst into a raucous fit of cackles, his fork and knife clattering to the table, his eyes watering at the corners. You waited for him to stop, picking your own cutlery up in vain before setting it down and folding your hands in your lap.

“No,” he said. “I am afraid that I cannot allow that, dear lady.”

“You cannot—” you began, but it was too much, you had stepped over that precarious boundary, and now you were frozen. Gulping, you counted to five before continuing. “He is mine. He is mine, you said it yourself, so why — can’t — I — see — him?”

Each word dug into you like gravel, and you knew that you had lost this argument before you could even attempt to have it. How could you ever win? When you had sworn thrice over that you would be tractable, how could you ever try to be anything else? Your intentions did not matter as much as the execution, not to the number three and the power it lent this empire.

“How obstinate,” your husband said, appraising you with a new eye. “I am sorry, dear lady, but as my cousin said, you are still weak. It will do you no good to be faced with such a base creature. You can see him again on the day of his execution.”

“Yes,” you said through gritted teeth, which was not as much as you wanted to do but was as much as you could, at present, manage. “Might I be excused?”

“Excused? You haven’t eaten anything,” he said, pointing at your plate. True to his word, it was untouched, and you picked it up, holding it close to your chest as you stood. 

“My stomach is protesting,” you said. “I will take it to my room and eat it later. If it pleases you.”

“Very well,” he said, waving at you. “I shall pray for your health, dear lady. Sleep as late as you’d like tomorrow, but once you are awake, I implore you to join me in my preparations. There is a grand celebration in the afternoon, as a marker of our victory against Kremnos, and I have been summoned to speak; if you could muster some words as well, it might hearten the people and warm them to you.”

“Yes, my lord,” you said. “I shall think of something.”

“See to it that you do,” he said, watching you with an unreadable expression on his face as you left, your footsteps growing faster and faster until you were all but racing to your room, your head spinning and palms clammy like you had gotten away with some great crime. 

Tonight, there were no strange voices beckoning you, but that did not stop you from staying awake far past the moon’s rise, waiting until it hung over the clocktower before picking your way back to the cellar, your heart pounding as you crept back down those dark, endless stairs, an actual lantern in one hand and your plate in the other.

The prince was still there. You had half-expected him to have disappeared, to have turned out to be some figment of your imagination, but he was leaning against the wall, his arms folded over his chest and his lips pursed as he watched the light of your lantern approach. When he realized it was you, his eyes narrowed, and he tucked his chin to his chest in what you could only assume was a stubborn display of the meager strength he had left.

“I brought food for you,” you said, setting the lantern on the last stair and presenting the plate before you. “Please eat it.”

“What do you think I am?” he said. “Some kind of a dog, such that I am eager for  you to foist your refuse on me? Hardly. Take it and leave me at once.”

“You’ll waste away,” you said. “You are only doing yourself a disservice! This is my own dinner, which I have gone without so that I could bring it to you. Does that make it easier to stomach?”

“Shall I sit on the floor, then, and eat it with my hands?” he said with a disparaging smile. “Will that amuse you? Is that why you’ve come? I heard your husband, you know. ‘Do what you’d like with him now that he is yours.’ How joyless your life must be, to think that this is what you entertain yourself with!”

“It is joyless,” you bit back, and your eyes widened at the freedom of the declaration. “It is! But you are not my — you are not some kind of amusement, I resent that you — I even spoke against my husband for you, and you say that! Fine, then. Starve, you thoughtless simpleton! Starve and die for all the good it’ll do me!”

You turned on your heel and stomped towards the stairs with the graceless irascibility of a child, not even sparing a glance over your shoulder at the prince. He was quiet, but you knew from the heavy weight of his stare on your back that there was something like turmoil brewing in his mind, a turmoil which weakened your resolve with every step you took away from him.

It was to your credit that you made it all of the way to where the lantern was sitting before you wavered, your stride shortening until you halted in place. Scrunching up your face, wondering when you had developed this love for punishment, for strife and conflict, you allowed your shoulders to sag in acceptance.

“Dispose of this before anyone comes to see you,” you said, shoving the plate into his hands before he could protest. “I suppose it matters little how you do it, but you must, or else I will be convicted of treason, and where will that leave us? Imprisoned side by side and left to rot together.”

He did not respond until you were almost out of earshot entirely, and then he coughed. You could not tell whether it was to capture your attention or to clear his voice of any residual hesitance; regardless, he accomplished both objectives, as you lingered for a moment longer than you would’ve.

“Ten,” he said. “That’s how many times I could’ve killed you in the time you’ve been here. But I—”

You continued walking before you could hear the rest of it.

You woke up the next day in better spirits than you had in some time, and in fact when a servant announced that you had a visitor, you opened the door with a new vigor. Upon realizing that the man in front of you was not your husband but rather his cousin, you thought that you might die from the glee of it all. Taking his arm, you allowed him to escort you to where the imperial contingent was setting up for the festival, at a grand stage which took up most of the square and was already laden with visitors at its base.

“It is a relief to see you recovering so well,” your husband’s cousin said. “The rumors in the palace are that you’ve contracted some illness of the chronic variety; in truth I believed them, especially after our meeting yesterday, but today I see that you have been revitalized. Did you rest well last night, then? I heard that you did not eat your dinner, but you must’ve taken it in your room, yes?”

You had done neither of those things, and his questioning did make you pause. What was the cause of your good mood? You had gone to sleep for only a short time, without much of anything in your stomach, and your situation had not improved any, so why did you feel, even if only marginally, as if you were something like yourself again?

“I suppose it must be something like love,” he mused, without waiting for your answer. 

“Ah, pardon?” you said, startled from the winding turns and byways of your thoughts at the strange declaration.

“To think that even a day in your husband’s presence has cured you to such an extent,” he explained. “Surely it is love? I cannot think of any other name for it…but I apologize! It is not my place to inquire, nor to speculate. I trust you will not tell my cousin about this?”

He had, in the taken-aback blink of your eyes and the pinch of your brow, found what he was seeking: a demure shyness which he could only comprehend as a lack of affection. You knew, then, that you had passed the test of the man, who had not believed any more than your husband that you were truly ill.

“I will take your leave,” he said, and then his palm clamped down on your shoulder. “But I trust you know this: however much you may love your husband, he is a difficult man to be loved by in return. If ever you are in search of solace…there are places you may turn to, dear lady.”

“What did he say to you?” your husband said, appearing at your side with his expression arranged into something like a frown. “I could not hear. Was he bothering you? I am sorry if he was. He has always been headstrong.”

“He was not bothering me,” you said, incapable of lying to your husband with any great skill but remaining certain that it was absolutely imperative you did not divulge his cousin’s secrets to him. “We spoke as family members might.”

If he recognized your evasive language, he did not comment on it. Instead, he stroked his chin in thought, and then he directed his attention towards the stage, where one of his generals was beckoning him — and, by extension, you.

The sun hung high in the sky as you ascended to the podium, though its rays did not dare touch you, disguised in your husband’s shadow as you were. Your vows tied more than your tongue, after all; your entire being, everything but your heart and your mind, were trained and twisted into the picture of submission, and soon those, too, would fall, leaving you a husk which could do nothing but nod and follow along.

Your husband did not need to start with any address. His mere presence was enough to silence the gathered empire, every single onlooker leaning towards the stage in eager anticipation of his words. From your vantage point, it was like the swell of a tide, crushing and suffocating, inescapable in its overwhelming intensity, but where you withdrew, your husband brightened at the weight, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders.

“Mydeimos,” he said, over-enunciating every syllable. The word, unfamiliar and foreign to your ears, had a rhythmic, marching cadence, more suited to a battle-cry than a formal declaration, and it seemed you were not alone in your thinking, for it had all the effect of one on the crowd.

A heckling clamor burst from them, the individual words indecipherable but for brief snippets. Demon. Monster. Warmonger. Kill. Curse. Blood. Kill. Kill. Kill! Your husband waited for them to quiet of their own volition, and only then did he venture to continue, this time with a wide, beaming grin.

“Mydeimos has fallen. The prince of terrors is no more!” he shouted, raising his fist in the air to thunderous applause. “Without him to lead the army, Kremnos will surely follow suit. Their lands will be ours within the year, of this much I assure you! Our empire will soon be the most prosperous in all the world. Even the great lands of the Southern Sea will pale in comparison!”

Your heart twinged at the mention of the Southern Sea. You could envision it even now, the streaks of salt left on the cliffs where the water lapped at them, the ripples in the placid blue where the balmy winds skimmed along the surface, the moon-white sand as it clung to the crevices of your feet and hands.

When you were younger, your father would take you on his boat and dip his fingers into it, urging you to do the same. You would ask him why and he would answer, always with a laugh or a smile: of all the jewels in my treasury, my darling, the Southern Sea is the second-loveliest. Then you would ask him which could be the first, if even the sea was not its equal, and he’d press his damp hands to your cheeks and kiss your hair and say you, my darling, you and only you.

“What a horrible thing he was,” your husband said. “Mydeimos. That wretched excuse of a man…the world is all the better now that he is locked away. I watched him — watched him, good citizens, with my own eyes — tear out a man’s heart with naught but his nails and teeth! Even now I can imagine it…the tips of his canines dark with pierced flesh…bits of entrails coating his fingers…the heart still beating in his palms…he looked the proper part of a devil, and I was certain that I had died and found damnation!

“But as I said, he is no more. Our army prevailed, as we always have, and as we always will; I made Mydeimos beg for mercy with my sword at his throat and my foot upon his inhuman heart, and then I dragged him back so that all of you could see what he has been relegated to — a chained puppy, given to my dear lady as a pet and kept as a servant until the day of his execution.

“For the surest way to kill a Kremnoan is to destroy their pride, and the prince of terrors has more pride than most, so we must endeavor to strip him of it, systematically and fastidiously, until even a child can cut him down!”

Your husband concluded his speech and pulled you forward simultaneously, with a great flourish which invited praise and drew attention to you both. You swallowed, your mind racing at breakneck speed, far too quickly for you to make any sense of the things you were saying until you were saying them.

“I have not seen the prince of Kremnos — Mydeimos — since the day that he was brought to me,” you said. The applause that had begun faded as soon as the soft words sparkled into existence, and the many eyes of the audience blurred together until you could pretend like you were alone, like you were speaking to nothing but small, bright stones reflecting your own sentiments. “But as my lord husband said, he was proud. I feel as though I have never seen a man prouder. Even after his loss, he remained proud. Even with nothing else left, he clung to that pride, that assurance…I remember thinking to myself that it was, in its own way, admirable. That he was admirable.”

Your husband’s arm around your waist grew tighter with unspoken warning, though it needn’t have. You had said all that you wanted, all that you could, and now there was nothing left but the judgement of the collective.

“Lady!” someone shouted, the singular soul brave enough to speak. She was a woman — you wondered if this was what bolstered her confidence, a perceived kinship between the two of you for that fact alone. “Do you fear the prince?”

“No,” you said, and although you had meant it only as a vague and empty placation, you were surprised to find that it rang true. You were not afraid of him, and it wasn’t his chains or his infirmity which caused this emotion to surge in you; rather, it was what he had told you last night, that declaration he had made with the utmost of seriousness, which you had not even allowed him to complete. “I am not. He cannot harm me.”

You knew your words would be interpreted as faith in your husband and the empire, and furthermore that this misinterpretation would curry favor with your subjects and your lord alike, so you did nothing to correct it. Yet you would know, and would hold close to your heart the knowing, that it was not your husband who you held faith in: it was Mydeimos, the prince of Kremnos, who might’ve killed you ten times over but had instead let you live.

“You have much to improve in terms of your orating,” your husband said coldly as the three of you — him, his cousin, and yourself — returned to the palace.

“I thought her speech was excellent,” his cousin said, shooting you a sly smile behind his back. “Very concise, and of a good style. It’s a gift to be able to convey meaning so succinctly. You ought to nurture it.”

“She certainly conveyed a meaning,” your husband said. “It remains to be said what value that meaning truly holds.”

“Is that for you to decide? Ah, brother, don’t be a curmudgeon, I am only teasing you! You spent so much of our childhood poking fun at me, so how can you fault me for paying you back in kind?” his cousin said.

“You need some lessons in respect,” your husband said, but without any real bite behind it. His cousin snickered before sobering, shifting his weight toward you.

“Will you take your dinner in your chambers again, lady?” he said. You nodded.

“If it does not offend,” you said. 

“Do as you please,” your husband said. “Though I expect you’ll do that anyways, sworn to me or not. Isn’t that right, dear lady?”

You couldn’t think of any response which would be satisfactory, so you said nothing, allowing the two of them to escort you to your room, where you waited with bated breath until the night fell and you could return to the cellar.

The entire way down the stairs, you turned the name over in your mind, polishing it in the way waves polished driftwood, battering it with incessant worry until it shone, uncanny and unrecognizable. Mydeimos. Mydeimos. Mydeimos. The prince of terrors. The man who had torn a heart out with his teeth. What did it say of you, that you were making your way to exactly such a knave? With trepidation, of course, but what did it say that you were still doing it anyways? Perhaps very much, or perhaps very little.

“There is an odd pattern to your footsteps,” he said before you could even greet him. He stood as he always did, prepared for a battle that he would never again see. “Or perhaps it is your breathing, or something else entirely.”

“What do you mean?” you said, putting your lantern and the dinner down in the space between you both. “I walk and breathe as I always have, as others do.”

“I know you,” he said, disgust mingling with the barest traces of awe in his tone. “The door to this cellar opens frequently. All manner of men come to visit me, to mock me from their places at the bottom of the stairs, lambasting me from the safety of their distance. I recognize few, and  I remember fewer — nor do I have any great desire to — but when it is you, I know. From your very step, from the very creak of the door, I know. I cannot understand how or why, but I know.”

“My husband told me your name,” you said after a pause, when it became clear he was not expecting a reaction from you. Motioning towards the food in a gesture you hoped he took to kindly, you continued: “I did not ask him, but he mentioned it in passing, so naturally now I know it.”

“I see,” he said, and although his gaze flicked towards the ground, he did not move. You remembered, then, what else your husband had said in that speech of his, the vainglorious words echoing in your ears: for the surest way to kill a Kremnoan is to destroy their pride, and the prince of terrors has more pride than most, so we must endeavor to strip him of it, systematically and fastidiously, until even a child can cut him down!

“Mydeimos,” you said, and then you sat on the floor, which was made of a cold stone that shot chills down the backs of your legs. Resting your elbows atop your thighs and your chin in your hands, you blinked up at him. “That is what he called you. ‘The prince of terrors.’”

“How unimaginative,” he said, and you suppressed a shudder at his glare, which was baleful and acute as it settled upon you. “My-deimos. Many-terrors. Yes, that is my name, though that ridiculous nickname is of his own invention. The Kremnoans would laugh if they heard it.”

“He said that he watched you tear out a man’s heart with your nails,” you said, and then you glanced at his lips, simultaneously and unconsciously wetting your own with the tip of your tongue. “And your teeth.”

He bared those very teeth, white and glinting, in a barking laugh — as much an expression of warning as it was humor. “My teeth! Your husband is one for fiction.”

“And — and he spoke of how he defeated you,” you said. At this, anything resembling mirth vanished from Mydeimos, and he grew curiously immobile — you almost thought that you had frightened him into the grips of memory, but then you realized that he was not frozen as much as he was waiting.

“Did he?” he said. “And what did your husband say of my defeat, dear lady?”

“He  made you beg for mercy with his sword at your throat and his foot upon your inhuman — upon your heart,” you said, correcting yourself for the slip of the tongue, finding no merit in telling him about that particular detail. “And then he dragged you back here.”

The longer Mydeimos remained silent, the shallower your breaths became, a cold fist forming around your heart and squeezing, the muscles in your arms and legs contracting, protesting their inactivity. You needed to run. If you were wiser, if you had anything resembling self-preservation, you would run, would flee and hope that you were fast enough to make it to the stairs before he pounced. 

You supposed you lacked both wisdom and self-preservation in spades, for you remained on the floor, peering up at him and praying that he could not read your mind, could not comprehend the depths of your thoughts.

“So that is his story,” he said. “I should’ve known he wouldn’t tell his people the truth.”

“He made it up,” you said rhetorically.

“You don’t sound surprised,” he noted.

“It is not — it is not —” You gnawed on the inside of your cheek, trying to come up with some way to circumvent your wedding vows, some way you could impress upon him what you were trying to say. “When we were wed, it was said that I loved him madly and completely, that I bawled to my father until he allowed me to come here.”

“Then it is not his first time dabbling in such falsehoods,” Mydeimos completed. When you nodded, he snorted. “You cannot speak ill of him, can you? Is it magic?”

“In the way of this land,” you said with a shrug.

“What an emperor,” he said. “So he can neither bed his wife nor win his battles without the use of tricks and obfuscation? Where I come from, they have a word for those like that, but as it is foul, I will not trouble you with hearing it.”

“What do you mean?” you said. “Ah, not by the foul word…that is, what tricks do you refer to? If the story he told is inaccurate, then how did he really defeat you? For surely he must have, or else you would not be here.”

“He did not defeat me,” he said. “Believe it or not, but that is the truth.”

“How?” you pressed, for you had already eschewed wisdom once and did not mind doing so again.

For a moment, it was as if the sun shone down upon him again. You saw him as he was on the day he met you, or perhaps even before — the prince of Kremnos, sleek and powerful and indomitable, red marks blooming in place of the scars he would never receive, eyes ablaze in his hollow face, hair as wild and untamed as his spirit.

“He surrendered,” Mydeimos said, scowling. “Our numbers were smaller, but Kremnoans have never cared for things like odds. We were winning, indubitably we were winning, and your husband knew it as well as we did. They attacked us in our own territory, fought us with our own weapons…how could we have lost? We would’ve wiped them out, but your husband and his men raised their white flags, and so we ceased to attack them.

“I went to parley with them, to negotiate the terms of their surrender. In a show of goodwill, I agreed to your husband’s request to come unaccompanied. His men were exhausted, and I found it honorable that he was putting their wellbeing first, so I ignored my instincts and the warnings of my advisors, going forth alone, leaving my armor and weapons as I was instructed to.

“That was my mistake. I should never have expected honor from a serpent, whose nature it is to bite. The surrender was a ploy; I was met by hordes of guards, each with a spear pointed at my heart. Even then, I fought. Do not think I met my end willingly, dear lady — I fought and killed as many men as he threw at me. I could’ve killed them all, I would’ve killed them all, but right as I was about to, he threw these chains at me from the corner where he hid. It should not have worked, his aim and the strength behind it were both lacking, but it was as if the metal had a mind of its own, and before I knew it I was bound.”

“As I told you, they are thrice-blessed,” you said. “Divine. They long to fulfill their purpose, and will do anything to that end. If it defies the laws of nature, well, what are those laws compared to the ones who wrote them? Those men were only a distraction. Once my husband received these chains, there was nothing which could’ve changed your fate.”

“What sort of a god favors a man who feigns surrender?” Mydeimos said. “What kind of deity loves perfidy?”

“I have often asked myself the same questions,” you admitted, half-expecting yourself to be unable and closing your eyes in relief when you weren't. “Why is it that he is the one they champion? What justice is there in that? He must have been a saint in his past life, to be treated as he is. A saint, or a martyr, or something like that. Something wonderful to the point of deserving so many miracles in this next iteration of his.”

You chose your speech carefully, injecting as much resentment into it as was needed to convey to the prince what you really meant, but not enough that you seized up into inaction. Not enough that you strained against the hold that your vows held over you.

You heard him exhale, and at this, you allowed your eyes to flutter open once more, peeking up at him and immediately wishing you hadn’t.

Whatever had briefly rallied in him, whatever fervor and fire he had briefly regained…it was gone. It was gone, leaving him fractured and bereft, forlorn instead of fearsome, prisoner instead of prince. Your husband had done that to him. Your husband had destroyed him, as he had destroyed you, and it was this reflection of your own fate which tore at you the most.

Breaking off a piece of bread, you dipped it in the long-cooled sauce pooled in the corner of the plate, and, without a word, held it out to him. He eyed it suspiciously, and for a moment you thought he might refuse it. The beginnings of an argument bubbled to the surface, but it never had the chance to take shape — before your lips could so much as part, he knelt across from you and took your proffered hand by the wrist.

Holding it in place, his thumb digging into your pulse like a reminder that he didn’t want this, didn’t want to accept your help, he used his free hand to swipe the bread from your palm. Then, his brows heavy, low over his eyes with mistrust and reluctance, he shoved it into his mouth and ate it.

taglist (comment/send an ask to be added): @mikashisus @ivana013-blog @mizukiqr @shehrazadekey @simp-simp-no-mi @reapersan @casualgalaxystrawberry @secretive3amramenmaker [if your tag does not show up in grey, that means tumblr had an issue with it, sorry! sometimes it does that sadly]

[helvegen-s]

a calculated risk

an Oscar Piastri one-shot

Summary: Oscar Piastri's disciplined world spins off-axis when he meets Elena Sainz. The catch? She's Carlos Sainz's sister. Their intense connection sparks a forbidden romance, pushing them into a reckless game of secrecy and desire. When the truth explodes, will their love survive the fallout?

Word count: 12k (i tried, i really tried to make it shorter...)

Warnings: explicit sexual content, strong language, alcohol

A/N: what. the fuck. was. today's race. do not talk to me about it, do not mention it. this year's season starts the 23rd of march in china. australia never happened.

masterlist

Oscar Piastri had learned to tune out the noise.

The Formula 1 paddock was controlled chaos, a symphony of roaring engines, overlapping conversations, and orders shouted through radios. But none of it fazed him. He moved through the garages and meetings with the same methodical calm he carried into every corner on track. His world was simple: improve, win, move forward.

And then she arrived.

Elena Sainz stepped into the paddock at the start of the 2024 season as if she had always belonged there—walking with quiet confidence, wearing a look he knew all too well. Because it was the same one Carlos gave him just before a race. He had seen her before, of course. There were photos of her on Sainz’s social media, Instagram stories of them cycling, on a yacht, at the family estate. But until that moment, he had never really paid attention.

The problem was, now he couldn’t stop.

The first time he saw her in her new role was at the pre-season press conference in Bahrain. She stood beside Carlos, wearing a striking red Ferrari dress, arms crossed, expression neutral as she listened to reporters fire off their questions. She didn’t force a smile, didn’t try to seem approachable. She was just there—assessing, calculating. Watching them all. Watching him.

Oscar kept his composure, as always. But when their eyes met, a sharp jolt of electricity ran down his spine.

Later, he made the comment without thinking too much about it.

"Since when do you have a personal assistant?"

Carlos, scrolling through something on his phone, didn’t even look up.

"She’s not my assistant."

"Oh, right, my bad." Oscar rolled his eyes with exaggerated dramatics. "What’s the correct term now? Trusted advisor?"

"Manager."

The voice wasn’t Carlos’.

Oscar turned just in time to see her approaching at a measured pace. Elena Sainz stopped beside them, offering him a half-smile that was anything but friendly.

"Elena Sainz, by the way." She extended her hand effortlessly. "But if you need to call me something else, I can give you a few suggestions."

It took Oscar a second to react before he shook her hand. Her skin was cold from the water bottle she held in the other, but her grip was firm. Confident. Irritatingly confident.

"How generous."

"They say it’s one of my best qualities." Elena tilted her head slightly, her expression composed but with a glint of amusement in her eyes. "That, and my ability to stay one step ahead."

Carlos clicked his tongue, clearly entertained.

"Give it a month, Piastri. Once you see how she works, you’ll be terrified."

"Oh, I already know." Oscar let go of Elena’s hand with practiced ease, as if he had felt absolutely nothing. As if his brain wasn’t still processing the intensity of her gaze. "I’m just surprised she didn’t put ‘master strategist’ on her business card."

Elena leaned against the table and shrugged.

"I figured ‘Carlos Sainz’s manager’ was enough to make it clear what I’m made of."

Oscar held her gaze a second longer than he should have.

Carlos cleared his throat.

"Alright, children. I’d rather not have my own manager fired on her first day."

Elena let out a quiet laugh before straightening up.

"Don’t worry, Carlos. I can handle it."

She met Oscar’s eyes once more before turning away, walking off with the same confidence she had arrived with.

Oscar exhaled through his nose and looked back at Carlos.

"I don’t like her."

Carlos smirked over the rim of his water bottle.

"Sure you don’t."

Oscar took a slow sip of his own drink, watching Elena’s figure on the other side of the room.

The problem was, he also couldn’t stop looking at her.

Oscar thought it would pass.

That the irritation Elena Sainz stirred in him would fade with time, like the foam on a beer after a toast. That her presence in the paddock would blend into the background, just another familiar face in a sea of them.

He was wrong.

Elena wasn’t like the other newcomers to Formula 1—the ones who arrived tentatively, trying to fit into the finely tuned machinery of a team. No. She was already fitted in. She already belonged.

The worst part was, she knew it.

Oscar saw it in the way she moved through the Ferrari garage, in how effortlessly she spoke to engineers, mechanics, and executives. In how Carlos barely had to glance at her for her to know exactly what he needed.

But most of all, he saw it in the way she looked at him.

It was a game. And he wasn’t sure when, exactly, it had started.

Maybe it was in Jeddah, when they crossed paths in a narrow hallway and she slipped past him with a barely audible whisper:

"Do you always walk that stiffly, or is it just when I’m around?"

Or in Melbourne, when he passed by the hospitality area and saw her leaning against a railing, sipping coffee with infuriating ease. When their eyes met, she raised an eyebrow and mused, just loud enough over the ambient noise:

"You don’t seem like a coffee person. I’d say hot chocolate. With marshmallows, maybe?"

Oscar frowned, not understanding why that threw him off so much.

Or perhaps it was in Japan, at one of those post-race parties where the noise and lights made everything feel a little more unreal. She was on the other side of the room, laughing at something someone had said, and then—without warning—she looked right at him. Champagne glass in hand, wearing that enigmatic half-smile that made him want to cut through the crowd just to see if, up close, she would smile at him the same way.

It was subtle. Insidious.

And Oscar was losing.

Because for every comment she made, he had a response ready on the tip of his tongue. Because every time she looked at him with that glint of mischief, he found himself searching for her in a room, waiting to see how long it would take for her to provoke him again.

Because, no matter how much he denied it, he loved the damn game.

Then came China.

It was no secret that Ferrari and McLaren were locked in a tight battle in the championship. Carlos, Leclerc, and Lando were fighting for points race after race, and Oscar, of course, was right in the middle of it all.

The weekend had been tense. During the press conference, Oscar tossed a casual remark at Carlos as they settled into their seats.

"Careful tomorrow, Sainz. I’d hate to see you in a wall just for the sake of tradition."

Carlos rolled his eyes, but it was the quiet laugh to his right that really caught his attention.

Elena stood with her arms crossed, expression neutral but with that glint in her eyes. As Oscar walked past her after the interviews, she glanced sideways at him.

Elena tilted her head, somewhere between amused and analytical.

"Interesting. I wonder if your confidence is real, or if you’re just used to faking it."

Oscar didn’t blink.

"I wonder the same about you."

Elena smiled, making no effort to deny anything.

"I suppose we’ll both find out."

Oscar held her gaze a moment longer before letting out a quiet laugh.

"I hope you won’t be disappointed by mine."

"I hope the same." She shrugged before turning on her heel. "Though, if I am… I’ll be sure to let you know."

And with that, she walked away.

Oscar exhaled, realizing too late that he had been holding his breath.

He was definitely losing.

This year, Miami had a different kind of energy.

Maybe it was the atmosphere—the sticky heat creeping under clothes, the constant mix of music and engines in the air. Maybe it was the tension in the championship, the ever-tightening battle, the sense that every race mattered more than the last.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was her.

Elena had been at every Grand Prix since the season started. But this weekend, for some reason, her presence felt heavier.

And then came Saturday night.

And the elevator.

The entire hotel was asleep.

Miami was a city of excess, of bright lights and incessant noise, but at that moment, inside the luxury skyscraper, everything was calm.

The only signs of life were a couple of employees walking silently down the hallways, and the two of them, waiting for the elevator in the lobby.

Oscar couldn't sleep. He had spent the last hour wandering around the hotel, without any particular destination, hoping that fatigue would hit him suddenly and send him to bed. It didn't work.

Elena, on the other hand, had just closed her laptop after losing track of time at the bar, going over a couple of public relations matters for Carlos. The glass of wine she’d been sipping on was still evident in the slight flush on her cheeks and the languid way she held her purse.

Neither of them said anything when they saw each other.

The tension from the past few weeks still hung in the air, like a storm that never quite broke. Oscar gave her a brief nod, and she did the same, but the silence between them felt heavier than usual.

The elevator was taking too long.

Oscar couldn’t help but glance sideways at Elena, noticing the subtle movement of her fingers on the strap of her purse. Impatient.

“Working late?” he finally asked, his voice low, just to fill the void.

She turned her head slightly, sizing him up before responding.

“Not everyone has the luxury of walking around the hotel when they can’t sleep.”

Oscar gave a wry smile.

“Yeah, well. Not everyone has the need to manage their brother’s public image every weekend.”

Elena squinted at him.

“It’s an easier job than you think.”

“Of course. Carlos never says anything out of line, never stirs controversy, never gets into trouble.”

“Exactly.”

Oscar let out a brief laugh through his nose, but the sound quickly died when the elevator finally arrived, its doors opening with a soft “ding.”

They stepped inside together.

The doors closed. The elevator shut with a soft click and began to move as normal.

Oscar leaned his back against the padded wall and let his head fall back, exhaling slowly. Elena did the same in front of him, though with more grace. She held her purse with both hands in front of her, as if she needed something to hold onto.

The silence was so thick that the faint hum of the elevator’s motor seemed deafening.

Oscar felt the weight of the day accumulating on his shoulders, in his breathing. He wasn’t sure why insomnia was worse tonight, why his body refused to rest. Or rather, he knew why, but he wasn’t in the mood to admit it. Not when the reason was standing right in front of him.

Suddenly, the elevator stopped abruptly.

There was no jolt, no harsh shake, just a sharp stop, accompanied by a momentary blackout in the control buttons.

 Elena straightened immediately.

“What the hell...?”

Oscar looked at the panel, hoping the light for the floor they were heading to would turn back on. It didn’t.

He didn’t feel the elevator moving again either.

Elena pressed a button. Then another. Then several, more insistently.

Nothing.

She turned her head toward Oscar, and he could see the exact moment she realized the situation.

“No.” She shook her head, almost as if she could reverse it. “No way.”

Oscar blinked slowly.

“I think we’re stuck.”

Elena closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose.

“No shit, Sherlock. How did you deduce that?”

He smiled because it came naturally, because there was something almost amusing about seeing her flustered.

“Calm down. It won’t be for long.”

Elena didn’t respond. She just pressed her lips together in a tense line and went back to pressing the buttons, as if the elevator would give in to her persistence.

The panel didn’t even beep.

She sighed and pressed the emergency button.

The speaker crackled with static before a sleepy voice responded:

“Yes?”

Elena leaned toward the microphone urgently.

“We’re stuck in the elevator.”

There was a pause. Then, a yawn.

“Oh. Okay.”

Elena frowned.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry. It’s probably a temporary glitch. These things happen when the system resets in the early hours.”

Oscar and Elena exchanged a look.

“How long until it works again?” Oscar asked.

“Mmm… a few minutes. Half an hour at most.”

Elena threw her head back and closed her eyes, as if she needed all the patience in the world not to explode.

“Great.”

The intercom voice came through again.

“If it still doesn’t respond in a while, we’ll call maintenance. Don’t worry.”

There was a click, and then, just silence.

Oscar watched Elena cautiously, waiting for her reaction.

She looked back at him.

Then, she exhaled a long sigh before slowly sliding down the wall of the elevator until she was sitting on the floor, her legs crossed and her head resting against the padded panel.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

“Giving up that easily?”

“No. I’m just adapting.”

Oscar watched her for a second longer, then shrugged and did the same.

It didn’t make sense to stay standing, after all.

The elevator was dim, lit only by the faint emergency light. It was late. Almost no one was awake in the hotel. There was no sound beyond the static hum of the machinery and their own breathing. The air was thick, charged with something neither of them knew how to handle.

Elena pulled out her phone, checking it out of habit, though she didn’t expect to find anything.

"No signal." Her voice was low, almost as if she didn’t want to break the silence between them.

"Perfect. Now you have no excuse to be watching nonsense on TikTok."

Elena narrowed her eyes, smiling faintly, but the mockery in his tone didn’t go unnoticed.

"And what are you going to do? Philosophize about life in the dark?"

Oscar looked at her, clearly amused. The sarcasm in her voice had vanished, replaced by something... closer. Something more intense.

"Maybe." He replied, still holding onto his attitude. But that spark of playfulness was there, a touch of complicity that was growing stronger, more palpable.

Elena didn’t say anything else. She remained silent for a few seconds, fiddling with her phone in her hands while the elevator stayed still.

Oscar watched how the soft light reflected on her face. Every small movement she made was a reminder of how close she was to him, of how their bodies seemed to be drawing closer without either of them planning it. It was hard not to notice how the proximity between them was increasing, how the electricity between their skins seemed to grow more intense with every passing second.

Finally, she broke the silence.

"You’ve never been very subtle, have you, Piastri?"

He smiled, but the smile wasn’t mocking. It was different, like he was recognizing her in some way.

"I don’t like wasting time."

Elena looked at him with something more than amusement in her eyes, as though she was evaluating every word, every reaction. Her legs shifted slowly, and without thinking, she let her knee brush against his. A soft touch, almost imperceptible, but close enough for both of them to feel it.

Oscar swallowed, his chest tightening with that rapid heartbeat he couldn’t ignore. The tension between them was almost tangible, a weight neither of them could shake off.

She leaned slightly towards him, not breaking eye contact, and their voices softened further, becoming more intimate, more personal.

"You know," she said quietly. "I wonder how much longer you’re going to keep denying it."

Oscar didn’t answer.

Because he knew exactly what she was talking about.

Because he couldn’t pretend he didn’t feel the raw energy between them, that insistent attraction that grew with every held glance, every accidental touch, every provocation disguised as indifference.

Because he knew she knew it too.

Elena raised an eyebrow, waiting. Challenging.

Oscar closed his eyes for a second.

He took a deep breath.

But when he opened them again, Elena was even closer.

He could see every detail of her face. He could count the centimeters between them. Every freckle that adorned her tan skin. He could hear her breath, feel her warm breath grazing his skin, the hint of wine lingering from the glass she must’ve had earlier at the hotel bar.

It was a trap. And he knew it.

But he didn’t move.

Because, damn it, he didn’t want to move.

Elena’s fingers grazed his forearm, just a touch, an experiment.

Oscar felt his skin light up instantly.

"This is a fucking terrible idea," he muttered.

"Yeah?" Elena tilted her head slightly, letting the tension pull them together like an invisible thread. "Then tell me you don’t want it."

Oscar didn’t answer.

Because he did want it.

He wanted it with an absurd intensity, with an urgency that had been consuming him from the moment he saw her in the paddock at the start of the season.

But he shouldn’t.

The elevator beeped and came to life with a jolt.

Oscar reacted immediately, like a spring releasing. He stood up quickly, not thinking. The muscles in his legs tensed, and his torso straightened abruptly. A rushed, almost desperate movement, as if escaping the situation was the only way out.

Elena stayed on the floor of the elevator, watching him with that half-mocking, half-challenging smile, not moving. The position she was in, her knees bent, her eyes fixed on him, gave her a sense of power and control that bordered on indecent. Every inch of her body seemed to dare him to give in.

Oscar tried to look away, but his eyes inevitably returned to her. He knew he should leave, that he shouldn’t give in to what he wanted, to what his body was asking for, but... Elena was there, so close, so willing, and he was about to lose it all.

With a sharp movement, he tried to step towards the exit, distancing himself from her, avoiding any contact. He shouldn’t look at her anymore, shouldn’t think about it anymore.

But the damage was done. His mind was filled with images of her, from the most innocent to the most lewd thing he could have ever imagined.

Oscar quickly turned, as if the mere act of looking at her one more second would lead him to ruin. He walked towards the elevator’s exit, his pace quickening, and once he crossed the threshold, he breathed deeply, as if trying to expel all the accumulated tension from his body.

Elena didn’t say anything. She made no move. She stayed there, on the floor of the elevator, watching him walk away with a barely visible smile on her lips.

Oscar took a few steps, stopping at the end of the hallway before turning back, looking at her again, feeling the magnetism drawing him toward her. His body was begging to return, begging for more. But he stood firm.

In the end, he didn’t turn back.

But deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time.

By the time Oscar reached his room, he felt like he was about to throw up everything he had eaten in the last twenty-four hours. What had just happened? Had he just dreamed all that?

He collapsed onto the bed, his mind spinning while the darkness of the room enveloped him. Tomorrow he had a race, but in that moment, all he could think about was Elena. That damn kiss. What had just happened, and what he still didn’t understand.

The clock read three in the morning. His eyes were heavy, but he couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned in the bed, uncomfortable. The heat was still there, weighing on his chest, and the memory of her lewd smile wouldn’t leave him alone.

Suddenly, the sound of a knock on the door made him jump. Oscar frowned. Who the hell was knocking at this hour?

He sprang up and approached the door still drowsy, scratching his head, and opened it almost without thinking.

And there she was.

Elena.

Her slender, defined figure stood in the doorway, the hallway light partially illuminating her face, which held a serious expression but with that playful spark in her eyes.

"Am I interrupting?" she said, her tone both cheeky and innocent at the same time.

Oscar stood frozen for a moment, speechless. He couldn’t believe it.

"What are you doing here? How the hell do you know what room I’m in?" he asked, the exhaustion in his voice mixed with a clear sense of bewilderment.

"I speak five languages and I have charisma," she replied, leaning against the door.

Oscar should make a sarcastic comment, something sharp to break the tension, but he can't. Not when he still feels the ghost of her breath trapped between them in that elevator, the images he has tried to push deep into his mind now resurfacing at the worst possible moment.

Elena doesn't say anything. She just looks at him.

Oscar feels the weight of her gaze on every nerve ending.

"Tell me this isn't a bad idea," she whispers, though her tone says she already knows the answer.

Oscar could say many things.

He could remind her who she is. He could tell her that they hate each other, that they don't get along, that they're incompatible. He could remind her who her brother is.

But she steps closer.

And Oscar feels like he's drowning.

It's slow. It's unbearably slow. The ground seems to tilt beneath him as Elena moves a little closer, with the same determination she uses to negotiate contracts and manipulate press conferences. And Oscar, for the first time, has nothing to say.

Because he wants this.

He wants it so much it hurts.

"Tell me to stop," she whispers, but they're already too close, and the air between them is suffocating, electric, sharp like a summer storm.

Oscar says nothing.

And then, finally, he kisses her.

It's soft at first, as if they're still testing the boundaries of something too big to contain. But Elena responds with the same repressed intensity, her nails sliding down his neck, a small gasp smothered against his lips, and then everything crashes, like a snowball tumbling down a cliff.

No more doubts.

No more lines.

Just them.

The room is too small for everything they're feeling.

Oscar pulls her against him with more force than he should. It's not sweet. It's not gentle. It's nothing like it should be. But Elena doesn't want that either. Her hands search for him with the same silent desperation, the same urgency of someone who's been holding back for too long.

Her jacket falls to the floor in one swift motion.

Oscar's hands trace her back, outline the curve of her waist, and when their lips part for just a second, just enough to take a breath, they look at each other like they've just jumped into the void.

No one says anything.

Because there's nothing to say.

Elena grabs his shirt tightly, as if holding onto something. As if she can pretend this isn't tearing everything apart.

And Oscar... Oscar feels like he can finally breathe.

Because this isn't a mistake.

It can't be. It can’t feel this good.

When he kisses her again, Elena moans against his mouth and he feels something inside him break.

And there's no going back.

Clothes disappear somewhere between their broken kisses and the clumsy steps toward the bed. There are no pauses, no space for thought. Only the sound of their ragged breaths and the weight of the inevitable.

Elena is fire in his hands, in his mouth, in the way she touches him like she's discovering something that's always been there, something she's denied for too long. And Oscar... Oscar surrenders.

There's no rivalry, no fear, no one else in the world but her.

When their bodies finally meet, it's a perfect mess. A mix of need and awkwardness, muffled moans and nails marking skin. There are no doubts, no barriers. Just them, consuming each other in the darkness of a hotel room in Miami, not thinking about tomorrow.

Because right now, nothing else matters.

Dawn finds them tangled in the sheets, breaths still ragged, skin warm from what they've just done. Neither of them speaks. There is no room for words in the aftermath they've just unleashed.

Oscar feels the weight of the silence between them, but it's not uncomfortable. Not yet. Elena lies next to him, her face turned toward the ceiling, her hair messy on the pillow. She seems lost in her thoughts, but when Oscar moves his hand, barely grazing her arm, she doesn't pull away.

They shouldn't be here.

They shouldn't have crossed that line.

But they have. And the worst part is that instead of regretting it, Oscar only thinks about doing it again.

"Let's not talk about this, okay?" Elena says, finally breaking the silence.

Her voice is soft, measured, as if she’s testing the waters.

Oscar glances at her out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t want to say anything that will shatter this moment, make it more real than it already is.

"I don’t see what there is to say," he replies, because it’s the truth.

Elena lets out a low, almost ironic laugh and turns toward him, resting her head on her hand. Her eyes scan him with that intensity that drives him crazy, the kind that turns him into a damn fool every time he runs into her in the paddock.

"This doesn’t change anything," she says, with a certainty Oscar doesn’t know whether to envy or fear.

And maybe he should agree. Maybe he should nod, pretend that this was just a bad idea, a momentary mistake they can laugh off later.

But when Elena leans in and gently bites his lower lip before pulling away with a smile that’s pure poison, Oscar knows he’s screwed.

Because this changes everything.

The next morning, Oscar wakes up with the feeling that it was all a dream.

But the lingering warmth on his skin and the slight pressure of the mattress beside him tell him otherwise.

He blinks, trying to clear the fog of sleep, and the first thing he sees is Elena’s profile, sitting on the edge of the bed, adjusting the cuff of her blouse. Her hair is still tangled, her neck bearing traces of his mouth, and the sunlight of Miami filters its golden light through the curtains, making her look almost unreal.

She’s fucking beautiful.

And she’s also Carlos Sainz’ sister.

Oscar closes his eyes and curses under his breath.

He feels like he should say something, but his mind is still caught in the image of the night before. How Elena had surrendered to him with the same ferocity with which she looks at him in the paddock. How the tension that had been choking them both for months finally erupted into something neither of them could control.

And now, she’s there. Getting dressed. Preparing to leave.

As if nothing had happened.

As if they hadn’t spent the night devouring each other.

"So, not even a 'good morning' after everything we did last night?" he says, his voice still a little rough from sleep.

Elena doesn't even bother to turn around, though he notices the brief pause in her movements before she slips on her heels.

"Why drag out the inevitable?" she replies, shrugging.

Oscar lets out a low, incredulous laugh.

"The inevitable?"

"That we'll go on with our lives as if this never happened." She finally turns, resting a hand on her hip with that air of superiority that drives him crazy. "I know you can do it, Piastri. If you can keep a poker face after Lando closes you out on track, this shouldn't be a problem."

Oscar watches her closely, looking for any hint of doubt in her expression. He doesn't find any.

"Wow, what an elegant way to say it was a mistake."

Elena gives him a half-smile, as sharp as ever.

"I didn't say it was a mistake. I just said it’s not going to happen again."

Oscar narrows his eyes.

"So this is how we're going to play it?"

"This is how we're going to play it," she replies, with a certainty he knows is just a façade.

Oscar exhales and falls back onto the pillow, running a hand over his face.

"Well, I guess it was a pleasure doing business with you, Sainz."

Elena laughs softly, and that frustrates him more because it sounds genuinely amused, like this is just a simple game she has full control over.

"Take care, Piastri," she says finally, before turning and walking out of the room.

Oscar stares at the ceiling, feeling the echo of her perfume in the air.

Of course. Because this is perfectly normal.

Because he's definitely not about to lose his mind.

And because, evidently, this isn't over. Not by a long shot.

Oscar should have known that "it’s not going to happen again" was the biggest lie of the century.

Because it happens again.

And again.

And again.

In hidden rooms in the paddock, in hotels around the world, in deserted elevators and offices with the door slightly ajar. In any corner where there’s enough shadow for no one to see them, and just enough risk to make their hearts pound in their chests.

The first time he breaks his supposed resolution is at the next Grand Prix, in Ferrari’s hospitality entrance.

Elena is standing with her arms crossed, arguing with Carlos about something related to his race strategy. She’s wearing a fitted black dress with a blazer on top, and Oscar is trying to concentrate on his coffee when she gives him a fleeting glance, barely a second of eye contact that shouldn’t mean anything.

But his spine stiffens instantly.

And when she disappears down the back hall, he knows he’s going to follow her before he even thinks about it.

"I don’t even know why I bother pretending to be strong with you," he murmurs, closing the door behind him just a second before Elena pushes him against the wall and kisses him with a ferocity that leaves him breathless.

"Because you’re proud, Piastri." Her smile is lethal against his lips.

"And you’re a liar," he replies, sliding his hands under her blazer and pressing her against him.

"Yeah?"

"'It’s not going to happen again,'" he mocks, exaggerating her tone.

Elena laughs against his skin, right on the line of his jaw, before whispering in his ear:

"Well, sometimes I say things I don’t mean."

And Oscar, of course, is completely screwed.

After that, things escalate as fast as a Formula 1 car on a straight.

The hotel elevator in Monaco, where they barely manage to pull apart in time when the door opens into the lobby.

The engineers’ room in Canada, where he almost kisses her right next to the menu mural, and she laughs in his face when he stops at the last second.

The back corridor of the paddock in Spain, where he slides his hand across her backside when no one’s looking, and she spends the rest of the day with her skin burning.

"This is a really bad idea," Oscar says that same afternoon, just before he pushes her against the wall of his hotel room and kisses her like his life depends on it.

"A horrible idea," Elena agrees, between gasps.

"We can’t keep doing this."

"Never again."

"Last time."

"Last time," she repeats, her fingers tangled in his hair.

Obviously, they’re doomed.

The problem with saying "last time" is that they never follow through.

Oscar should be worried. Not just because this is getting out of control, but because it’s becoming more reckless with each time. At least in the beginning, they tried to keep it professional during the day and only let themselves go in the privacy of a hotel room at midnight. But now...

Now Elena holds his gaze a little too long in meetings. Now they cross paths in the paddock, and she brushes her fingers against his arm as she passes. Now he sees her sitting next to Carlos in Ferrari’s hospitality, and all he can think about is the way she moaned his name the night before.

It’s a miracle no one has discovered them.

"You’re playing with fire," Lando tells him in Silverstone, after catching Oscar looking toward Elena for the fifth time in half an hour.

Oscar feigns ignorance.

"Sorry?"

"I don’t know what’s going on there, but whatever it is, Carlos is going to kill you."

Oscar scoffs, but something inside him tightens.

Because that’s the other thing: the risk. Not just for his career, not just because if anyone at McLaren finds out, it could be a scandal, but because Carlos Sainz still sees him as a rival, and if he finds out that Oscar is tangled up with his sister, he’ll probably strangle him with his bare hands.

But it’s hard to care about that when she keeps sneaking into his hotel room at midnight.

When she keeps leaving marks on his skin that he has to hide before he puts on his racing suit.

When she smiles at him from across the paddock with that damn expression of "I know exactly what you’re thinking," and Oscar has to bite his tongue to keep from dragging her somewhere private.

It’s not just attraction. It’s something worse.

And the bomb finally explodes in Hungary.

The Hungarian GP should be the best day of his life.

He should be celebrating his first Formula 1 victory, savoring the champagne on the podium, feeling the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

But it’s all overshadowed by the controversy, by McLaren’s terrible strategy.

Oscar shouldn’t feel guilty for winning, but he does.

People are hugging him, patting him on the back, congratulating him like nothing happened. Lando is professional in front of the cameras, but in the garage, his expression is tense. He wanted that win. He deserved it. But the strategy benefited Oscar, and now it’s impossible to enjoy it.

He hasn’t seen Elena since he stepped off the podium.

Maybe he should be glad about that. After all, this is what they had agreed on: a game with no feelings, no strings attached, no complications.

When he arrives at the hotel, his room is completely dark.

Oscar closes the door behind him and stands in the middle of the room, not turning on the light, not moving.

He doesn't know what to do with himself.

He should be happy. Euphoric. Victorious. But all that’s in his chest is an indescribable weight, something that suffocates him, that tangles his thoughts until he doesn't know what to feel.

He clenches his fists. The adrenaline of the day still pulses in his veins, mixed with exhaustion and frustration. He shouldn't feel this way. Not after winning.

The door opens again.

He doesn’t even need to turn around to know it’s her.

Elena enters silently, not turning on the light, saying nothing. She just closes the door and walks over to the bed, sitting on the edge with the same ease with which she’s been invading his life from the start.

Oscar exhales a trembling sigh.

He doesn’t know what pushes him to move, but suddenly his legs give away and he falls to his knees in front of her, his head bowed, his arms powerless at his sides.

And then, he’s resting his forehead on her lap.

Elena doesn’t say anything.

She just runs a hand through his hair with a softness that disarms him.

Oscar squeezes his eyes shut. And he doesn’t know why, but he's crying.

Tears fall without permission, without control, without him being able to stop them.

He doesn’t sob, he doesn’t shake, he doesn’t make any noise. He just feels the heat on his cheeks, the pressure in his chest, his breath ragged.

Elena’s fingers continue in his hair, tracing slow lines, calming him without haste.

“You deserve this,” she whispers, so quietly it almost feels like a secret. “Don’t doubt for a second that this victory is yours. And no one else’s.”

Oscar closes his eyes.

He clings to those words.

To her.

Elena leans over him, her hand tangling in his hair with the same delicacy someone would use to pet a wounded animal.

Oscar feels her breath above his head, warm and steady.

“Look at me,” she says, but he can’t.

Not yet.

He stays there, with his forehead resting on her lap, his hands clenched on her pants, trying to contain something he doesn’t even understand.

“Oscar,” Elena repeats, softer this time, and runs her fingers down his neck. “You deserve this. No matter what anyone else says. No matter what anyone else thinks.”

Oscar squeezes his eyes shut tightly.

“They handed it to me,” he murmurs, his voice broken. “It’s not a real victory.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” she cuts him off without hesitation, but her tone remains sweet, still Elena. “Of course it’s real. You were faster than everyone out there. You didn’t stop fighting. You didn’t stop proving you deserve every second of that podium.”

Oscar swallows hard.

“But Lando…”

“But Lando nothing,” she interrupts him. “You don’t owe anyone an apology. You don’t have to feel guilty for winning.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Oscar,” she insists, and this time she takes his face in her hands, forcing him to lift his head.

Their eyes meet in the dim light of the room.

“Don’t let anyone make you doubt what you are,” she says, and her voice is an anchor, it’s fire, it’s a reminder that she’s here, with him, holding him when he feels like everything else is falling apart. “Today, you won. And you did it.”

Oscar looks at her.

Something inside him breaks, but not in the way he’s felt broken all day.

It’s something else.

Something deeper. Something that scares him.

Because until now, it had been easy to convince himself that what he had with Elena was just physical. A game. Something neither of them would take too seriously.

But here she is, holding him, seeing him, telling him what he needs to hear at the exact moment he needs to hear it.

And Oscar knows he’s fucked.

Elena keeps holding his face, her touch firm and sure, as if with just her contact she could return the stability he feels crumbling inside him.

Oscar wants to speak. He wants to say something that will lighten the weight in his chest. But all he does is inhale, deeply and brokenly, clinging to the feeling of her hands on his skin.

“Breathe,” Elena tells him, with a sweetness that’s almost his undoing.

So, he does.

He forces himself to fill his lungs with air and let it out slowly, as if with every exhale, he could release the knot in his throat, the doubt, the resentment towards himself.

Elena slides her thumbs over his cheeks, with a tenderness that’s almost unfamiliar to him.

“That’s it,” she murmurs. “That’s better.”

Oscar closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, she’s still there, watching him with that intensity that always disarms him.

And it’s in that moment when he realizes.

How fucking easy it would be to fall in love with her.

Because if Elena can see him like this, completely undone, and still look at him like he’s the same confident and determined driver everyone thinks he is… what else is she seeing in him that he himself can’t even recognize?

The thought terrifies him. Terrifies him a lot.

So he does the only thing he knows how to do: he straightens up, pulls away, rebuilds the distance he’s been ignoring between them since this started.

Elena lets him do it, but her eyes follow him with a look of understanding that unsettles him.

The silence between them is thick, heavy with something Oscar can no longer ignore. He has pulled away, tried to regain his composure, but it’s useless. He can still feel her touch on his skin, still hear her voice in his head, still see those eyes piercing through him as if they had always known the exact point to strike to bring him down.

"This isn’t just physical, is it?" His own voice sounds foreign, low, and almost trembling. As if, by saying it out loud, he’s admitting to something far greater.

Elena doesn’t seem surprised. She doesn’t lower her gaze, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t back away. There’s no fear or uncertainty in her expression, only the same certainty that has driven him insane from the very start.

"It never was."

Oscar swallows hard, his chest rising and falling with something he can’t tell if it’s relief or terror. Or both at the same time.

"From the moment I saw you in the paddock," she continues, her voice calm, steady, "I knew I was going to fall for you. It was inevitable. And when you looked at me for the first time, I knew you were going to fall, too."

Oscar blinks, surprised by how easily she says it. As if it’s a simple truth, an undeniable fact. And maybe it was. Maybe this was never in his control.

Somehow, that makes him laugh. He drops his head, a rough, resigned chuckle escaping his lips, because of course Elena knew before he did. Of course she had already figured it out while he was busy pretending it wasn’t happening.

When he looks at her again, it’s with different eyes. With the eyes of someone who knows he’s lost, that there’s no turning back.

"You’re unbearable," he mutters, but there’s a smile on his face.

Elena smiles too. And Oscar knows, with terrifying certainty, that he’s screwed. Completely, irreversibly screwed.

Oscar still stands before her, in the dim light of the room. His hands, still clenched into fists, gradually relax. Elena remains seated at the edge of the bed, her posture at ease but her gaze intense, fixed on him, as if she already knows what he’s going to do before he does.

"So, what do we do now?" he asks, his voice low, as if speaking in a space that belongs only to the two of them.

Elena leans forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees. The soft light of the room traces the curve of her face, her collarbone, the golden sheen of her skin still warm from the Hungarian summer. Oscar swallows.

"We could keep pretending nothing’s happening," she suggests, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Oscar scoffs, glancing down at his own hands before refocusing on her. "Great idea. That’s worked brilliantly so far."

Elena lets out a soft laugh, a low sound that skims over his skin. Then, with the same tranquility as always, she straightens up and rests her hands on the mattress, tilting her head in thought.

"We keep it a secret a little longer," she finally says. "We explore… this."

Oscar frowns, his pulse still erratic from everything they’ve just admitted.

"This?"

"Whatever is happening between us," she explains, her hand making a subtle gesture between them. "No pressure, no expectations. Just… letting it grow."

Oscar feels his breathing deepen slightly, as if his body is trying to absorb the calm in Elena’s voice. He doesn’t know what he expected her to say, but now that he hears it, he realizes this is the only thing that makes sense.

"Improvising?" he asks, his tone lighter, though something still lingers in his chest.

Elena nods slowly. "Improvising."

Oscar sinks back onto his knees, closer this time, his hands resting on the edge of the mattress, just inches from hers. The room seems to shrink, narrowing down to the proximity of their bodies, to the warm, settled tension between them.

He looks at her and, instead of doubt, all he sees in her is certainty. As if she has known from the start that this was the only possible outcome.

"We’re screwed, aren’t we?" he murmurs, almost smiling.

Elena tilts her head, her fingers barely brushing against Oscar’s on the bed. A small, fleeting contact, but one that electrifies the space between them.

"Up to our necks."

Oscar exhales slowly and tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling as if he might find some kind of answer there. But there are no answers—only the undeniable reality that, for the first time, they are acknowledging what’s between them without pretending it doesn’t exist.

Elena shifts on the bed and pats the mattress beside her, a silent invitation. There’s no ulterior motive in the gesture, no expectation, and maybe that’s what makes Oscar surrender so easily. He lies down beside her, his head resting on the pillow, leaving a small space between them.

And for the first time since this began, there’s no urgency, no hands exploring skin, no breath-stealing kisses. They’re just there, sharing the same air, seeing each other without the barrier of immediate desire.

They talk.

At first, about absurd things. Silly habits, likes they’ve never admitted to each other. Elena sleeps with socks on, even in the summer, and Oscar looks at her in horror when she says it. He has a specific routine for putting on his gloves before getting in the car, and she laughs because her brother does the same.

Then come childhood stories, dreams they once had and those they still chase. Elena tells him she wanted to be an astronaut as a child but got too dizzy in space simulators. Oscar confesses he’s still not entirely used to fame, that sometimes he misses being anonymous.

As the night stretches on and the conversation slows, words tangling with sleepiness, Oscar turns on his side and watches her.

"Did you know this was going to happen?" he asks quietly.

Elena blinks slowly and smiles, with that air of confidence that undoes him.

"I knew the moment you saw me in the paddock."

Oscar scoffs, half amused, half resigned. "How convenient."

"Not my fault you’re so predictable."

Oscar laughs and covers his face with his hand for a moment before rolling onto his back again.

"I’m going to hate myself for saying this, but… I think I like that about you."

Elena glances at him out of the corner of her eye, her smile needing no words to be understood.

And just like that, without realizing it, they fall asleep.

The break doesn’t last long.

During the Belgian Grand Prix, everything appears to be the same: the same fleeting touches when no one is looking, the same encounters in empty hallways, the same tension whenever they’re too close. But now, there’s something more. Something in the way Oscar looks for her before getting into the car, in the way Elena lingers a second too long when fixing the collar of the shirt she so boldly ripped off his body just ten minutes ago. Something in the way their fingers brush when she hands him a bottle of water right after, in the way they look at each other when they think no one is watching.

And when Oscar crosses the finish line, knowing he’ll be on the podium again, his first instinct isn’t to celebrate—it’s to find her. Standing on the podium, adrenaline still rushing through his body and the trophy in his hand, his eyes scan the crowd until they lock onto Elena’s. And when she smiles at him, he feels like he could live in that moment forever.

That night at the hotel feels different again. Instead of immediately losing themselves in each other, they collapse onto the bed to watch the race replay. And when the camera shows Oscar on the podium, smiling with pure happiness, eyes bright and expression open, Elena can’t hold back. She lets out a laugh so loud it echoes through the room.

Oscar, confused, turns to her with a frown. “What’s so funny?”

Elena, trying to hold back her laughter, points at the screen. “Your lovesick puppy face.”

Oscar follows the direction of her finger, and then he sees it. Sees himself. And he can’t do anything but laugh, because it’s true. The camera caught the exact moment he found Elena in the crowd, and the expression on his face leaves no room for doubt.

“I do not have a lovesick puppy face,” he protests, but his own laughter betrays any attempt at indignation.

Elena turns to him, raising an eyebrow. “Oscar, darling. Let’s just pray no one else notices, because it would be hard to deny the accusations.”

And with that, they laugh until tears stream down their faces, until they’re breathless, until Oscar, with his head resting on Elena’s stomach, feels something dangerously close to the simplest, purest kind of happiness.

Because for the second time, they don’t need to hide in passion, in desire. For the second time, they enjoy each other’s company without sex getting in the way.

Just them.

Elena wakes up to the weight of an arm draped over her waist and the muffled sounds of the city filtering through the hotel window. She blinks, still caught between sleep and wakefulness, acutely aware of the warmth pressed against her back, of the slow, steady breath against her neck.

Oscar.

Recognition comes at the same time as reality—the grayish dawn light in Belgium, the distant hum of traffic, the calendar marking the end of a weekend that has changed everything.

And the certainty that in less than two hours, she’ll be on a plane back to Madrid.

She sighs, shifting slightly under Oscar’s arm. He grumbles in protest, tightening his hold on her, as if his subconscious understands what’s about to happen before he does.

“I have to go,” she whispers, though she doesn’t move.

Oscar doesn’t respond immediately. His breath is heavy against her shoulder, still half-asleep, and when he finally mumbles something, his voice is rough.

“Five more minutes.”

Elena smiles softly, but she knows she can’t give in.

“Carlos is waiting for me downstairs. If I take too long, he’s coming up to get me.”

Oscar sighs and, at last, loosens his arm. When she turns to face him, she finds his face buried in the pillow, brows furrowed, hair a complete mess. He looks like a grumpy little kid refusing to start the day.

“Don’t make that face,” she teases, sitting on the edge of the bed to put on her shoes.

Oscar lifts his head just enough to squint at her.

“What face?”

“That one. The ‘I’m going to be a martyr because the girl I like is leaving me in a hotel’ face.”

He clicks his tongue and flops back onto the pillow with dramatic flair.

“Slander.”

Elena lets out a quiet laugh as she ties her laces. Then, unhurriedly, she leans toward him, pressing a hand into the mattress as her lips brush his cheek.

“I’ll see you soon.”

Oscar doesn’t reply right away. He just looks at her. But there’s something in his expression—in the way he watches her, in how his hand grips the edge of the sheet like he’s about to say something else—that makes her hesitate.

Because for the first time since this started, they realize they’ve never gone this long without seeing each other.

And they don’t know what that will feel like.

Elena should stand up and leave. But she doesn’t.

Instead, she lets her gaze trace over his face, memorizing every detail. Oscar looks back at her just as intently, and then, without thinking too much, she leans in and kisses him.

It’s brief, but not rushed. There’s no desperation, no urgency—just the certainty that she wants him. That even if they go in opposite directions, even if weeks pass without seeing each other, what they have won’t fade with distance.

When they pull apart, Oscar watches her with a mix of surprise and something else—something she doesn’t want to analyze too closely right now.

“That was unfair,” he murmurs, his voice still thick with sleep.

Elena smiles.

“You’ll survive.”

And before he can argue, she gets to her feet, grabs her bag, and walks out the door.

It clicks shut.

And Oscar is alone.

For a few seconds, he just lies there, staring at the ceiling, the warmth of Elena’s kiss still lingering on his lips.

It’s not the first time he’s watched her leave. They’ve had plenty of quiet goodbyes—in hotel hallways, in elevators, in hidden corners of the paddock where no one was looking. But this one feels different. Heavier.

He sighs, running a hand over his face before forcing himself to get up.

The room still smells like her. It’s a ridiculous thing to notice, but he does—when he moves, when he picks up his clothes from the floor, when he starts stuffing them into the open suitcase beside the bed. There’s something mechanical about the act of folding t-shirts and layering them over piles of laundry, of zipping up the suitcase with a sharp click, of mentally checking if he’s forgotten anything.

For some reason, it annoys him.

He’s supposed to be looking forward to the summer break. Four weeks with no races, no flights every other day, no endless motorhome meetings. It’s what he’s been waiting for.

But now that it’s here—now that the door has closed and Elena is gone—it doesn’t feel as good as he thought it would.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Oscar picks it up without thinking, expecting a message from his mother or the team. But no.

Elena: I hope you’ve at least gotten out of bed. Don’t blame me when you realize you’re running late for the airport.

He exhales a small laugh, leaning against the desk. Of course Elena is the first to text. She always seems one step ahead of him.

Oscar: Don’t you have anything better to do than harass me first thing in the morning?

It takes less than ten seconds for a reply.

Elena: I have an hour-long drive ahead of me. Consider this an act of charity.

Oscar shakes his head, barely noticing the way a smile tugs at his lips.

After a moment, his fingers slide over the screen again.

Oscar: Do you miss me already?

This time, the reply takes a little longer. As if Elena is actually thinking about it.

Finally, his screen lights up.

Elena: Keep dreaming.

Oscar sets the phone back down on the nightstand, still smiling faintly, but the feeling in his chest doesn’t fade.

Because, deep down, he already misses her.

He has barely stepped into the terminal when he spots his mother.

She’s standing there, arms crossed, a knowing little smirk on her face—like she knows something he doesn’t. Or worse: like she knows something he thinks he’s hidden well.

And then he sees it.

The phone in her hand. The screen lit up.

And a crystal-clear image of his own face on the Belgian Grand Prix podium, wearing the most obvious, irrefutable, damning expression he’s ever had in his life.

That damn photo.

Oscar stops dead in his tracks, the exhaustion from the flight hitting him all at once, mixed with pure, knee-jerk denial.

“No.”

His mother doesn’t even blink.

“Yes.”

“I don’t make that face.”

“Oh, darling…” she sighs, holding the screen closer to him, as if that was necessary. “You have exactly that face.”

Oscar grimaces, shifting his gaze to anything else—the people walking by, the luggage carts, the absurdly patterned airport carpet.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His mother raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, really?” She swipes across the screen and shows him another image, this time a video capturing the exact moment his face changes when he spots Elena in the crowd. “And what’s this, then?”

Oscar clenches his jaw, cursing internally at the cameraman who managed to capture that moment so precisely.

“I was…” He trails off, desperately searching for an excuse. But there isn’t one. Because he knows exactly why he had that expression. He knows exactly who he was looking at. And he knows that his mother knows, too.

She waits, patient, with that look that has been disarming him since childhood.

Oscar exhales, defeated.

“Can I at least get a coffee before the interrogation?”

His mother smirks, turning toward the exit.

“Oh, of course. But don’t think you’re getting away with this, darling. We have a lot to talk about.”

For Elena, summers at home have always had their own rhythm, a routine shaped by the heat, sports, and family. And she enjoys it. She needs it, even. After months of airports, race tracks, and frantic schedules, there’s something comforting about returning to familiar sounds—the echo of footsteps on stone floors, the rustling leaves stirred by the wind, the laughter of her sisters in the garden.

But this summer is different.

Because, for the first time, there’s something—someone—outside of this world occupying her mind more than it should.

She tells herself it’s absurd, that it’s not like they’re going years without seeing each other. It’s just a month. Four weeks. Thirty days.

And yet, every night, as the rest of the house sleeps, she feels the buzz of her phone under her pillow, and her heart skips a beat.

Oscar.

Oscar: What is Carlos Sainz’s favorite sister doing on a random Tuesday?

Elena: Trying not to get caught texting you. And you?

Oscar: Counting the days until I can see you roll your eyes at me in person again.

Elena bites her lip, hiding a smile in the darkness.

Elena: I’d love to say I don’t miss you at all.

Oscar: But you can’t.

No. She can’t.

And it’s ridiculous because she keeps herself busy. She wakes up early to go hiking with her father and Carlos. She plays football with her cousins in the garden. She joins Carlos and his friends on their cycling routes, challenging each other to climb the mountain passes faster, both acting more like kids than fully grown adults.

And in the middle of it all, she always finds a moment.

A stolen minute under the shade of a secluded tree to call him. A quick text while changing shoes. A picture of Carlos falling off his bike, his foot still clipped to the pedal, captioned: I miss you, but this makes up for it a little.

Oscar’s reply comes instantly.

Oscar: You’re lucky I like you this much.

Elena chuckles softly, leaning her head back against the tree trunk.

She knows this is dangerous. The more they get used to this, the harder it will be to go back to their respective lives, each on opposite ends of the globe.

But right now, she doesn’t care.

It’s the middle of the night, and she’s been asleep for a couple of hours when the vibration of her phone pulls her from sleep.

Elena blinks into the darkness of her room, disoriented, her heart beating slow and heavy in her chest. She reaches blindly toward her nightstand, fumbling until her fingers find the device.

The screen lights up the dim room.

Oscar.

It’s four in the morning in Madrid. Two in the afternoon in Melbourne.

She presses her lips together before swiping to accept the call, bringing the phone to her ear as she sinks into her pillow.

“Do you know what time it is?” Her voice is a hoarse whisper from sleep.

On the other end, Oscar lets out a quiet laugh.

“I knew you were awake.”

Elena closes her eyes and exhales slowly.

“I wasn’t. Until you decided to call me.”

“Well, if you answered, that means you don’t hate me that much,” he teases.

Elena doesn’t respond right away. She turns onto her side, hugging her pillow as she focuses on the sound of his voice.

“How are you?” she finally asks, calmer now.

“Tired,” Oscar admits. “It’s weird being back here.”

She understands. They’ve both returned to the normalcy of their own lives, but nothing feels normal. Miami, Silverstone, Budapest, Spa… all those weekends together feel like a world apart. And now, here they are, separated by thousands of miles, pretending everything is the same.

“What about you?” he asks.

Elena burrows a little deeper under the blankets, a small smile on her lips.

“I did a brutal cycling route with Carlos today. Nearly died by the time we reached the mountain pass, and Carlos laughed at me.”

Oscar chuckles.

“I find that hard to believe.”

"That I almost died or that I made it to the summit?"

"That you almost died," he replies casually. "You're stronger than Carlos, and you know it."

Elena feels the warmth spreading in her chest but ignores it.

"Tell him that. He called me a 'rookie.'"

"That’s just his wounded pride talking."

She smiles, letting herself get carried away by the familiarity of the conversation. They talk about everything and nothing. He tells her about his mother’s cooking and how his dog has decided to ignore him for being away so long. She tells him how her father spent the afternoon teaching Rebecca to drive on dirt roads, with Carlos and her yelling from the back seat.

The conversation flows easily, without awkward pauses. Every time silence threatens to settle in, one of them finds something else to say. But at some point, the conversation shifts. It becomes quieter.

"I miss you," Oscar says suddenly, with a sincerity that disarms her.

Elena doesn’t answer right away. Not because she doesn’t feel the same, but because she feels too much.

"I miss you too," she murmurs at last, her voice barely a whisper in the darkness.

"It’s strange, isn’t it?" he continues. "Not seeing you every day."

Elena exhales.

"Yeah."

Another silence. This time, neither of them fills it.

Until Oscar breaks it with an idea that shouldn’t sound as crazy as it does.

"What if we meet up?"

Elena blinks, suddenly wide awake.

"What?"

"Let’s run away. Just for a few days. Just us."

She stays still, her heart pounding faster.

"That’s insane."

"A little insanity wouldn’t hurt us," he reasons. His voice is calm, but there’s something in his tone that makes her picture him with that lopsided grin, eyes squinting slightly under the Melbourne afternoon sun. "Tell me you don’t want to."

Elena bites her lip. She can’t.

She doesn’t want to.

"I can give you five days. That’s all the time Carlos will let me go without hiring a private investigator," she finally says.

Oscar smiles on the other end of the line.

"Five days."

And the next morning, Elena drops the bomb at the breakfast table. If she wants to get away with it, she has to act naturally—with the confidence of someone who has nothing to hide.

So, as she sets her plate in the sink after breakfast, she announces casually, "I’m leaving for a few days."

She knows she has everyone’s attention in less than a second.

Carlos, sitting across the table, frowns with his mouth full of toast. Their mother, standing by the coffee machine, turns with interest.

"Where to?" Carlos asks, still chewing.

Elena leans against the counter, phone in hand.

"A friend’s house on the coast."

Carlos gives her a skeptical look.

"What friend?"

"Clara."

She’s the first name that comes to mind. Their mother nods, as if that makes it all perfectly logical, but Carlos keeps staring at her with the same doubtful expression.

"Since when are you and Clara such good friends?"

Elena rolls her eyes.

"Carlos, we went to school together for ten years."

"And you haven’t seen her in four."

"Exactly. We caught up recently, and she invited me to stay for a few days."

Carlos doesn’t look convinced.

"And you’re just leaving, out of nowhere."

"Why not? It’s the summer break, I don’t have to stay here the whole time."

Carlos crosses his arms.

"Hmm."

Their mother, on the other hand, just smiles.

"Well, darling, if you want to go, go."

Carlos looks at her like he can’t believe she’s accepting the explanation so easily.

"Doesn’t that sound suspicious to you?"

"Carlos, please," their mother says, shaking her head in amusement. "It’s summer. Can’t your sister go to the beach for a few days without you interrogating her like she’s planning a heist?"

Elena smirks at Carlos before taking a sip of her coffee.

"Exactly. Thanks, Mom."

Carlos huffs but seems to give in.

"When are you leaving?"

"Early tomorrow morning."

"Uh-huh."

Carlos keeps watching her, narrowing his eyes like he’s trying to read between the lines. Elena ignores him, picking up her cup and heading for the door.

Her phone vibrates in her hand.

A message from Oscar.

"Mission accomplished?"

Elena smiles before replying.

"Obviously. Who do you think I am?"

Elena doesn’t know exactly when she realizes that this—whatever it is they’re doing—is a disaster waiting to happen.

Maybe it’s when she opens her eyes that first morning in Croatia and finds Oscar already awake, his head resting in his palm, just watching her.

Or when, after spending the afternoon exploring the town, they step into a small market to buy groceries for dinner and end up arguing—far too seriously—about which kind of pasta is better.

Or maybe it’s when, without thinking too much about it, she tosses a towel at his face after her shower, and instead of complaining, he pulls it away slowly and grins like an idiot. Like this is normal. Like this isn’t something they’ll regret sooner or later.

But they don’t think about that. Or rather, they pretend not to.

The town is perfect. A hidden corner on the Croatian coast, with whitewashed stone houses, cobbled streets, and the sea glistening under the August sun. No one knows them here. No one watches them. Here, they can walk without looking over their shoulders, without worrying about cameras or curious eyes.

And so they do.

They walk along the shore, sandals in hand, letting the foam of the waves soak their ankles. They eat at a small restaurant where the owner treats them like locals. They spend the afternoon at a secluded cove, where Oscar splashes her unexpectedly, and Elena lunges at him without a second thought, sending them both crashing into the water, laughing.

They don’t talk much about what this means.

They don’t say out loud that they’re playing with fire.

They just exist.

For the first time since this all began, they are together without the pressure of the paddock, without the weight of the forbidden. They wake up tangled in white sheets, have slow breakfasts on the terrace, Oscar cooks while Elena sits on the counter, stealing bites of whatever he’s making.

It’s ridiculously domestic.

Ridiculously easy.

And that’s why, somewhere in the back of her mind, Elena knows it can’t last.

It’s their last evening together, and the sun is starting to set over the sea, painting the sky in shades of gold and orange. The heat of the day still lingers on the wooden terrace of the small house they’ve rented, where the sound of waves crashing against the rocks blends with the distant murmur of locals enjoying the evening.

Oscar absentmindedly turns the beer bottle in his hands, his gaze lost in the foam sliding down the glass. Across from him, Elena leans back in her chair, tracing the rim of her wine glass with a fingertip.

The silence between them is comfortable.

But Oscar knows he can’t leave it like this.

“I don’t want this to end when summer does.”

Elena lifts her gaze slowly, as if her thoughts were somewhere else. She blinks a couple of times before speaking.

“What do you mean?”

Oscar lets out a humorless chuckle, dropping his eyes to the table.

“I mean, I don’t want to go back to pretending this isn’t happening.”

Elena doesn’t answer right away. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, studying him with those eyes that always seem to know more than they say.

“I don’t know if we have a choice.”

Oscar looks up, holding her gaze.

“There’s always a choice.”

Elena sighs, running a hand through her hair before pushing her glass aside.

“Oscar…”

He shakes his head before she can continue.

“Don’t tell me it won’t work. That it’s complicated. That we have to think about Carlos, the paddock, everything else. Because I know. I’ve thought about it a million times. But what scares me more than what happens if we keep going… is what happens if we stop.”

Elena stays quiet.

For a moment, Oscar fears she won’t respond—that she’ll get up from the table, deflect with a sharp remark like she’s done so many times before.

But then, she speaks.

“If I’m being honest… I’m scared of that too.”

Oscar blinks. He wasn’t expecting her to admit it so easily.

“Yeah?”

Elena nods slowly.

“Since the season started, everything has been so intense. At first, it was just this ridiculous tension, this game. I loved getting under your skin.” She smiles a little, but there’s more nostalgia than teasing in it. “But then it became something else. Something I couldn’t control anymore.”

Oscar leans in slightly, never taking his eyes off her.

“When did you realize?”

Elena holds his gaze, and for the first time in a long time, she hesitates.

“I think… since the beginning.”

Something tightens in Oscar’s chest.

“Then why have we been avoiding it for so long?”

Elena lets out a quiet laugh, like the answer is too obvious.

“Because it was easier that way. If we ignored it, we didn’t have to face what it meant.”

Oscar watches her for a long moment. Then, with a tired smile, he says, 

“Falling for you was too easy.”

Elena drops her gaze for a second before looking up again, her expression knocking the air out of his lungs.

“Falling for you was too easy, too.”

The world seems to stop.

Oscar feels a tingling in his skin, like his body is trying to process what he just heard.

“Elena…”

But she keeps going.

"I didn’t want to accept it," she says quietly. "Because I was scared. Because if this ends, I don’t know how we go back to being the same. I don’t know how I’ll look at you without it hurting."

Oscar takes her hand across the table. Their fingers fit together like they were made for it.

"I don’t want this to end."

Elena tightens her grip, not letting go.

"Me neither."

They stay like that for a moment, in silence, with the sun setting behind them and the sound of the ocean filling the empty spaces.

Until Elena breaks the calm.

"So… what do we do now?"

Oscar exhales slowly.

"We can’t keep hiding forever."

Elena nods.

"Carlos won’t accept it."

"Not right away, no."

"I don’t want him to find out from someone else."

Oscar lets out a dry laugh.

"Well, it’s not like we’ve been very subtle."

Elena rolls her eyes.

"That’s your fault."

Oscar raises an eyebrow.

"Excuse me?"

"You’re the one who looks at me like—" She stops herself, and Oscar grins.

"Like what?"

She meets his gaze, unyielding.

"Like you physically can’t not look at me."

Oscar leans in slightly, closing the space between them. His voice is a murmur.

"Like you matter too much."

Elena narrows her eyes.

"Too much?"

He shakes his head, a smile on his face.

"Meh, not enough."

And then, without thinking, without hesitating for a second longer, he kisses her.

The morning sun bathes the town in that golden warmth that only exists on vacation. The breeze smells of salt and freshly baked bread, and the cobblestones beneath their feet radiate the accumulated heat of previous days. Oscar and Elena walk aimlessly, slipping between market stalls, weaving through café terraces, blending into the crowd of people who live here without knowing that, for them, this is their last day of reprieve.

Tomorrow, everything goes back to normal. Tomorrow, they return to their lives. Tomorrow, the distance.

But today, today is still theirs.

Elena stops in front of a small flower stall, leaning over the tin buckets filled with sunflowers and lavender. The vendor, an elderly man with a white mustache, smiles when he sees her interest.

“For you, take one as a gift.” He plucks a sprig of lavender and offers it to her.

Elena smiles and accepts it with a small nod. Oscar watches her, saying nothing, caught in that quiet awe that sometimes overtakes him when he looks at her for too long.

He still doesn’t understand how he got here—how he ended up in a small Croatian coastal town, watching Elena pick flowers under the sun, holding her hand like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

She turns to him and tucks the lavender behind his ear with a teasing smile.

“There. Now you smell nice.”

Oscar rolls his eyes but doesn’t take it off.

They keep walking, unrushed, savoring the morning. They pass an ice cream shop, and Elena suddenly craves pistachio gelato. Oscar buys one for her, and as always, she offers him the first bite. It’s a simple, silly gesture, but it leaves a warmth in his chest.

They stroll to the town square, where a fountain with crystal-clear water sparkles, and children run around, laughing. They sit on the edge, sharing the ice cream, carrying the easy carelessness of people who believe the day will stretch on forever.

Oscar doesn’t know how long they’ve been there, only that, at some point, Elena rests her head on his shoulder, and he closes his eyes, letting himself drift.

And then, the peace shatters.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

Oscar feels his entire body go rigid.

No.

No.

No way.

But yes.

Carlos Sainz stands at the other end of the square, frozen in place, his jaw slack, his eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets. Beside him, his girlfriend Rebecca has a hand over her mouth, but from the way her shoulders shake, it’s clear she’s holding back laughter.

Oscar doesn’t dare move.

He knows Carlos has already connected the dots.

The pistachio ice cream drips slowly between his fingers, melting.

Elena, still resting her head on his shoulder, exhales deeply before murmuring,

“Well… the odds of this happening were pretty low.”

Oscar swallows hard.

Carlos blinks several times, as if trying to reboot his brain. Then he looks at Oscar. Then at Elena. Then at their intertwined hands. Then back at Oscar.

Oscar sees the exact moment reality slams into him.

Carlos blinks. Takes a deep breath. And explodes.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!”

Elena, calm as ever, straightens her posture and stretches as if this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Carlos.”

“CARLOS?! JUST ‘CARLOS’?! HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!”

“Don’t shout.”

“I’M NOT SHOUTING!”

“Yes, you are.”

“I AM ABSOLUTELY SHOUTING!”

Oscar is too paralyzed to intervene. He feels like a deer caught in headlights.

Elena gets to her feet with an exasperated sigh, like she’s dealing with a tantrum-throwing child.

“What are you doing here, Carlos?”

“I SHOULD BE ASKING YOU THAT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? AND WHY THE HELL ARE YOU WITH HIM?” Carlos gestures wildly toward Oscar, like he’s some inanimate object instead of a person with a name.

Oscar opens his mouth to say something—anything—but no words come out.

“I’m on vacation. Just like you,” Elena replies, completely unfazed.

Carlos looks about ready to combust.

“With him?”

“Yes.”

Oscar wants to disappear.

Carlos points an accusing finger at him.

“YOU!”

Oscar instinctively straightens.

“Me?”

“YES, YOU! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING WITH MY SISTER?!”

Oscar opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“Uh…”

“‘UH’ WHAT?!”

Elena sighs.

“Carlos, seriously, can you drop the dramatics?”

“IT’S NOT DRAMATICS! IT’S A VERY SERIOUS QUESTION!”

Rebecca finally decides to step in, placing a gentle hand on Carlos’s arm.

“Babe, breathe.”

“I DON’T WANT TO BREATHE!”

“Well, you should.”

Carlos lets out an angry huff but at least shuts his mouth.

Elena crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow.

“Are you done?”

Carlos scowls.

“No.”

“Let me know when you are.”

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

@smoooothoperator @freyathehuntress @gold66loveblog @hadesnumber1daughter

if you want to get added to my permanent taglist, just let me know! likes, comments and reblogs are really appreciated. your support means the world to me and it keeps me motivated! thank you all <3

[devotedlyandrogynousyouth]

can u pleasee write mean jason todd feeling bad for making reader tear up , and he tries to make it up to her in his own weird way

Save Your Tears for Another Day

Mean!Jason Todd x Reader

Guys, hate to say it, but it's probably been 6 months since I got this ask. I'm so sorry to everybody who's sent in requests that I haven't gotten to😭

Jason Todd was not a nice person.

Not to you, not to anyone.

You’d known that from the start. You knew it when he barely spoke to you outside of the bedroom. When he never asked how your day was, never let you too close, never kissed you unless it was for something more.

You weren’t dating. That wasn’t what this was.

Still, sometimes he let little things slip. A hand lingering on your waist a second too long. A gruff “Be careful” when you left his place late at night. The way he always, always came back.

It was enough to keep you around.

Until tonight.

Because tonight, Jason made you cry.

And you weren’t sure you could forgive him for it.

It started with a scar.

You were in his apartment, lying on his bed in nothing but one of his old shirts, tracing idle patterns across his chest. He let you, eyes closed, arm slung lazily over his forehead.

Your fingers ghosted over a raised line of skin, just below his ribs. One you hadn’t noticed before.

“Where’d this one come from?” you asked softly.

Jason cracked an eye open, glancing down. He barely spared it a second before shrugging. “Don’t remember.”

You frowned. “It’s pretty big.”

He yawned. “They all blend together after a while.”

You traced the scar again, a little more deliberately. “Do any of them bother you?”

Jason huffed, shifting away from your touch. “Jesus, what is this, twenty questions?”

You froze. “I was just asking.”

“Well, don’t.” His voice was sharper now, that familiar edge creeping in. “You wanna screw around? Fine. But don’t go getting all sentimental on me.”

You swallowed hard, pulling your hand back. “I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, you were.” He sat up, running a hand through his hair. “You always do this. Act like there’s something here when there’s not.”

Something in your chest twisted.

Jason must have noticed, because he sighed and pushed himself off the bed. “I don’t need you digging through my past like some therapist. Just drop it.”

He left the room without another word, and you sat there, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes.

It wasn’t the words themselves that hurt. It was the way he said them—like the very idea of you caring was a burden. Like you meant nothing to him.Maybe you didn’t.

You bit your lip, forcing yourself to breathe. You wouldn’t cry over Jason Todd. You wouldn’t. But that night, when you left his place and walked home alone, you did.

Jason knew he’d fucked up before you even left.

He hadn’t meant to snap. It just… happened. The moment you started asking about his scars, something inside him twisted, pulling tight. You didn’t get it. What it was like to die, to come back, to carry every wound like a reminder of the boy he used to be. And you—soft, warm, good—you had no place in any of it.

That’s what he told himself.

But when he heard the front door click shut, something ugly settled in his stomach. You always stayed the night.

Not this time.

Jason spent the next day trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in his chest. He went out on patrol, cracked a few skulls, kept moving. But even when he was standing over some lowlife, breathing hard, knuckles bloody, all he could think about was the look on your face before you left. By the time he got back to his apartment, it was nearly three in the morning. He hesitated, then grabbed his phone.

Still mad?

The message sat unread. Jason scowled, tossing the phone onto the couch. He wasn’t good at this. At fixing things. At people. So he did what he always did when he needed answers. He found Roy.

“You what?” Roy blinked at him, halfway through a beer.

Jason sighed. “I made her cry.”

Roy let out a low whistle, setting his drink down. “Damn. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Not helping.”

“I am helping. I’m making you feel worse so you’ll actually fix it.”

Jason glared. “You’re about to feel worse when I put you through a wall.”

Roy smirked, but then his expression softened. “Alright, man. What happened?”

Jason exhaled sharply. “She started asking about my scars, and I… snapped.”

Roy tilted his head. “Did she ask in a pushy way?”

Jason hesitated. “…No.”

“Did she try to make it about herself?”

“No.”

Roy leaned back. “Then why’d you lose it?”

Jason ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, okay? It’s just—” He clenched his jaw. “It’s easier when she doesn’t care.”

Roy studied him for a long moment, then shook his head with a small, knowing smile.

“She does care, Jay. That’s the whole point.”

Jason didn’t reply.

Roy sighed. “Look, you can either keep pushing her away until she stops trying, or you can stop being a dumbass and make it up to her.”

Jason scowled. “Yeah? And how do I do that?”

Roy smirked. “You figure it out.”

Two days later, there was a knock at your door.

You opened it to find Jason standing there, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Hey,” he said gruffly.

You crossed your arms. “Hey.”

He shifted his weight. “Can I come in?”

You considered slamming the door in his face. Instead, you stepped aside.

Jason walked in, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes scanning your apartment like he’d never seen it before.

Silence stretched between you.

Finally, he exhaled hard. “I shouldn’t have said that shit the other night.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Which part? The part where you told me to drop it, or the part where you basically said I was imagining things between us?”

Jason winced. “Both.”

You didn’t let up. “And do you actually mean that, or did Roy bully you into coming here?”

His jaw tightened. “Roy made me realize I was being an asshole. Coming here was my own choice.”

You studied him, searching for any sign of insincerity.

Jason sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t do… feelings. Not well. And when you started asking about my scars, I panicked. I pushed you away because—” He hesitated, like the words were caught in his throat.

You swallowed. “Because what?”

His gaze met yours, sharp and unguarded. “Because I don’t want you to care about me.”

Your breath caught.

Jason let out a humorless laugh. “Because if you care, it means I can lose you. And I’ve lost enough people already.”

Something in your chest cracked open.

Jason wasn’t heartless. He wasn’t cruel. He was just… scared.

You took a slow step forward. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

He searched your face like he didn’t quite believe it. “For now.”

“For as long as you let me,” you corrected softly.

Jason exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders. Then, hesitantly, he reached for your hand, rough fingers curling around yours.

It wasn’t an apology, not exactly. And it wasn't him asking you to be something more than just a recurring fling, either.

But it was something.

Masterlist

[p0orbaby]

act ii: date @ 8

summary: that’s what happens when you get it on in a multi-storey

warnings: SMUT 18+

a/n: a little something something to tide you guys over

word count: 1.3k

-

Strangely, Leah’s still in her kit, socks rolled down, Arsenal crest stretching across her thigh, and yet she still looks fucking good. Post-win adrenaline still buzzing under her skin, jaw clenched, hands twitchy, like scoring wasn’t enough. Like the energy still needs somewhere to go.

You. She needs you.

That’s why her hand is already between your thighs before the car door even properly shuts.

“We should get home,” you say, voice all weak, half-hearted, because you both know that’s not happening.

Leah smirks, fingers flexing against your thigh. “Nah.”

She tugs, you move, and suddenly you’re in her lap, back hitting the steering wheel, knees pressed into the cracked leather of her seat.

“You’re obsessed,” you mutter, just before she kisses you, open-mouthed and filthy, tongue brushing over yours like she’s been starving for this, starving for you.

It’s messy, rushed, teeth clicking together in your eagerness. Leah groans into your mouth as you roll your hips down against her, her hands gripping your waist, guiding you exactly where she wants you.

“Fuck,” she mutters, head tipping back against the seat.

You take the opportunity to press your mouth to her jaw, her throat. It’s an old trick, one that never fails, and sure enough, Leah lets out a sharp breath, her hands tightening around you.

“This is not fair,” she murmurs, but her hands are already pushing up under your top, fingertips dragging over your stomach, higher.

“You started it.”

“I’m finishing it, too.”

She says it like a promise, like a threat, and then her fingers slip into your shorts, and all you can do is gasp, clutch at her shoulders, bite your lip to keep from moaning too loudly.

It’s desperate, all of it. The way she’s touching you, the way you’re grinding down against her fingers, the way the car windows are already fogging up, condensation clinging to the glass, blocking out the world beyond.

Leah is muttering something against your skin, words you can’t make out, her breath hot, her fingers faster—

And then—

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Your brain doesn’t immediately register it. It’s Leah who stills first, head snapping towards the voice, the very familiar, very exasperated voice that is much, much too close.

“Oh, shit,” you whisper, heart sinking, stomach plummeting straight through the fucking floor.

You both turn your heads at the same time.

Lotte.

Standing right outside the car, eyes wide, looking like she’s just walked in on her parents going at it.

Behind her—oh, because of course—Katie McCabe, hands on her hips, eyebrows so far up her forehead they might never come down again.

You feel Leah’s hand move between your thighs, hastily retreating, and you think about maybe dying, right here in this car.

Lotte makes a sound like she’s been traumatised for life.

“I knew it,” Katie says, way too fucking delighted. “Told ya, Lotte. Told ya they’d be shagging in here.”

Lotte looks at her like she’s just been betrayed in a deeply personal way. “And you still made me check?!”

Katie shrugs. “Had to be sure.”

Leah groans, dragging a hand over her face, already slumping against the seat like this is physically paining her. “You two are actual weirdos.”

Katie grins. “Bit fucking rich coming from you.”

Lotte still hasn’t recovered. She’s rubbing her temples like she’s suddenly developed a migraine. “I can never look at you two the same way again.”

Leah glares at them both. “Okay, well, now that you’ve had your fun, you can leave.”

Katie just leans against the car, looking entirely too smug. “Dunno. Might stay a while. It’s kinda nice out.”

Lotte looks physically ill. “I hate you.”

Leah makes a strangled noise, already reaching for the door handle, but Katie’s quick, hopping backwards, hands up in surrender, still grinning.

“Alright, alright, we’re going.” She winks, throwing one last glance at Leah. “Try not to fog up the whole fucking car park, yeah?”

And with that, she drags Lotte away, their laughter ringing through the otherwise quiet garage.

The moment they’re gone, Leah groans, forehead dropping against your shoulder.

“This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You can’t stop laughing. You can still hear Katie and Lotte laughing somewhere in the distance, but Leah is seething, muttering expletives under her breath, forehead still pressed against your shoulder like she’s genuinely considering murder.

“They’re fucking dead,” she grumbles.

You’re still laughing. You can’t stop laughing, even as Leah pulls back, eyes burning with frustration, cheeks flushed red, hair a mess from your fingers.

“You think this is funny?” she asks, and fuck, she looks hot like this—pissed off, turned on, all adrenaline and leftover aggression from the match.

“Kinda,” you admit, biting your lip, your hips still very much straddling her lap, very much pressed against her, and when you shift even slightly, the way she hisses is enough to kill any amusement.

Her hands clamp down on your waist, holding you still, her breath ragged.

“I was fucking you,” she says, voice low, dangerous. “And they ruined it.”

You swallow. Hard.

Because she’s still looking at you like that. Like she needs you. Like she’s about two seconds away from saying fuck it and taking what she wants anyway, caught somewhere between frustration and feral.

You push at her chest, just enough to lean back slightly, your fingers dragging down the sweat-damp Arsenal jersey, over the embroidered badge, the ridges of her toned stomach underneath.

“We could still…” you start, teasing, but Leah’s already moving, already pushing the seat back as far as it’ll go, fingers gripping at your thighs.

“I’m gonna finish what you started,” she murmurs, dragging you closer again, her mouth hot against your jaw. “You’re gonna let me fuck you properly this time.”

It’s not a question.

Her hands slip under your top again, this time with more purpose, rougher, more desperate.

The first time was rushed, messy. This time, it’s something else.

Because now she’s pissed off. And she’s going to take it out on you.

She tugs at your shorts, pushes them down just enough, her fingers slipping past fabric, past heat, and fuck—she groans at how wet you are, her forehead pressing against yours, her lips parting in something close to disbelief.

“Jesus Christ.”

Her fingers drag over you, teasing, taunting, and you let out a shaky breath, your hands gripping at her shoulders, nails digging into the material of her jersey.

She doesn’t even bother being slow. She’s already worked up, already there, and she wastes no time pressing two fingers inside, stretching you open, swallowing your sharp little gasp with her mouth on yours.

The pace she sets is fast, unforgiving, her other hand gripping your hip, guiding your movements as you grind down against her.

She’s muttering things, half under her breath, between kisses, between ragged exhales—

“Wanted to do this all fucking day.”

“You feel so good.”

“Gonna make you come right here.”

And you can’t even answer, can’t even think, because she’s relentless, her fingers curling inside you just right, her thumb pressing against your clit, her mouth trailing down your neck, biting just enough to make you squirm.

The car windows are fogging up again, condensation clinging to the glass, and you think about how obvious it must look to anyone walking past, about how you should care—

But Leah groans, low in her throat, and you stop thinking about anything else.

Your body tenses, your breath catches, and Leah—fucking Leah—she knows, she feels it, her pace quickening, her grip tightening, her voice going all low and coaxing—

“That’s it, baby.”

“Come for me.”

And when you do, when you break apart above her, clenching around her fingers, gasping her name against her lips—

She doesn’t stop.

She doesn’t stop.

Because she’s still pissed off.

And she’s still not done with you yet.

[wordsofwhimsy]

EᗰᑭIᖇE Oᖴ TᗯO

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

【Ａ/Ｎ】⦂ Thank you beautifulpersonsblog for the request! I’m not sure what type of personality you had in mind for the Kryptonian reader so I just ran with it. I hope you enjoy!

【ＰＡＩＲＩＮＧ】⦂ Sinister!Mark Grayson x Kryptonian!Reader

【ＷＡＲＮＩＮＧＳ】⦂ Violence, oppression

【ＩＮＳＰＩＲＡＴＩＯＮ】⦂ “My Piece” by Miguel

【ＳＹＮＯＰＳＩＳ】⦂ In Sinister Mark’s universe there is a Kryptonian who, for whatever reason, has taken up the mantel of being his partner in crime. The atrocities they commit together are unthinkable, and more than that—unstoppable.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The night was quiet. The city below sprawled with lights and sporadic dots of burning fires as it trembled under the weight of tyranny. From your view on the balcony of Mark’s high-rise fortress, the world seemed so small. So fragile. The moon hung low in the sky, bathing everything in a silver glow. But to Mark, the world wasn’t bathed in light. It was bathed in control. And the woman standing next to him, gazing out at the city with silent intensity, was his greatest weapon.

“You look beautiful tonight,” Mark's voice broke the silence, though it wasn’t a compliment—it was simply an observation. He wasn’t one for pleasantries. His tone was firm, devoid of any tenderness, the way he always spoke. You were his ally, his tool—his lover? Of course. He’d be a fool not to make use of a body that sumptuous. The warmth though that typically existed between lovers was absent, replaced instead by a cold sense of purpose and obsession.

Your Kryptonian features caught the moonlight perfectly—sharp, angular, striking. A goddess among mortals, and Mark revealed in the idea of his possession of you. You were strength, beauty, grace—but above all a weapon to be unleashed on his command.

You turned to face him, your eyes narrowing slightly, not at the compliment, but at the context. You knew him well enough by now to understand his twisted nature. The way he operated.

"You don't need to flatter me, Mark," you said, voice low with a raw edge. The arrogance in your tone matched his. "If you need me to make a move, just say it."

He nodded, an almost imperceptible smirk pulling at his lips. "You’re such a good girl…”

Mark took a step toward you, eyes calculating, never once betraying any emotion that wasn't necessary. "I need you to do something for me. There’s a resistance—weak, disorganized, but disrespectful to my rule, quite frankly. I want them broken."

Your lips curled into a subtle smile. "You know exactly what I want," he continued, a lustrous tone to his words. "I want them to see what happens when they oppose us. I want them terrified."

You stepped closer, your eyes locking with his. There was a moment of silent understanding between you two—a recognition of power and mutual respect. Mark wasn't the type to get close to anyone, but with you, he was different. Not in a sentimental way, but in the way that a king might view his queen. Necessary. Useful. As beautiful and dangerous as a blade.

"You have no idea how good it feels to be used," you whispered, your voice dripping with dark satisfaction. "To be part of something… greater."

Mark’s lips twitched upward, not into a smile, but into something far darker. "Then make them see. Make them fear you. They won’t know what hit them."

The moment suddenly became charged with an intensity that neither of you could ignore. The calculated coldness that normally hung between you both evaporated, replaced by something far more primal. There was no longer a leader and a tool, no longer a ruler and his weapon. In this moment, it was just the two of you, standing at the edge of destruction, and something dangerous stirring in the night.

You could see the way his chest rose and fell, the slight clench of his jaw, the hunger behind his cold eyes. Without warning you closed the space between you, reaching up to rest your hand on the stony contours of his chest. For a brief moment Mark tensed, as if anticipating the risk of what might come next. But then you pulled him in, lips crashing together with an intensity that felt like it could level everything in its path. The kiss was fierce, hungry—nothing gentle about it. His hand gripped the back of your neck, pulling you closer, as if to ensure that no distance would remain between you.

You responded in kind, your body pressing into his as the kiss deepened. There was no softness, no warmth. Just raw, unrestrained power. The way his lips moved against yours was deliberate, controlled, as if every kiss was an extension of his will. You matched it, your hands gripping his hair, tugging him closer, as if you, too, wanted to assert your dominance.

Mark growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his chest, and it only spurred you on. You pulled away just enough to look at him—his eyes dark, filled with a mix of control and something darker, more primal. "This is what power feels like," you whispered, your breath coming in shallow bursts, your body trembling under the weight of the moment.

He didn’t respond right away, but his fingers traced the curve of your jaw, his touch cold. "I don’t need to feel power," he said, voice low and dangerous, his gaze never leaving yours. "I am power."

And before you could respond his lips were on yours again, this time even more urgent, the world around you fading to nothing as you both drowned in the fire of your shared ambition.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was an assertion. A claim. And in that single, heated moment, everything that stood between you—every rule, every limit—was torn away. But sooner than either of you would have liked, the moment came to an end. Your lips pulled from his as he eyed the sheen of saliva now coating your mouth. It stirred an arousal deep in the pit of his abdomen.Top of FormBottom of Form

A dark glint flickered in your eyes. "Leave them to me. I'll make sure they understand who’s in charge."

Mark gave a slight tilt of his head, acknowledging the agreement. As you moved to leave, he spoke again, his voice soft but cutting, the kind of tone that commanded loyalty without question. "Remember you’re not just here for show. You’re here because you're better than them. Use that."

With a single look, you walked past him, the heels of your boots clicking sharply against the floor as you left the room, each step bring you closer to the chaos you would soon unleash.

Mark watched you leave, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. You would do the work, ugly and bloody, and in return he would give you the dominion over this world that you both craved.

This resistance would be nothing but a footnote in the history you would write together.

Later that night...

The city streets were littered with mayhem. The resistance members who had dared to stand up against Mark’s rule were scattered, their hopes shattered. The few who remained struggled to hold on to the last threads of rebellion. But there was no escaping the inevitable.

You hovered above them, your Kryptonian presence an overwhelming symbol of strength that left those who witnessed it breathless and awestruck. The few brave souls who had gathered to oppose Mark’s empire looked up in terror as you descended, the night sky darkening around you like an omen. They could see it—your absolute dominance, and they knew in an instance that resistance would be futile.

With a flick of your wrist you sent them flying, their bodies crashing against walls, into cars, and across streets. The screams of the helpless echoed in the distance, but you didn’t care. You never did. Thia rebellion would break just like the rest had—through force, through fear.

Mark watched with satisfaction from his perch atop their fortress. His fingers tightened around the railing, a cold smirk crossing his face as you obliterated their last hope of standing tall. You were the storm he released from the sky, all encompassing in your oppression. The sight excited him in ways he could hardly contain.

And when you returned to him, stood beside him once again, the pleasured sensation thudding in his chest and coiling in his stomach was almost euphoric.

Mark turned to you, struggling to control how much feeling he convey on his face, but the truth was self-evident. In this twisted relationship, you were indispensable. The storm was yours to create, but only he could control it.

Together, the world would fall. And it would fall to you.

 “That was impressive,” he said, his voice almost reverent. “You didn’t just defeat them. You absolutely annihilated them. Such a beautiful thing you watch you show them that no one—and I do mean no one—stands a chance when we’re in control.”

You both couldn’t help but to relish in the feeling of triumph. You had crushed the resistance, obliterated anyone who dared to oppose Mark’s will. And Mark wasn’t just pleased; he was exhilarated. His eyes were fixed on you, a dark gleam in them that wasn’t just admiration but unsuppressed hunger.

He took a step toward you, his posture commanding. “You really did break them,” he said, his voice low, thick with satisfaction. “I knew you were strong, but this—seeing you unleash that power... this is exactly why I chose you.”

Your chest swelled with pride at his words. He didn’t just view you as a weapon in his arsenal. In this moment, he saw you as something more. A force to be reckoned with, equal to him in every way. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, not with cold calculation but appreciation.

“I told you,” you murmured, your voice rich with confidence as you stepped closer. “I’ve always known what I’m capable of. I just had to make you see it too”

The space between you closed as Mark reached out, his hand brushing your cheek, the gesture almost tender but there still being a lingering notion of power behind it. A claim. A promise. “You make me so proud,” he nearly purred. “You’ve earned this. You’ve earned everything.”

His words were like fire, lighting something inside you. The look in his eyes—the raw hunger, the respect, the shared ambition—pulled you in. Without another word you crushed your lips to his, your hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer. The kiss was explosive—ferocious, full of raw desire and ecstasy.

Mark responded instantly, his hands roaming over your back, pulling you closer as if to make sure there was no air left between your bodies. His kiss was intense, possessive, but there was a deeper current to it—a viscousness that suggested he needed to remind you he was still in charge of if all—that included you.

You broke the kiss, breathing unaffected as you looked up at him with a rush of adrenaline. His eyes were dark, glowing.

“You were perfect,” he said, voice thick with desire. “You’re perfect. We’re unstoppable.”

 “We are unstoppable,” you replied, your lips pulling into a wicked smile. “And I don’t plan on stopping anytime soon.”

He didn’t hesitate. Mark pulled you back into him, kissing you again, this time even deeper as his hands exploring your body, claiming it as his. There was no need for words now—only actions. Your fingers roamed over his chest, feeling the strength beneath the fabric, the undeniable power that had brought you both to this point.

Mark’s hands slid down your sides, lifting you effortlessly as if you were weightless, and before you could fully process he had you pressed against the nearest wall, his lips never leaving yours. The kiss was all-encompassing, a physical manifestation of the control and dominance you both now shared. There was no hesitation in his touch, no doubt in his mind. He claimed you just as he had claimed the world—completely.

The kiss broke only for a moment, both of you seemingly starved for the others touch as your bodies still pressed together. “You are mine,” he said softly, the words a dark promise, a declaration.

“And you mine,” you replied, your voice full of equal certainty as your nails dragged down his chest before pulling him in for another kiss as if to seal the agreement between you.

The world outside, the people you had crushed underfoot—none of it mattered now. It was just the two of you, reveling in the power you had claimed, the empire you’d built together. This was only the beginning, and you both knew that nothing would stand in your way.

[mandoalorian]

the perfect fit [bucky barnes x f!reader]

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Personal Assistant!Reader

Synopsis: While preparing for an important congressional dinner, Bucky takes his personal assistant shopping for the perfect dress. But when the tension between them becomes unbearable, they find themselves tangled in a moment of reckless passion inside a dressing room. As professionalism crumbles, Bucky makes it clear—he’s done holding back.

Word Count: 2200

Tags/warnings: 18+ explicit content. employer x employee, p in v, f receiving oral, exhibitionism kind of\sex in public, body worship, bucky is sooooo obsessed with you.

Masterlist

prev chapter <3 | congress & carnality masterlist

The morning after Tokyo was a delicate thing—silent, tentative, and wrapped in the weight of everything that had been said and done. You had woken up with Bucky’s arm draped over your waist, his body warm and solid behind you. For a few perfect moments, it felt like something real. Something permanent.

But then reality came crashing back in.

You had pulled away first, slipping from the bed before the morning light could make things more complicated than they already were. Bucky had let you go, watching you dress in silence, his blue eyes dark with something unreadable, yet recognisable. And just like that, you had fallen back into your roles—assistant and congressman, professional and detached, as if the night before hadn’t happened.

Only, it had happened. And no amount of careful distance could change that.

The rest of the day had been routine, filled with meetings and preparations for the upcoming professional dinner with members of Congress. The event was a crucial one, meant to secure relationships and reinforce Bucky’s place in the political world. You had spent the afternoon coordinating details, ensuring everything ran smoothly, pretending not to feel the way his gaze lingered on you whenever you walked into a room.

It wasn’t until late afternoon that Bucky called for you.

"We need to get you something to wear for tonight," he reminded, standing near the window of his hotel suite, his tie loosened just enough to make him look devastatingly good. "I want you to look nice."

You blinked. “Is it really essential I attend the dinner? It’s you that they want to see.”

Bucky frowned. “Where I go, you go. I’m not spending an evening with those stuck-up politicians without you by my side. Besides, if things go haywire, I need you there.”

You hesitated, knowing he was right. Bucky knew how to behave, but sometimes, when challenged, he could act a little irrationally, especially when it came to the campaign. His fight was so important to him. Bucky represented every person who had ever been misunderstood. 

“I could borrow a dress from Tara, I suppose.” You shrugged. Truthfully, you’d been sort of intimidated by Tara. She had golden tan skin and long legs and honey blonde hair. Asking her to borrow a dress would have been your own personal nightmare, but you’d rather do that than have Bucky spend his money on you.

‘Tara doesn’t have any dresses either,” He gave you a look that made your stomach twist. “At least, not the kind of dress that I want you to wear."

That should not have sent heat rushing to your core. But it did. He was really adamant about seeing you in this dress.

You swallowed hard, gathering your composure. "Fine. I’ll find something."

"I’ll take you."

That made you pause. "You don’t have to—"

"I want to," he cut in, voice low. "Come on."

You knew it was a bad idea. But you followed him anyway.

———-<3———-

The boutique was upscale, discreet, and filled with racks of elegant evening wear. You had tried to refuse when Bucky insisted on taking you shopping for the formal congressional dinner that evening, but he had been adamant. "I want to do this for you," he'd said, and that was that.

Now, you stood in front of a three-way mirror, examining yourself in a sleek, midnight blue dress that hugged every curve. Small Swarvoski crystals delicately outlined the hem of the dress, and as it caught the light, it sparkled. It was undoubtedly stunning—but you barely noticed. Your focus was on the man sitting in a plush chair a few feet away, his sharp gaze locked on you like a predator watching his prey.

Bucky had been quiet the entire time, watching you try on different dresses with an unreadable expression. But this time? This time, you saw it. The way his jaw tightened. The way his fingers flexed against the armrest. The way his blue eyes darkened with something unmistakable.

Heat pooled in your stomach.

You swallowed hard, adjusting the thin straps of the dress. "What do you think?” You were nervous to ask.

Bucky stood slowly, his movements controlled, deliberate. He stepped toward you, his warmth pressing against your back as his hands ghosted over your bare shoulders. His eyes met yours in the mirror.

"You know exactly what I think," he murmured, his voice a low rasp. 

A shiver ran down your spine. "Bucky—"

"Shh," he whispered, his hands trailing down your arms, then lower, fingertips grazing the sides of your waist. "Turn around."

You obeyed, heart pounding. The moment you faced him, his hands slid to your hips, fingers pressing possessively into the fabric.

"You shouldn't look at me like that," you breathed.

"Like what?" His lips hovered just above yours, his breath warm against your skin. His question was innocently taunting. 

You swallowed the hard lump in your throat. ”Like you’re about to ruin me."

A slow, wicked smirk tugged at his lips. "Doll, you have no idea."

Before you could protest, he was backing you into the nearest fitting room, the heavy curtain falling shut behind him. His mouth crashed into yours, all restraint crumbling as he kissed you with desperate, unrelenting hunger. His hands roamed, gripping, teasing, pulling you impossibly closer.

You gasped as he spun you around, pressing your back against the mirror. His hands were on your thighs, bunching up the silky fabric of your dress, pushing it higher and higher until his fingers met bare skin.

"Bucky, someone could hear—"

"Let 'em." His lips trailed down your neck, teeth scraping over sensitive skin. "You’re mine, sweetheart. I don’t care who knows it."

Your mind spun, torn between the scandal of it and the undeniable, dizzying need for him. Your hands clawed at his shirt, tugging it loose as his fingers slid under the fabric of your panties, teasing, tormenting.

You muffled a moan against his shoulder, and he chuckled darkly. "That’s right, baby. Be quiet for me. Think you can do that?"

Bucky dropped to his knees before you, his large hands sliding up your thighs, pushing the silky fabric of the dress higher until it bunched around your hips. He exhaled heavily, eyes dark and filled with reverence as he took you in.

This was madness. Reckless. Completely unprofessional.

And yet, you knew—there was no stopping him. No stopping this.

The dinner could wait. Right now, you had far more pressing matters to attend to.

And just like that, the last bit of restraint between you shattered.

"You're perfect," he murmured, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. His stubble scraped deliciously, sending a shiver up your spine.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, gripping the expensive fabric of his suit as his lips trailed higher, his breath warm against your bare skin. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down with agonizing slowness. The anticipation sent heat pooling between your legs, your breath coming in soft, desperate gasps.

Bucky glanced up, his pupils blown wide. "Gotta be quiet for me, sweetheart. Think you can do that?"

You barely had time to nod before his mouth was on you, his tongue sweeping through your folds in a slow, deliberate stroke. A strangled moan caught in your throat, your body arching as pleasure flooded through you.

He hummed against you, his grip tightening on your thighs to keep you steady. "That's it, baby. Just let me take care of you."

The way he worshipped you—every flick of his tongue, every gentle suck—had you unraveling too fast, your fingers tangling in his hair as he pulled you deeper into the blissful haze of him. And when his lips closed around your clit, sucking with just the right amount of pressure, you bit down on your own wrist to stifle the cry threatening to spill free.

Bucky groaned against you, his own restraint barely hanging by a thread. "So fuckin' sweet," he muttered, the vibrations sending you spiraling over the edge.

You came undone with a silent cry, your body trembling as waves of pleasure washed over you. Bucky didn't stop, drawing out every last aftershock until you were nothing but a boneless mess against the mirror.

When he finally pulled back, his lips glistening, his eyes were full of something dark and dangerous. He pressed a kiss to your thigh before rising to his feet, his hands framing your face as he kissed you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

"I could do that all day," he rasped against your lips. "But we’ve got a dinner to get to."

Your breath came in shaky gasps as he smirked, smoothing down your dress like nothing had happened. But the look in his eyes told you otherwise.

This was far from over.

Before you could catch your breath, Bucky’s hands slid back down your body, gripping your thighs as he hoisted you up against the wall. A gasp slipped from your lips, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as he pressed his body flush against yours.

"Still want me to stop?" he murmured against your ear, his breath hot and teasing.

Your fingers tangled in his hair. "No," you whispered. "Please, don’t stop."

That was all he needed. With a desperate groan, Bucky hiked your dress up further, his hands gripping your thighs as he positioned himself between them. The sharp sound of his belt unbuckling filled the small dressing room, followed by the quiet rustle of fabric as he freed himself.

The first push was slow, agonizing, stretching you around him in a way that had your nails digging into his shoulders. He cursed under his breath, his forehead dropping to yours as he sank in inch by inch, savouring the way your body clenched around him.

"Jesus, sweetheart," he ground out, his voice strained. "You feel so fuckin’ good."

Your legs tightened around his waist as he started to move, each thrust deliberate, controlled—like he was savouring every moment. But you could feel the tension in him, the barely restrained hunger threatening to snap.

"Look at you," he murmured, tilting your chin up so he could watch your expression in the mirror. "Wearing this pretty little dress just for me… and now I’m ruining it."

The words sent heat shooting through you, your head falling back as he picked up the pace, his thrusts growing rougher, more desperate. The silk of the dress bunched around your waist, the delicate fabric caught between your bodies as he fucked you hard enough to leave marks, hard enough to ensure you’d feel him for days.

"Bucky—" You barely choked out his name before he silenced you with a bruising kiss, swallowing every moan, every broken gasp.

The coil of pleasure tightened low in your stomach, winding dangerously tight as he drove you closer and closer to the edge. His grip on your thighs tightened, his metal hand cool against overheated skin as he pounded into you with reckless abandon.

"Come for me, baby," he rasped against your lips. "Let me feel it."

And just like that, you shattered, your body arching as pleasure crashed over you in waves, dragging him down with you. He groaned against your neck, his hips stuttering as he spilled into you, his breath ragged and uneven.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, tangled together in the aftermath, your bodies slick with sweat and desire.

Then, with a lazy smirk, Bucky reached down, smoothing the crumpled fabric of your dress. "Guess we’re buying this one."

You laughed breathlessly, resting your forehead against his. "Yeah, no way we’re leaving it behind now."

His hands lingered on your hips, his eyes dark with something that looked dangerously close to devotion. "You really are somethin’ else, sweetheart."

And as much as you knew this was reckless, you couldn't bring yourself to care.

You hummed, lacing your fingers in his hand and bringing it up to your face, pressing a chaste kiss across his knuckles. 

“Does this feel wrong to you?” You asked, out of nowhere. “What we’re doing… I feel like it’s supposed to feel wrong but it doesn’t. It actually feels right. For once it feels like I’m doing the right thing.”

His hand was so much bigger than yours. Before Bucky could reply, you gasped, noticing the time on his wristwatch.

“Shit, we’re gonna be so late for dinner. We have to go now!”

Bucky stayed still. “It’s okay if we’re a little late, no?”

“No Buck,” you laughed softly. “You have to make a good impression. There’s going to be senators at this dinner.”

Bucky grumbled. “I’m not dressed.” 

“Well, we’re at the tailors. I say it’s your turn. Let’s grab you a tuxedo.” You beamed, staying in the dress that you’d be wearing for dinner and pulling the Congressman out of the fitting room. “I’m thinking something dark blue… so we can match each other?” You suggested; lips pursed into a smirk.

“Whatever you want, darling.” He replied, following you out of the fitting room.

———-<3———-

Taglist: @imaginecrushes @maplepepperoni @sleepysongbirdsings @mybuckynotyours @sunday-bug @bunnyfella @lktunes12-blog

[if you want to be added or removed from taglist, lmk<3]

[imagine-it-was-us]

Stephanie's place || Lando Norris

Inspiration: Joesef "Stephanie's place"

Author's note: Been obsessed with this song since the drop. And my interpretation of lyrics immediately went to some form of unrequited love and dependency. So here's my take on it. Hopefully you will have fun reading it 🔥

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader

Warnings: none really. Just mentions of drinking.

Summary: She’s the one he always calls. And she always answers. A habit, a ritual, whatever you want to call it. They orbit each other, close enough to feel the pull but never enough to collide. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s just fear of what’s left when the line goes silent. Either way, she stays.

Word count: 3.2k+

“Lando, have you seen the time?”

Her voice was thick with sleep, groggy yet edged with familiarity, because, of course, it was him. Who else would be calling at this hour?

“Yeah, sorry to bother you. Could you pick me up, please?”

She sighed, already rolling out of bed, rubbing at her tired eyes. 2:46 AM. At least she had managed to get a couple of hours of sleep before this inevitable call.

“Where are you?”

“At Stephanie’s place.”

Her brows knit together.

“Who’s?”

“I will message you an address. Thank you, angel.”

Angel. She sighed again, not out of annoyance, but out of something deeper, something she didn’t have the energy to name.

This wasn’t the first time she had to step up for him. But lately, especially during his break from F1, it had started to feel like a pattern. A habit. The locations changed, the drinks changed, the people around him changed. But one thing stayed the same: he always called her.

It should’ve meant something.

Maybe, once upon a time, she would have let herself believe it did. But after the last embarrassment that happened a couple of years ago, she wasn’t about to go there.

That time, she really thought that what they had was something. Their friendliness slowly turned into flirting, spending every minute possible together which was easy due to proximity, being almost next door neighbors. When they hang out, the stares would linger, the rest of the world would be out of focus. And she knows that it was not in her head, because they even kissed.  Just once, in a haze of alcohol and late-night honesty. Yet in the morning, he acted like nothing had happened, so she rolled with it, thinking it was just a matter of time. Believing that it would inevitably happen again.

Yet a couple of weeks after the kiss, Magui appeared from what seemed to be thin air. Just like that, the lines shifted. She wasn’t pushed away. Just pulled back. Reframed. No longer a possibility, just a presence. Always within reach, never quite held onto. The good neighbor. The dependable friend. The shoulder to lean on when things went to shit. 

And it happened more than you would think. Margarida was a sweet girl, no matter what world whispered about her behind her back. But simply her and Lando were never meant to be. Their relationship became undone in slow, inevitable fractures. A wrong word here, a missed call there. Too many nights spent apart, too many silences stretching too long. She had seen the way he tried to hold on, and worse – the way he finally let go.

And through it all, she had been there.The one who picked up the phone at 2:46 AM. The one who drove him home when he had nowhere else to go. The one who never asked for anything, even when she wanted to.

And now? Now, she wasn’t sure if he was calling her because he needed her… or because she was simply the last person left to call. Still, she grabbed her keys. Because even after everything that went down, when it came to him, she always would.

After 20 minutes, when she pulled up, she spotted him immediately. Lando was already sitting on the sidewalk, head tilted back toward the night sky. He looked almost peaceful, like none of the mess from the past few days could touch him here. As if it was all floating somewhere far above him, out of reach.

She rolled down the window.

“Lando.”

It took a second, but he blinked, as if shaking off a trance. Then, with a sloppy sort of grace, he pushed himself up and stumbled into the car.

“Here’s my favorite neighbor,” a sheepish grin never leaving his face.

There was another eye roll on her end. Drunk Lando was always full of rizz, dripping in flirtation he’d never remember in the morning.

“More like your personal driver around Monaco,” she muttered, shifting the car into gear. “So who’s this Stephanie?” she asked, trying to sound as calm and collected as possible, even though there was a pinch of curiosity in her voice.

“Oh nobody, we just met last night. Crashed at hers, but I think I overstayed my welcome.”

“Wait, you have been here since Thursday?”

“Yeah, we were drinking last night. Then drinking today,” he just shrugged his shoulders casually. 

She exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. Classic. There was no point in pushing him, no point in asking anything remotely serious. She knew better by now. This was the stage of the night where anything she said would slip through the cracks of his drunken haze, lost by morning.

So she just kept her eyes on the road, gripping the wheel a little tighter than before. But he was the one who didn’t want to sit in silence.

“Oh, Magui asked me to pass you a message.” His voice was lighter than the words themselves. “She said if I ever find something of hers in my apartment, could you please reach out to her as she’s, uh… blocked me in every possible way.”

Her brows lifted slightly, though she kept her eyes forward.

“So it was that bad?” she mumbled more to herself rather than him. But, of course, he picked that up.

“I wouldn’t say it was bad. It was… messy.” He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “She kept on yapping about how I was never in it with everything.”

“And were you?”

Silence stretched for just a second too long.

“I don’t know.” His voice was softer now. “I thought I was. I really liked her, you know. She was great fun. I maybe even loved her.”

Maybe even.

She swallowed, keeping her expression unreadable. “Loved her… or were you in love with her?”

It felt like he was willing to overshare tonight, and if that was the case, she wanted the details.

Another pause.

Then, quietly, almost like an afterthought –

“I was never in love with her.”

It was hard for her to let this conversation go.

“Then why did you stay with her for so long?” 

Almost two years. That was a long time to be with someone, to build a life together, to share moments that, at least on the surface, should have meant something. In her opinion, it was plenty of time to figure out whether someone was your person or just a passing chapter.

Lando exhaled, his head resting back against the seat.

“I don’t know. Maybe I was just holding on because I didn’t want to be alone.”

She wasn’t prepared for that answer. For a moment, she kept her gaze locked on the road, fingers flexing around the wheel.

Not wanting to be alone.

The words settled in her chest, heavy and unexpected. She had never thought of Lando – charming, reckless, constantly surrounded by people – as someone who feared loneliness. He was always the one filling rooms with laughter, the one who had a million plans, a thousand friends, a life too fast-paced for solitude.

And yet… here he was.

Maybe that’s why he always called her. Because she was easy to reach. Familiar. Safe. The realization settled like a weight in her chest. If that was all she was to him – just a reflex, a habit – then why did she keep picking up?

She swallowed, pushing down the unease curling in her stomach.

“And what about now?”

He stayed silent for long enough that she thought that he had fallen asleep. But then, just as she was about to let the conversation drop –

“I’m scared shitless,” he admitted silently, almost like a whisper. “But I knew I couldn’t do it for longer. For both of us.”

The way he said it sent her into a spiral, her mind latching onto those words, twisting them in every possible direction. 

Which “us” was he talking about? Him and Magui? The relationship he had just ended? The one he had stayed in out of fear of being alone? Or… No. No, she wasn’t going to do this to herself. She wasn’t going to let hope creep in where it didn’t belong.

Lando sighed, running a hand down his face. He looked tired, like the weight of everything had finally started pressing down on him. And for a split second, she wanted to reach over, wanted to do something, but she kept her hands on the wheel instead.

“You know,” she started, her voice carefully measured, “for someone who didn’t want to be alone, you sure spent a lot of time acting like you were.”

It slipped out before she could stop herself. But once it was out there, hanging between them, she didn’t regret it. Because it was the truth.

That is what she has witnessed in his previous relationship – he was always the one to put his distance between himself and Margarida, not the other way around. He was always in some way emotionally unreachable. 

At first, she had blamed his lifestyle. The relentless travel, the expectations, the way his world was built around schedules and speed. But deep down, she knew better. If he had wanted to make it work, he would have. Because she had seen him do it before. A couple of years ago, when things between them were different – he had tried. He had made the effort. He had shown up, in ways that mattered. And then, just when she had started to believe in the possibility of them, he had turned away.

She also knew that this conversation was slowly pushing them to the point of no return, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to brush it off and change the subject. She just kept her hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, counting on the alcohol in his system to blur the edges of this conversation by morning.

Lando exhaled, rolling his head against the seat to look at her.

His voice was quieter this time, almost thoughtful. “You could say I’m good at self-sabotaging, then.”

It was an attempt to shake off what she had said. To make it sound like a joke. But his voice lacked the usual carelessness. And she knew – he wasn’t just talking about Magui anymore.

“That’s a hell of a thing to admit so casually.”

Lando let out a quiet laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What, you want me to say it dramatically? Maybe get on my knees and confess my sins?”

“I want you to say something that actually means something when it means something.”

The words came out before she could soften them into something easier, something safer. But maybe she was done making this easy. Because honestly, if that’s the route he wanted this night to go, she was finally willing to let it happen. If she was just his safety net – just the person he landed on when everything else fell apart – then fine. But she wouldn’t sit in silence and pretend she didn’t feel anything. Not anymore. If this conversation was shifting toward the edge of something dangerous, something irreversible, then she owed it to herself to stop pretending she didn’t want to know where they stood.

Lando blinked, caught off guard. For once, he didn’t have some quick-witted reply ready.

“I mean it, Lando,” she pressed, voice steady but laced with something heavier, something she didn’t want to name. “You say you sabotage yourself, fine. But are you ever gonna stop?”

His jaw tightened. His fingers twitched against his thigh. She could tell she had struck something deeper. 

It was for him to decide – brush this off like he did with their kiss those years ago, or finally face it and break the toxic cycle he was stuck in. And he had the perfect opportunity, as she had just pulled up into his driveway. 

The longer they sat in the silence, the more suffocating it felt. But he didn’t move and she didn’t either. Through the window, she was looking at the moon looming over them, thoughts running through her head at the speed of light.

Lando finally broke the awkward silence.

“You know, sometimes I think about that night.”

Her breath hitched. “What night?”

Lando let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “You know which one.”

The weight of his words settled between them, thick and undeniable.

“Thought you didn’t remember?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Oh I did. For weeks whenever I closed my eyes all I could see was your face. But I was a coward, so it was easier for me to pretend that nothing happened,” he shook his head. This whole conversation felt like it was sobering him up. 

“And how was it fair on my part?” She turned to him, annoyance written all over her face. So not only he pretended that nothing had happened, but he also left her on hold for two years. Alone. With her feelings. Where she thought that maybe she read too much into his behaviour and it was just a drunk impulse, that meant nothing to him. She had to see him fall in and out of the relationship, dragging someone innocent into his toxic ways. All because he was letting fear to dictate the way he was supposed to be living. 

His jaw clenched. “It wasn’t fair. I know that.”

She let out a sharp breath, shaking her head. “Do you? Because if you did, you wouldn’t have let me sit with it alone for two fucking years.”

Lando opened his mouth, but for once, he didn’t seem to know what to say. His hands curled into fists on his lap. 

“It did mean something.” He finally admitted. 

“Then why didn’t you act like it?”

Silence. Thick, heavy.

She turned away, blinking hard at the windshield. The weight of everything, years of buried feelings, of watching him with someone else, of being the one he always called but never truly saw, was crushing.

“You don’t get to sit here and act like you suddenly see me just because your relationship crashed and burned,” she whispered, voice shaking, because she hated how much it was taking a toll on her.

Lando exhaled, rough and unsteady. “That’s not what this is.”

“No?” She let out a humorless laugh, looking at him again. “Then what is it, Lando?”

He didn’t hesitate this time. “I know I was never in love with Magui, because I am in love with you.”

Her breath caught. But she couldn’t let herself believe it – not yet. 

“Don’t do that.” Her voice wavered, but she held her ground. “Don’t sit here and say things you don’t mean just because you’re scared of being alone.”

“I’m not scared of being alone.” He turned toward her fully now, desperate for her to see him. “I’m scared of being without you.”

She let out a sharp breath, looking away again, because she couldn’t let herself fall – not when he had let her drop before.

Lando ran a hand through his curls, frustration written all over his face. “You think I don’t know what I did? You think I don’t fucking hate myself for it? Why do you think I drink myself to oblivion, when I can’t just face you sober.” His voice cracked. “I see you, okay? I always have. I just… I was too much of a coward to do anything about it. And then Magui came along and for a flicker of time I thought that maybe the kiss was a fluke. But the longer I stayed with her, the better I understood that it wasn’t. I was just an idiot who would rather keep you at arms length in my life than risk it all and eventually lose you.”

She clenched her jaw, still facing away. “And what’s changed now?”

“I have.” His voice softened. “And I know that probably doesn’t mean shit to you right now. But I swear, I love you. I really do.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. Those words… God, those words. She had wanted to hear them for so long. But wanting them and believing them were two different things. And she wanted to believe him so bad.  For two years, she had convinced herself that what had happened was nothing but a drunken misstep in his eyes. She had picked up the pieces of her own heart in silence, forced herself to move forward while he moved on with someone else. And yet, no matter how much she tried to bury it, the truth remained – she had never stopped loving him. 

Because that was why she stayed. That was why she always answered when he called, why she showed up when he needed her. She wasn’t just his safety net – she had made herself one. And that realization twisted something deep inside her.

Maybe that made her pathetic. Maybe that made her just like him – stuck in a loop of self-sabotage, never brave enough to step off the ledge.

The weight of his confession hung between them, thick and fragile all at once. She could feel him watching her, waiting, hoping, maybe even pleading.

“I won’t say it back, if that’s what you’re hoping.” Her voice was quieter now, but no less firm. It took everything in her to stand her ground, to not just give in.

“I’m not asking for anything.” His tone was steady, but there was something raw in it, something that felt real. “You don’t owe me shit. It just wasn’t sitting well with me, that’s all.”

“If you mean it, and I mean really mean it, you’re going to have to show me.”

Lando didn’t hesitate. He nodded once, his gaze steady, unshaken. “I will.”

She faced him, studying his expression, searching for doubt, for hesitation. Something to prove that it was just another bluff. But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t see any.

She exhaled slowly, reaching for the gear shift. Getting back in touch with reality from something that felt surreal. “Go inside, Lando.”

He didn’t move right away. “And in the morning?”

She met his eyes, holding him there. Letting the weight of this moment settle.

“In the morning, we start by not pretending that this didn’t happen.”

It was a clear dig for his past behavior. And he welcomed it as a slow exhale left his lips, shy smile creeping to the corners of it. Then, finally, he nodded. “Okay.”

She watched as he stepped out, his usual drunken stumble replaced with something steadier. Something different.

She stayed in the driveway for another minute, just to steady herself, to let the conversation sink in.

For two years, she had convinced herself that this was one-sided. That she had been foolish for holding onto something he had long since let go of. And now, in the space of a single conversation, everything had shifted. 

Of course, there was always the possibility that after sobering up, things will look different to him again. And yet… something felt different tonight. Maybe it was the way he had looked at her, steady and unshaken. Maybe it was the way his voice had cracked, or how he hadn’t tried to take the easy way out. He hadn’t asked for forgiveness or promises – just the chance to prove himself.

That was new.

She exhaled, resting her forehead against the steering wheel for a brief moment before finally leaving his driveway.

Hope was dangerous. But at least until the morning, she was willing to take this gamble of hoping. 

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

A Man with a Mission in Two or Three Editions

Bob Floyd x Reader

1.9k words

Warnings: None. Fluff, Bob being a shy cutie, Rooster being a cocky wingman, a tiny bit of language

A/N: Trying something a little different after rewatching Top Gun: Maverick! I hope y'all like it ❤️

Bob was a bookworm. To probably no one’s surprise, he’d been a voracious reader from the time he was still learning his ABC’s on Sesame Street. He was always the kid reading under the covers with a flashlight past his bedtime, annoying his teachers by finishing novels weeks ahead of the class schedule, crashing into light posts and trees because he just couldn’t take his nose out of his book. Hell, sometimes Phoenix had to grab a book out of his hand and stuff it in her purse in the middle of the Hard Deck bar because he’d missed his turn at pool. The man simply loved to read.

But somehow, that wasn’t the reason he spent so much time at the bookshop he was standing in on this drizzly Saturday morning. No, that would be the pretty pair of eyes that followed him from the cash register, the ones that always seemed to sparkle a bit brighter when the little ringing bell announced his arrival.

Normally, Bob liked to come in by himself, so he could quietly gaze at you while you shelved books or helped other customers, customers who weren’t rendered speechless by simply standing too close to you. It was a smidge ridiculous, he admitted to himself. He was in the Navy, a TOPGUN graduate, someone who, despite his bashful appearance, didn’t shy away from danger. But oh, he definitely shied away from the cute bookstore owner who smiled despite his fumbled one-word answers to the questions you asked about the books he bought. Those embarrassingly one-sided conversations were the highlight of his day. His week, really. Just the two of you in the quiet of your cozy little shop.

But no, not today. Today, Bradshaw just had to tag along. “Nothin' better to do,” his buddy had mumbled with a nonchalant shrug when Bob asked if he was sure he wanted to come to the bookstore.

Now, Rooster snuck up behind Bob, who was craning his neck around a bookshelf to get a glimpse of you, still managing to look cute despite the bored look on your face as you counted change in the register.

“Guess now we know why you’re in here all the damn time,” he teased, loud enough to make Bob’s cheeks burn red as he prayed you didn’t hear. “Reading three books a week, my ass.”

Bob let out a little huff as he turned towards Rooster, gritting his teeth. “Lower your voice,” he hissed.

“Why?” Rooster continued, his smirk growing when he saw how he was getting under his friend’s increasingly blushing skin. His eyes flickered to you before he called out, “Hey, honey? This ain’t a library, is it? Do I have to watch my volume?”

Your playful eyes flickered to Bob before settling on Rooster’s smug face. “Normally I’d say no need,” you started slowly. “But if you’re bugging my favorite customer there, I might just need to adopt a noise level policy.”

Favorite customer. The two little words danced in Bob’s ears, which were currently a deep shade of red. Despite the fact that he was here every Saturday morning like clockwork- and sometimes more than that if he could manage- and the fact that you always tried to engage him in conversation at the register, Bob hadn’t quite been sure you knew he existed until this moment. He’d been so sure he was just another customer, someone who blended in with every other person who walked through your door. Surely, you had plenty of customers who flirted with you; how was he, with his monosyllabic responses, supposed to stand out?

Still, there you were, smiling at him as Rooster clapped a hand on his shoulder and gave him a little shove. Bob stumbled forward, clutching the book he’d been carrying around, and approached your little counter.

He adjusted his glasses as he laid the book down in front of you. “Just this one today,” he murmured, barely loud enough for you to hear.

But you were used to his quietness. You liked it. “That’s one of my favorites,” you mused as you took your time finding the bar code that you could’ve found in your sleep. “You’ll have to tell me what you think.”

He nodded absently, his hands fidgeting on the countertop while he watched you scan the book. “Sure.” With a glance over his shoulder, he met Rooster’s eyes; his friend held his hands up, urging Bob to say something, anything, else. “Am I really your favorite customer?” he blurted out.

The small chuckle you breathed out made his heart skip a beat. “Well, one of my favorites,” you corrected, teasing dripping from your voice. “There’s also this dog that comes in with his elderly owner all the time, and this little toddler whose mom had brought her in since she was just a few months old.” Something sparkled in your eyes as you leaned forward on the counter and slid the book towards him. “But you’re definitely in the top three.”

“What’s he have to do to take first place?” Bob didn’t notice Rooster slink over to the register, but now one of those heavy arms slung over his shoulders. “Help a guy out,” he added with a wink.

Was Rooster flirting with you for him? Bob wondered with a wince. This was certainly a new low.

If you thought Rooster’s intervention was lame, you didn’t show it. In fact, your gaze remained firmly on Bob, although your words were in response to Rooster’s question. “How can he take first place,” you repeated with a small hum. “Maybe by asking for my number?” The smile you flashed Bob would have been enough to bring a man back from the brink of death. “Himself, though. No help from the peanut gallery.”

The air caught in Bob’s throat mid-breath. Sure, sometimes women flirted with him- but really, they were flirting with the uniform, not Bob. You, on the other hand, were smiling at the man in glasses who bumbled around your shop a couple times a week and trembled whenever you not-so-accidentally brushed your fingers against his while handing him his purchases. Just Bob.

He shrugged off Rooster’s arm and stood up straight as he could, the way he did whenever an admiral or captain walked by. Deep breath, he reminded himself as he clenched and unclenched his fists. She wants you to ask.

“Do you think I could get your number?” he asked, his voice sounding unfamiliar to his own ears.

That lovely smile widened as you leaned your cheek on your hand. “Depends what you plan to do with it,” you said. Challenged, really. After months of trying to get this guy to respond to your flirting, you were making him work for this. Just a little.

His throat went dry. Oh damn. “I…” He blinked, hoping he didn’t suddenly look as small as he felt. “I could use to… call you?” Your raised eyebrows urged him on. He kind of liked it, the way you emboldened him. He wanted more of it. “I would call you,” he repeated, a little more sure now. “And… I’d ask you out. For coffee.” Oh heck, it was so cute the way you wrinkled your nose. “Dinner,” he tried again; you rewarded him with the return of that dazzling smile. “And-and we’d talk all about the books we’ve read and the books you think I should read, and I’d ask you about your store and I’d even talk about my job, if you wanted me to. And I’d take you home after and walk you to your door and-” He swallowed hard, the flush on your cheeks giving him the courage to go full-speed ahead, fast as the fighter jet he’d just been flying the day before. “And before you go inside, I’d ask to see you again and if I could kiss you goodnight.”

After what felt like an eternity of you staring at Bob, studying him, you finally let out an amused little hum. “That’s the most I’ve ever heard you say,” you mused, drumming your fingernails on the book that still sat between the two of you. “Promise you’ll talk that much at dinner?”

Relief flooded his chest as he nodded. “Yes ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll talk as much as you want me to.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Still holding his gaze, you reached over for a flyer advertising a book and wine night you were hosting the following week- an event Bob had already decided he’d be going to, of course- and used a glittery blue pen to scribble down your name and number. “I’m free tonight, by the way.”

Dazed was the only word to describe Bob as he took the flyer from you. “Tonight,” he echoed, a smile finally stretching across his face. “I’ll, uh, see you tonight.” He looked down at the flyer, admiring your looping letters, the way the glittery ink caught the light, your name- oh. “I’m Robert, by the way,” he blurted out. “Or Bob. Everyone calls me Bob. It’s my callsign.”

It looked like now that you had him talking, he didn’t know how to stop. And it was pretty damn cute, if you were being totally honest. “Nice to finally meet you, Bob.”

“Nice to meet you too.” His shoulders finally relaxed as he just stared at you, the ghost of a smile on his face. “Really nice.”

He probably would have stayed there all day, just taking in the sight of your pretty smile and basking in the pride of finally successfully speaking more than two words to you. But Bradshaw clapped a hand on his shoulder, breaking his gaze from yours.

“Why don’t we let this lady get back to work,” he suggested with a shit-eating grin, “and I help you figure out where you’re taking her for dinner tonight?”

Bob nodded, quickly turning his eyes back to you; oh, thank God, you were still smiling at him. “I’ll see you later,” he promised, raising his hand in a half wave as Rooster finally started dragging him away. “And- and I’ll call you.”

 “You better,” you teased, casually tossing his forgotten book to him; he barely caught it. “Because I’m looking forward to answering your question.”

He paused in the doorway, brows furrowed. “My question?”

You nodded, eyes flittering up and down his figure. “Whether or not you can kiss me.”

“Oh.” He looked down, all of his bashfulness returning with a vengeance. When he looked back at you, you were still grinning. “I hope you say yes,” he admitted, barely loud enough for you to hear.

“Guess you’ll find out tonight.” You offered him a little wave as Rooster yanked him out the door. “Bye, Bob.”

“Goodbye-” But the door had already closed behind him. Bob allowed Rooster to drag him down the block a ways before finally regaining control of his steps. When he looked at his friend, he found the smuggest grin waiting for him.

Rooster chuckled and ruffled Bob’s hair. “You don’t gotta thank me,” he razzed. “Just promise me I’ll be the best man at your wedding.”

Bob grinned and shoved his friend off him. “I think Phoenix’ll fight you on that one. She’s already called dibs.” He glanced down at the flyer and book in his hands, reminders that your conversation really just happened. That you actually wanted to go out with him- and might even let him kiss you.

He’d barely settled into the passenger seat of the car when he pulled out his phone and began typing, ignoring Rooster’s knowing smirk. Sure, maybe it was a little sooner than you expected. But Bob couldn’t help himself; while he didn’t usually read love stories, he knew that he wanted this one to begin as soon as possible.

[darylslittlebitch]

twd characters showing their jealousy x fem!reader

characters: daryl, rick, negan, carl, glenn and maggie.

writer's note: jealousy hits different, huh? catch ya later with more drama! stay tuned! requests are open ;)

daryl

The last training session with Rick had ended, and although you were still no expert, at least you weren’t wasting as many bullets anymore.

"You’re getting better," Rick commented with a half-smile, crossing his arms as he watched you.

"I still have a lot to learn," you admitted, smiling humbly.

Rick nodded. "All in due time. The important thing is that now you can defend yourself better if you need to."

You thanked him before saying goodbye and walking back. But then you saw him.

Daryl was leaning against a tree, arms crossed over his chest. His blue eyes, darkened under the shadow of his bangs, were silently watching you, but there was no need for him to speak for you to know what was going on.

You bit your lip, holding back a smile. Daryl would never admit he was jealous, and there was nothing more endearing than seeing him like this, struggling against his own emotions.

You approached him calmly, as if you hadn’t noticed his attitude. When you were close enough, you slid your hands softly over his chest, trying to relax the tension in his muscles.

"You’ve been avoiding me," you murmured with a touch of feigned drama, leaning in to look him in the eye.

Daryl huffed, looking away. "Don’t say stupid shit."

You let out a little laugh and rested your head against his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart. "I missed you."

He took a moment to react, but when he did, his arm slowly slid around your back, pulling you a little closer to him.

"I missed you too," he admitted quietly, as if it was hard for him to let those words out.

You smiled against his shirt. "So, what’s going on?"

Daryl sighed, running a hand over his face before finally looking at you.

"It’s nothing... It’s just that lately you’ve been spending more time with Rick."

There it was. He didn’t say it outright, but the intent was clear.

"Ohhh," you dragged the word out teasingly, bringing a finger to your lips in a thoughtful gesture. "Could it be that someone is... jealous?"

Daryl clicked his tongue and looked away. "Don’t say bullshit."

You chuckled softly, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before hugging him more tightly. "You know you don’t have to compete with anyone, right? My heart only knows your name."

He didn’t respond, but his grip on your waist tightened.

After a few seconds of silence, Daryl spoke with his usual rough tone, but softer than usual. "I wanted to see if you wanted to practice with the crossbow. And after... we could take the bike out for a ride. Like before."

Your smile widened, delighted by the idea. "That sounds perfect."

Daryl nodded, but before you could pull away, he leaned his head down and pressed his lips to your temple in a silent gesture of affection.

rick

The atmosphere in Alexandria grew tense every time Negan showed up with his group of Saviors, as if a dark storm settled over the community, absorbing all sense of security. And today was no exception.

Negan strolled through the area with his characteristic carefree gait, Lucille resting on his shoulder while his eyes scanned everyone with that mocking gaze that made Rick’s blood boil. But the worst part wasn’t the public humiliation, or even him stripping them of their supplies. The worst part was the way Negan spoke to you.

"Well, well, well… if it isn’t my favorite person in this entire damn community," Negan said with that cocky grin when he saw you. His eyes scanned you from head to toe without a hint of subtlety, as if he wanted Rick to notice exactly what he was doing. "How is it that every time I come around, you look even more goddamn gorgeous, huh?"

You didn’t flinch. You knew that any strong reaction would only give him more reasons to continue with his little game.

"It must be the walker blood; Eugene has this theory that it has surprisingly positive properties for the skin," you responded with a smirk that wasn’t quite a smile, your tone conveying pure coldness and indifference, but without making your displeasure too obvious.

Negan laughed that deep, mocking laugh that made all of Rick’s muscles tense.

"Shit, baby, why do you have to be so goddamn interesting? You know, I was thinking... how about you leave all this misery behind and come to the Sanctuary with me? You wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. Food, security... and of course, my irresistible company."

You could feel Rick burning with anger from where he stood. His hands were clenched into fists, but he couldn’t do anything. Not without devastating consequences.

You kept your composure. "As generous as ever, Negan, but I don’t think my presence would be well received among your followers. And I don’t think you’d want to deal with the problems that would cause."

Negan tilted his head, amused. "Problems? Shit, baby! I love problems. And you’re exactly the kind of problem I’d like to have."

Rick let out a heavy breath but said nothing. He couldn’t. Negan glanced at him from the corner of his eye, enjoying the show.

"Well, sweetheart, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me." Negan winked at you before turning and heading back to his men.

The group of Saviors left, and the silence that followed was suffocating. Rick remained still, staring at the entrance as if he could still see Negan there.

"Rick," you called softly, but he didn’t respond.

Finally, he let out a long sigh and rubbed his hand across his beard in frustration.

"This is bullshit."

You stepped closer, gently touching his arm. "I know."

Rick clenched his jaw, his eyes meeting yours with an exhausted intensity. "I can’t do anything. I feel… useless. Not just as a leader, but… as a man. I can’t protect this community. I can’t protect you. And he knows it."

"Rick," you said firmly, placing both hands on his shoulders. "You don’t need to protect me from Negan. I know how to handle him. I don’t fall for his provocations, I don’t insult his ego, but I don’t give him what he wants either. He doesn’t scare me."

Rick lowered his head, but you didn’t let him sink further into his dark thoughts.

"Listen to me. You haven’t failed. You keep us alive. You give us hope. And I know it seems impossible right now, but we will find a way out of this."

He nodded, but there was still something in his gaze.

"I’m just worried that one day Negan will go from words to actions," he admitted quietly.

You couldn’t help but let out a laugh. Rick looked at you, frowning, clearly confused.

"What’s so funny?"

"If Negan tried anything more than words with me, I’ll make sure he’ll be without the balls he brags so much about."

Rick blinked, then let out a brief, tired laugh, but a genuine one.

"God, I love you," he murmured, and this time, when he hugged you, he did so with strength, as if in that moment he could regain some of the control Negan had been trying to take from him.

negan

It had been a long day at the Sanctuary. The supplies from the last expedition were still being organized, the workers kept their heads down as they went about their tasks, and you were right in the middle of it all, as always, making sure everything ran smoothly.

At some point in the afternoon, you ran into Dwight, who was supervising the Saviors working in the warehouse. You’d worked with him enough to know his less ruthless side, the one he tried to hide behind his façade of loyalty to Negan. Talking to him was easy, even though life at the Sanctuary was never easy.

So when you made a comment about how tired you were and Dwight, with a half-smile, joked about giving you a special break if it were up to him, you didn’t pay it much attention.

But someone did.

From across the hall, Negan had stopped, watching the interaction with a dark, dangerous look. He didn’t say anything at the time, but the air in the Sanctuary seemed to grow heavier. As soon as Dwight walked away, you noticed Negan was still there, his expression one that only meant trouble.

You ignored him for a while, pretending you hadn’t noticed his intense stare. But you knew he wasn’t going to let it slide that easily.

And you were right.

Later that night, when you returned to the room Negan had assigned you (which was really his room), as soon as you crossed the door, his voice greeted you with the same gravity he always used when he was holding something back.

"So, baby... care to tell me what the hell was that with Dwight boy?"

You turned on your heels, finding him standing by the table, one hand resting on the wooden surface, the other gripping his bat, Lucille. He wasn’t swinging it violently, but the mere fact that he had it in his hands said everything.

You frowned, crossing your arms. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Negan let out a brief, humorless laugh before slowly walking toward you. "Don’t play dumb, sweetheart. I saw it. I saw how he was looking at you, how he dared to joke with you like he had the goddamn right to do it." He leaned in slightly, his eyes burning with jealousy masked as mockery. "Tell me something... has Dwight forgotten his damn place?"

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, please, Negan. It was just a joke. It was nothing."

But Negan didn’t seem convinced.

"Nothing?" His voice dropped lower, almost a deep whisper. "Let me tell you something, baby... nothing is what’ll be left of Dwight if he keeps thinking he can even look at you like that. Because, and listen closely, sweetheart, you only belong to me. Got it?"

Your heart sped up, but not out of fear. There was something about the way Negan reacted, the intensity of his gaze, the way he spoke with that mix of threat and possession. It drove you crazy.

So you decided to play along.

"And what are you going to do about it, Negan?" you asked provocatively, stepping a little closer.

Negan's eyes gleamed with something dark, something primal. He leaned in until his face was mere inches from yours, his warm breath grazing your skin.

"I'm going to remind you," he whispered with a dangerous smile, "why no other son of a bitch can even dream of having you."

His hand grabbed your waist firmly, pulling you harshly toward him. His grip was dominant, demanding your attention, his body radiating heat, the tension between you both turning into a burning fire.

His mouth descended to your ear, his breath brushing your skin as he murmured in his raspy voice, "Tell me, sweetheart... do you like to provoke me?"

You didn’t respond immediately, just proceeded to lick the side of his face as you held his challenging gaze, enjoying how his self-control seemed to crack.

Negan let out a low, dangerous laugh, his long fingers touching the saliva on his skin. "Fuck… you’re a goddamn problem, did you know that?"

Before you could reply, his lips crashed against yours with a force that left you breathless. There was no softness in that kiss, only pure hunger, raw need, and possessiveness. His hands roamed over your back, gripping you as if he wanted to make sure you would never pull away.

He lifted you with ease, making you gasp against his mouth as he carried you to the bed.

"I’m going to make you forget Dwight’s fucking name," he growled against your skin, sliding his lips down your neck. "I’m going to make you think of nothing but me."

His mouth continued its descent, leaving burning marks on every spot it touched. His hands moved over your body with a mix of roughness and devotion, as if he were claiming every inch of you.

And in that moment, you knew Negan fully intended to keep his promise.

carl

Alexandria had always been a refuge for those who managed to reach its gates, but you never imagined that among the new survivors, you would find someone from your past.

Not just anyone. Your ex-boyfriend.

The initial shock was strong, but the apocalypse had already hardened you enough not to be swayed by past emotions. At the end of the day, survival was what mattered, and if he had made it this far, it meant he had something to offer. Rick and the others accepted him into the community after questioning him and making sure he wasn’t a threat.

Carl, however, didn’t say a word.

At first, you thought he simply didn’t care. Carl was like that—always quiet, always analyzing everything from the shadows with that sharp, calculating gaze he had inherited from his father. But as the days passed and you noticed his attitude toward you, you started to suspect there was something more.

Carl didn’t look at you the same way. He didn’t seek your company like before. And when you were with the others, you could feel his presence behind you—always watching, always distant.

But you really noticed it when you were with your ex.

He had adapted quickly, helping where he could and always finding an excuse to spend time with you. It wasn’t surprising—you had shared a history before the world collapsed. You talked about the past, about moments you had almost forgotten. And even though you no longer felt the same way about him, it was a nice reminder that not everything had always been shit.

But Carl didn’t see it that way.

You realized it one afternoon when you were sitting on the porch steps, talking with your ex about old times. You laughed at something he said and, when you looked up, you saw Carl leaning against a wall not far away.

His gaze was dark, cold.

He didn’t do anything, didn’t interrupt, didn’t even try to approach. But the message was clear.

He didn’t like it.

That night, after everyone had gone to rest, you decided to look for him. You found him in the watchtower, standing with his rifle in hand, watching the horizon.

"Are you going to keep acting like an idiot, or are you going to tell me what’s wrong?"

Carl didn’t even turn to look at you. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

You climbed the steps and stood beside him, crossing your arms. "Yes, you do. You’ve been acting weird ever since he arrived."

Silence.

Carl clenched his jaw and looked away.

"I don’t trust him," he finally muttered.

You rolled your eyes. "Rick already questioned him. He’s not a threat."

"I don’t mean that," he said, and this time, he did look at you. His eyes were dark, intense. "I mean you."

Your heart skipped a beat, but you hid it well.

Carl set his rifle aside and ran a hand through his hair. "I don’t get why you keep spending so much time with him. He’s your ex."

You looked at him, now fully understanding what was going on.

Carl had hurt you with his silence these past few days because he was jealous.

You bit your lip to keep from smiling. It was strange, but seeing him like this—so serious, so tense… you liked it.

"Carl?"

"What?"

You leaned in slightly. "Are you jealous?"

His expression didn’t change, but you noticed the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

"No."

You couldn’t help but laugh. "God, Carl, you are. You’re completely jealous."

This time, he turned his whole body toward you, frowning. "I’m not jealous. I just think it’s a complete waste of time to talk to someone who clearly only wants one thing from you."

You crossed your arms, enjoying this more with every word he said. "And what exactly does he want from me?"

Carl didn’t answer right away.

Then, in a completely unexpected move, he took a step toward you, closing the distance between you both.

"He wants what’s mine."

The air caught in your throat.

Carl didn’t look away. He stayed silent, waiting for a response, waiting for you to contradict him. But you didn’t.

Because at that moment, you understood something very clearly.

Carl Grimes didn’t fight with empty words. Carl claimed what was his.

And you couldn’t agree more that you were completely his.

glenn

You were focused on cleaning the wound on Abraham’s arm. He had been shot during the last supply run. It wasn’t serious, but it still needed attention.

Glenn was beside you, handing you the medical supplies while you did the more delicate work. It had always been like that with him—teamwork, a perfect sync.

Abraham, on the other hand, seemed more entertained by something else. Or rather, by you.

"You know, doll, if all nurses were as pretty as you, I might just let myself get shot more often."

You let out a small laugh and shook your head, not taking the comment seriously. "That sounds like a terrible survival strategy."

Abraham smirked with his usual carefree air. "Maybe, but if you’re the one patching me up, it doesn’t sound too bad."

Glenn didn’t say anything, but you noticed his hand tense slightly as he passed you another gauze.

"Stop moving," you said, focusing back on the wound.

"Only if you give me a good luck kiss," Abraham insisted, his smirk widening.

This time, you let out a chuckle and playfully smacked his shoulder. "In your dreams, Ford."

Abraham laughed too and finally let you work, though not without tossing another remark your way. "If you ever get tired of this cute Asian guy over here, I can be your new assistant."

Glenn didn’t react at all. He simply kept his gaze fixed on his task, helping you bandage the wound in complete silence.

Once you were done, Abraham stood up with a smug grin and gave you a wink before leaving.

And that’s when you felt it.

The silence around Glenn was too heavy.

You finished putting the supplies away and, without turning around, spoke in a calm voice. "Don’t get weird on me."

Glenn let out a dry chuckle. "I’m not weird."

Now you did turn to face him, crossing your arms. "Yes, you are. You’ve barely said a word since Abraham walked in."

Glenn sighed and ran a hand through his hair, still avoiding your eyes. "It’s nothing."

You frowned and took a step closer. "Glenn."

His jaw tightened, and finally, he lifted his gaze. His dark eyes were filled with something you hadn’t seen in him before—frustration.

"It’s just that… I can’t do anything about it."

You blinked. "What do you mean?"

Glenn clicked his tongue and crossed his arms, unconsciously mirroring your stance. "I mean, I can’t tell him to shut up. I can’t tell him to stop flirting with you because, to everyone else, there’s no reason for me to. Because no one knows about us."

Oh.

You let down your guard a little and sighed. "Glenn…"

"And I know you take it as a joke," he continued, his voice a bit lower now. "I know Abraham is just being Abraham, and that it doesn’t really mean anything. But damn, do you know what it’s like to stand there, listening to it all, seeing the way he looks at you, and not being able to do anything? Not being able to say, ‘She’s mine, so back the hell off, you redheaded superiority-complex case’?"

You bit your lip, because you understood his point.

You had never really talked about making it official, about telling the others about your relationship. Not because you wanted to keep it a secret, but because… you had just never felt the need to announce it.

But Glenn did.

And that made you think.

"Are you dying of jealousy, Rhee?" you asked playfully, stepping a little closer.

He rolled his eyes. "It’s not funny."

"It’s a little funny," you teased, leaning slightly toward him. "I like seeing you like this."

Glenn narrowed his eyes. "You shouldn’t."

"But I do."

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The tension in the air felt different—less heavy, but still very much there. Glenn stared at you, evaluating you, as if debating something in his mind.

And then, without warning, he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you into him in one swift motion.

"Alright," he murmured against your lips. "Since you don’t seem to have a problem with it, then tomorrow everyone is going to know about us."

And then, he kissed you.

maggie

You had spent most of the day helping with the harvest, and after finishing, you decided to stay in the improvised library that Jesus had set up with the books he managed to recover during his expeditions. It had become a routine between the two of you: you would pick a book, and he would recommend another one he thought you might like. It was a quiet dynamic, with no pressure—a way to escape, even if just a little, from the harsh reality of the world you lived in.

But when Maggie arrived at Hilltop that afternoon, bringing supplies from Alexandria, you immediately noticed that something was… off.

She wasn’t exactly ignoring you, but there was a dryness in her voice, a hardness in her expression whenever she spoke to you.

“What have you been up to around here?” she asked while unloading the supply crates alongside Enid.

“The usual,” you replied with a smile, wiping your hands on your pants. “Helping with the harvest and… well, Jesus has been lending me some books. I’ve been staying up late reading them.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow, her gaze briefly shifting toward where Jesus stood on the other side of the camp, supervising the food distribution.

“Books, huh?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, still unaware of the tension in her voice. “He’s got a great collection. It’s rare to find someone who values books so much these days.”

Maggie crossed her arms and leaned against the nearest table. “Well, how considerate of him.”

You blinked at her tone. “Maggie… are you okay?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” she answered without hesitation.

A lie.

You tried to read her expression, but Maggie was good at hiding her emotions when she wanted to. Still, there was a stiffness in her shoulders, a lack of warmth in her gaze that told you something was definitely off.

You tried to lighten the mood with a playful smile. “Well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sound jealous.”

Maggie clicked her tongue and looked away. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

But there it was.

A confirmation disguised as denial.

You decided to push her just a little more, just to see how far she’d go.

“Because if you were,” you continued casually, “it would be adorable.”

Her eyes snapped back to you immediately, this time flashing with a warning. “Don’t play with me.”

You chuckled softly. “Who’s playing? I like seeing Maggie Greene with that look on her face.”

She rolled her eyes and grabbed a crate, using it as an excuse to keep her hands busy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, yes, you do,” you insisted, following her as she tried to ignore you. “You’ve been acting weird with me since you got here. Colder, more… distant.”

Maggie set the crate down with more force than necessary. “I’m not acting weird. I just find it surprising how close you’ve gotten to Jesus lately.”

You smirked. “Maggie.”

“What?”

“Admit it.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her jaw tightening.

“Admit it, and I’ll leave you alone,” you added, leaning in slightly, amusement dancing in your eyes.

Maggie held your gaze for a few seconds, then let out a heavy sigh, finally giving in. “Fine.”

“Fine what?”

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Maybe… just a little.”

You bit your lip to hold back a laugh. “A little what?”

She exhaled in frustration and muttered, almost through gritted teeth, “Maybe I’m a little bit jealous.”

You took her hands gently, making her look at you. “You have nothing to worry about, sweetheart. Jesus is my friend. You’re the only one who matters to me that way.”

Maggie watched you in silence, as if trying to decide whether to believe your words. Finally, her lips curved into a small smile.

“You better mean that,” she said, her tone still carrying a hint of wounded pride.

You kissed her cheek, noticing how her shoulders finally relaxed. “I love you.”

And even if she didn’t say it out loud, you knew that the next time you came to Hilltop, Maggie would make sure Jesus knew exactly where he stood.

[brainmaggotzzzz]

ᥫ᭡Haunted by youᥫ᭡。

Hwang Inho x female!reader

cw: toxic!inho, manipulation, alcohol mentions of disordered eating, age gap, possessive behaviors

summary: he so suddenly dissapeared and coping with it you go to a bar on a date where he spots you.

You hated him. Hated him for disappearing so suddenly, without a word. But you hated yourself even more—for being so pathetically naive. For truly believing this man was different from the rest. Not that you had much experience; you were always afraid. Afraid of letting someone in, afraid of getting too close. But with him, your walls crumbled like paper.

You met him two years ago. At first, your relationship was purely platonic—almost as if he were a mentor, guiding you through life, offering advice, listening patiently as you vented about professors you couldn’t stand. Over time, he became a constant, someone you trusted more than anyone. And as he carved a space for himself in your life, you found yourself growing closer, so much closer.

He never rushed you into anything you weren’t ready for. Never made you feel small or foolish. And that was enough for you to be completely, utterly his.

You had a habit of downplaying your pain, convincing yourself that the way your parents treated you was normal—that you were just another privileged girl searching for a reason to feel sorry for herself. But him? He never needed to say much. He just understood. In a way no one else did. He held you, reassured you, whispered sweet nothings that made the ache in your chest a little more bearable.

One night, after yet another fight with your mother over the phone, you called him. It wasn’t even a big argument, not really. But it left you feeling like that little girl again—crying, desperate for love, only to be met with harsh words and indifference.

“I’ll be there. Give me a couple minutes,” he said simply.

And he was. Sooner than you expected, standing at your door with your favorite snacks and an unreadable expression. That night, he held you for hours as you sobbed into his chest, his arms a quiet promise that you weren’t alone.

“I—I’m sorry,” you choked out between sniffles. “I’m just so goddamn pathetic. I don’t know why I’m reacting like this—it’s so stupid.”

But he only held you tighter, wiping the tears from your puffy face, as if to say: You’re not pathetic. You never were.

◇

And then—just like that—he was gone.

No replies to your texts. No returned calls. The man who had been your anchor, your confidant, the one who stood beside you through thick and thin, vanished as if he had never existed.

At first, panic consumed you. Something must have happened. This wasn’t like him—not the Inho you knew, the one you loved. You replayed every conversation, every touch, searching for a clue. But then, one night, your answer appeared on the TV screen.

A fundraiser event, elegant and glittering with wealth. And there he was—standing in the background, smiling effortlessly, shaking hands with men who carried the same air of privilege as he did. Unbothered. Unchanged. As if you had never mattered at all.

Grief swallowed you whole. You mourned the person he was, the relationship you had, the future that would never be. Was it your looks? Your personality? Had you bored him? The questions gnawed at you, relentless and cruel.

But the worst part? You couldn’t even cry on a friend’s shoulder, couldn’t let them curse his name and tell you he wasn’t worth your tears—not when he was twice your age. The two of you had kept your relationship hidden, locked away from prying eyes. And now, you bore the weight of that secrecy alone.

At first, your pain was quiet, suffocating. Two months of drowning—skipping meals, shutting out the world, sinking into an endless pit of self-doubt. But then, something shifted.

The sadness hardened. Became anger.

At him, for disappearing. At yourself, for letting him in. At the world, for letting people like him exist.

You didn’t just want to heal.

You wanted to feel like yourself again.

◇

Everything reminded you of him.

The sound of birds chirping in the morning made your stomach twist, dragging you back to quiet dawns spent watching the sunrise by his side. The fresh scent of rain on grass pulled you into a memory—his memory—of that weekend at his mountain cabin, wrapped in warmth and fleeting happiness.

It all pissed you off.

"Y/N."

His voice, deep yet gentle, echoed in your mind. You could still picture him sitting on the porch, beneath the wooden roof, as rain drummed softly against it. The world was quiet except for the rhythmic tapping of droplets and the slow crackling of the fireplace inside.

"Are you happy?" he asked, his tone unreadable.

You turned to him, meeting his gaze, and nodded.

"With you, I am."

And then—so suddenly, so effortlessly—he pulled you closer. The boldness of it sent a rush through you, your breath catching in your throat. He chuckled at your reaction, low and knowing.

"Cute," he murmured.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

How could you have been so foolish? So naive? To genuinely believe that a man like him—older, wealthy, experienced—had cared for you beyond the thrill of possession. That his affections had been anything more than a game, a fleeting indulgence. That he had wanted you for anything other than the inevitable.

◇

Today, you slipped into a miniskirt—your favorite one. The one that had been buried in the back of your closet for God knows how long.

When he was around, you rarely wore things like this. He never outright forbade it, never raised his voice or demanded. No, he was subtler than that. His possessiveness wasn’t loud, wasn’t violent—it was quiet, insidious, laced with gentle words and feather-light touches.

You could still feel it, the way he’d approach you from behind, warmth seeping into your skin before his hands found their place—firm and claiming—around your waist.

"You’re so beautiful," he would murmur, lips brushing against your ear. "But other men are pigs. I’ll buy you a longer skirt—you’ll wear it, won’t you? You wouldn’t want to disappoint me."

And just like that, his will became yours.

But not anymore.

Slipping into that miniskirt now felt like a quiet rebellion, a whispered fuck you to the ghost of his influence. He couldn’t see it, wouldn’t know. But you would. And that was enough.

◇

You wore your best lipstick, the shade that made you feel bold, untouchable. Your hair was styled to perfection, not a strand out of place. Tonight, you were ready—ready for a date.

Maybe it was about validation. Maybe it was an attempt to fill the void Inho had left behind. Or maybe, just maybe, it was simply about proving to yourself that you could. That you could still put yourself out there, still entertain the idea of someone new.

And so, you found yourself agreeing to drinks with Kang Daeho.

Daeho—your sweet, nervous classmate who had been nursing an innocent crush on you for ages. Innocent because it was harmless, almost childlike. He’d always stumble over his words when he spoke to you, eagerly sharing fun facts about his time in the military as if that would somehow impress you. It was... adorable. Not attractive. But adorable was a good way to put it.

The bar was dimly lit, humming with the quiet chatter of patrons and the occasional clink of glasses. As you approached, you spotted him immediately—already seated at the counter, anxiously tapping his foot, eyes flicking toward the entrance every few seconds. The moment you slid onto the stool beside him, he practically flinched, his body going rigid before forcing out a trembling smile.

"H-Hey," he mumbled.

You smiled, amused by his nervousness. "Hey."

"You look nice today... Not that it’s rare—because you always look good—but, oh, I meant, you look extra nice today. Well, I—uh—nice skirt."

His face flushed a deep shade of red, and he scratched the back of his head, clearly regretting every word that had just left his mouth. You couldn’t help but laugh, charmed by his awkwardness. It was endearing in a way that felt safe.

"Thank you, Daeho."

But what you didn’t notice—what you were far too caught up in polite conversation and hesitant smiles to see—was the man sitting in the shadows, sipping whiskey with an eerily steady hand.

From the back of the venue, Inho watched.

And his gaze burned holes into the back of your head.

◇

The conversation was going surprisingly well. It was… sweet.

Daeho wasn’t the type of man who would ever hurt you—in fact, he didn’t seem like he could hurt anyone. There was a softness about him, an almost boyish sincerity that made you wonder how someone like him had ended up in the military. Not just ended up—but survived it, given the harsh conditions and grueling discipline.

And, for the first time in what felt like forever, he actually made you laugh. A real, genuine laugh. Not the polite kind, not the hollow chuckle you had mastered in the past few months, but something real—something you hadn’t felt since Inho’s disappearance.

"I’m sorry, Daeho, but really—how did you end up in the damn military?" you asked, smiling, your words loosened by the warmth of alcohol.

He leaned back slightly, his expression relaxed, the booze making him just a little bolder. "I grew up with four sisters. I guess I wanted to man up."

You snorted, tilting your head. "I guess that didn’t work out."

He gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. "You’re breaking my heart." "And you’re loud and wrong."

With sudden enthusiasm, he flexed his arm, putting his biceps on full display. Your eyes widened in genuine surprise.

"Christ, it’s like rocks," you laughed, poking at his muscles with the carefree confidence of someone a few drinks deep.

It was playful. Innocent. A harmless moment between two people enjoying each other’s company.

But from across the room, Inho watched.

His grip tightened around his glass, knuckles white as he resisted the urge to move. Every instinct screamed at him to walk over, grab you by the wrist, and drag you away—from Daeho, from the prying eyes of strangers, from a world he had convinced himself never deserved you.

Because even though he had disappeared—left you without a word—to him, you were still his.

◇

As the night came to an end, you and Daeho hopped off your bar stools, laughter still lingering in the air between you. But the alcohol had made you unsteady, and the moment your feet hit the ground, you nearly stumbled.

Daeho reacted instantly, his arm slipping around your waist to steady you. You looked up at him, amused by how his face burned bright red at the sudden closeness.

But from across the room, Inho had seen enough.

A sick, twisted heat spread through his chest—something dark, something possessive. It wasn’t just jealousy; it was rage. The kind that burned slow and dangerous, coiling around his ribs like a vice. He had been watching all night, forcing himself to stay seated, to give you the illusion of freedom. But seeing another man’s hands on you—touching you, holding you so casually—shattered what little restraint he had left.

Before you could react, Inho was there. Moving too fast, too forcefully, his hand wrapping around Daeho’s wrist and ripping it away from you. And just as swiftly, he secured his own arm around your waist, pulling you against him like a silent declaration.

"Get your hands off my woman."

His voice was low, quiet—but laced with something lethal.

Daeho’s eyes widened in shock, his mouth parting slightly as he took in the sight of the older man claiming you like this, as if he had any right.

You, on the other hand, were frozen. Staring at Inho, really staring, because for months he had been nothing but a memory, a wound that refused to heal. And now—he was here. Right in front of you. Real and tangible, his grip firm and unwavering.

The flood of emotions—anger, hate, longing—crashed into you all at once.

"Sir, excuse me, what?" Daeho finally managed, his voice unsure, confused.

Inho barely spared him a glance. "Leave. Immediately."

And then, after a beat, his voice dipped into something colder, sharper.

"Before I make you."

Daeho hesitated, looking at you—bewildered, concerned.

"Go, Daeho. I'll explain later," you mumbled, your voice unsteady.

"B-But—"

"Please," you whispered.

He wavered for a moment, but one look at Inho—the way his dark eyes burned into him, daring him to make the wrong move—was enough to make him step back.

"We're leaving."

His voice was final, his grip on you unyielding despite the way you instinctively tried to pull away. Before you could argue, he shrugged off his coat and threw it over your shoulders, the heavy fabric swallowing your frame, covering your legs completely.

Possessive. He always had been, and he didn’t bother to hide it now.

He led you straight to a taxi, his hand never once loosening from your wrist. When you reached the car, he ensured you got in first, locking your seatbelt himself before settling beside you. You refused to look at him, your vision swimming from the alcohol, your stomach twisting with a mixture of fury and disbelief.

"Fuck you," you mumbled under your breath.

His grip on your wrist only tightened.

The ride was silent. The tension between you, suffocating. And when the taxi finally pulled up to his building—his extravagant, glass-walled apartment looming above—you dragged your feet, sluggishly resisting.

The taxi driver shot you both a wary glance, his brows knitting together in concern. Inho caught it immediately, offering a tight-lipped smile as he reached for his wallet.

"My wife had a little too much to drink," he said smoothly, his voice laced with an effortless charm that made the driver hesitate before nodding.

And then—without warning—he lifted you with ease, throwing you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. You let out a small noise of protest, weak in your intoxicated state, but he didn’t say a word. Just silently carried you inside.

◇

Once inside, he set you down onto the sleek leather couch, pouring himself another glass of whiskey as if the last hour hadn’t happened.

"Who was that child?" His voice was calm, but you knew better.

You scoffed, sinking into the couch, your drunken state making your movements sluggish and uncoordinated. "None of your business."

His jaw ticked. "It is my business." He took a slow sip of whiskey, eyes never leaving yours. "So tell me—or I'll find out my way."

That made something inside you snap.

You stood up, swaying slightly before shoving him—hard.

"Go fuck yourself, Inho. Fuck you, fuck your ways, fuck who you know. You're dead to me." Another shove.

He barely moved, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "A child like that can’t handle a woman like you."

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh.

"Oh, right. Because you’re the expert? Because you treated me so well?" Your words slurred slightly, but the anger in your voice was unmistakable. "You disappeared, Inho."

He exhaled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "I had matters to take care of."

"Oh, really? Matters that took months? And you couldn’t even call me? Not one text?" You let out another broken laugh, shaking your head. "You disappeared, Inho. I needed you. And you vanished."

Your voice cracked.

He sighed, setting his drink down before scooping you up effortlessly, pulling you onto his lap like a ragdoll. His fingers tangled into your hair, slow, soothing strokes.

You tried to push away, but he steadied you.

"Just let me..." His voice was quieter now, the words laced with something almost pleading.

And maybe it was the alcohol. Or the exhaustion. Or the sheer overwhelming weight of emotions crashing down on you all at once. But suddenly, the warmth of his hand in your hair, the familiarity of his presence—it shattered whatever little strength you had left.

You broke.

"Fuck you." Your words came out in a choked sob, your fists weakly clenching his shirt as you curled into him. "Fuck you for disappearing. For ruining my date with a sweet guy."

He didn’t respond. Just kept petting you, running his fingers through your hair like he was calming a restless cat.

"I loved you, and you disappeared."

He frowned, his fingers pausing for just a second. "Past tense?"

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling sharply. "Shut up."

But despite your words, you leaned into his touch, gripping onto his shirt like you were terrified he’d disappear again.

"Why?" Your voice was small now, barely above a whisper. "Why did you leave?"

A long silence. Then—

"You’re young. I wanted to give you space." He exhaled, his grip on you tightening. "But seeing someone else hold you—when it's my right? I can’t do it."

There was something in his voice, something raw and unfiltered, and it made your heart ache even as your mind screamed at you to stay angry.

"You're thinner."

His voice was steady, but there was something beneath it—something that almost sounded like concern.

"Thank you," you muttered, the words laced with a bitter sort of amusement.

His jaw tightened. "It’s concern, not a compliment." His eyes dragged over you, taking in the subtle hollowness in your cheeks, the way your collarbones jutted out just a little more than before. He didn’t like it.

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. "You don’t get to act worried after throwing me out like trash."

A heavy silence settled between you.

Then—"I know, doll." His voice softened, rich and velvety, coaxing. "Let me make it up to you. I love you."

And just like that, whatever anger, whatever resentment you had built up over the past months began to crumble.

Despite everything, despite the way he had shattered you, all it took were a few sweet words—his words—for you to come crawling back, to lean into his touch like nothing had changed.

Maybe you had issues. Maybe you were just weak. Or maybe you loved him so much it hurt.

Or maybe it was all of the above.

But regardless of the reason, none of it mattered.

Because you were his.

You were, you are, and you always will be.

And this time, as he wrapped his arms around you, as he pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, there was a silent promise in the way he held you—

He wouldn’t lose you again.

"I love you too."

[woso-story]

Messy

Ingrid Engen x Mapi Leon

Ingrid had always been a neat person. There was something incredibly satisfying about having everything in its proper place. Living in a tidy home gave her peace of mind, a sense of order in an otherwise chaotic world. So, when she moved in with Mapi three months ago, she had been thrilled. Mapi was her perfect match in almost every way. They could talk for hours, share laughter over the silliest things, and Mapi always listened when Ingrid needed to pour her heart out. She was in love, deeply and irrevocably. But there was just one thing she struggled with: Mapi was messy.

It wasn’t that Ingrid wanted Mapi to change completely. She didn’t need her to be obsessively organized, but living together meant making compromises. Ingrid had asked, more than once, if Mapi could at least try to be a bit more mindful about keeping things tidy. Mapi had agreed without hesitation, knowing that she wasn’t naturally the tidiest person. She genuinely wanted Ingrid to feel at home. And for the most part, she tried. But it didn’t come naturally to her.

So when Ingrid left for two weeks to attend the Norwegian national camp, Mapi gradually slipped back into her old habits. It wasn’t intentional; it just happened. For her, the apartment wasn’t messy, it was comfortable. She knew where everything was, and that was enough for her.

When Ingrid’s flight finally landed—after delays and exhaustion creeping into her bones—she could barely wait to get home. All she wanted was a shower, her bed, and to cuddle up with Mapi. But the moment she opened the door, she was met with an unpleasant surprise.

Her foot caught on something, and she stumbled forward, barely catching herself. Looking down, she saw Mapi’s training bag sprawled in the middle of the hall. Ingrid gritted her teeth. She had told Mapi time and time again to put her things away when she got home. Taking a deep breath, she stepped further inside and was met with a sight that made her heart sink.

The living room was a disaster. Clothes, magazines, and random objects were scattered across the floor. The coffee table was covered in snack wrappers and unopened letters. And in the middle of it all, Mapi was lying on the couch, Bagheera curled up on her stomach.

Mapi jumped up when she saw Ingrid, a bright smile on her face—until she noticed the expression on her girlfriend’s. Following Ingrid’s gaze, she took in the mess around her and instantly knew why Ingrid wasn’t pleased.

“I—” Mapi started, but Ingrid simply held up a hand and walked into the kitchen, only to be met with an even worse sight. Dishes piled up in the sink, takeout containers stacked on the counter. It wasn’t unbearable, but to Ingrid, it was frustrating. She had told Mapi before how much it mattered to her to come home to a clean space.

Mapi’s voice was soft behind her. “I’m sorry. I should’ve—”

“It’s not about should’ve, Maria,” Ingrid interrupted, shaking her head. “It just feels like it isn’t that important to you if I feel at home or not.”

Mapi’s heart clenched at that. “No, that’s not—”

“I’m going to shower and go to bed,” Ingrid cut in. “I had a long two weeks. I just need some sleep.”

Without another word, she turned and walked to the bedroom. Mapi’s eyes widened as she remembered what state she had left it in. She hurried to follow, but she was too late.

The bedroom was a mess—worse than the living room. Clothes strewn across the bed, shoes out of place, and the bathroom looked just as chaotic.

That was it. Ingrid had reached her limit. She turned sharply and nearly collided with Mapi, who was already mid-apology.

“I can’t do this right now,” Ingrid said, her voice tight with frustration.

“Where are you going?” Mapi asked as Ingrid strode toward the front door.

“I don’t know,” Ingrid replied honestly. “But I can’t stay here right now, or I’ll explode.”

Then she was gone.

Mapi stood frozen for a few moments before walking back into the living room, falling onto the couch with a heavy sigh. Bagheera jumped onto her lap, and she absently scratched behind the cat’s ears.

“Well, Bagheera,” she murmured, “your mama is mad at your mami.”

She glanced around the apartment again. Now, with Ingrid’s frustration fresh in her mind, she could see it too. It was a mess. And after the stress Ingrid had been through, she understood why her girlfriend had reacted the way she did.

Determined to make things right, Mapi stood up. She spent the next few hours tidying every room, making sure everything was in its place. By the time she was done, the apartment looked spotless. She even went out to buy flowers and Ingrid’s favorite chocolate, placing them neatly on the kitchen counter as a small peace offering.

Later that evening, she sent Ingrid a message:

I’m really sorry. I love you.

Half an hour later, Ingrid responded:

I love you too. I’ll be home tomorrow.

---

The next day, when Ingrid stepped through the door, she braced herself for what she might find. But this time, she didn’t trip over anything. She walked further in, surprised to see that the apartment was spotless. The kitchen was gleaming, the living room was neat, and on the counter sat a vase of flowers and a box of chocolates.

“Princesa?”

She turned to find Mapi standing a few feet away, looking at the floor. “It’s a little apology,” Mapi said, her voice hesitant. “I’m really sorry. I know I should’ve done better. I will try. I was trying, but when you were gone, I got lazy. And I know I need to be better. I want you to feel at home.”

Ingrid walked over, wrapping her arms around Mapi, who instantly melted into the embrace. She buried her face in Ingrid’s neck, inhaling the comforting scent of her perfume.

“Thank you,” Ingrid murmured.

They soon found themselves on the couch, talking about everything that had happened. At one point, Mapi apologized again, but Ingrid shook her head.

“It’s okay,” she said. Then she smirked. “I do have one question, though.”

“What?” Mapi asked, tilting her head.

“Before I moved in, your place never looked like this. Why is it suddenly different?”

Mapi looked down, rubbing the back of her neck. “Because I always tidied up before you came over,” she admitted sheepishly. “So you wouldn’t see my messy side.”

Ingrid laughed. “So it was a trap?”

Mapi grinned. “Yep. And now you’re stuck.”

Shaking her head fondly, Ingrid leaned in and kissed Mapi. “I guess I am,” she murmured, smiling. “And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

[kiwiikimi]

𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི FILTHY GIRL

── .✦ 𝜗𝜚 ➜ new mail(!) summary: Damian wasn’t the affectionate type yet he’s been missing you for a while. So what happens when you have two fired up love infatuated teens? They do anything they can to make up for the lost time spent.

── ✮ author note : not proofread!! I’m practicing writing kissing scenes, this is like not smut at all.

( ⋆♱⋆ ) ── cw : swearing ⋆ lots of errors, f! reader, kissing

╰┈➤.“𝟏𝟏:𝟏𝟏 🎧” KIWII 𓈒 ﾉ⠀NAVIGATION ⠀♰ M.LIST

➤ 𝜗𝜚 AUTHORS’ + 2ND POV

You and Damian were carelessly laying on the bed, enjoying each other’s presence like you usually do. However this time was completely different, you haven’t seen each other since last month.

It mainly broke you, even being detached away and trying to not act like it hurt, it hurt badly. However, Damian was suppressing his emotions, trying to act like it didn’t, but it did. He was never a lovesick loser, he wasn’t that, he was missing a piece in his life he never realized that mattered so much. That piece was the building blocks for the rest to even stand up. Damian’s eyes were filled with hunger, missing your taste, feeling, touch, just all of it. If he couldn’t have you then, he has you now. He calmed himself down, he wasn’t that touch infatuated he just needed to be with you.

“Damia—” For him hearing you say his name was enough. He wasn’t a teen that was craving for physical intimacy, in fact, he cared more about being in your presence. He couldn’t bear to feel like he’s just hungry for you, no, he was hungry to experience being with you again. He interrupted you calling his name and started kissing you, honestly that was the boldest thing he’s ever done with you or to you. He immediately claimed the fact that he was tired of hearing "when’s the next time I leave" and "when’s the next time we will see each other" he wanted you now and that was evident.

He wanted all of you, his hands didn’t roam too far, he didn’t have wandering hands. He made sure to respect your space not making you feel uncomfortable in such a moment of practical pleasure. You immediately jumped up onto his lap to give him easier access, his body shifting as well. His heart fluttered with joy from the painful absence of your tranquil kisses. Both your tongues touching and feeling the heat of the moment.

To you, he tasted sweet, bittersweet. A feeling that feels so nice yet so wrong. Touching him more than you ever thought, in places you knew Damian wouldn’t let you touch, but that wasn’t him. He wanted you and you wanted him.

To him, you tasted pleasing, like a flavor that he couldn’t hold back from no matter how much he restrained himself. He felt completely in control of how he wanted to take you all in, even if it was the simplest way of showing it.

Your hands were practically intertwined with his hair, whilst his on your hips keeping you steady. It’s like the kiss could last forever, but it didn’t unfortunately. “Damia—” he kissed you again, ignoring what you were going to say, “breathe—” he then stopped, his eyes looking directly at you and only you.

“Habibti..” He didn’t really he was completely breathless himself, completely exhausted from it. He could do it for hours, but genuinely he could be with you for hours. You were what kept him going.You didn’t know what to say, he wasn’t an intimate person, but when he was he most definitely showed it. “Can we slow down just for a little while?”

He looked at you and nodded, now returning to his calm normal demeanor. “We can continue this later..” you dragged the later, not really meaning it of course meaning it as in like five minutes. He couldn’t wait, but he somehow did, he nodded again to show that he was interested. And now was silent, you sitting on top of him enjoying this quiet momentum, lover with lover.

[xuchiya]

Young Gen Love || jeong yunho || 800 follower special

| genre: fluff. slice of life. slow-burn-ish | mentions: nothing much. just a little anxiety but it is more of yunho being a gentleman.

thank you all so much, my loves! My journey here in this platform has been amazing, met a lot and lots of my loves! 🤍🥹

January 16, 2025

It was my first day on my night classes that my mom told me to apply to since it coordinates with my chosen course in college. I walk in the computer classroom, greeting everyone and the professor, I sat at the back and settle my bag down. Night classes always had a different kind of energy—dimly lit hallways, the hum of fluorescent lights, and the quiet murmur of students trying to absorb the lessons after an already long day.

I scanned my surroundings. Most of my classmates were older—some around my parents’ age, others even older. They were here to learn the basics of computers, eager but sometimes struggling with the difference between software and hardware. I admired their determination, but at the same time, a small disappointment settled in my chest.

There was no one my age. And it would be fun having someone close or older or younger than me would be my classmate, I spun on my chair, turning on my designated computer.

Just as I resigned myself to being the odd one out, the door creaked open. A tall figure walked in, gripping the strap of his backpack. Brunette hair slightly tousled, sharp eyes taking in the room, a quiet but undeniable presence. Our professor gestured for him to introduce himself.

"I'm Jeong Yunho, I'm 24 and ..." he said, voice steady, but there was a hint of nervousness underneath. "I’m here to learn more about computers. I only have basic knowledge, so... please take care of me." He bows his head before moving towards his seat which was just on my right side.

My lips quirked up.

He was a few months younger than me—just a small gap—but enough to make me feel relieved. I wasn’t alone anymore.

For two weeks, we didn’t speak. We barely even acknowledged each other kudos to my stuttering and introverted personality, but slowly, the class dynamics shifted. People became more comfortable, more familiar. I started moving around, observing other groups engagin conversatoins with them and having few shared laughters, taking notes on how they configured the computers, absorbing techniques like a sponge.

One night, I found myself hovering near his table. He was struggling on one of the tasks. Yunho was focused, brows furrowed as he listened to our professor’s explanation, his hands hovering uncertainly over the keyboard. He was clearly still learning, still figuring things out, but he was determined.

He always came to face the same error for the past 5 minutes until he sighs, "I have to redo this again ..." I chuckle, pulling a chair beside him, "You just miss one step that's why you were facing this error ... let me help."

He glances at me before nodding. He followed my instructions, even explaining to him why it needs to apply or how it functions when applied. He nods as we finish the task, he sighs in relief, turning to me.

"You're good." Yunho compliments. I chuckle, waving off his compliment but that didn't stop my cheeks from burning.

"No I'm not. I barely started my task." He looks at my open computer then back to me. A playful look on his eyebrows, "Or you're just lying to me right now and finished hours ago."

I chuckle shaking my head, "Believe me, I haven't even open File explorer."

Somehow, without realizing it, we started spending more time together—small moments, like exchanging notes, grabbing snacks during breaks, or sharing casual stories. Weeks passed, turning into months, and something about him pulled me in.

And that's where I started to notice things.

February 13, 2025

The night air was crisp, the streetlights casting a soft yellow glow along the sidewalk. The usual post-class chatter had faded as our classmates rushed off to catch their trains, leaving just the two of us walking down the main road toward my bus stop.

The city was still alive—cars rolling past with their headlights cutting through the night, distant honks echoing, and the occasional murmur of people walking ahead. I pulled my jacket tighter around me, my bag slung over one shoulder, as Yunho walked in step beside me, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.

I didn't think much of it at first, but as we walked, I noticed the way he moved—subtle, instinctive. When I unconsciously veered too close to the curb, he shifted, placing himself between me and the street without a word. I glanced up at him, but his face remained neutral, as if he hadn’t even realized he was doing it.

Curious, I tested it. I deliberately took a step closer to the road, pretending to adjust my bag strap.

Without missing a beat, he adjusted too, his shoulder brushing mine as he once again positioned himself between me and the passing cars.

I bit back a smile. But then I tried to walk in front of him, doing a little skip as I near to the road to see if he’d follow.

And he did.

A hand was suddenly were on my shoulder and pushes me gently back on the sidewalk and position himself beside me. A warmth spread through my chest. It wasn’t exaggerated. It wasn’t done for attention. He simply moved with me, like an unspoken promise to keep me safe.

"You know the rule" I finally murmured, breaking the comfortable silence. He turned his head slightly, looking down at me with mild confusion. "What rule?"

"The sidewalk rule." I lifted a brow, tilting my head toward him. For a moment, he didn’t respond, just kept walking. Then, he let out a small chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck, his ears turning red. "It’s just a habit, I guess."

"A habit?"

"Yeah." His voice was softer now. "I was raised to always walk on the side closest to the street when I’m with someone I—" He paused, clearing his throat, looking away. "—when I’m with someone important."

My breath hitched.

I turned my head away, hoping the cool air would calm the sudden rush of warmth creeping up my neck. My heart pounded so loudly I was certain he could hear it.

We walked in silence for a few more steps until the bus stop came into view. Yunho slowed his pace beside me, as if reluctant to reach it too soon.

And I realized, at that moment, I didn’t want the walk to end either.

February 21, 2025

It was late, the night air cool as our group made their way down the sidewalk towards the train station. Streetlights flickered overhead, their warm glow casting long shadows along the pavement. Conversations were scattered—some laughing, some yawning, everyone eager to get home after another long class.

As we approached my usual bus stop, the others barely slowed, waving quick goodbyes as they hurried off to catch their trains. I watched them disappear down the road, my breath fogging slightly in the chilly air.

All except one.

"You guys go ahead," Yunho’s voice came from beside me. His hands were stuffed into his jacket pockets, his posture relaxed, yet there was an undeniable certainty in his tone. "I'll wait for her til' the bus comes."

I froze.

My heart stuttered so hard I thought for sure he'd hear it. I turned slightly, expecting some kind of teasing grin, but there was none. Just him, standing there as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The others didn’t question it. They just nodded and waved, disappearing into the night. And suddenly, it was just the two of us.

The bus stop felt quieter than usual, the occasional car humming past as we stood beneath the soft glow of the streetlight. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickened. "You really didn’t have to wait, you know," I murmured, glancing up at him.

He shrugged. "It’s fine." Then, a small smirk tugged at his lips. "Can’t have you standing out here all alone, can I?"

I swallowed, warmth creeping up my neck.

For the next few minutes, we talked—about class, about the ridiculous things our professor said that night, about how our classmates were still struggling with the configurations. His voice was smooth, casual, as if this was just another normal moment. But for me?

I was barely keeping it together.

The way he stood close enough that our arms almost brushed. The way his laughter rumbled softly in the quiet night. The way he looked down at me whenever I spoke, his eyes warm and focused, like nothing else existed in that moment but me.

Then, headlights appeared in the distance. My bus.

I felt a strange disappointment settle in my chest. As the bus slowed to a stop, I turned to him, unsure of what to say. "Thanks for waiting with me," I said, my voice softer than intended.

Yunho just smiled, tilting his head slightly. "Of course."

I took a step toward the open doors, but before I could climb in, I felt a gentle tug on my wrist.

I turned, wide-eyed. Yunho’s fingers curled lightly around mine, his grip warm even in the cold air, "Get home safe ... I-" he said, his voice quieter now, more intentional yet cutting himself off which made me curious.

And then, just like that, he let go, stepping back with an easy smile, as if he hadn’t just tilted my entire world.

I somehow managed to get on the bus, my legs feeling suspiciously weak. As the doors closed and the vehicle pulled away, I turned toward the window, watching as he stood there, hands back in his pockets, watching me leave.

He didn’t move until I was completely out of sight.

I barely survived that night without combusting.

February 26, 2025

I was late.

Again.

The clock glared at me with red, unrelenting numbers as I rushed out of my internship office, my heart pounding with a mix of exhaustion and urgency. The overtime had stretched longer than expected, eating into my class hours, and by the time I finally made it to the campus, an entire hour had slipped through my fingers.

I hated this. Hated the way I stumbled into the classroom, breathless, trying to make myself as invisible as possible while my professor continued the discussion without sparing me a glance. But I knew he noticed. His sharp, fleeting glance from the corner of his eye said enough.

I barely managed to slide into a chair before the weight of my lateness pressed into my chest like a cinderblock. The screen in front of me was filled with configuration steps and code I had no context for. My classmates were already deep into the task, their fingers flying over keyboards with an ease that only familiarity could bring.

I was lost.

The frustration built in my throat, burning hot and bitter. My fingers hovered uselessly over my touchpad as my eyes flickered between the screen and my classmates' progress. I tried to piece together what I had missed, but the more I stared, the more my thoughts tangled into a suffocating mess.

Then, a voice.

Low, familiar—steady.

"You okay?"

I blinked, snapping out of my panic just enough to register the presence beside me.

Yunho.

When had he moved closer? He had been at one of our classmate's table earlier helping on the task, but now he was right beside me, his presence a quiet force against my frazzled nerves. His scent—rich, chocolate-sweet cologne—wrapped around me, grounding and distracting all at once.

I turned my head slightly, and that’s when I realized just how close he was.

Too close.

He wasn’t even pretending to keep a respectable distance. His shoulder nearly brushed mine, his face mere inches away. The dim glow of the computer monitor cast soft shadows across his features, making the sharp angles of his jawline look impossibly gentle.

I nodded, moving to one of our friend's computer as he navigates the task, I watch the task unfolding, hoping I could catch up but with Yunho's presence really close to me was a challenge I don't think I'll success.

A small smile tugged at his lips, almost amused. "Focus," he murmured, voice dipping lower. "I need you to teach me."

Teach him?

The irony almost made me laugh. I was the one barely keeping my head above water, the one scrambling to understand what I had missed, and yet here he was—acting like I had everything under control.

But there was something in his tone. Something reassuring, something that pulled me away from my spiraling frustration and anchored me to the moment.

To him.

I swallowed, forcing myself to nod. "Right. Okay."

I tried to focus, I really did.

But every time he leaned in to ask our friend what he did, every time his voice brushed against my ear, my brain short-circuited. The deep timbre of his words sent shivers down my spine, making it nearly impossible to concentrate.

At one point, I had been leaning forward too long, my back protesting from the awkward position. I shifted, stretching slightly as I took a small step back—only for my heel to catch against something solid.

A box.

A stupid box filled with unused wires.

I barely had time to gasp before I lost my balance, the world tilting as I braced for impact. But I never hit the ground.

Warm hands caught me. One gripping my waist, firm and steady. The other securing my forearm, his fingers wrapping around my wrist like a lifeline.

My breath hitched.

For a moment, neither of us moved. The air between us was thick, electric, charged with something unspoken. My heart pounded wildly against my ribs as I slowly lifted my gaze, and that’s when I realized—he was staring at me.

Really staring.

His expression had shifted from his usual playful ease to something deeper, something unreadable. His dark eyes searched mine, his grip on me unwavering.

"You okay?" His voice had softened, laced with concern.

I could barely breathe. My entire body was frozen, caught in the intensity of his gaze, in the warmth of his hands still steadying me.

I nodded—too quickly. "Y-Yeah. I just—I should—" I cleared my throat, forcing my voice to sound normal. "I should get back to my seat."

His hands lingered for half a second longer before he finally let go, and I nearly stumbled again—not because of the wires this time, but because my knees felt ridiculously weak.

I didn’t dare look at him as I hurried back to my seat, my heart still hammering, my skin burning where his hands had been.

But minutes later, a chair scraped against the floor, and before I knew it, he was sitting behind me. I inhaled sharply, trying to calm my racing pulse, "Go to the partition first," Yunho instructed, his voice steady, as if nothing had just happened. "You need a drive to place your folder."

I nodded, gripping the mouse, determined to focus. But my fingers didn’t move the pointer to the right place.

He noticed, "There," he pointed, his patience unwavering.

I tried again. Fumbled. And then—his hand covered mine. Large. Warm. Steady. Guiding the mouse effortlessly, his fingers brushed against mine, sending a sharp jolt of electricity up my spine.

My breath hitched. My whole body stiffened. The world outside this moment ceased to exist. The quiet murmurs of our classmates, the soft hum of the computers, the faint tapping of keyboards—it all faded into nothingness.

All I could focus on was him.

His warmth against my skin.

The way his fingers curled slightly over mine, his grip neither forceful nor hesitant, just there—as if this wasn’t something he had to think about, as if guiding my hand was the most natural thing in the world.

Seconds stretched endlessly. I forgot how to breathe, forgot how to think, forgot how to function.

He didn’t move.

Neither did I.

The space between us shrank, charged with something unspoken, something that made the air feel heavier. I could feel his breath ghosting near my temple, slow and steady, in complete contrast to the erratic drumming of my own heartbeat.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry.

I should pull away. I should.

But I didn’t. Because for all the chaos in my head, for all the ways my body betrayed me with its nervous tremors, there was one undeniable truth—

I liked this.

I like him.

March 14, 2025

Guilt settled heavily on my chest as I walked toward campus, my steps slower than usual.

I had clocked out overtime again, staying later than planned at my internship. It was becoming a habit, one that weighed on me more than I cared to admit. The familiar exhaustion clung to my body, but it was nothing compared to the quiet guilt pressing down on me.

By the time I arrived at my night class, the discussion had already been going on for an hour. I barely took a breath before sliding the door open.

The creak of the door was louder than I intended, loud enough to make heads turn. The room fell into momentary silence, the professor pausing mid-sentence.

I bowed my head slightly. "Sorry I’m late."

Keeping my voice steady, I gently closed the door behind me. My friends greeted me with small smiles as I passed, but I barely acknowledged them. My mind was still occupied—by my professor’s earlier warning, by the weight of my internship hours, by the nagging feeling that I was always two steps behind.

I settled into my seat, adjusting my chair as I exhaled quietly. It was only then that I felt it. I didn’t have to look to know whose they were.

Even as I focused on my computer, booting it up, I could feel his gaze lingering on me—not intrusive, just there. A quiet presence, unwavering, as if he had been waiting.

The soft glow of my friend’s screen pulled my attention. They were exchanging files, peer-to-peer, laughing as they successfully transferred them. The energy in the room felt light, carefree—so different from the tightness in my chest.

I sighed, rubbing at my temple before shifting my gaze to the board. The task was written clearly, the instructions laid out in neat bullet points. I had to catch up. Again.

"You'll catch up quickly." His voice cut through my thoughts just as a familiar scent—warm, chocolate-sweet cologne—wrapped around me.

My body instantly relaxed.

I leaned back slightly, eyes flickering to my side, where Yunho sat comfortably beside me. He wasn’t even looking at his own screen—just watching me with a quiet sort of amusement.

I scoffed lightly, turning back to my task. "Barely…"

He noticed something in my tone, something unspoken. His breath came out in a quiet sigh. "You don’t have to worry about being late when you can catch up this fast."

I turned to him, frowning slightly. "If only I wasn’t being called out…"

Before he could respond, one of our classmates announced that we could take a break. I grabbed my snacks and drink, slipping out of the room before the air inside became too suffocating.

The campus at night was quiet, peaceful.

Most of the buildings were dark, the hallways emptied out as students took their breaks in small groups. I walked up a few steps, my feet leading me instinctively to the open soccer field. It wasn’t particularly grand—just an expanse of grass surrounded by empty bleachers—but the sky above it made all the difference.

Stars.

They scattered across the vast darkness, twinkling softly, stretching endlessly beyond my reach. The sight alone eased some of the tightness in my chest, the weight of the day slowly lifting.

I sat on the benches, nibbling on a cookie from my container, my gaze locked onto the sky. The quiet, the solitude—it was exactly what I needed.

Until I felt presence sat beside me, his usual cologne had been my cravings ever since and I didn’t need to look to know who it was. He didn’t say anything at first, simply making himself comfortable next to me.

"Stars make you calm."

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. A fact. A truth only he seemed to know.

I glanced at him, but he was already looking at the sky, his features relaxed in the dim glow of the field lights. Something about the way he sat beside me—so effortlessly, as if he belonged there—made my chest ache in a way I couldn’t quite name.

Without thinking, I tilted my cookie container toward him in silent offering. He glanced down, a small smile playing on his lips before he shook his head. "I’m good."

I shrugged, taking another bite, savoring the sweetness on my tongue as the night stretched around us. The air was cool, tinged with the distant scent of damp grass, and the silence between us was easy—comfortable in a way that made my heart ache.

Then I noticed an arm—his arm—outstretched just behind me.

Not quite touching. Not quite reaching. Just there.

I glanced down, my breath catching slightly when I saw his hand resting flat on the seat, fingers lightly curled against the worn wood, mere inches from where I sat. Close enough that if I leaned back even slightly, I would feel the warmth of him.

For a moment, my mind raced. Had he meant to do that? Or was it just a natural movement? But then I realized—this bench had no backrest. And his arm wasn’t just there.

It was there for me.

A quiet, unspoken shield. A presence that kept me from leaning too far back, from losing balance on the edge of the bench. A silent protection. My throat tightened, a warmth blooming in my chest that had nothing to do with the night air.

I swallowed hard, staring back up at the stars as if I hadn’t noticed. But I had. And from the way Yunho sat, his posture relaxed yet deliberate, I knew he had too.

Class had ended, but I wasn’t free just yet. I lingered in the quiet classroom, shifting my weight from foot to foot as my professor gave me a patient but pointed look.

"I know your internship keeps you busy," he said, his voice gentle yet firm. "But you’re missing too much of the discussion. Try to balance it better, alright?"

Guilt pricked at my chest. I nodded, murmuring an apology, though my mind was already running through the hours I had spent at my internship today. The exhaustion from overtime clung to me like a second skin, pressing into my shoulders, but I couldn’t let it show.

As I stepped out of the classroom, the hallway stretched before me, eerily empty. The faint hum of a vending machine buzzed from the corner, the overhead fluorescent lights flickering slightly, casting soft shadows on the polished tiles.

A heavy sigh escaped my lips. I adjusted the strap of my bag and headed for the exit. A shadow shifted near the corner of the hallway, just beyond the reach of the dim light. My breath hitched, my pulse jumping in surprise.

"Ah!—" I barely had time to react before a familiar chuckle cut through the silence.

"Did I scare you?" He stepped forward, emerging from the dim glow like a scene straight out of a dream. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his dark jacket, the fabric slightly wrinkled from the way he had been leaning against the wall. His hair was tousled, the strands catching the light in a way that made my heart stutter.

My shoulders relaxed, but my pulse refused to slow down. "Argh! Yunho!" He chuckles as we walk down the hallway, I turn to him frowning, "What are you doing here? I thought you left with the others."

He shrugged, falling into step beside me as we exited the building. "I figured you’d be held back."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "You figured?" He turned his head slightly, giving me a look that made my stomach flip. "You were late today, figured Sir Coups will speak to you. Again."

Heat crept up my neck. I tried to look indifferent, but the knowing glint in his eyes told me he had already seen through me. Before I could defend myself, he nudged my arm lightly.

I blinked up at him. "What?"

"Smile… You look pretty." he murmured, his voice carried something unspoken. I shake my head but my lips still curled up into a small smile.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it was charged—thick with something lingering between us, something neither of us had yet put into words. The air felt heavier, warmer, despite the cool night breeze brushing against my skin.

We reached the front gate, and I instinctively slowed my steps, scanning the road for any sign of my bus. But there was nothing. No buses, no jeepneys, no taxis—just the dimly lit street stretching into the distance, eerily quiet. I was hoping a bus or anything will pass by so I could climb in as soon as possible.

But looks like fate has different plans.

With a resigned sigh, I started walking toward the next stop, and as expected, Yunho followed without hesitation.

The streetlights cast long shadows as we walked, the soft glow bouncing off the pavement. The only sounds were the distant hum of traffic and the rhythmic steps of our shoes against the sidewalk.

I hesitated before speaking. "Won’t your parents worry about you getting home this late?" He exhaled a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "No, they don’t mind… as long as they know I get you home safely."

I stopped mid-step.

For a moment, everything around me faded—the city lights, the distant sounds of passing cars, even the cool breeze nipping at my skin. My heart thudded violently in my chest, so loud I was sure he could hear it.

My smartwatch vibrated against my wrist. Abnormal pulse detected.

Of course. Of course, it did. Not with him for always making my heart abnormally fast!

I swallowed thickly, my face burning. Get me home safely? Had he really just said that? So casually, as if it was the most natural thing in the world? Before I could fully recover, Yunho turned slightly, his expression amused. "You okay? You look a little—"

"I’m fine!" I blurted out, shoving his arm lightly as I marched ahead, desperate to escape the warmth blooming across my face. He let out a soft laugh, the sound deep and rich, but he didn’t push me further. Instead, he fell back into step beside me, hands still tucked in his pockets.

A few more minutes passed before my bus finally appeared in the distance, its headlights cutting through the dim glow of the streetlamps. I exhaled in relief, stepping forward as it slowed to a stop.

But just as I reached for the handrails, something warm wrapped around my wrist.

I turned—and everything stopped.

Yunho’s fingers curled gently around mine, his grip neither loose nor forceful. Just enough to hold me there. Just enough to make my breath hitch.

The warmth of his touch seeped into my skin, spreading like wildfire through my veins. I looked up, wide-eyed, and he only smiled—a soft, knowing smile that made my stomach twist in the most unbearable way.

"Get home safe," he murmured, his voice quieter now, deeper, as if he were speaking directly into my soul. And there was no longer hesitation in his eyes. "I still need to take you out on a date."

My brain short-circuited.

A date?

Before I could even process it, before I could react, before I could breathe—

He lifted my hand and pressed a soft, feather-light kiss against the back of it.

The world blurred.

The sounds of the city dulled into silence.

Even my own heartbeat seemed to pause, as if it couldn’t decide whether to stop completely or speed up until it burst. His lips barely lingered for a second, but the warmth of his touch burned into my skin, leaving behind something I knew I’d never forget.

The bus doors hissed open behind me, but my feet refused to move. I stared at him, my mind racing, my heart a mess of erratic beats.

Yunho pulled away, his eyes never leaving mine. His fingers slowly slipped from my wrist, the absence of his touch leaving a void I wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

The driver cleared his throat, snapping me out of my trance. Dazed, I stepped onto the bus, my legs trembling beneath me.

The doors slid shut. The bus rolled forward.

Through the glass window, I saw him—standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, watching with a smile on his lips until I was gone. A breath I hadn’t realized I was holding escaped my lips.

The bus driver chuckled, shaking his head as he glanced at me through the rearview mirror, "Young love," he mused, his voice tinged with amusement.

I swallowed, my fingers grazing the spot where Yunho’s lips had touched. A slow, giddy smile spread across my face.