#Like how are you gonna make demands about my writing that's written for me and art that I literally pay for ???

[homeless202]

I’m new here and I absolutely love your type of blogs with analysis and meta and long texts~~

I was wondering—is Eunyung and Haejoon’s relationship the kind that could be interpreted as romantic?

first of all, welcome and ty! and sorry it took me so long to reply, i hope u're still around anon. now to answer ur question

i'll take this opportunity to share all my thoughts on the topic bc i have Many.

TLDR: it is possible to read it as romantic if you really want to, but it's not meant to (at least not as of right now in the story aka ch.224)

deep dive under the cut as to why

-> can Eunyung and Haejoon’s relationship be interpreted as romantic?

i like how you phrased that bc, the thing is, interpretation is very subjective. you're welcome and allowed to interpret things however you want, but in EY&HJ's case, i feel like you'd have to work a lil extra hard to get to that point.

-> is Eunyung and Haejoon’s relationship meant to be interpreted as romantic?

this one's easy bc no. objectively Not. the genre of No Home is drama and slice of life (and once upon a time, horror). even if they were to ever end up in a romantic relationship, that's not what the story is about.

when i ask myself what the author's intention is with this story, i'd say it's to (realistically) portray how a young person with trauma would navigate another young person's trauma. and showing how easy it is to unintentionally fuck it up for various reasons: lacking context as to what exactly said trauma is, generally not knowing how to navigate it, their own trauma getting in the way, lacking the necessary resources. take your pick.

think of it like "how should i carry someone else's baggage when i have my own to deal with?" while also keeping in mind they're kids; they often don't have enough experience to know how to help, and even when they know what the right thing to do is, they're not old enough to take (legal) action.

and especially, the most heart-breaking yet realistic thing, when you're just getting to know someone, you can't know everything about them. it's so easy to accidentally do or say sth that cuts or offends when it wasn't meant to. but when they've got their own issues, it's hard not to take it personally (eg. EY talking about HJ's parents without knowing his mom died not long ago in the beginning of the story).

-> what even is Eunyung and Haejoon’s relationship??

this one's so funny bc i have no idea how to answer and i'm convinced not even EY and HJ themselves would know how to answer. they're not really friends; they got off on the wrong foot and kept walking with two left feet way too much to call themselves friends. the things that pushed them together the most were the dorms (not anymore) and the same friend group (more or less since EY has multiple).

what fits them best i'd say is "the universe forced us together against our will and now we're stuck with one another altho we hate each other" (<- at least in the beginning) extended with the "misery loves company" sentiment. finding comfort in someone who gets it, even tho they only kinda get it but not really but it works out anyway except it doesn't <- THERE'S NO NAME FOR THAT *cry* they invented a new type of character dynamic smh (i've never read a pairing with so much (romantic) potential only to see them completely fuck up their chance so royally by the end of their interaction EVERY SINGLE TIME. like yeah, enemies to lovers whatever BUT NOT TO THAT LEVEL HOLY SHIT)

they've changed each other, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. they're compatible in the way they understand each other on a deeper level and incompatible in the way they don't.

...however...

this is how HJ thinks of EY: (and also what No Home is truly abt)

and this is how EY feels about HJ after EY found out HJ used to steal as well (aka that HJ isn't perfect like the stuck up bitch EY thought he was at first):

so...

<- -> EY's first impression of HJ was that he was looking down on him and sth like "does this guy have ulterior motives? or is he just that naive being so trusting?" until EY found out HJ wasn't that different from him. after that, EY started admiring HJ for still managing to achieve things in life despite the hardships he had to go through. the type of admiration that can easily (and sometimes does) slip into envy.

-

since the beginning, EY has helped HJ (or at least tried to) without him knowing. sometimes it worked out, sometimes not. most times EY tried doing sth nice for HJ was (from EY's perspective) in return to HJ trying to help him or doing nice things for him (which, again, sometimes worked out, sometimes not). EY was just paying back a debt to "this stubborn naive guy who keeps getting into trouble and butting into his business. gotta look out for this idiot or he might get scammed." (<- eg. when EY offered to get HJ's money back from his uncle)

he doesn't do it for credit or friendship or out of obligation, he's just doing what he thinks is the right thing bc he doesn't want to owe anyone anything. he can't accept people just genuinely being kind, genuinely caring and genuinely wanting to help. but he's been learning and slowly coming to terms with it.

-

<- -> HJ first wanted to try befriending EY despite not liking him bc, well, the guy did steal his wallet and stab him in their first interaction. after trying and failing at it multiple times, thanksgiving happened, and HJ started thinking of EY as his underclassman bc he realized EY's just a kid with issues and he should keep an eye on him (discretely bc EY hates pity).

-

with time HJ has come to understand EY better by going after him whenever he ran off and slowly realized that EY does mean well and has his reasons (as fucked up as they might be sometimes). but his mentality abt EY is still "i gotta push him in the right direction cuz he's my underclassman and i unintentionally got attached to him (somehow??)" (also bc he knows EY already gave up on himself so he needs a lil help to find his way again. also also bc he knows EY is lowkey suicidal and he's scared it'll be his fault if sth happens) <- his care for EY comes from a protective/nurturing (/possibly maybe guilty) place which started when he realized EY was just a kid^^. in other words, HJ still bothers with EY out of a subconscious sense of responsibility/obligation in a way (a good way tho. or at least a way that gets better)

see, sth i struggle with is if HJ thinks he has to or wants to or thinks he should or can't just not help/care for EY. i can't exactly pinpoint where the sentiment is coming from. his face is too blank for me to read sometimes T_T

-

to summarize: HJ is EY's goal, what EY wishes he could've been. and EY is HJ's 'responsibility' so to speak (bc 'burden' doesn't quite fit since HJ is there for EY willingly) -> EY has a positive opinion of HJ while HJ has a neutral opinion of EY (which is also gradually getting better)

note1: i think HJ's intention (maybe subconsciously) was to be to EY what HJ's upperclassman was to him. aka someone who's there when you need it and can help guide you. it would explain why HJ kept chasing after EY despite not really having a reason to and EY repeatedly rejecting HJ's care/help.

note2: i also believe the 'upper-under-classman' relationship dynamic fits them the best atm bc it also matches the way the story often singles EY out as he's the only second year (aka younger) of the 6 MCs.

-> Romance in No Home?

another thing i should mention is that No Home rarely leaves things open for interpretation. the deepest arguments EY&HJ had were always spelled out for us, to make us understand exactly what the problem was, and how there isn't a good guy and a bad guy. it's just two people with issuesTM.

from what we've seen in the story up to this point, i couldn't pick out a moment where i'd go "here! that's romantic! that's the moment they realized SomeThing!" yk

when it comes to romance specifically, i feel like a handful of opportunities were missed. there are scenes which could've easily been written trough a rosy lens but simply weren't.

exhibit A:

HJ was speechless bc "wow this mf really is actively picking a fight with an authority figure. i gotta make sure things don't escalate" not bc "hoLY sHiT hE's PreTTy. all his fangirls are on to something". however, this only becomes more clear when you keep reading the next few chapters, so i understand how you could interpret it as the latter.

exhibit B:

here they got so close and the moment was so deep bc "woaa he said he believes me. no one's said to me that before!". unfortunately, EY was panicking too much for it to mean something bc of the guilt he felt for HJ trusting someone so undeserving of trust like EY.

exhibit C:

this is maybe the closest we got to romantic between these two. i think this might be the only (or at least first) ever deep interaction between them that didn't end in a fight or misunderstanding. is it meant to be romantic tho? -> ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

-> what do i think?

first, full transparency: i went into reading this story fully expecting it to be a BL and for EY&HJ to end up together. but the more i kept on reading, the more i got the ick thinking about them being in a (romantic) relationship bc, at least from what we've seen so far in the story, their relationship would be so ToxicTM (which i personally don't enjoy reading).

as they are right now, i wouldn't want them to be together like that. like, honestly, you still can't really consider these two even friends; they just tolerate each other if the stars align correctly (altho, i'll admit, their relationship is gradually getting better!!). every big argument they had i thought "god, there's no coming back from that. i'd cut ties so quickly if was them wtf". i still don't know how they managed to keep on interacting, props to them ig.

there's a lot of unresolved issues between them. and a lot of resentment which would not bode well in a romantic relationship. the smallest argument would turn explosive and they'd be, at best, in an on&off type of relationship. they both have the power to break the other and neither would be afraid to use it. they have a lot of history together, which is not always pleasant, so if they ever were to go the romantic route, it would have to be a long way to go.

technically, i could see them in a romantic relationship if they both went to therapy first and talked out all the baggage they're carrying (both individual and shared). realistically tho, what i think will happen at the end of No Home is that either they never cross paths again after high school ends (which would absolutely break my heart Wanan pls don't), or they somehow (unintentionally) end up living together bc they both desperately needed a roommate to pay rent (which would be a hilarious fucking gag LMAO). just, HJ going to uni/work and EY doing his own thing (prolly an actor) while still cohabiting together; hanging out to watch a movie before bed <- (whether platonic or romantic being left up for interpretation)

<- -> in conclusion, from what we've seen up to this point, their relationship is mainly upper-under-classman; reluctant (maybe) friends who tolerate each other but also care (too) deeply. they've changed each other, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. in some ways they're compatible and in others they're not.

all this being said, their relationship is improving and romance between EY&HJ is not impossible, just rather unlikely imo. but, again, interpretation is subjective and u're welcome to read their relationship however you want.

[alias-b]

My kindness is abused a lot by the Fallout fandom (any tbh) and I am giving it less or being more careful about who I give it too. It's sad how many creators get chased into this too tbh.

[blog-o-meter]

Room To Breathe - Nicholas Alexander Chavez x fem!reader

summary: (Y/N) and Nicholas’s relationship thrives despite the pressures of his work, but as the demands of his career escalate, (Y/N) starts to make small sacrifices that soon begin to pile on.

warnings: 18+, fingering, exhibitionism, binding, hair pulling, spanking, choking, biting, established relationship, dom/sub

required listening: Enjoy The Silence by Depeche Mode

word count: 29,523

a/n: yall this one rlly took so much out of me, im gonna have to take a break and really think abt what i can write for the next part ☠️ Maybe what i can do is instead of writing long parts with overarching plots, i can do little vignettes into their lives? idk pls let me know!! i would love to discuss, crying emoji

Room 5 (Part 1) | Making Room (Part 2) | Room On Fire (Part 3)

reblogs, likes, and replies are appreciated and lets me know if you'd like to see more!

It all felt like a dream at first. How couldn’t it? After years of losing myself in the fictional worlds of books and movies, wondering what my own life would be like if I were one of those characters, I suddenly found myself thrust into a whirlwind story of my own.

Within the past year, I’ve managed to do more things than I had done in a lifetime — one of those things having been following my boyfriend, Nicholas, to New York to see where what the world might have to show me outside the confines and expectations of my home, of what my mother told me my life should be like, of what I had grown accustomed to.

The cold air hit me first when we landed, but it was the weight of the city — the noise, the lights, the people — that left me breathless. Never did I picture myself becoming one of the countless droplets of water in the sea of strangers that was New York.

I felt Nicholas’s arm wrap around my waist as I stared out to the twinkling buildings in that moment, kissing my temple, the hot breath leaving his nostrils and enveloping my face in a visible whisper that left just as quickly as it appeared. “Thank you for coming back with me,” he whispered into the shell of my ear and rubbed my sides, warming me up.

I had been so overwhelmed with emotion then, scared but hopeful of the journey that lied ahead, that all I could then was lean into his touch and plant a soft, thankful kiss on his lips. I’d hoped it could convey all the words that were lodged at the back of my throat, what I couldn’t let out. Nicholas, the one I’d do anything for, understood completely, gently taking my hand then and leading us to the taxi that would take us to his rented apartment in the city.

That night, he was in no rush to share me with anybody else just yet. The city hummed outside, alive with a pulse that felt both foreign and thrilling, but inside the one-bedroom apartment, it was just us in the stillness. The world outside could wait.

His apartment wasn’t anything fancy like a double-height artist’s loft. In fact, it reminded me a lot of his apartment back in Los Angeles — functional but modestly stylish. It was just a little impersonal, as though it was waiting for someone to truly settle in and make it a home. And Nicholas did. There were stacks of scripts strewn about the coffee table, each of them with different color sticky notes sticking out of them, some open and written all over. There was a jacket or two draped across the brown leather sofa. And his gym bag was left forgotten near the front door, some dirty clothes spilling out of the top.

What had amused me the most were the types of art hanging on the exposed brick walls. They looked like cheesy 1980s watercolors, like the ones you’d find now in a roadside motel or the art section in a Goodwill. Clearly, Nicholas hadn’t picked them out. They clashed with the otherwise neutral, understated decor of the space, their bright, pastel hues seeming almost comical.  But that was what made this space feel so temporary, like a stage set ready to be dismantled at a moment’s notice.

Nicholas helped me in removing my coat, carefully peeling it away, “Are you feeling takeout or home-cooked tonight?” He asked with a small smile.

I hesitated, looking around the apartment as I tugged my scarf down, hanging it on a hook by the door. The question was simple, but as I looked outside the large windows, out to the endless lights, I couldn’t help but feel the unspoken weight behind it. To him, the question was just about what food I wanted. To me, the question was about whether I would let myself fall completely into this new bustling city or continue to seek the comfort of my home.

I smiled softly, turning back to him. “Takeout,” I finally said, my voice steadier than I expected. “Something easy on the stomach.”

Nicholas nodded, his face lighting up with that easy grin that made my heart squeeze. “Takeout it is,” he said, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

I watched him for a moment as he scrolled through options, his brows furrowing slightly in concentration. It was such a small thing, but it grounded me — this reminder that even amidst the chaos of the city, there were still simple, familiar routines. Like ordering takeout on a bitter cold night in.

While he ordered, I took my luggage and wandered further into the apartment, letting my fingers trail over the back of the leather sofa. The soft creak of the material under my touch was oddly comforting, a tactile reminder that I was here, in this moment, in his space. My fingers traced over every surface it passed as I made my way over to Nicholas’s bedroom, setting my luggage down on the ground and kneeling before it.

Oddly enough, the ritual soothed me. I knew that by unzipping my luggage that it meant I could slow down and lord knows I needed that right now. I started to pull out all the items I needed for the night — my pajamas, my toiletries. I smoothed out the fabric of my pjs as I placed them on the edge of the bed, my fingers brushing against the soft linens. Surprisingly, Nicholas’s scent still lingered faintly in the room, even after being out of town for two weeks. It was a small comfort amidst the unfamiliarity of the city outside.

As I zipped my bag shut, I heard the soft shuffle of footsteps behind me. I turned to see Nicholas leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed casually but his gaze warm and intent. He had peeled away his jacket and kicked off his shoes, and the sight of him like that, relaxed but still impossibly put-together, sent a flicker of warmth through me.

“Food’s gonna be here in twenty minutes,” he said, his voice low and easy.

I nodded, turning to face him, and was met with that boyish grin that still managed to catch me off guard every time. “Good,” I said, my voice lighter now. “I’m starving.”

His eyes flicked to the neatly folded pajamas on the bed, and a small smile tugged at his lips. He stepped closer, the faint creak of the floorboards under his weight breaking the silence, and pulled me up off the floor, his hands resting on my waist. “Settle in, ok?”

I felt my cheeks warm at his words, a flutter of something indescribable sparking in my chest. Indeed, I did have to settle in. This wasn’t just a weekend getaway. I had basically just moved in with my boyfriend of 10 months until further notice. The realization hit me as softly as his touch: this was it. This was my life now. The thought should have been daunting, but with Nicholas standing so close, his presence steady and reassuring, it felt… manageable. Maybe even exciting.

I nodded, murmuring in agreement as I let myself lean into him for a moment. His hands didn’t leave my waist, and I felt the faint press of his thumbs moving in lazy circles over the fabric of my sweater. It was a small gesture, but it grounded me, just like everything else about him seemed to.

“Okay, I’ll go shower in the meantime,” I spoke softly, my lips growing into a smile. I quickly kissed Nicholas and reached for the stuff I had laid out on the bed.

As I gathered my things, Nicholas’s hand brushed lightly against mine before he let me go, his warmth lingering even as I stepped away. There was something so natural about the ease in his movements, the way he leaned against the doorframe for just a moment longer before turning back toward the living room. It was a rhythm I was beginning to recognize, one that felt like it could become our own.

The bathroom was small but functional, with tiles that had seen better days and a mirror slightly fogged at the edges. It wasn’t glamorous, but it didn’t need to be. I turned on the shower, letting the steam rise and fill the room as I carefully laid my toiletries on the counter. The sound of water rushing was calming, a momentary escape from the whirlwind of thoughts that had been swirling in my mind since we’d left my house.

As I stepped under the hot stream, the tension in my shoulders began to melt away, replaced by a growing sense of calm. The warmth seeped into my skin, soothing the chill that had clung to me from the cold air outside. I let my mind wander, focusing on the simple act of washing away the day, and allowed myself to relax for the first time this entire day.

By the time I finished, the air in the bathroom was thick with steam, and my skin was warm and flushed. Wrapping a towel tightly around myself, I quickly dried my hair just enough to stop the water from dripping down my back, then slipped into my pajamas — a soft, oversized sweater and a pair of tight shorts.

I stepped back into the bedroom and caught the faint scent of food drifting through the air. I padded into the living room, where Nicholas was sitting cross-legged on the floor, unpacking containers of takeout and arranging them neatly on the coffee table. He looked up when he heard me, his smile easy and genuine, and motioned for me to join him.

“Food’s still warm,” he said, his tone light, as if everything about this moment was perfectly normal. And maybe it was — maybe this was what normal could look like for us now.

I sank down beside him, the smell of spices and soy sauce making my stomach growl. We ate together in comfortable silence at first, the clink of chopsticks against plastic containers punctuating the quiet. Then, little by little, the conversation started to flow — lighthearted jokes, stories from the flight, musings about the city outside the window. I caught him stealing glances at me between bites, his soft smile warming the space more than the radiator ever could. I teased him lightly, nudging his leg with my foot, and he laughed, the sound low and intimate in the small apartment. It was a simple meal, but it felt special in a way I couldn’t quite articulate. It reminded me of our time in Los Angeles, except we were 10 months older now, maybe just a tiny bit wiser, and it was winter in New York.

After we finished eating, Nicholas tidied up, gathering the empty containers and bringing them to the kitchen. I stayed on the floor for a moment, letting the contented haze settle over me before standing and wandering back to the window. The cityscape was mesmerizing, the lights reflecting against the glass like a living mosaic. My fingers rested lightly on the icy cold glass, sending a titillating chill up my spine. My breath fogged a small patch of the window as I leaned closer to take it all in.

Outside, the city stretched out endlessly, its lights twinkling like a thousand tiny stars in reverse. It was overwhelming and beautiful all at once, the sheer scale of it reminding me just how small I was in the grand scheme of things. It was so different from the quiet, predictable streets I had grown up on. It was intimidating and exciting all at the same time. I then felt Nicholas’s presence behind me, his warmth steady and grounding, and suddenly I didn’t feel so small.

He wrapped his arms around me, pressing a kiss against my temple. “You’ve been staring out there a while,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth. His lips brushed against the curve of my shoulder, sending a shiver down my spine despite the warmth that surrounded us.

I leaned back into his chest, letting his presence anchor me as my fingers lingered on the glass. The cold from the window contrasted sharply with the heat of his body, making the moment feel even more electric. My breath hitched slightly as his hands slid from my waist, his fingers tracing a slow, deliberate path over my hips.

“It’s mesmerizing,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, more to myself than to him. The city lights below sparkled like a never-ending galaxy, but all I could focus on was the way his touch sent waves of warmth through me, grounding me amidst the chaos outside. Suddenly, a cheeky grin grew on the corner of my lips. “Can that building across the way see us?”

Nicholas chuckled softly behind me, his lips brushing against the curve of my neck as he tightened his arms around me. “Probably,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, the vibrations sending a thrill down my spine. His fingers trailed along the waistband of my shorts, deliberate but unhurried, as if daring me to push the moment further. “Does that bother you?”

I bit my lip, my gaze flickering between the glittering lights of the city and the faint silhouettes visible through the neighboring windows. The thought of being seen—of this intimate moment being observed by strangers—made my pulse quicken, a mix of exhilaration and nervousness coursing through me. “I don’t think I care. They seem so small,” I admitted, turning my head slightly to catch his gaze in the faint reflection on the glass. “What about you?”

Nicholas smirked, his eyes darkening with the kind of confidence that made my knees weak. “I think I can handle it,” he replied, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. His hands slid lower, settling firmly on my hips as he pressed his body closer to mine. The steady rhythm of his breathing against my back only heightened the tension simmering between us.

The city outside seemed to pulse in time with my heartbeat, the lights blurring slightly as I leaned my head against him. “Then do it,” I said, my voice bolder than I felt. “Right here. Against the window.”

For a moment, everything stilled. The air between us grew heavy, charged with the weight of my words. Then Nicholas’s hands tightened their grip on my hips, his fingers digging in just enough to send a spark of anticipation through me. “Are you sure?��� he asked, his tone serious despite the clear hunger in his eyes.

I turned my head to glance at him, the smirk on my lips matching the fire in his gaze. “Absolutely.”

He smiled against the apple of my cheek, kissing the corner of my eye. “Whatever you want, baby,” he whispered, his hand splayed across my tummy and pushing me closer to him before letting his hand venture downward.

Nicholas’s movements were deliberate, every touch an unspoken promise. The anticipation coiled tightly in my stomach as his lips found the sensitive spot just below my ear, brushing featherlight kisses that made my breath hitch.

“Keep your eyes on the city, ok?” he murmured against my skin, his voice low and commanding, sending a shiver down my spine.

The words sent a flush of heat through me, pooling low in my belly as I pressed my palms flat against the window. The city lights twinkled below, an endless expanse of life and movement, but the only thing I could focus on was the tension building between us, the way his hands molded to my body like he was memorizing every curve.

His fingers found the hem of my shorts, teasing the fabric upward before slipping beneath, tracing slow, deliberate circles against my throbbing self. I exhaled sharply, my breath fogging the glass in front of me. Nicholas’s other hand slid up my sweater, his fingers grazing my nipple, setting fire to every nerve he touched.

I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears, echoing the rhythm of the city below. His fingers tugged my shorts down with agonizing slowness, the cool air against my thighs only heightening the heat radiating between us. The fabric pooled at my ankles, forgotten as he gripped my ass and pressed his hips against mine, pinning me lightly to the glass.

Nicholas’s hands roamed my body with purpose, one tracing the curve of my spine while the other dipped lower, coaxing soft gasps from my lips. He shifted behind me, his movements deliberate and slow, his body heat engulfing me as he leaned in closer. The glass was cold against my flushed skin, but Nicholas was everywhere else, his warmth, his strength, his presence anchoring me.

As his hand traveled further down, a quiet cry escaped me as I felt him insert his fingers inside me. Instinctively, I fluttered my eyes shut at the sensation and threw my head back onto Nicholas’s shoulder, whimpering.

“Nonono,” he spoke softly, carefully using his other hand to turn my chin back toward the window. “Keep looking out,” he whispered, his voice strained but full of control.

I obeyed, my gaze fixed on the sprawling skyline. The city stretched before me like an infinite tapestry of light and movement, a living, breathing thing that seemed to pulse in time with my rapid heartbeat. The glass beneath my palms was cool and unyielding, grounding me even as Nicholas’s touch sent me spiraling into a haze of sensation.

“Do you see it?” he murmured against my ear, his voice low and rich.

I fought back a moan, mustering up my energy to answer him. “I see it,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Nicholas smiled against my skin, his lips brushing lightly over the curve of my neck. “Good,” he murmured, his voice a blend of satisfaction and restraint. He continued to thrust his fingers, the wet sound and our breaths filling the space. “All of that…”

The city stretched before me, an endless canvas of glittering lights and moving shadows, but it was Nicholas’s voice grounding me, his words weaving into the hum of the city.

“It’s yours,” he said, his voice low and rough, a quiet command. His hand pressed against my lower stomach, his fingers inside me moving in a rhythm that felt synchronized with my pulse.

I pressed my forehead against the glass again, my breath creating soft, foggy patches that quickly faded. The cold surface was a sharp contrast to the fire building within me, and I couldn’t help but arch into Nicholas’s touch. His other hand traveled up, resting lightly on my shoulder before trailing down my arm, his fingers brushing against mine as they flattened against the window.

“Keep your hands there,” he murmured, his breath hot against the shell of my ear. “I want you to feel how far you’ve come, how high up you are right now.” His lips trailed down the side of my neck, and I shivered at the mixture of his warmth and the cool air brushing against my skin.

Each point of light blurred and sharpened as my focus shifted, but Nicholas never let me forget where I was. His hand moved from my stomach to tilt my chin up gently, guiding my gaze higher toward the horizon. “That’s all out there for you,” he whispered.

His words sent a rush of heat through me, tangling with the tension he built with his touch. I wanted to answer, but my voice caught in my throat, replaced by a soft moan as his fingers curled inside me, hitting a spot that made the world outside blur completely.

“Focus, baby,” he said, his voice both gentle and teasing. “Eyes on the city.”

I forced myself to steady my breath, to anchor my gaze on the skyline as Nicholas continued his deliberate rhythm. For a moment, I felt as though I were floating above it all, weightless and untouchable. The glass beneath my palms seemed to hum with the energy of the city, and I let that energy flow through me, blending with the pleasure Nicholas was building in waves.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice thick with reverence. His free hand slid around to my waist, holding me steady as he pressed a kiss to the back of my shoulder. “You don’t even realize it yet, do you? How strong you are. How beautiful.”

I whimpered softly, his words pushing me further toward the edge. My reflection in the glass caught my eye, and for a moment, I saw myself as Nicholas seemed to see me — powerful, vibrant, alive. The flush in my cheeks and the wildness in my gaze mirrored the city’s intensity, and I felt a surge of something unfamiliar but thrilling: pride.

“Nicholas…” I managed, my voice breathless, more of a plea than a statement.

“I’ve got you,” he replied instantly, his hand tightening on my hip, his voice filled with steady reassurance. “I’ll always have you.” He kissed the side of my neck, his lips soft and deliberate, as though he were trying to leave a mark that went deeper than skin.

His touch grew more insistent, the tension inside me coiling tighter and tighter until I thought I might shatter. My eyes stayed locked on the skyline, the city’s pulse becoming my own, the boundary between me and the world outside blurring until there was nothing but light, heat, and movement.

And then, with one final, deliberate motion, Nicholas sent me spiraling. My body trembled against the glass as I cried out softly, my fingers curling into fists against the cold surface. The city outside seemed to explode with light, the skyline shimmering in my vision as every sensation crashed over me in waves. Nicholas’s hands stayed firm on my body, grounding me as I rode the high, his quiet murmurs of praise and reassurance the only sound that broke through the haze.

When I finally stilled, my breathing ragged and my legs trembling, Nicholas wrapped his arms around me fully, pulling me back against his chest. He kissed the top of my head, his lips lingering as though sealing the moment.

“You’re amazing,” he said softly, his voice filled with awe. “Never forget that.”

I let my head rest against his shoulder, my gaze drifting back to the skyline. The city still pulsed with life, but now it felt like a part of me, as though I’d claimed it, made it my own. And with Nicholas’s arms around me, his warmth and strength anchoring me, I knew I could face whatever came next.

And for a while I did.

While Nicholas started filming again, I still had a few days left of my holiday break before having to start remotely. I took advantage of that time to venture out into the city and explore places around the neighborhood. I didn’t keep track of time as I walked, letting my curiosity guide me. There was something freeing about having no responsibilities, at least not yet, in such a big city.

The neighborhood was a mix of old-world charm and modern chaos. Brownstones lined the quieter streets, their stoops decorated with potted plants that defied the winter chill. On the busier avenues, cafes and boutique shops jostled for space, their windows fogged up from the warmth inside. I ducked into one of them—a tiny coffee shop with mismatched furniture and the faint smell of cinnamon in the air.

The barista greeted me with a smile, and for a brief moment, I felt like a regular, as though I’d been here countless times before. I ordered a tea and found a spot by the window, watching the city outside. The people rushing by were a mix of hurried professionals, bundled-up families, and tourists clutching guidebooks. I sipped my coffee and let the scene wash over me.

The streets became less intimidating, their rhythm familiar as I mapped them in my mind. I passed a bookstore with a worn wooden sign hanging above the door, its display filled with second-hand novels that begged to be explored. A florist’s shop caught my eye, the bursts of color behind the glass a stark contrast to the gray skies outside. I promised myself I’d return to both places soon.

I stumbled upon a small park nestled between two buildings, its trees bare but still beautiful against the backdrop of the city. I sat on a bench for a while, letting the sounds of New York surround me — the distant honk of car horns, the chatter of people passing by, the hum of life moving forward.

By the time I returned to the apartment, Nicholas would already be home, sprawled out on the couch with a script in hand, his face lighting up the moment I’d walk through the door.

“How was your day?” he asked, setting the script aside as he stood to greet me. His arms wrapped around me, and I leaned into his warmth, the familiar scent of him instantly soothing.

“Perfect,” I said honestly, looking up at him. “I did so much,” the excitement in my voice was palpable as I removed my jacket and sat back down on the couch with Nicholas to tell him all about my day.

And that routine of me out exploring as if I had all the time in the world would continue through to the day I had to start work again, but I didn’t let that stop me.

I balanced my work with the thrill of exploring the city, and it felt like I had struck gold. My remote job gave me the freedom to pick any spot in New York as my office for the day. One morning, it was a cozy little café with. The next, it was a seat by the window at the bookstore, surrounded by the faint smell of old paper and whispers of passing customers. I was productive, inspired even, with the city humming around me like a constant companion. It felt like I had the world at my feet.

But the novelty didn’t last.

Soon, the bustling energy that had initially fueled me started to feel more like a distraction. The noise of steaming espresso machines and the chatter of strangers became harder to tune out. I’d catch myself staring out of the window for too long, watching people live their lives, while my own tasks piled up. Deadlines started to feel tighter, and my focus waned.

I decided to shift gears and work from home, thinking it might help. Nicholas’s apartment was quiet during the day while he was filming, and I figured I could finally focus without interruptions. At first, it was a relief. I didn’t have to worry about finding a seat in a crowded café or whether my laptop battery would last. I could just settle into the small desk in the corner of the apartment and get things done.

But that relief was short-lived, too.

The walls of the apartment that had once felt like a cozy retreat now felt confining. I’d look out the window and see the city stretching endlessly before me, a living, breathing organism, and I’d feel trapped. The hours bled into each other as I worked, the vibrant city outside reduced to background noise. I began skipping lunch breaks, telling myself I’d make up for it by exploring in the evenings, but by the time Nicholas came home, I was too drained to go anywhere, and so was he.

I started to dread opening my laptop in the mornings. The notifications blinking on the screen felt like tiny weights dragging me down. Projects that once felt manageable became daunting, and my to-do list seemed to grow faster than I could check things off. I’d sit at the desk for hours, the same desk where I’d once felt so confident about this new chapter in my life, and stare blankly at the screen. The apartment was silent, save for the occasional hum of the radiator or the muted sounds of the city filtering in through the windows.

Working remotely had sounded like a dream when I first took the job — freedom, flexibility, the chance to be anywhere in the world. But in practice, it had become suffocating. Without colleagues nearby to chat with or a change of scenery to break up the day, my motivation dwindled. The tasks blurred together, and the once-rewarding feeling of completing something gave way to an unrelenting sense of monotony.

The hours ticked by slower and slower. The same four walls that had once felt comforting now loomed over me, oppressive and inescapable. I would take breaks to stretch or make a cup of tea, but even those moments felt hollow. Quickly, I started to associate the apartment with work, and that was a dangerous concoction. I tried to convince myself it was just a phase, that I’d adjust, but the stress began to pile up.

Days started to blur together, and the isolation crept in slowly, like a shadow at the edges of my days. I’d hear the faint laughter of neighbors in the hallway or the hum of life outside the window and feel an ache in my chest. I was in one of the most exciting cities in the world, but I felt like I was missing out on everything. While the world moved at a breakneck pace outside, I was stuck behind my laptop, the glow of the screen my only connection to the world. Thankfully, though, I always had weekends off, which gave way for me to decompress for a day or two, until the cycle started again.

The city started to feel colder, too.

At first, the cold made me feel alive. I had loved the way it nipped at my cheeks as I walked briskly through the streets. The sharpness of the wind felt cleansing, like it was carving out a new version of me. The scarves and coats were comforting, a cocoon of warmth against the chill. I’d sip on steaming cups of coffee, the heat blooming in my hands as I watched the puffs of my breath mingle with the city air.

And the snow… Oh, the snow was so magical. I hadn’t seen snow since I was 4 years old. It was the first time it had snowed in my hometown in over 20 years. It wasn’t many inches, but It was enough to build a mud-covered snowman with grass sticking out of all the wrong places, and I enjoyed it all the same. So one night, when it started to snow while I was out exploring, I couldn’t contain my excitement. I quickly took as many photos and videos as I could, excitedly texting Nicholas what was happening. The snow was so romantic.

But over time, the cold began to wear me down.

It crept under my skin, turning the once-refreshing breeze into an icy bite that seemed to settle in my bones. The excitement of bundling up in layers gave way to frustration as I struggled with stiff zippers and gloves that never seemed to warm my fingers enough. Every trip outside felt like a chore, the gusts of wind slicing through my resolve. My lips became perpetually chapped, no matter how much balm I used, and my nose stung from the relentless chill.

The gray skies that had once seemed moody and poetic now felt oppressive. My skin craved the sun. The early sunsets cast the city in shadows before I’d even finished my work for the day. By the time I’d look up from my screen, the world outside would already be dark, the streets glistening with half-melted snow or slick patches of ice. Walking anywhere became a careful, hesitant shuffle, my focus on avoiding a fall instead of taking in the sights.

Even inside, the cold lingered. Nicholas’s apartment, though cozy, was drafty in places, and no amount of blankets seemed to chase away the chill that settled in the corners. I found myself sitting closer to the radiator, my legs tucked under me as I worked, but the heat felt suffocating after a while. It wasn’t the same warmth that had felt so romantic in those first few days — it was stale, stifling, like a reminder of how much time I was spending indoors.

The cold became another reminder of what I was missing. It made the city feel distant, uninviting. I’d scroll through photos online, seeing people from back home smiling and even enjoying the beach whenever the cold front would die down, basking in sunlight. Sometimes, I swore I could feel the warmth of my hometown kiss me through the screen.

One day, as I sat at the desk in the corner of the apartment, the pale winter light filtering through the window, I realized I hadn’t left the apartment in three days. The thought hit me like a slap, and I felt an overwhelming wave of guilt and frustration. This wasn’t who I wanted to be. I had come to New York for adventure, for a fresh start, for a life that was bigger than the one I had left behind. But the cold — the relentless, biting cold — had made me retreat into myself, had turned the city into something to be endured rather than embraced.

I stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor, and grabbed my coat. The air outside was as harsh as ever, the wind cutting across my face the moment I stepped onto the sidewalk. I pulled my scarf tighter and shoved my hands deep into my pockets, forcing myself to walk down the block. The city was alive, bustling even in the dead of winter, but I felt disconnected from it, like a spectator watching through frosted glass.

I paused at the edge of the park I had visited when I first arrived, the one where the bare trees had seemed so starkly beautiful. Now, the branches looked brittle, almost lifeless, their dark silhouettes clawing at the gray sky. I shivered and turned back, heading home.

By the time I reached the apartment, I was exhausted — not from the walk, but from the effort it had taken to force myself out. Nicholas wasn’t home yet, and the apartment felt colder than ever despite the radiator hissing softly in the corner. I sank onto the couch, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders, and stared out the window at the city lights blinking in the distance.

And as much as I tried to immerse myself in the city, I couldn’t shake the loneliness of not knowing a single face. In my hometown, I had grown used to the small, comforting interactions that peppered my day: nodding at neighbors as I walked to my car, chatting with the barista at my regular coffee shop, bumping into an old high school friend at the grocery store. There was a familiarity to those moments, a feeling of being seen, of being part of a community.

Here, in New York, I felt invisible.

The sheer number of people I passed each day was staggering. Mornings were a blur of anonymous faces rushing to catch trains or hurrying into office buildings. Even when I ventured out during the quieter midday hours, the streets were still crowded. Everyone seemed to have somewhere to be, their focus fixed on their phones or their destinations. I had never seen so many people in one place, and yet I had never felt so alone.

When I first arrived, I found it exciting. The anonymity was freeing, in a way. I could be anyone, do anything, and no one would judge or remember. But as the weeks turned into months, that same anonymity began to feel like isolation. The faces blurred together, no longer individuals but part of the endless churn of the city.

It struck me one day as I sat in a café near the apartment. I watched a couple laughing over their coffee, their heads close together as they shared a joke. Across the room, a group of friends was chatting animatedly, their laughter cutting through the soft hum of conversation. And I realized I hadn’t had a conversation like that in weeks. Outside of Nicholas and the occasional video call with my family or coworkers, my interactions had dwindled to transactional exchanges: ordering food, paying for groceries, a polite thank-you as I stepped off the subway.

The truth was, I missed belonging. I missed walking into a place and being recognized. I missed the easy smiles of people who knew my name, the warmth of a community that had roots as deep as mine. In New York, I felt like I was floating — untethered, unnoticed, and unconnected.

And so, I retreated further into myself. The more I stayed inside, the harder it became to step out. The vibrant, bustling city that had once seemed so full of possibility now felt like a labyrinth I couldn’t navigate. The faces I passed each day became a blur, and I stopped looking at them altogether. It was easier that way, less painful than acknowledging how distant I felt from it all.

And then there were the days where Nicholas brought his work home with him, and I’m not talking about scripts. I started to notice it in small ways at first — the way Nicholas’s shoulders slumped just a little lower when he walked through the door, the slight hesitation before he smiled at me, the faraway look in his eyes even when we were talking.

And as the days turned into weeks, it became harder to ignore. He would come home later than usual, his scripts tucked under his arm and his face shadowed with exhaustion. Sometimes he’d sit on the couch, staring at the wall for what felt like hours, his expression unreadable. Other times, he’d go straight to the bathroom without a word, locking the door behind him. When I knocked to ask if he was okay, he’d tell me he was fine, his voice steady but distant.

I knew he wasn’t fine. I knew something was weighing on him, pulling him deeper into a space I couldn’t quite reach. And as much as I wanted to give him the space to process whatever he was going through, I couldn’t help but worry. Yes, I had known his filming was gruesome, but now that I was here in person, I had a chance to see how it actually was for him.

One night, after he’d come home particularly late, I decided I couldn’t just sit back and watch him unravel anymore. He had barely said a word to me since walking through the door, his body language tense and closed off. I waited until he’d gone to the bathroom to wash up, then quietly followed, knocking softly on the door before pushing it open.

“Nicholas?” I called gently, stepping into the bathroom. He was sitting on the edge of the tub, his head in his hands, his shoulders trembling slightly. My heart clenched at the sight.

He didn’t look up, but he didn’t tell me to leave, either. Taking that as permission, I knelt in front of him, placing my hands on his knees. “Hey,” I said softly, my voice steady even though my chest felt tight. “Talk to me.”

He finally looked at me, and the pain in his eyes hit me like a wave. “I don’t know if I can,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

I nodded, understanding more than I could put into words. “Will you let me take care of you at least?”

He didn’t protest as I gently guided him to stand, helping him out of his shirt and pants before leading him to the tub. I turned on the water, adjusting the temperature until it was warm but not too hot, and added a few drops of lavender oil to help him relax. As the tub filled, I helped him settle into the water, his body sinking into the warmth like he was finally letting himself breathe.

I then removed my own clothes and slipping myself behind him. I grabbed a washcloth and soap, carefully lathering it before running it over his shoulders and back. He didn’t say a word, but I could feel the tension slowly melting away under my touch. I worked methodically, washing away the day’s weight as though I could scrub away the darkness that lingered in his mind.

When I was done, I set the cloth aside and poured warm water over his hair, my fingers massaging his scalp as I worked shampoo into a lather. His eyes fluttered shut, and for the first time in weeks, I saw a hint of peace on his face.

After the bath, I helped him dry off and led him to bed, where I wrapped him in blankets and held him close. He curled into me like a child seeking comfort, his head resting on my chest as I stroked his hair. I whispered soothing words, telling him how proud I was of him, how much I loved him, how strong he was. He didn’t respond, but his breathing evened out, and I felt his body relax against mine.

I cradled him late into the night, my arms never loosening their hold. And I would lay there awake for hours, sometimes into the early morning, listening to the sound of his breathing and feeling the steady beat of his heart. I would lose sleep over him, secretly praying that everything would turn out ok for him with his movie. And that ritual — bathing Nicholas, massaging out his stress, and cradling him at night while I lay awake, my eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep — would become the normal for a few days out of the week.

Still, as much as all the stress weighed on me, I refused to let it show when Nicholas came home. He didn’t deserve to carry my burdens on top of his own, especially when he had been nothing but supportive and kind. Every evening, I made a conscious effort to push aside the heaviness I felt and greet him with a smile. I didn’t want him to think I regretted following him to New York, because I didn’t — not for a second. This was a choice I had made with my whole heart. It was just… a lot. A big change that had happened so fast.

When I heard the sound of his key in the lock, it was like a switch flipped inside me. I’d smooth my hair, check my reflection in the mirror, and take a deep breath. No matter how drained or lost I felt during the day, I wanted him to come home to the same warm, loving partner he had left that morning. The last thing I wanted was for him to feel like he’d uprooted my life for nothing.

“Nicholas,” I’d call out brightly as he walked through the door, his arms full of whatever groceries or takeout he had picked up on his way home. “How was your day?”

He’d smile at me, the weariness in his eyes fading just a little at the sight of me. “Better now,” he’d say, letting out a tired sigh and setting everything down before pulling me into a hug. His arms wrapped around me like a shield, his warmth seeping into me as if he could chase away all the cold, both inside and out. Then, I’d remember that this hug was my favorite part of the day.

And there were so many moments like that — little things that made it all feel worth it, even when the weight of it all threatened to pull me under.

Like the nights we’d spend on the fire escape, bundled up in blankets with mugs of hot chocolate, looking out at the city lights. Nicholas would point out random buildings or make up stories about the people living inside them, his imagination as vivid as ever. “See that one?” he’d say softly, a little tiredness behind his voice from a day’s work, gesturing to a window with a faint glow. “That’s where the writer works. He’s been stuck on chapter three for weeks, but tonight’s the night he finally figures it out.” I’d laugh, the sound echoing into the crisp night air, and for a moment, it felt like the city was ours alone.

Or the Sunday mornings when we’d sleep in, the world outside quiet for once. I’d wake up to find him already awake, his hand lazily tracing patterns on my back. “Good morning,” he’d whisper, his voice warm and soft, and I’d bury my face in his chest, reluctant to leave the cocoon of warmth we’d created. We’d eventually drag ourselves out of bed and make pancakes in the kitchen, the smell of batter and syrup filling the small apartment as music played faintly in the background.

There were spontaneous adventures too. Like the time he surprised me with tickets to a Broadway show. “You can’t live in New York and not see a show,” he’d said, his grin mischievous as he handed me the tickets. I’d been hesitant at first, unsure about braving the crowded theater, but the moment the curtain rose and the actors took the stage, I forgot all my worries. Nicholas held my hand the entire time, his thumb brushing over my knuckles, and I found myself tearing up — not just at the story unfolding before us, but at the realization that I was living one of my own.

Even the quieter moments carried their own kind of magic. Like when we’d sit side by side at the kitchen table, him going over scripts while I worked on my laptop. The sound of his pencil scratching against the paper was oddly soothing, a steady rhythm that grounded me. Every now and then, he’d glance up and catch me staring at him, and his lips would curve into that boyish grin that never failed to make my heart skip a beat.

Then there were the rare evenings when he’d come home early, his arms full of groceries. “We’re cooking tonight,” he’d announce, refusing to let me lift a finger as he clumsily attempted to recreate a recipe he’d found online. The kitchen would inevitably end up a mess, with flour on the countertops and sauce splattered on the stove, but the laughter we shared made it all worth it. And somehow, the food always tasted perfect, even when it didn’t look like it.

Or the absolutely unforgettable sex we’d have. Like the time we had hooked up in the back of a town car on the way home from a rare fancy date during a particularly long stretch of traffic.

It had started innocently enough—just the two of us basking in the afterglow of an amazing night out. Nicholas had pulled out all the stops for the evening: a dinner reservation at an exclusive restaurant with dim lighting, soft music, and impeccable food, followed by drinks at a rooftop bar that offered a breathtaking view of the city. We’d laughed and flirted like it was our first date, the world outside momentarily forgotten.

By the time we slid into the backseat of the car, my cheeks were flushed from both the cocktails and the way Nicholas had been looking at me all night. His hand rested on my thigh, the warmth of his palm seeping through the thin fabric of my dress. At first, it was casual — fingers tracing lazy circles as we chatted about the night. But as the traffic crawled to a halt and the hum of the city surrounded us, the air between us shifted.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispered something that sent a shiver down my spine. I turned to meet his gaze, his eyes dark and filled with mischief, and before I could respond, he closed the distance, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that was anything but innocent. It was slow and deliberate, his hand sliding higher up my thigh as he deepened the kiss. The privacy partition was up, and the driver was oblivious to what was unfolding in the backseat.

I gasped as his lips trailed down my neck, his stubble grazing my skin in a way that made my toes curl. “Nicholas,” I whispered, half a plea and half a warning, though I wasn’t entirely sure what I was warning him against. He grinned against my collarbone, his hands firm as he pulled me onto his lap, the constraints of the small space forgotten as he claimed every inch of my attention.

“You’re irresistible,” he murmured, his voice low and full of promise. His hands roamed over my body, exploring as though he hadn’t memorized every curve a hundred times before. The lights of the city flickered through the tinted windows, casting shadows that danced across his sharp features, making him look even more devastatingly handsome.

I lost myself in him, in the way his lips moved against mine, in the quiet moans and gasps that filled the confined space. My dress slid higher, his hands moving with a confidence that made my pulse race. There was something thrilling about the moment — the intimacy of it mixed with the possibility of being caught, though I trusted Nicholas to keep everything discreet.

The world outside faded into a blur of lights and sounds, the only thing grounding me being the way his hands gripped my hips, the way he whispered my name like a prayer. Time seemed to stand still, and by the time we arrived at the apartment, I was breathless and flushed, my legs weak as we stumbled inside, unable to keep our hands off each other. It was wild, passionate, and completely us.

It was moments like those — the laughter, the warmth, the passion, the way he made even the most mundane things feel special — that reminded me why I had chosen this life. Why I had chosen him. After 10 months of long distance dating, this was all I ever wanted, to finally be able to have those moments in person, not through a screen. The stress, the loneliness, the cold — all of it faded into the background when I was with him. It was enough to just take it one day at a time. To hold onto the moments of warmth and connection we shared, even as the world outside felt colder and farther away. And when Nicholas kissed me goodnight, his voice soft as he told me he loved me, I told myself that alone was worth all of the stress.

Then, I saw a flash of light at the end of the tunnel.

Nicholas and I were lounging around at home, a rare moment of calm between his long days on set and my own struggles to find balance. The radiator hummed softly in the corner, the apartment dimly lit by the warm glow of a single lamp. Nicholas was sitting flipping through his script, his brow furrowed in concentration, while I laid across the couch with a book above my face, my head on his lap, stealing glances at him every so often.

His fingers absentmindedly traced small patterns on my scalp, his touch gentle yet grounding, like he was tethering himself to me without even realizing it. It was one of those rare, quiet moments where the world seemed to shrink down to just the two of us, a fragile bubble of calm amidst the chaos of our lives.

I wasn’t really reading. The words on the page blurred together. Instead, I stole glances at him, watching the way his brows knit together as he read his script. His lips moved faintly, mouthing lines as his pencil tapped against the armrest in a rhythm only he seemed to know. There was something captivating about seeing him like this — focused, immersed.

When he set the script down, I caught the way his shoulders eased, the tension melting away as he leaned back and let out a soft sigh. His tired smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and I felt a pang in my chest—love mixed with a deep ache for how hard he’d been working. 

His eyes met mine, warm and searching, as his hand brushed over my hair, fingers lingering for a moment before he spoke. “Guess what?”

“What?” I asked, pulling my book down and resting it on my tummy, giving him my full attention.

“Tomorrow’s the last day of filming,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of relief and excitement.

The words last day of filming hit me like a wave, and I could feel my heart swell with relief and joy for him. It was as though a curtain had been drawn back, revealing a glimpse of light after what felt like an endless stretch of shadow. He had been living with Patrick Bateman for months, carrying the weight of him, and I had seen how it had drained him piece by piece. But now, with just one more day to go, he was almost free.

I straightened up, my heart skipping a beat. “Really? That’s amazing, Nic!”

He smiled, reaching for my hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I was wondering if you wanted to come with me tomorrow. Be there for the last day of filming. And there’s a wrap party right after. I want you there for that, too. To celebrate,” he brushed his thumb across my jaw.

It wasn’t just about finishing the movie. It was about closing a chapter that had consumed so much of him, and having me there to witness it felt like a quiet, profound honor. Of course, I couldn’t deny the invitation.

My heart swelled, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, I felt a flicker of excitement that wasn’t tinged with worry. “I’d love to come,” I said, smiling up at him.

His face lit up with relief and joy, and he pulled me into a tight hug, his arms wrapping around me like he was anchoring himself. “Thank you,” he murmured against my hair. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”

I hugged him back just as tightly, feeling a weight lift from my chest.

The thought of seeing him on set, of finally understanding the world he’d been killing himself for, filled me with anticipation. It wasn’t just curiosity; it was a deep-seated desire to understand the world that had consumed him entirely. I wanted to see the passion that drove him, even when it seemed to break him at times. And the wrap party… well, it felt like the perfect way to close this chapter.

I hugged him back just as tightly, feeling a small weight lift from my chest.

The next day, I had woken up before Nicholas. Truthfully, I was so anxious that I could barely sleep a wink. I’m not sure why I felt anxious; maybe I was just anxious for Nicholas. He looked so peaceful, his chest rising and falling steadily, the tension he carried during his waking hours nowhere to be found. It made me ache to think of how much weight he’d been carrying, how much he’d given of himself to this role.

Today was his last day, and I wanted it to start with something good, something grounding. I slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb him. 

In the kitchen, I busied myself with breakfast, trying to shake off the restless energy that had kept me up most of the night. Pancakes seemed like the perfect choice. I whisked together the batter, the sound of the metal bowl and the sizzle of butter in the pan the only noise in the stillness. As I worked, I kept glancing at the clock, counting down the hours until we’d be on set.

By the time the pancakes were stacked high on a plate, golden and steaming, and the coffee brewed, I felt a little more settled. I set the table, placing everything just so, even adding a few berries and a drizzle of syrup to make it perfect. It was small, but it was something I could do for him, a way to remind him of the ordinary joys that existed outside of the roles he played.

When Nicholas finally emerged from the bedroom, his hair tousled and his movements slow with sleep, the sight of him softened me instantly. He rubbed at his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips as he noticed the table. “You didn’t have to do all this,” he said, his voice warm and raspy.

“I wanted to,” I replied, pulling out a chair for him.

He chuckled softly as he sat down, the sound low and genuine, and for the first time in a long time, I saw a flicker of lightness in him. As we ate, we didn’t talk much — just the occasional comment about the pancakes or a murmured thank you. But it was enough. The quiet was comfortable, the kind that didn’t need filling. Anyway, he still had a few more hours of being in that Bateman state of mind.

After breakfast, we both got ready, the routine familiar but laced with a quiet excitement. Nicholas dressed with care, slipping into a plain shirt and jeans. I opted for something understated, not wanting to draw attention to myself on set.

The car ride to the studio was quiet, his hand resting on my thigh as he gazed out the window, lost in thought. I didn’t press him to talk, sensing he needed the silence. As we pulled up, I felt a strange mix of awe and apprehension. The sprawling set was alive with activity, the air buzzing with anticipation for the final day of filming. Nicholas led me inside, his hand never leaving mine as he navigated the maze of departments and equipment.

First, he led us to the makeup department. The makeup department was a world of its own — a small, brightly lit space filled with mirrors surrounded by bulbs, shelves crammed with powders, brushes, and palettes of every shade imaginable. A team of artists buzzed around, their hands steady as they worked their magic on cast members. Nicholas greeted them with a quiet hello and a tired but genuine smile, clearly at ease in this environment, introducing me to the team that had been helping me transform for the past few months.

He led me to an empty chair in the corner, a spot out of the way where I could sit and observe. “I’ll just be a few minutes, baby,” he murmured, squeezing my hand before letting it go and taking his place in the main chair.

I watched as one of the makeup artists set to work, her hands quick and confident as she transformed Nicholas into Patrick Bateman for what would be the last time. The precision was mesmerizing. She worked on his hair, slicking it back until it gleamed under the lights, and applied the makeup that would give him that unnervingly perfect, plastic look. I couldn’t help but marvel at the detail, the way every brushstroke seemed to chip away at the Nicholas I knew and replace him with someone else entirely.

It struck me then, how much of himself he had to give away to embody this character. Every morning, he sat in this chair, shedding his own identity piece by piece, only to reclaim it at the end of the day. How exhausting that must be.

Once the transformation was complete, Nicholas turned to look at me briefly, his face now Bateman’s, his expression unreadable. He stood and caught my eye, his lips quirking into a small smile, almost as if to say, I’m still here.

“How do I look?” He asked, playfully cocking an eyebrow.

I stifled a chuckle, “Killer.”

Proudly, I took a few pictures of him to remember this momentous day. Perhaps he could use it in a photo dump on Instagram. He nodded toward the door, and I followed him back out into the bustling set.

The soundstage was even more chaotic now, filled with crew members shouting directions, adjusting lights, and moving equipment. Nicholas navigated it all effortlessly, exchanging brief greetings and pats on the back as we made our way to the scene they’d be shooting. I stayed behind him, not wanting to intrude, but I couldn’t stop my eyes from darting around, taking in every detail.

This was his world — the world he had worked so hard to be a part of, the world that demanded so much of him. Watching it unfold in real time felt like being let in on a secret, a glimpse into something sacred and grueling all at once.

The set was meticulously crafted, a cold, sterile replica of an upscale Manhattan apartment. The kind of place Patrick Bateman would inhabit — minimalist, sleek, and devoid of warmth. I stood behind a huddle of what I assumed to be assistant directors and the like watching from some monitors, my thumping out of my chest.

As they called for quiet on set, the noise of the soundstage faded into a tense hush. Nicholas stepped into the scene, his demeanor shifting entirely. It was immediate, like watching a mask fall into place. He moved differently now — stiffer, deliberate, exuding a calculated charm that was distinctly Bateman’s. Nicholas, as Bateman, was seated at a sleek, sterile desk under harsh lighting, his suit crisp and tailored, his tie knotted perfectly — a stark, menacing red. The man I had eaten pancakes with this morning had disappeared, replaced by a predator in a suit. The transformation was startling, even though I’d seen glimpses of it before. But here, in the heart of his performance, it was terrifyingly real, and I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

As the camera rolled, Nicholas leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the desk, his fingers steepled together. The moment Nicholas opened his mouth, the air shifted. His voice was measured, almost dispassionate, as he delivered Bateman’s chilling words:

“I feel lethal, on the verge of frenzy. I think my mask of sanity is about to slip. My nightly bloodlust has overflowed into my days. I feel my pulse quickening, my senses heightening as if I’m plunging into a void… and I’m afraid. Afraid that this is all there is. The numbness, the emptiness.”

The words hung in the air, stark and unrelenting. Nicholas delivered them with precision, his tone devoid of remorse but brimming with a chilling self-awareness. It was unsettling how easily he embodied Bateman’s descent, how his voice carried a weight that felt too personal.

“There is no catharsis,” he continued, his eyes narrowing as they fixed on some unseen point beyond the camera. “I gain no deeper knowledge of myself. No new depths are uncovered. I am simply not there. And I have to wonder… does anyone else see it? Or are we all just… pretending?”

My stomach twisted as I listened. The words felt like they resonated beyond the character, striking a chord I wasn’t prepared for. The loneliness in Bateman’s confession, masked by his indifference, echoed something I’d felt in the past few months — the struggle to connect, to feel like I belonged.

As he continued, Nicholas’s delivery sharpened, his voice rising ever so slightly as the monologue neared its end. “This confession has meant nothing,” he said, the finality in his tone like a door slamming shut.

Luca, the director, yelled, “Cut,” and the tension broke. “That’s a wrap!”

The room erupted into applause. Crew members cheered and clapped, some even whistling, but I stood rooted to the spot, my heart pounding. Nicholas didn’t move right away; he stayed in his chair, staring at the desk in front of him. Even as the set bustled back to life around him, he seemed distant, as though some part of him was still in that void Bateman had described.

It was only when Luca approached him, clapping him on the shoulder, that Nicholas finally stirred, blinking as though shaking off the last remnants of Patrick Bateman. He nodded at Luca, forcing a small smile, but as he stood, his movements were slow, heavy. He tugged at his tie, loosening it slightly, and ran a hand through his hair. The mask was gone, but the exhaustion he’d been hiding was clearer than ever.

Nicholas stood at the center of it all, accepting congratulations with quiet grace. He hugged the director, shook hands with the crew, and posed for photos, but there was a weariness to his smile — a quiet emptiness left behind by the months of grueling work.

I watched him approach me, his face softening as he met my eyes. He was Nicholas again — tired, drained, but mine. He didn’t say anything as he reached me, just leaned in and kissed my temple, a silent reassurance that he was okay. Or at least, he would be. Though, I could feel the tension still lingering in his body as he wrapped his arms around me.

“You were incredible, Nic,” I whispered against his chest, my voice thick with emotion.

He didn’t respond right away. When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched mine, as though looking for reassurance. “Thank you for being here, (Y/N),” he admitted quietly.

I nodded, my hand brushing against his cheek. “Always.”

The wrap party that followed was a whirlwind of energy, music, and champagne. Nicholas was at the center of it all, the undeniable star of the night, but he kept me close, his hand finding mine whenever he wasn’t shaking someone else’s. It was surreal to see him celebrated this way, to see how much respect and admiration he commanded. Yet, even in the midst of it all, I could see the tiredness that lingered beneath the surface.

As the night wore on, the party seemed to drain Nicholas more than energize him. He laughed at the right moments, posed for photos with his co-stars, and accepted compliments with a polite smile, but there was an unshakable weariness to his movements. It was the kind of exhaustion that ran deeper than physical fatigue, a heaviness that came from giving so much of himself for so long.

I watched him from across the room as he stood by a small group of producers, one hand in his pocket, the other loosely holding a glass of champagne. His posture was relaxed, his expression easy, but I knew better. His shoulders sagged slightly, and the faintest shadow lingered under his eyes, the telltale signs of a man who was running on fumes. Even his smiles felt thinner, like they didn’t quite reach his eyes.

At one point, a costumer from the crew approached me, a friendly woman I’d been introduced to earlier in the day. “You must be so proud of him,” she said, her voice warm. “He’s poured everything into this role. You can tell.”

I nodded, a faint smile tugging at my lips. “I am. He’s amazing.”

I’d seen how Bateman had clung to Nicholas, how it had seeped into him in ways I wasn’t sure he even realized. And now that filming was over, I wanted to help him shed that weight. To remind him that he wasn’t Bateman, that he was Nicholas, the man I loved. Just then, I had an idea.

I turned to the costumer, my voice quieter this time. “Would it be possible to get one of Bateman’s ties?”

She raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile creeping across her face. “A souvenir for him?”

“Something like that,” I admitted, feeling my cheeks warm.

The costumer seemed to understand. “Hold on,” she said, disappearing into the crowd. A few minutes later, she returned with a tie folded neatly in her hands. “Here,” she said, slipping it to me discreetly.

“Thank you,” I said, clutching the tie tightly. It was simple, sleek, and unmistakably Bateman. The color was a deep, commanding red, bold and almost… masochistic.

When Nicholas finally pulled me aside later in the evening, his exhaustion was impossible to miss. “Ready to go?” he asked, his voice low.

I nodded, slipping the tie into my bag without a word. “Let’s get you home.”

The walk back to the apartment was quiet, his hand heavy in mine. When we finally stepped inside, he dropped onto the couch with a sigh, leaning his head back against the cushions. I sat beside him, pulling his legs into my lap, and he let out a contented hum as I started to rub his calves gently.

“You did it,” I said softly. “It’s over.”

He nodded, his eyes half-closed. “Yeah. It’s over.”

But as I watched him, I knew it wasn’t really over — not yet. He carried Bateman with him still, in the set of his shoulders, in the quiet moments when he thought no one was looking. But I had a plan — a way to remind him that he was more than this role, more than the weight it had left behind. Though, I wouldn’t be able to set the plan in motion until our one-year anniversary, which was right around the corner.

So for now, I focused on the man in front of me, the one who had given so much of himself to his craft and was finally ready to rest. I leaned forward, brushing a kiss to his temple. “I’m so proud of you,” I whispered, my voice steady.

And for the first time that night and maybe the last handful of weeks, Nicholas smiled — a real, unguarded smile that reached his eyes.

In the weeks following the wrap of filming, Nicholas threw himself into us completely, as if he were trying to make up for all the time the movie had stolen from us. He planned lazy mornings in bed, pulled me out of the apartment during lunch for weekday picnics in Central Park, and impromptu walks through the quieter streets of the city. He cooked dinners, insisted on movie marathons, and even picked up small gifts for me — a flower from a street vendor, books I’d had on my wishlist for a while, and various sweet treats.

It was sweet, thoughtful, and entirely Nicholas. But even as he smiled, kissed my forehead, and called me “baby” in that soft, low voice that melted me, there was something lingering beneath it all. A tension in his shoulders he couldn’t quite shrug off, a flicker in his eyes when he thought I wasn’t looking. Patrick Bateman still clung to him, like a shadow he hadn’t fully stepped out of.

I noticed it in the way his hand lingered too long on the back of his neck when he thought he was alone, or the slight hesitation in his laugh when he told a story about filming, or when he was just the tiniest bit rougher during sex. There were even nights when he woke up suddenly, his breathing uneven, his hand instinctively reaching for me as if to reassure himself that I was there. He never wanted to talk about it, brushing it off with a smile and a kiss. But I knew better.

I wanted to believe that time and love would be enough to help him leave Bateman behind, that with every breakfast we shared, every laugh we exchanged, and every quiet moment we spent together, he’d remember that he was Nicholas — kind, gentle, and so, so human. But as the days passed, I started to wonder if he needed more than that. If maybe he needed a way to reclaim himself, to take all the weight and intensity he’d poured into that character and channel it into something else. So when our anniversary rolled around, it was pretty much all I thought about.

And Nicholas had plans of his own for our anniversary — grand ones.

A week before the big day, he casually mentioned he had a surprise. “I want to make it special,” he said, his hand grazing my cheek as he leaned in close. “Something we’ll never forget.”

I smiled, intrigued, but he wouldn’t give me any details. It wasn’t until the day of that I finally understood what he meant.

The day started off innocent enough. He surprised me with breakfast in bed, a most glorious spread of tea and Italian crème croissants — the meal I had when we first met each other exactly one year ago on the beach.

As I sat up in bed, the sunlight streaming through the curtains, I couldn’t help but smile at the tray Nicholas placed carefully in front of me. The smell of warm croissants and the delicate aroma of tea instantly transported me back to that day on the beach when everything started.

“Do you remember?” he asked softly, sitting beside me and brushing a strand of hair from my face.

“Of course,” I murmured, my voice thick with emotion. “How could I forget?”

His lips curved into a smile, and for a moment, I saw the Nicholas I knew so well — the one unburdened by the shadows of his work. We lingered over breakfast, laughing about the titillating details of our first meeting and marveling at how far we’d come. It was easy, natural, and exactly what I needed.

But the day had only just begun.

After breakfast, Nicholas handed me a small envelope. Inside was a handwritten note with only a time written in the most elegant cursive: 7PM

“What’s this?” I asked, looking up at him.

“Your next clue,” he teased, his grin mischievous.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of anticipation. I couldn’t stop thinking about what he might have planned, his cryptic smile every time I asked only adding to my curiosity. When seven o’clock finally rolled around, I found myself standing in front of a sleek black car, Nicholas waiting with the door open, with a bouquet of peonies in hand, looking devastatingly handsome in a midnight blue suit with a dark red shirt underneath, the color combination absolutely stunning.

“You look devastating,” he smiled as he stepped closer, handing me the bouquet and passionately kissing me, even dipping me a bit. He pulled back, smiling down at me as he held me below him, his arms carrying my entire weight.

Smiling, I caressed my hand down his cheek, “And you look absolutely dashing,” I spoke softly.

My eyes fell on the collar of his red shirt, reminding me of the weight of the red tie I slipped into my purse for tonight, and suddenly the bag felt heavy.

He straightened us both, gently guiding me toward the car. His touch lingered on the small of my back, a gesture that spoke volumes without a single word. The peonies rested on my lap, their soft pink blooms a stark contrast to the sleek black interior of the car. I turned to him, curiosity lighting up my face, but he only smiled, his dark brown eyes glimmering with mischief.

“Not one hint?” I pressed as he slid in beside me, closing the door with a quiet click.

“Not a single one,” he replied, leaning back and stretching his arm along the seat behind me. His fingers found their way to my shoulder, tracing slow, lazy patterns. “But I promise, you’ll love it.”

I raised an eyebrow, but the warmth in his gaze made it impossible to do anything but smile. The car hummed softly as we pulled away from the curb, the city’s lights casting fleeting patterns of gold and silver across his face. I studied him in those moments — the sharp lines of his jaw, the way his lips twitched at the corners when he caught me staring. Even now, after everything, he still took my breath away.

Suddenly, cobblestones replaced asphalt, and boutique shops appeared in droves, quickly replacing the modern storefronts of midtown.

“SoHo?” I asked, smiling, looking back out the window.

The streets of SoHo blurred past the windows, a kaleidoscope of boutiques and brick facades, their festive lights twinkling against the evening sky. The drive was short, just long enough to feel like we’d stepped into our own little bubble away from the rest of the world. Nicholas’s hand slipped down to lace his fingers with mine, the simple gesture grounding me as we neared our destination.

The car slowed to a stop outside a boutique hotel, its façade understated yet elegant, the kind of place you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it. Nicholas stepped out first, offering his hand to help me out of the car.

The evening air was crisp, wrapping around me like a gentle embrace as I took in the sight before me. The hotel’s warm light spilled onto the sidewalk, casting a golden glow that felt almost magical. I glanced at Nicholas, my heart swelling at the sight of his quiet pride, the way he held the door open for me with a small, knowing smile.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice low and intimate, as though this moment was meant for just the two of us.

I nodded, slipping my hand into his. “Always.”

Inside, the lobby was cozy yet refined, with soft lighting and plush seating that hinted at the charm waiting just beyond. The receptionist greeted us warmly, handing Nicholas a key card with a nod and a knowing smile. My curiosity burned brighter, but I didn’t ask. I let him lead me, trusting him in a way that felt effortless.

The elevator ride was quiet, our hands still intertwined. I felt the weight of the red tie in my purse, already planning out the moment I could reveal it to Nicholas in a way that wouldn’t scare either of us.

When the elevator doors opened, Nicholas led me down a hallway to a corner room. He slid the key card in, the lock clicking softly before he turned to me. “Close your eyes,” he murmured.

I gave him a dubious look but obeyed, letting him guide me inside.

“Okay,” he whispered, his voice close to my ear. “Open.”

I opened my eyes to a lavish suite that looked like it had been plucked straight out of a 1920s dream. Gold accents gleamed in the soft candlelight, red velvet furniture begging to be touched. The room was covered in extravagant floral arrangements, peonies of all colors. The bed, covered in peony petals and draped in plush, cream-colored linens, beckoned invitingly with a bottle of massage oil by the bedside. There was a small dining table adorned with candles and two dome-covered plates, but I could already smell the delicious scent of a warm steak dinner wafting ever so slightly through the room’s scent of something woody and luxurious. A bottle of chilled champagne, a bowl of strawberries, and warmed chocolate, waited for us on a nearby bar cart.

I stepped inside, taking it all in, and turned to Nicholas, who was watching me with an expectant smile. “Nic, this is gorgeous,” I spoke, dropping my purse in the middle of the floor in complete awe.

“It’s all for you,” he replied, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around my waist. “I wanted tonight to be perfect. Just us, no distractions.”

I leaned into him, my heart swelling. “It’s beautiful, Nicholas.”

He kissed me again then, before taking my hand and leading me over to the king-sized bed that was covered in adorned in pink petals. There was a big, rectangular box resting on top, a huge black bow on the lid.

I glanced at it, then back at Nicholas, my eyebrows slightly furrowed in curiosity. “What’s this?”

“Open it and find out,” he said, his grin teasing as he gestured toward the bed.

I stood at the edge of the mattress, my fingers brushing over the smooth ribbon before carefully untying the bow. The lid lifted easily, revealing a dress nestled inside — sleek and utterly captivating. It was midnight blue, the same color as his suit, and it was the kind of fabric that shimmered with every movement, catching the light in the most mesmerizing way. The neckline dipped just enough to be daring without losing its elegance, and when I pulled it out to admire its entirety, noticing its plunging back, I saw a lingerie set underneath.

The lingerie set — stockings, a garter, a bra, and underwear — beneath the dress was breathtaking. Delicate lace in the same color as the dress, edged with shimmering gold thread that caught the light just enough to feel luxurious without being gaudy. It was the kind of thing that felt both daring and intimate, something designed to make me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.

I looked up at Nicholas, my cheeks warming as his gaze met mine. There was something in his expression — admiration, anticipation, and maybe just a hint of nerves.

“You picked this out?” I teased, holding up the lingerie with a playful smile.

“Well, I know how much you love lace,” he whispered, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His confidence was evident, but there was a glimmer of vulnerability in his eyes that made my heart ache in the best way.

“Who doesn’t?” I asked with a laugh, setting the lingerie and dress back in the box to wrap my arms around his neck and devour him in a kiss. I pulled away after a moment and spoke softly, “It’s beautiful.”

Nicholas’s hands settled firmly on my waist, his thumbs brushing against my sides in a way that sent a shiver up my spine. “Not as beautiful as you,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent, like the words were meant for no one else but me.

I smiled, my cheeks warm as I leaned into him, resting my forehead against his. “You’re making it really hard not to jump you right now.”

Nicholas chuckled, his breath warm against my ear. “That’s the idea,” he murmured, his voice playful yet edged with a softness that made my heart flutter. His hands slid up my sides, his touch slow and deliberate. “But we have all night, baby. Let me spoil you first.”

I let out a soft laugh, my hands resting on his chest as I pushed him back just enough to meet his eyes. “You already are,” I whispered, my voice tinged with affection. “You always are.”

Nicholas gave me that smile — the one that always made my knees weak, the one that reminded me why I fell so hard for him in the first place. He stepped back, giving me space to stand, and gestured toward the en suite bathroom. “Why don’t you put that on for me, hmm?”

I nodded, unable to keep the giddy grin from my face as I carried the box with me. The bathroom was as opulent as the rest of the suite, with marble countertops, gilded fixtures, and a deep soaking tub that practically begged to be used. In fact, there were already candles set up all around the edge. But it was the full-length mirror that caught my attention as I set the lingerie and dress on the counter and took a moment to gather myself. My heart raced, not just from the anticipation of the night but from the overwhelming love I felt for Nicholas in that moment.

The lingerie fit perfectly, as if it had been made just for me. The lace clung to my curves in all the right ways. Because the dress had a pretty daring neckline and a plunging back, I decided against the bra, only putting on the stockings, underwear, and garter.

Once I was dressed, I slipped into the midnight blue gown, the shimmering fabric cascading down my body like liquid light. The lingerie beneath added an extra layer of allure, but the slit on the side revealed just enough of the garter to make me feel daring. My hands trembled slightly as I smoothed the fabric over my hips, taking a deep breath to steady myself before stepping back into the suite.

When I opened the door, Nicholas was waiting, leaning casually against the windowsill. His eyes lifted the moment he heard the soft click of the door, and the way his gaze swept over me stole the air from my lungs. He stood up straight, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as he swallowed, his eyes darkening with desire.

“Wow,” he breathed, his voice low and reverent. “You look… absolutely stunning.”

I felt my cheeks flush under his intense gaze, but I managed a playful smile. “I had a good stylist.”

Nicholas chuckled, closing the distance between us in a few slow, deliberate steps. His hands found my waist, his thumbs brushing against the silky fabric as he took me in. “I think I might be the luckiest man alive,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

My heart fluttered at his words, and I leaned into him, resting my hands on his chest. “I might be the luckiest girl alive,” I teased, my voice soft.

He grinned, his fingers gently tilting my chin up so our eyes met. “This night is just getting started, baby,” he said, his voice full of promise. Though, he himself didn’t know what I had in store for him either. “Shall we?”

Nicholas led me to the small table where the champagne, our dinner, and the strawberries waited. He pulled out a chair for me, always the gentleman, before making his way to the chair on the opposite side, but I motioned for him to pull the chair next to me, not wanting to be apart from him for a second.

Without hesitation, Nicholas moved his chair next to mine, his knee brushing against mine as he sat down. The intimacy of the moment wasn’t lost on either of us. He poured us each a glass of champagne, the golden liquid bubbling softly in the flutes.

As we clinked glasses, he held my gaze, the moment feeling both intimate and electric. “To us,” he murmured.

“To us,” I echoed, taking a sip. The crisp champagne fizzed against my tongue, and I set the glass down before leaning closer to him. My free hand found his knee, and I felt him tense slightly under my touch before relaxing.

Nicholas picked up the domes of our food, tossing them beneath the bar cart, and reached for the silver knife and began cutting into the perfectly cooked steak on my plate, slicing it into bite-sized pieces. His focus was precise, the candlelight flickering against his sharp jawline as he worked. Once he had a piece ready, he held it up with his fork, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Open up,” he teased, his tone warm and playful.

I laughed softly but complied, letting him feed me. The steak melted on my tongue, its rich, savory flavor making me hum in appreciation. “You’re spoiling me,” I said, covering my mouth as I spoke.

We ate quietly for a few moments, the atmosphere intimate and unhurried. I found myself watching him more than eating, wondering if under all of tonight’s charm he still was still carrying all the stress from filming and planning our anniversary on top of that.

As I chewed thoughtfully, my mind drifted back to the beginning — our beginning. It felt surreal to think how much had changed in just a year. That weekend on the beach was supposed to be nothing more than a getaway from my chaotic home, but it turned into the moment my life shifted completely.

“You looked so focused on that book,” Nicholas said suddenly, his voice pulling me out of my reminiscence. It was almost like he could read my mind. Could he? He cut another piece of steak, setting it gently on my plate.

I smiled, shaking my head at the memory. “I was trying to distract myself from the fact I heard my hotel room neighbor,” my eyes flicked to him, “having sex the night before.”

His laugh was low and warm, a sound that always made my heart skip. “As I recall, you were touching yourself to the sounds of my lovemaking.”

“And you deliberately sat next to me on the beach because you knew I could hear you.”

Nicholas smirked, his fork pausing midway to his plate. “Guilty,” he admitted, his voice rich with mischief. “But can you blame me?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to keep a straight face, but the smile playing at the corner of my lips betrayed me. “A little.”

He smiled, cutting another piece of steak with deliberate care, holding out the piece of meat in front of me. I rolled my eyes playfully before taking the bite, but the memory softened something in me. That weekend had been the start of everything — his teasing charm, my cautious curiosity. The stolen glances, the agonizing teasing on his part, the mind blowing sex. Us meeting… it almost felt inevitable.

Nicholas leaned back in his chair, watching me intently as I chewed the steak he’d just fed me. “We were inevitable,” he said softly, echoing my thoughts like he’d plucked them right out of my mind.

I raised an eyebrow, swallowing before speaking. “You sound very sure of yourself.”

“I am,” he replied simply, his gaze steady. “You and me, baby. It was always going to happen. Whether it was on that beach or somewhere else, it would’ve happened.”

His confidence should have been maddening, but instead, it made my chest ache in the best way. I reached out, tracing my fingers over the back of his hand where it rested on the table. “And you’re still this confident a year later?”

Nicholas chuckled, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “Especially now,” he murmured.

I smiled, shaking my head at him but unable to hide the warmth blooming in my chest. It was easy to believe him when he looked at me like that, like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

He reached across the table, cupping my cheek in his hand. “You make me better,” he said, his words unhurried and deliberate. “And after everything, after these last two months…” He paused, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone. “I don’t ever want to go back to what life was like before you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I leaned into his touch, my hand covering his. “You don’t have to,” I whispered. “I’m here. Always.”

For a moment, the rest of the world fell away. It was just us, sitting at that candlelit table, the weight of the past year settling into something softer, something full of promise. Nicholas’s eyes searched mine, and I knew he felt it too.

“Happy anniversary,” he said softly, leaning in to press his forehead against mine.

“Happy anniversary,” I whispered back, my voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill over.

We stayed like that for a moment, the quiet hum of the room wrapping around us like a cocoon. Eventually, that sentimental moment had grown into a more light-hearted dinner with conversations about both of our jobs, what other iconic New York landmarks he could take me to, and future date plans.

The steak dinner ended as perfectly as it had started — intimate, unhurried, and brimming with unspoken affection. When the plates were finally cleared, and the champagne glasses topped off, the room seemed to shift slightly. It was time for dessert.

Not wanting to leave my side for a second, Nicholas pulled the bar cart of strawberries and warmed chocolate with the tip of his shoe. The cart held an artful arrangement: plump, glistening strawberries nestled in a bed of crushed ice and a ceramic pot of melted chocolate resting on a low flame, its surface shimmering and inviting. The chocolate was dark and rich, the kind that promised an indulgent bitterness softened by the sweetness of the fruit. As Nicholas carefully moved everything to the table in front of us, a faint curl of steam rose from the pot, carrying the decadent aroma of cocoa through the air.

Nicholas dipped the first strawberry, swirling it through the warm chocolate with deliberate slowness, as if savoring the act itself. The glossy coating clung to the fruit, the contrast between the deep brown of the chocolate and the vibrant red of the strawberry making it almost too beautiful to eat. Almost.

He held it out to me, a small smile tugging at his lips as his eyes met mine. “Taste,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

I leaned forward, biting into the strawberry. The warmth of the chocolate melted into the tart sweetness of the berry, the combination indulgent and utterly divine. I closed my eyes briefly, letting the flavors linger as I hummed in appreciation. Opening my eyes, I said, “Delicious,” licking a bit of chocolate off my lips.

His gaze lingered on my mouth for a moment longer than necessary, and I could see the tension in his jaw as he fought to keep his composure. Nicholas cleared his throat, but his eyes never left my lips.

His hand reached for another strawberry, dipping it deliberately in the chocolate before offering it to me again. “Have another.”

I hesitated for a moment, but the look in his eyes made me lean in. I bit into the strawberry, slower this time, the chocolate melting on my tongue. I didn’t mean to drag it out, but the flavors were too perfect not to savor. When I looked up at Nicholas, his jaw was clenched, his breathing slightly heavier than before.

His lips parted as if to say something, but he shook his head and smiled instead. But he couldn’t resist. He chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair. “Are you doing that on purpose?”

“What?” I asked with a smile but still a little confused.

“You’re eating those strawberries like…” He trailed off, laughing under his breath, his cheeks tinting ever so slightly. “You’re eating them like you’re trying to seduce me.”

I realized then what I must��ve looked like, slowly licking the chocolate off my lips, using the tip of my finger to swipe away any that was leftover. I stifled a laugh, “They’re just that good.”

Nicholas leaned back in his chair, shaking his head with an amused smirk, but his eyes were darker now, filled with something simmering just beneath the surface. “I don’t know if I believe you,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly tone that always sent a shiver through me.

“I’m serious,” I said, laughing softly, though I could feel the heat creeping up my neck. “I wasn’t trying to do anything.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearm on the table, his face closer to mine. “That’s the problem,” he said, his gaze flickering down to my lips. “You’re not even trying, and I’m already losing my mind.”

I felt a rush of heat spread through me, my pulse quickening at the intensity in his eyes. “Well, maybe you should try one,” I said, reaching for another strawberry. “See if they’re as irresistible as I say.”

Nicholas raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I think I’d rather watch you.”

I bit my lip, unable to stop the smile that spread across my face as I looked down at the strawberry in my hand. “Fine,” I said, holding it up. “But if I keep eating them, it’s on you.”

I took another bite, this time slower, more self-conscious under his watchful gaze. The chocolate and sweetness of the strawberry were almost too good to handle, and I couldn’t help the soft sighs that escaped me. When I glanced up at Nicholas, his jaw was clenched again, his hand gripping the arm of his chair as though it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

The tension in the room had shifted, thickening with every shared glance and teasing word. Nicholas’s eyes were fixed on me, dark and unwavering, his breath audibly slower as he tried to keep himself in check. The strawberry I had just finished left a faint trace of chocolate on my lips, and I instinctively ran my tongue over it, savoring the lingering sweetness. That small, unthinking gesture seemed to push him just a bit further toward the edge.

Without a word, Nicholas took me by the wrist and guided me onto his lap, the fluid grace of his movements betraying the coiled tension he was holding in. I let myself settle on his laps, sitting sideways over him and crossing my legs as my hand brushed through his hair.

Nicholas’s hands traced up my legs, savoring the stocking’s material. His touch was slow and deliberate, his fingers trailing along the lace edge of the garter where it met my thigh. The warmth of his palms seeped through the delicate fabric, and I felt a tremor run through me as he took his time, savoring every inch of exposed skin. His gaze followed the path of his hands, dark and focused, as though he was committing the moment to memory. Just then, I could feel Bateman’s tie burning a hole through my purse.

“I have something for you,” I whispered.

Nicholas paused, his fingers stilling on my thigh as his eyes met mine, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “Something for me?” he asked softly, his voice low and steady.

I left his hold, walking over to where I had abandoned my bag. I pulled the tie out of my bag, my eyes tracing its shape one last time before hiding it behind me as I walked back over toward Nicholas, grabbing him by the hand and leading him to the red velvet chair near the window, motioning for him to sit and settling back into his lap, revealing what I had for him. The deep crimson fabric seemed to gleam in the dim light, a reminder of the character that had lingered in the shadows of our lives for weeks — months — now. I held it up, letting it dangle between us.

Nicholas’s expression shifted immediately. His jaw tightened, and a flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. “You have that?” he asked, his voice a mix of surprise and something heavier — something darker.

I nodded, my fingers brushing over the silk as I met his gaze. “I thought it might help,” I said gently. “Filming’s been done for a few weeks now, but I know how much you’re still carrying, Nic.”

Nicholas’s gaze dropped to the tie, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. His hands rested on my hips, tightening slightly as though anchoring himself.

I leaned in closer, cradling his face with one hand. My thumb brushed over his cheek, tracing the strong line of his jaw. “I know it’s not easy to let go of something so intense,” I said softly, my eyes searching his.

His lips parted as if to speak, but I pressed a gentle kiss there, silencing him. When I pulled back, I held the tie between us again. “I want to help you release it,” I murmured. “All of it. Whatever’s left lingering inside you, whatever you’re holding on to… I want you to let it go. With me.”

Nicholas stared at the tie, his jaw tight. He exhaled slowly, his hands sliding up my sides, his touch steady but hesitant. “Why would you want this? Why would you—”

“Because I love you,” I interrupted, my voice resolute. “Because I see what it’s doing to you, keeping it all bottled up. And because I want to be the one who helps you let go. You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

Nicholas looked at me then, truly looked at me, his eyes searching mine for any sign of doubt or fear. When he found none, something in his expression softened. He reached up, taking the tie from my hand, the crimson silk slipping through his fingers.

“You’re sure?” he asked one last time, his voice barely above a whisper.

I nodded, my breath hitching as I whispered, “I trust you. Completely. And I want you to trust me, too.” I spoke softly, my voice steady despite the tremor of anticipation running through me.

He studied the tie for a moment, his fingers tightening around it before his gaze shifted back to me. The hesitation was still there, but it was mingled with something darker now, something raw and unguarded.

I slid off his lap then, standing a few paces in front of him as he stayed anchored to the chair. Slowly, I started to pull away at my dress straps. Nicholas’s gaze darkened as he watched me and his legs parted slightly, his hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly, knuckles whitening as if bracing himself. The silky straps of my dress slid off my shoulders with ease, the fabric cascading down my body until it pooled at my feet. The midnight blue lace lingerie beneath shimmered in the low light, accentuating every curve of my waist, hips, and legs while my chest laid bare.

His breath hitched, his eyes raking over me with a raw intensity before he closed his eyes, clutching the masochistically red tie in his fist and resting his lips on it, his jaw tight as if he was still deciding what to do. When his eyes met mine, I saw the storm raging within him — the hesitation, the desire, the lingering weight of what he’d been carrying for far too long. I took exactly one step closer, emboldened by the way his restraint felt like a taut wire ready to snap and to let him know that I was okay.

My heart raced as I stood, the anticipation building with every second that passed. The red velvet chair framed him like a king on his throne, and the way his gaze raked over me made my pulse quicken. He was all sharp lines and quiet command, his fingers drumming once against the armrest before stilling, his body humming with restrained energy. He tilted his head slightly, beckoning me over to him. I made my way over to him, taking several steps, but with the subtle lift of his finger, I stopped dead in my tracks.

Nicholas’s breath was heavy, his gaze flicking between the crimson tie in his hand and my face. Slowly, he stood, towering over me. The tension in his body was palpable, his hands shaking slightly as he reached out to cup my face, his touch gentle despite the turmoil within him. I tilted my head into his hand, holding his gaze with unwavering resolve.

His thumb brushed over my cheekbone, his eyes scanning my face as if searching for any trace of fear. When he found none, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease, replaced by something darker, more primal.

“If I go too far, you stop me,” he said, his tone firm but laced with concern. “You say the word, and I stop. Do you understand?”

I nodded, my breath catching as I stepped closer. “I understand,” I whispered, my voice steady despite the rapid beat of my heart.

He stared at me for a long moment, his breathing shallow. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he let out a long sigh, removing his blue jacket. “Turn around,” he quietly commanded.

I hesitated for only a fraction of a second before obeying, the weight of his words sinking in. Slowly, I turned, my back to him, feeling the intensity of his gaze as it swept over me. Every nerve in my body was on edge, the anticipation coiling tightly in my chest. I heard the faint rustle of fabric as Nicholas adjusted his grip on the tie, the silk slipping through his fingers like a whispered promise.

“Put your hands behind your back,” he murmured, his voice lower now, rougher.

I did as he said, crossing my wrists behind me. A moment later, the cool silk of the tie brushed against my skin as Nicholas wound it around my wrists with a precision that was almost clinical. The knot tightened but it was loose enough for me to wriggle my wrists around easily, as if he was too afraid to tighten it further. If I tried, I could let myself slip away, but I didn’t want to.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. His hands lingered for a moment, his fingertips brushing the curve of my waist before he stepped back. I could feel the space between us, the charged air thick with the tension of what was to come.

“Walk to the bed,” Nicholas ordered, his tone sharper now, his earlier hesitation replaced by a commanding presence that sent a thrill through me.

I started toward the bed, the weight of his gaze following me. The click of my heels was silenced the moment I walked across the plush carpet, and I felt hyperaware of every movement, every breath. When I reached the foot of the bed, I paused, facing the plush mattress with my back to him, unsure of what he wanted next.

A beat passed, and I felt him behind me, close enough for his warmth to ghost over my bare shoulders but not touching. The silence stretched, thick with anticipation, as if he were letting the moment linger on purpose, testing the limits of my patience. My breath hitched when his fingertips finally brushed against the nape of my neck, tracing a line down my spine. The slow, deliberate touch sent a shiver rippling through me, my bound hands twitching slightly behind me.

Slowly, he stepped closer and closer, pinning me between him and the bed until I was forced to bend over, my upper body landing on the bed with a soft bounce while my feet stayed stuck to the floor.

Nicholas’s presence was overwhelming, a physical force pressing against me as he loomed behind, his weight commanding without even a word. The tie around my wrists tightened slightly, the silk unyielding as he pulled it just enough to remind me of his control. The cool air of the room kissed the exposed skin of my back, and I couldn’t suppress the shiver that coursed through me.

His hands slid over my sides, slow and deliberate, his fingers digging slightly into my skin as though marking his territory. One hand gripped my waist firmly, holding me in place as he leaned down, his breath hot against the back of my neck. The sensation sent a jolt through me, and I arched slightly, seeking more contact, but he didn’t give it to me — at least, not yet.

Instead, his lips grazed my shoulder, soft and teasing, before his teeth sank in sharply, leaving a sting that lingered. I gasped, my body jerking reflexively against the restraints. Nicholas’s low growl rumbled against my skin, his hands tightening their hold as though to steady me. His nails dragged down my sides, deliberate enough to leave faint trails that burned with the contrast of pleasure and pain.

“Stay still,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with authority. There was no mistaking the command in his tone, and it sent a fresh wave of heat pooling in my stomach.

I did my best to obey, my breaths coming faster as he worked his way down my back, alternating between soft kisses and bites that left marks I knew would linger. Each press of his teeth was sharp, calculated, a reminder of the control he held. His hands roamed freely, exploring every inch of me with a possessive intensity that left me trembling.

When his hand finally slid around to the front of my throat, I let out a soft whimper, my head tilting back instinctively to allow him access. His fingers wrapped around my neck, firm but not constricting, just enough pressure to remind me who was in charge. He held me there, his thumb brushing over the hollow of my throat in a way that sent shivers racing through my body.

The other hand trailed lower, gliding over the lace of my lingerie before delivering a sharp smack to the curve of my hip. The sound echoed in the quiet room, followed by the sting that bloomed across my skin. I gasped, my body jolting against the bed, but the silk tie held firm. Nicholas’s grip on my throat tightened slightly, his lips brushing against my ear as he murmured, “Good girl.”

The praise sent a fresh wave of heat through me, and I felt myself melt further into his hold. His hand moved again, this time skimming the edge of my garter before slipping beneath it. His nails dragged lightly against the sensitive skin of my thigh, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Just when I thought I couldn’t take any more, his hand came down again, harder this time, the sound and sensation rippling through me.

“Look at you,” he muttered, his voice rough and filled with a dark satisfaction. “So perfect like this.”

His hand returned to my neck, his grip steady as he pulled me back slightly, forcing me to arch against him. The contrast between the roughness of his hold and the softness of the bed beneath me was dizzying, and I could feel the heat radiating off his body as he pressed closer.

Nicholas’s teeth found the curve of my shoulder again, biting down harder this time, drawing a sharp whimper from me. His free hand slid over my stomach, teasing the edge of the lace before dipping lower, his touch deliberate and teasing. He didn’t rush, didn’t give me what I wanted right away, instead drawing out the tension until every nerve in my body felt like it was on fire.

The next smack landed harder, this time on the curve of my backside, the sting sharp and immediate. My breath hitched, and I twisted slightly against the restraints, lifting my hips up toward him the tiniest bit, my body aching for more. Nicholas chuckled darkly, his grip on my neck tightening just enough to hold me still.

“You like that, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice a low growl. His hand slid over the sting, soothing the ache with a gentleness that was almost cruel in its contrast to the sharpness of his earlier touch.

I couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, my body trembling with a heady mix of anticipation and surrender. Nicholas didn’t need an answer; he could feel it in the way I responded to his touch, in the way my body arched into him despite the restraints.

He tugged on the tie, pulling me upright so my back pressed flush against his chest. His hand slipped from my neck to my jaw, tilting my head back so he could claim my mouth in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was rough, demanding, his teeth grazing my bottom lip before he bit down just hard enough to make me gasp.

The silk of the tie bit into my wrists as I struggled slightly, not to get away but to feel more, to push against the limits he’d set. Nicholas’s grip on my jaw tightened, holding me in place as his other hand trailed lower, the tip of his finger trailed achingly down the valley between my breasts all the way to the edge of the lace underwear he had picked out for me. My entire body shivered at the sensation, earning a shaky moan out of me.

“Stay still,” he growled again, his voice a warning and a promise all at once.

The command hung in the air, heavy and electrifying, rooting me in place as his touch sent waves of fire through me. I nodded, barely able to form coherent words, my breathing uneven as Nicholas’s finger traced the lace’s edge, teasing but never quite giving me what I craved. The deliberate slowness was maddening, every nerve in my body tuned to the rhythm of his movements.

Nicholas didn’t hold back. His fingers curled into the lace, tugging just enough to make the fabric strain against my skin. The sound of the delicate material stretching filled the air, blending with the sound of my rapid breathing. His hand returned to my jaw, gripping firmly as he tilted my head to the side, his lips brushing against my neck.

“I told you to stay still,” he growled against my skin, his voice raw, dark, and dripping with control. “But you keep testing me. Do you want me to break you tonight?”

The words were sharp and unapologetic, carrying a heat that burned through me. My knees nearly buckled under the weight of his command, and I gasped, my body trembling as he pushed me forward again, pressing me into the bed. The tie around my wrists tightened with a calculated pull, reminding me just how restrained I was — and just how much power he held.

“Answer me,” he demanded, his palm coming down hard on my ass. The sting rippled through me, sharp and thrilling, making me bite my lip to suppress the cry that bubbled up.

“Yes,” I whispered, my voice trembling but sure. “Yes, Nicholas.”

A low growl of satisfaction escaped him, and he leaned in close, his lips brushing my ear. “Then don’t hold back,” he commanded, his hand gripping my waist roughly as his other hand tugged on the tie, arching my back just the way he wanted. “I want to hear you. I want to feel you.”

His words pushed me further into the haze of surrender, and when his teeth sank into the curve of my shoulder, harder than before, I cried out, my body trembling under the onslaught of sensation. His free hand slipped beneath the lace, his fingers pressing firmly, rougher than his earlier teasing. There was no hesitation now, no softness — just raw, unapologetic desire that left me breathless.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with satisfaction as he felt the way I responded to him. “So perfect for me.”

The roughness in his touch was intoxicating, the way his hands explored every inch of me, leaving no part untouched. He alternated between sharp, biting smacks that left my skin burning and soothing caresses that only served to heighten the anticipation. The contrast made my head spin, my body caught in the push and pull of his control.

Nicholas pulled me up again, forcing me to meet his eyes. His gaze was dark, burning with a possessive intensity that made my heart race. “You’re mine,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I breathed, the words spilling out without hesitation.

He nodded, satisfied, and his hand gripped my jaw tighter. “Don’t forget it,” he growled before claiming my mouth in a kiss that was fierce and punishing, leaving no doubt of who I belonged to. His teeth nipped at my bottom lip, pulling until I gasped, and he took full advantage, deepening the kiss until I was left dizzy and desperate for more.

When he finally pulled back, his chest heaved with his own labored breathing, but his grip on me never wavered. “Get on the bed,” he ordered, releasing me just long enough to watch as I struggled to move with my wrists still bound. “Face down.”

I obeyed, my body trembling with anticipation as I crawled onto the bed, the silk tie tugging slightly against my wrists with every movement. The plush linens were cool against my overheated skin, a stark contrast to the fire Nicholas had ignited in me.

His weight shifted the bed as he climbed on behind me, and I felt his hands on my hips, pulling me into position with a roughness that left no room for resistance. “Now, let’s see how much you can take.”

Nicholas didn’t waste a moment. His hands gripped my hips firmly, his fingers digging into the delicate lace of the lingerie, pulling me back toward him with a strength that sent shivers through my entire body. The air was thick with tension, my heartbeat pounding in my ears as he leaned down, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of my lower back before his teeth nipped sharply.

I gasped, the sting blooming into heat, and he chuckled darkly, his voice rough and unapologetic. “You’re trembling already,” he murmured, his hands roaming up my sides before tugging at the tie around my wrists, forcing me to arch even further. “I haven’t even started yet.”

The words sent a thrill through me, and I whimpered softly, every nerve in my body on high alert as his hands slid over the curve of my butt. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he was savoring every second, but there was an undercurrent of barely restrained energy in him, a coiled tension that threatened to snap at any moment.

Without warning, his hand came down hard against me, the sharp crack of the impact echoing through the room. The sting was immediate, radiating heat through my skin, and I cried out, my body jolting forward against the restraints.

“That’s it,” Nicholas growled, his hand smoothing over the spot he’d just marked before delivering another sharp slap. “Don’t hold back, baby. Let me hear you.”

I couldn’t stop the sounds that escaped me, a mix of gasps and moans as he alternated between soothing caresses and punishing strikes. Each smack was harder than the last, the sting sharper, and my body arched instinctively, caught in the overwhelming mix of pain and pleasure.

I then felt Nicholas tug down at my underwear, unbuckling my garter to slip it out from under my feet. I shivered at the feeling of the room’s cool air nip at my slick heat. Then, the bed became lighter when he left my side. Desperate for him, I peeked over my shoulder.

Nicholas stood at the edge of the bed, his gaze dark and commanding as he looked down at me. The red silk tie still bound my wrists behind my back, leaving me exposed and vulnerable in a way that sent another wave of heat coursing through me. He took his time, letting his eyes travel over every inch of me, his expression a mix of satisfaction and anticipation.

“Stay just like that,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, filled with an authority that left no room for argument.

I bit my lip, nodding as I turned my head back to rest against the bed. The cool sheets contrasted sharply with the fire burning inside me, and every second of his silence only heightened the anticipation. I could hear the faint rustle of fabric behind me, and my mind raced, imagining what he was doing, what he was planning. The air seemed to shift as he moved closer again, his presence as commanding as ever.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he climbed back onto the bed, his hands sliding over my legs, spreading them apart forcefully. The cool air kissed my most sensitive spots, and I gasped softly, my body trembling under his touch. His hands were steady, firm, as they gripped my hips, pulling me back slightly to align with him.

There was a pause, a beat of silence that seemed to stretch on forever, and then I felt his lips on my lower back, warm and teasing as they trailed upward. He took his time, alternating between soft kisses and rough nips that left my skin tingling.

When his lips reached the nape of my neck, he leaned down, his breath warm against my ear. “Ready?” he murmured.

I nodded, my voice lost to the haze of anticipation that enveloped me. My body felt like it was strung tight, every nerve attuned to the subtle shifts in the air, the warmth of Nicholas’s breath against my skin, the firm grip of his hands on my hips.

He quickly settled between my legs and without warning, inserted himself. I let out a sharp cry, fluttering my eyes shut as he started to thrust, deeply and powerfully. I buried my face into the sheets, muffling my own cries, but Nicholas wasn’t having it. He brushed his fingers through my hair, clutching a fistful and pulling my head back toward him.

“Don’t hide from me,” he growled, his voice low and rough, filled with a commanding edge that sent shivers coursing through me.

Nicholas’s grip on my hair was firm but not painful, his fingers tangling in the strands as he pulled me upright. My back arched, the silk tie biting into my wrists as I gasped, the sound raw and unrestrained as his movements deepened, each thrust sending waves of sensation through me.

I whimpered, my body trembling as his free hand trailed down my side, his touch possessive as he explored every curve. The heat of his body against mine was overwhelming, each movement deliberate and precise as he drove me further into the haze of pleasure. My head tilted back against his shoulder, the sharp pull of his grip keeping me in place as he murmured against my ear, his breath hot and electrifying.

I focused my gaze on him then, noticing the tight furrow of his brows, not of anger but of concern. His eyes searched mine for any sign of discomfort, but I felt none. I encouraged him to continue by leaning into his hold and letting out unrestrained moans.

His movements faltered for a brief moment, as he seemed to process the permission I had given him. Then, as if a dam had broken, he growled low in his throat, his pace quickening as he let go of my hair and threw me back down against the bed.

The intensity of his thrusts left no room for thought, only sensation, my body responding to his every move as he guided me to the edge and back again. Nicholas’s grip on my hips tightened, his hands steadying me as he buried himself deeper and deeper, his breathing ragged as he chased the same release building within me.

He pinned me down against the bed with his arm, resting his forearm across the back of my shoulders and letting his full weight fall on me as he continued his powerful movements. I let out shuddering whimpers, trying to catch my breath as best as I could and at times it felt like I couldn’t breathe, but it felt all the more exhilarating. The way Nicholas was thrusting in and out of me, completely unrestrained and unguarded, was intoxicating.

He lowered his face next to mine, planting a light kiss behind my ear before he buried his face completely into the back of my shoulder, focusing on his thrusts becoming more intense. His breathing became more ragged, breathier.

“No—“ I heard him strain out a whimper as his movements continued.

Nicholas’s movements were relentless, his body pressed tightly against mine as the tension between us built to an almost unbearable peak. The room seemed to pulse with the intensity of the moment, his breaths hot and ragged against the back of my neck. Each powerful thrust sent shivers through me, my body trembling as I let out a cry and surrendered completely to the overwhelming sensation, reaching climax.

But then, I felt the weight of Nicholas’s arm on my back falter, his pace slowing, becoming uneven, as he rode out his own high and buried himself against my back. His breathing grew heavier, almost strained, and I realized it wasn’t just exertion — it was something deeper, more vulnerable.

“Nic?” I whispered, my voice shaky from the intensity of it all. I turned my head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of his face, and what I saw made my heart clench.

He was clutching onto me, not with any roughness, but as if he was afraid I might leave him alone. A quiet, pained whimper escaped his lips as his shoulders shuddered. That’s when I felt the light sensation of a tear fall onto my back.

Nicholas was crying.

Panic flashed through me as the realization hit. I stilled beneath him, my body still trembling from the aftermath of what we’d just shared. The tie around my wrists suddenly felt too tight, too restrictive. I wriggled against it, desperate to free myself and reach him.

“Nic,” I whispered, trying to get his attention. His grip on my hips loosened slightly, and I took the chance to twist my wrists, managing to slip one hand free. The silk tie fell away as I quickly turned under him, catching his face in my hands.

His eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched tight, and silent tears streaked down his face. He was trying so hard to hold it in, to keep it together, but his body betrayed him — his shoulders trembled, and his breath hitched uncontrollably.

“Nicholas, look at me,” I urged, my voice soft but firm.

He shook his head, his hands coming up to cover his face as if he couldn’t bear to let me see him like this. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice thick and broken. “I don’t— I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop,” I interrupted gently, prying his hands away from his face. “You don’t have to apologize. Let it out; it’s ok.”

His watery eyes met mine then, the raw vulnerability in his gaze cutting straight to my soul. “It’s just…,” he whispered hoarsely. “Filming, the pressure, trying to make this perfect for you… And then… you… I just…” He trailed off, his voice breaking as another tear slipped down his cheek.

“Oh, Nic,” I murmured, my heart breaking for him. I shifted closer, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him against me. He resisted for a moment, but when I whispered, “I’m here. I’ve got you,” he collapsed into me, his head resting against my shoulder as the sobs he’d been trying to suppress finally broke free.

I held him tightly, my fingers running through his damp hair as he clung to me, his body trembling against mine. “Let it out,” I whispered, pressing a kiss to the side of his head.

Nicholas buried his face in the crook of my neck, his breath hot and uneven against my skin. “I’m sorry,” he kept repeating, his voice muffled and thick with emotion.

“Shh,” I soothed, my hands moving in slow, comforting strokes over his back. “You did nothing wrong. This is what I wanted — for you to let everything go, to not hold back.”

He stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, letting everything out while I held him, whispering soft reassurances and pressing gentle kisses to his temple. Slowly, his breathing began to even out, his grip on me loosening as the storm within him started to calm.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red, his face tear-streaked, but there was a lightness to him now — a sense of release that hadn’t been there before. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice raw but sincere. “I needed all of that.”

I cupped his face in my hands, brushing my thumbs over his cheeks. “You don’t have to thank me,” I said softly. “I’m here for you, Nic. Always.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into my touch as he let out a shaky breath. When he opened them again, there was something different in his gaze — a vulnerability, yes, but also a deep, unspoken gratitude and love that made my chest ache.

“I love you,” he said, the words weighted with everything he couldn’t put into words.

“I love you, too,” I replied, my voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill over. 

“Come with me,” I murmured, gently guiding him to his feet. His brows furrowed in confusion, but he followed my lead as I led him toward the bathroom. The warm glow of the dimmed lights reflected off the marble, the inviting expanse of the oversized bathtub waiting for us.

The bathroom was bathed in a golden glow, the soft lights reflecting off the pristine marble tiles. I turned on the faucet, letting the hot water rush into the oversized tub as steam began to curl into the air. I added a handful of eucalyptus bath salts, their fresh, calming scent filling the room. Nicholas stood behind me, watching silently, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe

Once the tub was half-filled, I turned back to him, offering a gentle smile. “Come on, Nic,” I said softly, I reached for him.

He hesitated, his gaze flickering between the bath and me. “You’ve done enough for me tonight,” he said quietly, his voice still thick with emotion. “It’s my turn to take care of you.”

I shook my head, stepping closer to him. “You don’t have to do that. Tonight is about you letting go.”

Nicholas’s brows furrowed, and he reached out, his fingers brushing over my bare shoulder. His touch was light, almost hesitant. “(Y/N)… look at yourself.” His voice was filled with a quiet anguish as his gaze dropped to the faint red marks and bruises forming along my arms and hips. His fingers ghosted over a particularly dark mark on my thigh, and he swallowed hard.

I glanced down, suddenly aware of the evidence of our earlier intensity written across my skin. I had been too focused on him to notice, and now, seeing his reaction, my heart ached. “It’s okay,” I said gently, placing my hand over his. “I wanted that. I wanted to give you whatever you needed.”

Nicholas shook his head, his jaw tightening as guilt flickered across his face. “You shouldn’t have to carry the weight of my frustration like that,” he said, his voice low but firm. “You gave me everything tonight, and I—” His voice broke, and he closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath to steady himself. When he looked at me again, his gaze was filled with determination. “Let me take care of you now. Please.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the earnestness in his eyes stopped me. He needed this — not just for me, but for himself, to reconcile the roughness he’d shown. Slowly, I nodded, stepping back toward the tub. “Okay,” I said softly. “But we’ll take care of each other.”

Nicholas’s lips curved into a faint smile, and he stepped forward, his hands steady and deliberate as he helped me into the warm water. The heat enveloped me, soothing my tired muscles as I sank into the tub. He climbed in behind me, his legs settling on either side of me.

The warmth of the water surrounded us, the eucalyptus scent filling the air as Nicholas’s strong arms wrapped around me. He pulled me close, his chest against my back, and for a moment, neither of us spoke. The sound of the water gently lapping against the edges of the tub was the only noise in the room, a soothing backdrop to the weight of the moment.

Nicholas’s fingers brushed against my shoulders, tracing the faint red marks his grip had left earlier. His touch was featherlight, almost hesitant, as though he was afraid to hurt me again.

I reached up, placing my hand over his before he could even have the chance to speak, intertwining our fingers. “Nic, I wanted those marks. Every moment of it, I wanted it.” My voice was soft but firm, willing him to understand.

He didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he leaned down, pressing his lips to the top of my head in a lingering kiss. “Even so,” he whispered, his breath warm against my hair. “We had never done anything like that before.”

“I know,” I said, turning my head slightly to meet his gaze. His brown eyes were filled with a vulnerability that tugged at my heart. “But I think it was something we had to do.”

His jaw tightened, and his free hand reached for the sponge resting on the side of the tub. He dipped it into the warm water and squeezed a bit of the hotel body wash onto it, squeezing it gently before running it over my shoulders and collarbone. His touch was slow, deliberate, as though he were trying to erase the marks with every careful stroke.

The sponge glided down my arms, and Nicholas paused as his gaze settled on the faint red marks around my wrists where the tie had been. His fingers brushed over them, his brow furrowing deeply. “I tied you too tight,” he muttered, his voice laced with self-recrimination. “I should’ve checked—”

“Nic.” I turned in his arms, cupping his face with both hands. The water rippled around us as I shifted. “Listen to me,” I said firmly, holding his gaze. “You didn’t hurt me. I wanted to surrender to you, to trust you completely. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

His hands settled on my hips, his grip gentle but steady. “I just… I need to make sure you’re okay,” he said softly. “Because the thought of hurting you—”

“You didn’t,” I interrupted, leaning forward to press my forehead against his. “You gave me everything I needed, Nic. And now, I’m giving you the chance to let go of that guilt. Let it go, just like you let go earlier. We’re in this together, remember?”

His eyes closed for a moment, and I felt him exhale, his breath warm against my lips. “Together,” he repeated, his voice a quiet promise.

I leaned back slightly, giving him space to continue. His hands moved again, the sponge tracing over my chest and down my sides with a care that made my heart ache. For the rest of the bath, Nicholas’s touch remained gentle and reverent, his movements slow as he cared for me with an intensity that spoke louder than any words could.

As he continued, my gaze turned toward the open door of the bathroom. I looked at Bateman’s tie that had been left abandoned on the bed, strewn like it was nothing. In my head, I thanked it for the purpose it served.

Patrick Bateman was someone that had been looming over our relationship since Nicholas had taken the role. At times, the energy worked in our favor when Nicholas felt emboldened and riskier whenever we had sex, which were beautiful memories. Other times, though, he was this pestering dark cloud that followed Nicholas around, not letting him fully out of his grasp, even when he was at home.

Tonight, though, we used something of his — his iconic red tie — to channel all of that energy into something cathartic, something I thought could help free us from his clutches. So, believe me when I say that I thought that would be the last I saw of Bateman. Imagine my surprise when the press tour for American Psycho began and he was all I saw.

This time around, though, Bateman’s energy didn’t cling to Nicholas — not at all. After our anniversary, Nicholas was as lively as ever, back to his old self before he had ever decided to take on the role, and if any traits of Bateman’s lingered in him, it was his love of control, which Nicholas channeled in a tender and, most importantly, consensual manner. He was no longer ashamed of having been consumed by the character; he was open and honest about it. He shed him completely.

No, Bateman had somehow managed to cling onto me. Not in the way it had clung to Nicholas, but I just couldn’t escape him anywhere we went. I had hoped that after Nicholas had finished filming that our lives would slow down a little bit and give me a chance to breathe and readjust, hoping maybe then I could feel a little less stressed about moving to the city, but it only seemed to ramp up as the months passed.

That’s when all the invitations started to roll in. Interviews, parties, early screenings, events — they were piling on and on. And Nicholas was just so enthusiastic about attending them all, asking if I wanted to accompany him. I said yes every time, of course. How could I not? His excitement was contagious, his joy palpable after months of emotional turmoil.

And I couldn’t deny the excitement of accompanying him to an industry event. It was something I was afraid of throwing myself into way back when I visited him in Los Angeles, but now I had the emotional maturity of not caring what others thought of me. I was floating through these parties without a care in the world, excited to be sharing such joyous occasions with Nicholas. 

Slowly, but surely, I started to miss more and more days of my remote job. I told myself I’d be able to catch up, and at first, I was. I would meet all my deadlines and I wouldn’t miss a meeting for anything in the world. However, the more events Nicholas was invited to, the more planes we had to take, and the less time I found to be able to catch up on work.

The look in Nicholas’s eyes whenever I’d agree to go with him, his excitement when he talked about the events, or the way his face lit up when he introduced me as his partner — it was worth everything. There were nights where I would stay up late into the early morning losing sleep trying to meet deadlines just so I wouldn’t have to tell him no.

As much as I didn’t like the fact that my job had me tethered to a laptop inside our apartment in a bustling city like New York, it was also a tether to my independence. Losing sleep was one thing; losing that tether was another entirely. 

So, I tried to juggle both as best I could, even when we moved back to his apartment in Los Angeles, but eventually, my performance at work started to suffer. I would miss deadlines — not by much, but I had never missed one before. There would be rookie mistakes on documents, ones that were so small but I still couldn’t believe I had missed, especially when I had been working for a few years now. It had gotten to the point where my absolutely understanding boss had emailed to check up on me. He was such a sweetheart about everything, even giving me a few days off so I could decompress and come back swinging. Though, that didn’t work much; my performance never really bounced back.

Nicholas caught me at a particularly vulnerable time for him to ask a monumental question. It was one of those rare mornings when the sunlight filtered through the windows just right, casting a warm glow over our bedroom. Nicholas sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, scrolling through his phone with a faint smile tugging at his lips. I was sprawled on the bed, still in my pajamas, half-heartedly sipping my tea while trying not to think about the email draft I had written the night before.

“Hey, babe,” Nicholas said suddenly, his voice cutting through the stillness of the room. I glanced over, raising an eyebrow. He looked up from his phone, his brown eyes sparkling with excitement. “I have something to ask you.”

I set my mug down on the nightstand, already wary of the energy radiating off him. “Okay,” I said slowly, sitting up straighter. “What’s up?”

He leaned forward, placing his phone down and clasping his hands together like he was about to pitch me the idea of a lifetime. “So, you know how the global press tour for American Psycho starts next month, right?”

I nodded, already feeling the nerves creep into my stomach. He’d mentioned it before in passing, but I hadn’t really thought much about it. It was the last thing on my mind.

“Well,” he continued, his voice softening, “I was talking to my team yesterday, and if you’re up for it…” he grinned, “I want you to be my plus one.”

My stomach dropped. “You want me to go with you?” I asked, my voice more breathless than I intended.

He nodded eagerly, reaching out to take my hand. “Yes. I mean, I’d get to show you so many incredible places — London, Paris, Tokyo, Sydney, Mexico, then back to New York for the American premiere. I can show you what the world has in store for you.”

It warmed my heart to have him remember the sentiment that had pushed me to follow him to New York in the first place. The thought of traveling the world with Nicholas, sharing in his success, was undeniably tempting. But the reality of what it would mean hit me like a freight train. If I said yes, I’d have to fully commit — no half-hearted attempts to juggle work and this tour. I’d have to quit my job, officially severing the last thread of independence I had. And unfortunately, Nicholas caught me at just the right moment.

I shifted closer to him, planting a kiss on his lips and hoping my smile didn’t come off as tired. “I’d love to go with you,” I whispered.

He grew giddy, embracing me in a tight hug before pulling away and kissing me again. He grabbed his phone and stood up from the bed, already tapping away, “I’ll let my team know.” He left the room with his phone up to his ear, smiling widely.

As soon as he was out of the room, I grabbed my own phone, opening the Mail app and tapping over to the email I had drafted the night before. It stared back at me, almost daring me.

Subject: Two Weeks Notice

Dear Mr. Lee,

I am writing to formally resign from my position, effective in two weeks from the day this email is sent.

This decision wasn’t easy, but I believe it’s the right step for my personal growth. I’m grateful for the opportunities you have given me during my time working, and I truly value the experiences and knowledge I’ve gained.

Thank you again for everything, and I wish you and your company continued success.

Best regards,

(Y/N) (Y/L/N)

The words “right step” mocked me. I’m not sure I believed my own words, but I had to make a decision and I wanted to be there for Nicholas. So… I hit send.

As soon as I did, I felt a strange mix of emotions wash over me — relief, fear, and an unsettling sense of finality. The email disappeared into the ether, and for a moment, I just sat there, staring at my phone. The “sent” notification blinked back at me, a confirmation that there was no turning back now.

I set the phone down and leaned back against the headboard, taking a deep breath. My heart pounded in my chest, and I pressed a hand to it, as though I could somehow calm the storm brewing inside me. This was it. I had made my choice. There would be no more juggling deadlines on planes or late-night cram sessions after events.

Nicholas reappeared in the doorway, his grin still firmly in place. “They’re thrilled,” he announced, stepping back into the room. He dropped his phone on the nightstand and crawled back onto the bed, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me close. “You have no idea how happy this makes me. I get to share everything with you.”

I tried to match his enthusiasm, forcing a smile as I hugged him back. “I’m happy too,” I murmured, and in some ways, I was. But the unease lingered, coiling in the back of my mind.

He pulled back slightly to look at me, his hands cradling my face. “You won’t regret this,” he said earnestly, his eyes searching mine.

I wanted to believe that this was the right decision, that this sacrifice would be worth it in the end. But as Nicholas held me close, excitement radiating off him in waves, I couldn’t help but feel the faintest flicker of doubt. However, that feeling was quickly pushed aside with excitement as we touched down at all the different cities.

The following weeks blurred into a whirlwind of airports, hotel rooms, and bustling cities. The excitement of the tour swept me up, and for a while, it was easy to ignore the lingering doubt that had settled in the back of my mind. Nicholas was in his element, thriving in the spotlight as he charmed his way through interviews and red carpets. Watching him come alive like this, seeing the passion he had for his work, made me forget everything else.

Our first stop was London. The city was a blur of cobblestone streets, red carpets, and late-night drinks at posh hotel bars. The press schedule was packed, with interviews at iconic landmarks like the London Eye and Tower Bridge. I watched Nicholas charm every journalist he met, his smile as bright as the city’s twinkling lights. He was in his element here — confident, captivating, and utterly magnetic.

One night, we snuck away from the glamour, hand in hand, to a quiet pub on the outskirts of town. Over pints of ale and baskets of chips, he leaned across the table, his eyes soft as he murmured, “This is the best part of it all — just being with you.”

My favorite stop was Paris. The city was as magical as I’d imagined, with its cobblestone streets and golden sunsets over the Seine. Nicholas made a point to steal moments away from the tour schedule to show me the city. We spent an afternoon at the Louvre, getting lost in the endless halls of art, and one evening, he surprised me with a private dinner on a boat that floated along the river, the Eiffel Tower sparkling in the background. I couldn’t take my eyes off the hunk of metal at all.

“Can you believe we’re here?” he whispered that night, his fingers laced with mine as the boat glided across the water.

I smiled, leaning my head against his shoulder. “It feels like a dream.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “You’re the only thing that makes this real for me.”

The sweetness of his words carried me through Tokyo, where the neon lights of Shibuya Crossing cast a kaleidoscope of colors over our late-night ramen adventures. It was there that I saw a side of Nicholas I hadn’t seen ever — carefree, almost childlike in his wonder as he marveled at the vending machines and arcades. He pulled me into a photo booth one night, laughing as we struggled to time our poses with the flashing lights. The photo strip, with our silly faces and unfiltered joy, became a cherished souvenir.

By the time we reached Sydney, I had almost convinced myself that I had made the right choice. The harbor sparkled under the summer sun, and Nicholas’s excitement was infectious as we climbed the Sydney Harbour Bridge together. He insisted on holding my hand the entire way up, even when I teased him about how sweaty our palms were getting.

“You’re stuck with me,” he said, grinning as we reached the top. “Sweaty palms and all.”

I laughed, leaning into him as the wind whipped around us. “Good thing I don’t mind.”

Things didn’t come to a head until we reached Mexico, the last stop before the American movie premiere in New York.

The vibrant energy of Mexico City enveloped us as soon as we arrived. The streets buzzed with life, the colors were extra vibrant, and the air filled with the tantalizing scent of street food. Nicholas was in awe, snapping pictures on his phone, pulling me along with an excitement I couldn’t help but mirror at first. But as the day wore on, I found myself retreating inward, the hum of the city blending into a distant background noise.

We strolled through Chapultepec Park, its lush greenery offering a serene escape from the bustling streets. Nicholas chatted animatedly about everything, from the architecture to the way the city pulsed with history and culture. His enthusiasm was infectious, and I smiled when he paused to admire a local artist’s work, but my smiles felt faint, like they didn’t quite reach my eyes.

“You okay?” Nicholas asked at one point, his voice laced with concern. He had stopped to buy us horchata from a street vendor, handing me a cup as he studied me.

I hesitated, sipping the sweet drink and avoiding his gaze. “Yeah, just tired,” I said, my voice lighter than I felt.

His brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t press. “Alright,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Just a few more hours until I have to do my interview, and then we can go to the hotel, okay?”

I nodded, forcing another smile, “Okay.”

Nicholas’s hand slipped into mine, his grip gentle but reassuring, and he led me toward the Museo Nacional de Antropología. The exhibits were stunning, the artifacts rich with history and culture, but my mind felt foggy, unable to fully engage. I found myself trailing behind Nicholas, nodding when he pointed out something he found fascinating, but my responses were automatic, disconnected.

For our last stop, we arrived at some studio for his interview, Nicholas was whisked off by a flurry of assistants and makeup artists. I found myself standing in the corner of the room, out of the way but still close enough to see him. He looked relaxed, poised, and entirely in his element as he laughed and chatted with the crew.

I watched him through the chaos, feeling both proud and slightly detached. This was his moment — the culmination of months of hard work. But as I stood there, arms crossed over my chest, I couldn’t shake the nagging thought that while he was flourishing, I felt like I was wilting.

The interview began, the host effusive in their praise for the movie and Nicholas’s performance. They asked him questions about his process, the challenges of stepping into Patrick Bateman’s shoes, and what he hoped audiences would take away from the film. Nicholas answered each question with the kind of eloquence and charm that made me fall for him in the first place. His passion was undeniable, his smile magnetic.

But then it happened. Toward the end of the interview, the host reached under their desk and pulled out a promotional poster of Patrick Bateman. It was a close-up of Nicholas as Bateman, his expression cold and unyielding, blood splattered across his face. The room buzzed with admiration as the host praised the poster’s “brilliant intensity.”

For me, though, it was like a punch to the gut. I couldn’t escape him. He followed us from city to city, always there. Billboards, promotional posters glued to fences, on the sides of city buses, even when I tried to take a break and scroll through social media on my phone, there he always was. Every promotional photo of him I’d see, he would smile back at me as if he knew he had won, and he became this reminder of what I had sacrificed — myself. Seeing it then, when I felt at my lowest, with everyone smiling and clapping, made something inside me snap.

By the time we returned to the hotel that evening, I felt like a shell of myself. The day had been beautiful, filled with moments that should’ve felt magical, but instead, I felt like I was watching it all from a distance, unable to fully participate. Nicholas held my hand as we stepped into the elevator, his thumb brushing over my knuckles absentmindedly. I could feel his gaze flicking toward me, searching for something I wasn’t ready to give.

When we reached our room, I barely made it through the door before the tears started to fall. I tried to stifle them, turning my back to Nicholas as I set my bag down on the chair and made my way to the bedroom. But the weight of everything — the months of running on empty, the sacrifices I’d made without fully realizing their cost, the suffocating presence of Patrick Bateman in every city, every billboard — it all came crashing down.

Nicholas was quietly going on about what we could do few our last few days in Mexico. I could hear his voice carrying on in the other room, his enthusiasm unwavering, but all I wanted was silence. I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands trembling as I tried to catch my breath, the weight of everything pressing down on me. By the time Nicholas joined me, I was curled up, tears silently streaming down my face. I really didn’t mean for him to see me this way, but I just couldn’t keep it in anymore.

He froze in the doorway, his smile faltering as he took in my crumpled form. “(Y/N),” he said softly, crossing the room in a few quick strides. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

I shook my head, unable to find the words to explain the storm inside me. He crouched down beside me, his hands gently cupping my face as he wiped away my tears with his thumbs. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice full of concern. “You’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

“I… I can’t do this anymore, Nic,” I finally choked out, my voice breaking. “I thought I could handle it, but I can’t. It’s too much. I feel like I’ve lost myself completely.”

His brows furrowed, his grip on my face tightening slightly as if to anchor me. “What do you mean?”

“I gave up everything to be here with you,” I said, my words tumbling out in a rush. “My job, my independence, my sense of who I am. I wanted to support you, but I feel like I’ve disappeared in the process. And it’s not your fault — it’s mine. I’m the one that let this happen.”

Nicholas’s face crumpled, guilt washing over his features. “No, it’s not your fault. I should’ve seen how much this was weighing on you. I should’ve—”

“Stop,” I interrupted, my voice shaky. “This isn’t about blame. I just… I need a break from everything. From the tour, from all of this.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and I could see the panic rising in Nicholas’s eyes. “A break?” he echoed, his voice tinged with desperation. “What kind of break?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, my hands twisting in my lap. “I just know I can’t keep going, not like this.”

As his eyes desperately flicked between both of mine, a flicker of an idea sparked in his eyes. “Wait here,” he said, his voice steady but determined. 

I sat up, my feet dangling off the foot of the bed as I watched him stand on his feet and walk over to his suitcase. He rummaged through the piles of clothing , pulling something out from under. I didn’t know what it was, but it was something that made his body tense. He turned around then, slowly walking back over and kneeling down in front of me.

Carefully, he held out that damned red tie in front of me. “You gave me this when I was breaking down. You let me let go of everything.”

I stared at the tie, my breath hitching as I realized what he was asking. “Nic—”

“Please,” he interrupted, his voice cracking with urgency. He knelt closer, holding the tie out like it was some kind of salvation. “You let me fall apart when I needed it most. You didn’t judge me, and you helped me through it. Now… now I want to do the same for you. Use this. Use me. Whatever you’re holding onto, whatever you’re feeling — anger, frustration, resentment — let it out. Tie me up, hit me, scream, I don’t care. Just… don’t hold it in anymore.”

I stared at him, the tie trembling slightly in his hands. My chest tightened, and I shook my head, trying to form words through the lump in my throat. “Nic, this isn’t the same.”

His shoulders dropped slightly, but his hands remained steady, holding the tie out to me like a lifeline. “You don’t know that,” he said softly, his voice laced with desperation. “You’ve carried so much for me, for us. You don’t have to be strong all the time. Let me take it.”

Against my better judgment, I took the tie from his hands, my fingers trembling as I ran them over the familiar silk. It felt heavier than it should, like it carried all the unspoken words and emotions between us. I clutched it tightly, my knuckles white, as I looked down at him. He was kneeling there, his wrists offered to me, his gaze unwavering despite the vulnerability etched into his features.

“Do whatever you need to do,” he said softly, his brown eyes full of vulnerability.

I waved away his wrists, my hands trembling as I brought the tie up to his head, tying it around his eyes. Nicholas’s breath hitched as I slipped the tie around his head, his body tensing beneath my touch. I could see his chest rise and fall with every heavy breath as he clasped his hands behind his back. Even blindfolded, he exuded trust, surrendering himself entirely to me in a way that both broke my heart and made it swell.

He whispered softly, “I trust you.”

Those words pushed a lump into my throat, and I struggled to keep my composure. I knelt down in front of him, carefully placing my hands on his chest to feel the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath my palms. My fingers curled into fists, and I gave him a soft thump against his chest.

It wasn’t anything at all, but it made his head tilt slightly, his lips parting as if he could hear the weight behind the gesture. “Good. Do it again,” he murmured.

I bit my lip, the frustration and confusion swirling inside me like a storm. I struck his chest again, a little harder this time, but it still felt wrong. “Nic,” I said, my voice shaky, “I don’t think I can…”

I wanted to be angry, to release all the frustration I had bottled up for months, but the truth was, it wasn’t anger I felt anymore. It was sadness. Exhaustion. A bone-deep ache that no amount of hitting or yelling could cure.

“Yes, you can,” he urged, his voice gentle yet firm. “Whatever you’re feeling, let it out. Don’t hold back. I can take it.”

He could take it, but could I?

I tried again, my hands pressing into his chest with a tremor of force, but then my arms fell limp. The tears came hard and fast, spilling over as I crumpled forward, burying my face into Nicholas’s chest, sobbing fully into his chest.

“I can’t,” I choked out between sobs. “I can’t do this, Nic.”

In an instant, I felt his arms wrap around me, holding me tightly as I cried against his chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I just — I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want to lose you.”

I cried harder then, and I could feel him start to cry, too.

We stayed like that, crumpled together on the floor, our emotions spilling over, mixing and melding into one shared, raw moment. Nicholas’s arms wrapped around me tighter, as if he feared that letting go would mean losing me entirely. His tears soaked into my shoulder, his breaths ragged against my neck. He was holding me together even as he fell apart himself.

“Tell me what you need,” he choked through his cries, “I’ll do anything, please.”

My hands clutched his bare chest, holding onto him as though he was the only thing anchoring me to reality. “I want to go home,” I cried.

The words felt heavy, like an admission of defeat, but it felt like a weight that I had been carrying for the past 6 months had finally lifted.

I didn’t end up going home. At least, not to my parents’ house. I thought about it, but the idea of retreating to my childhood bedroom felt wrong. It wasn’t the place to sort through my feelings, and I didn’t want my mom to have the satisfaction of being right. Instead, I ended up going to a place near and dear to my heart — the island. It was exactly as I remembered it, and the perfect place for me to shut myself away from the world.

Every day, the waves greeted me like an old friend, their steady crashes lulling me into a sense of calm I hadn’t felt in months. I walked the beach for hours, dragging my feet through the warm sand, letting the tide pull me closer and further away, as if it understood the push and pull I felt within myself. Here, time didn’t matter. The sun rose and set, the tide ebbed and flowed, and I let myself simply be. It was exactly what I needed.

Returning to this beach — this island — where my journey with Nicholas had begun, felt bittersweet. I thought about the person I’d been back then — wide-eyed, hesitant, yet eager to explore the unknown. And now, here I was, trying to find my footing again.

I sat on the sand overlooking the shoreline, hugging my knees to my chest, letting the salty breeze wash over me. The sound of the waves was the only thing grounding me in that moment, pulling me away from the whirlwind of memories threatening to overwhelm me.

I thought about Nicholas, the way his eyes had filled with desperation and pain when I told him I needed to leave. I thought about his touch, the way he always tried to anchor me when I felt like I was drifting. And I thought about his smile, the one that could light up an entire room and make me believe that maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

I hadn’t talked to him since I left him alone at the hotel in Mexico seven days ago. There were moments I thought about calling him, just to hear his voice, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. He needed to focus on the press junkets, and I needed to focus on myself. Still, every night as I lay in the crisp white sheets of my hotel bed, I wondered if he was thinking about me too.

It was the day of the American Psycho movie premiere, and while Nicholas was getting his suit steamed and getting his hair brushed back, I was here at The End of The Road staring out into the horizon. I made sure to send him a message, short and simple: Good luck tonight. I’m so proud of you <3. I didn’t expect a response, but it didn’t matter. I just wanted him to know that, no matter what, I was proud of him. He had come so far in so little time, how could I not be proud of him?

But why couldn’t I feel that same pride for myself? I had come so far, too. I met my first real love, I stood up to my mom, I moved out of the house and across the country, I saw the world… I had done so much, but somewhere along the way, pieces of me had been chipped away.

I used to think finding myself would be this grand, transformative moment, like flipping a switch and suddenly knowing exactly who I was and what I wanted. But now, sitting here with the sand sticking to my legs and the breeze tugging at my sweater, I realized that maybe finding myself was less about grand revelations and more about rediscovering those little pieces I’d lost along the way.

Back then, before Nicholas, I’d had a rhythm to my life. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. I had a job that, while not exactly fulfilling, gave me independence. I had hobbies, passions. I loved Nicholas with all my heart — that was never the question. But somewhere between following him to New York, quitting my job, and boarding planes to cities I’d only dreamed of visiting, I’d let my identity become tied to his.

It wasn’t his fault, not really. He never asked me to give up those parts of myself. If anything, he encouraged me to hold onto them, to keep my sense of self intact. But I had let my eagerness to support him, to be the perfect partner, overtake everything else. I had wanted so badly to prove I could handle his world, that I could fit into it without losing myself, that I hadn’t noticed the slow erosion of my boundaries until there was almost nothing left.

As I stared at the waves, I thought about what I wanted now. Not just in this moment, but for my future. I wanted to feel like me again. I wanted to wake up in the morning and feel proud of the choices I was making, the life I was building.

But how?

I couldn’t go back to the person I was before Nicholas — I didn’t want to. That version of me hadn’t experienced the highs and lows of our relationship, hadn’t grown through the challenges we’d faced together. But I could start piecing together a new version of myself, one that combined the person I used to be with the person I was becoming.

Maybe that meant finding a new job — one that still felt meaningful. Maybe it meant setting boundaries, learning to say no to events or trips that drained me, even if it disappointed Nicholas. Maybe it meant carving out time and space for my own passions, whether that was painting or even writing a book just because I could.

It also meant having a real conversation with Nicholas. He had been so open with me in Mexico, so willing to take responsibility for his part in our imbalance. But it wasn’t just on him. I needed to own up to the ways I had let myself slip away, the times I had said yes when I should have said no, the ways I had failed to advocate for what I needed.

And even though all these thoughts and solutions were racing around in my head, I realized I didn’t need to have all the answers at that moment. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was giving myself permission to not have everything figured out. To just exist, to just… breathe.

By then, the sun had already set and stars slowly started to populate the inky sky. Having reflected enough for the day, I walked over to my car and drove back to the hotel.

The drive back was quiet, the hum of the tires on the road almost meditative. The stars above twinkled faintly through the windshield, a reminder that even the vastness of the sky could hold light in its darkest corners. The heaviness in my chest was still there, but it felt a little less suffocating after my time by the ocean. I didn’t have all the answers, but at least I felt a sense of clarity — a place to start.

When I pushed open the door to my room, 5 — trust me, the irony wasn’t lost on me — the soft glow of the bedside lamp greeted me. The room was untouched, everything exactly as I’d left it. My sandals hit the floor with a quiet thud as I walked to the bed, sitting down on the edge and letting out a quiet yawn.

I sat there, the room feeling cavernous despite its cozy size. The faint hum of the air conditioning filled the silence, but my mind was anything but quiet. Then, suddenly, a knock sounded through the door.

It wasn’t tentative or demanding, just a steady knock, but I thought I had just imagined until again, a knock came through. My breath hitched, my pulse quickening as I stood and crossed the room. My hand paused on the handle, hesitating for a moment before I pulled it open.

It was Nicholas.

“Nic,” I whispered, my voice barely audible as I stumbled back. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

He stood there, still dressed in his premiere outfit. His tuxedo jacket was perfectly tailored, but the bow tie around his neck was slightly undone, hanging loose against the crisp blue shirt. His eyes, however, were what caught me. They were filled with a quiet intensity, a mix of exhaustion, worry, and something softer — understanding. His chest was rising and falling, like he had just run up the stairs coming up here.

“W-what are you doing here?” I questioned. “Why aren’t you at the movie premiere?”

He didn’t say anything at first, just stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind him. The soft click echoed in the room, and suddenly the air felt heavier. He stood there, only a few feet away, his gaze fixed on mine.

He swallowed his breath, slowly making his way across the room, “I walked the carpet, I posed for the cameras… but none of it mattered.” He spun around, his eyes intense, “None of it mattered because I couldn’t take another day being away from you.”

I blinked, my throat tightening. “Nicholas,” I said softly, my voice cracking under the weight of his words. “You shouldn’t have left — this is your moment. The premiere, your hard work—”

“It doesn’t mean a damn thing without you,” he interrupted, his voice low but steady. He stood just a few feet away now, his hands clenched at his sides, as though holding himself back from closing the distance completely. “I didn’t come here to argue or try to convince you to come back. I came because… I wanted you to know that I understand.”

I froze, his words hitting me harder than I expected. He stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, his expression softening as he continued.

“You’ve been carrying so much, (Y/N). Not just your struggles, but mine too. All of it. I let you carry the weight of my world while you were still trying to figure out your own. And I didn’t see it — not the way I should have.” He exhaled, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “I see it now.”

My chest tightened, tears threatening to spill over again. “Nic, it’s not your fault. I—”

“No,” he cut in gently, his voice firm but filled with tenderness. “Let me say this.” He took another step forward, his gaze locked on mine. “You gave up so much for me. Your job, your independence, your time. You supported me through every milestone, every success these last six months, and I got so caught up in all of it that I didn’t stop to ask if you were okay. And the fact that I wasn’t there for you the way you were for me all of those restless nights… it breaks my heart, because that’s not what I had promised you.”

Tears stung my eyes, and I blinked them back. “I chose this, Nic. I wanted to be there for you.”

“And I love you for that,” he said, his voice softening. “But I should’ve made sure you were taking care of yourself too.”

His words broke something inside me, and I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. They spilled over, hot and heavy, as I pressed a hand to my mouth. Nicholas stepped closer, finally closing the gap between us. He cupped my face gently, his thumbs wiping away the tears that refused to stop.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to give up who you are to be with me,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I love you for you — for everything that makes you who you are. And I want to build a balance together, one where neither of us has to sacrifice our identity for the other. You shouldn’t have to disappear for me to shine, and I’m so sorry for letting that happen.”

A sob escaped me, and I leaned into him, my arms wrapping around his waist. He held me close, as though he was trying to fuse us together. I felt his warmth. It felt like home.

His fingers gently stroked my hair, and I let out a shaky breath, leaning into him as if he was the only thing tethering me to the moment. Nicholas stepped back slightly, his hands settling on my shoulders as he studied my face, his own expression pained but resolute.

“There’s something I need to do,” he said softly, his voice steady even as his hands trembled.

I looked at him, confused, as he reached into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. For a moment, I thought he was about to pull out some very grand gesture that would’ve been way too early of a step in our relationship, but instead, he held out something that made my breath catch in my throat.

The red tie.

Patrick Bateman’s tie.

The sight of it sent a wave of emotion crashing over me. It was as though everything I’d been holding back, every silent frustration, every unspoken word, was encapsulated in that piece of fabric. My chest tightened, but before I could say anything, Nicholas spoke.

“This,” he said, holding the tie between his fingers like it was something poisonous, “has been a symbol of everything I let take over my life. Everything I let hurt us.” His voice wavered, but his gaze was firm as he looked at me. “I thought us keeping it would be a reminder of what we’d overcome, but it’s only become a weight. On me, on us.”

I watched, frozen, as he walked toward the window, his movements deliberate. He unlocked the latch and pushed the window open, letting the cool sea breeze fill the room.

Nicholas held the tie out over the edge, his fingers gripping it tightly as he looked back at me. “We don’t need this anymore. Not in my pocket, not in our life.”

Before I could respond, he let it go. The tie fluttered in the breeze, a streak of crimson against the night sky, before disappearing into the distance. My heart felt like it stopped for a moment as I watched it vanish, and then, like the rush of air after holding your breath too long, I felt something inside me loosen.

Nicholas turned back to me, his face soft but serious. “I can’t erase what this role has done, what it’s taken from us. But I can promise you that moving forward, we rebuild together. On our terms, and neither of our work is going to disrupt that.”

Tears streamed down my face, but for the first time in what felt like weeks, they weren’t tears of exhaustion or frustration. They were tears of release, of relief. I crossed the room to him, wrapping my arms around his neck as he held me close.

“I love you,” I whispered against his shoulder, my voice trembling but sure. “So much.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his forehead pressing gently against mine. “I love you, too. And I’m not letting us slip away, ever, ever again.”

The weight I’d been carrying — the exhaustion, the compromises, the slow erosion of my sense of self — seemed to ease, replaced by the warmth of his arms around me. Nicholas held me tightly, like he was anchoring us both to something real, something steady. 

The red tie, Bateman, all the chaos of the past year — it was gone now, fluttering somewhere out there in the night, where it belonged. What remained was just us: the boy I met on the beach, the man who made me laugh even when I didn’t want to, the one who followed me across the country because he refused to let me go.

I pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. There was no trace of Bateman in his eyes now, only Nicholas — kind, unguarded, a little broken but still standing. And me? I wasn’t fixed, not yet. There were still pieces of myself I needed to find again, pieces I wanted to rebuild on my own. But for the first time, I felt like I could tell him that without fear because through all the noise and the shadows, we’d made it here, to this quiet, honest moment. It was ours. Not his, not mine — ours.

[aychama]

So writing is really really hard and my friend adviced me to just give you guys my ideas instead of writing a big fic for it and Im gonna do that!

And gonna at the little bit of writing I did at the end!

Royal Au Narilamb's first intimate night together

-The kisses to give Lambert the crowns power brings them intimately closer as rime goes by, Lambert tries to initiate it more, make it last longer and Narinder never turns them down or pushes them away.

-Lambert is clearly in love but denies it

-Because of pent of emotions the intimate kissings buil up, Narinder goes to a brothel to wind down instead of risking it with Lambert. He thinks that it's unfair of him to put them in this whole situation in the first place.

-Lambert sees Narinder getting into the brothel and gets extremely jealous and angry about it

-Days pass, Lambert goes back to the land that was given to them to govern and ignores Kings letters

-Narinder visits Lambert in an angry fit, demands the reason why they would ignore a kings letter and threatens that he could send them to jail for it

-They get angry again but they don't have any crown power left in them because they used it too much after seeing Narinder in the brothel so they feel weak

-Narinder kisses them and gives them power only a little bit to keep them up and expects them to explain their situation after feeling better

-He stays in their place? Mansion? -Lambert is not rich idk what to call it, a big place where they govern their land- and later Lambert visits Narinder at night to finally confront him about it

-Lambert confesses that they were jealous and asks him why he would go to a brothel when they were right in front of him. Cornering him on the couch he was sitting in. He says "I thought you didn't enjoy our...times...together. Since you even said it scared you of what would happen if we didn't do it."

So Lambert screams with their face completely red. "Argh are you really going to make me say it?! I'm jealous ok?! You go and sleep with others and I... Do you know how hard it is to keep myself in check while kissing yo-"

-Narinder accepts the invitation. Lambert realises how much Narinder has been holding back as he hungrily kisses them, the two stumble to the guest bed and he rips apart Lambert's top.

-But just before they can fully get into it, the two half naked, someone knocks on the door and tells that Heket is on the move and their plan to take her down needs to start

-Narinder hesitates but after hearing Heket's name, he leaves Lambert

-Plot with heket happens and she dies but Lambert is injured

-Narinder does his best to heal them after they are brought back to his castle, to his room, they share an intimate moment where Narinder traces Lambert's fresh and old scars while healing them and in that intimate, alone moment Lambert asks if they are allowed to continue from where they left off

-and boom. They share a soft, passionate and gentle night together.

SO YEA. Writing all of this would kill me so you guys have to wait for it to be turned into the comic!

Here is what I have written so far. I dont think I will continue but yea! Have at thee!

●

A kiss. It was supposed to be simple.

Lambert just needed to kiss Narinder somewhat often so that the crowns powers inside them wouldn't turn them into a crazy blood thirsty maniac.

When such a thing was on the line, Lambert thought it would be easy. A simple kiss with a King they were active betraying, actively giving out information to his oldest sibling about what he was doing.

To be fair, Narinder was attractive... extremely. To Lambert, at the very least.

And yes their heart fluttered everytime they saw him, everytime he touched them, everytime they stared into his eyes.

Everytime they kissed him. But it didn't mean anything.

The kisses started out simple enough even though it was hard for them to initiate it first because Narinder refused to "force himself" on them due to the nature of their positions. It almost felt like he felt bad about putting them in this situation.

It didn't seem like that when he was constantly sending them out to deadly missions though...

But still, kissing on the lips, although it was to transfer power solely, was an intimate gesture. No body could fault Lambert for accidentaly prolonging it for just a few more second, just a few more pecks.

Aside from the kiss, the power also tasted sweet so it was impossible for them to not seek it out. It wasn't their fault! And it certainly wasn't because they had feelings for him. No way! It was the nature of the kiss, doing something like that with any random person would make you act like this if you did it too much! Lambert was sure.

And it's not like he couldn't stop them either. He could push them away like how he did at the start when he thought they had enough. But as time passed, he stopped doing it. Maybe he didn't care anymore or maybe...

What confused Lambert the most was the anger they were feeling that day. When they saw him walk into a brothel.

They thought,

"Maybe he is here to gather information. Yea, that must be it. Brothels are full of pent up people willing to spill out all of their problems after all."

So they hid and waited outside.

It...took some time...

But when he walked into the balcony, half naked, hair messy with a smoke in his hand, it felt like a punch to the gut. Stronger than any punch they had ever felt.

It was the second time in Lambert's life that they felt this kind of anger. So hot their thoughts melted together. So hard their teeth must have hurt from the pressure.

But this time they knew not to stay and let their anger do something they could never take back again.

So they left.

Walked into a forest and screamed their lungs out.

And they cried.

They were confused. Why were they feeling like this?

They needed to get these feelings out. OUT.

They let excessive amounts of the power they were given out in a burst. It looked like a curse Narinder had shown them once. Crushing force that broke everything around them.

The leaves and dirt of the forest were tossed around in chaos as the rocks and trees were torn to shreads.

Their mind started to clear up when their breathing sounded less like a dying animal.

His lovely unpleasant voice rang in their ear 'You need to learn how to control your anger.'

They broke the rock in front of them into pieces.

.

.

.

When they came back to their King given land, it was Ruri who greeted them.

"L-lambert! What happened to you?!" Was the only thing they listened to. They didn't answer and just let her tend to their wounds.

.

.

.

It had been days since their discovery of Narinder's... whatever it was and their outburst to it.

They decided that tending to their people and their needs was a better use of their time instead of constantly feeling a mixure of intense feelings. They had land they controlled now and people to take care of. Something they weren't really good at.

Thankfully Ratau was here to help them.

"This isn't how you should respond to this request Lambert." Ratau sighed for the fifth time that day and handed back the letter to Lambert.

Lambert grunted.

Ok maybe working wasn't the best idea to get rid of their already existing negative feelings.

---

[ayyy-pee]

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝟣 - 𝒲𝒶𝓈 𝒾𝓉 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝓉𝒽 𝒾𝓉?

Discord 18+ - Twitter - Series Masterlist - Next Chapter

Pairing: Hotel Heir Satoru Gojo x Club Heiress Female Reader

Genre: Fake Dating/Arranged Marriage AU/Rivals to Lovers

WC: 4.4k

Summary: One unforgettable night out leads to a lifetime tethered to the one man you absolutely can't fucking stand. The feeling's mutual, but now you both have to find a way to make it work in your favor.

or

You and Satoru's parents give you an ultimate that you both quite literally cannot afford to refuse.

Story Warning: Fake Dating, Arranged Marriage, Profantity DUH, Gojo and Reader being fucking bratty and annoying, Slow Burn, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior. Smut Maybe? (probably), No Y/N usage here

Art by: nameissiyo on X

A/N: I don't even know how this happened because yall know I don't write Gojo LMAO. But here it is! Not sure how long this will be so bear with me because it's just gonna be a fun lil ride!

“It’s easy,” the man across from you hums from his end of the table, lips curled in a mischievous grin that has your skin crawling. “Then, after a year, we’ll announce that it just…didn’t work out between us.” He motions between the two of you with his finger. “You and I both get off without a scratch on us.” He shrugs, leaning back in his seat, confident as ever as he picks at his fingernails.

Disgusting. 

He adds, “Everything works out for us both in the end. My parents are off my back. Your dad is off yours, and they both get what they want. It’s a win-win to me! What do you think?”

You can’t trust this guy as far as you can throw him, and you know that’s not far. The man’s like ten feet taller than you even with your highest heels on! But what choice do you have in the matter? You have to do this. 

”No funny business,” you demand, eyes narrowed at the man. You mean it to come out more as a question, but the rise of your partner’s brows lets you know he’s aware that you’re not fucking around with this. 

And then his head falls back, a loud laugh bursting from his chest and you are tempted to sink into your seat when other patrons in the restaurant turn to glare at you both. He’s enjoying this far too much for someone who has everything on the line here, just like you.

“None at all, princess.” You ignore the pet name, rolling your eyes. It’s a promise that you’re not sure he’ll be able to keep. But again, you just have to trust him.

“You have a deal,” you finally agree.

The man leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, and you can’t help but to sneer in disgust at his clear lack of manners. How could someone raised in high society, the same as you, act in such a way? You wish you could wipe that cheshire cat-like smirk off of his face, but you keep it cordial. You can’t enter into this with bad blood already on your hands. This arrangement will benefit you both at the end of the day. You just have to remember that.

‘One year,’ you tell yourself. ‘One year, and you never have to see this man again. This will be easy.’

He reaches into his shirt pocket, pulling out an obnoxiously expensive pen, the signature Gojo Hospitality name written in a fancy gold font along the body. He sets it down in front of you, on top of the stack of papers you’ve spent the last two hours tearing apart meticulously, marking out anything you don’t agree with. He’d nagged endlessly about how long this was taking, like he had anywhere more important to get to. 

You’re sure he took you for some bimbo ready to jump at the chance to marry the only son and heir to the Gojo fortune. But you’re not an idiot. You’re an heiress yourself, so he doesn’t impress you. And your father raised you to know that when entering a contract, it’s important to read the fine print. It’s important to find any loopholes, anything that can screw you in the end, anything that can make your life hell on the off chance things don’t work out. Make sure you’ve crossed all your t’s and dotted all your i’s.

But you don’t see any here, you don’t think. So you reach forward, taking his pen in hand.

“On the dotted line, then,” he instructs. “Sign away…future Mrs. Gojo.”

𝓣𝔀𝓸 𝓦𝓮𝓮𝓴𝓼 𝓔𝓪𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓮𝓻…

Daylight peeks through the curtains of your room, the midmorning sun beckoning you awake. The birds chirp loudly outside your window. And you are hiding the best you can beneath your blankets to try and drown it all out. It’s far too bright. So damn bright that the sun is somehow managing to penetrate the fabric of your linens, and your head pounds each time a sliver of light touches your skin. To top it all off, your mouth feels dry, yet sticky somehow at the same time, like it’s packed with cotton balls. 

Water. You need water, badly. 

You attempt to shift beneath your blankets, only to find that your body feels like it weighs a ton. Even wiggling your toes feels like it takes more effort than you’d like to exert. Your brain frantically sends panicked signals to the rest of your body that if you don’t hydrate soon, you may die, so you manage to find the strength to crawl out of your bed.

Your eyes are barely open enough to navigate around your enormous room, enough to see that you’re in a hotel suite. You don’t actually remember coming here, but you’re not all that surprised. You had quite a night of partying and drinking with your friends. The occasion? Well, you don’t really need one do you? For you and your friends, it’s a regular Wednesday night. Either way, you must have gathered your wits enough to book a suite instead of trying to get back home to your apartment in Tokyo.

And honestly? You’re proud of yourself! Better than stumbling your way home, or trying to figure out how to call your driver to pick you up.

Clumsily – and through squinted eyes – your hands feel along the walls until they reach the refrigerator, where you hurriedly yank the doors open and practically rip the lid off of a bottle of water. The cool beverage breathes life back into your dehydrated body. You feel like what you’d imagine a raisin would feel if it could be turned back into a grape. The drink is so refreshing, your eyes are practically rolling into the back of your head as you guzzle down the icy cold liquid.

When the bottle is empty, you carelessly toss it aside, crossing the threshold to the sofa in the common area. But just as you’re about to flop down, the muffled sound of your phone ringing pierces through the air. It’s usually set to silent or vibrate, because you don’t particularly care to be surprised by the loud noise. However, there’s only one person in this world who is allowed to bypass those settings, their tone always set to blare loudly should they ever call. You follow the sound back to the bedroom as quickly as you can manage. Tossing your clothes from last night around and shaking out your garments, digging through your clutch until you finally hear the tone get louder as you approach your bed. You lift your blankets, shaking them around until the device falls to the floor, still screaming that damn ringtone. You press the answer button, putting the phone to your ear.

”Hi, Daddy,” you sing into the receiver, hoping technology hasn’t advanced enough that he can smell the vodka on your breath, hear the way you’re struggling to catch your breath.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Your dad’s deep voice hums from the other side, and you breathe a sigh of relief when his voice sounds at ease. “Where are you?”

You frown, pursing your lips together. “What do you mean?”

You can hear that your dad is out from the commotion on the other side. If you had to bet, you’d say he was at a restaurant given the way he’s quietly muttering something to someone. 

“You were supposed to—“

It clicks for you then.

”Meet you for breakfast,” You finish his sentence. “Oh my god, Daddy. I’m so sorry. I’m late! I can be there in like…” you check your phone for the time. “about an hour if you give me time to get home and change!”

Your dad sighs, long and hard, exhausted. That safety you felt only a moment ago has now dissipated. And you know you are in deep shit, for whatever reason. You close your eyes, trying to calm the pounding against your skull.

“Perhaps transportation has advanced overnight,” he hums. “Can you make it from Seoul to Tokyo in an hour?” He questions bitterly.

”Seoul?!”

You scurry over to your hotel window, wincing when you pull the curtains wide open and the sun smacks you painfully in the face. When your vision clears and the urge to vomit isn’t as strong, you’re finally able to make out the foreign symbols along the skyscrapers and businesses of Seoul, South Korea.

The events of last night flood back to your memory.

You and your friends at your usual booth at one of your family’s many Tokyo nightclubs, Club Echo - Roppongi. Bottles on bottles of alcohol being brought to your table. Flashing lights. Sweaty bodies on the dance floor. Free food and drinks for everyone, the perk of being the daughter of the man who owns this very club.

“We should go somewhere!” Your best friend Shoko slurs into your ear as she leans across your booth. You hook a finger into the loose strap of her dress and pull the neckline up. Her breasts are one wrong move away from being on the front page of the Jujutsu Social tomorrow morning.

Beside her, your other friend Utahime nods excitedly, downing her drink. “Yeah! We should go somewhere else!”

You nod too, your brain sloshing around in your head, right along with the liquor. “Okay! But where, though?” 

Shoko and Utahime huddle together, whispering and giggling drunkenly and you wait, eyes roaming the club. It’s packed to capacity and for some reason the sight fills you with a sense of pride. Not that you had literally anything to do with it. No, that was all dad. You show up with your friends, get some pictures snapped of you, eat and drink to your heart’s content and then check to make sure any photos of you that ended up on whatever gossip blog look good.

And any that don’t, well, they’d be speaking to your attorney very soon.

The life of an heiress is so hard sometimes.

Shoko and Utahime spin around in tandem, large smiles beaming on their faces. “Seoul!” They cry in unison.

“Like…Korea, Seoul?”

“Yes! We can finally check out the new Club Echo there! We haven’t been yet,” Utahime whines. Her pink cheeks practically glow in the dark as she sticks her bottom lip out in a pleading face. It makes you want to laugh because it’s just so cute. But still! You’re not going to give in that easily.

“It’s like one in the morning!” You argue, your mind trying to fight the liquor that’s trying its damndest to make you give in. “By the time we get there, it’ll be closed.”

Shoko sighs your name, the disappointment clear in her voice. “You own the place, ___. All it takes is one call from you and you’re good! You know management is new and will be practically begging to score points with your dad! The staff will wait for you!”

“Also!” Utahime practically screams. Then she lowers her voice, leaning closer to you and Shoko as she whispers. “What if you run into Jungkook there?”

Shoko gasps, like it’s a scandal waiting to happen. “I heard he has the biggest crush on youuuuu,” she sings.

Your lips purse together, doing your best to let what Shoko says sink in. The sober part of you in the very deepest and darkest depths of your mind is fighting for its fucking life to get to the surface, screaming “Don’t do it! Dad is going to kill you!”

But the drunk part of you is fighting back just as hard, and it came ready to beat your ass. “But Jungkook! Also…chartering a private plane would be so fun!” Your brain argues. “That’s the point of having all this money, right? To do what you want! And to see Jungkook!”

The bumping of the music is making you feel dizzy, and the giggles and chants to “do it, do it, do it” coming from your two friends aren’t helping. If anything, it’s just making the alcohol set in even worse.

It’s just one night. Your pilot wouldn’t mind getting up and flying you and your friends out. You already know he’d be happy to get a call from you this late at night. In fact, you’re pretty sure he’d be thrilled because despite him being married with two kids and one on the way, you’re positive he’s got the hots for you.

“Call me any time, Ms. ___. I’d happily pick up the phone for you,” he’d told you with a wink after you’d made him fly you last minute to Coachella. You’d apologized profusely because you had no idea his daughter’s dance recital was happening at that time. To be fair, he didn’t tell you until you’d landed in California either!

So you pull out your phone, grinning wide as you tell your girls, “Looks like we’re going to Seoul!” They cheer happily, chanting “Jungkook, Jungkook, Jungkook!” before ordering another round of shots as you make a call to your pilot and driver.

It’s just one night. You’ll be back tomorrow. How much trouble could you possibly get into anyway?

- - - - - -

Turns out you could get into a whole lot of fucking trouble. 

You stand in your father’s office, squirming in your designer heels that cost a fortune, squeezing onto the handle of your designer bag that cost even more of a fortune as your father stares you down. You don’t dare meet his hard gaze, eyes glued to the chevron patterned hardwood floors in shame.

This tension couldn’t even be cut with a chainsaw, you think. The silence is absolutely deafening, and you think that if someone focused hard enough, they would hear your heart hammering in your chest, and the vein in your father’s neck throbbing.

The flight from Seoul back to Tokyo was long and terrifying. The closer you came to approaching the city, the more sick you felt. And by no fault of the liquor. Shoko and Utahime’s drivers picked them up from the hangar space, both of them about ready to keel over and having to be practically carried to their cars.

You on the other hand, your chauffeur was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Nanami?” You ask the flight attendant waiting at the end of the plane’s steps. Your brows pull together in confusion as you scan the area. Your driver is never late. It’s one of your pet peeves about each other, really. He’s meticulous, always on time, while you’re always running behind because why not? Sometimes you get caught up in things! It’s literally his job to wait for you, anyway.

But still, this is strange. The young blonde man is usually standing beside your car, with the door held open for you while he mumbles about how you need to work on being more punctual and considerate of others, that he doesn’t get paid enough to be waiting on you.

It’s a lie. You and Nanami are around the same age, and you know damn well he keeps this job because it’s easy and you pay him more than well enough. You even grab drinks together some nights. He’s more than your driver, he’s your friend (sometimes).

And your friend is nowhere to be seen. It’s just you, the flight attendant and the pilot who is on his way to park the plane. You could really use the support of Nanami at the moment, because you have a terrible feeling settling into the pit of your stomach. Which is justified when a car pulls into the hangar space, a car that you know is not yours, and the flight attendant gives you a smile that offers a silent “I’m so sorry,”  before she speaks and tells you, “Mr. Yaga has come to retrieve you Ms. ___. Your father would like to see you.”

Your father’s chauffeur and a longtime family friend. He’s loyal to your father and your father only. 

That’s when you knew you were screwed.

The sharp intake of breath from behind your father’s desk makes you flinch, and your teeth dig into your bottom lip to keep yourself from trembling when he finally breaks the silence.

“Do you enjoy your trip?” He questions, voice flat.

You’re too afraid to answer, because you know he doesn’t actually give a single shit if you had fun or not. He’s irate. There’s no other reason he’d call you here. You do not come to the office to see your father unless you’ve severely angered him. Which is almost never, because your father just sort of lets you…do you.

“Well?” He asks again after a few seconds go by with no response from you.

“Yes, Daddy,” you answer quietly, fingers tightening around your bag strap.

“Did you enjoy the food at the club?”

“Yes, Daddy. It was very good.”

Your father hums, leaning back in his chair, and the creaking sound makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

“Good, good. And the staff? Did they treat you and your friends well?”

Every answer you give feels like you’re inching closer to your demise. You wish he’d get to the point. What is the meaning of dragging you here?

You nod anyway. “They were wonderful, Daddy. Your management did an excellent job selecting employees.”

You try to tug at his heartstrings, the ones that aren’t attached to you, but to the other love of his life – his business. Your father is a hard man who loves very few things. You, your mother, and his company. But not in that order. You’re fairly certain that at this particular moment in time, he definitely loves his company more than both you and your mother.

“I know they did,” he affirms. “The Seoul team is so great, they remained open for you and your friends to stay until the early hours of the morning –” Your father’s voice rises, echoing off the walls of his office, and you squeeze your eyes shut. “Until you finally stumbled your drunk asses to bed! Imagine my surprise when I woke up alerted to the fact that your plane was taking off in the middle of the night, jet setting to wherever the hell you deem appropriate or fun at the time. But no…no, ___,” your father spits your name like it’s bitter. “That’s not the best part here.”

You hear his menacing tone, can practically see the anger raging behind his eyes in your head.

“Imagine my surprise when I get a call from management of the Seoul location letting me know how much they enjoyed having you and your friends. You all were splendid guests, and they were grateful for the opportunity to serve you, the heiress to the Club Echo business…”

You finally gather the courage to look up at your father, a bit of hope in your eyes that quickly gets crushed when you see the tick in his jaw.

“Until seven in the fucking morning!” Your father is full on yelling now, and you see the vein in his neck protruding, hard and pulsing. He’s about to blow a gasket, do something irrational. Now’s your chance to speak up for yourself!

“Daddy, I can explain–”

“Quiet!” He barks, and you zip your fucking lip.

Your father stands, taking his time coming around to stand in front of his desk where he leans against the edge. He folds his arms across his chest, not a hint of forgiveness in his eyes.

You’re so fucked and you know it.

What’s your punishment going to be? Is he taking away your black card? It would be a struggle, but you could survive. Banning you from the club for a month? Sure, that would suck, but you’d survive! Firing your pilot? Honestly, that would be a plus. Make you return that really expensive painting you just had delivered last weekend? Okay, no big deal! All of these punishments are reasonable, you think. As long as you got them back – minus the pilot, you’d be fine!

Your father stares you down with more anger and frustration than you’ve ever seen him aim towards you. Your knees threaten to buckle beneath the weight of his glare and you wish you had worn more sensible shoes. Not that it would make much difference. WIth the way your father doesn’t seem to be giving into your pout and watery eyes, you think you’d be shaking even if you were barefoot.

Your father pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing harshly as he closes his eyes. “You know you’re on the Jujutsu Social?”

Jujutsu Social?

That shitty blog that posts about nothing but gossip, drama and socialite’s lives? You’ve never paid it much mind. You’ve been on there plenty of times.

‘Club Echo Heiress’ Walk of Shame! Cast Your Votes on Who the Lucky Man Was!’

‘Spotted! Club Echo Heiress seen getting very cozy with up and coming rock star, Suguru Geto. Could they be the new it couple?’

‘Does She Ever Get Tired? Heiress of Club Echo Seen Partying in Bangkok!’

Blog posts about you are nothing new. You read them like the morning newspaper, then go on about your day. But it must have been something particularly awful for your father to be so upset about it.

“That blog is a piece of shit,” you tell him, trying to calm his temper even a little. “I’ll send those posts over to the lawyer and I’ll own the blog by this afternoon, if you want.”

Your father scoffs, his anger rising again. “Why? So you can drag its name through the mud like you’re doing mine?”

Okay, so maybe that was the wrong move. “That’s not what I meant, Daddy. I just meant–”

“You know what they’re saying about you now?” Your father chuckles dryly. “I don’t typically pay any mind to these blogs, you know? But I think they hit the mark on this one. Want to hear what they said?” 

Tears form along your waterline, the fake amusement in your father’s tone, making you want to crawl into a hole. 

“You are a spoiled brat,” he tells you anyway when you don’t reply, emphasizing the insult. “Keeping your pilot on standby so you can fly from one country to another overnight just because you feel like it,” he lists. “Going to the new restaurant your daddy opened, because of course you can. And this one’s my favorite,” he whispers angrily. “Taking advantage of the employees that have their own lives and families to go home to, overworking them so that you and your friends can drink and dance to your heart's content. Just the three of you.”

“I’m so sorry, Daddy,” you whimper, biting down on your trembling lip as you step closer.

Your father tilts his head, seemingly confused at where these tears are coming from and it stops you in your tracks. “Oh no…No, sweetheart. Don’t cry...” His soothing tone…you almost want to fall for it, but you know your father. He’s not done. “Don’t cry now, just because you’re in trouble.”

He stands from his desk, closing the distance between you two. He takes your hand in his, hard and calloused, his hard work over decades evident as he holds your soft and smooth one that has never seen a hard day's work in its life. “I’ve been waiting, hoping that my only daughter finally gets her shit together. Hoping that maybe you’ll want to learn the ropes of the business. But that doesn’t seem so. Doesn’t seem like you want to do anything but spend the money that I’ve worked so hard for.” He sighs, just so tired of you and your antics. 

He gazes into your eyes, almost in pity and you see your dad there. Not your father, who is the strict businessman that was just standing before you. But your dad, who held you and kissed your cuts and scrapes, who helped you learn to read and tie your shoes, who gave you all that you could ever ask for. Then he’s gone, replaced by your father who drops your hand and leaves you standing in the middle of his office as he wanders over to the floor to ceiling windows of his office. He holds his hands behind his back as he takes in the Tokyo skyline. “The blogs are right. I’ve been far too easy on you. Given you everything so that you’d want for nothing, and you consistently take advantage of me and your privilege. It’s time for you to grow up.”

You can’t bring yourself to speak up this time, afraid that just like all the other times, you’ll be putting your designer heels in your mouth. 

“I didn’t want it to come to this, sweetheart,” and it’s your dad once more, peering over his shoulder like it’s paining him to get these next words out. “I’ve been in talks with Gojo Hospitality…”

You narrow your eyes, moving closer to your father, because you’re praying this isn’t what you think it is.

“I’ve proposed a merger of Club Echo to CEO Gojo.”

“...Okay? What does that have to do with me growing up?”

Your dad looks you over once more, and you can see the love he holds for you in his eyes once more before the switch happens again, and he’s back in business mode. “He’s interested,” he states simply, but you know that’s not all.

“Again…What does that have to do with me growing up?”

Your father stares out the window again, not daring to glance in your direction. “You and his son are to be married in order for this merger to go through. Club Echo will be built into Gojo Hotels across the world.”

You think you may jump straight through that window and let your father watch you freefall all the way into the Tokyo streets if you truly heard him correctly.

“Married?”

He nods.

“To…Gojo?”

If it’s who you think it is – and you’re pretty sure it is – it’s that asshole that you despise from the very bottom of your heart. Insufferable, flaky, annoying, the list could go on and on for how you feel about Gojo, but there’s just not enough time for that.

“Satoru,” your father corrects you, confirming your fears. “Get used to calling him by his name. It would be strange to refer to your husband by your shared last name, don’t you think?”

Yeah, you’re gonna jump.

[deliciouskeys]

I threatened to write something for Butchlander week and well... I have written, uh, something. *skulks back into the abyss*

Written to accompany this wonderful art I commissioned from @semains whom I love dearly-- thank you for indulging my requests for setting and exact pose as well! Commission them!

Butchlander Week NSFW Saturday prompt: Roleplay/Roles. Because it might be the role of a lifetime for Butcher, but you know Homelander is having the time of his life pretending he can't escape / pretending it hurts sooo much.

(yeah, double dipping) Cozy Corner Kinktober prompt #5 Buttplug (sort of. I can't explain myself. I have no excuses. It might be disturbing, so apologies in advance. Pure Id, aka wtf).

My header is getting longer than the ficlet, gdi

"Harder." Homelander's tone is haughty and whiny all at once–  so grating that Butcher wishes he could deliver on the request. Who'd have thought that this grandiose straightedge little cunt would get so hard having a stranger smack him over and over? Who'd ever guess that this supe celebrity– maybe the world's most famous person, and definitely the darling of the American public– would be into this kind of shit behind closed doors? That he wouldn't be bloody ashamed of himself whisking Butcher off to his bizarrely decorated apartment every single night.  Bypassing all of Vought security, so that Vought's public enemy number… if not #1 then at least top 10… could make himself comfortable sitting on his bed. Not all that comfortable, since the bed is a strange upholstered leather number and stiff as hell, but Butcher supposes a supe might not feel the difference between this and a Tempur-Pedic.

He brings him here every night, and every night the script stays largely the same. Homelander plies him with some alcohol, sometimes a glass of whiskey, but more often just a bottle of Heineken. Butcher sits down, Homelander eagerly drapes himself over his lap, pulls and folds his cape underneath him, as if he doesn't trust Butcher enough to spread it out next to him. wiggling his hips, insisting Butcher pull down his pants and spank him. And Butcher obliges every time, even though it's clearly hurting his hands much more than it hurts Homelander– they alternate sides every night but Butcher suspects he already has stress fractures that don't heal because his hands ache all the time and never quite recover between sessions. But despite the pain, and despite the very little to no pain he's actually inflicting on the spoiled brat who always asks to be hit harder, there's just something irresistible about it. About finally being allowed to take out his aggression on the man he hates most in the world. The man he hates most in the world, who also happens to have a surprisingly perky ass that jiggles hypnotically if you hit it hard enough and just right, so Butcher hits him with his full strength not because of the cunt's whiny demands, but because he just wants to see the flesh wobble.

"I said harder!" Homelander's voice cuts through Butcher's thoughts, and Butcher can't help it any longer.

"You want me to hit you harder, you're gonna have to find a paddle."

Homelander's breath hitches and he says nothing in reply. No, this sick cunt clearly craves skin on skin contact to get off, Butcher already knows this, which is why he knew what to threaten him with to get him to shut up.

But he does wish he could hurt him. The achy joints of his hand plead he stop. Butcher stares down at the well defined muscular globes, skin turned a nice blush color where he's been hit but Butcher wishes he could turn it black and blue. Purple and green. He wants the cunt to really feel the intensity he's supposedly asking for, just to prove how wrong he is.

"I'm waiting," Homelander reminds him.

"Just taking a breather, alright? Enjoying the view." Butcher tries to squeeze a handful of flesh, but it's never as soft as it looks. "Look like one of 'em marble statues you got out in your lounge area."

Butcher hears Homelander's breath hitch and sees him take a peek at the mirror above, clearly checking himself out. This is all a game to him. It flatters his vanity that Butcher does this for him. Butcher would like nothing more than to turn this around on him, make it less of a game and more of an actual punishment.

A strange idea creeps in. Butcher leans back to reach for the Heineken bottle he emptied earlier and put on the nightstand, always on a coaster Homelander insists he use. God forbid he get a water ring on the antique looking furniture, with the creepy little cameo portraits of people who died last century. The beer is mostly just to take the edge off before Homelander lies down over his legs– he and Homelander mutually figured out the session goes better if he's slightly buzzed and maybe just a little numb to the pain in his hand. And they figured this out because Homelander happened to whisk him away right after he stumbled out of a bar on a late Saturday night, after which point Butcher understood that Homelander would come and find him wherever he was– even if he wasn't at home past midnight. It's sexual slavery, is what it is. Butcher would resent it more if he didn't somewhat enjoy getting to beat this cunt on a nightly basis before being dropped off at home.

Homelander shifts, growing impatient while waiting for another round of spanking to start after the breather. "Come on!" he says through gritted teeth, and he sounds angry, and fucking self-righteous, as if he's complaining about customer service he's paid for. It's not Butcher's fault that the cunt only seems to come after he's gotten spanked for minutes straight, at some point his body finally deciding that this is such an enjoyable moment that his hips start grinding forward into Butcher's leg and he comes, the same pathetic little hitched moan escaping his lips every time, the same toe-curling Butcher can see because the cunt does take off his boots to lie on the bed. Thank god he never pulls his pants far down enough, because he never gets any jizz on Butcher's jeans. Homelander seems to think Butcher doesn't notice, or at least they both pretend they haven't. As if Butcher can avoid noticing his leg being humped violently, wondering if this is the night the cunt breaks one of his limbs out of pure excitement. As if it's not clear what just happened from the flushed face and glazed over eyes the supe has when he rises off the bed, finally satisfied. But if no one tells and no one asks, it didn't necessarily happen, and both seem content to keep it at that. Homelander takes a quick shower and suit change before dropping Butcher off at his apartment, without any further ceremony or pleasantries, and by morning Butcher is half in denial about any of it even happening.

"Are you fucking deaf? Why did you stop?" Homelander says and starts to turn his head to look back at him, but Butcher shoves his face back to face forward. 

They have an unspoken agreement not to look each other in the eye when they're doing this, ever. Homelander almost broke the agreement, but obediently looks away again after the lightest push.

"Shut your fucking trap already. I heard you the first ten times just fine," Butcher growls under his breath, and his mind is made up about what he was hesitating to do. He forces the neck of the empty bottle into the cunt's tight crack, moving it around, looking for give.

Homelander's back arches, clearly not expecting the sensation. "The fuck are you doing?"

"GIving you something harder, like you were whining for, you spoiled brat." Butcher gives up doing it blindly and pulls one of the cheeks towards him. "Now where's your fucking chocolate starfish? You even have one?" And as if to punctuate that last word, Butcher finds the place and  breaks the initial resistance resistance, the bottle neck beginning a slow slide in.

Homelander breathes harder. "I don't like it," he mutters, and his ass flexes in protest.

"You better like it and accept it, or else you're going to end up with a pile of glass shards inside you."

Butcher is skeptical that glass could really do anything to this supe's internal organs, but it seems Homelander wants to avoid the mess anyway, and his muscles relax.

"That's right. Now stop whining and take your punishment."

He tries to push the bottle in even further, feeling more and more protest.

"I don't like it," Homelander repeats, sharply this time, as if it means something.

"You ain't supposed to like it," Butcher says and decides to finally smack him on the ass with his other hand after keeping him waiting. Butcher doesn't anticipate that Homelander's body will convulse, shatter the bottle, grind into him, and come all at once.

"The hell was that?" Butcher asks, pulling back the jagged bottle's bottom half that survived. Homelander's body is still twitching underneath him and he's panting. Maybe this was going to be it. Butcher overstepped the line. Homelander was probably immersed in some unresolved childhood trauma or fantasy or whatever the fuck about having a father figure who would discipline him with a firm but loving hand. This must have ended the illusion for him. Maybe enough that Butcher is about to meet his end– sometimes it's hard to remember that the whimpering quivering pathetic mess draped over his knees is the selfsame terrifying force of nature that can take out an entire army if he ever just chose to do so.

But the cunt won't even pick his head up. He's buried his face in the crook of his elbow. Is he fucking crying? Butcher wonders for a second if it's possible that he's actually fucking done it. Actually hurt him. Maybe a plug of C4 won't kill him but maybe it'll make him feel the hurt? A whole assortment of images races through Butcher's mind. He wants to try everything now. His crowbar, a bat studded with rusty nails, maybe the same bottle but a Molotov cocktail this time. Payback for thinking he can just force Butcher to indulge him, to make every night about getting him off. This opens up a whole new world of possibilities.

But Homelander stirs and starts to sit up, and Butcher winces and his teeth are set on edge when he can hear the crunching sound of glass grinding against glass, and tiny green shards start dropping out of him as Homelander tilts to sit back on his heels.

"That was— amazing…" Homelander whispers, breathless. His hands are folded demurely in his lap as if he didn't just orgasm to being diddled with a bottle of Heineken. "You want another beer?"

"No!" Butcher says, sounding more emphatic and more disturbed than he intendedto let on. "No, you sick fuck."

"Does your hand hurt?" Homelander asks, and it's without any impatience in his tone, maybe even a note of real sympathy, completely ignoring the insult just lobbed at him. Before Butcher knows what's happening, Homelander leans down and licks the hand that had just been spanking him. Butcher jerks it away defensively, but Homelander follows it licking it, laving each finger with his tongue before leaning into it with his brow ridge, then his nose, rubbing himself into it. It feels soothing and takes away some of the sore feeling, Butcher is loath to admit.

But he needs to regain what little control he has in this arrangement. "You want me to pet ya? Then lie back where you belong," he says. It's gratifying to see the supe cunt immediately obey him. He stretches himself back into his former position, and Butcher kneads the flesh of his ass.

"We can do the bottle again if your hands hurt," Homelander says, sighing contentedly and breaking the rule– looking back at Butcher with a look that is disturbingly similar to fondness.

"We can," Butcher agrees, trying to ignore the glass that's spilled out on the sheets and forget the crunching sound the bottle made when it snapped in half at the neck.

(AO3 link)

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

I don’t know if This is the place where people make requests but I was thinking Katsuki and y/n have been friends since childhood but as they grow up Katsuki takes the hero path and y/n chooses the villain path it’s like the 2nd year of UA Katsuki knows y/n is a villain and keeps it a secret she’s also in the class. I don’t know how much I’m aloud to ask but hiiii and if this gets picked thank you

ouuuu this is such an interesting request ! i luv me some angst once in a while ! this is also probably the angstiest fic ive written rn lmfaoo ! i tried to honour your request as best i could and i hope you like it ! (also yall keep enabling my katsuki friends to lovers addiction its not me its yall sooo🤥..) also here, reader’s family is part of a crime syndicate sorta like the chie hassaikai !

fem reader, blood n injuries, kinda angsty but i cant bring myself to fully write angst so take the bittersweetness <33 katsuki claims he hates reader but he doesn’t, reader has a sorta traumatic backstory but if u squint HARD, reader feels guilty, slight miscommunication trope, lemme know if i missed something !

"how long are you gonna keep doing this ?"

you're rolling up your bloody sleeves when you hear the question you'd been expecting fall from your best friends lips.

"what do you mean ?" you're playing dumb, you know it. and unfortunately, katsuki knows it too.

he narrows his eyes at you, you ignore him "don't give me that shit." he all but growls at you "how many more times are you gonna come to me all fucked up like this ?" you'd expected him to be louder, but you blame that on the fact it’s so late. angrier isn't the term you're looking for, you've known him long enough to know he's trying to hold back his anger. for you. you feel your stomach twisting at the thought.

"as long as you'll have me" you jest, smiling at him. you never took anything seriously. from the time you were kids until now, katsuki hates that about you. "you'll keep taking care of me, won't you suki ?"

you're spoiled, you think everything is a fuckin' joke. katsuki hates that about you.

he huffs, grabbing your outstrechted bruised and bloodied arm "i won't if you keep wakin' me up so late. we've got school tomorrow, you dumbass." his actions are softer than his words, like they always are. he cleans at your injuries with the med kit he has stashed away in his room for emergencies, emergencies being you. you snort and katsuki can barely cover the smirk growing on his face at the sound.

"you're such a goody two shoes." you sigh playfully, but your tone is more loving than playful like you'd hoped.

you'd been hiding your lifestyle from kastuki until you no longer could. coming to him one night heavily injured because you thought he was the only one you could come to, a decision you regret to this day, even as you sit here in his bedroom again.

you'd never meant to get him involved in your mess. katsuki, who's future was so promising. katsuki, who since the ripe age of 5 with starry eyes and bandaged cheeks proclaimed he would be the best. katsuki, who had wanted you to be together when that moment came.

but you had to ruin it. and you're sure that even as he sits there with you and cleans up your wounds, a part of him hates you for it. you don't blame him, how could you ?

you ruined everything. you always do—

you feel a finger flick against your forehead and when you focus again katsuki's eyes bore into yours.

"don't go zoning out on me, idiot. don't go falling asleep on me either. 'f i can't sleep, neither can you." you huff out a laugh at his petulant demand. you hum as he bandages your arm up carefully. " i think i can do that." you sigh.

"i wasn't asking." he retorts, looking up at you seriously "don't go knocking out on me."

you're left speechless at his words. because despite what he says, you know what he means. you've known katsuki for too long not to.

it’s stupid that such a simple sentence has you blinking rapidly, sniffling away the tears forming in your lash line. katsuki sighs. even when you tried acting tough, you’ve always been such a crybaby.

neither of you say a word as he finishes bandaging up your wounds. he insists on rewrapping up your hand and your heart squeezes because you know he’s stalling and it would be time for you to go soon.

it’s for the better, you think. despite your heart tying itself in knots, you won’t allow katsuki to get caught up in them.

he finishes and no words are exchanged. he stares at you, pleading for something you’re not quite sure about, or at least that’s what you tell yourself (you’ve known him way too long not to know what he wants). you avoid his gaze, your eyes growing misty again when you hear him sigh in defeat before he gets up from his bed and leaves the room.

while you’re throwing your jacket on and tugging your dirty boots back on (katsuki was a stickler about keeping his room clean) you can’t help but look around his room. it makes you giggle how he hadn’t really changed that much at all.

he’s thrown out most of his action figures but it seems he just couldn’t separate himself from the all might one’s. he’s still got the all might poster, his pride and joy that he never stopped showing off when you were kids. and then you see something on the shelf where he keeps all his manga.

katsuki walks back into the room and his shoulders visibly sag when he sees you ready to go. you don’t see it though, you’re focused on something on his shelf, he raises a brow.

before he can ask you anything though, you turn to him with a sly little grin, the grin he knows you have when you’re about to say some dumb shit. he hates that about you.

you’ve got a small rubber band looking thing pinched around your finger and katsuki feels his stomach drop.

"you still have this ? " you twirl the braided friendship bracelet you’d made for him when you were kids around your thumb and index finger, giggling when you see katsuki’s expression morph from curiosity to embarrassment. faster than you could blink, he’s already stomping over to you. he wobbles around a little on his bed to reach over your shoulder to snatch the bracelet back.

“don’t go snooping through my stuff !” his fingers are inches away from the bracelet when you switch it over to your other hand. a struggle breaks out where you push and shove at each other. you end up underneath him with him trying to open up your hand tightly clutching onto your bracelet.

“s’not snooping—if it’s just sitting out in the open !” you giggle. he finally manages to snatch his bracelet out of your death grip with a huff and a pinch at your thigh. you don’t miss the way he inspects it carefully before deciding it was unharmed and placing it right back where you’d found it. your heart squeezes despite yourself.

“either way, don’t go puttin’ yer dirty paws on my stuff. you’ll get your germs on them.” he snickers childishly. you’re just as if not more childish because you blow a raspberry at him. katsuki squishes your cheeks out with his hand in response.

you realize you feel a little too comfy, then realize you’re laying in katsuki’s bed and suddenly spring up to try and leave but a hand pushes at your chest, stopping you from doing so. “where the hell do you think you’re goin’, huh ?”

“home ?”

“don’t think so.” he utters simply, pushing you down onto his bed harshly “you’re not going anywhere.”

“katsu—“

“shut up. none of that bullshit you spout all the time” he leans down until your noses almost brush against each other, you inhaling sharply and katsuki grips the sheets next to your head “ if you get yourself in trouble again, i’m the one you’re gonna come bother and i’m trynna sleep. you’re staying.”

the asshole knows exactly what to say to make you feel bad, even if he doesn’t mean to. so you swallow the lump in your throat and concede “okay, fine” you nod “but i gotta leave super early, so don’t be surprised to see me gone when you wake up.”

“s’less trouble for me if you are.” he quips. he’s mean, he’s always been mean. yet his eyes tell a different story. there he goes again with those pleading eyes. the ones that make you want to spill your entire heart and more, to give your life and soul to him. you turn your face away from him.

“stop that.” he whispers, nosing at your neck, your heartbeat picks up and his does too.

“stop what ?” you're playing dumb, you know it. and unfortunately, katsuki knows it too.

“stop trying to act all hard. you know i won’t fall for that shit. those other extra’s might, but i won’t.” he’s awfully quiet. it almost gives you whiplash how he’d went from wrestling you to doing..whatever this was. you don’t mind, despite yourself. “known you too fuckin’ long, unfortunately.”

“yeah” you choke out “yeah, unfortunately.” you feel tears burning in your eyes but you refuse to let them fall, that’d be unfair. you’re not allowed to be upset over something you’d caused.

“for fucks sake’s, yn” katsuki goes from gripping his sheets to gripping your wrists, you close your eyes. “ just—fuckin’—“

“i’m sorry.” you whimper, he pauses.

“i’m sorry, i shouldn’t have come tonight, or any other night” you sniffle “i should’ve—you should’ve forgotten about me.”

you’re babbling, you always do when you get in your own head. when you refuse to tell him what’s bothering you, determined to do everything yourself, katsuki hates that about you. though it’s something he can’t really get too angry at you for, cus he does it too.

you’re babbling and you’re crying like you always do because you’re a crybaby despite acting like you’re not, and katsuki hates that about you. that’s why he sighs and flips you both over so you’re laying on top of him. immediately despite your better judgment, despite claiming he should’ve forgotten you, you cling to him like he’ll disappear if you don’t.

you’re clingy. you’ve always clung to him. you’re annoying, spoiled and bratty. you make dumb jokes and you never take anything seriously and you cry easily and katsuki tells himself he hates all of that about you.

because it’s easier to say than admit he’s hopelessly in love with you.

he doesn’t care about waking up late to treat your wounds, he’d stay up all night even if it meant fucking up his sleep schedule just to take care of you. he’d give everything he has just to hear you giggle at your own stupid jokes and he’d offer up every limited edition all might figure he has just to stay here and bicker with you over nothing. he’d always comfort you cus you cry easily and he wants to breathe the same air you do constantly, he’d swallow you whole and keep you safe right next to his heart if he could.

you’re clingy, annoying, spoiled and bratty and all of the above but katsuki would do absolutely anything for you.

so he comforts you as you lay crying into his chest. apologizing about something he has no idea about. he’ll ask and he knows you won’t answer him, but he doesn’t care. as long as you’re here.

you fall asleep soon after and you’re still clutching onto him. he reciprocates by holding onto you just as tightly, hoping it keeps you safe as you dream. it’s a stupid thought, he thinks. but it seems you’ve gone and wiped your germs onto his heart.

“you drive me fuckin’ crazy.” he whispers into the air. you’re still wrapped up snuggly in his embrace and his black sheets. in his room where you’d spent the majority of your childhood together. until you came to him with a snotty nose and big wet eyes and told him you weren’t allowed to come play at his house anymore.

fate must think it’s so fucking funny, because despite you not coming over anymore you’d ended up going to the same school every year afterwards, even now ending up in the same class. and with you sneaking into his room almost every night to have him clean up your injuries.

he knows you’ll be gone in the morning, somehow untangling yourself from his snake like grip. with tired eyes and some treat from that coffee shop you know he likes, your stupid way of apologizing to him. katsuki wants to tell you you don’t have to do that because he’d forgive any crime you commit. he’ll turn a blind eye to whatever you do even though he’s studying to do the exact opposite because it’s you and he loves you. but you’ll get in your own head and start assuming stuff. so he accepts your chocolate covered croissants and splits both with you.

you must’ve hit your head extra hard during your late night excursion to think katsuki would ever forget about you. you’re stupid that’s for sure, and katsuki wants to say he hates that about you. but that’d make him stupid too.

[daydreams-after-dark]

Hiya! I think I found the "ask" button! :D I'm dropping my favourite suggestion here, hehe...

You could write about a bad cop/good cop Han/Minho (Han being the good cop and Minho de bad?) And of course, ending in an endless make out session and "fuck-time" in the interrogation room.

Have a bood day/night/afternoon! ♥

This scenario is a fucking dream!!! Thank you for putting this idea to me. I love it. I love it so much. I hope my take on it is to your liking 😘😘😘

I’ve had a few police officer!skz asks and I’m having so much fun imagining all the filthy things that are being sent my way.

I’ve already written sub police officer Han here.

CW: detective/interrogation role play (not established or clarified, but as the writer I’ve decided that is what’s happening), CNC (established off-screen and not referenced in the story). Implied established safeword (not used). Unprotected rough sex, oral sex, orgasms.

🚨🚨🚨🚨

"TELL US!" Detective Lee practically spits in your face. "You know where they're hiding, and you're going to tell us right now." He leans in close to your ear. "Or else." he adds venomously, then stands back against the cinder blocks of the interrogation room, arms crossed.

"Look, Miss." The other man, Detective Han, sighs. "Just tell us and your sentence will be reduced."

"I'm scared." You say desperately. "What they'll do if they find out I-"

Lee scoffs and you pout, turning back at Han.

"We'll protect you." Han almost reaches across to hold your hands, but the weight of Minho's stare makes him think twice. “All you have to do is give us a location.” He says softly.

You shake your head and wring your hands together.

“I think she’s going to need a special kind of convincing.” Lee raises an eyebrow.

Han slowly turns his head towards Minho. “Detective. I’m not sure that’s style of interrogation is appropriate.”

“Well where has being nice got you?” He retorts, storming over to you and pulling you up roughly by your flimsy satin top.

"Now, little Miss," he growls slamming you against the one way glass, holding your arms behind your back and pressing himself against you. You can feel his erection against the top of your ass. "Just tell us the location, and all this stops.”

You turn to look over your shoulder, giving him doe eyes. “I’m never gonna tell you the location.” You say firmly.

The corner of Detective Lee’s mouth twitches slightly. “So that’s how you’re really gonna play, huh?”

He drags you back, bending over the cold, metal interrogation table. “Han. Handcuff her.” He demands, tossing his handcuffs to his partner.

Han looks down at the cuffs in his hands, hesitating momentarily before cuffing your arm to the table leg. He moves around and cuffs your other hand to the opposite leg. You pull and tug, but it’s no use.

“Now check she’s not hiding anything she shouldn’t.” Lee adds tugging your jeans and underwear down your thighs, exposing your ass and pussy.

Han gulps and moves behind you. He strokes your back gently, and leans over you. He’s fucking hard too. “Just be good and do everything he says. Try to relax, baby. Okay. Don’t be a brat.” He soothes as his hand cups your pussy. “You’re doing great. So wet already.”

You suck in a breath. You’re turned on. No doubt about it. You close your eyes as Han slides a finger into your cunt. “Have to check you aren’t hiding anything you shouldn’t. Shhh…. Stay calm. It’s all going to be okay.”

He inserts another finger, sliding them in and out of you. Wet sounds immediately fill the interrogation room.

“I’m gonna check your pretty little mouth.” Minho forces your mouth open with his hand and shoves two fingers inside. “Suck on them.” He hisses. You do as you’re told, sucking on the detective’s digits. He removes them before sitting back down to enjoy the show.

Behind you you hear Han unbuckling his belt, then the sound of a zipper. “Shhh… you need to stay quiet, okay. So you don’t get yourself into more trouble.” Han whispers, but his voice is strained. The tip of his cock slides through your dripping folds several times, before he pushes it deep into your pussy.

“Ngh…fuck!” You gasp.

“Now, what did Detective Han say, hmm?” Lee leans forward in his seat and pulls the hair off your face. “If you can’t be quiet I’ll have to put something in your mouth to make you quiet.”

But you can’t stay quiet. Han is fucking into you hard. Each thrust pressing you into the cold, hard table. He’s hitting you deep too. The kind, sweet Detective Han isn’t holding back. His fingers dig into your hips, and his body slaps against yours loudly.

“Has she hidden anything in her cunt?” Lee asks Han.

“I’m not hiding anything, I promise!” You cry. Minho raises an eyebrow, unamused. “I wasn’t asking you.” He snaps and looks towards Han.

“She is.” Han grunts.

“What?!” You lift your head in protest. “No!”

“Tsk tsk. Now you’ve made me very angry.” Lee says low. He stands and undoes his trousers too, revealing his thick, hard cock. You swallow hard. You’re nervous. But you’re also excited.

Lee steps towards you and tilts your head in such a way that he can rub the tip of his cock along your lips. “You’ve got such a filthy, lying mouth.” He whispers. “It’s gonna feel good around my dick.” He holds your head steady as he fucks your mouth. He’s surprisingly gentle and smooth as Han continues to fuck you rough from behind.

“Han, what’s she hiding from us?” He moans as his cock hits the back of your throat.

“She’s hiding an orgasm.” Han responds. “And, she’s keeping all this cream inside her. Look!” He exclaims pulling his dick out and showing Lee.

The mean detective looks down at you like you’re pathetic and smirks. “Show her.” He snarls, withdrawing his cock from your mouth.

Han comes to stand in front of you, and you see how creamy and wet you are. His cock is covered in it.

“You have to clean it. It’s all gonna be ok. Just do as we ask. You’ll be fine.” Han looks at you with soft eyes. “Now…all you need to do is clean it up. Okay?” He pushes his cock into your mouth. He pushes in further and you gag. “Shhh…That’s it. That’s it.” He encourages you.

Your eyes water because he pushes in so deep, and he takes his time to pull out, making it hard to breath. “Yes, you’re doing really well.” He praises.

Lee’s behind you now, slapping your ass. The sound resounds around the room. He slaps you again and you sob around Han’s cock.

“That’s for not cooperating with an interrogation.”

Another slap. “That’s for hiding your arousal.”

One more slap. “Now you’re gonna come for us.”

He slides into your heat and your eyes roll back into your head. He pulls out almost to the tip and pauses. You clench in anticipation, then he slams back in.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come. Let me come in your mouth and I’ll promise I’ll put in a good word for you.” Han’s breath is shaky, and his thrusts stutter. “Catch it all for me…ngh… I’m coming.” Han throws his head back and moans as his thick cum coats your throat.

He plonks down on the chair, panting.

“Finally some cooperation.” Scoffs Lee, pounding into your pussy. “Han. Release her arms.” He orders his partner.

You’re swiftly uncuffed and your flipped onto your back. Lee pushes your legs up and squeezes his dick back inside you. Han’s at your side kissing and sucking your nipples. “You’re doing good. I’m proud of you.” He nibbles your breasts as his hands explore your body.

Lee brings his thumb to your clit, rubbing firm, rough circles on it. You close your eyes savouring every sensation that the detectives are making you feel.

You’re not on a cold metal table in a dingy little room. You’re floating, soaring higher and higher. You’re going to fall apart any second now. The tension inside you is about to snap.

Han’s lips find yours. Soft, gentle, kind. “I love it when you’re a bad girl.” He whispers and slips his tongue into your mouth.

It’s your undoing and you whimper as you clamp down around Lee’s cock.

“Fuck!” Growls Lee, pulling out and spurting ropes of cum on your stomach. He steadies himself, staying buried inside you until his cock softens.

“Now. The location. Give it to us.” Minho presses as he pulls his trousers back up.

“Please?” Han looks down at you.

“I said never.” You whisper defiantly.

Lee sighs. “Fine. We’ll be back in an hour to interrogate your further.” He says flatly, and he and Han leave the room, locking the door behind them.

Read unrelated sub police officer Han ask here

Read unrelated ot8 free use jail cell

@channieandhisgoonsquad @noellllslut @itsseohannbin @weareapackofstrays @3rachasdomesticbanana @palindrome969 @xxkissesforchanniexx @chuuchuu1224 @fun-fanfics @wolfennracha @rhonnie23 @jisunglyricist @strayywayy @armystay89 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @mylittleponeypinkrosieposie @kyunchoni @justforreaders @melochacco

@jeonginsleftcheek @meilix @itgirlalisaa @linocz @bubblebisk @boi-bi-ahaha @frozenpeasworld @grandma143 @milkypinkmimi @bangchansbbgirl @leefelixsslut @privhace @justforreaders @galaxycatdrawz

[wannabevampire]

omgomgomg poly!mattfrank x avenger!reader smut based on reader getting sprayed by sex pollen PLS PLS PLS this is getting me dead

i actually can’t stop thinking about this omg…i’ve never written a sex pollen fic before! (which feels kinda surprising because of my well documented desperation kink??)

18+ MDNI (sex pollen, hard!domfrank + soft!dom matt, degradation, dumbification, little bit of praise, desperation, edging + orgasm denial, crying in a good way!, squirting)

i am DYING to write poly!mattfrank because that would just be such a hot dynamic. i’m thinking soft dom matt and hard dom frank…yes please. they’d both be so good at degradation, but they would have entirely different approaches.

☆~Soft!Dom Matt Murdock

“Aw look at my poor baby, always so pathetic and needy. She just can’t help herself Frank. Desperate little slut doesn’t know what to do without us. Just need me to make all the decisions for you isn’t that right? It’s not your fault that you can’t do anything with that dumb baby brain of yours. You just let me and Frank to take care of you, okay princess?”

☆~Hard!Dom Frank Castle

“God look at yourself, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything as pathetic are you darling. Just a dumb cock hungry slut who can’t function without being told what to do. If only everyone could see how brain dead and submissive you get the moment Matt and I have you alone. Not so independent and demanding now are you sweetheart?”

and the way it would just get SO MUCH MORE INTENSE once they realize this is more than your normal levels of desperation and you’ve been sprayed with sex pollen.

normally frank edges you for a WHILE before he lets you think about cumming, this man loves orgasm denial because he loves how desperate and pathetic it makes you. but the sex pollen has made you about 50x more desperate for them than you would normally be after 2 hours of orgasm denial.

Matt wouldn’t even bother with teasing you, he can be mean, but not that mean. At the end of the day he still just wants to make you feel good and take care of you.

But if we’re being honest Frank definitely still tries to edge you. He doesn’t care how pathetic you already are, he wants to see how desperate he can get you before you break. But Matt can tell that you truly can’t handle it in your current state and puts Frank in his place.

The sex would be so filthy and desperate. Like the sex pollen would have you absolutely insatiable, no matter how many times you came you still wanted more. But you would be so sensitive and constantly on the verge of cumming. It would be so easy for them to make you cum and they would have such a fun time playing with “their little fuck toy”!!

Also have such a vivid image of Matt holding you against his chest while Frank fucks you. Matt would whisper praise into your ear while making sure you can’t run from Franks dick. He would stroke your hair, kiss your forehead, and pinch your nipples when he could sense you calming down.

“Oh you’re doing such a good job princess, such a good girl for me and Frank. Letting him pound that fucking pussy and taking every inch of his cock. Bet you’re gonna make such a pretty mess cumming all over that dick while you let me play with you.”

You’re crying at this point, completely overwhelmed with pleasure. Frank doesn’t let up, fucking you hard and making sure to hit your g spot every time. He’d smirk down at you, proud of how much he and Matt ruined you.

“Is my pathetic little slut gonna gush all over my cock? Gonna cum while Matt holds you and destroy that fucking pussy? Give it to me darling, show me what it looks like when a desperate whore cums after being fucked stupid.”

After so much stimulation and cumming so many times you can’t stop yourself from squirting all over Franks dick. Soaking both of you while he continues to fuck you through your orgasm. Not bothering to stop as tears stream down your face and you continue gushing on his cock. Your screams of pleasure muffled by Matt’s hand. Frank doesn’t let up until he cums inside you.

The aftercare would also be amazing!! Making sure you were as comfortable as possible and checking that the degradation wasn’t too much. There would most likely also be an extremely awkward doctors trip to make sure the sex pollen had no long lasting side effects and that you were safe & healthy!

..

Okay this is my first drabble in a while so go easy on me! not proof read so It’s not the best but I had fun and it’s SUCH A HOT CONCEPT!!! hope you enjoyed ☆♡

xoxo,

allie 🕊️

[runnning-outof-time]

Omggg congrats on 3.5k!! That’s incredible! Duuuude this short prompt blurb challenge is gonna blow up! For me, would you be open to doing one with Tommy, using the prompt sentence, “Look at me right now”? He sure can be demanding when he wants something lolol🥰🥵again, congratulations dear! You deserve all the love!

Oh thank you so much for sending this in @tragiclotus ! You’re so right - he really can be! I hope you like what I did with this, and that you’ve been enjoying the blurbs I’ve been sharing! Enjoy! :)

PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!

Part of my 3.5k celebration — find more stories here!

No One But You

Tommy Shelby x Reader

Warnings: self-doubt, worry of past lovers returning…nothing too major

Word Count: 1018

Summary: Tommy assures (Y/N) that she’s the only woman he wants after two women from his past reappear in his life.

She must’ve read the return address a dozen times. Why? She didn’t know. It wasn’t like reading it again was going to make the sender’s name change. But yet she did anyway.

(Y/N) knew who Grace was. She’d heard about her; knew what she’d done to Tommy and his family. So why the hell was she sending him letters now?

At first she spoke to Polly, who told her to hide them. As a clerk at the postmaster’s office, she’d make sure to bring any mail the Shelbys received with her whenever she’d come to visit her boyfriend. When she’d arrive at Watery Lane, she’d follow the older woman’s suggestion and promptly slip the envelope into one of the side table’s drawers; hoping that Tommy wouldn’t find them there. But they just kept coming.

And now as she was walking to Watery Lane with what was the fifth letter Grace had sent, she didn’t know if she could keep up with hiding them. So instead she kept it in her hands, re-reading it until she heard the door open.

She stood to her feet at the sound and walked over to greet her boyfriend, accepting his kiss and shoulder squeeze as a greeting. Tommy knew something was wrong the second he pulled away. (Y/N) wasn’t wearing her usual, welcoming smile. Instead, her expression was blank.

“Has something happened?” he asked her, his brows furrowing together.

“This came in to the post today,” she answered him, extending her hand to hold the envelope out between them.

Tommy’s brows furrowed deeper as he scanned over the words written on the envelope.

“Why does she keep writing you?” (Y/N) couldn’t stop herself from asking, desperate to know why he was still receiving letters from her.

She and Tommy had entered a relationship only five months ago, but she was no stranger to the life that he lived and the company he’d kept in the past. Tommy Shelby was sought after by many, and somehow she’d gotten lucky…or at least that’s what she kept telling herself. No matter how many times his actions reassured her that he was hers alone, that nagging seed of doubt still crept into her mind. Like it was doing now.

“I don’t know why,” he answered with a shake of his head, “I haven’t spoken to her since she left for New York.”

“She’s written to you five times,” (Y/N) couldn’t withhold the information any longer. Tommy’s brows furrowed again upon hearing her admission, so she decided to elaborate: “Polly said that I shouldn’t give them to you; that I should hide them instead. They’re in the side table. I don’t know why I listened to her. I just…I couldn’t bring myself to give them to you.”

Tommy looked down at the letter and back to (Y/N), seeing that she was now biting on her lip, a nervous tendency of hers that he’d noticed fairly early into their relationship.

“May Carleton also came to meet you last week…” she spoke again after silence had hung in the air for a few moments.

“She needed to speak about the horse,” he answered in a nonchalant manner, not thinking much more of the meeting he had with the other woman.

(Y/N), of course, was overthinking it.

“Hey…” Tommy brought her out of her thoughts, making her focus on him again. “I can see you fighting with yourself. Let those thoughts go.”

“I can’t…I just can’t help but wonder if maybe, if maybe that, that with them coming back…” she tried to speak but her mind betrayed her, and the lump that formed in her throat stopped her from speaking altogether.

Not much more was needed to connect the dots though. The clues had been dropped and Tommy was quick enough to pick them up and place them in order. “Those women are in the past, (Y/N). You’re the one I want,” he spoke with sincereity, hoping that it’d quell the thoughts swirling around her mind.

(Y/N) held eye contact with him until she couldn’t anymore. She felt those worries still bubbling up inside of her, even though he’d just flat out told her that he wanted her. She dropped her gaze to her fingers, watching as she picked at her nails.

“(Y/N)…” Tommy tried to get her attention, but to no avail. “Look at me right now,” he went another route, using his index and middle finger to raise her eyes to his again. He could see that they were watery now, and he hated that she was thinking so far into this. He took her cheeks into his hands, pulling her the slightest bit closer to him before speaking again. “There’s no one but you, ok? You’re the one I want to be with. You’re the one I want,” he reiterated his point, his eyes searching hers as he spoke. “Ok?” he asked again after she hadn’t spoken in a few moments.

“Ok,” (Y/N) breathed out, nodding her head the best she could with it held in his hands. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, hoping to steady herself. When she opened them again, they immediately hooked onto Tommy’s intense blue ones. “I’m sorry, Tommy,” she felt that she had to apologize.

“Don’t be,” he shook his head slightly at her statement, “there’s no reason for you to be sorry, love.”

“But I…”

“No,” he cut her off, “I’m going to burn this letter, and any other letter that comes. You’re the one I want, (Y/N).”

A small smile formed on her face at his words. She reached out and gently ran the back of her hand down his cheek, watching as his eyes dropped to her lips. Knowing what was coming next, she closed her eyes, leaning in slightly and meeting him in the middle, their lips finding each other’s in a passionate kiss that rid her mind of all of her doubts.

“No one but you, love,” Tommy whispered against her lips before kissing them again.

Tagged: @mystcldydrms @the-anxious-youth @cloudofdisney @look-at-the-soul @elenavampire21 @mrsalwayswrite @julkaamazing @evita-shelby @lilyrachelcassidy @notyour-valentine @shelbydelrey @theshelbyslimited @peakyswritings @just-a-blackhole @watercolorskyy @strayrockette @peakyduchesss @alexxavicry @captivatedbycillianmurphy @yummycastiel @dark-academia-slut @tommystargirl @stevie75 @lyarr24 @signorellisantichrist @zablife @anotherblinder @midnightmagpiemama @cillmequick @rangerelik @dandelionprints @letal-y-poetica @gypsy-girl-08 @insanitybyanothername @depxiety @raincoffeeandfandoms @dragons-are-my-favorite @youtifulsunshinelixfics @forgottenpeakywriter @cljordan-imperium @areyenotfondofmelobster @little-diable @thomashelbyswife @iambored24601 @shaddixlife

MASTERLIST

[hornyhornyhimbos]

"Wilder Than Any Eight Second Ride" ~ S. Harrington

Summary: At the annual Honky-Tonk Halloween Party, Reader and Steve find themselves having a little bull-riding competition. When Steve isn't pleased with the results, he demands a rematch… in the bedroom.

Pairing: Bullrider!Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,545

Content Warning: MINORS DNI (18+ content) unprotected piv sex, cowgirl activities, against the wall activities, creampie, bondage, marking a lil bit, nicknames (princess, sweetheart, baby, cowgirl; daddy once i think), explicit language, alcohol mentions since it takes place at a bar, lmk if i missed anything!

Extra Notes: i missed writing for these two individuals

Originally Written: 10/20/2024 through 10/24/2024

stranger things masterlist can be found here!

halloweek masterlist can be found here!

The air was buzzing, filled with the smell of alcohol and sweat. “Elvira” by The Oak Ridge Boys blared through the speakers, though it was barely heard over the crowd of probably two hundred people chattering amongst themselves. The annual Honky-Tonk Halloween celebration was officially underway.

Steve, as per usual, looked absolutely delectable, even in his cheaply made, party store costume. He used his hot-pink bandana to wipe up a spill on the bar, and something about the sight sent heat straight to your core.

“See something you like, Western Barbie?” he smirked, never taking his eyes off the spilled alcohol.

You met him with a similar smirk. “Just admiring the view, Cowboy Ken.”

Dark brown eyes finally met your own gaze as he finished cleaning up the puddle of beer on the counter. “You sure that's the only thing going on in that pretty head of yours?” You could tell he was already a little buzzed himself; his accent got thicker when he was under the influence.

“Other than how I'm totally gonna kick your ass at the mechanical bull riding competition?” you asked with an eye roll.

Steve met you with a daring expression, one eyebrow raised quizzically. “What makes you so sure you're winnin’? Considering I ride actual bulls for a living, I've got a little bit of a leg-up on ya, princess.”

You walked around to the other side of the bar, standing face to face with him and placing your hands on his chest. A gasp nearly escaped you at how rock-solid his chest felt underneath the jacket he currently sported, but you chose not to comment on it, considering how much you already inflated his ego on the daily. “Mmm, see, I also have a little riding experience of my own under my belt.”

“Is that so?” Steve asked, leaning down a little closer to you.

You simply met him halfway, leaning in for a playful kiss. “Well, what can I say? I've had a really good teacher.”

His hand swatted at your butt as you walked away, and the sound of Steve chuckling could be heard even through the chaos of everything else happening in the bar. He quickly followed after you, his long legs catching up in just a couple strides.

The crowd of half-drunk bull-riding fans cheered Steve on as he approached the mechanical bull. With a smirk, he climbed up, confident that he'd win this little competition between the two of you. “Start her up!” he hollered to the operator.

The machine started up, and immediately his hips began twisting in a way that should've been illegal in public, in your opinion anyway. One hand met his Stetson, while the other held tight to the handle of the bull. His jeans were ridiculously tight, showing off the curves of his ass and bulge as he rocked back and forth. It was dirty, practically erotic, and he soaked up every moment of the ride with his head thrown back. While he looked like an overdone version of a cowboy in a western movie, he looked like a damn good version of the stereotype.

“Think you can keep up with me this time, princess?” he called, practically grinding against the fake saddle.

Your scoff in reply could probably be heard in the parking lot. “You wish you could keep up with me!”

The comment must've been enough to catch him off guard, because as he laughed at your response, he came tumbling down from the machine and onto the safety mat.

He turned to look at the operator, who simply replied with, “Eighteen seconds.”

“Oooof,” you let out, trying to sound regretful. “Sounds like someone's slacking in their preseason. Your trainer's not gonna be too happy, Steven.”

He rolled his eyes, patting your ass again. “Let's see you do any better, cowgirl,” he said, lifting you by the hips onto the mechanical bull.

With a confident smile, you signaled for the operator to start up the machine again. You made a show of grinding your hips against the faux saddle, and in a similar fashion to Steve, your opposite hand that wasn't holding onto the bull flew to your sparkly cowgirl hat.

You whooped and shouted as you held onto the bull, your confidence never ceasing. All eyes were on you, though the only pair you cared about belonged to someone who'd seen these moves from you a million times. And just for him, you twisted your hips a little extra, all for his enjoyment.

Time seemed to slow as you fell off the mechanical bull and onto the mat below. Steve was quick to make his way over, offering a strong hand and helping you up from the floor. “Impressive,” he commented. “Not sure if it was enough to beat the champ, though.”

“We'll just see about that,” you replied confidently, turning to the machine's operator and asking for your results.

When he replied with, “Twenty-two seconds,” a pleased squeal left your lips. Your husband simply rolled his eyes, demanding a rematch.

With a shake of your head, you said, “No can do, Cowboy Ken. Results are final.” And then, “It's all in the hips, you know.”

“You forget who taught you that phrase?” he quipped. Then, as if just registering your first sentence, he said, “And final my ass.”

When you smiled about your accomplishment again, a hand swatted at your butt a third time. And then, a suggestive glint appeared in his eye as he whispered, “I think I know of a way we can have our rematch without interrupting all these people waiting for the bull…”

That was how you found yourselves wandering away from the party and up the stairs to your apartment, hands on each other the whole way. As soon as Steve opened the door, his lips were on yours, his hands meeting your hips and his foot moving to kick the door closed. As often as you and Steve were on each other, you couldn’t recall a time when the door had been closed the proper way.

In a matter of seconds, both your hat and Steve's had been tossed aside, along with his jacket. Your hands met his hair as he kneeled in front of you, making quick work of your cowgirl boots and nipping at your clothed thighs. Perhaps he should've been a magician for Halloween with the way he could manage to make your clothes disappear

He kicked off his own boots, a skill he'd managed to cut down to five seconds flat. While he worked on the fastening of his own pants, you easily slipped yours off, leaving you in nothing but a bandana, vest and a pair of lacy panties that left little to the imagination.

Steve groaned at the sight as his lips met your neck, the vibration sending heat straight through you. “You're so fucking beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, fingernails digging into your love handles ever-so-slightly.

“Even dressed as a party store Barbie?” you smirked, the sentence being cut off by a sigh as his hand moved to cup your clothed core.

“Especially dressed as a party store Barbie.” His thumb rubbed a soft circle against your covered clit, eliciting a noise of approval from you.

A moment later, his pants and boxers were shoved down and tossed aside, leaving him completely bare for you. He didn't even bother to undo your vest, instead focusing on discarding the white lace to get to where he wanted to feel you most. You couldn't help the moan that left your lips as the air hit your most sensitive spots.

Lips were on lips as Steve lifted you, wrapping your legs around his waist as he forced the two of you backward into your bedroom. A small sound of both pain and pleasure came from you as your back hit the wall, overtaken by another, hungrier sound as the head of his cock teased at your entrance.

“Fuck,” you whined, canting your hips forward. You were desperate, oh so desperate, for him to be inside you at any capacity.

Still, Steve wasn't giving in that easily. “Gotta beg for it, princess. Otherwise, I don't know what you want.” He knew exactly what you craved, but he could be a dominant asshole sometimes, wanting to see just how far he could push you.

“I want to ride you,” you said, the words coming out in a sigh. Your hands pulled his face to yours, your lips meeting in a needy kiss and your tongues moving together hungrily.

With that simple sentence, Steve shifted your hips and used the space to push inside you. Both of you let out a synced groan, your body instinctively squeezing around his length.

Teeth nipped at his shoulder, eliciting a rather loud moan from his mouth as you sucked on his skin. “As sexy as that is, you know I got that Calvin Klein shoot coming up,” Steve reminded you.

You smirked at the thought. Steve “The Hawk” Harrington, had been invited by the Calvin Klein team to do his own campaign. The shoot was in just a few days, the two of you flying out to New York bright and early the next Monday. Every time you thought about him in those signature boxers, posing by a poolside, you nearly started to salivate.

A wicked expression lit up your face as you scratched at his chest this time, another moan coming from his lips. Clearly he was enjoying the feeling, but the rational side of his brain took over as he thrusted into you a little harder.

“Baby, as much as I love- fuck- the way it feels to have you marking me up,” he started to say, hips rolling into yours all the while, “I have to make sure I look my best for the photoshoot.”

“I think you look your best when you're all marked up,” you pouted, feigning innocence. With another nip at Steve's shoulder, you scratched him again, just to see what he'd do. His reaction wasn't quite what you expected, but it was still welcomed and still extremely sexy.

His hand met your neck, undoing the bright pink bandana that had been tied there. In one swift movement, he had you on the bed, pinning both of your arms above your head. With a nearly evil look, he tied your wrists together. “Bet you won't disobey now, huh?” he remarked, emphasizing his win with another deep roll of his hips.

Despite the restriction, you still managed to meet his thrusts like your life depended on it. Steve's name rolled off your tongue like a mantra, your way of showing him how you needed more of him, all of him.

Steve wrapped an arm around your body as he flipped the two of you over, giving you what you'd asked for earlier. His signature phrase, “Giddy up, cowgirl,” tumbled from his mouth, those three words only fueling you on.

His hands gripped your love handles, lifting you up and down his length. The restraint only made the scene that much more filthy, whine after whine falling from your lips.

The smell of sweat and sex wafted through the air, the partying crowd from downstairs being completely forgotten as the scent overtook you. They could be right outside your door, and honestly neither of you would care. As long as you were together, your bodies connected in any capacity, you didn't care who was around.

One of Steve's hands stayed on your hips while the other snaked between your bodies. His thumb rubbed circles over your aching clit, his eyes hooded as he watched you near your release.

“There ya go, cowgirl,” he encouraged, his fingers and dick working in tandem to please you just how you needed. “Take whatever you need from Daddy.”

His praise only made you keen further, your back arching and your mouth falling slack at just how much pleasure he was currently bringing you. To the best of your abilities, you bounced on his length a little harder, mentally cursing him for tying your hands together when you so desperately wanted to be gripping his shoulders or his hair.

“Stevie, please,” you begged. “I'm so close, but I can't-” Your sentence was cut off by a whimper as he thrusted up into you.

He knew exactly what you needed, finishing the statement for you. “If you can promise to not leave any more marks, I'll take it off, okay?”

You nodded, but obviously it wasn't enough, considering he once again told you to use your words. Another plea left your lips, this time telling him exactly what you needed.

With one flick of his finger, he undid the fastening around your wrists. Desperately, your hands met his hair, tugging at the tussled strands.

A chuckle rumbled through Steve's chest, the sound simultaneously hot and annoying. “Not sure Calvin will appreciate it if I show up all covered in marks.”

“I don't know,” you managed to smirk, your climax inching further as you continued to take his cock as deep as you could. “He might not, but I'm sure your female fans will.”

Ever the gentleman, he just leaned forward and kissed your neck with a juxtaposing sweetness to the otherwise lewd scene. “You're the only female fan I care about, sweetheart.”

The words made you clench around him. His thumb caressed your clit, the movement somehow both sweet and dirty. You were so close, and by the sudden twitch of his cock inside you, you could tell he was too.

“You're so beautiful,” he repeated, his lips meeting your wrist with a gentle kiss. Despite the earlier urgency, the air now had a level of soft intimacy to it that you simply couldn't explain. It was like that with Steve; one minute, he was a desperate mess, and the next, he was showing you how much he loved you.

The compliment was just what you needed to push you over the edge, your orgasm hitting you like a freight train. Steve quickly followed suit, his seed filling you up just how you always wanted.

You both collapsed in each other's arms, his now softening cock still buried inside you as he held your body close. His lips peppered what skin he had access to outside of your vest, his hands softly caressing your hips.

“Steve?” you said after a while of just laying there, just being together.

He hummed in question, too tired to form a full sentence.

You leaned up to look at him, a cheeky grin taking over your otherwise blissed-out face. “Not sure if you tying my wrists together was the sexiest thing or the meanest thing you've ever done.”

Steve met you with a smirk. “Can't it be both?”

With a roll of your eyes, your lips landed on his, and in that moment, you decided if you were to die just like that, you'd at least die a happy woman.

“I'll tell you what, though,” Steve said, a tired drawl to his words as he pulled you closer. “You sure are wilder than any eight second ride I've ever done.”

“I'll take that as a compliment,” you smiled giddily, meeting him halfway for another kiss.

-> taglist: @dungeons-are-too-cold @rupsmorge @writer-in-theory @esoltis280 @liberhoe @wifeyreid @serenity-lattes-reads

[luveline]

More zombie au! Steve!!! Please! It’s literally so good I love how you write Steve all protective <3

thank you ♡ steve zombie au —steve gets sick. you meet a dark-haired stranger while looking for meds. fem!reader 2k

You compare your arm to the bottle in your hand. You've written a list of generic and brand name antibiotics in biro on your forearm, but they're smudging from nervous sweat. You're getting desperate. 

Nothing seems to match. You're shaking with aching arms and legs, fucking terrified as you sift through a floor of orange and white pill bottles that nothing is going to match your list, and worse, the pharmacy grows darker by the hour. You don't have a torch. 

Things are getting pretty bad at camp. There's not enough food to go around, no batteries, and now Steve's… 

A bottle slips out of your hand and knocks into another. You cringe and pick up the next. You've been searching for hours without sitting down, as hiding underneath the bottles is a carpeting of grainy glass from the smashed shelves. Three of your fingertips have cut and scabbed since you got here. 

"Fuck," you whisper, glaring at another wrong medication. "Fuck, fuck." 

Amoxicillin, ciprofloxacin, flucloxacillin. Anything to stop Steve's infection from getting into his blood. It's a gross wound, oozy and inflamed, and when you'd left him with Robin dutiful at his side his skin had glowed with heat like glass held in the centre of a furnace. Even with his eyes closed, he'd known what you were about to do. 

"Don't fucking leave," he'd grit out, fingers twitching up for your hand. 

You'd leaned forward and kissed his damp forehead. "I have to go. I love you. I'll be right back." 

That was ten hours ago at least. You have no idea what condition Steve might be in, so sure you'd find the pills and be back in arm's reach by noon. How sick can he get before it's too much? 

"Shit," you whisper, your fingers tingling. 

"What are you looking for?" 

You fall backward with a sharp gasp, pill bottles biting into your thighs. Your face swings around but the source of the voice is unclear, empty shelves and aisles either side of you. 

"Chill out–" 

"Where the fuck are you?" you demand, scrambling onto your feet with the use of one sacrificed palm. Glass like needles serrates your skin. "Fuck! Come out, loser!" 

"Hey, no need to be mean. I'm up in the ceiling." 

You look up. Peeking out from a displaced ceiling tile is a pale face silhouetted by a matt of dark hair. 

"You fucking little freak," you say, though you feel bad immediately. He's smiling and he isn't pointing any weapons at you, which is more than most strangers allow on the road. "Why are you up there?"

"I wanted to see if you had a gun, stupid." 

"You're stupid, stupid. What if it was in my bag?" 

"Point it at me, then!" 

You stare at him in silence. 

"That's what I thought," he says, framing a face in two hands like a baby angel on a gift card. "Can I come down or are you gonna keep bitchin'?" 

"Don't fucking come down here." 

"Or what?" he asks. 

"I'll get my gun out." 

"Mm, okay," he mocks. "I'll come help you find whatever it is that has your panties in a twist." 

"I swear to god–" 

"Listen. I'm a good guy, I swear." 

"That's what bad guys say." 

The stranger laughs a weird giggly laugh and climbs backwards. The ceiling tiles stress visibly under his weight but make no noise as he disappears from view. He swears a couple of times on the way down, unseen, before the stockroom door swings open and he appears in his intimidating glory in the doorway.

"If you kill me," you say, eyeing his spiked wristbands and the machete strapped to his waist with horrified apprehension, "my boyfriend will avenge me. Like, hunt you to the ends of the earth and slice you into little tiny pieces of vengeance." 

"That sounds like my kind of party, but your boyfriend has nothing to worry about. I got a girl." 

"Don't say rock and roll." 

"How the fuck would you guess that?" he asks, hand flying to the back of his neck for a bashful scratch. 

"My life feels like a shitty gimmicky horror movie, and you look the part." You bite the inside of your cheek. "I need antibiotics." 

"You and everybody else in the world. This for your vengeful boyfriend?" 

You don't need him knowing who they're for. He could be an evil guy, and the threat of Steve waiting for you might be your trump card. "No. My vengeful boyfriend left to look for cans in the shelter." 

"He'll be back soon, then." 

You take a step back. "I'll gouge your eyes out if you try anything, I'm serious. I don't care how big your knife is–" 

"I'm Eddie." Eddie smiles at you, shoving his hands into cargo pockets. Despite his weird questions and his choice of apparel, he looks less intimidating in the lingering light of the setting sun as it seeps between window shutters. "I don't want to hurt you." He frowns. "Any kind of hurt." 

"Can I have the machete?" 

"Nope. I can go put it down somewhere, though, if that's less scary." 

You shake your head, and with a great big sigh, lean down to sift through bottles. If he's going to hurt you, he might as well get on with it. The longer you spend talking to him, the sicker your Steve becomes. 

"You need antibiotics bad?" Eddie asks, his voice softening. 

"My best friend is sick." You toss a bottle, pick up another. "Infection probably getting into his blood. If I don't find something tonight, he's gonna die." 

"Well, we can't have that," Eddie says, crouching down to help. 

You sweep through bottle after bottle of things you wish you needed. Painkillers, sleeping pills, laxatives. Good shit, and nothing you need. 

"You know…" Eddie sighs. "I know you could lie to me, but is it just you, boyfriend and the dying bestie, or?"

You're not sure what the right answer is. Better for him to think you have an army waiting if you get lost, or better to hide them? He could belong to a cult of cannibals. Only… his clothes are squeaky clean. His curls shine with a gloss that comes solely with conditioner, which means he has the time and security to really wash things. 

But murders can wash their clothes, right?

"There's a couple of us," you say. 

"You're not from that place west, are you?" 

You put a pill bottle down slowly. "West?" 

"Yeah, there were people there, hundreds of 'em. We got a few stragglers, survivors from the fucking massacre that happened a few weeks ago. One girl said there must've been thirty, forty kids there, it's fucking awful." 

You swallow a lump. "Awful," you agree.

"Hopper says we can track down the people who did it if we just follow the blood trail," Eddie says, slipping into a theatrical bravado that won't stick. "I don't know… someone needs to stop them." 

You choke, "Hopper? Chief Hopper?" 

"Wait, you're from Hawkins?" Eddie asks. 

You give each other boggled looks, a thrumming hope building in your chest like a flickering flame in the dead of winter. 

"I think you better come back with me," Eddie says. 

"I need antibiotics," you say, wanting to explain it to him and now knowing how. Or even if you should. Awesome, Hopper's alive, but that doesn't mean Eddie's group are good people, or that they can help you. There's nothing anyone in the world can do for you right now if they don't have a handful of Augmentin. 

"You're from The College." 

"I don't have time for this," you say, half apology and half frustration. "Yeah, we were from The College, and now it's gone, and my boyfriend's gonna die if you don't help me find the right pills." You wince and snatch up another stupid bottle. 

"I can get you antibiotics," Eddie says, "but you're gonna have to trust me. Can you do that?"

"No." 

—

Steve wakes up two days later in an unfamiliar building. 

His eyes are made of sand, he can hardly breathe it's that cold, each breath as sharp as a needle as he sucks it in, but there's a roof over his head, a blanket over his chest, and your voice, your laugh rings like a song in the air. 

"He didn't do that, you're lying," you say with a laugh, pulling Steve's hand to your chest. 

"He did." Steve stiffens at the voice. Deeper, rougher than yours. "I swear on my life, he jumped right into Lover's Lake and swam backstroke to prove he could beat Louisa Park's best." 

"Did he beat her time?" 

"No, but he had a condom stuck to his ankle when he got out. Wasn't worth it." 

"Steve," you say. Steve thinks you've noticed he's waking up, but you hug his hand with a sympathetic sigh. "That's so embarrassing. You better wake up soon, I have making fun of you to do." 

"I think I'll stay asleep," he says hoarsely. 

You gasp and choke his fingers between yours. "Steve?" You climb up onto the bed, your weight dipping the mattress under his back. Your hand comes careful and warm against his chilled cheek. "You're awake. You're awake?" 

He strains to unglue his top lashes from his bottom lashes. You beam at him, the little scars around your mouth from a cruel hand shining in the white morning light. 

"What time is it?" he asks. 

"It's, like, seven in the morning." 

"I've been asleep that long?" 

"You've been unconscious for nearly two days," you correct. 

Steve can't remember anything. He has the barest memory of your lips on his forehead. Robin splashing cold water on him and calling him an asshole, and then, much quieter, her best friend. 

"Where's Robin?" he asks. 

"She's being Robin somewhere, you know, she loves being helpful. The kids need help getting settled." 

"And you're being lazy," Steve pokes. 

He lifts his chin so your kiss lands exactly where he wants it, the stubbly space below his jaw. You wrap your arms around him and hug him severely, squeezing his tender ribs. 

"I wasn't lazy, I had to go save you by myself." 

"Save everybody," the familiar but impossible voice adds. Steve doesn't want to believe it. He refuses to. "Like, an entire generation." 

"I didn't do anything," you say, kissing Steve again, a short path to his chapped lips. "Honey," —your voice lowers, your confession for Steve's ears alone— "I'm so happy you're okay. I was really, really scared." 

Steve feels the weight of your fear like a dumbell on his chest, but he's uber confused. Propping his chin over your shoulder and hugging you back, the evil wound on his arm that caused this whole mess throbbing like fire under his bandage, Steve sets his eyes on the boy sitting on the chair next to yours. 

"Hey, Harrington," Eddie says warmly, eyes dripping with a put upon affection. "Miss me?" 

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Steve asks. 

"Saving the day, obviously." 

"I can't believe I found one of your friends," you say, sitting up a little to smile at him. You really are gorgeous in his eyes, better than any movie star. Your beatific little grin stirs something, but Eddie's snort stomps it dead. 

"We're not friends," Steve says. 

You stroke Steve's face with the back of your hand. "Don't be like that. He's really nice…" Your smile melds itself to a concerned frown. "I thought you were kicking it, Stevie. How's your arm feeling? Does it hurt a lot?" 

"It's fine," he says dismissively, wrapping his stronger arm around your waist. He's not jealous or anything, it's just cold in here, honest. "Munson, where the fuck did you come from?" 

"Right here, Stevie." 

"We're not far from the camp," you explain, stroking his face once again. "Or, we weren't when it was there. We're merging with this one to make a mega camp." 

"Why would we do that? We don't know that we can trust these people." 

"No, but we can trust Hopper." You smile. Steve knows things are gonna be okay, as long as you can smile like that. He leans his cheek into your hand, loved and relieved and– 

"Hopper?" Steve asks. 

"Jesus, Harrington," Eddie says, rolling his shoulders. "Keep up. If you can't comprehend the easy stuff, you're not gonna believe what we haven't told you." 

"What haven't you told me?" Steve asks. 

You push his shoulders down into the pillows. "I think you better lay down first." 

[flamsparks]

The Importance of Hate being an Option

From someone who's worst is "neutral" and struggles with that too

Numbers regarding how many players on average go for the evil alignment in RPGs change depending who you ask to. But there's a general consensus that they're low.

The fact that evil runs are often less rewarding (closed off quests, lost companions, and so on) surely plays a roll in the choice. But I can guess many players - like me - are just the definition of this:

I am the kind of player who manually saves before starting most conversations with companions, to try again if I fuck up the first time.

And yet.

How I missed the rude option (the real one, not that mildly-direct-still-nice bullshit that was the crossed-armed option) in Veilguard.

Not because I would have used it.

But because, certainly at least most of the times, I would not.

To get Dorian to bring you along to meet his father, you need to have a relatively high approval. And this makes sense. In that moment, Dorian is making himself vulnerable, and you find yourself in a situation where you can hurt him. Truly. You can be awful to him. And the fact that you can makes the whole situation much more real, and makes you understand why Dorian is so worried about what you’re gonna do. You can be evil then. And that’s why choosing not to be makes the whole scene so real. Because I had a choice, and I chose to be decent.

In DAO, you could choose to be literally anything and everything: racist, sexist, blasphemous, EVERYTHING! And you can choose not to be any of them.

The value of being good lies in the freedom of choice only an evil option provides. And the worth of loving is only given by the possibility to hate. One exists only as long as the other is an option.

There's a character in the franchise whose personality really gets on my nerves. I really don't stand them. And yet, can you believe that I love that character? Because they feel real. And that's exactly why I don't stand them: because they feel like a real person, a person I wouldn't get along with irl. And that's why I love their character, and it's one of those I hold dearest in the entire franchise.

You know you've succeeded in writing a character who feels real when there are people who love it and people who hate it. Because that's how people work irl. You can't like everyone you encounter, you can't dislike everyone.

There's ofc nothing wrong with having one or few characters who are just genuinely likeable. Varric was written the way he was to compensate for a group of companions who were otherwise perceived as too antagonistic, at least in the beginning of DA2. And even then, he was still no knight in shining armour. But there's a difference between having a few overall agreeable characters to smoothen out your experience some and outright avoiding any crease in every personality to minimise chances of disliking any characters.

When you write characters trying to make them palatable to everyone, you're inevitably simplifying them to give them only traits people will like and reduce their "flaws" to minor inconveniences at best. But a person's flaws are as much a part of them as their qualities. Again, remove one or the other, and what you have is an empty, painted-over husk.

And this is what I hate most of companions in Veilguard. They are bland, superficial, struggling for tridimensionality. And they feel so incomplete that not only I can't get myself to care for them. I can't even get myself to hate them. You can't hate a sheet of paper for being bidimensional.

I demand my right to hate.

To hate a character, an idea, a plan, an institution. I demand my right to tell people to fuck off, to tell someone they are an idiot, that their plan is bullshit, that I detest what they stand and fight for. I demand a chance to disagree and fight with characters over ideas and ideologies. Not because I would, but because this is what allows for a deep worldbuilding that feels real under every aspect, and gives you characters who feel like real people you can love or hate.

People had questioned in BG3 what was the point of forcing devs to implement evil choices when the vast majority of players wouldn't make them.

This is why. And I missed it awfully in Veilguard.

[tuliptired]

Ello! Hope Im not a bother, but i was hoping to make a one-shot request? I looked around and it looks like you are still taking requests as of the moment, very sorry if I missed something.

Anyways, if its not too much trouble, could you write Egon Spengler x Baker Y/N? I think that would be a fun dynamic!

If thats not to your liking, what about Egon x Shy Y/N?

Love your works, I check the ghostbusters tag daily to see if youve written anything new. Thank you so much, love ya have a great day and night!!!

How Sweet It Is (To be Loved by You)

Pairing: Egon Spengler/Baker!GN!Reader

It's never too much trouble...no idea if I've used this gif before

did yall hear about the SNL biopic btw oh my gahh...

Better formatting on Ao3! (italics)

Your relationship started with a cupcake. As the story goes, told lovingly by your now mutual friends, there was a bust at a retirement home, and one of the caregivers insisted on sending the boys home with a treat in addition to the hefty bill. Demanded, actually, practically shoving a metal tin full of pastry into Egon’s hands as he attempted to discreetly sneak away.

“Jackpot,” Peter leaned over, happily surprised as nimble fingers opened the lid. The smell of sugary sweets wafted through the car, prompting Winston to extend his hand to the backseat, palm soon full of muffin. Egon was patient, letting everyone take something for themselves, before finally deciding on a blue-iced chocolate cupcake, sweet tooth waiting to be satisfied.

“Where’d this come from?” Ray, Peter, and Winston stood in the kitchen, confused at the spread of different colored boxes and containers. Upon further inspection, they were full of even more cupcakes, each the same blue iced chocolate flavor. Egon sat with his hands folded on the countertop, unfazed at their reactions to his display like any true man of science would be.

He made a tick mark on a long list of names, clipboard somewhere in the organized, delicious chaos. “If you must know, I’m testing every bakery in the area to find the one I ate that evening. I’ve yet to find it.”

Ray shrugged, taking note of just how many locations he had procured food from. “Not the weirdest thing you’ve done for a result,” he admitted.

“Good food’ll do that to you,” Winston laughed, Peter reaching over to gauge how mad Egon would get if he tried to take a sample from one of his possible matches.

Egon didn’t look up, flipping to the next page. “Go ahead, those are the rejects. They'd end up in the trash, anyway.”

Peter peeled away the paper, going through the motions of ripping the bottom of the cake and placing it over the top of the frosting. “Rejects.” he parroted plainly. “What’re you gonna do when you find the right store? Stand in the window?”

He glared up at him above his glasses. “No, I’ll buy a half dozen and go on with my day,” he unfolded a wax lined box, “so if you could leave me to my research?” Research being, going down a line of cupcakes. They each exchanged glances, before filing out. Egon could be just as tenacious as everyone else, when he felt like it.

Except, that tenacity wavered in the face of unfamiliarity. The only reason Egon was willing to go in your bakery to begin with is because the others had forced him. “Don’t be a baby,” as Venkman had put it. He finally found the match, in fact he had found it a few days ago. But he took a glance at the bustling establishment on the day in which he set out on his own, and got cold feet. Especially when he accidentally locked eyes with the smiling artisan while he just stood in the window.

His friends had managed to shove him towards the counter without a second thought. The same person he’d seen through the tall window was behind the counter now, greeting them all kindly. The bandana you had used to keep your hair in check must’ve been failing to do its job, evident by the flour near your temple, caught in a few strands. Egon’s fingers twitched.

Peter flicked him on the lower back when he failed to respond like a typical customer, making Egon come-to and clear his throat. “May I get a half dozen chocolate?” he asked robotically.

“You may,” you grinned at his grammar, “but, chocolate what?”

Egon’s ability to speak stopped short at his misstep, unable to let out anything but unintelligible stammers, and Egon never stammers. “Cupcakes, please,” Ray spoke up for him, catching wind.  

You nodded, moving to the display rack to place his order in a smaller, blue box. Peter wasn’t content with how smoothly this interaction was going as he watched on with a bored expression. “Funny story, actually,” he caught your attention through the framework.

You laughed at how it made him look like he was in a horizontal jail cell. “Yeah?”

Peter raised Egon’s stiff arm for him at the elbow. “We walk in one night and catch Egon with at least 20 different cupcakes, trying to find yours ‘cause he missed it so much.” he regaled.

He may have caught you blushing. Were you blushing? He shouldn’t stare at business owners when they were just trying to work. “Well,” you started folding the corners of the parcel, “assuming you liked them- and you guys are pretty important to the city…” You held them out to him with two hands. “Just take them. No charge.”

Egon felt like there was smoke rising from the top of his head, or the espresso machine, as he shuffled out, and you leaned over the counter to call after him: “Come back anytime, for whatever! On the house!” 

The rest happened slowly, but surely, and you enjoyed it thoroughly. On an earlier morning, you and your pubescent employee were handling the typical rush you got around breakfast. Between prepping, a small burn from the oven, packing orders, ringing people up, and a quick trip to the corner-grocery for more milk, you finally had a spare minute to breathe, both hands pressing into the counter.

A blur of beige and a trail of smog put an end to your mini-relaxation, and you hurried over to the door. “Stantz! Spengler!” you beckoned before they could turn the corner.

Like children, they found their way to your storefront, though Egon looked rather apprehensive with a used trap dangling from his gloved fist. “Good morning, guys,” you urged them inside, “did you eat yet?”

“We really should get going.” Egon said after Ray greeted you. Most of the sickly smell from the trap was left outside, and it was too covered up by the scent of sugar and warmth that everyone but you swore clung to the bakery for you to worry about it driving away customers.

You ignored his protests, crossing behind the counter. “Eat in the morning or you’ll crash in the afternoon,” you started pouring two cups of hot coffee.

“There’s no need-” you interrupted with a hand. “We’re fine,” he continued anyway.

Ray’s stomach betrayed his friend’s wishes. “Something small wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Listen to your friend, Egon.” you warned, adding a bit of whipped cream to both cups to literally sweeten the deal. “You need to eat.”

He frowned, but you didn’t care much. “We have a Class lll in our hands, now is hardly the time for-” you cut him off again, stuffing his mouth with a blueberry danish. As he annoyedly chewed, you procured a paper bag from the back, wrapping his hand around the handle.

“Too bad I already packed for everyone,” you patted his knuckles when he acquiesced, catching sight of what was inside with a small smile. “You’re crabby when you’re hungry.”

Egon opened his mouth to respond, but the contraption in his left hand started beeping. Are they supposed to beep? You’d never seen them do so before. It seemed as if the two experts themselves hadn’t either. 

You stood on your toes to give him a parting kiss, Ray grabbing both paper cups in the meantime before you could start shooing them out. “Go, go- don’t let that thing loose in here. And swing by later, okay?”

He followed your lips when you pulled away, but the ominous beeping drove him to the door and down the street. You sighed to yourself, already missing him. None of the regulars in your store seemed to pay any mind to the local celebrities- or the weapons they had strapped to themselves, as Egon floated in and out during different parts of his day at least once a week.

Egon knocked on the glass door, soft light and music slipping through as he got your attention. When you let him in, the distinct whiff of cookies enveloped him like the warm temperature of your little shop. It was his favorite part of visiting you, apart from actually getting to see you. “How was today?” he spoke over the soft jazz that you apologetically turned down.

“Better,” you were about to run a Crisco covered hand through the front of your hair before you stopped yourself, “better.” Egon only then noticed how many cookies you had managed to make for having only closed an hour ago. “I have more in the oven,” you said from the back wall with the smaller front oven while you hurriedly took out a hot tray with a mitt and put a cool one in.

It wasn’t just cookies, but brownies, sweetbreads, and cinnamon rolls. “Are you…restocking?”

You laughed, a quarter manically and another quarter incredulously, and started to peel cooked pastry off of baking sheets. “If anything, we have too much stock.” you paused your fervor, frowning at your display case’s abundance. “I’ll send you home with some- give them to your clients or eat them or something.” 

You were barely done shutting the sliding glass when you popped up, clapping your hands once and frankly startling him. “Pies! I know what I need to make now! I’ll make some pies and maybe a cake and we can head home.” Before you could disappear into the kitchen, he stepped in your way, two soothing hands on your shoulders.

“You’re stress baking.” 

Egon couldn’t hide his amusement at your familiar despondent expression, as if you were coming down from a high. “Was it that obvious?”

“Somewhat,” he stroked up and down your arm, steering you to the stool you kept tucked away behind the register and pulling up a chair for himself on the other side. “What’s wrong?”

He enjoyed the chairs you had because of their structural variety, and the fact they didn’t make him feel like a giant. 

You slumped your head into your since-dried hands, groaning out of frustration. “It’s just the season, I guess. A ton of people come by, bringing their dumb boyfriends-” you paused, realizing what you said, “no offense.”

“None taken.”

“-And they come looking at our stuff to see if we’re good enough for, like, baby showers and weddings and all that.”

A car passed by on the street, definitely above the city’s speed limit for a business area. “I assume that’s a good thing?”

“It’s great,” you sat up, “we want people to pick us. But it means everything has to look great, and we have to get ready for half a million custom orders.”

That would be a partial reason for the sudden uptick in inventory, combined with the pressure to make a good first impression. But you were working so aimlessly hard that you looked crazed, all by yourself. “Your employees aren’t willing to help?” Egon questioned.

You stood, addressing the heaps of different cookies, the only creation of yours without a home. “They are. But they’re kids- I can’t work them that hard. It’s probably illegal, too. They won’t be around for the next couple of days anyway.”

He could sympathize with your plight- backed into a seasonal corner that business owners just had to get used to. “I’m sorry,” Egon offered, “I’m not as skilled in your trade, but is there anything I can do to make it easier?”

You smiled your first genuine smile since he arrived. “There is, actually,” your tone was excited as you moved to the freezer, “just let me finish these and I’ll fill you in.”

Egon would’ve stopped you from continuing to try to work, but he relaxed when you brought out pre-prepared bags of icing and miscellaneous confectionaries, knowing that decoration was the more relaxing aspect of the art. 

He both sat in comfortable quiet as you put all your focus into icing, piping, and arranging.  It was pleasant, knowing that you had something so ardent that you cared so deeply about, even if it was dismissed as a mere hobby while you were close to collapsing to exhaustion in the bakery you financed on your own. It was a mix of career and craft- one of the many reasons he had grown to give you his utmost respect.

You were eventually done, making the task of embellishing countless treats look effortless. You handed him a cookie, which he gladly took. “I need you to be honest,” you counted on his affinity for sweets. He took a bite, surveying the dessert after the initial pleasure your baking always brought him.

“Raspberry compote,” Egon took a second, “and coffee icing.”

“Good job!” you scribbled something down on a spare slip of paper after springing the register drawer open. “Rating?”

“10/10”

“Honest.”

“That is my honesty. But if you wanted the unweighted scale, 7/10. The two flavors balance each other very well.”

You passed him another, which he promptly ate without being asked to. “On the crumbly side. Is that intentional?”

A nod. “A little less butter than usual. Old ladies tend to like those.”

He put a hand on his chin contemplatively. “6/10- marmalade. A softer version would get a higher placement, it would be a shame to lose interest from those who don’t fit the demographic.”

You copied down what he said, seemingly happy with any sort of feedback. “And here I thought I’d have to help you cross the street.”

The night went on like that for a while, and Egon grinned to himself at the parallels he had only just noticed- another mix of career and craft, now inquiry and indulgence. You looked like a proper scientist- or, a food scientist, scrawling down notes and numbers that he’s sure only you would be able to decode. He felt the corners of his face dimple in a familiar smile while he watched you- something he’d found himself doing much, much more.

“What?” you raised an eyebrow, suspicious of his joy.

“Nothing,” Egon excused himself, “you just look incredibly nice.”

 You squeezed the hand that he rested on the counter, silently appreciative. “Thanks- for that, and for helping me out. Let me get you home before you barf.”

He’d learned to live with the indecencies, helping you tidy up the best he could without breaching the system of organization you had. When you returned from the back with your personal things, he let you loop your arm around his for the semi-short journey home.

Egon only let you go so you could lock the door, and he stared at your back for the entire time that you did. “If I were having a baby shower, I’d come here.”

There were practically stars in your eyes. “Really?” 

“Really.” You planted a gratuitous kiss to the side of his face, before setting off towards his apartment.

Over the course of a few days, your boyfriend showed up earlier in order to take you into work, and keep you company as you tried to quell the impending anxiety. When regulars faded out and new faces came in- possible clients, you assured him with a non convincing tone that he had a job, too. If your ego was bigger, you’d be bragging about the compliments and inquiries your store got, not to mention the referrals to friends regarding special upcoming events. But, entrepreneurship had taught you to be humble, so you were resigned to spilling it all over a phone call to the firehouse.

One morning, you forced Egon out before anyone could arrive, asserting that he had a day off and he should find a way to relax. He asserted that this was how he relaxed, but you had a key to the front door and he didn’t, so that solved that. 

Not long after he was gone, you were hastily punching his number in, bouncing on your heels and out of breath.

“Hello?"

“Rich girl- eloping- needs a wedding cake- lots of money,” you forced out like you were out of air, already seeing dollar signs in tandem with the minutes you were losing. “But I have a crazy favor to ask.”

Very soon, “OPEN” was flipped to “CLOSED (sorry)” and you put on your serious business apron. Egon stood behind you, unsure of what to do as you jumped from here to there, double checking that you had absolutely everything you needed.

You only stopped when you realized that he wasn’t in the proper attire. “C’mon, Spengler,” you chastised him while cinching the strings of a smock around his waist.

“Game plan,” you led him to the back where all the industrial sized equipment was, “three tiers, green and pink, white cake. She gave me creative freedom, so I’m kinda flying blind.”

Egon’s eyes were on you as you laid out a few large bowls. “Have you ever…made a wedding cake on such short notice? I assumed they take days.”

“They do! And they’re the one thing I swore to never sell!” He looked disappointed in you, but you weren’t fazed, grabbing both of his hands. “$1,500,” Egon’s eyes widen as you continued, “think of what that could buy.”

He pushed up the bridge of his glasses like a flustered schoolboy. “That’s…a lot of copper wiring.”

“So many new mixers! And without the down payment! That’s why we need to start while we already have the time.”

Realistically, it was more of you starting everything while Egon was subjected to measuring or throwing away eggshells. But, you eventually gave him bigger responsibilities, as there was no way you’d be done in time for the impromptu-wedding if you worked one-by-one. 

You turned from what you were doing after instructing him to mix the batter for the top layer, being met with his bare forearms, dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“What?” Egon noticed your commotion halting. “Am I overmixing?” 

You didn’t answer, still staring at his toned arms. He should help out more often- your stand mixer cutting out on you must’ve been a blessing in disguise. Your blatant ogling was cut short when he stopped his ministrations, resting the whisk against the lip of the bowl.

“Don’t get distracted.” He tried to sound condemnatory, but it was hard to feel scolded when the scholar had on one of your teenaged employee’s spare pink bibs around his front and he was almost bent over the edge of the counter space in the midst of his focus.

You could breathe a little easier when the timer went off for the tiniest layer’s completion in the biggest oven. You took the searing pan out carefully, and your worry spiked again when you saw how dark the unfrosted dessert was along the top. You went through a list of things that might’ve gone wrong-  was the oven at the right temperature? Setting? You definitely let it bake for the right time. It wasn’t until you saw a pair of little cylinders, tucked away in the havoc, that you put two and two together.

“Which one of these did you use?”

Egon looked like a mix of confused and concerned. “This one, baking soda.”

That’s how he got put out your kitchen for a considerable amount of time, until he knocked at the round window separating you both.

“Are you sorry?”

A pause. “Not anymore than I was 20 minutes ago.”

“I’m locking the door.”

He was allowed back in after a long and rehearsed apology. Soon, all tiers were baked, except for the base, and you were aching all over. The whole cake process never got any less demanding on you.

Egon must’ve seen how you stretched your arm across your chest before you tried to continue on anything. “Are you feeling okay?” 

“I’ll be fine- just sore.” you answered truthfully, before slightly jumping at the feeling of hands wrapping around your middle.

“Take a break,” he herded you to a folding chair you kept in there- the only chair. You were slotted in between his knees, thoroughly confused. He only got like this every blue moon.

It did feel great to be off your feet for a second, despite your cushy sneakers. “What’re you getting at?” 

His strong hands made work of your tense biceps. “Nothing lascivious. I just think you should save your energy for the important part,” you stifled a noise at his doctoral tone and the way his thumbs kneaded at the space in between your shoulder blades, “and you’ve been working very hard.”

“Baking makes you a freak,” you scoffed, but hedonistically let him continue to dote on you.

Soon it was time to keep moving, attractive masseuse or otherwise. You put Egon in charge of coloring the buttercream while you ran out to the store for the second time in only a few days, making a mental note to use some of the bride-to-be’s payment to keep a consistent supply of the little things.

When you returned, though, it wasn’t as you had expected. You picked up the metal bowl full of neon icing incredulously. “I said green, not snot!”

“I made green,” he didn’t budge, not seeing how gaudy this would look in the middle of a reception hall.

You pushed a finger in between his brows. “You’re such a guy,” you remarked, regardless of your own gender, as you hassled him out of the way. “Watch.” 

With a bit of red, the bright green dulled into a paler color, fit for a wedding. “Can I trust you with pink?” you asked as if he was a child.

Egon’s expression was unreadable. “No promises.”

Half of the green was shoveled into piping bags when he was finished, presenting the baby pink mixture to you like a project would be presented to a teacher. “That’s better,” you started, taking the bowl while he kept the spatula. You’d assumed that Egon was going to wash it or scrape off the excess or something, but your eyes squeezed shut as something cold and tacky hit your nose.

Frosting, pink frosting. His audacity. You took the green spatula, getting him back on the cheek. That led to him getting you back on the forehead, ear, chin, and eventually some strays ended up in the corner of your mouth, which he was more than happy to take care of. Baking really made him a freak, you thought. You probably shouldn’t be kissing over someone’s wedding memorabilia, but you shortly noticed that was the icing for each tier and its decoration. You lost an hour cleaning and starting from scratch on the buttercream, steering clear of each other in a respective corner each.

You had another hour to eat a late dinner while each tier chilled in the freezer, setting the white icing you painstakingly leveled to their surface area. When you returned, it was time for the assembly, the second most dreaded process. “I’m scared,” you confessed, just about to push down the first dowel.

Egon got eye level with the top, squinting. “You’re just about perfect.”

Your nerves got the better of you. “How can you tell?” 

“I calculated.”

He was to keep calculating until all three cakes were secure on each other, bringing on the actually grueling part: decoration. You could design anything easily, after years of practice on your skills and ability to freehand- but a wedding cake was just so intimidating. That was part of the reason you vowed to never try again, how easy failure was staring you down in the form of little white fondant flowers. Egon let you take the reins on this, disappearing from your narrow field of vision. You honed in your knowledge of swirls, mini roses, and the drape style that was still in fashion among traditional couples. You were bent in all sorts of ways to make sure every bit of sugar that left the tip of the plastic bag came out perfect, for a perfect pair of newlyweds. Or newlyweds with perfect pocketbooks.

Time got away from you when the final detail was placed, and you stepped away like it was a bomb. “Is it done? Are we done?” you looked for confirmation. “How does it look?”

Egon’s torso stopped you from running off somewhere. “It looks perfect.”

The giant thing was stowed away to wait until you were scheduled to drop it off the next morning, and a weight was taken off your chest. You let the faucet run over materials, mind somewhere else with the rush of running water.

“It’s so sweet when it’s all done,” you spoke up, scrubbing crusted batter off of a tin, “weddings feel so magical.” 

You thought back to the agreement you made with your boyfriend of a handful of years: nix a big ceremony, celebrate with friends when the time felt right. The time always felt right to you; you’d drag him to the courthouse at the drop of a hat. Perhaps there was an even right-er time out there, written somewhere in your future.

Egon wiped down all the surfaces. “I agree.” he voiced from across the counter, taking a pause. “You’re not…angry with me? For taking as long as I am?”

You laughed at that, drying your hands. You crossed over to him, a hand on his chest. “Not at all. I trust you.” He had ditched the tie at some point after you had to make a new batch of icing. “If you’re offering…”

“Give me some more time to make it special.”

You brushed away some of his hair that had come loose in the heat of your scullery. “How much more time?” your voice was soft.

Egon thought about it for a moment. “What’s 5 more years?” He laughed heartily at the groan you let out, resting his head on yours.

“Really?” your voice broke over the phone. “I’m sorry…I’ve never- I don’t know,” you forced yourself to take a shallow breath, “I’ll work on getting your deposit back.”

You didn’t know what to think or feel when you ended the call, but thoughts of wasted hours, materials, lost profit, all flooded your mind as you attempted to calm yourself. You rested your head underneath where the phone was mounted on the wall, rubbing at your temples to sedate an oncoming headache.

“What happened?” Egon asked at your back, with you again in the early morning as he scored another day off. You didn’t turn to face him, trying your best to blink back embarrassing tears.

“She canceled. We made the cake for nothing- there’s no wedding, I-” 

Egon was on a knee, in the middle of your homely bakery. Your frustration evolved into pure confusion. “What’re you-”

There was a blue, velvet box in his hands with a glinting band inside of it. Before he could get a word out, you were on the floor too, tears free flowing. “You can’t do this now,” you clutched the fabric of his pants when he moved to hold you. “I look horrible.”

His free hand dried your tears, though more would keep on appearing in their wake. “I’m sorry this is so overdue.”

Your hands gently held onto his jaw to know this was real. “When was the right time?” 

“A long, long time ago. I just needed to find a way to make it special.” He looked hesitant before continuing, “I hope you don’t mind having made your own wedding cake.”

You blinked. “You’re the worst!” you joked exasperatedly, falling with him into a hug on the floors you were happy you mopped. “That was all you?”

“Why do you suppose her down payment was a multiple of 18?”

“They didn’t.” 

“Consider it a group gift, I suppose.” Egon smiled underneath you. You sat in the giddy silence of two people, soon to be wed, when he gingerly asked the question

“Will you?”

Your boyfriend- fiancé, went through so much trouble to make the moment one you could look back on happily. Who could refuse?

“I will.”

[captainsophiestark]

Not On The Guest List

Platonic!Percy Jackson x Reader

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Written for my personal fic writing challenge for 2024, Sophie's Year of Fic! Featuring a new fic being posted every Friday, all year long :)

Fandom: Percy Jackson

Summary: An uninvited guest shows up to Percy and Annabeth's wedding. Luckily, Percy's mortal cousin is on the case.

Word Count: 1,456

Category: Fluff

A/N: One fic a week every Friday of 2024!! We freaking did it!!! Guys, I literally have no idea how I managed to pull this off. But I did! Woohoo!!! Also, this fic and this fic also feature Percy and his cousin having adventures, although you don't need to read either of them to enjoy this one.

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

"Hey! How's it going in here?" I called, knocking on the door as I slowly pushed it open. My cousin and favorite person in the universe, Percy Jackson, called back in response.

"It's going good."

I pushed the door the rest of the way open to find him standing in the center of the room in his tux, looking perfectly polished. I grinned, then made a show of wiping tears out of the corners of my eyes. Percy rolled his eyes, but he was grinning all the same.

"My baby cousin's all grown up," I cried, crossing the room to wrap him in a big hug. He hugged me back, tight, and when we finally pulled apart we were both beaming. "Annabeth's gonna faint."

Percy just laughed and shook his head.

"If anybody's going to faint at this wedding, it'll be me. Or maybe Grover."

"I don't think anybody'd blame either of you."

Percy and I shared a smile, but before we could do anything else, the satyr in question came bursting into the room, looking more than a little panicked. He stopped short when he noticed me and Percy, glancing between the two of us like he really didn't know what to do.

"Grover?" asked Percy, taking a few steps forward. "What's wrong?"

"Uh..." He glanced to me again, then back to Percy. "Nothing! Just... a small problem."

"What is it?" said Percy. I stepped forward, too, trying to give Grover a reassuring smile.

"I'm happy to help, whatever it is the bride and groom need. We'll figure it out."

Grover didn't look any less nervous as he wrung his hands and looked between us. He'd probably been hoping to find one of the magical members of Percy's side of the wedding party, but I'd have to make do.

"It's just... I just saw He- the goddess of marriage outside."

"Hera's here?" demanded Percy, nearly shouting the words without a care for whether she'd notice the use of her name. I scowled, even as Grover seemed to get more and more nervous.

"I guess, since this is a half-blood wedding, she decided..."

Percy practically growled, and I saw a look of pure rage on his face directed at the Queen of Olympus. Probably, if he had to, he'd go out there and start a fight himself to keep her away from his and Annabeth's wedding. Luckily, he had the best cousin in the world to help him out, instead.

"I've got this," I declared, stepping forward and putting a hand on Percy's shoulder. "Leave this to me."

"Hold on..." said Percy, stopping me short as I started to head for the door. "Are you sure? I mean... she can cause all kinds of problems..."

"I know. I've heard all about the shit she's stirred for you and for Annabeth. But I'm mortal, and almost definitely not on her radar. Don't worry about it, Perce. I've got this."

I shot him a wink, then turned and booked it out of the room before either he or Grover could second guess me.

Thankfully, despite being mortal, it didn't take me long to locate Hera once I made it outside the wedding venue. She was practically glowing, and she was the only person in range who had a scowl on her face. I cleared my throat, straightened my shoulders, and shifted into character. Then, I rushed forward and grabbed the nearest person to Hera by the arm. I didn't know her, but I didn't need to for this to work.

"Did you hear?" I asked in a very loud stage whisper. The woman looked at me in absolute confusion, but I continued, just hoping she wouldn't say anything to ruin my play. "I just heard them talking, and they're calling off the wedding."

The woman in front of me gasped, and although I didn't dare look, I could feel Hera's attention shifting to me.

"I know! But it's done. It's like a curse or something, I swear. Everything's been going wrong, and they've been fighting for, like, the past hour. We're working on putting an announcement together for the guests, but like... this is not happening. We all thought they were bulletproof. Apparently not..."

The woman I'd started speaking to looked horrified, but she stopped mattering to me as Hera walked past us, a smirk on her face. Before she reached the corner of the venue, she disappeared into thin air. I smiled.

"Are you... are you serious?" the woman before me asked, her hand flying to her heart. I straightened up and grinned, pausing for one last check that Hera was nowhere in sight before answering.

"Nope! Sorry, weird prank. I thought it'd be a hit, but... clearly not. Enjoy the ceremony!"

The woman scowled, shocked and furious, but I turned and headed inside before she could make a scene. As far as I was concerned, that was a complete mission success. It wouldn't be a forever fix, since Hera would figure out the wedding did actually go on at some point, but hopefully I'd done things well enought that none of us would get in trouble for it. I headed back towards the groom's room to let Percy know the good news, but somebody stopped me just before I rounded the corner to the right hallway.

I looked up to see someone I recognized from a few pictures Percy and Sally had around their houses. Poseidon himself, attending his son's wedding in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts. I narrowed my eyes.

"That was well done," he said, giving me a small smile and nod. I quickly schooled my expression to absolute neutrality.

"I don't know what you're talking about. On an unrelated note, any chance your magic powers would allow you to change into a suit for this wedding? Or at least pants with the Hawaiin shirt?"

Poseidon just stared at me for a long moment, then finally, he started laughing.

"I can see the family resemblance to Sally," he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder and giving me a good-natured smile. "And don't worry. I'm happy to cover for you if anyone starts asking questions."

I sighed. It wasn't an answer to my pants question, but it was a promise to lie to Hera for me, so... I guess I'd take it.

"Thanks. And thanks for coming. I know it'll mean a lot to Percy."

Poseidon gave another smile and nod, then headed off to join the rest of the wedding guests. I watched him go for a moment, then took a deep breath and turned to go find Percy like I'd been trying to do. Never a dull moment since I'd reconnected with this side of the family, but I'd also never regretted it for a second.

Percy was over the moon when I'd told him, and not long after, he and Annabeth finally walked down the isle and said their vows. The ceremony was absolutely beautiful, and by some miracle, we didn't get a reappearance from Hera. After so many pictures everyone in the wedding party was ready to drop, we moved on to an absolutely outstanding reception. With literal magical Olympians in attendance, the party got immediately into full swing, and continued long into the early hours of the next morning.

After whirling around the dancefloor for more songs in a row than I could count, I finally made my way to plop down at a table for just a few moments of breathing and taking the weight off my feet. At least half the guests had already called it a night, but a core of us were still going.

As I took a deep breath, Percy emerged from the dancefloor's crowd and made his way over to me, too. I grinned as I saw him coming, raising the glass of water I'd found in toast.

"Congratulations," I said as he sat down next to me, a massive, dopey smile on his face. "Again."

"Thanks. And thanks for the help today with... You Know Who. Don't know what we would've done without you."

I grinned. "Sure thing, Perce. I missed a lot of Olympian days when you were in the middle of the shit, and even if I hadn't, I know I probably wouldn't have been able to help much. So I'm glad I'm able to help now."

Percy smiled and leaned over to give my shoulder a squeeze, then slumped back in his chair. We sat for a few moments in comfortable silence, watching fondly as our friends and loved ones continued to destroy the dance floor.

In another moment or two, I knew we'd be dragged back into the middle of it, both with smiles on our faces. But it was nice to be able to take a quick breather with my favorite cousin amidst the festivities to just sit back and enjoy the moment.

****************

Everything Taglist: @rosecentury @kmc1989 @space-helen @misshale21

Riordanverse Taglist: @valkyriepirate

[inu-jiru]

Jazz's "Apology Tour" ramble

Episode was trash, let's go.

First off, the whole "Fuck Blitzo" party is so stupid to me, like you're telling me this 30-something year old man had intimate relationships with ALL these demons and HE was the sole thing that ruined ALL of them?

And how did Verosika even find out about Stolas? Like I know Ozzie's happened, but how'd she hear about their "breakup" (they weren't together but whatever, show)?

Why the FUCK does Verosika care about Stolas being an uwu sad victim of mean old Blitzo aside from everyone being written to want to huff Stolas' sad boi farts?

Why is no one trying to kill Stolas like in Loo Loo Land, like suddenly we're just cool with the oppressive racist now (who am I kidding, the rank system doesn't exist anymore unless the "meanie supremacist" characters bring it up I guess)?

Don't think I'm trying to be "Blitzo's#1Bitch69" or anything, but Season 2 is just so gross in how they've written him. Either he's the big bully meanie for hating his abuser, or they've had him commit the most out of pocket atrocities (like possibly SAing Stolas since he was technically drunk or the circus incident or the shit he pulled with Verosika because what the fuck kinda trauma makes you steal someone credit card for horse riding lessons???) that they just gloss over because fuck having Blitzo actually progress normally or Stolas taking actual responsibility for his own actions, let's just speed through everything so it's back to Stolitz City, don't think about the implications. I just can't stand itttt, I still like and pity Blitz to an extent but his writing is killing meeee

Stolas, stop whimpering about being wanted YOU HAVE A KID WHO HAS STILL NOT APPEARED SINCE SEEING STARS WHERE IS SHE?

Am I really hearing that people are hating the dude flirting with Stolas like come on yall STOLITZ IS NOT OFFICIAL YET CHILL

I've honestly started skipping through episodes, like I can't fucking listen to "WAHHHHH BLITZO I WANT YOU TO WANT ME" for the millionth time, I wish this episode could've just been Blitzo and Verosika facing their issues or something I just don't wanna see this owl loser act like a victim anymoreeee

Man really said "when have I ever been condescending?" SEASON ONE???? How about every time you grab his face and call him out of his name and watch him be shot at while demanding he come over one a month? Oh, but when Blitz starts doing it back it's "Oh I'm uncomfortable ooOoOoo stop it Blitz hnnghhh I don't like it :C :C :C", like whatever man.

The Striker comment was dumb and wrong but that's because Stolas is dumb and wrong

Honestly I feel like I'm repeating the same points I and others have made in the past so all imma say is, I hope Octavia and Stella are enjoying their off-screen and better written adventures together. I'm gonna draw some AU stuff now to give my eyes something better to look at.

OH I forgot to talk about Verosika, uh, she was there? I honestly think she should just get over herself at this point, idk when she and Blitz broke up but what the fuck is it about this clown that she was so enamored over where she's this hurt? I can get being mad about her credit card and Blitz being a lazy partner but if that's the case, I fail to see how they got to a point where she got his name tatted on her arm. Idk it's weird

The Mayweather shit or whatever her name is was pointless and made no sense, like "I want you to kill this woman who made me attempt to kill her and myself but now we're dating" like? Hey Vivzie if yall can callback to that why can't yall call back to Stolas being a creep huh?

EDIT: They really made that fuckass "it's hell" excuse canon, huh? Like, it doesn't even make sense in the context of Blitz saying that, like people say "it's hell" because Biblically speaking, it's where those who truly oppose God in order to live a life of wickedness go as just punishment. Blitz the equivalent of a regular guy in Hell unlike the Hazbin characters, he shouldn't understand that there's a better alternative to Hell because he's not human and never had any opportunity to learn about Heaven or God (unless it's just in their DNA or something idk who knows with this show)