#Thanks for taking the time to read all of this!

[butyoudidthis4what]

No Man's Land

Jack Abbot x f!Reader

5.1k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || C.W.: mentions of blood, mentions of guns and shootings, mentions of death/dying/coding, CPR, anxiety about partner's safety, Jack's traumatized, reader's traumatized, mentions of dissociation and compartmentalization, poor description of medical events, potentially incorrect medical descriptions/knowledge, very very light smut, angst, age gap kind of implied with Jack but not explicitly referenced, no use of y/n or related, not proofread, no beta, I think that's all but if I missed any please (nicely) let me know.

Summary: This is my Pitt-Fest-But-Not fic. Development of your relationship through vignettes of the past and conversations between Jack, Dana and Robby. There's a shooting where you work. Jack is at the ED when the dispatch comes in and is terrified when he can't get in touch with you.

A.N.: If my Robby reads like John Carter I'm sorry, except that a little bit I'm not. I feel like I'm struggling with my Jack characterization but can't tell if that's just me hating everything I do. This is my take on one of my fave tropes where reader is in mortal danger. I needed a physical location that could be associated with reader and settled on a courthouse, but what it is reader does there is not described. Probably (definitely?) needs a part two. If you get the nickname, thank you, I feel seen. If you don't I explain it at the end. This is absolutely something I would call him, in part to fuck with people who know his real name. I would love to know if you enjoyed and to hear any thoughts you'd like to share.

“He has a girlfriend,” Robby smirks at Dana. 

She blinks at him. “I’m sorry, I thought we’re talking about Jack Abbot.”

“Oh we fucking are.” Robby stifles his smirk and forces his lips to remain closed and as neutral as possible. 

“You’re shitting me.” Dana’s incredulous look breaks Robby a bit and he starts to laugh, tries to turn it into a cough when both he and Dana look up to find Jack staring at them as he takes his snow dusted beanie off. He gives Robby a ‘really?’ look even though he knew Robby would rat him out to Dana the second Robby had dragged it out of him. 

Dana looks back at Robby. “Who? How did they meet?”

Robby holds up his hands. “You now officially know as much as I do about her.” Dana makes a noise of vague discontent but knows Jack well enough to know Robby is telling the truth. That’s all that’s been revealed. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s not worth it,” you whisper. Jack blinks and looks around, unsure if you’re talking to him. He has no idea who you are, has never seen you before in his life but it appears that you are in fact whispering to him in the middle of this bookstore. 

He raises his eyebrows. “It’s not?”

You shake your head, give him an almost conspiratorial smile. “No, he must have gotten a new ghost writer. It’s really bad in comparison to his other stuff. Save your time and money. I’ll give you a summary right now for free if you’re that curious.”

Jack smiles to himself a little bit as he sets the book back on the shelf. There’s something about you, your smile, the way you just randomly spoke to him. He’s drawn to you. An alarm goes off in some part of his brain telling him to ignore it, ignore you, he could get hurt. He pretends to weigh his options as he turns to face you fully. “How about for a cup of coffee?”

Your brows furrow in confusion for a moment. There’s simply no way this unfairly attractive man is asking to buy you a cup of coffee. “The summary?” You clarify. “That I’d give for free. You want it to cost a cup of coffee instead?” You let out a nervous laugh and some part of his heart aches because you’re so adorable. “I just want to make sure I understand before I potentially make an even bigger fool of myself.” 

“Yep.” He can’t help but laugh a little. “You give me the summary over coffee. Actually, you know what? You’re going to have to give me a recommendation too because now I’m going to have nothing to read.” He clicks his tongue at you. 

“Well,” you laugh out, all breathy as you try to pull yourself together. “You drive a hard bargain but I think I’m willing to accept those terms…” you glance at his name badge, “Dr. Abbot.” You give him a full smile and Jack knows then and there he’s totally fucked in the best of ways. 

“Jack.” He smiles at you as you both begin walking towards the café. “Call me Jack.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everything quiet enough after handoff, Robby walks out with Jack into the morning sun that does little to warm the breeze pulling leaves off the trees. “Any chance you can cover a shift on Saturday night?” Robby is asking, yes, but he knows it’s not really a question, Jack is always willing to work.

“Can’t.” Jack says simply, shrugging his shoulders. “Sorry.” There’s an expectant silence that hangs between the two as they keep walking.

“Care to elaborate?” Robby finally asks.

“No.” Jack turns and smirks at him. “It’s none of your and Dana’s business.”

“Ha!” Robby laughs. “So it’s her, it’s about her! The ever elusive girlfriend. Will we ever get to meet her? Or does she not want to meet us? Is she real?” Jack stops walking and gives Robby one of his looks. “Holy shit, is it someone here?”

Jack snorts at that. “No it’s not someone here. She’s not even in the medical field.” He sighs, half longing and half resignation of some kind. “She’s honestly dying to meet you guys, especially you and Dana, but I’m trying to protect her from this hellhole. It’s hard with schedules too, to find a time.”

“That’s such fucking bullshit,” Robby laughs. “Are you afraid to truly commit? Think bringing her here will make it too real?” 

It’s a valid question but one that Jack nevertheless resents. “No, actually, if you must fucking know Saturday is our one year anniversary. We have plans. So you’ll have to find someone else to cover. But I’ll bring her around soon,” he laughs through his nose to himself at your stubbornness, “if I don’t she’s liable to just show up one of-”

“A year?” Robby laughs, incredulous. “A fucking year? How the hell did you hide it for three months before I dragged it out of you?”

Jack ignores him. “Also, I’m moving to days. It’s better for us.” He’s so nonchalant about it, just states it like he’s saying the sky is blue, like it’s not going to make Robby’s eyes widen and mouth drop open like it does.

“I don’t,” Robby huffs a laugh, “I don’t even know where to fucking begin.”

“Then don’t.” Jack smirks, starts to walk again while Robby stays frozen, running a hand through his hair. “Go do some actual work.”

“I thought you found comfort in the darkness?” Robby yells after him. 

Jack slows and turns around but keeps walking backwards, one hand holding the strap of his backpack to keep it over his shoulder. He glances down at his phone and the photo of you that is now his wallpaper. He smiles to himself a little, yells back. “Guess I find it somewhere else now.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You giggle, honest to god giggle and Jack could lose his damn mind as he nibbles at your collarbone. “You know if my anatomy class had been this fun, I might have become a doctor too.” 

You’re laying on your back in bed as Jack kisses your sweat slicked skin all over as you both come down from your last round. He’s taken to 'teaching you anatomy' like this, identifying different parts of the human body with his mouth.

“Hmm,” Jack hums against you. “I’m glad it wasn’t then. Fuck doctors.” He starts to kiss down your chest. 

“That has become quite the favorite pastime of mine, yes,” you smirk. “Fucking one specific doctor, actually.” 

“Getting fucked by one specific doctor more like it,” he murmurs into your sternum. He kisses laterally, lips hitting your breast and moving towards your nipple. 

“I think we’ve established what those are,” you moan softly as he takes your nipple into his mouth. You let your hands run through his salt and pepper curls that you adore so much. 

“Can never be too thorough.” You giggle at him again and can feel him smile against you. “But fine, you want something new?” You nod, let your nails scratch gently at his scalp. 

“Nipple,” he kisses your nipple and then down your torso to right above your belly button, “to navel is no man’s land.” He continues to lavish kisses on the soft skin of your stomach before looking up at you when you don’t respond. 

“I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me or not.” You eye him with mock suspicion. 

He laughs and it’s your favorite sound in the whole world, you swear. Well maybe second, only behind hearing him tell you that he loves you. 

“I’m not. Nipple to navel is no man’s land. It’s a real thing. It’s one of the worst places to get shot or stabbed because there’s so many organs that could be hit and the place we’d expect to get hit would depend on whether the person was breathing in or out at the time, whether their lungs were inflated or deflated. And we generally have no way of knowing. It can be difficult to get clear imaging.” He starts kissing lower, down below your belly button, rubbing his stubble along your skin to tease you as he gets lower and lower. “It’s never a good time. Lots of poor outcomes.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s supposed to be his day off and yet Jack finds himself staring at the board and running a hand over his face. “It’s still so fucking weird seeing you here during the day and it not meaning something catastrophic has happened.” 

Jack turns to look at Dana. “I’ve been working days for a month now and it’s my day off.”

“You can go, we’re fine for now,” Robby nods at Jack. “Thanks for the brief assistance brother.”

“No, no,” Dana interjects, “he’s not allowed to leave until we nail down a time to meet his girl.” 

Robby raises his eyebrows and starts to tilt his head and open his mouth to agree with Dana. A dispatch comes through before anyone can say anything else and Dana grabs it, pinning Jack down with her eyes, daring him to leave before discussing meeting you. 

“Saved by the bell,” Jack huffs, taking his stethoscope off and starting to walk away. 

“Shooting at a courthouse,” Dana relays to Robby, “not a mass cas, just a few people, two a little iffy, one they’re already doing CPR on, a few caught in the race to get out. Two dead on the scene.”

It takes a few seconds for Dana’s words to truly register with Jack, but when they do his hearing fades to only a sharp ringing in his ear. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t fucking happening to him again. He’d been so reticent at the beginning of your relationship, waited so long to give in and define it and hand his heart over to you, terrified he’d lose you because of himself and who he was, his imperfections, his past, his trauma, his PTSD, his baggage, as he thought of it. He feels so stupid now, in the moment, not having worried about how he could lose you from a random act of violence, that in the moments he can’t be there to protect you somebody could come in and rip you from him. Just like that. With the pull of a trigger. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You know, I can confidently say this is the most unique date I’ve ever been on,” you tease Jack. 

“Hey,” he pants, “me teaching you CPR is a great date.” 

“It would be better if you took your shirt off,” you whisper and wink at him before letting your eyes linger on his arm. 

“If I did that you’d be so distracted you’d learn nothing,” he smirks at you, sweat glistening on his skin just a little. Just enough to drive you nearly feral for him. 

 “I think I’ve got the compressions part down, but I may need more help learning the mouth to mouth part.”

He rolls his eyes at you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You fucking love it,” you shoot back at him, leaning into his space and bumping him with your shoulder. 

He can’t help but kiss you. “Yes,” the word is muffled against your lips, “yes I do.” He gives you a firmer kiss this time before he pulls away. “But really. You should know how to do it, just in case. It will help you feel in control in the moment if the need for it ever arises. You’ll know what to do.”

You bite your lip and smile at him. 

“What?” He eyes you with suspicion. 

You shrug. “Nothing, I just love you so much. Sometimes it overwhelms me, how much I love you.”

He can see it in your eyes, how much you love him, can almost feel it physically squeezing him like a tight hug. He’s really not sure what he ever did to deserve you or your love. “I love you too, Doll.”

“I love you more, Peter.” Your face pulls up into that usual self-satisfied and silly grin you get sometimes when you call him that nickname. It’s a recent thing. You’re calling him it more and more though, it’s becoming a natural way of referring to him. From anyone else he would hate it, hearing it between another couple would make him roll his eyes. But from you? He loves it more than you’ll ever truly know. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack spins around.

“Jack you can still go, we’ve got it covered.” Robby looks at Jack for a minute and then meets Dana’s eyes as she looks to him after taking her own look at Jack. 

“What courthouse?” Jack asks. It’s quiet, controlled and clipped and almost missable in the chaos of the ED. He’s not looking at either of them, staring past them at a wall with a chest heaving more and more by the second as his face grows paler. 

He tries to keep it together. Dana will say the name and it won’t be your courthouse and he’ll go straight to your actual courthouse, grab you, take you home and never let you leave. A perfectly reasonable reaction, he thinks.

“Jack-”

“What fucking courthouse?” It’s louder this time, almost enough to pause the chaos of the ED. 

Jack’s voice drips with what sounds like rage to most of those who hear him but is unmistakably fear to Dana and Robby. 

Neither of them have ever seen Jack like this, this scared, struggling this hard to keep it together, truly raising his voice for anything other than to quiet down an unruly patient. His eyes find Dana’s and they’re glassier than she’s ever seen them, the intensity of his gaze making it painfully clear he’s hanging on every word and the wrong ones will shatter him. 

She swallows and opens her mouth and Jack knows what she’s about to say before she even says it. And she does. The name of your courthouse. 

“I’ll triage.” He says it before Dana has even finished, the words hollow and breathless and commanding all at once. He spins and starts off to the bay doors with nothing more. He obviously knows from the report Dana gave that they won’t need triage. He just needed to get out of there and try to create an excuse to stay in the ambulance bay. He knows Robby won’t let him, that Robby and Dana already know you’re at that courthouse, could be a victim. 

Robby and Dana share another look, So you work at a courthouse. This courthouse. “Fuck,” Dana mutters, “I really hope we don’t end up meeting her today.”

Jack’s hand dives in his pocket as he strides to the ambulance bay. He already knows in his heart that there’s not going to be a text from you saying that you’re okay. He hasn’t felt his phone buzz. He never even kept his phone on him until you. 

Even though he knew he wouldn’t have any messages, waking his phone and seeing none hits him like a freight train all the same, right in the chest. It threatens to bring him to his knees, make him sick, but he can’t. He sets it all aside. If you do come out of one of the ambulances he can hear in the distance you’re going to need him at his best. But what if you’re one of the two people dead at the scene? He has to shove that out of his mind too, can’t give into the complete panic that threatens to consume him. 

Disassociate. Compartmentalize. Do the job. ABC. Assess. Stabilize. Repeat.

His fingers fly across his phone automatically, calling you having become so routine. He prefers it so much to texting, hearing your voice, communicating more directly. “Call me,” he starts, “the second you get this message. Or fucking text me,” his voice breaks, “please. Fucking please.” He hangs up and calls again, knowing he’ll get your voicemail again but trying anyway because it’s all he can do. 

He’s helpless, powerless, he can’t do anything to try and save you and that threatens to swallow him whole. 

Your voicemail recording telling people to leave a message plays again and all Jack can wonder is if this is all he’ll have left of your voice in his life. Your voice on your mailbox, maybe some voicemails you’ve left him, videos, voice memos you’ve sent. All distorted by recording, not your real voice. He can’t remember what your real voice sounds like all of the sudden. What your laugh sounds like, how you sound when you’re sleepy or in the throes of pleasure or telling him you love him. God, did he even tell you he loved you the last time he saw you, when he said goodbye? 

“I need you to call me,” he says into the phone again, pauses. “I love you.” He takes a ragged breath in and speaks through his teeth. “I love you so fucking much, so you have to be okay and you have to fucking call me.”

He sends a series of texts asking you to call him or text him or call the hospital or do anything to let him know you’re okay, asking if you are okay, asking where you are as though you’re going to respond. He already knows you’re in the back of one of those ambulances because of fucking course you are, because he’s not allowed to have anything good in his life apparently. How could he be so stupid to think differently?  

“Hey, we don’t need triage for this. The numbers are controlled.” Robby walks out to stand next to Jack in the ambulance bay. “If you want to stay you can, but you can’t wait out here to see who shows up, you have to-”

“Yeah, yeah, jump on the first patient that pulls up, I know, I got it,” he interrupts Robby. 

There’s a silence as Robby passes him a gown and ties for him before he does the same for Robby. 

“Jack, if she’s in one you cannot-”

“Like fuck I can’t.” It’s just a statement. Cool and collected and a projection of indifference. It scares Robby more than if Jack had yelled. 

“No, actually brother, you can’t. I’m telling you right now. You’re not working on her. We don’t work on family, on significant others, and you would tell me the exact same thing. It’s too risky, you’ll be too clouded.” Robby watches Jack’s jaw clench and roll as he stares out at the street. 

He wants to argue that of course he’ll be clear, he’ll be focusing on saving you, he’ll have never been so clear in his life. But part of him knows that seeing you like that on his trauma table, your blood all over the table and him and his hands might make him freeze.

“Fine.” Jack whispers. “But if she’s,” Jack has to pause and take a shuddery breath. “If she’s gone or really going and it’s inevitable you have to let me in. You have to let me try to save her. You have to let me code her, Michael.”

He can taste the rising bile in his throat just at having to talk about coding you.

The first ambulance pulls up before Robby can respond and Jack’s on it so fast Robby’s surprised Jack doesn’t get smacked in the face by the door opening. 

It’s not you. It’s someone who is very much not you and is clearly one of the iffy ones. 

Disassociate. Compartmentalize. Do the job. ABC. Assess. Stabilize. Repeat.

Jack forces himself to go emotionally numb as he listens to the paramedic rattle off vitals and history, trying so very hard to focus on this, something he can do, even if it’s not for you. By the time they hit trauma one Jack’s fine and in full swing, running it like he would any other trauma. Nobody on the team in the room with him suspects anything is amiss.  

He hates the way he can’t see the other’s who come in, that he has to stay with this patient until they’re stable and can’t go looking for you. He chastises himself for not having brought you here before or at least having you meet Dana and Robby. They don’t even know what you look like, couldn’t identify you.

“Jack!” He glances at Dana who stands at the door as he preps for the chest tube. “What’s her name?”

He yells your name at her, impassive and stoic as he reaches for the scalpel, ignoring the looks everyone throws each other at the slightest tremor in his voice.

“I’ll look for her.” Dana promises. He doesn’t respond. He can’t. He’ll fall apart. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The restaurant you’re at has to be the fanciest place you’ve ever been to. It’s the hottest place in the city and you have no idea how Jack snagged reservations here for dinner to finish out celebrating your one year anniversary. 

The lighting and low hum of other patrons talking to each other and glasses and silverware and plates tinkling is cinematic. You feel like the main character. But then that’s always how Jack makes you feel. 

“I got you something.” He pulls out a wrapped rectangular object. 

You click your tongue and tsk at him. “We said we’d do them at home! I didn’t bring yours!”

“I know. I have something for you at home too.” His eyes sparkle in the flickering candle light, a little smirk pulling up. “I didn’t mean for it to be a double entendre, but both are true.” You snort a laugh at him and take the gift from him. “Open it.” He’s still smiling, eyes still sparkling,  but there’s something there. He’s nervous. It makes you even more curious. 

You carefully unwrap the object until it reveals itself as a hardcover book. That same one Jack had in his hand a year ago and that you told him was bad and gave him a summary of over coffee. 

“Oh, Jack,” you say softly, eyes getting a little watery. It’s so perfect. So sweet and sentimental. The book that brought you together, that gave you each other. It’s almost like a physical representation of the foundation of your relationship in a way. 

“You have to open it,” he instructs you in a whisper.

You raise an eyebrow but do as he says. 

‘Move in with me?’ is written on the blank first page. 

You look between the page and Jack. “Is this?” You look back at the page and then up at him again. “Are you really asking…?”

He nods. “Move in with me. Or move somewhere with me, we can get our own place, it doesn’t have to be my apartment. We basically live together anyway at this point. Let’s just make it official, yeah? Wherever you want, you can decorate however you want. Just as long as it’s our place.”

You bring a hand to your mouth for a second before using your napkin to dab at the inner corners of your eyes to stop the tears from falling and look back at him. 

“You’re a romantic, Jack Abbot,” you hum all dreamily. 

“You better not tell anyone. Can’t have you ruining my street cred.” He smirks, but his expression and the way he fidgets show he’s still anxious. “So?”

You realize then you never actually answered him. Sniffling a little laugh and letting a few tears fall you give him his answer, voice thick and full of emotion. “Yeah, I think I’m willing to accept those terms. I’d love to move in with you… Peter.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He hears you counting to yourself before he sees you. “One, two…”

It’s not loud, just said in a normal voice, softer if anything because of how you’re panting, but Jack is so on edge and so desperate to find you he’d subconsciously been listening closely to his surroundings, military training kicking in. His head snaps to you and he doesn’t even know what to think when he sees you being rolled in on top of a gurney, performing CPR that would rival the quality of his own. 

“Why is she..?” He hears Robby question the paramedic as you roll in. 

“She was performing them just as well as we could and it was better to just scoop and run,” the paramedic explains. “She must have had one hell of an instructor.”

“Peter!” You yell, without looking up, not sure if he’s still here. You’re so used to it by now that the nickname is just what comes out of your mouth as you look for him. He’d texted you to let you know he was going in for a bit.  

Jack could sob and the entire team in the room with him can feel a crushing tension shatter. Maybe he does get a little teary just from the sheer relief. He tells himself it’s sweat in his eyes.

“Yeah Doll?” He yells back, not giving a fuck about everyone hearing him call you Doll, and you calling him Peter, knowing full well he’s going to have so much explaining to do about this entire situation, the confusion in the room palpable. 

“I’m okay!” This time he does laugh to himself. 

“Yeah I’d say so,” he mutters, smiling. He’s still anxious to see you, get his own eyes on you, feel you with his own hands. 

It’s only about thirty more seconds before his patient is stable enough and he can rip his gloves and gown off and start putting fresh gloves on as he walks into the trauma room you’d been wheeled into. Normally he’d yell out for someone to talk to him or ask what they’ve got but not this time. This time he doesn’t even care about who’s on the table, only the person who came off it. Only you. 

You’re standing to the side now, watching Robby and the rest of the team work, impassive as pink tears stream down your face from the dried blood on it. You’re just so fucking overwhelmed by everything and now that you’re not doing CPR everything that’s happened is hitting you at once. 

Jack says your name as he moves to you, needs his hands on you. 

“Are you hurt? Were you hit?” He rushes out. His voice brings you back and you look up at him with wide, terrified eyes. He goes to look you over but you latch onto him, hugging him tightly, shaking a bit. 

“I’m fine, I’m okay, I’m, I’m sorry,” you start to rattle off, fisting at his scrub top and clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. In the moment he might just be. 

He hugs you back just as hard, kisses the top of your head. He doesn’t care who sees right now, all he cares about is you. “It’s okay, you have nothing to apologize for. I’m just so fucking glad you’re okay. I thought… I thought you were…” He doesn’t have to finish, you know what he means. “I can’t fucking lose you. I love you way the fuck too much.”

You’ve been so wrapped up in each other neither of you have noticed that Robby’s patient, the one you were doing CPR on, has started to code again. “Abbot, need you here!”

You let him go, nod at him. “Go on,” you whisper, “I’ll be right here. I’m okay. I love you more.” Jack nods at you and walks over, jumping in and assisting Robby.

It’s once you’re out of Jack’s arms, away from his warm body and more grounded in reality that you notice how cold you are, how you’re swaying because he was supporting you far more than you realized, how lightheaded you are, how your abdomen and chest really fucking hurt. You chalk it up to the adrenaline wearing off and being sore from the chest compressions you just did. 

On the other side of the room an instrument tray gets knocked over, metal hitting the floor in a loud clang. It startles you, makes you jump and twist quickly to see what it was, if it was another gun, another shot. You feel something almost tearing, a sharp pain across your abdomen and lower chest, a feeling of sticky warmth against your shirt.

You sway a little, start to realize how much worse the pain is now. It’s bad enough that you can’t even make noise to express the pain. There’s no air in your lungs, you swear. You realize your lightheadedness is now much, much worse, that you’re shivering from how cold you are. Or are you just shaking? You can’t tell. It doesn’t make sense. The room isn’t even that cold. You shouldn’t be so cold. Not unless.

You pull your shirt up slowly and look down and run your hand over your skin and sure enough, there’s a bullet hole seeping blood, about half way between your nipple line and belly button, skin now covered in a dark bruise. 

You cough a little, it’s quiet. It starts feeling like there’s water in your lungs. Like you can’t get any oxygen in even though you’re in a room full of it. The metallic taste in your mouth is what manages to seep into what’s left of your consciousness next. You cough again, into your hand, and feel something wet hit your skin. Blood. 

It hits you. You’re drowning in your own blood. That’s why it feels like you can’t breathe. You’ve been shot. In a bad place, one of the worst places, Jack had told you that night. You get scared, feel your heart pounding. It feels like you’re dying. You don’t want to die, don’t want to leave Jack. You’d just finished moving into your new place together, were going to spend all weekend unpacking and painting and getting furniture where you wanted it. You were going to make your home.

Time. You were supposed to have more time together.

“Hey, Jack,” you slur softly, struggling to keep yourself standing. Luckily he hears you. Your use of his first name and the slur to your voice has him panicking again already. Time slows as he turns around to take you in, eyes going from your face and the blood coating your teeth and trickling from your mouth as you try and smile reassuringly at him, down to your torso where you’re still holding your shirt up just enough for him and everyone else in the room to see the bullet hole and bruising marring your skin. “I think, I think I’m not good, it’s not good.” Your vision tunnels so fast you can just barely see Jack’s expression of sheer abject unadulterated horror and panic as you get out your last words. “Nipples to navel… no man’s land.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peter. Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter. Yes, I worked in a bookstore through college.

[missadangel]

MAKE HIM DISLIKE LOVE YOU

Harry Castillo x Reader (The Materialists)

Chapter 6: Truth or Dare

series masterlist

Chapter Summary: “What about me?” asked Pride. “Shut up,” replied Jealousy. Lust laughed hard. You finally get that you can’t run from your feelings anymore, but what the hell? Or are you too late?

Warnings: 18+ (smut, MDNI) kinda romantic comedy stuff, fluffy, angst, lying, soft and caring Harry Castillo, Lucy as his ex, John as Lucy's ex, wealth, expensive gifts, drinks, money, cars, language, sexual tension, oral sex, p in v sex, kissing, slow burn, power imbalance, I might have missed some warnings; I will update them in due time.

Chapter Word Count: 12,5k, oops I did it again!! HOT (SMUT) CHAPTER ALERT! , feelings!!! fluffy, rom-com, lust, passion, jealousy, dirty talk.

authors note: Thank you all for your support, asks, comments, reblogs and likes. I appreciate each and every one of you! Love you all!

Getting out of bed in the morning was a total struggle. The memories from last night felt like a heavy weight, making you feel crushed. You thought you knew how you felt, but then again, you weren’t so sure. Why did everything have to be so complicated?

You definitely needed to talk to someone, or maybe even see a therapist.

But you couldn’t chat with Zoe yet; you’d come home late the night before, and now you had to rush off to work. Perhaps you could catch up with her when you return later that evening.

Zoe was still sprawled out on the couch, her ankle too painful to even rise for a bathroom break. You made her a sandwich before heading out.

As you walked to the subway, you found yourself scrolling through relationship advice sites on your phone. You knew it was a bit silly to seek guidance online, but what could it hurt to take a peek? After sifting through a bunch of silly sites and endless ads, a social Q&A platform caught your eye. One question stood out:

"How am I supposed to tell him I love him too, but I'm not ready?"

Ah just what you were looking for.

You scrolled to read all the answers.

clickcrazecreations

It is okay to not return the statement, to say “thank you but I'm not ready”, to tell the person that you are not ready to be shackled by their love and affection.

But that wasn’t your issue—you were ready;-almost ready- that wasn’t the real problem.

wanderlustchronicles

Seriously, think twice! If you can't answer, it might mean you're not really in love, girl! It's okay to move on and find someone who makes you happy!

Hey! Who said you didn’t love him? And you knew he made you happy.

oprahwindfury

Wait, you found a guy who told you he loved you first, and you couldn't reply? Seriously? In this day and age with dating being tough, that's wild! You need a good kick in the ass. You bet I will.

That comment scared you a little and made you feel weird. Why did she sound so angry?

hopelessromantic

Is he handsome? I'll say yes to him. Give me his number.

What the heck? Those online comments were really getting on your nerves.

fartnroses

It’s pretty simple, come on! Follow your heart instead of... No, I’m not talking about that squishy thing!

You were just closing the page when you realized the most sensible comment.

agnespire

Love requires Courage. Take a hard look at your fear of saying these words to him. Then, if you love him, tell him so. Good communication is key in a relationship. This means pushing yourself into situations that may not be so comfortable at first. It’s called growth. Grow together. Share your feelings. Honor your feelings for him. Most of all, confront fears you have about anything and everything, and acknowledge that all negative emotions stem from fear. Kill it! Choose Love.

Choosing love.

Maybe it was that simple. 

Courage. 

Maybe that's exactly what you need.

The elevator bell chimed as Oliver stepped into Harry's apartment on the 72nd floor. His phone rang just then, and he answered it while scanning the room for Harry.

“Damn gossipmongers, they don’t waste any time. Get that story taken down from every site and warn them we’ll sue their asses if they keep running with it,” he said, fuming as he ended the call. His eyes continued searching for Harry, darting toward the bedroom but finding it empty.

He ventured into the living room and discovered Harry in the last place he expected: sprawled out on the couch, one leg dangling over the side. Whiskey bottles littered the floor, and the heavy scent of alcohol mixed with something else—cigarette smoke.

What the hell?

He’d quit smoking almost a decade ago.

This wasn't good.

Oliver leaned in and gave Harry a gentle nudge on the shoulder. “Harry? You okay?”

Harry mumbled something incoherent. Oliver leaned closer, trying to catch it, and realized he was murmuring your name.

Sighing, Oliver stood up. “Seriously, Harry! Wake up!” This time he poked him a bit harder.

Harry blinked awake and sat up, coughing as he tried to shake off the grogginess.

“Cigarettes? Really?”

“I have my reasons,” he replied, still half-asleep and grumpy.

Placing his hands on his hips, Oliver surveyed the scene. “Dude, last night... I thought you and her had it all figured out, but apparently not.”

“Harry! Ollie!” Maria called out as she rushed in from the elevator, her eyes widening in shock. “Sweet Jesus!”

“Good morning to you, too,” Oliver said, smiling sheepishly.

“What the hell happened here?” she asked, grimacing as she took in the chaos. “I thought…”

Oliver shook his head. Maria sighed in frustration.

Harry, nursing the terrible headache from his night of heavy drinking, pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose and temple. His hair was a mess, and he was still in the same tuxedo pants with his bow tie nowhere in sight.

“That dress. Isn’t it—” Oliver pointed to the black dress Harry was loosely holding, not even realizing he was still clutching it.

Suddenly aware, Harry sheepishly placed the dress back on the couch.

“The dress she gave back,” Oliver concluded, looking astonished.

“Are you kidding me?” Maria said, staring at him in disbelief.

Harry frowned, holding the dress back up to his nose. “Smells like her, okay?” he murmured, looking like a kid with his favorite candy.

“That’s fantastic! Bravo!” Maria clapped her hands together mockingly. “Who are you, and what have you done to my buddy Harry?”

Harry, ignoring the banter, picked up a pack of cigarettes and searched for any left inside.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Oliver snatched the pack from his hands.

“Give it back!” Harry barked.

“Stop it! You’ve been clean for years; you can’t start again now.”

A tug-of-war began as Harry reached for it again.

Maria crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. “You guys are acting like kids fighting over a toy.” She glanced at her watch. “Just so you know, it’s Monday,” she added, putting extra emphasis on her point.

Oliver suddenly froze.

“Give me a break today,” Harry whined, seizing the moment to grab his cigarette pack. He pulled one out and stuck it between his lips. “Where’s that damn lighter?”

“Harry, it’s 7:40 a.m.”

“I’m in no shape to go to work. Just email me the presentation details, and I’ll get to it when I’m feeling better,” he said, finally spotting the lighter under the pillow.

Oliver yanked the cigarette from his lips. “Dude, it’s Monday, and the housekeeper’s coming to clean your place at 8 o'clock. You get what I mean?”

“Oh, so now you get my point, huh, you geniuses?” Maria mocked.

Harry stiffened and murmured, “I can’t let her see me like this.”

“Can’t let her see you like this? She shouldn’t see you or any of us here, man! The whole thing will be revealed!”

“Well, it was bound to happen. Let it be,” Maria chimed in.

Harry squinted at her and stood up, but dizziness swept over him. “Whoa, I think I’m still feeling the effects of last night’s drinks.”

“How much did you even drink?” Maria scolded.

Oliver grabbed his arm and glanced at Maria. “Come on, help me out. We need to get this big guy out of here.” “Are we really going to kidnap him from his own apartment? Seriously?” she whimpered, but she slipped under Harry’s other arm to assist him. “Ugh, you smell like an ashtray, hermano.”

They made their way to the elevator, and Oliver pressed the button. “You hold him up, and I’ll grab his things.”

“Get that dress out of sight!” Harry called. “She can’t see it.”

Oliver nodded and dashed back inside.

“Are we in high school or something? I’m a 42-year-old mother; I’m too old for this. You need to come clean to that girl already,” Maria muttered.

“Stop whining. You’ve been in worse situations. Have you forgotten how many times I’ve pulled you out of a mess?”

“Hey, that was when I was in my 20s! Plus, I’ve never been as pathetic as you!”

“Yeah? Who was the one crying on that married ship captain’s doorstep for hours? I got slapped in the face by his wife because of you.”

Maria swallowed hard, averting her gaze. “You really do have a good memory for a drunk.”

“Alright, let’s get out of here,” Oliver said as he stepped into the elevator and pressed the button.

When they hit the ground floor, they rushed toward the exit, but when Oliver spotted you approaching through the glass door, he froze again. “She’s coming! Turn around now!”

“There’s no other way out,” Maria snapped.

“The other elevator!” Harry pointed.

“That makes sense,” Oliver agreed.

They hurried to that elevator and hit the button. Luckily, it was on that floor, and when the door opened, they slipped inside. Oliver grumbled as he pressed the buttons in a frenzy.

Unaware of everything, you stepped inside the apartment. Just as you turned to look in that direction, you heard the elevator doors closing. Oliver, Harry, and Maria breathed a sigh of relief as you walked straight to the staff's quarters to change.

Oliver kept his finger on the door-close button, waiting.

“I think we’re safe,” Oliver grinned.

“What a morning,” Maria muttered.

Then someone called the elevator to the tenth floor, and it started moving.

“What are you doing, man? We need to get out of here now!” Harry grunted.

“What can I do? I can't keep pressing the button every second!”

When the elevator arrived on the tenth floor, the doors opened to reveal a little boy frowning at them, school bag slung over his shoulder. "Were you the ones keeping the elevator busy? That’s so wrong."

Harry and Oliver shared an awkward glance, embarrassed.

“Sorry, little buddy,” Harry forced a smile.

“Going to school, huh?” Oliver asked nervously.

“Well, I was, but now I’m going to be late thanks to you!” The boy sniffled, shaking his head. “Drunks, seriously.”

Maria covered her mouth to stifle her laughter. The little boy stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the ground floor.

After an awkward ride down, they finally stepped outside. Maria turned toward her car and said, “All we needed was to get scolded by a little kid. Thank you, Harry, for this wonderful morning."

“I can’t remember the last time I was this nervous,” Oliver laughed.

“Come on, get in, you big babies,” Maria said, pressing the key fob to unlock her car.

“Where to?” Harry asked, opening the door.

“To get scolded by another kid.”

“Your place?”

“Well, if you can’t stay in your own house, what choice do you have? Get in, sneaky ass.”

Before hopping into the car, Harry glanced up at the top floor of the building—his apartment. A sense of sadness washed over him, knowing you would have to clean up the mess he left behind.

“Oh, my God…”

As you stepped into the apartment, the sight—and the smell—caught you off guard. What on earth had happened here? Did they throw a party last night or something? Clearly, the owner had his share of trouble, maybe he was not so innocent after all.

First things first, you rushed to the windows, flipped the hidden lever, and let some fresh air flow through. Taking a deep breath, you grabbed a big garbage bag and started clearing the floor of empty bottles and cigarette butts from the overflowing ashtray. As you cleaned, your curiosity kicked in. It couldn’t have been a wild party; only one couch was askew while the others remained untouched and tidy. The kitchen showed no signs of food; just a multitude of empty glasses scattered around.

You scanned the room—no lipstick on any glasses, no hair on the floor, so it was obvious no woman had crashed here. Maybe the two guys just shared a few drinks and chatted? Or maybe the owner just got dumped or something.

You smiled yourself and shook your head.

"Just do your job, girl. It's none of your business," you muttered.

Meanwhile, Harry sat in Maria's living room, staring blankly at the screen. "What are you, Sherlock Holmes?" He smirked.

"Is she suspicious?” Oliver asked.

“She was at first, but I think we're good,” Harry said, flopping onto the couch.

“For now,” Maria chimed in, pouring herself a glass of water. “But she’ll figure it out sooner or later and give you a good kick on the-- Oh, is someone awake?"

Maria’s daughter, Mia, came into the room, spotted Harry, and smiled. “Uncle Harry!”

Harry sat up and patted her head. “What’s up, darling? How’s it going?”

“Fine, but are you sick or something?” she asked with concern.

“Just a bit tired,” he replied, stretching out on the couch.

"Or hangover?" she grinned.

Harry chuckled. "Smart girl."

“What’s up, sweetheart?” Oliver said, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Same old, school stuff,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

“Mia, eat your breakfast; I’ll take you to school,” Maria said, pointing to the plate on the counter.

“You skipped work, so I should get to skip school too, right?” Mia muttered.

Maria frowned, “Who said we skipped work, smartypants? Now hurry up, or you’ll be late!”

Mia huffed but sat down. “If you didn’t skip work, why are you both here while everyone else is working? And why’s Uncle Harry in Dad’s shirt?”

Maria chuckled, “Because he got kicked out of his own apartment.”

Mia took a big bite of her toast and looked at Harry inquisitively. “Oh! Did you leave your key inside? Mom did it once.”

“Thanks for bringing that up, kiddo,” Maria said, rolling her eyes. “Come on, we’re late! Just eat that on the way,” she added, grabbing her school bag and urging Mia to finish her juice.

“Good luck at school,” Harry waved as Mia headed toward the door.

“Catch you later, princess,” Oliver called back.

Mia waved goodbye, and as Maria followed her out, she turned back to Harry. “You’d better be in better shape by the time I get back, Romeo,” she warned before closing the door behind her.

Oliver turned to Harry, “She’s right, man. You need to pull yourself together; you look worn out. Even a shower didn’t lift your spirits. Want me to whip you up something to eat?”

Harry let out a deep sigh. “No, thanks. I don’t have an appetite.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes. “Okay, that has me worried. There’s definitely something you’re not saying.”

“Well, I couldn’t say it in front of Maria, but I’ve got an issue,” Harry finally admitted.

“Yeah, I can see that. But it looks like you’ve got more than one thing going on,” Oliver said, grinning. But then he noticed the seriousness in Harry’s face and softened. “What can I do? Just tell me what you need.”

Harry huffed, swallowing hard. “I need her.”

“Dude. Tell me something I don't know."

He huffed again.

"Okay, she’ll come around if you just give it some time—”

“You don’t get it,” Harry snapped, sitting up to face Oliver. “I...really...need...her,” he emphasized, his breathing steadying as he spoke.

Oliver frowned, sensing the weight of his words. “Go on,” he urged gently.

“Every thought I have revolves around her. That night in Paris haunts me…her skin, her scent, her...”

Oliver raised a hand to stop him. “Whoa. I get it, man. No need to go into detail.”

“The memories consume me, and they’ve left me in a real bind,” he said frankly. "It's like a unique kind of erotic film that continuously plays in my mind, and she is the only actress. But I can't do anything; I'm just watching in awe."

“Can't do anything? But, I mean, come on. You—surely you’ve tried—”

“Everything. From the erotic to the pharmaceutical.”

Oliver chuckled, unable to help himself. “I’m sorry, it’s not funny, but this is just bizarre, man. It’s oddly romantic too,” he said, laughing again.

“I guess it's because I’ve never faced rejection before. All I can think about is her. Maybe that’s how my body reacts, and maybe I’m—”

“In love.”

A short silence hung in the air. “Yes, I am,” Harry admitted.

“Well, If you ask me, you haven’t really tried everything yet,” Oliver suggested.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, curious.

“Listen, it doesn’t have to be about hooking up with her to solve your mechanical issues, you know? There are plenty of women out there who would be interested—like through escort services or sex workers.”

“No, never!” Harry barked. “I can’t cheat on her. Do you even hear what you’re saying?”

“Cheating? Is she your wife? You’re not even dating! That’s not cheating, man.”

“It wouldn’t even matter. It wouldn't work. I can’t think about anyone else. I just want her, only her.”

“Alright, but I’m out. You’re asking me to help with something I can’t fix. Plus, that girl you "want" is super stubborn. It’s definitely not going to be easy.”

“Yeah, thanks for the heads up,” he grumbled.

Oliver stood up, shrugging. “Try to get some sleep. Maybe that’ll help clear your head.”

Harry nodded and flopped back on the couch, opening his tablet to check what you were doing. Oliver shook his head when he caught sight of the goofy smile spreading across Harry’s face.

Once he stepped into the garden, he pulled out his phone and called Maria. “Hey it's me. Listen, Harry's got a bigger problem than we realized. I think you need to step in now.”

After finally wrapping up the cleaning of the apartment, thoughts of Harry filled your mind as you stepped outside. He had been on your mind all day, especially since he hadn’t reached out with a text or call since last night. You couldn’t shake the feeling of how much you missed his playful messages.

The nagging worry that you might have upset him echoed in your mind, driving you a bit crazy.

But how could you express your feelings when you weren't fully ready?

When the moment to speak your truth arrived, you wanted to pour your heart out.

You shouldn’t have brushed it off as if it didn't matter, right?

As you walked down the street, the happy couples around you caught your attention, casually dropping “I love you” into their conversations. In the past, you would have thought little of it, but now it felt like a constant reminder of what you were missing. Another couple strolled by, murmuring those same words. Then, on the subway, a woman sat next to you, holding hands with her boyfriend or husband. And there it was again—“I love you.”

Feeling unworthy, you got up and told the guy that you would get off at the next stop anyway, nudging him to sit next to his partner. You felt like you didn't deserve to be there next to them, especially when you couldn’t even tell the man you loved that you loved him back.

They seemed to express their feelings so effortlessly, while you struggled, so you decided it was better to step aside as a form of penance.

Yeah, you were really losing it.

When another cheerful couple boarded the train, and more declarations of love surrounded you, you reached your breaking point. You hopped off at the next station, even if it meant getting off three stops early. The heaviness of guilt was the last thing you needed, yet it hung heavily on your shoulders.

It felt as if your mind was caught in a tug-of-war, much like a dull quiz show. 

Congratulations! 

You've won yourself a lengthy walk home as a consolation prize!

Once you got home and recounted last night’s events to Zoe, her reaction was immediate. “He told you he loved you, and you did what? Just walked away?” she exclaimed. "Girl, are you crazy? You’re in love with him, for fuck sake! Call him right now and say you want to talk."

From the corner of the couch, you frowned at her. “I told you I’m not ready yet.”

Zoe rolled her eyes as if you had just said the most absurd thing. "If John told me he loved me, you'd be surprised how quickly my panties would fall down."

You grimaced. "Ugh, slutty much?"

"Stubborn much?" she shot back. “Don’t come crying to me if you lose him to someone else because you overthink everything.”

You let out a huff and stood up. “I’m heading to my room,” you muttered. “Good night.” 

"Think about what I said! Tell him you love him before it's too late, you silly!" 

Ughhhhh.

It was as if she was inside your head. You knew that if you didn’t speak up, other women would be swarming around him like a pack of hyenas. 

You flopped onto your bed, feeling as though you were collapsing under the weight of it all, and sighed deeply. Checking your phone, you noticed there were no messages. You opened Instagram, scrolled through his comments on your photos filled with heart emojis, and couldn’t help but smile, even giggling like a little girl. Then you clicked on his profile and browsed through his pictures one by one. That’s when your heart began to race. 

Thump, thump, thump. 

Perhaps it was simply your body’s instinctive response. 

Screaming. 

It certainly seemed to convey your feelings more effectively than your words ever could.

You turned off your phone, placing it face down on the nightstand. 

It was time to come clean. 

You missed his messages, longed for the sound of his voice, craved his smile and his touch, and you knew that if this dragged on for another day, you’d toss your pride out the window without a second thought. 

The next day?

The next day was even worse. You had hoped for a cheerful morning message from him, but when you picked up your phone and flipped it over to check the screen, all you found were a few advertisements—nothing from him.

Frustrated, you sat up in bed, seething with anger.

Why were you so upset?

Why did this feeling of abandonment weigh on you?

Your emotions took a turn, and frustration morphed into remorse.

Great!

In a fit of anger, you snatched your pillow and flung it against the wall. Just then, Zoe opened your door and stumbled in.

“What on earth is going on here?” The pillow landed at her feet. “Hey, do you want me to injure my other ankle too?”

You jumped out of bed and grabbed her arm, checking her ankle. "Oh, I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"

“I think so, but you definitely don’t seem okay.”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled. 

“Yeah, right. You’re just great,” she teased. “And this pillow must be flying in from all the happiness.” 

“Alright, that's enough. I need to head to the hotel,” you muttered as you opened your wardrobe to get ready.

“Oh, by the way! While you’re out, can you grab some ointment from the pharmacy?” 

You rolled your eyes as you put on your pants. “Let me guess, you’ve used it all up, haven’t you?”

“What else am I supposed to do? I want to heal fast; I’m so over staying at home.”

"You gotta take it easy, sweetie. Just be patient."

“Well, I’m not as patient as you are, sorry.” She shot back with a grin.

"Just like that, and nobody got a clue, and the wedding went off without a hitch."

You were chatting with Bruno about how you managed to save the wedding cake at the last minute.

"Ah, cara mia, you’re great. Taking risks is crucial if you want to grab those chances. Being brave and going for it, no matter how it turns out, is what really counts, even if you mess up at the end," Bruno said proudly. He leaned over the counter and winked at you. "Just kidding, but seriously, try not to mess it up,” he added with a chuckle.

You laughed, but his words lingered in your mind, making your smile fade.

Being brave and going for it, no matter how it turns out.

Wasn’t love worth that risk?

Absolutely, it was worth it.

He was worth it.

Lost in your thoughts, you finally heard the waitress calling your name. “Huh? Sorry, what was that?” you asked, pulling yourself back to the moment.

“I was just saying that Mr. Finnegan's girlfriend and her friends are here, and she wants to see who made the dessert — which is you,” the waitress replied.

“Oh look, my assistant is on her way to becoming a chef,” Bruno said, grinning as he continued slicing the cheese.

“Or on the path to getting fired,” you muttered under your breath.

You were quite sure that Lucy didn’t like you at all.

As you walked into the dining room, you couldn’t help but let out a deep sigh when you saw Lucy and the two women sitting across from her. Lucy flashed a tight smile that didn’t do much to ease your discomfort. The other women were giving you the once-over, evaluating you from head to toe.

“Here’s the person who made this delicious dessert, ladies,” Lucy announced, with a fake smile.

“But isn’t that the waitress who danced with Harry Castillo at the wedding?” one of the women said, looking totally shocked.

“Aren’t you that maid?” the other woman added with growing astonishment. “The one who hacked our system, impersonated someone else, and embarrassed us in front of all our customers? How many faces do you really have?”

“Seems like she’s trying to snag both Castillo and Finnegan,” one of them remarked, glancing at Lucy with a knowing look.

"A gold digger for sure."

All three women were looking right at you, as if you owed them some kind of explanation. Even the people at the next table were tuning in, throwing you judgmental looks that only made your embarrassment and anger worse. You gripped your apron tightly, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks.

Just then, Maria entered the dining room, her eyes narrowing at the scene unfolding before her. She shared in your anger.

One of the women pushed her plate away with a grimace and said, “I can’t eat this. It’s making me feel sick.” With a little shove, the plate slid off the table and hit the floor. “Oops! Well, lucky we’ve got a cleaner around. What are you waiting for? Clean this mess up!"

You shot her an incredulous glare; this was too much.

“Looks like someone’s itching for a fight,” Maria muttered as she strode confidently towards their table. “That’s not a cleaner, that’s a maid, you illiterate bitch,” she snapped.

Everyone shifted their attention to her, including you.

“Maria—” Lucy froze, taken aback.

The woman looked annoyed and shot back, “Who the hell are you talking to?”

Ignoring her, Maria turned to the other woman, the matchmaker. “It wasn’t her who hacked your system; it was Melanie and her minions. Why are you taking your anger out on this girl? And what kind of system collapses at the slightest breach? Everyone should steer clear of this matchmaking company,” she declared, her voice rising for all to hear. “If their tech team is so incompetent they can’t protect customer credentials, consider what they’d do with your credit card info! Scammers would be the best-case scenario.”

Trembling with fury, she hissed, “And who even are you—”

“Me?" She adjusted her hair in a swift move. "María Elisa Rivera Armada,” she replied coolly, crossing her arms defiantly.

A hush fell over the room; they clearly recognized her name, her connections, and her influence. The two women exchanged nervous glances before rising to leave.

“I’d better go,” one of them muttered under her breath.

Other one joined her.

Maria stepped in front of them, her expression serious. “Are you really going to leave without apologizing to her?”

Both women turned to you, quickly avoiding eye contact. “We’re sorry,” they mumbled.

“Look at them,” Maria shot back, clearly disappointed. “You were loud enough to throw insults but now I can barely hear you.”

Lucy opened her mouth to say something but held back, choosing to steer clear of a fight with her. The women repeated their apologies and hurried out.

Maria took Lucy by the arm as she stood up. You couldn't hear over their conversation while you helped the waitress clean the floor.

“I didn’t confront you earlier for what you did to Harry, because I was caught up in my own divorce and dealing with depression." Maria said to Lucy. "But let me make this clear: if you ever mess with her again, I’ll step in before Harry ever does. Got it? Just a heads up, the crazy bitch is in town and ready to kick some ass."

Lucy narrowed her eyes defiantly. “I didn’t say anything she hasn’t done. Besides, I really don’t care if Harry likes her; I just want her to stay away from Alan.”

Maria laughed cruelly and leaned in closer. "Maybe it’s Alan who needs to keep his distance from her, don’t you think? Why don’t you go and tell your boyfriend about it and see how he reacts?"

Lucy’s face flushed with anger as she stormed out of the room.

A soft murmur spread among those eating; some must have known Maria. Unbothered, Maria took a seat in the chair left vacant by Lucy and looked at you. “Don’t just stand there like a scarecrow; come sit,” she said.

“I could have handled them too, you know,” you muttered as you settled at the table.

Maria pulled Lucy's untouched dessert plate towards her. “Oh, darling, you shouldn’t have to stoop to their level. You’re too good for that.” She glanced at you and winked. “You’re like an angel; keep that up.” Then she took a big forkful of dessert. “Oh, this is fucking delicious.” She took another hefty bite.

You chuckled. "Bon appétit, Mrs. Rivera. By the way, thanks for that; I wasn’t sure how to respond. I mean, I’m used to getting scolded, but those accusations were a bit much."

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. It’s been a while since I’ve acted like that, and it felt so good,” she said with a laugh.

“You were really cool,” you replied with a smile.

"I should be a bit tough on you too, you know. You deserve it," she said, eyeing the dessert.

You were taken aback. "Me? Wh-why?"

Maria shot you a serious look. “Oh, you know very well.”

Silence hung between you for a moment as you averted your gaze and sighed.

“Look, I’m not great at lying, and I’m pretty upfront, even when trouble’s on the horizon. So here’s the deal,” she said earnestly.

You nodded, sensing what was coming next.

“Listen,” Maria sighed. “I’m not going to beg you like 'He loves you—just tell him you love him back, please'. No. Let’s just cut to the chase. Are Harry’s feelings mutual or not? I need to know. Is there any hope? Because he’s like my brother, and I can’t bear to see him suffer like this. Do you understand?” she added, her tone sincere.

“Maria, I don’t want him to hurt either, but is he okay? He hasn’t called me for days,” you replied, worry creeping into your voice.

Maria smiled softly.

“I don’t really know what to do anymore. I never meant to hurt him; I would never intentionally do that,” you admitted, lowering your head.

Maria’s smile turned into one of satisfaction. She had found the answer she sought. “He’s fine,” she said coldly, wiping a bit of cream from the corner of her mouth. “Well, he will be; I’ll make sure of it as his friend.” She stood up suddenly. “But I wish you had been there; by his side, it would’ve made everything much better. But again, it’s all right.”

You stood up too, trying to grasp what she meant.

“Remember. No one is irreplaceable, not even you.”

You frowned slightly. “That’s a bit—”

“Bitchy? It’s just my protective side coming out. Harry is family to me, and I tend to be overprotective of my family.” She leaned in and spoke in a lower voice. “Here’s a warning for you: you’re on the verge of letting him slip away, so you’d better act quickly.” She winked at you before turning on her heel, leaving you in awe as you watched her walk away.

Maria hopped into the car waiting for her, Oliver was in the driver’s seat, giving her a curious look. 

“Well?”

“Good news, she’s totally in love with Harry,” she said with a grin. 

“Then she’ll tell him, right? That’s awesome!” he replied, looking relieved. 

“Hmm, I don’t think so. Not anytime soon, anyway.” 

“What? Why not?” 

“She just needs a little push.” 

"Alright, we need to bring them together. Should I arrange a date?"

Maria rolled her eyes. “What’s it like in that little head of yours, Ollie? You men are really simple creatures."

Oliver frowned. “What does that even mean?” 

“Never mind. I’ll handle it,” she said, pulling out her phone to text. 

“How? What’s your plan?” 

“I’m going to give her a little nudge, get her emotions going, and light that fire.” 

“I’m not sure I follow.” 

“Jealousy, Ollie. Jealousy.” 

Oliver leaned in to take a look at her phone. “Stella? Oh boy, Harry’s not going to like this.”

“As long as he doesn’t find out, we’ll be fine. So you’d better keep your mouth shut.”

“But what if she ends up hating Harry instead of feeling jealous? How can you be sure?”

Maria shot him a glare. “My seventy-year-old grandmother divorced my grandfather out of jealousy after fifty years of marriage. It’s one of the most primitive and powerful emotions a human can experience; it activates everything within you. Trust me—our little cat will turn into a tiger.”

It was yet another dreary morning, and you had to admit—another day without his good morning text was not going well at all.

Then there was Maria's comment. She must really have a knack for manipulation.

What did she say again?

“No one is irreplaceable.”

Did Harry actually say that, or was it her idea? No, Harry wouldn’t say something like that.

Would he?

Who knows?

He hadn’t been around for three days; maybe that’s what he thought now. You rolled over in bed, burying your face in the pillow and letting out a frustrated growl.

Why did it hurt so much?

It just made you mad. You felt like there was nothing you could do, like it was too late. You hated that feeling.

The door swung open, and Zoe peeked in. "If you're going to smother yourself, you should probably put your head under the pillow instead."

You shot her a glare. “Oh really? Why don’t you come show me how it’s done?”

She let out a wicked laugh. “So, you still haven’t called him, huh? Babe, you’re way past the ‘he should call first’ phase, don’t you think?”

You sprang up, fired up. “Don’t start on me too, Zoe! I’ve got enough people coming at me!”

She narrowed her eyes at you as you stormed out of the room. “Who else is coming at you? Although I shouldn’t be surprised! Your stubbornness must be famous!” she shouted after you.

When you got to the hotel, things just went downhill from there. You were so distracted that you messed up a bunch of things, and Bruno had to tell you to head home early. You were actually relieved because you really weren’t feeling up to working. On your way back, all you could think about was Harry. You typed out a ton of messages but ended up deleting them all before hitting send. You were itching to get the scoop about his house from Oliver so you could figure things out. You were desperate to see him. You couldn’t tell if he was just playing games or if he actually wanted you to chase after him.

But you knew you had to do something.

Just then, waiting at a red light to turn green, your phone buzzed.

Mr. Ol’man sent you a photo.

You opened the message quickly, and your heart raced as you did so without thinking.

Once upon a time, you used to have pride.

You saw the photo he sent you and froze in the middle of the crosswalk.

There was Harry, enjoying drinks in a bar with a super-hot, blonde woman, clinking glasses and laughing at the camera.

Laughing.

Happy.

With a woman.

In a bar, drinking.

Harry.

The man you loved.

The man who told you he loved you a few nights back.

Suddenly, the blaring horn of a car jolted you back to reality, realizing you were still standing in the street. You hurried across and leaned against a nearby wall to catch your breath. Your heart was pounding now, but it was all anger. It felt like fire was coursing through your veins. Then you got another message, and it only stoked the flames.

“Sorry, I sent it to you by mistake. I meant to send it to Stella.”

Stella.

Oh, come on! Seriously?

You felt a wave of anger and hurt, your body shaking as if jolted by a live wire. It took you a minute to think straight. This had to be some sort of game. There was no way it was real. It was just his way of messing with you. But what if it wasn’t?

No, you couldn’t think clearly; your mind was clouded. One emotion dominated your thoughts, taking control of your entire being.

Jealousy.

You were furious and incredibly jealous.

Tears of anger streamed down your face as you walked aimlessly down the street. While wrestling with what to do next, another message pinged on your phone.

It was from Maria.

“The King Cole Bar. Better hurry, sis; this skank’s all over Harry.”

That was the last straw.

You had to go there.

But how? You knew that place was fancy; there was no way you could walk in looking like you were right then, or in any of your clothes, honestly. In that moment, you did something rash, something that felt immature, and you’d probably regret later, but anger and jealousy took charge.

You didn’t care about the fallout.

You called her on your phone, the one saved under “trouble.”

“I can't believe I'm doing this,” you muttered under your breath. Sharing a limo with Melanie and Nate, and unintentionally overhearing their steamy chatter was too much to bear.

“God, just end my misery,” you thought grimly.

“Hey, we skipped our program for you tonight,” Melanie hissed. “How about a little gratitude?”

“So you two are together now? That's more disgusting than the most disgusting thing I can think of.”

“You really,” Melanie grunted.

Nate's hands were all over her. “Never mind her, baby, she's jealous of us.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh yeah! I'm dying of jealousy!”

“Maybe not us, but you're insanely jealous of your boyfriend,” Melanie giggled. ‘’I see what you are doing, that's a lame excuse.”

“Mind your own business,” you barked.

“Exactly, honey, let's mind our own business,” Nate licked her neck.

Ugh, you looked away and ignored them, feeling nauseous.

At least Melanie, annoying as she could be, had brought you a dress and shoes.

Of course, it wasn't for nothing.

You promised to talk to Jack about her in return.

The limo pulled up near the bar and you got out. No, you jumped out, because the two of them were getting into it. You hurriedly told the limo driver to get lost, the two of them didn't even look back, they were too busy.

You sighed as you read the name of the bar from the elegant logo above the black entrance door. “This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever done,” you muttered. People were looking at you with interest when they passed by the bar. Oh that's right, Melanie and her dress sense, she liked to look like a little slut.

So the red halter dress you were wearing was not so short but a bit revealing, with a deep slit on your right side that shows off your thigh with every step. You felt like a neon sign flashing, “Look at me!”

Thanks a lot, Melanie.

Did it really have to be red?

You tugged at the tight black jacket, trying to cover yourself up, but it wasn’t working. The doorman checked you out, grinning as he happily welcomed you inside.

As you stepped in, all eyes were on you, and you felt your cheeks heat up.

Just perfect.

You chose the corner table and sat down immediately, trying to ignore the stares. You covered your face with the menu and looked around.

Where the hell were they?

The stares were becoming increasingly uncomfortable. After all, you were stunning, dressed to impress, and scanning the room as if you were searching for someone special. Who could say what thoughts were running through their minds?

Finally, you spotted them—Maria, Oliver, and Harry sitting at the bar. But where was the woman from the photo he sent? You looked again. There were no blondes in sight—just a couple with other people, none that looked like her. What’s going on? Just then, your phone buzzed. It was a text from Maria.

“Looking for Stella? That photo was from last year, honey.”

You shot her a quick glance, and she winked at you with a sly grin.

Seriously?

Had she played you?

Maria nudged Harry to look your way, and the moment he turned, you quickly looked away.

The instant Harry noticed you, he nearly choked on the whiskey he was sipping, looking utterly stunned.

But honestly, you couldn’t care less; they had all been playing games with you, and you felt like a total fool.

You got up in a huff and tried to leave, but as luck would have it, you bumped into a guy. Of course, he was holding a glass of scotch, and the impact sent it splashing all over you—on your jacket, your chest, everywhere. The cold liquid, still icy, made you shiver when it hit your skin. Some even dribbled down into your expensive bra—the one you had saved up for.

Just fantastic.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he said, looking younger than you, his eyes glued to one spot—your breasts. You were the one who bumped into him, but he was the one needing to apologize, yes he should. He grabbed a napkin from the table, still staring at your chest like he was talking directly to it. “Can I wipe that up, p-please?” he asked, way too eager.

Seriously, was he a fucking teenager or what?

You instinctively pulled back, trying to cover yourself with your arm. “No thanks,” you replied tersely.

In that moment, three things happened at once. Maria dropped her bag right on the guy's head, Harry yanked your wrist and pulled you behind him, and Oliver stepped up next to you, giving that guy a fierce look.

“Are you a creep or what?” Maria shouted.

“How dare you touch her?” Harry barked.

“Who the hell are you people?” the guy shot back.

“I’m her boyfriend, so what?” Harry replied.

“And I’m her sister,” Maria jumped in.

“And I'm her brother,” Oliver added.

Wow, here's your saviors.

That’s when you figured it was your moment to mess with them. “Excuse me, but I don’t even know you guys, so you can sort this out on your own,” you said, not bothering to look at them. You couldn’t help but enjoy the shocked looks on their faces as you turned and headed for the exit.

“Where do you think you're going?” Harry yelled after you. He bumped into the guy, causing him to stumble, and ran after you.

Once you stepped outside, you purposely took off your jacket, making sure your wet top was on full display. “My jacket is ruined,” you said, glancing up at Harry.

People walking by stared, even whistling. Harry growled, took off his own jacket, and wrapped it around you. “You think that's funny? Are you playing games now?”

“Look who’s talking,” you shot back, frowning. “You messed with me, so we’re even now.”

He raised an eyebrow, genuinely confused. “Messed with you?”

You gave him a swift kick with your high heel, aiming right for his leg, and he groaned. "Ahh, what the-"

“You made a fool out of me; I won’t forget that.”

He bent down, rubbing his leg where you kicked him. “What are you talking about?” he asked, gritting his teeth.

With a sigh, you took your phone from your bag and showed him the photo and text that Maria had sent.

Harry’s face went from surprised to narrowed. “Maria… Now that makes sense. She took my phone and kept telling me not to call or text you.”

Just then, Maria and Oliver came out of the bar and walked up to you. Harry turned to her, clearly angry. “How could you do that?”

“Hey, I was just looking out for you! I had to step in a little, but guess what---it worked!”

Then he looked at Oliver. “You’re in this too?”

“I told her not to,” Oliver replied, sounding nervous.

Maria glared at him. “You sold me out, you cabrón.”

“Come on, I told you this wouldn’t end well,” he said.

You turned to Maria, upset. “You tricked me. Seriously, how could you?”

“Come on, you two are totally into each other. And you girl, you are dying to be with him! Just admit it!”

“Don’t you dare show your face around me again,” you said, eyeing Harry. “You too.” Then, you turned on your heel.

“Stop right there, sweetheart; you are not going anywhere,” he said, blocking your path. “We need to talk, and this time you’re not running away.”

You looked at him, surprised. “I’m not running away,” you mumbled. “If you want to talk, fine, but not out here; I’m freezing.”

He nodded, “Come here,” he said softly, putting his arm around you. “Oliver, give me the car keys.”

“Are we heading to your place?” you asked.

“No!” Harry snapped, making you jump a little.

“Not there,” Oliver added, looking uneasy.

“Oops,” Maria giggled.

What the hell was that?

You shot them a skeptical glance. “Seriously? Are you living in some kind of secret Batcave or what?" 

Harry chuckled. “Very funny. The thing is, we can't go to my place because…” 

“Because?” 

“There’s a bit of an insect invasion,” Oliver chimed in. “The house is being fumigated, so…” 

It seemed like a weak excuse, but perhaps it was the truth; you decided to stop probing. “So, where are you staying now?” you asked.

“Just at the hotel, of course,” Maria replied casually.

“Right, the hotel,” Harry mumbled.

“I’ll drive you there; you’ve had too much to drink, you can't drive,” Oliver said, heading for the car.

You turned to Harry, catching a glimpse of something strange in his expression but didn’t dwell on it. The thought of being alone with him was actually appealing.

Fuck all your pride and stubbornness.

Yeah, it was definitely time to follow your heart.

“Memories, huh?” you mutter as the elevator smoothly ascends to the top-floor suite.

Harry's gaze was locked onto you, his breath coming in steady but heavy bursts. “Yeah, I guess so,” he replied, tilting his head slightly to the side.

Was he checking out your ass?

It didn’t really matter; he could look all he wanted, and honestly, you wanted him to do more—like touch you, everywhere.

Right, why wasn’t he?

What was he waiting for?

Oh right, those damn cameras.

As you walked into the room, he clasped your hand tightly. When you reached the door, he pulled the card from his pocket, swiped it, and the door swung open. “Ladies first,” he said with a gesture, inviting you inside.

His voice was a bit shaky, making you bite your lip to keep from giggling. He followed you inside and closed the door with a firm click, almost as if he was making sure you were alone. You took off his jacket and handed it back to him, trying to keep a straight face. “Thanks for the jacket—”

And he lunged at you. He threw the jacket angrily and wrapped his arms around you, pulled you to him and captured your lips with his mouth. He kissed you passionately, longingly, hungrily, like you were his oxygen and he was underwater in a sea of lust. 

“Harry," You breathed trying to break the kiss, but his lips closed in on yours again before you could utter another word. You sighed softly against him, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. As your hands slid down to his biceps, you clung to him, feeling the undeniable strength beneath the fabric, lost in the intensity of the moment.

"I thought we were just going to talk," you said mockingly, tilting your head to the side. His gaze remained fixed on your chest.

"Later, baby. With you dressed like that, I might not be able to concentrate. You look exquisite," he breathed, his voice laced with a seductive tone that made you weak in the knees.

A smile broke across your face, “You’re looking quite handsome yourself.”

And he truly was, his black long-sleeved shirt clinging perfectly to his well-defined frame.

The atmosphere crackled with an electric tension the moment his gaze settled on you. You craved to keep him focused solely on you, yearning for his eyes to linger endlessly. Those captivating brown eyes, glimmering like precious jewels, seemed to caress every inch of you, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

"Your dress is soaking wet," he said breathlessly, his hands gliding over the damp fabric, brushing against your breasts. They instantly hardened at his touch, which they had been longing for. You bit your lower lip.

"It's not just my dress," you whispered slowly in his ear.

He darkly chuckled, fire licking at your veins from the heat of his gaze, “Is that so? So you’re saying that If I touch you, I will find you ready for my cock?” he asked, grinning.

“Why not find out for yourself?” you teased.

His hand suddenly found itself trailing a path towards your bare legs to between your thighs, making you gasp. Holding on to his strong arms, the feel of his fingers trailing over your skin was a wonderful, delicious shock that left you breathless.    

“Playing with fire would be dangerous, you know,” he growled low, so low, it reverberated through your chest. And through the partition of the dress, that slit that split mid-thigh, he caressed up your leg, towards your hip.

You almost mewled.

Almost.

“I'm not playing,” you murmured, half panting.

He chuckled again, that dark, seductive glee escaping from him in agonizing, tantalizing waves. “You decided to be a good girl then?” he stared at you, eyes molten pools of lust. “It surprises me you acquiesced, given how stubborn you are. Hmm, maybe I should reward you,” he whispered while his hand still deliciously trailed a lazy path over and around.

Who was playing now?

It sure wasn't you.

You were already past the playing part, you were dripping.

He knew, of course, he fucking knew, without even having to touch...

But he did touch, sliding his hands under your dress down to your wet panties, his fingers pushing them aside, there it was; he could feel your lips, drenched and ready.

You bucked against his palm, aching for more but he deliberately pulled away.

You frowned in response.

Damn.

He chuckled delightfully, looking at his fingers coated with your wetness, “My darling kitty, you’re completely soaked. So you were being honest, after all. Such a good girl. Are you hoping for a reward?”

“Just give it to me already,” you urged, gripping him tightly and pressing yourself against him, ignoring the feeling of a deep blush spread across your cheeks.

“Oh, I will, sweetheart,” he said with a sly smile. He spun you around, pulling you firmly against him. Before you could even process what was happening, his strong arms enveloped you, and you felt his chin just above your ear and his clothed cock pressing against your thighs; you could feel beneath the fabric; it was hard, painfully hard, and you gasped. "You drive me so fucking crazy. I want so bad to slide into that sweet wet pussy and feel it all tight and hot around me while I pound into you.” He purred, “But first, there’s something I want you to do.” He touched your lips, then chin, tracing his fingertip down the line of your throat, over the hollow of your collarbone, down to the swelled curve of your breasts. His other hand had already slipped under the slit in your dress and found your dripping pussy once more, you bit your lower lip hard. The hand at your sex continued to tease you, lazily circling your entrance.

Fuck.

You shuddered under his touch and words, your back arched, eyes rolling, moaning softly.

"Will you do what I want, baby?” he asked as if you might protest.

“Whatever you want,” you whispered, eyes closed and completely surrendered to him, it was all too much and you were helpless in the face of this torture, you were melting.

He had to do what he had to do already, he had to do it before you lost your fucking mind.

His other hand grabbed your head from behind and he tilted your head to the other side this time, you tilted your head back towards his other shoulder. You couldn't do anything, you had no choice but to let him play with you like a toy. “Tell me you love me,” he whispered in a demanding tone.

It took you a second to figure out what had just happened, then you opened your eyes and frowned. “What the hell? Are you really trying to seduce me into saying that?”

"You left me no choice. Now say it, come on, I'm waiting."

In that moment, your stubbornness flared up because he had pushed you, forcing you to say that. But those wonderful fingers stroking your pussy so incredibly slowly, damn it, it made you stop thinking.

“Say it,” he said, sounding a bit impatient this time. He grabbed the strap of your dress and pulled it down to your waist. "I know you love me, so spill it. I’m not letting you leave this room until you do."

You turned your head to him, "Wait, what did you say? You can't do that."

“Watch me,” he said, yanking the dress down off your waist until it fell to the floor. “Now, darling, you’ve got two options,” he said, pulling you closer. You tried to struggle, but there was no breaking free from his grip. “The easy way or the hard way.”

“I get the easy way, but what’s the hard way, Mr. Castillo?” you scoffed.

He  smirked, turned you around, this time you faced him. You deliberately took a step backwards, he was unbuttoning his shirt as he stepped towards you. “So you're taking the hard way?” he said huskily and kept walking towards you, and you kept going backwards.

Until your back hit the wall.

He leaned in, one hand against the wall next to you while the other gripped the strap of your bra. His gaze was intense as his fingers played with the lace. Then, feeling impatient, he quickly reached behind you, found the clasp of your wet bra, and undid it in no time. He kept his eyes locked on yours as he lifted your bra and tossed it on the floor. You could feel your face getting hot, and you bit your lip.

After that, he bent down to your level and lifted you by your hips. Your bare breasts rubbed against his bare chest, you both moaned. “Say it,” he said again, his breath hot on your skin. 

But instead of answering, you held on to him, letting your hardened breasts torture him some more. 

He growled in frustration and picked you up, carried you into the bedroom and threw you on the bed roughly making you gasp. You crawled backwards as he hurriedly took off his pants, your heart pounding in your throat, excited to see him completely naked.

Your gaze remained locked on his, biting your lip in anticipation. 

But he was still lingering while taking his underpants off.

Finally.

You let out a happy sigh, taking in how breathtaking he looked. Impatiently, you shifted to the edge of the bed, grabbed his hand, and pulled him closer to you. He leaned over and let you pull him down on the bed on top of you.

“Getting a little impatient, are we?” He smirked at you. “You can speed up the process, you know,” he said pinning you to the bed with his weight, putting one knee between your not yet fully spread legs and grasping your wrists. 

“Oh come on, this is getting ridiculous,” you muttered.

“But it’s so much fun,” he breathed out before lunging for your mouth, pulling deep, hungry kisses that leave you both panting harshly.

Proving in a way that he was an amazing kisser and hot as hell.

Needing to taste every inch of your flushed skin, he continued up the sharp line of your jaw, your wrists slipping from his grasp.

He let out a hot breath over your ear before running the tip of his tongue down the shell of it. A shiver ran up your spine, and you bit down on his shoulder, pulling a groan from his throat. You soothed the spot with your lips as your hands roamed his body, his muscles rippling under your fingers.

He made his way down your throat, kissing and nipping and swirling his tongue in all the right places, leaving goose bumps in his wake.

Next, the tip of his tongue traced the underside of your breast in a teasing, feather-light sweep, breathing out as he hovered above the peak of your nipple, almost touching it. He waited until your eyes locked and paused just for a moment before he dived down and captured you in his mouth roughly, sucking hard as he expertly used his lips, teeth, and tongue.

“Oh god,” you let slip out on a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, chest now heaving from the sudden onslaught. He let you slip slowly from his lips but added a quick kiss to the sensitive flesh, making you jump. Your fingers run through his curls as he lowers his head further.

“You’re so beautiful baby,” he hummed.

Without warning he ran the flat of his tongue over you again, causing your hips to buck.

You were on fire.

You were whimpering.

You needed him needed him so fucking bad.

“Harry…” you moaned when he finally spread your legs and made a slight contact with your clit.

Working you with his tongue, he placed lazy open-mouth kisses over your breasts. He teased your entrance with the head of his cock while sucking your nipples hungrily, relentlessly, making your eyes roll back with pleasure, your whole body tingling.

“Shit! Harry, I’m gonna--” Already worked up from all the teasing, the exquisite combination of sensations sent a jolt straight to your core, causing a small orgasm that surprised you both.

Whoa, that never happened to you before; you were still in shock.

But that wasn’t enough.

It didn't do anything to satiate you, though; it only made you want more.

What the hell got into you?

Damn it.

He snickered. “Yes, baby, say my name and say that word, and I will give you more," he hummed into your flesh.

“Are you going to fuck me or what?” you growled, almost sobbing.

“As soon as you say the damn word,” He growled back and rubbed the tip of his cock against your walls and you pressed your hips against him but he pulled back, still waiting. “Oh c’mon, tell me you love me already,” he hissed.

It was too much and frustrating

“I… Harry, I-” you panted, trying to use your words but you were failing.

“Go on,” he grunted, commanding.

It was too much and frustrating for him too.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore as his cock throbbed in agony, and with a quick and rough thrust, he buried himself inside you, but halfway through it yet was enough to make you jump and scream.

He pulled back again and sighed.

You leaned back into the pillows, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and your legs around the backs of his. Your eyes met his, with a soft caress of his cheek, you whispered, "Harry Castillo... I love you... I love you so much that I do silly things because of you. I love you so much that I don’t want a single day to go by without you."

His lips curved up in a wide, victorious smile. "That's my girl. I love you too baby.”

He began to kiss you everywhere--- your cheeks, your nose your chin, your collarbone. And you moaned a little when he finally smashed his lips on yours, kissing you hungrily, his tongue sliding across your lower lip before nipping it. “That wasn't so hard, was it?” he grinned and kissed you again.

You managed to shake your head a little, blinking up at Harry as you panted broadly against his mouth. Your cunt throbbed around his cock as he fully sheathed himself in you. His fingers intertwined with yours, raising your joined hands to rest on the pillow beside you. He rolled his hips gently, then again as you whimpered, swirling his tongue with yours. He fucked you with slow, even strokes, trading slow kisses as you moaned and panted into one another's mouths.

He then broke the kiss, pressing his face into your neck as his thrusts became harder. You gasped, sinking your nails into his shoulders as you let your eyes slide closed. The bed was beginning to shake with his movements, and the slapping of your hips slightly echoed through the grand bedroom. You felt the familiar curling sensation beneath your waist, and you slid a hand down, grasping his behind and using the grip to urge him on. He drew back just enough to get a good look at you, his eyes bright in the dim room. You sucked in a stunned breath as he reached between your legs, fingers teasing your clit as his hips pounded yours more roughly.

You were moving so wildly that he couldn't keep his mouth on you any longer.

Your head fell back and you gasped when he thrust harder, deep into your wet, heated walls, a desperate sound escaping your thoroughly kissed lips. He stroked your clit while keeping up the rhythm he knew -he remembered from the first time you had sex that night-, one that pulled insanely erotic noises straight from your throat.

A devilish grin spread across his face as he took in the sight of you, his kitty writhing uncontrollably at his touch. Unable to take his eyes off of you, he worked his hand faster, moving it in a new sinfully exquisite way.

“Oh, God! Fuck!” You cried out, slick sounds of your bodies became louder and louder with every pump of his cock as his mouth latched onto your neck. You wrapped your arms around him, gripping him tightly to your chest, needing something to hang on to desperately. He could feel your body tense and knew you were close from the sounds you were making.

Fuck, those sounds alone could be his undoing.

“Come for me, baby,” he breathed in your ear, pushing you over the edge.

And you did.

Arched off the bed, his hand never left you, gone with you, working you through it as a steady stream of curses and what could be his name tumbled from your lips. Coming back down, you pulled his face to yours as you plundered his mouth, all sense of restraint shattered. His hand started moving again in time to your kiss, trying to - oh hell no.

You needed more.

You needed him.

Surprising him, you reached and flipped his hand over, then him, still breathing hard from before. Your eyes were filled with lust as you straddled him and, without preparation, sank down onto him as much as you could take at this angle, throwing your head back while letting out a loud moan of satisfaction.

Your whole body shuddered as your hips jerked involuntarily, the feeling of him filling you so completely, almost too much but so good.

“Fuck, baby!” he choked out, his head slamming back into the pillow.

“That’s the idea,” you said, voice dripping with sex, only giving him a second or two before you start to ride him.

He couldn’t decide which was better.

Having the power to make you lose all self-control, completely at his mercy, or lying back and letting you take what you want from him.

Luckily, he didn’t have to choose.

It was like celebrating your confession; there were no more secrets, no more games, and no holding back between you two, finally.

Groaning, he ran his hands up your thighs and caressed the curve of your waist, coming around to knead your backside. Mesmerized by how fluidly you were moving, he watched in awe as your body prepared for yet another release. Rapidly reaching your peak again, he rubbed your with his thumb while his other hand tweaked and pulled your nipple. Your fingers curl, nails scraping his chest as you clenched hard around him, almost bringing him with you but he somehow managed to hold back.

Barely.

For now.

Dazed from multiple orgasms, you were not exactly sure how but he suddenly had you on your stomach, body pressed into the bed by his, the fingers of one hand interlaced with your own. He started off slowly, making sure you could handle it. He picked up the pace when you arched your back for an even better angle, giving his free hand room to sneak underneath your hips and play with you. Crushing your entwined hands together, you frantically reached out for anything else to hold on to, gripping the side of the bed with your other hand as he pounds into you from above.

Your mouth locked open, sobbed into the bed with every thrust, bringing you higher and higher until you were exploding, your whole body trembling with shockwaves originating from the epicenter where you were connected. His face was covered in sweat, cursing as he spilled into you with a deep, feral growl, finally letting go.

As the first rays of sunlight filtered through the tall window, you gradually roused from sleep, reluctant to open your eyes. It felt as if you were resting on a soft, fluffy cloud, completely weightless. A wave of happiness washed over you, and you silently chided yourself for not embracing this morning magic sooner. After mustering enough courage, you finally confessed your feelings for him, and Harry’s efforts truly deserved a reward.

Just then, your phone alarm buzzed loudly from inside your bag on the floor, breaking the tranquil moment.

Ugh, of course, it was Thursday.

Damn it!

Realizing you were still face down on the bed, you wished you could just stay there forever. As you swung your legs over the side and reached out, you felt the empty space next to you. Had Harry already gotten up? You yawned and looked around. “Harry?” you called out sleepily.

The bathroom door swung open, and there he was, toothbrush in hand, foamy mouth and all. He shot you a smile that made you giggle. “Good morning, beautiful,” he managed to say through the toothpaste.

“Morning, ol' man,” you teased.

He frowned dramatically and went back to rinse his mouth before returning to you. “Ol' man, huh?” he asked, sitting on the bed. You wrapped your arms around him. “My ol' man,” you replied, kissing him, and he kissed you back.

“Are you getting me back for calling you 'kitty'?” he mocked, leaning in for another quick kiss. “Maybe,” you said with a playful grin and kissed him again.

You wanted to lose all sense of time in this room with him, wrapped up in nothing but kisses, but you had to get moving. “I’ve got to go to work,” you mumbled, breaking the kiss, reluctantly.

He grimaced. “Can’t you just skip today?”

“It's Thursday, Harry. Besides, don’t you have work to get to?” you reminded him as you slid out of bed.

“Actually, there’s something I wanted to tell you, and—” he murmured. 

“Hmm?” You looked at him. 

Just then, Harry's phone rang. 

“I’ll be in the shower,” you said as you walked over. 

He sighed and answered the call.

After using the toilet, you stepped into the shower, only for Harry to sneak in behind you. He quickly shed his pants and joined you under the warm water, wrapping his arms around you for another kiss, making you giggle.

“Looks like you were right; I guess I have to get to work too,” he said while turning on the water.

You kept kissing as the water poured over you, both of you unable to stop touching each other. Harry was super gentle as he massaged shampoo into your hair, clearly enjoying it. You returned the favor, and it felt so much nicer than just a simple swap.

As you both walked out of the hotel, Oliver showed up, carrying a bag that smelled amazing. “Here’s a quick breakfast for you,” he said, handing it over.

You glanced at Harry, who was smiling cockily. “I didn’t want you heading off to work all hungry.”

You smiled widely, leaning in to kiss him. “Thank you. And... I love you.”

He smiled back. “I love you too,” he said, giving you another kiss.

Oliver laughed, clapping his hands. “Now that’s the sight I needed to see. Congratulations. I can die happy now.”

You both shared a joyful laugh and leaned in for another kiss, celebrating your love.

Harry and Oliver offered to drop you off near the building, but you declined, knowing you still had plenty of time and weren’t running late. After saying goodbye to them, a smile crept onto your face as you made your way to the entrance.

You were now Harry Castillo’s girlfriend—something that turned out to be less daunting than you’d imagined.

Lost in thought as you approached the building, a sudden screech of brakes pulled you back to reality. Startled, you turned to find a little girl who had just fallen to the ground. You hurried to her side. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

Meanwhile, the driver of the car was shouting, “Watch it, kid! Do you want to get hurt?”

Fuming, you yelled back, “You should be the one watching out! Don’t yell at her; can’t you see she’s terrified? Come on, sweetheart.”

Once you reached the sidewalk, you crouched down to check the scrape on her knee. “Does it hurt?”

“I wasn’t scared,” she replied defiantly. “I could have handled myself against him.”

You raised your eyebrows in surprise. "Oh, absolutely, I’m sure you could. I was just looking out for you, you know. Girls have to look out for each other, right?" You winked at her.

She laughed. "I think so too, thanks. It’s just a scrape, really."

“Let’s swing by the pharmacy for a bandage,” you insisted.

“No need; I can take care of it. I'm already where I want to be, and I’m sure there are some first aid supplies at the house,” she said as she headed toward the building where you work.

You quickened your pace to catch up. "Do you live here? I actually work here."

She glanced at you, curious. “Not really. I’m just trying to get away from my parents’ drama for a bit. I thought I’d use my Uncle Harry’s place while he’s away.”

You suddenly froze. 

No way, it couldn’t be. 

Must just be a coincidence with the name or something. 

“Did you say Harry? Does he live in this building?” 

As you headed for the elevator, the girl nodded. “Yeah, he’s on the top floor, in the penthouse.” 

Another wave of shock hit you. 

Taking a deep breath, you asked, “Is your Uncle Harry's last name Castillo, by any chance?” 

“So you know him?” she said, sounding casual. 

But you were anything but casual, your mind racing. 

Nodding, “Yeah, I know him,” you said in barely more than a whisper.

Thanks for reading! I really appreciate your comments, likes, and reblogs. I'd love to hear what you think about the chapter!

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lots of love 💋💋❤️❤️

[tokeposts]

𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍

pairing: deaf!katsuki x gn!reader

warning: collage au, swearing, softsuki, pure fluff, all words italicized are meant to be spoken in sign language

notes: this might be my fave thing ive written so far

632 | Bakugou’s never needed words to tell you how he feels. The only problem?You never understand what he’s been saying.

Bakugou signs alot.

At first, you thought it was just muscle memory, like how someone might talk to themselves under their breath. He’d move his hands with sharp, purposeful flicks, his fingers quick and angry, like he was arguing with the air.

But he always signed to you.

You noticed it when he’d glance your way mid-conversation, hands spelling out something with too much intention for it to be coincident. You didn’t understand a word, of course, and he never explained himself. He’d roll his eyes or scoff when you asked. Saying something like figure it out if you’re so interested, but even with his dismissal— he kept doing it.

When he was annoyed with you, his fingers moved fast.

On the rare chance you made him chuckle, he’d sign something slow and subtle, hidden behind his dumb smirk and eye roll.

When he looked at you too long, he’d blink, sign, and look away.

It wasn’t until weeks later, when you finally decided to take a crash course in ASL at your campus library that the words finally started to come together.

“Thanks for saving my seat,” you said softly, placing your bag down beside him. He hums, nodding, red eyes never leaving your own and it’s enough to make your face heat. You’d always thought Bakugou was good looking, but for the longest time, you kept your distance. That is, until he showed up to the lecture one day reading one of your favorite books, and something about that felt like an opening. Since then, sitting next to him became a habit you looked forward to more than you’d admit.

Your other friends liked to joke that you’d worn him down. That you annoyed him into a friendship.

But every time you walked in and found his bag already nudged off the chair beside him, saving the seat just for you, it felt like the smallest kind of miracle.

He never said much about it. Never made a show of saving your space, but he did it every time.

Bakugou shrugged, his hands move fast. You look… tired?

You blinked. “Wait, I— did you say I looked tired?”

He froze. His brows furrow, eyes narrowed. A tiny break in the confidence that was so Bakugou it practically had its own gravitational pull.

“What the fuck," you heard him mumble. It makes you laugh.

He’s quick to sign again. You understood that?

You bit your lip, suppressing a grin. “A little. I’ve been uh—“ You cut yourself off, your own hands coming forward. Learning.

Bakugou scowled, but his ears were tinged red. He signs again, how? you stalking me now?

“No,” you said, laughing. “I took some classes in the library. Besides you're the one who’s been talking at me this whole time. I finally decided to catch up.”

His hands lifted. It is then that the piece start clicking. If you had learned what he was saying than that means... his eyes narrowed.

What else have you seen?

You pause. Beautiful, he had signed once. You’re beautiful.

Another time: I like your laugh. It sounds like wind chimes. The words 'Wind chimes' was a hard one to figure out for sure.

Once: I wish I could kiss you without making things weird.

You shook your head gently. “Beautiful a couple times... but that's all I remember."

Bakugou exhaled sharply. That's all you remembered!? He's going to fucking explode, dear god. He can feel the heat traveling down his neck. His fingers twitched like he wanted to deny it, like he wanted to scream just to redirect the attention.

Instead, he groaned. Looking away before signing something slowly— hands pausing just enough to make sure you’d catch it.

I can help you remember the rest.

You smiled. Yes. I'd love that

[aidaisukirose]

Short Astro Observations

Virgo Mc and Virgo moon have very similar needs when it comes to cleanliness desire

Hot take - There are far too many sag venus men in open relationships than want to be - allow me to elaborate:

Sag venus have the fuckboy stereotype when in actuality the fuckboys are the sag mars men

Taurus venus and gift giving or random acts of service

Pisces moon and manic disorders very common

Aries mercury and mars - very action oriented and have a lot of passion for things in short term, but long term they need more earth to balance and keep them on track

Taurus moon are most likely to have need for money in the bank at all times to feel stable

Libra moon and cancer moon are most likely to be bottoms - I said what I said

Cancer venus/mercury start out relationships very strong and the rest after honeymoon phase begins to crumble and can be prone to using others in order to make their true lover jelly

Aries sun have the most interesting father and paternal side, their fathers are very fun but often have a rough relationship towards females especially if moon is in a water sign like scorpio, though Aries sun and moon are where it's at! Especially in the females, very confident and it's practically unspoken

Thanks for reading 📚:3

[moonstruckme]

Hi Mae!!

absolutely adore your work (times a million lmao)

I hope your request are open !! (If not... oops ignore this)

I just thought about a remus lupin x reader who struggles feeling included (or like often feels excluded in general) so they try to make up for it by being extroverted and bubbly and all but deep down they're just introverted and enjoys being quiet and alone most of the time

Hope your having a lovely day !!

Xoxo, anon who thinks your super cool 😎

Thanks anon! I think you're cooler ;)

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 552 words

“Bye!” you wave to Remus’ friends, your boyfriend already disappeared into your flat while you stand on the threshold. 

“Y/n!” Lily calls, walking backwards on the sidewalk to keep up with James and Sirius. “Don’t forget to let me know if you’re free for Wednesday!” 

“I’ll call you!” You promise, inching the door closed. “Be sure to send me the pictures from earlier, goodnight!” 

The click of the latch feels like your world letting out a sigh. You might accidentally let one out yourself, by the way Remus smirks at you from the sofa. 

“C’mere,” he beckons. 

You’re more than happy to go, curling up next to him and letting Remus hug you close to his side. His touch works like a balm, unspooling the tension from your body and coaxing you to rest your head on his shoulder. Remus is good at that; softening your hard edges. He makes everything less dire, less urgent. Less worrisome. 

“You okay?” you ask, enjoying yourself but curious as to why he asked for the hug. 

“I am,” he says. You’re struck by the familiar, even timbre of his voice, so intrinsically soothing after the cacophony you’ve been amidst all evening. “Are you?” 

“Mhm. Why?” 

“I know you’re tired, lovely.” 

“You know I am?” You turn your face towards his, close enough that your nose nearly brushes his chin. You raise your eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

The corners of Remus’ mouth lift. “Only that—maybe you’ll think I’m flattering myself, but—I know you fairly well. You exerted yourself quite a bit tonight.” 

You hum. Somehow, the acknowledgement of it makes your head weigh even heavier on Remus’ shoulder. 

He kisses the bridge of your nose softly. “You know,” he says, “you don’t have to work so hard to get them to like you. They already do.” 

“I just want to feel like a part of it all,” you admit. 

“They wouldn’t leave you out, love.” 

“No, I know. But it makes me feel better to participate in the conversation.” 

“Well, you did a great job, then.” 

You sigh, turning your head again so your cheek rests on his shoulder. “Now I have to go to trivia night on Wednesday.” 

Remus chuckles. He rubs up and down your arm consolingly. “You sound so excited,” he teases. “You don’t actually have to, you know.” 

“No, yeah. Sorry. I do want to, I’m just…” You sigh again, heavily. “...tired right now.” 

Remus’ lips press to your head. “I know, lovely.” 

“We’ve established that.” 

“Do you want some time alone?” His tone is amused, but you know the offer is genuine. “I could go read in the bedroom for a little while. Or you take the bedroom and I’ll stay here, either way.” 

You make a hum of denial, nuzzling your cheek into his jumper lazily. “I’m okay to be with you. You don’t drain me.” 

You realize how it sounds only after it’s out. 

“Not that your friends—” 

“I get it. I love them, but they drain me, too. It’s a lot of energy.” 

“Exactly,” you say, relieved. “But you’re different.” 

“Lucky me.” Remus kisses your head again. “Alright to just do this for a while, then?” 

“Yeah,” you say, shifting slightly to get your arms around his middle. You cuddle him properly. “This is good.”

[theshadowyalchemist]

Okay, guys, I'm a bit confused with the results. Varian? Fair, I mean I roleplay as him and am VAing him for the show so I guess I have to be like him to some extent (AND OUT OF THESE GUYS HE'S MY FAVOURITE SO OH MY GOD THANK YOU SO MUCH GUYS AHHHH <3) Lucifer? Yeah, I get that too. Goofy, dramatic, easily pissed and prideful? Covers me pretty well if I do say so myself. Only thing, I'm not the daddy issues, guys, and I hope I never will be! I'm also understanding of no Telemachus because I'm not like him really (I'm scared of literally EVERYTHING and would not want to be given sirens and a cyclops and all the other monsters mentioned in Legendary, thank you very much! (Although it is the BEST EPIC song imo <3 )) The thing that I am most concerned about is

No Connor Murphy???

Tell me what I am doing wrong people! Maybe it's just my internet personality being so not like me (you will not believe the amount of times I've had to stop before I type out the kinda dumb shit I say in real life.) And don't get me wrong. I don't want to be like Connor Murphy, I mean, the guy had a lot of things wrong with him like his anger issues (which I also have) and his drug addiction (which I don't have, if that wasn't clear-) but if you analyse his lines in the musical, you get to see his true character and some people don't like it or understand it (cough cough my mum who says that connor is a bad person and that he's going to the dark side bc he takes drugs and wears black, no joke, cough cough). However I am somebody who does understand Connor because he's just trying to please people but he's too angry at the world and all the shit it's given him (this makes sense if you've read the book!) and is trying to make other people happy when he's not happy himself. He's also trying to fit into society, but everything's messed up and he can't think straight so he says the dumbest and rudest thing he can think of without meaning to because there is nothing in his brain except that anger and even when e tries to get past it, it's too much for him and he needs something, in his case, drugs, to take him away from all his problems and set himself free. Some of this might be me projecting, but that's how I see Connor. And that's how I'm like in real life except I've dealt with less shit than he has so I'm handling it a bit better and I have the things he never had and I'm still annoyed so, really, I'm worse than him. I didn't really realise this when I watched DEH for the first time (I HATED him then lmao) but yeah, I'm like him and I know that none of you guys would wanna be my friends irl because I'd get annoyed and yell or cry or something because I ruin everything as per usual (ask my parents, they'd agree, so I'm right).

Anyways,

Love you all,

Leo >o<

Not me having some kinda type... Who shall I tag? I think I wanna tagggggg... @mybugsmybugsmybugs @mexicangela @lunar-years @biscuitboxpink but no pressure!! I just thought it would be fun!

[tovibeornottovibe]

Don't Panic

Friend!Nesta x Reader | Azriel x Reader (ish)

based on this request (thank you @suppppp97! i hope this meets your request, i had a ball writing it)

Nesta doesn't like you. Never has, not since the first time Azriel introduced you as his mate, and you chalked it up to a personality clash; namely, Nesta being prickly and you being, well, you. You had thought that was how it was going to stay, but when you and Nesta get captured by Illyrians, you have to work together, and you find yourself understanding each other a little more. You might even end up friends. [10.3k words]

warnings: canon-typical violence, swearing, Nesta and reader being assholes to each other (at the start), reader being a BAMF, plot, interrogation, az being a softie at the end

Prefer to read on Ao3? | masterlist

You have to laugh. Just a day ago, you and Azriel were out on the balcony of the House of Wind, eating breakfast, talking about this upcoming mission like it was a sunday stroll over honeyed tea and buttered scones. As new as your mating bond is, it’s easy to take that gentle, domestic intimacy for granted. Now, your legs ache, your head is throbbing from lack of water, and you can’t quite feel your fingers for the burning cold. What’s worse, you’re stuck in this fucking cave in the middle of fucking nowhere with who else but Nesta fucking Archeron.

Truly, for whatever reason, she can’t stand you, and over these past few months, you’ve learnt to live with it. She’s hardly ingratiated herself to you in any case. Little digs here and there, things about how different you and Az are. You’re loud; he’s quiet. He’s tall; you’re, comparatively, short. You get paperwork done as quickly as possible; Az is as diligent as they come. He’s a broody, secretive male; and you’re a little ray of sunshine, his words, not yours, even in your angstier moments. When you talk, he listens and, well, Az doesn’t exactly talk much at all, does he? After that first meeting, when Az introduced you to the Inner Circle, she said, “Opposites attract, I suppose,” and you realised that you and her just wouldn’t click.

You don’t care. Az doesn’t care, even if it has soured their friendship somewhat. Not even Cassian cares. But by the gods, if it wouldn’t make jobs like this one a whole lot easier if you could just be civil with one another.

The Blood Rite. Heightened tensions. Pissy Illyrians with a penchant for making things difficult. You were sent to find out if there was going to be any trouble this time around.

You know the Steppes pretty well from your days travelling through the Court as a merchant, then you got to know the more dangerous parts as a mercenary when the trade dried up during Amarantha’s reign. You have contacts here with some of the more amenable war bands and it’s for this expertise that Cassian wanted you to come, so you could speak with those who are less willing to talk to a General. Azriel, of course, was never going to let you come to Illyria without protection, and Nesta scares the camp lords so much that she could be used as extra leverage if things took a turn. So, it was the four of you who headed off.

It should have been you and Azriel together. It should have been fine.

There had never been problems in Stonecross. It’s a camp tucked away by the northern coast of the Court, fairly progressive as far as Illyrian camps go, and absolutely vital for trade—particularly for the medicinal professions. In the rocky, sea-facing caves in the mountain under the camp exist the perfect conditions for certain plants to grow: fungi, flowers, some things not even Madja would fully understand the uses of. 

You all realise too late that they put it, whatever it was, in the food. You’d been too complacent. Too trusting. It didn’t even take ten minutes before the four of you started to feel drowsy, then nauseous, and then, in horror, you saw Az’s shadows drop off his body, like the magic which kept them tied to him had suddenly vanished. 

You don’t really remember what happened next, it’s all a blur, but you got grabbed, flown (or maybe winnowed, it is the days before the Blood Rite after all), and now, you’re here… 

You’re in a carved-out room of black, damp stone, the only light coming through the slight crack under a boulder which covers what looks to be a doorway. The air is thin, and you have to be far down because you can feel the heavy pressure in the fluid of your ears. Though you aren’t in chains, it feels oppressive, like you had been thrown in a prison cell and forgotten about.

At least Nesta’s still out cold. You wince at yourself for the thought, but honestly, you wouldn’t be able to think straight if she was hissing comments at you. In the sliver of light, you can see that she seems uninjured, as are you, and her breathing is steady, like she’d been knocked out without a fight. Sometime soon, you’ll need her up (unconscious, she’s a liability), but for as long as you can, you’ll take the drip-drip-drip through the walls as your only company.

The first thing you need to do is let Az know you’re awake, to try and see if he’s close by or if he needs help. You pull on the mating bon—

The mating bond.

You can’t—you can’t feel it. Another wave of nausea washes over you as you bolt up from the ground. The thread between the two of you, this new, wonderful, golden string which calls you to him time and time again, the Mother’s blessing which binds you together, it’s slack in your chest. Still there, thank the gods, but… useless. You can’t feel him anymore. Not even the little bits he sends you every now and then, when Cassian makes him laugh or he sees something that reminds him of you. It’s all gone. Like losing a limb.

You press your back against the cool stone of the room and remember to breathe. Force yourself to feel the rock beneath your feet, to focus, to think. 

Azriel, you know, you trust, will be okay. He has to be. Maybe he’s disorientated like you are, being held somewhere, either in Cassian’s company or without it. Maybe he’s already escaped and is coming to find you right now. Or maybe, you’ll need to find him. Regardless, you can’t afford to panic. Not now. Az wouldn’t panic; he’d find a way out, and you and him, you’re Cauldron-chosen mates, so you can find a way out too. You can get back to him.

You will get back to him.

You just need to look around and see—the light. 

They had to have got you two inside this room somehow, so that boulder blocking the doorway has to be moveable. Outside, something is causing that crack of light to come through, there’s a sconce, or a faelight, so there’s a walkway, and a walkway means that there’s some other rooms in here, connected by a complex of passageways. And passageways mean a way out. 

You need that boulder gone.

If you had your full arsenal of magic at your disposal, it would be simple. You could bolster your muscles and push it out of the way without breaking a sweat, but even as you walk towards it, you can feel how your legs drag and your vision blurs. Every joint feels like it’s grown rust, grinding uncomfortably across your bones. The poison in your system remains. Still, you try. Still, you steel yourself in case someone is waiting for you behind it and you need to take them on.

The rough stone cuts into your palms as you use every drop of energy you have left in you to push at it, to try to roll it one way or the other, but it doesn’t so much as budge an inch. In frustration, you kick at it, ram your shoulder into it and send shooting pain up your arm, but still, it doesn’t yield. 

You’ve been defeated by a hunk of fucking rock. So, yeah, you have to laugh.

Alone, there’s no chance of you moving it, not while you’re still affected by whatever they put in your food. You can either wait for gods know how long for it wear off, or…

You flick your attention to Nesta, half-slumped against the wall, and you sigh. 

For all your differences, you respect Nesta. You like her tenacity, the way she moves with such precision in the training ring, how she stands up for herself and her friends regardless of who it is she’s challenging (the first time you saw her go toe-to-toe with Rhys, you had almost wanted to cheer for her). Sometimes, you think that if you hadn’t gotten off on the wrong foot, you and her would get along just fine—for your love of dance if nothing else. More importantly, she’s your only hope of getting out of here on your own terms.

Muscles protesting every movement, you crouch down and nudge at her side. She doesn’t stir. You nudge harder and her eyes shutter. She mutters something you don’t catch under her breath. 

Oh, fuck it. 

You shake her shoulder more harshly than you need to and yell at her to wake up. Her eyes flick open with a start, and you have to catch her hand before her fist connects with your jaw.

“Relax,” you say as she struggles in your grip, “it’s me. Could you please not break my face?”

“No promises,” she snaps back, wrenching her wrist away from you, rubbing at where you were holding her. She opens her mouth again, probably to sneer something at you, when you see the words die in her throat as she pales, clutching at her chest. “Something is wrong,” she grates out. “What the hell did you do—?”

You roll your eyes as you pull away, settling yourself on the ground a little ways from her in case she actually does decide to break your face. 

“Cauldron, Nesta,” you say, “I didn’t do anything. It’s whatever they drugged us with. It’s dulling our magic, including the mating bond.” You tap where you feel the Azriel-shaped hole in your chest. “Must be some faebane alternative we’ll have to deal with.”

This seems to calm her burgeoning fear, but if looks could kill, you’d be dead. “How are you so calm about this?” she asks, murmuring something else which sounds distinctly insulting as she plucks herself off the ground and follows the stream of light to the doorway.

“Panic gets you killed,” you say, watching her come to the same conclusion you did as she pokes at the gap in the wall.

“Yeah,” she scoffs, “Az says the same.”

“It’s almost like we’re mates or something.”

“Almost.”

Though the bond might be dulled, your instincts flare at the insinuation before you tamp it down and keep your face carefully neutral. Again, even in the dark, you can tell she shoots you a glare. 

“Instead of doing something, you had to come and wake me up?” she continues, beginning to push at the boulder as your anger simmers in your blood. The audacity to suggest that you hadn’t tried… she’s something else.

“Would you have preferred it if I had left you behind?” you fire back, pulling yourself up and over to her, stopping just short of too close. “I already tried moving it and it won’t budge, not while we’re still weak. We’ll probably have to try it together—”

She cuts you off abruptly and goes back to the boulder. “I don’t need your help.”

Ignoring her, you barely lay a finger on the stone before she yanks you away and snarls at you to, “Back off.” 

Incredulous, you huff, but you relent, leaning against the wall as you watch her fail to get it to move, just like you did. After significantly less prodding than what you tried, she admits defeat and swears at the rock for being in the way without sparing you a glance.

A thousand snarky comments come to mind, including around nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine which include the phrase ‘I told you so’, but you refrain. Pissing her off even more doesn’t seem conducive to getting out of this cell, so you say, “Look, Nesta, I get that you don’t like me—”

“Understatement.”

“Fine,” you continue, “you really don’t like me. And while I don’t understand why, I do need you to get out of here and as much as you might hate to admit it to yourself, you need me too, so let’s just put our differences aside and…” you trail off as her face sours. “What?”

“You don’t understand why,” she says.

“We really don’t have time to get into it, Nesta.”

“Don’t we?” she asks harshly. “That rock is hardly going anywhere.”

Clearly, she’s up for an argument—maybe that’s how she blows off steam when Cassian isn’t around—but you most definitely aren’t.

“Neither are we if we don’t stop bickering,” you reply steadily.

She narrows her eyes at you. “Oh, you always have something clever to say, don’t you?” Your name slips from her mouth like a curse. “Az caught himself a real prize with you.”

Is that what this is all about? You and Az? You know Az and Nesta are good friends, or, at least, they used to be, and she would obviously want him to be happy with whoever he’s with, mate or not. But, as far as you know, he is happy, and you trust him to tell you when he’s bothered by something. Frankly, whatever Nesta thinks about your relationship is irrelevant, even if it stings a little not to be accepted by her. 

“Take it up with the Mother, Nesta,” you say, increasingly irritated, “but after we get the fuck out of here, please.”

“You really don’t get it, do you?” she snaps back. 

You roll your eyes. “Please. Let’s not.” There’s no warning in your tone, so she ploughs on.

“Az was fine before he met you.” He wasn’t, he was drowning himself in work and booze after the Solstice with Elain, but that’s his secret to tell. “My sister was fine before he met you.” 

“Gods, what does Elain have to do with this?”

“Don’t say her name like that—!”

“Why not?” you say, your anger bubbling to the surface finally as your patience snaps. “She’s my friend, you know, but I doubt she’d have told you that considering the fact you never see her. When was the last time you even stepped foot in the townhouse?” You know it’s unfair, you know Nesta can’t get down from the House of Wind without Cassian or exhausting herself on the steps, but you’re past the point of caring. 

When she doesn’t respond, you double down. “Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it, Nesta.”

To her credit, Nesta’s response hurts more than you were expecting it to. “I don’t need her to tell me,” she snarls, “if I were her, I’d resent you too.”

Scoffing, you drawl, “Oh, and why’s that?” but you feel the doubt creeping up on you like a wraith. 

Az had told you about what he had felt for Elain and how close they had been to getting together. For a time, you had agonised over it. It didn’t seem right to you that they had been prevented from acting on their feelings, even if it worked out for you in the end, and you had always thought, despite Az insisting otherwise, that Elain might not like you because of that. But, she had been perfectly pleasant the first time you met, and you managed to break the ice with a joke about flowers (it was rather specific and no one but Elain had appreciated it). From there, you’d become fast friends.

But if Elain is just humouring you like you suspected she might…

“Because,” Nesta says, “you stole Az from her. They were close, did you know? Even Feyre thought they were good for one another. But you come along and what’s worse, you rub it in by trying to spend time with her.”

“Heaven forbid I actually enjoy Elain’s company,” you say, though it comes out significantly less venomous than you meant it to. “Did she tell you all that herself or are you pulling it out of your ass?”

“You’ve got her fooled, I’ll give you that much,” she replies. She lets out a humourless laugh. “She even thinks you and Az are perfect together, but I see what you’re doing loud and clear.”

You blink at her.

Inexplicably, it isn’t annoyance which washes over you, it’s understanding. It becomes obvious to you now, despite what Nesta is saying, why she doesn’t like you. 

Of course.

She’s trying to look after her sister, and even at your own expense, you can’t help but admire her for it. Maybe if she actually talked to Elain about you, you could end your petty, little feud. Or maybe she’d just find another reason to dislike you. 

Either way, it won’t matter if you kill each other in this cave.

You pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh. “Nesta, I really have tried to be nice to you. If you don’t like me, that’s fine, we don’t need to be friends. But I didn’t steal anyone from anyone, Az made his choices and I made mine, and I really do like being Elain’s friend. I’m sorry if I’ve somehow offended you or… I don’t know. Just, I’d like us both to get out of here, alive, preferably, and for that, I need your help. So, please, if you have to, pretend I’m someone else for a bit and then I promise I will never bother you again. Deal?”

For a long, long moment, she says absolutely nothing at all, as though she’s trying to work out if you’re being genuine or not, and the silence stretches over the space between you. Then she looks away, sets her jaw, and grumbles, “Just help me move this.”

“Gladly.”

It takes coordination, begrudgingly followed suggestions for which way to push and for how long, and the poison in your veins brings bouts of dizziness which means both of you need a break, but, eventually, the boulder moves, just a fraction. The beam of light at your feet grows. Again and again and again, you and Nesta use every ounce of energy you have left to get it out of your way. You just hope that whoever is keeping you here isn’t nearby, because the scraping of rock against stone is almost deafeningly loud.

You don’t know if it takes minutes or hours, but you get it so the two of you can see into the corridor, and then you open up the doorway enough for you to be able to squeeze through the gap. The jagged, black stone scrapes at your skin as you shuffle and you definitely pick up a few new scratches, but you suddenly find yourself in the middle of an uneven walkway, filling your lungs with air fresher than what you’ve had since you woke up.

You take it in greedily, looking around to see if there’s an obvious way out, but both in front and behind you look the same. An endless tunnel of stone, equally lit up by torches protruding from the walls. You wait a moment, trying to feel any sort of breeze or even trying to pick up faint sounds of people.

Nothing.

Inside the cell, Nesta says your name rather urgently. You peer at her through the gap and see a flicker of relief on her face before it’s gone.

With a different angle, you wordlessly make quick work of moving the boulder further, and Nesta manages to free herself not long after. All the while, a sense of foreboding settles over you. The lack of a guard, even a patrol, is starting to strike you as odd.

“Come on,” she says, making left—it’s as good a direction as any—but you stop her.

“Wait,” you say, “doesn’t this all seem strange to you?” You make a point of looking behind you and gesture around. “There’s no one here.”

“Good,” she replies, “maybe they’ve forgotten about us. Let’s go.” And she strides off, forcing you to follow behind her, shadows dancing with each other in the torchlight.

“Or maybe they haven’t,” you urge, catching up to her, “maybe they’re waiting for us somewhere. Or they’re trying to lure Az and Cassian down here and it’s a trap.” That makes her pause and look at you, considering sharply. “We should try and stay as hidden as possible,” you suggest, “keep to the shadows rather than storming down the middle of the corridor.”

She barks a laugh. “Are you doing that on purpose?”

You frown. “Doing what?”

“Saying what Azriel says. If I had a mark for every time he’s said the words ‘keep to the shadows’...” she trails off, shaking her head.

“I’m not—just—” you sigh, “—let’s just be careful, okay?”

She steps very slightly closer to the wall, further into what little shadow the torches are casting over the rock, and keeps going, so you follow her through the twists and turns of the cave system, hoping you’ve picked the right way. Every corner looks the same, your footsteps sound the same, the cadence of Nesta’s breathing is monotonous and steady. It feels like you’re going around in circles.

But you aren’t. You can feel the slight lightening of pressure in your sinuses, how the ground ever so slightly tips upwards. You even start to feel like you might be getting out of here without meeting a single obstacle.

And that’s when you reach a dead-end.

A mockingly sheer column of rock with a gap right at the top, where you can see a coiled up rope which is almost certainly used to manoeuvre up and down. Through the gap, you see beautiful, white light, and you reason that this must be some kind of exit. 

“Come on,” you say to Nesta, steadying yourself against the wall, “I’ll boost you up and then you throw the rope down for me.”

She looks at you incredulously. “That must be fifteen feet high at least,” she says. “There’s no way you’re getting me up there.”

As ever, you are entirely unimpressed by Nesta’s doubt. “I’m stronger than I look. And unless you have another idea…?”

Despite her general lack of faith in you, Nesta doesn’t even try and contemplate a different option; she knows as well as you do that there isn’t one. You cup your hands in front of you and bend your knees as Nesta tentatively uses you as a step-up. 

“Ready?” you ask.

She hesitates, peering down at you. “For what?”

“Just get ready to grab the ledge.”

Without warning, you toss her upwards, putting all your strength into getting her as high as possible, and she lets out a grunt as she manages to grab hold of the edge of the lip above you. For a moment, you think she might not be able to hold on—she sways and shakes, probably due to the poison still sapping your energy—but she eventually hauls herself up and disappears out of view.

Then you wait. It can’t be for more than thirty seconds, but as they tick by, your anxiety starts to spike. What if she just leaves you here? What if she takes her opportunity to get rid of you just so Elain can have Azriel? As much as you like Elain, the idea of anyone else having him sends shooting rage through your nerves, even with the bond absent in your chest. It’s a natural instinct, but before you can spiral—“Mind your head,” comes the call and down comes the rope, thick, old, and covered in dirt, but it’ll do. You make quick work of it, despite your screaming muscles, and join Nesta at the top.

You want to ask her what took her so long, but peering through the gap where the light comes through, it becomes quite obvious.

Illuminated by a great cut-out in the ceiling of the cave, covered in mosses and deep green hanging vines, is a lake nearly three-times the width of the Sidra. The water is startlingly blue, clear, and it looks deceptively shallow, but you’ve seen lakes like this before. They tend to go down so deep the pressure would kill you before you reached the bottom.

What’s worse, on the other side of the lake is an Illyrian encampment, populated by at least six warriors, maybe more you can’t even see, armed to the teeth and evidently waiting for something to happen. You can see them talking to one another, but what they’re saying is lost under the sound of running water coming from the cascade on the far side of the lake. 

Thankfully, the two of you are hidden in darkness under an outcrop. Perhaps if Nesta had taken you right when you got out of your cell, you would have ended up on the other side, right in the middle of your captors’ base. Either way, it looks like the only way out of this is in a fight.

“How long can you hold your breath for?” you ask Nesta, calculating roughly how far you’ll need to swim under the surface so the Illyrians don’t detect you. Without weapons, you’ll need the element of surprise to disarm them, and from there, well, you’ve seen Nesta spar with Cassian. It’ll be easy. By the side of you, however, she is almost eerily still. “Nesta?” you say, turning to her.

You expect her to be watching the Illyrians, maybe lost in thought about how to take them out, but you’re wrong. She’s staring down into the water, unfocused and unblinking. She almost looks frightened?

The thought occurs to you that Nesta might not know how to swim. Then, something Az said to you when you first met both her and Elain hits you. He told you to be careful mentioning the Cauldron, that, understandably, they don’t like thinking about it and suddenly everything clicks. Nesta doesn’t like water, doesn’t like being submerged in it, because it reminds her of being inside the Cauldron. Maybe something else too. She’s been through a lot, as Az tells you. In your chest, your heart lurches, not with pity, but perhaps with a profound feeling of sadness for her. 

“Nesta,” you say lowly. You aren’t about to coddle her, she doesn’t need that, wouldn’t want it anyway. You wouldn’t either. She flicks her gaze over to you, but it’s clear she’s still not all here. “I have a theory,” you continue, and you explain that there must be another passage to your cell, probably in the opposite direction to the one you took. As you talk, you see her eyes sharpen, not so dull, and she actually starts listening to you. “If you can distract some of them and lead them back to our cell, I can swim over and take out as many as possible while you keep them occupied.” It’s the only thing you can think of to keep her out of the water. “We can meet up over there once you’re done.”

Whether she appreciates it or not, you can’t tell, but she looks you over, then to the Illyrians, and says, a little hoarsely, “Get under the water. I’ll draw their attention away.” You nod, kicking off your shoes as you go to lower yourself in as quietly as possible, but she grabs your wrist and stops you. Her grip is firm, but not violent. “Be careful,” she says, and without waiting for a reply, she lets go. “Go on then.”

Glancing at the lake, you take a moment, and lower yourself in slowly.

The water is freezing cold and you swallow a gasp as you enter. Pushing through the pain, with one last fleeting look at Nesta, you take a deep breath, dip your head under the water, and start to swim. You just have to trust now that Nesta holds up her end of the plan.

You try to take the shortest, most direct route possible without getting spotted, but your lungs are burning and without your magic to help, you start to think that maybe you won’t be able to make it without coming up for air. The waterfall isn’t so far away from you and the running water might conceal you just enough to allow you to breathe for a moment. It’s your only shot, so you go for it.

The strength of the water batters you, but the first, quiet hit of fresh air is enough to make it inconsequential to you. For as long as you can chance it, you take it in, and push your luck by looking over at the encampment. From here, it’s difficult to see, but you think you count two males, looking around nervously, and you swear you can hear shouting from down one of the corridors. Seems like Nesta managed her distraction well.

Enough. You dive back under and move as fast as you can, ignoring how much of a struggle it is. You have to do this, you have to get out of here. You have to get back to Azriel. And, godsdamn you, you want to see Nesta get back to Cassian.

Your hands hit the other side of the lake before you realise it, and, as silently as possible, you emerge from the surface. Still, there are only two males in the encampment, and you definitely weren’t imagining the shouting. Here, it’s louder, and you can make out male voices, obviously irate. The two other Illyrians watch the alcove closely, not even whispering a word to each other.

One of them is older. He’s bigger and has more siphons, but he’s no commander; you’d guess he’s an Oristian just by the way he holds himself. You can feel his ego from here. The other one is younger, barely out of training. He fidgets with his armour and his weapons, his leg bouncing where he sits on a rock and pays so much attention to the alcove that he isn’t looking where he clearly is supposed to be: right at you.

You pull yourself out of the water with natural grace and drop immediately into a crouch, blending in with a darkness. Your wet clothes are making the cold seep into your skin, but you need all the protection you can get and the padding around your joints might be enough to buy you some time if things go wrong. 

The Illyrians are too close together, sitting around a central opening where the vestiges of a fire lay. Though you’re strong, there’s no way you can take them out hand-to-hand if it’s two against one. You’re trained in combat, but mostly for swords and daggers. You need another distraction, and, as you shift your feet to try and get a better view, you get one.

You kick a pebble and, thinking quickly, you snatch it from the ground before it can hit something that will draw their eye to you. You weigh it in your hand. If you want it to make an impression, you need it to hit something away from the water, so the sound of the waterfall doesn’t mask it. 

You catch something glinting in the corner of your vision. In the exposing light, a shield is propped up against a nearly empty weapons rack. Briefly, you consider making a rush for it, thinking a shield is better than no weapon at all, but you know that’s even more of a long shot than trying to take them out quietly.

So, you opt to aim for the shield, and as the pebble flies, you know you���ll reach your target.

A clang sounds out through the atrium and the two Illyrians startle out of their trances. The older one barks an order for the younger one to check what the disturbance is, then berates him for being a coward when he hesitates. You wait impatiently for there to be enough distance between them, then you strike.

You dash behind the bigger Illyrian, keeping to the shadows, and as soon as you can, you pounce. You wrap your arm around his neck, pulling him back and behind the rock he was sitting on, keeping him as out of view as possible in case the kid decides to turn around. He kicks, attempting to buck his hips and flap his wings to get you off him, but you’ve got him so firmly held that there is no chance of him overpowering you like this. Your hand closes over his mouth to stop him shouting, and you choke the air out of his lungs silently. Not to kill him, just to knock him out. Snapping his neck would take more force and compromise your position, so you settle for his unconsciousness and lower him to the ground.

Concealed behind the rock, when the other Illyrian turns, he sees no one. His following shout tells you he’s panicked, and you wait for him to come to you. He stands in the middle of the encampment, turning around, scanning for threats, and you quietly unsheathe the sword that the older Illyrian had strapped to his back. 

Sharp, Illyrian steel. You smile faintly. You and Az have sparred with these so often that it feels like an extension of your arm as you hold it.

You wait for the remaining Illyrian to be facing away from you and, when the time is right, spring up from behind the rock. Your blade meets the back of his neck before he even knows you’re there, and he immediately stills as you press it against his skin and blood wells at the edge. In the meantime, the shouting down in the alcove behind you has stopped, and you hope that means Nesta has dealt with the others.

“Throw your weapons away from you,” you say calmly. He does as he’s told without complaint, unsheathing even a hidden dagger in his boot. Smart male. “Turn around slowly.” Again, he does what you say, but you keep your blade at his neck and maintain a healthy enough distance from him. 

He stares down at you uncertainly, his hands away from his sides, and gulps as you assess him. Typically Illyrian, he has dark hair, tan skin, and brown eyes which betray his fear. A fully fledged warrior would have tried to disarm you by now, and, as a result, would likely be dead. This one seems to have more sense.

“Your name,” you say. Statement, not a question.

“Wilsen,” he supplies quietly, uncomfortably shifting as your sword remains firm at his throat.

“Why are you keeping us here, Wilsen?”

When he hesitates to respond, you press the blade against him and he grimaces. “I have orders,” he says, a little frantically, “that’s all I know. I swear it.”

It’s moments like these when you wish you had Az’s shadows whispering in your ear, telling you truth from falsehood, divining someone’s character. Ultimately, you have to rely on your gut feeling, and it’s telling you that Wilsen is lying.

You bring the tip of the blade to the underside of his jaw, cutting a fine line through the skin of his neck. “Try again,” you say. “Think more carefully about your answer this time.”

As he deliberates, the strangest feeling flows through you. Your magic, sputtering in your veins as it tries to come alive again, fighting against the poison. Hurriedly, you try to yank on the mating bond, but it still lies dormant under your ribcage, and it’s this fleeting moment where you lose your focus that you blame when you fail to notice Wilsen’s eyes flick to just above your shoulder.

A thick, calloused hand clamps over your mouth, another squeezes your throat as you’re dragged backwards. Instincts kicking in, you try to twist, to pull the hands away, but they just tighten their grip as you flail. The blade in your hand hits something, maybe Wilsen’s neck, as you’re forced to let go of it in the scuffle, but you’re too blinded by the pain to care. 

Some unseen Illyrian, maybe an escapee of Nesta’s wrath, has you trapped against him. You try to reach up to scratch at his face to get him to release you, but all you can feel is the heave of his chest as he laughs and wrestles your hand out of his sight, freeing your mouth. He’s choking the life out of you to the point where all you can do is gargle and thrash, to try and somehow get out of his hold.

Even the smallest bit of your replenishing magic seems to do nothing. You try fortifying your muscles, try directing some of it to weaken his, but to no avail. 

You come to the conclusion that, as your vision starts to blur and darken, you’re dying, and this Illyrian is enjoying it. You fight, scratch at his arm, but that only seems to egg him on, to draw it out. He’s not even taunting you, not in any way you can make sense of, he’s just amusing himself in the brutality of it. 

Your teeth feel like they’re fizzling. You can’t feel your body anymore, you’re weightless, outside of the bounds of reality where all that exists is the immense pressure on your neck and oh gods this is it, you’re dying you’re dying you’re dying and you’ll never see Az again—

Suddenly, the feeling stops. 

You must be dead, you think. 

It’s funny, though, you can still see, and there’s this throbbing in your temples. Dead people don’t get headaches, do they? How awful. You can’t escape migraines, even in the afterlife.

The Illyrian behind you (oh, he’s still here?) lists backwards, and it’s only logical that you tumble with him, but, for some reason, you don’t. Instead, there’s something keeping you standing, gentle, tender heat around your middle and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say there’s someone saying your name.

“Breathe,” they say, and then your name again. There’s something so familiar about it and—you can breathe.

Desperately, you gasp in air, your brain aching after being starved of it, but you take in too much and start to cough so much that your eyes water, pulling out of this person’s grip and doubling over. Again comes a gentle touch, this one at your back, as you feel like you’re hurling up a lung. Again comes the reminder to just breathe, and you do. Your coughing stops and…

You whirl around, meeting Nesta’s sharp eyes as she steps away from you. In her hand is a sword, slick with red which drips to the floor, and behind her, a dead Illyrian lying in a pool of his own blood.

You open your mouth, then snap it shut. 

Nesta Archeron just saved your life.

“Thank you,” you manage to wheeze out, the words catching in your throat as you struggle to regulate your breathing.

A muscle ticks in her jaw. “I’m not about to let some lowlife choke out Azriel’s mate,” she says pointedly, casting a dismissive look over to the dead Illyrian, “and you’d have done the same, if it were me.”

You would have, you just didn’t think Nesta would be the one to say it. 

She looks you up and down from your dripping hair to your crumpled clothes. “You look like a drowned rat.”

Just as you go to respond, you get interrupted by a low groan of pain, and you see that Wilsen is still alive, just bleeding profusely from his shoulder. So you did catch him in the crossfire. Nesta advances on him so quickly that you barely have chance to shout for her to stop. 

“He knows something,” you say, moving towards her gingerly, stepping over the Illyrian who tried to kill you without sparing him a second glance, wincing as you try to move your neck. “I was interrogating him before I got interrupted.”

“I don’t know—!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Nesta snarls at him before turning back to you. “You were interrogating him?”

You hum confirmation, the sound scratching at your throat. “With a sword.”.

She just looks at you. “Of course you were,” she mumbles, “Az’ll be so proud.”

“Cassian will probably pounce on you as soon as he finds out you took on three fully-grown Illyrians with your bare hands,” you reply, offering her a sly smile which almost feels normal.

And Nesta, to your surprise, laughs. A real, genuine, contagious laugh which rings through the atrium, and you find yourself chuckling along with her. 

“Neither of us are getting much sleep for a week,” she says, adding with a gesture to her blade, “and I caught the last one with this actually.”

You let out a giggle. “That’ll definitely get Cassian going—”

“Oh you’re both whor—”

“Shut the fuck up!” you and Nesta spit at Wilsen in unison, before you whip your gazes up in shock to look at each other.

And you both burst out laughing again.

It’s nice. You don’t think you’ve seen Nesta laugh so much in your presence ever. Maybe you’re delirious from the air loss, but you’d go as far to say you’re enjoying her company, and by the look of it, she might feel the same.

Still, you have Wilsen to deal with.

Once your bout of laughter dies down and you can breathe normally again, you peer down at him as he looks up at you. He looks quite deathly pale. Nesta steps aside, her face darkening, as you crouch down next to him, hand on the wound at his shoulder, but not pressing down, not to cause him pain. Not yet.

Azriel will provide that afterwards in any case.

“Do you know the way out of here, Wilsen?” you ask. Even though you can feel yourself slowly regaining your magic, the mating bond has still not burst back to life. You guess Nesta’s hasn’t either, considering how attentively she’s paying attention to the two of you. 

He swallows thickly, eyes you warily. When he takes a second too long to answer, you push two fingers down, right on his shoulder blade. It won’t kill him, but it’s not going to feel like a warm hug from his mother either. He yelps in pain while his blood seeps onto your hand. “Fuck, it’s—” he sucks in a breath as you release him, “—there’s only one way.” His eyes flick to the cut-out in the roof of the cave, right above the middle of the lake, and Nesta follows his gaze carefully. Just barely, you catch her flinch. “And unless you can sprout wings…”

You pull away, letting him sag into his body. Even if the vines growing down the hole can take your weight, and by the look of them, they might, you still need to get to them. You hope Nesta is coming to the same conclusion you are. When Wilsen says there’s only one way out, he means it, and it means you’re going to have to give her a very, very quick swimming lesson, if she can stomach it.

“Why did you bring us here?” she asks suddenly, aiming her question at Wilsen. 

A ragged sigh escapes him. “Give me something in return,” he says, his spit gurgling in his mouth as he talks. You’ve seen this before. He doesn’t have long.

“Tell us and you might live to see tomorrow,” you say hurriedly. 

He has the energy to scoff. “So your mate can torture me in his dungeons? No. I’d rather die,” he grits out, shifting on the floor, his arm deadweight against the ground.

“You’d rather bleed out here than have a chance at surviving?” Nesta asks, her tone increasingly agitated. She starts to say something else, but you motion for her to calm herself, and she does, all the while giving you a look as if to say Do you even have a plan?

You turn back to Wilsen, bracing your forearms on your knees. “You have family?” you say quietly, and the ensuing rage which comes over his face tells you that yes, he does. “If you die here, Wilsen,” you continue, your voice soft, “my mate will find every male in that family of yours and he will ask the question you refused to answer. If they don’t know, he’ll move onto the females. Your wife, sister, mother, whoever. And if they don’t know, he will go through Stonecross, Illyrian by Illyrian, until someone tells him what he wants to know. And if he does that, he’ll be sure to let everyone know it’s because you, Wilsen, did not give us an answer right here, right now. So, this is what I’ll offer you: not just your life, but the lives and dignity of everyone you care about. Happily, I’ll let you die, but how happy that would make them? I’m not so sure, are you?” 

Only the sound of the waterfall behind you lets you know time hasn’t stopped. Even Nesta’s breathing is so silent you can barely hear it, but you can feel her eyes on you. Wilsen is deathly still. You get the distinct feeling that if he wasn’t bleeding out, he’d have his hand wrapped around your neck. “Your choice,” you finish with a shrug.

His words are vitriolic. “You were supposed to die down there, you fucking bitch. Nothing more than motivation for the General and your mate to make a mistake. So you’d all finally understand how it feels to get kicked when you’re down,” he spits, but his voice shakes. Scared, or struggling to stay awake? Does it matter? Either way, you think he’s telling the truth.

“Seems a convoluted way to kill someone.” Nesta’s voice sounds more distant in the quiet. 

Wilsen shoots her a glare, from which she doesn’t baulk. “They were supposed to find you. It was supposed to hurt. We were going to take them on once they had. Make them pay.”

“They’d have torn through you,” she says. “You never would have made it out of here anyway.”

“It’s better to die standing than on our knees in front of a half-breed High Lord and his bastard brothers.” He starts to cough, like breathing might have become difficult.

“You’re dying, Wilsen,” you say, moving towards him to put pressure on the wound, but his hand shoots out to stop you and he shakes his head.

“Let me,” he snarls. “I gave you what you wanted, so let me die.”

“I can stop the bleeding,” you reply. It’s a strange kind of sorrow you feel for him. Dying alone, surrounded by people you hate, is no way to go, not even for males like him. He’s still young, still impressionable. Entrenched nonetheless. Someone will have to tell that family of his what he was willing to die for.

He winces, struggling to keep himself upright. “Don’t put your fucking hands on me.”

Nesta says your name and breaks you from your thoughts. “Leave him,” she says, “he doesn’t deserve your pity.”

You sigh and stand. As you do, you see relief flicker over Wilsen’s face before pain takes back over. If you offer him a quicker death, you’re not sure he’ll take it, so you don’t offer at all. 

“You’re sort of terrifying, you know,” Nesta adds, flicking her eyes from the lake and back to you. In her eyes, though, you don’t see fear. You see it in the way she assesses you, in how she holds her head. You’ve earnt her respect. 

Attention on your exit, you huff out a shaky laugh, eager to stop thinking of the dying Illyrian behind you. “That’s rich coming from you,” you say. When she frowns at you, you continue, “They call you ‘Lady Death’. You don’t get that name by preaching peace and love.”

“And what do you call me?” she asks, edging closer to the water, squinting up at the daylight.

You come to stand next to her. “I should like to call you my friend, Nesta.”

“Don’t push it,” she replies, but you can tell it’s not as serious as she meant it to be. 

“Not enemies then?” you suggest.

“If we get out of here without drowning,” she says, dipping her hand into the water and immediately pulling it back out again, “I’ll consider it.”

You offer her a small smile, seeing that for the olive branch that it is. “Good enough for me,” you say. “You know how to swim?”

She nods, but seems uncertain. “I can float well enough.”

“But, you don’t like water?” you ask tentatively. When she narrows her eyes at you, you hold your hands up in surrender. “Not judging. I don’t like heights.”

“Az takes you flying all of the time,” she deadpans, decidedly unimpressed.

You shrug. “He’s helping me get over it.” With a grimace, you add for her benefit, “It’s slow going.” 

Having only just managed to regain any sort of heat in your body, you’d hesitate to get back in freezing cold water, but with your magic not materialising any further than a few sputters in your veins, your conviction is all you have to get you through it. That, and the need to help Nesta out of here too. You crouch down.

“This is ridiculous,” she says, crouching with you.

Your eyes flick to the sword still in her hand. “You’ll have to leave that behind. When you get in, try not to panic. Your body will go into cold water shock if you do. It’s mind over matter, and once you’re used to it, you’ll be fine.”

“That,” she says, her voice dropping into something near enough trepidation, “doesn’t fill me with confidence.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you, Nesta. Just… trust me.”

With that, you push yourself off the edge of the rock and into the water, attempting to acclimate yourself to the temperature as much as possible, fully submerging yourself before you resurface, treading water with relative ease. You take deep breaths and stave off the biting cold, trying to show her that if you can do it, she can too. 

“Come on,” you urge, aware that even though you’re resilient, you can’t take much longer than ten minutes in here. A human would barely last five. “It’s not that far to the vines, and then we’re out of here.”

Laying the sword carefully down at her side, Nesta scans the water, as though she might be able to discern which parts are cold and which are tolerable, with little success, if the face she makes is anything to go by. You watch her take a few breaths, shut her eyes, and mutter something which might even be a prayer, or else a curse on your name if this goes wrong.

Then she jumps, feet first, into the lake.

You wait with bated breath for her to come back up, and for a few sickening seconds, you think she might be sinking until—

“Fuck!” she gasps. “That’s freezing.” She’s almost hyperventilating with how quickly her breath is coming. Not good, that’s panic. She needs something to focus on.

“Nesta,” you say urgently, wading over to her, “look at me.” With difficulty, she does. “You remember what I said before?”

Gaping, she nods.

“What did I say?”

“Try not to panic,” she says slowly.

“Right. What else?

As she thinks, her breathing starts to even out. “It’s not far to the vines.”

“Exactly,” you tell her, “we’re almost there.”

Thank the Mother, the gods, and anyone else who deigns to help you, Nesta starts to swim, and you let her get ahead of you just in case she needs you to support her. It’s tough and you are pushing with all your might to stay afloat, to make it to the first vine you see. 

Nesta grabs it and pulls herself out of the water, trusting that it can take her weight. The plant is thick and woody, so it does. She looks down at you, still in the lake, but you tell her to get out and up as soon as she can.

You find another, slightly thinner, but still strong enough to hold you. Your arms ache and your shoulders are screaming at you. You push and push and push, one thought in your mind: Get out. Get out. Get out. 

The vine seems to be getting higher the more you climb, like it’s growing faster than you can move, but you’re almost at the top. Just a little further.

Nesta, she’s somewhere, maybe above you, but you can’t hear her grunting as she hauls herself up anymore. You chance a look down and she’s not there either. You figure she must have made it out.

You’re so close. You can feel the sun on your face, can smell the fresh breeze of the outside. It must have been hours since you woke in that cell. Honestly, you’re not sure how long you’ve been gone. Maybe days. Gods, you’re so tired. The cold has sapped the adrenaline out of you and you’re running on fumes. 

The next hold you find on the vine snaps and you lurch to the side, yelling as you find purchase on a knot lower down. As you catch yourself, you force your ankle into a twist and something twinges. 

You hear Nesta swear faintly. You pull yourself in, steadying yourself, and you look up to see her peering over the side. She’s lying flat on her front, holding onto the edge of the gap. “You’re almost there,” she shouts down, her teeth chattering, her hair hanging loose in long, wet strands.

Every part of your body is telling you to stop, to rest, but you can’t. That’s a death sentence. You test how much weight you can put on your ankle and yelp as pain shoots all the way up your leg, but if you stay here, you’re doomed.

So, you keep going, using your arms to lift yourself up, your uninjured leg to hold yourself in place. Again. And again. And again. You grit your teeth and you lift.

When you’re within reach, Nesta lowers herself down as much as she dares and thrusts out her hand. Blissfully, you grab it as soon as you can. You feel her grip the back of your shirt as she pulls you the rest of the way out of the cave and the two of you roll to the ground, side-by-side, staring up into the cloudless, blue sky, chests heaving.

“Next time we hang out,” you say, breathless, “let’s just get a coffee or something. Go buy a book. Feed the ducks down by the Sidra.”

Nesta scoffs out a half-hysterical laugh. “Deal.”

She sits up and you meet her eyes as she looks down at you. “Your ankle?”

You hum roughly as you try to move it, but that shooting pain hits you again. “Totally fucked,” you say.

“I am not carrying you anywhere.” She looks around. “I don’t even know where we are. It doesn’t look like the Steppes.”

Letting out a sharp hiss as you pull yourself up, you take in your surroundings. “No,” you say, seeing how the snow is thin on the ground and the thick, tall pines of the Illyrian mountains have given way to bushier cedars. If you can find the source of that lake underground, a river or a stream, you can find a village somewhere, even in the middle of this unknown forest. When you were a merc, you did things like this all the time. “We’re further south, I think. Probably closer to the Hewn City than anywhere else.”

“How could you possibly know that?” she asks, frowning at you.

You raise a brow at her. “Observation,” you say simply. “There’ll be a settlement somewhere nearby. Or at least some shelter.”

“You,” she replies, “can’t walk. Not with your ankle like it is.”

“I have high pain tolerance.” 

When you try to stand, Nesta catches your wrist and holds you still. “We should wait for the poison to wear off a little more, then you might be able to do something.”

You shake your head, seeing how high the sun is in the sky. It’s past midday. “We don’t know how long that will take. If there are more Illyrians about, we need to move. I know you took them out down there, but you caught them unaware. We get spotted from the air? We won’t be so lucky. And just because we’re not in the Steppes doesn’t mean it won’t get dangerous come nightfall.”

Though she makes a face, she grits her teeth and gets up. She offers you her hand. “You’re as stubborn as him too.”

You take it gratefully and let her help you up. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” you say as she slips her hand around your back and supports you.

You pick a direction, and with Nesta’s help, you manage to hobble your way to a stream, then a village thankfully not too far from where you were being held. 

By the time the sky darkens and the stars illuminate the snowy ground, you two are in a semi-empty inn, sipping free soup by the fire, courtesy of the owner’s healthy fear of her High Lady and her sister. Nesta, you can tell, feels vaguely uncomfortable about it, and you like her all the more for her humility.

Come midnight, Nesta and you are half-asleep, dozing in the warmth and basking in the easy, quiet conversation you had been having about Sellyn Drake, of all people. When you go to your rooms, she bids you goodnight and you bid her the same. Your head hits the pillow and you’re out. 

You have a dreamless sleep for once.

In the morning, you jolt awake, pain erupting in your chest from the—gods, the mating bond. You desperately tug back, pulling so hard that the thread goes taut, telling Az I’m here! I’m here! Please, for the love of the Mother, please come and get me. Then you bolt out of bed, hop out of your room, and bash on Nesta’s door, calling her name and definitely waking the innkeeper.

Off-balance, you almost fall through her door when she opens it, but she steadies you. She looks like she barely slept, but then, you probably look similar given the day you had yesterday. A few hours isn’t really enough.

“The bond,” you breathe out. She needs no more explanation and you watch her concentrate, obviously calling on Cassian the same way you call on Az. “Is he—?”

“He’s alive,” she says sharply, “but… pained.”

“Shit. He’ll be okay.”

“I know.” But the worry on her face is pressed deep into the furrow of her brow.

“Az,” you say, “he’s on his way.” For good measure, you tug on the bond, now gorgeously back alive, fluttering in your chest, and he responds in kind. 

For a moment, her face lightens a fraction and her eyes flick behind you. 

You feel it then: the cold touch of a shadow wrapping gently around your wrist and, deep in your bones, that old, ancient warmth.

A grin breaks out on your face when you turn, seeing Az appear from shadow in the foyer, just as the innkeeper rounds the corner. She sucks in a breath and swears quietly, frozen in place, her eyes flicking between the three of you warily.

Az, his face carefully controlled, but with a bemused look in his beautiful hazel eyes, smiles at her gently. “Thank you for looking after them,” he says lightly, and you almost melt at the sound. 

You must send that down the bond because something akin to a chuckle skitters back at you.

“O-of course, my Lord.” Her mouth opens and closes a few times. Azriel waits patiently. “I’ll—w-will you be staying for breakfast?”

“No,” you say, “thank you. We’ll be heading off now.”

The innkeep swallows. “Right. Was e-everything to your liking, my lady?” Cautiously, she glances at Nesta, who does her best to soften her face, then back at you.

“Slept like a baby,” you assure her. You nudge Nesta.

“Yes,” she says. “A perfect stay, thank you.”

At that, Az raises a brow at you, more confused at Nesta giving you the time of day than anything else. Long story, you mouth at him.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” the innkeeper says decisively, promptly retreating back downstairs, presumably to cool her nerves.

“Cassian’s fine,” Az says to Nesta as soon as he’s assured it’s just the three of you up here. “He’s being dramatic about it.” Then he catches how you’re keeping your weight off your right leg. “What happened?” he asks darkly, his shadows coalescing around his shoulders.

“Just take us home,” you say, reaching for him. As he wraps an arm around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head, you inhale the scent of fresh, night-chilled mist and cedar, something so uniquely your mate’s that any tension left in your body drains out of you. “I think I want to sleep for a week.”

He huffs, pressing a kiss to your hair. Then, to Nesta, “Are they dead?”

“Difficult to kill a vine,” she deadpans. “I tried to get her to rest, but she’s worse than you. Get me back to Cassian, would you? He’s tugging on the bond like a child.”

His hand leaves your back to grab a hold of her and winnow you all back to Velaris through his shadows, which cling to you, fussing around your ankle like it’s a mortal wound. You barely feel the jump, Azriel making sure to keep you upright when you land on the terrace of the townhouse.

“He’s downstairs,” you hear him say. 

Nesta pauses for a moment, but then the door to the inside clicks, and it’s just you and Az.

“Do I want to know what happened to make Nesta look at you like she might actually like you?” he asks quietly, pulling away so he too can fuss over you.

You kick his shadows away. “I think we’ve come to an understanding,” you say. “Maybe we aren’t friends just yet but, it’s something.”

“...Good.”

Yeah, you think. It is.

[wendichester]

⋆˙⟡ refills & rides,

summary. tonight's clientele is too good to pass on. honest, you've never been happier to clock into work.

pairing. sam winchester x waitress!reader genre. smut ( mdni )

wordcount. 717

notes / warnings. car sex, downright reckless.

Sam’s supposed to be researching.

That’s what Dean told him before vanishing off to “take care of something”—which probably meant hustling a local bar or flirting with someone’s mom.

So, he parks himself in the corner booth of this roadside diner, laptop open, books stacked, coffee going cold. He’s trying to focus. Really.

But then you walk by.

Tray balanced on your hip. Not a hair out of place. Uniform hugging you like it was made to be sinful—short skirt, fitted blouse, apron tied tight. You move like you own the room. Like you know damn well you’re being watched.

And Sam? He’s watching.

Can’t help it.

Every time you glance his way, his pulse stutters just a bit. Every time you flash that smile—sweet, a little teasing, like you’re in on a secret—he forgets what he’s even supposed to be reading.

You’re hypnotic.

And you definitely notice him.

Your steps slow when you pass. You lean in a little closer when you pour his refill, fingers brushing his. "Need anything else, sugar?" you ask, eyes warm and sparkling.

He swallows hard. “Uh. N-no. I’m good. Thanks.”

But he’s not good. He’s anything but good.

The Impala’s parked around the back, hidden from the road.

You find him there after your shift. You knock once on the driver’s side window, and when he rolls it down, you’re smirking. “Can I come in?”

He doesn’t even hesitate.

The second the door’s closed behind you, it’s like something snaps.

Sam leans in fast, grabs your face with both hands, kisses you so deep and desperate it knocks the breath out of you.

You melt into it—his lips, his hands, his body already pressing over yours. You climb into his lap without thinking, thighs straddling him, skirt already rucked up around your hips.

His mouth trails to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. “You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me,” he groans, nipping lightly. “All night. All shift. The way you walk—how that uniform hugs you—fuck.”

You gasp as his hands slide up your thighs, slow and reverent. “I noticed you staring.”

“Yeah?” His voice is low, gravelly. “Then you know exactly what’s about to happen.”

Your fingers fumble with his belt. You don’t even bother with foreplay—not when you’ve been this turned on for hours.

He slips your panties to the side, groaning when he finds you already soaked. “Shit,” he growls. “You’re killing me.”

You grind against him, desperate and needy. “Then do something about it.”

And god, he does.

He sinks into you with one slow, deep thrust, the stretch making you cry out. You cling to his shoulders, bury your face in his neck, moaning shamelessly.

“Sam—fuck—you feel so good—”

He thrusts again. And again. His hands grip your hips tight, guiding your rhythm, matching every roll of your body.

The Impala rocks beneath you, fog creeping up the windows. Sam’s head falls back against the seat, lips parted, sweat shining on his throat.

You’re a mess. Desperate, moaning, panting against his mouth.

“You’re so beautiful,” he groans. “God—can’t believe you’re mine right now—”

You clench around him, crying out at how deep he hits. “Yours, Sam. Yours.”

That’s what undoes him.

His thrusts grow erratic, rougher, and your body is already so close. He slips a hand between you, thumb circling your clit in fast, tight strokes—

And you break.

Your orgasm crashes over you, sudden and wild and perfect, your whole body shaking as you cry out his name.

Sam follows a second later, groaning into your shoulder, his hips jerking as he spills into you, holding you tight like he never wants to let go.

Minutes pass in silence, both of you still tangled up, sweaty and flushed and breathless.

You finally pull back, your smile smug. “Think I deserve a good tip for that service.”

Sam chuckles, resting his forehead to yours. “Baby, that was a goddamn religious experience.”

You laugh, kissing him slow. “Guess you’re coming back for breakfast.���

He grins. “Only if you wear the uniform again.”

You wink. “Only if you promise not to last through your coffee this time.”

And in the fogged-up silence of that classic car, you swear you've never been looked like this before—like maybe, just maybe, this could be something real.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[aestherin]

I CAN SEE YOU

track 06: our little secret

NOTE: update streak hello who is this 😶😧

Scaramouche woke up to an onslaught of messages, mainly coming from his manager. The man grunted as he sat up, brushing stray pieces of hair up and away from his face.

"The fuck does he want?" He mumbled.

What welcomed him was several reminders about today's meeting, a number of messages respectfully asking if he's already up and preparing to leave, and a myriad of panicked texts for him to hurry the fuck up and go as soon as possible because the artist he approved was already there.

Scaramouche frowned as he started to get ready. Before doing so, however, he sent a quick reply to his manager — the text reading, 'OTW'.

A lie, of course.

As he was brushing his teeth, his phone lit up from another notification.

Manager What were you even doing up late last night that you woke up so late today?

He didn't bother to reply.

There was no way he'd admit that he was up all night beefing with his own fans and badmouthing his own name.

Due to lack of time (and energy), the man just settled on a black long-sleeved shirt for a top, and then trousers of the same color. He didn't even bother putting his lenses on, deciding to just wear his glasses instead.

He took one last glance at the time displayed on his phone and cussed, before finally closing the door of his condo unit.

---

"Sorry I'm late." Scaramouche apologized as he entered the meeting room. "I hope the meeting isn't done yet?"

"It is, actually," said his manager, obviously a little disappointed at his artist's lack of punctuality.

'No! What do you mean it's over?!' You internally screamed. The Scaramouche just arrived and now he's announcing that meeting's adjourned? This is why people say life isn't fair!

You haven't even looked at him properly yet!

You immediately looked away earlier as soon as you realized it was him who went through the door. Will you forever swear at yourself for that? Most definitely. But this is all just too much to take in!

You were just looking for Scaramouche earlier, and now he's actually here. Now he's actually here and you're hiding and shying away from him. Wow. You're starting to think you're really your self's biggest enemy.

"Oh."

"But, since you're here anyway, I think you can start talking with Miss [Name] here?" The manager suggested, making you whip your head fast towards his direction at the mention of your name.

"Miss [Name], for the specifics and details of the album, you can ask Scaramouche here. He's the singer you'd be making a cover for." He motioned towards the young man clad in full black and left.

Left. Along with the other staff.

What the heck?!

You took a deep breath before pretending to fix your things, doing the most just to avoid initiating a conversation. Damn. All the years of social training your parents made you go through just all went down the drain. Really? All it takes is a man with godly songwriting skills (and insane visuals) to make you malfunction?

You weren't raised like this!

"Hi," he breathed. "Nice to meet you, [Name]."

You paused.

Your eyes meet, and he tenses.

Only for a short while, before donning a polite smile and offering his hand.

You took it, then reflected the very smile he gave you. Scaramouche fails to notice how his grip slightly tightened, but your nerves were just too sensitive to his touch that you immediately felt it.

Thankfully, he let you go.

"Nice to meet you too, mister...?" You uttered, unsure. "Scaramouche?"

He scoffed. "Drop the mister, I think we're around the same age anyway."

Scaramouche grabbed a random chair, the one nearest, which ended up in him seating next to you. You internally thanked all the archons that the meeting room was spacious enough for the chairs not to be too close to each other.

He sat lazily, back fully rested against the leather material of the chair. He crossed one ankle over his knee, before finally resting his elbow on the edge of the desk.

"So, uhm..."

"Mhm?"

"May I ask what the album I'll be making a cover for is going to be about?"

He smirked. "I don't know."

Scaramouche's smirk stretches into a grin when he noticed how you failed to mask the bemusement on your face.

"Uh, sorry, what?"

"I haven't written it yet."

"But I was told... by your manager..."

A soft snicker escapes his lips, before he meets your eyes once more.

"Shh." His grin remains as he places a finger against his lips. "It's our little secret, alright?"

I CAN SEE YOU — scara x reader smau

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[mickyschumacher]

[MEANS I CARE!]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: isack is entirely confused why his best friend is avoiding him. or in which you realised you're in love with your best friend.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: childhood friends to lovers, mostly angst, bits of fluff, a reader with dismissive avoidant attachment, reader struggles with her emotions, initial anger from confrontational!isack but overall caring!isack, cute love confession at the end! // poorly proof read as usual

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: isack hadjar x bsf!fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.2k

𝐀/𝐍: poured a bit of myself into this one! it's hard to tell from my writing, but i struggle with expressing my emotions and telling people i care for them. i've heard it's quite common for older sisters to have avoidant attachment issues so... i guess i check the box ◡̈ anyway, this one might be a tad bit dramatic but lmk what you think! ♡︎ // also miss mcrae's album has a lot of avoidant attachment!!

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

You and Isack were opposites in every sense that mattered.

Where one would claim he was too expressive, you couldn't bring yourself to show you cared.

Where he was indecisive, you held all rationality.

And where he trusted freely, you locked yourself up.

But nevertheless, you had been childhood friends since he moved next door to you. Neither of you had a problem with the way you both acted. It was sort of like give and take: where you lacked, he made up for it and vice versa.

It never really mattered. At least that's what you thought anyways.

This year was different from every other. There would be no other like it. Because Isack was debuting as a Formula One driver. His life long dream. And you couldn't be anymore proud.

You didn't outright say it–you couldn't. You remember smiling when he told you and saying congratulations before Isack simply rolled his eyes and pulled you into a hug.

You remembered him thanking you when you pulled away, stomach churning at the lengthy hug. You were confused. Eyebrows furrowed, you asked why.

"For believing in me," he said with the most beautiful smile and the warmest brown eyes holding your own.

That was the defining moment... the moment you realised you were in love with your best friend.

There were signs. There were always signs.

Your extensive care for him and only him. The constant worry every time he went out on track. The small skip in your heart beat when he'd return home with your favourite ice cream. Your slight amusement when you'd pretend to be cross with him and he'd think you were being serious. The little trinkets he'd bring back from every race to put on the shelves in your bedroom. Or the way he lowered the volume of the TV before you'd even ask him to because he knew you didn't like it.

They were always there. But the line between best friends and whatever... it was so similar... so blurry. How could you've ever known?

But that day... it was like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over your head and reality had finally been opened to you.

You loved Isack. Not liked. Not admired. Not fancied. Loved. And you had been for years.

God it scared you. It terrified you.

People never said it to you but you knew how you were.

When you invested too much of yourself into one thing, you stopped it only moments later. You didn't want to stick around to see if something would be good. It was the assumption it would hurt. So if you could dismiss it before it even had the chance to... that's the only way you could ever relax.

You never understood how people did it. How you could give so much of yourself away. What happened when it all inevitably failed? Why wouldn't you protect yourself first? Why did you have to deal with the mess of emotions?

Loving Isack... it meant showing the most vulnerable sides of yourself. And it's not that he didn't know you. He was your best friend, of course he knew you. But that made it worse.

In your years of friendship, you had cried twice in front of him. And you hated it every single second of it. That he could see you break down. That you weren't the strong friend he normally relied on.

Loving Isack was going to fail.

You knew it.

You knew it when he crashed in the formation lap on Australia and it felt like a part of you had been ripped and torn into pieces when you saw him cry on the screens.

You knew it when he came to you, thought to be out of tears, but almost on his knees, hands immediately wrapping around you for a hug, asking you why this had happened to him and you couldn't do anything but apologise to him and tell him he'd come back stronger while you cried so silently.

When his parents thanked you for being there for Isack... fuck, you knew it would all backfire.

So you slowly stopped. Like you always did.

Fewer texts. Fewer jokes. More lies. Forcing yourself to do something–anything–else but care too much.

You hated it. You hated that it was bringing you some calm despite your body screaming at you.

It was getting difficult to keep it up. How many more times would you blamed it on the time zones? As if you hadn't memorised them the moment they came out. As if you hadn't been doing this his entire career.

But the small break after the Saudi Grand Prix meant Isack was back home. After you had missed your usual good luck text.

You had forgotten actually. You were in your room, studying quietly, unaware anyone would be home as your workaholic parents were out like normal.

Consequently, the thumps up your staircase were loud, almost deafening. Your ears perked up as the door of your bedroom went wide open.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Isack's shrill voice echoed in your bedroom, chest heaving as he stood in front of you, arms firmly to his side.

You turned from your desk. You eyed his attire briefly. The hoodie and sweatpants, the bags under his eyes... he'd probably just come from the airport. The one where you'd usually be waiting for him. "Excuse me?" You asked, throat dry from not speaking in hours.

Isack blinked, swallowing. He took a step forward to you, eyes flickering over you rapidly to see if you were okay. "Is something wrong? A-Are you sick? Are you stressed? Tell me what's wrong so I can fix it."

You could feel it. The tear in your heart growing while annoyance boiled under your skin. He didn't need to fix you. That was your job.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," you sighed out, standing from your desk before you walked to your shelves. You chewed on your lip, nervously eyeing the trinkets Isack had brought you.

You needed this conversation to be over before it went somewhere else.

"Putain de merde," Isack swore, running a hand through his hair. He walked to you again. "Like hell you don't... you don't talk to me for a week and avoid my calls and you don't know what I’m talking about? Like I'm crazy?" He asked with a small scoff.

You sucked in a sharp breath, turning to face him. "I told you with the time diff–"

A loud groan interrupted your sentence. Isack breathed slowly, fingers pressed on his nose bridge. "I swear to fucking God, if you mention that stupid fucking time difference again, I will lose my mind."

You stayed quiet. You weren't sure what to say. You wanted to peel out of your skin, you were so uncomfortable. You hated confrontation. Isack knew you hated confrontation. And yet...

Isack sighed quietly. He stepped closer to you, holding your hands with his gently. "Please, ma moitié. Please tell me what's wrong. Did I do something? Why... why won't you talk to me?"

Your eyes burned at the crack in his voice. Fuck, this sucked. You hated yourself for feeling like this. It was like it was on the tip of your tongue but you could never get it out.

"I..." you said shakily, forcing yourself to remove your burning hands from his while you pretended like you didn't see the hurt flash in his eyes, "It's nothing. Nothing is wrong."

"So it is something. Something has been bothering you. Since last year... since I told you about my seat... something's been wrong. What is it? What happened?" Isack queried softly, brown eyes searching yours so deeply for an answer.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Shit.

"You know you can tell me anything."

But I can't! You wanted to scream it. You just couldn't tell him.

"Isack, please... just– you know how I am. I'll deal with it, hmm?" You said, trying to muster up a smile.

He stared at you quietly and you were scared he was seeing too much of you. The debate in his eyes... the way he chewed his lip... he also couldn't tell if he should say it.

"You want to cry," he stated, making your eyes widen. "I can see it in your eyes. The redness. Your red cheeks. You want to say something so just say it! I'm worried for you."

"Stop saying things like that." You let out an exasperated groan. You brushed past him, clambering into his shoulder. "I don't understand how you do it," you murmured angrily more to yourself than him.

The tears were freely flowing down your cheeks before you knew it. You glared hard at your desk, eyes hot as though it would stop you from crying.

You couldn't see it but Isack could feel his heart breaking at the sight of your figure shaking. You could feel him gently lay his hand over your shoulder. "It's okay to cry," he mumbled, "I wish you wouldn't hide it."

You felt sick. Like your stomach was churning. It felt like his hand was leaving an imprint on you, searing you. Exhaustion was clouding your body. Exhaustion that had built up over the course of the past few weeks.

"I can't do it like you, Isack. I can't show I care. It's so hard. It's like I have to constantly fight myself," you quietly said, unable to bear this any longer.

"Hey," Isack murmured, hand travelling to your face to turn you to him. His eyes softened at your wet cheeks. Wiping them with the pads of his thumbs, he held your chin with his thumb. "It's okay. You don't have to do anything like me. Take your time. Do what you want when you want."

You breathed quietly while you stared at your best friend. He was right. It wasn't as easy as he made it sound, but you were so tired of feeling like crap. You focused on his encouraging smile and opened your mouth.

"I... you were right. I was avoiding you," you admitted, eyes falling to the floor in embarrassment. You could feel he wanted to say something but he stayed quiet, waiting for you. "I was avoiding you because I care."

Isack furrowed his brows. "I don't understand."

You chewed on your bottom lip, contemplating how much you wanted to say... how much you could say. "Last year... when you told me you got your seat, you thanked me."

He nodded in agreement. "For believing in me. Because you always do," he murmured, his free hand rubbing your own softly, comforting you.

You smiled gently at his words before taking in a sharp intake of air. "It just made me think, well, realise that I'm in love with you. And I always have been," you breathed out, the weight slowly lifting off your shoulders.

You could see Isack's eyes slightly widen but you continued. "And that terrifies me, Isack. Because it means I care. I care a lot for you. And I'm scared that because I care, something will go wrong. I-I didn't mean to shut you out. It's not what I want. It's just all I know. So I'm sorry. And I'm sorry I'm dumping this on you when you don't feel the same way and–"

"Wait, wait, wait," Isack interjected, hands both reaching to hold your face gently. He held your eyes with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. "Who's says I don't feel the same way?"

You mouth felt dry, heart speeding. "I... You do?"

Isack smiled, laughing softly as he nodded. "I thought it was obvious. That maybe you just didn't feel the same way."

He watched a dark expression fall on your face. You were in that same dreadful space you had just been in. "Hey, ma moitié, what's wrong?"

Your eyes fell to his once again. "What if I can't love you enough?"

It sounded strange but he knew what you meant. Even with all your care... what if you couldn't show you loved him enough? What if you couldn't express it?

"Not possible," Isack retorted, casually shrugging.

"But I–"

"I see it," Isack firmly told you, quietening you easily. "I see it when you're at my races and you stand on the side, letting me go to my parents first. I see you and your camera taking pictures of us when you think I don't. I see your heart. I see all of it."

You blinked, eyes burning all over again. For the first time in forever, you stepped forward, hugging him tightly. "Je t’aime, Isack.

His arms wrapped around yours, holding you closer to him. Isack smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Je t’aime, ma moitié."

"Did you bring me any souvenirs?" You mumbled against his shoulders, sniffling slightly.

You could feel his body rumble with a chuckle. "Depends. did you even watch my race or were you busy 'sleeping?'"

You pulled away, making a face, guilt still swirling within you. "I did watch it. You know I watch it even when I'm mad at you," you pouted.

Isack grinned. "Then of course I did."

© 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑

[toxicanonymity]

Dear Toxi,

At your suggestion, I used Resistbot to contact my congress people and representative and asked them to vote “no” on the SAVE act. If you can, I would love for you to write something about Raider Joel and Sweet Pea. They are my favorites. Thanks for all your great writing and your activism!

Thank you for your activism and ask. glad to provide raider. 🫡🖤 SAVE act | 5calls | resistbot | ask event: blorbos for democracy

Feast

raider!Joel x f!reader | 1.9k words

WARNINGS: 18+ PWP, 🐱 eating extravaganza, a little forceful, dubcon overstim, PIV, cockwarming, dark fluff, a bit of angst, light somno, Raider Joel needs a permanent hug. NOTES: Morning after Bodies / The Kiss but can read alone. Ty @iamasaddie for the gorgeous pic, ty @milla-frenchy for listening yrs before i write it sometimes, ty @dark-scape and everyone who supports me 🖤 🖤 Joel miller masterlist

You begin to wake up with Joel's hair tickling your breast as he works his way down your body, dragging his lips over your skin. After spreading your legs and resting them over his shoulders, he presses his open mouth to your hip, then inner thigh. 

His inner thigh kisses get closer and thirstier, sucking at your skin, capillaries bursting with pleasure as they rise to the surface to be seen by only him. Marked for no one but Joel. He noses your cunt and dips his tongue for a taste, then his tongue presses hard into your warmth. You moan quietly, feeling everything, but you're still so tired. It was a peaceful night, restful, but hard to shake the heavy slumber. 

You want to be in his arms, but his big hands holding your hips while he plunges face first into your cunt… It's so good, his arms can wait. The day can wait. The morning light filtering through the clouded window can wait as long as need be while Joel Miller takes his time. 

He laps at your pussy, then sucks at your clit. He flicks his tongue and feels you squirm. He reaches up and palms a breast as he eats your pussy like he hasn't had a meal in days and this might just sate him for the week. 

You throb, and pressure builds in your front, in your blood. His lips and tongue possess your pleasure center. His beard scratches your inner thighs, and you spread your legs further, beginning to squirm slightly under his touch. He looks up for a moment, but his eyes are behind a haze of pleasure, and yours are still closed. 

“Ugh,” you moan and your hips lift into his mouth. 

“Mm,” He grunts into your pussy and continues to play with your clit. He flicks his tongue, sucks hard, and listens to you unravel, closing his eyes, losing himself in the primality of consuming you for his pleasure and yours.

“J-joel,” you breathe, not loud enough for him to hear.  Need to feel his lips on yours again. His lips on… your other lips. The ones on your pretty face, the ones that whimper his name, this time asking, “Joel?” with no reply, only a crescendo of pressure swelling in your core. 

You drift back to the night before, the moment your mouths connected…. you float there with the swelling pressure as your buoy, until the riptide pulls you under, into the ghost of his mouth taking yours, and the pleasure breaks in a crashing wave. Tumbling over your senses, it rolls you onto the shore of his bed, soaked and trembling, gasping for breath with his head between your legs as he swallows your peak. 

The taste of your pleasure, your climax only makes him more voracious. While you're bathing in the high, he licks at your entrance, sucks and swallows. Plunges his tongue into you, searches for more. He tilts his head, fucking you with his tongue from different angles.  He’s a starving canine licking marrow out of bone. 

He brings his thumb to your cunt and holds it there on the spot that makes you whimper with the slightest pressure.  He fucks you with his tongue, then flattens his fingers and rubs at your clit, rolling it it in short quick strokes, building another fire in your belly with his tongue in your core. His thick fingers work you like a tap, drawing more of your arousal to coat his tongue. 

“C'mere,” you whimper, and he doesn't let up. His tongue thrusts into you. He laps over your entrance, up your slippery seam, before plunging his tongue in again, with his hand still aflutter. You squirm and he sucks, and then you're coming against his face, and he moans against your throbbing clit, then nudges it with the strength of his tongue and seals it with an open kiss.  His mouth breaks away to gush, “good girl.” 

Your legs tremble over his shoulders like a gelatin dish carried by heavy steps to the kitchen table where a hungry mouth waits. He holds one thigh, thumb and fingers pressing into the soft flesh over your muscle, and gives it an aggressive kiss, lips smacking as he pulls away and sets his eyes on the feast between your legs again. 

“Can you come here?” You ask, and he glances up at you with his mouth planted between your legs again. 

“It's, it’s too much. I can't,” You whimper. It feels like you could pee, like you could lose complete control. Does he hear you?  

“Joel, Joel,” you repeated. 

He sucks below your clit, flicks his tongue up against it before sucking again. He closes his eyes hard, and his hand comes to your breast.

“come here,” you echo and it comes out strained, stretched by pleasure, pulled apart by him.  You try to sit up, try to use your lower body to nudge him toward you, toward the pillow, but he forces you down, holds you firmly in place. You begin to lift his hand off your breast to break the spell, to get his attention, and his hand seizes your wrist.

Your resistance only makes his mouth more aggressive in its quest to swallow you again. 

You give in.  

He feels you relax, glances up, then interlaces his fingers with yours and it feels all better. The tension leaves your back and legs, your neck relaxes, your head sinks into the pillow. All the tension melts, flowing down to your center where it builds in your depths for a third time. 

His lips break away with a rumbling breath. 

“One more, baby,” he pants, “one more.” 

His tongue runs through your folds, up one side and down the other, circling your juicy hole, then giving it a suck before returning to your clit. 

His hand tightens its grip on yours, so large and commanding. Tight and firm, his palm flexes, his fingers press into the slopes between your knuckles.

His hips rut against the bed as he fucks you with his face. The movement of his ass, the telltale. rhythm of his hips and his tongue together, it tickles something in your solar plexus, opening you with a desperate need to be filled.

His head between your legs dips and pushes his mouth harder in rhythm with his hips against the bed. Tongue, hips, tongue, hips, suck, hips, suck, harder. With a pit opening in your center, you beg, “I need you inside.”  

You find yourself jealous of the mattress, wishing you were the fitted sheet that he was rutting against. Nevermind how many hours you were treated to the same push of his hips. How many nights. Nevermind that his face is buried in your cunt. You want him inside you. 

 A tear rolls down your temple.

You whimper his name, and he takes a breath to promise, “One more and you can rest, baby.  One more.” 

You can do it. You can do it for him. With tension coiling in your depths, with one hand in his, and the other in his hair, you watch his eyelids hover half open, then close with the soft rake of your nails across his scalp. 

Your hips lift with his hungry touch and he moans into your cunt. 

A growl escapes his chest; warm, damp air against your lower mound. The coil winds so tight you fear the snap as you begin to crest. But when the tension breaks and springs you open, the rush of release makes you glad he hadn't stopped. It floods every inch of you with a sizzling buzz.

It makes your body dizzy, and it makes you sleepy. He laps up all your arousal, all your release, everything he can, his hips still moving in rhythm. He slowly fucks the goddamn mattress with you quivering against his tongue. 

And then, finally, he’s done. He licks his swollen lips swallowing more of your taste. His neck and face are pink, the lower half is shiny. His breath is heavy, and so is yours as you recover. 

“I'm comin’, sweet pea,” he assures you. He lets go of your hand to prowl up your body.

He hovers you, and you glance down at his stiff, leaking cock, angry with so much blood and need it can hardly contain. It bounces heavily against your belly, right where you want it inside. 

He reaches down, aligns your bodies, and your breath hitches as he slides into you with a powerful thrust, plunging nearly all his length through your soft walls. He packs you full, just like you wanted. You're tired, so tired, and your face becomes peaceful as you're made whole. 

“You can rest now, baby,” he pants. With his length sheathed in your soft warmth, he slides a hand under your shoulder, pulls you against him, and eases you back into how you were sleeping - on your sides, facing each other. With a grunt, he hikes your leg up so he can bottom out fully with a sigh. 

An aftershock squeezes his shaft, making him shudder. He strokes your face, possessively cups the back of your head, with his thumb on your temple, then he brings his face to yours and kisses you once again.  With your mouths joined, he breathes through his nose, kissing you deep, letting his tongue slide into your warm, soft mouth, feeding you your own taste, collecting more of you for himself. Another spasm echoes from your walls, and his hips jerk. His lips break from yours with a groan, and his cock throbs, erupting warm and heavy.

Deep, so deep.

His pelvis tilts trying to inch ever further into you like he could fill your whole body up if he tried, and maybe he could. But he remains almost completely still as his balls empty into you through the twitch of his cock. 

He interrupts his shaky breaths to kiss you for a few seconds, lips clinging to yours. Then he pulls back to look you in the eyes and asks, “You okay sweet pea?”  

“Yeah,” you whisper with a nod. He holds you, and the rhythm of his breathing feels like a lullaby. 

“Let's stay in bed,” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” you whisper in agreement. 

You're wrapped in his arms, full of his cock, almost back asleep when his arms twitch and tighten around you.

“Are you okay?” You ask. 

He takes a deep breath. “Yeah. ‘Course I am, sweet pea.” He kisses your forehead.  But unease grows beneath the peace he feels, slow as cordyceps and just as real.

The truth is, each time your bodies are joined, he’s less sure how to separate them. He's not sure how to get out of that bed without you physically attached to him. Like a limb or a second skin, the thought of shedding you, even for a moment, makes his oxygen drop, unsettles his gut, has his pulse thrumming in his neck. 

“Just... always need more of ya, baby,” he mutters with a shift of his hips, then another deep breath. 

“You have all of me,” you whisper. 

"Yeah," he whispers and nestles your head under his chin where you can feel his thick swallow. 

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Thank you for reading 🖤 I have terrible anxiety with this series sometimes, there's so much I've scribbled and not shared. Your comments help a lot.

Please also consider sharing this fic - it's a great way to help resistance efforts by spreading the ask and links and enticing people who might otherwise scroll past this kind of information.

[captain-huggy-bear]

“how fucking dare you- i am married.” with clayton pls!

also, can i have this emoji 🍸? thanks! congratulations on 1k lottie, big accomplishment and loads to be proud of!!!!

Loyal king who doesn't even look at another woman when he's with you. Of course you can! Thank you <3

1000 Followers Celly Currently ongoing 🥳🎉 (please read the rules) Big requests/full fic/big idea requests are closed at the moment but drabble and prompt requests are still open. Writing Masterlist

Clayton's not entirely sure why he even agreed to this, he's 5 beers in, definitely a little drunk and he has practice in the morning, but somehow Kess, Cools and Doaner (young and terrible influences) had convinced him to go out drinking.

Clay isn't really concerned with anyone else around him; he's barely noticed the group of young women who keep glancing their way and giggling. Not his scene, not his style, not when he misses you and how normally at this time he'd be in bed, your hands running through his hair, maybe tugging on his chain as he makes out with you for one last time before you both decide to go to sleep like you're 90 years old.

"Oh, she's a dime." It's Kess that says it, sounding like some sort of 1950s greaser wannabe as he looks towards a blonde at the end of the bar. She's twirling her hair around her finger and looking at them, Clay barely glances at her before turning back to his phone to check if you've messaged him since you said goodnight. Not yet...and he sighs heavily, a drunken sort of neediness to see you coming over him. God he misses you.

"A dime? Who even calls a girl that anymore?" Cools and Doaner team up on the larger guy, taking the piss out of him.

"Are you from the 50s?" Clay groans as the three go at each other because he can't handle this right now, he misses you and they're arguing over stupid ass terminology like a bunch of five years. His fault for going out with a bunch of single guys. Besides, if anyone is a dime it's you. You're a dime...the dimey-est dime to ever exist actually.

"So you think I'm wrong? She's not hot?" At this point it's obvious that they're talking about her, Clay can already see her considering whether to sidle up and he hopes she doesn't. Her eyes are flitting between all of them like they're all an option...he is not.

"She's hot, sure, right, Kells?" It's Cools attempt to include him that has him offended, taken aback as he aggressively gestures with his beer, it sloshing nearly over the rim of his glass.

“How fucking dare you- I am married." It's obvious that Cools and Doaner don't understand. They're young. Unmarried. Single. They can't comprehend how offensive it is to ask Clay, a married man, whether another woman was hot or not.

"So you've turned blind?"

"Why the fuck would I look at any other woman when this" Clay picks up his phone, lighting up the screen as he shows off his lock screen, a picture of you smiling as you hold the scraggly cat you'd forced him to let you adopt, "is my wife?"

"But, you can still find other women attractive...you're not dead."

"Listen to me carefully," He throws an arm around Logan, breathing too close to his face in a way that has Cools' scrunching up his nose at the beer breath, "when you fall in love....when you fall in love no one else is attractive anymore. I don't even comprehend other women. I just want my wife." God, when was the last time he found another woman attractive? He actually can't remember, he's been obsessed with you since day one, uninterested in anyone else.

He's getting messy, sloppy, a little soppy and his eyes tear up and Cooley pats him awkwardly on the arm like he's worried Clayton might start crying.

"A...are you okay, man?"

"I just...i'm really missing her, look," He unlocks his phone clumsily, finding his gallery and going throw each photo of you and him, "Isn't she pretty?" God, you're so pretty to Clay. If he were a cartoon Kess is pretty sure Clay's eyes would be heart shaped. He's a little envious honestly.

"Are you going to hit me if I say yes? or if I say no?"

"No! Yes! W-" Clay really is confused, his head is fuzzy, he feels a little sick and all he wants is to see you. God, don't you look so pretty in this photo? Oh, and this one too.

"Okay, cap...let's take that away," Kess reaches over and plucks the beer from Clay's hands, "you wanna see your wife, buddy?"

"Yes!"

"Okay, let's get you home then, c'mon," Kess sighs like he's dealing with a toddler rather than his fully grow captain, still, he helps Clay from his seat at the bar and the three of them make their way to the door. The entire time Doaner and Cools complain about the fact they could have scored a few numbers if Clay wasn't so whiny about his wife.

All Clay can think is that he's so excited to see his wife again.

You are less excited when a very heavy, very drunk Clay flops on top of you during your sleep moaning about how hot you are and how you're such a 'dime'.

[bytemee]

۶ৎ STUNNER — yu jimin.

“my little angel in disguise..."

⌗ in which— you're a painter who hasn't picked up a brush in months. then one night at your best friends gallery, you meet a stranger who inspires you more than you ever thought possible. you don’t know her name. you don’t know that she’ll disappear before morning. you don’t know that when your hands finally remember how to move, how to paint, it’ll be her face staring back at you from the canvas.

but—when your best friend sees your finished piece, she says eight words that change everything:

"why the hell did you paint the princess?"

pairing. princess!karina x painter!fem!reader

warning(s). language, mentions of alcohol and smoking, mild angst, kissing + implied nsfw but not explicit, happy ending.

word count. 5.7k

authors note. @bimkayd for u. i also have to update my masterlist...bad.

when creativity strikes, it strikes.

like, really fucking hard. and it always comes at the worst times—when you’re in the shower, when you’re half-asleep, when you’re five minutes away from an important meeting you don’t even want to be at. but for the past few months, it hasn’t come at all.

time blurs when you’re stuck in the same four walls, staring at blank canvases like you're trying to have a staring contest with them. the paints dry in their tubes, waiting for you to wake up from whatever this is—this rut, this drought, this fucking nothingness in your head.

yunjin tells you it’s a phase. "everyone goes through it," she says over the phone, her voice tinny with excitement, too busy preparing for her own gallery opening to properly pity you. “come to my exhibit tonight. it’ll help.”

so you go to her art gallery opening. you haven't been out of the house in weeks. you haven't painted anything worth showing in months. it's a miracle you can dress yourself and brush your teeth without collapsing.

the gallery is packed when you arrive, an ocean of well-dressed bodies moving in slow currents, sipping expensive champagne from delicate flutes and admiring the artwork. most of these paintings are by yunjin herself—all bold colors and abstract shapes—but there are a few others here, too, and you spend some time wandering around, looking at them all.

your favorite is a painting done in blues and greys, full of sharp angles and harsh shadows. the paint looks thick enough to feel under your fingertips. there's a small plaque in front of it that reads "untitled" and nothing else. you stare at it for what feels like hours, but it must only be minutes because when you look up, yunjin is standing beside you, smiling.

"do you like it?" she asks.

"i love it," you reply. "it's stunning."

she laughs. "that's what i was going for."

yunjin nudges you playfully with her elbow. “so? feeling inspired yet?”

you scoff, but it lacks real bite. “i don’t think staring at other people’s work is going to magically make me able to paint again.”

“maybe not,” she muses, taking a sip of champagne. “but getting out of your own head for once might.”

you don’t have the energy to argue with her. not when she’s right. not when she’s always right.

you then let her drag you through the gallery, introducing you to people whose names you’ll forget before the night is over. collectors, critics, other artists—everyone here looks effortlessly put together, as if they belong in a world you haven’t touched in far too long. you nod, you shake hands, you make small talk. it takes every ounce of strength you have just to act normal, as if you haven't been locked inside your own head for months now. as if there isn’t a black hole where your creativity used to be.

"your work is so… bold," says one woman, sipping from her champagne flute. "i love it."

"thank you," you say, hoping your smile doesn't look as strained as it feels.

you glance around the room, looking for anything that might distract you from this conversation. a familiar face. a bathroom sign. anything. but all you see are unfamiliar faces and unreadable paintings on the walls, and suddenly you feel dizzy.

claustrophobic.

you need to get out of here.

now.

"excuse me," you mutter, slipping away from the woman before she can ask another question.

you don't know where you're going, but it doesn't matter. as long as it's somewhere else. your shoes click against the tile floor as you weave through the crowd, eyes focused on the exit ahead, sliding out the door into fresh air.

the night is cool on your skin, but not cold. you can still hear the sounds of the city echoing off the buildings, muffled music from inside the gallery mixing with distant traffic and the occasional car horn. it's a beautiful night, perfect weather for an art opening. if only you could appreciate it.

you lean back against the wall, fishing your pack of cigarettes out of your pocket. they're crumpled up but still intact, thanks to the tin foil wrapper you put around them before heading over here. you've been trying to quit lately, but old habits die hard.

besides, you figure you deserve this one.

you light a cigarette and inhale deeply, letting the smoke fill your lungs before exhaling slowly, watching as it curls and dissipates into the air. it tastes terrible—like ash and chemicals and bitter regret—but it calms your nerves, just a little bit.

and then the door swings open again.

at first, you think it's security. some guy ready to kick you out for loitering in the wrong place. but then you see her, stumbling out the back entrance of the gallery, looking flustered and annoyed. she's wearing an expensive-looking gown with a slit up one side, showing off her long legs, and heels so tall you'd trip over them yourself if you tried to walk in them. her hair is perfectly coiffed and her makeup flawless, but her expression says she wants to be anywhere else.

you stare, transfixed. she’s all contrast. elegance and frustration. poise and unrest. a picture-perfect masterpiece comes to life.

"do you have another?" she asks, motioning to your cigarette.

her voice snaps you out of your reverie, and you arch an eyebrow. she looks too perfect, too put together, to be standing here asking you for a cigarette. "you smoke?"

a pause. then, "no. never actually."

you laugh to yourself, not in a mean way, more like you're trying to convince yourself this isn't actually happening. "so why'd you ask me for one?"

"because i want to try," she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "i want to try something new."

she’s so fucking out of place here. all that polish, all that perfection—it makes her look like a mirage, something that can't possibly be real. her hair’s perfect, her makeup looks like it was painted on by a master, and that damn dress? it’s made for a runway, not this alley. she’s like someone dropped a fantasy into a real, gritty world, and for some reason she ended up here.

her eyes don’t leave yours as she waits—most likely for you to respond, to offer the cigarette she asked for, to say something, anything—but you stay silent because your mind is working faster than your body right now, and you need a moment to catch up.

“you wouldn’t like it,” you finally say, once the gears have started turning again, your words sounding much steadier than you feel.

her eyebrow furrowed, her lips turning down just slightly at the corners. not quite a frown, not yet, but a near thing. you've never wanted to capture an expression on canvas as much as you do right now, her face in all its beauty and annoyance.

"why not?" she asks, sounding indignant, almost insulted. "do you not trust my judgment? my tastes?"

she seems to be talking herself into it, the challenge sparking something behind her gaze. and though her posture doesn't change, you can practically feel the determination radiating off her.

you laugh. "you're missing out on the exhibit, you know."

"i could say the same to you," she counters. "why are you out here?"

you could give her a simple answer, something about needing a break, needing air, needing to get away from the suffocating crowd of people who actually have something to show for themselves. but none of that would be the truth, so you simply shrug and say—

"—wasn't really feeling the whole art world pretentiousness thing."

"strange place to be if you're not a fan."

"my friend dragged me." you admit, dropping the cigarette butt to the ground and grinding it out with the toe of your shoe.

she cocks her head to the side, eyes flicking down to the now extinguished butt before looking back up. it's her turn to stare at you. to take in your appearance—the plain button-up, dark dress slacks, and polished black leather shoes. if not for the tattoos peeking out from your sleeves and collar, you'd just look like another patron, dressed to impress and blend into the crowd.

"are you an artist as well?"

you smile at the question, "used to be."

her gaze softens, "used to be?"

"haven't painted in a while."

the pout is back, her eyebrows scrunching together as she stares at you, clearly processing this information, taking in your words and decoding them, working through their implications and how they fit into the context. she settles with, "well, do you plan to ever again?"

it's a simple question. one you should have a simple answer to, but life isn't simple. and art, well, art's a fucking mess. your shoulders rise before dropping.

"why not?" her eyes narrow. "have you given up?"

"not giving up." you tell her. "just stuck."

her lips press together like she doesn’t quite believe you. like she’s debating whether to push, whether to pry, whether you’re just making excuses.

"stuck how?" she asks, arms crossing over her chest.

you huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “you ask a lot of questions.”

“i like knowing things,” she says easily. “and i like understanding people. you intrigue me.”

it shouldn’t affect you the way it does. but those words—you intrigue me—they lodge themselves somewhere deep, twisting and turning like a key fitting into a lock you didn’t realize was waiting to be opened.

you glance down, scuffing the toe of your shoe against the pavement, considering how to answer. the truth is ugly. the truth is that you used to paint like your life depended on it—because, in a way, it did. it was your lifeline, your voice, your way of making sense of things when nothing else made sense.

and then, one day, it just—stopped. the inspiration, the fire, the need—all of it dried up, like a well you kept going back to, only to find it emptier each time.

"you ever look at something so much you forget what made it beautiful in the first place?" you ask instead.

she doesn’t answer right away; she just watches you, eyes flickering over your face. trying to read you is like a puzzle box. or a book. you wonder what kind of story she thinks she finds on your face. what she sees, besides the tired bags under your eyes and the slight tremble in your hands.

when she speaks, her voice is quiet. low. it carries across the distance between you and hits you right where it counts.

"i think everything can be beautiful again. if you look at it the right way."

"yeah?" you say, a little more bitter than you mean to. "that easy, huh?"

her lips quirk, not quite a smile, but close. "i didn’t say it was easy. i just think… maybe beauty isn’t lost. maybe it’s just waiting to be found again."

you swallow, forcing yourself to scoff lightly, to shake your head. "you always this philosophical, or is that just the champagne talking?"

she laughs, soft but real. "i haven’t had a single sip tonight."

"then what are you doing out here?"

"i needed fresh air."

your fingers twitch. she speaks again.

"and maybe you just need a new muse."

you wonder if she even realizes what she’s saying. if she knows that, somehow, without even trying, she’s already painting herself into every blank canvas in your mind.

the night unravels like a half-finished painting—smudged, chaotic, too many colors bleeding into each other. you don’t remember who kissed whom first, only that one second she was looking at you like she saw something worth figuring out, and the next, your hands were on her waist, and she was breathing against your lips.

it’s desperate. messy. her dress pools on the floor of your too-small apartment, and her skin feels like something you’re not supposed to touch but can’t help but reach for anyway. you don’t ask her name. she doesn’t ask for yours. it’s better that way.

and then, when morning comes, she’s gone. no note, no number, nothing. you don't have to guess if it was real or not because the memories are too vivid, too sharp, for it to be anything but. you lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything over and over in your head.

the way she looked. the way she tasted. the way she felt.

your hands are itching, craving the feeling of your brush in your hand.

it’s not a choice. not really.

your body moves before your mind can catch up, reaching for the brushes, the paints, and the canvas that’s been gathering dust in the corner. the moment the bristles touch the surface, it’s like something clicks back into place—like an old wound finally scabbing over.

she appears in fragments first. the curve of her jaw. the slope of her neck. the way her lips parted like she was about to say something, only to change her mind. it’s obsessive, almost. you don’t even think about what you’re doing, only that you have to do it. the need rushes through you like wildfire, consuming everything in its path.

you don’t know how long you sit there, lost in the act of pulling her from memory onto canvas. hours, maybe.

that’s how yunjin finds you.

she kicks the door shut behind her, dropping a bag onto the counter like she’s another name on your lease. "you alive?" she asks, but then she sees you—sees the paint on your hands, your clothes, your face. sees the finished piece propped up in front of you.

and she stops short.

"oh."

her tone is surprised, breathless, then she laughs, loud and disbelieving.

"oh my god," she says, eyes wide with something between amusement and shock. "why the hell did you paint the princess?"

you blink, exhausted. “what?”

she gestures to the painting like it should be obvious. “why did you paint the princess?”

your stomach drops. “the what?”

she stares at you. “you’re joking.”

“i—” you look at the painting. at her.

your pulse thuds in your ears.

“yunjin,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “what the fuck are you talking about?”

it’s a joke. it has to be.

you wait for yunjin to laugh, to tell you she’s messing with you, but she doesn’t. she just stares at you, then back at the painting, then back at you again like you’re the dumbest person alive.

“you seriously didn’t know?”

your mouth is dry. you shake your head. yunjin lets out a sharp breath.

"oh my god. you—you slept with the princess, and you didn’t even know?” the words hit you like a punch. you stare at the painting—at her—but it doesn’t make sense.

princesses don’t sneak out of fancy events. princesses don't try to bum cigarettes off strangers in alleyways. princesses don’t have one-night stands with random depressed artists they meet in the back of art galleries.

you swallow hard, rubbing a hand down your face. “fuck.”

“yeah,” yunjin says, crossing her arms. “fuck.”

you stare at her, then at the painting, and then back at her. the gears turn in your head, trying to connect the dots, trying to fit this new information into the picture. "are you sure?" you ask, even though you know she wouldn't lie about this. "like, absolutely fucking positive?"

"of course i'm fucking positive!" she throws her hands up. "do you not pay attention to the news at all?"

your mind whirls with the new information.

it’s not that she was just some stranger slipping out before sunrise. she's a princess. a whole gorgeous untouchable, have you said untouchable? — princess.

and now she’s everywhere. on the news, in magazines, her face staring back at you from glowing screens and glossy pages. every headline, every camera flash, every fucking update on her. princess karina seen leaving in the royal car. princess karina attending an art gala. princess karina, princess karina, princess karina.

you try to forget. you try to be normal again—whatever that means. you go back to ignoring your canvases, sitting on the couch, flipping through channels you don’t really watch. you even let yunjin drag you out a few times, shove drinks in your hand, and tell you to move on already. but it doesn’t work.

because she’s still in your head.

so you chase.

not in the obvious way. not in the stupid, reckless, get-yourself-arrested-for-trying-to-climb-the-palace-gates way.

you chase in the quiet ways. the ways that don’t make sense to anyone else. the ways that make yunjin groan and say, “you are literally the most tragic idiot i’ve ever met. but i'll help you anyway."

and that's how you find yourself here. in a palace that is stupidly big.

like, what do you even do with this much space? big. it’s all gold and chandeliers and marble floors and suits of armor standing around, looking vaguely threatening. it makes your skin itch.

you don’t belong here. you know that. but neither did she, that night outside the gallery. and if she could slip out of this world for one night, maybe—just maybe—you can slip in.

yunjin had connections. she always did. you didn’t ask questions when she got you in, just pulled the sleeves of your borrowed suit down and tried not to look like you wanted to throw up.

you have a plan. it doesn't go smoothly.

"i'm sorry, miss. only those on the guest list may enter."

"oh, i—" you scramble to find an excuse. any excuse. "i am on the guest list."

the guard doesn't move. he doesn't even blink.

"what's your name?"

"uh—" your mind blanks. "it's a very long name. very, very long. with a lot of letters. like, a lot of them. you wouldn't be able to pronounce it."

the guard doesn’t look amused. or convinced.

"try me."

you throw out the first thing that comes to mind. "it’s, uh… y/n… the first… y/ln… the third."

silence.

then yunjin, from beside you, coughs so hard you think she might pass out. you nudge her with your elbow, but she’s already turning away, shoulders shaking.

the guard, however, does not laugh. he just stares at you like you’re the dumbest person to ever breathe.

"that’s not a real name."

"it could be," you argue weakly.

he crosses his arms. "it isn’t."

you exhale through your nose, willing yourself not to turn and run. not yet. not when you’re this close.

yunjin, finally recovering, clears her throat and steps in. "okay, okay, my idiot friend here—who, i assure you, is actually very harmless—just has a little bit of trouble with names. what they meant to say is that they’re a guest of lady yu."

the guard squints at you both, skeptical. "lady yu?"

"yes," yunjin says smoothly. "you know, lady yu. very high society. loves art. huge fan of… uh, brush strokes."

you resist the urge to slap a hand over your face.

the guard exhales, clearly debating whether dealing with the two of you is worth his time. eventually, he lifts a radio to his mouth, murmuring something you can’t hear. a beat later, he nods.

"you’re clear to enter."

you don’t ask how yunjin pulled that off; just grab her hand and pull her inside before the guy can change his mind.

and then you’re in.

the palace is even more ridiculous further inside. every inch screams money. gilded ceilings, more enormous chandeliers, even shinier marble floors that make you extra aware of how not rich you are.

you scan the room, searching, heart pounding in your throat. and then—

there.

at the far end of the ballroom, half-surrounded by nobles and dignitaries and all the kinds of people who actually belong here, she stands. regal. poised. effortlessly untouchable.

princess karina.

and she’s looking right at you.

you swallow. she arches an eyebrow. her expression shifts, then she's up and moving. in your direction. then, without a word, her fingers wrap around your wrist, firm but not rough, and she turns, pulling you with her.

you barely have time to process what’s happening before you’re weaving through the gilded halls, past guards who barely spare you a glance, past murmuring guests too distracted by their own conversations to notice the princess slipping away with some stranger in a borrowed suit.

she doesn’t stop until you’re deep in the palace, past the public rooms, past the private suites, past everything anyone else has a right to see. only then does she let go.

you swallow hard, rubbing at your wrist. "subtle."

she ignores you, crossing her arms. "what the hell are you doing here? you're not supposed to be here."

your throat feels dry. "i know."

"then why are you?"

you lick your lips, suddenly 1000x more nervous than you were standing outside the palace gates. "i—" you inhale sharply. "i tried to forget you. and i couldn’t."

"that’s unfortunate."

your chest tightens. "is it?"

she exhales softly through her nose. "what do you want, really?"

and it hits you, all at once, all over again. why you’re here. why you had to come.

you take a step forward, closing the distance between you. your eyes never leave hers. "do you know what it means to be a muse?"

that throws her. a small crease forms between her brows. "i—"

"it means you exist everywhere," you cut in before she can finish. "even when i try to ignore it. even when i don’t want to think about you. you show up in every color, in every stroke of my brush, in every painting i try to create. you are impossible to forget."

her mouth opens and closes. "that doesn’t—you can't—"

"it means you stole something from me," you continue, your voice growing softer as you close the last bit of distance between you. "something i didn’t even realize i was missing until you came into my life and showed me what it meant to feel alive again. you're my muse."

her breath catches at that, lips parting just slightly, as if to speak, but no words come out. you take advantage of the moment, reaching up to cup her face in your hands, brushing a thumb over her cheekbone. she leans into your touch, eyelashes fluttering against her skin, eyes falling shut for a moment. and then they open again, dark and intense and so, so beautiful.

she searches your face as her hand reaches up to rest against yours. you want to kiss her, want to tell her you want her in the simplest terms, in a way that even a princess can understand. you lean forward, pressing your forehead against hers, and ask, "do you feel the same? was it real, what i felt between us?"

you barely whisper the question out loud, barely hearing her inhale as she closes the space between you. her lips brush against yours, featherlight but enough to make your stomach flip. “i can't be that for you,” she says against your mouth.

and your heart breaks. you know you were just a one-time thing, just a quick fling for her. it's the whole princess thing. you knew it would be complicated, but you couldn't stop thinking about her, and she's looking at you with such an intense look, a look that says she can't forget you either, and that has to be worth something, right?

you don't realize you said all of it out loud until she pulls away, blinking rapidly. "wait, no—that's not—that's not what i meant," she stammers, suddenly looking much younger and more vulnerable than you've ever seen her. "that night at the gallery, with you, was real. that was—it was the only time i've ever felt that way."

"but," like always

her gaze softens. "we can't. you can't just come in here like this."

she says the last bit as if you've done something wrong, and her hands pull back to her sides. you don't have it in you to care about her rules anymore. her hands fall to her sides, but you stay still, your forehead hovering near hers, your breath mixing.

"i don't care about protocol," you whisper. "i care about you."

"stop," she says, softer than before. "you can't just say things like that and expect me to—"

"expect you to what?" your voice rises, sharp edges showing. "feel the same? you already do. you’re just scared. and i get it. i do. but don’t pretend this didn’t mean anything."

"i'm not pretending," she snaps, taking a step back, composure cracking. "i haven't stopped thinking about you either, okay? but that doesn’t change the fact that this—us—it’s impossible."

"why? because you wear a crown and i wear paint under my nails?"

"because my life isn’t mine!" she yells. "because everything i do is watched and calculated and twisted into something ugly. if they knew you were here—if they saw us like this—"

"then let them see," you say, helpless and stupid and in love. "i'll stand in front of every one of them and say it. i'll tell them how i look at you like the sun rises in your mouth and sets in your goddamn spine. i don't care."

"well, i care!" she shouts, her voice shaking now, full of fire and something just comparable to fear. "i can't afford to want things. not like you do. not recklessly. i don't get to choose who i love."

it's quiet.

"you need to leave."

you don’t move.

"if you don’t, i'll call the guards."

you flinch, and she notices. her jaw clenches. it takes everything in you not to beg.

“don’t make me do that,” she whispers. “please. just go.”

your throat is tight. you nod once.

you turn, heart heavy, the room blurring at the edges. when you open the door, yunjin is waiting, quiet and still in the corridor, like she knew this was how it’d end.

you don’t say a word as she walks beside you down the long hallway, past the grand ballroom, and out of the palace. she doesn’t push for information or ask about what happened. she just lets you stew in your thoughts, and you are grateful. when you get back to your apartment, you collapse onto the bed. you don’t cry—you never really did, even in high school, and now doesn't seem like a good time to start—but you come pretty fucking close.

you lie there for hours. maybe days. hard to tell. just you, your ceiling, and the hollow space behind your ribs where your heart used to sit before she carved it out with a single sentence and left like it didn’t matter.

you tell yourself it was stupid to fall for her. she’s a fucking princess. what were you expecting? that she’d run off with you into the sunset like a fairy tale? that she’d burn her whole world down just to be with someone who wears the same hoodie four days in a row and forgets to buy groceries until you’re eating plain rice and mustard?

but it still hurts.

the gallery night is yunjin’s idea. she throws a flyer at your chest and tells you to “get a grip and make rent.” you roll your eyes, but deep down you know she’s right. you need something to do with your hands, something to keep you from climbing the palace walls like some deranged romantic with a death wish.

you don’t expect anyone to show up, but people come. some friends. some strangers. a few art freaks who talk way too much about your “use of longing and space.” you just nod along, pretending you're three seconds away from yelling in their face.

everything is her. every painting. every messy, unblended brushstroke. every fucking streak of white paint on the canvas because she wore that blue dress when you first met, and now it’s like your brain can’t forget.

the last person leaves, some guy who said a lot of things you didn't understand, and you don't really remember the specifics of it, but you're pretty sure you shook hands, and maybe he wrote down your name and contact info? you don't remember. but there are no more guests. so you’re cleaning up. closing things. mentally debating whether or not you can drink paint thinner and survive.

the door creaks open behind you, and you don’t even look.

“sorry,” you call over your shoulder, wiping your hands on a rag. “we’re closed. private event's over.”

no response. just the sound of the door shutting. then —

“are you always this rude to royalty?”

you freeze.

slowly, slowly, you turn around. and she's standing there, in a white coat with her arms folded against her chest. there are shadows under her eyes, like she hasn’t been sleeping either. it takes everything in you not to run to her. not to kiss her until she forgets all the reasons why she ran the first time. you settle for swallowing hard and clearing your throat.

“you could’ve just knocked."

“i did." she lifts her hand. “twice. and then i panicked and came in anyway.”

you stare. she fidgets.

she looks down at her shoes. looks back up again. looks back down again. like she doesn’t know what to do with herself now that she's here. finally, she takes a step forward. you take a step back. it's reflex at this point, some instinct to keep her from getting too close.

"i came to apologize," she starts, sounding unsure, which isn't like her at all. "for—everything."

karina runs a hand through her hair. your throat goes tight at the familiarity of the action, at how much she reminds you of that night, that stupid dress, and the way she kissed you, indicating that she didn’t care what came next.

you exhale.

"don’t apologize," you say, because the words feel heavy and foreign in your mouth, because she's been living a life you can't even begin to imagine, because none of that matters if she's here, looking at you like this, and you have to believe in something. "you didn't do anything wrong. and if anyone needs to apologize, it should be me. i shouldn't have—"

"you were right," she cuts in before you can finish.

it throws you. "what?"

she swallows hard, glancing down at the floor, at your shoes. then back up again, holding your gaze this time. "i don't know much about art, but i know what you meant…for someone to be your muse." her voice drops low. "and i think you're mine."

you blink. "oh."

a pause. her cheeks flush, eyes widening in panic.

"was that—did that make sense? i probably sound like a—"

"yeah."

you nod, trying not to smile as you watch her rambling, trying not to stare too obviously at how her whole face is blushing now.

you want to tell her everything. to show her everything.

you settle for, "i mean, it does make sense."

it does. it doesn’t. none of this does, not in a normal way. it's the kind of thing you tell your grandkids about someday. or maybe a therapist, if you can ever afford one. either way, it makes something flicker deep within your chest.

you pause.

"so what do you mean, exactly?"

her lips purse. her eyes are pleading now. she looks younger. more human. not so much a princess anymore as she does someone trying to figure out how to tell the world to screw off. you're struck, again, with how much you love her. it feels like a physical ache in your chest.

"i want this," she says quietly, gesturing between the two of you. "i want this so much it scares me."

you're not used to this, to feeling seen by someone who isn't yunjin, and it throws you off. you clear your throat again, shifting from one foot to the other. "i want this too."

a pause. you try not to stare too openly at her lips. you fail miserably.

"we'll figure it out," she says softly. "together. whatever that looks like."

"together."

the word hangs between you, heavy with everything left unsaid. and then—

you don’t even realize what's happening until she's already moving forward, pulling you down to her level. you can smell her perfume. you can see every single detail of her face as she stares back at you. your lips are a breath apart. she hesitates.

"tell me you don't want this," she murmurs. "and i'll go."

your chest constricts, throat tight. you want to tell her it'll never be easy, not when you're you, and not when she's her, not when this could be so much more complicated than either of you are prepared for. but you also want this, want her, want to know what her skin feels like against your palms and whether or not the words i love you sound good when spoken aloud. you swallow hard, hands tightening on her hips.

"i can't," you whisper. "i don't think i've ever wanted anything more."

a smile flickers over her face. it's gone too quickly. "good."

her lips are on yours, soft and gentle, and everything in your life shifts back into focus, into place.

there are things you can't explain. the way she feels pressed against your chest, warm and perfect and yours, for now at least. the way your hands shake when you brush your thumb over the curve of her cheek. the way she tastes like starlight.

and there are things you don't have to.

[flightofthestorks]

so many thoughts about this honestly, thank you for bringing this up.

the amount of leftists (with that i mean left leaning liberals but also actual leftists like communists) ive had to tell that they need to work on the language they use and to not use words like "dumb", "crazy" etc. is.... a lot. and yes, we all have to go through this process, im still going through it as well. however you really must do it.

but its not "just" a language problem, people around me dont know how to actually interact with disabled people, with me. all it takes for the most part is just to take people seriously, a lot of other stuff usually just automatically follows.

i sometimes tell people that i feel so exhausted and that i hate that i need to brush my teeth now because that takes up so much energy and all i get back is "ohhhh because brushing your teeth is so exhausting". and like... you dont need to do anything? just dont say THAT?

anyways, yes. leftist spaces dont care about disabled people a lot of the times. they care about the parts of anti-ableism that are digestable to them, that will make them feel good about themselves. but it takes more than that.

listen to disabled people. if you are disabled talk to other disabled people. reading marx is good, sure. but simply listening to people around you irl BUT ALSO online is the best ressource available to us.

youre not a leftist if you dont do shit about your internalised ableism.

so many leftists have never thought about disability beyond "the ADA is good i guess!". seeing people use language like "brain damaged." "governor hot wheels." protests not being accessible. community gatherings above stairs, in spaces that can't accommodate power chairs, with no language access. i've missed so many #realleftistsonly events because they weren't accessible. and when i see leftists regurgitating the ideas they've seen and heard online and in real life without critically questioning *why* this is believed or *why* they're using this language, they lose so much of their credibility. you aren't a #realleftist if you spread ableist language and ideas without thinking about it.

[traveler-at-heart]

Stuck Together - Part 7

Summary: After Westview, Wanda and her children go into hiding. She's not happy with the person in charge of protecting them.

Wanda Maximoff x F! Super Soldier R

A/N: Final part is here. Thank you to everyone reading :)

Quiet.

Something you love. Or used to, anyway.

It’s stupid, how fast you got used to the little things. The sounds in the kitchen as Wanda made coffee. The hurried steps of fhe boys, eager to join Riley in a morning walk.

Now you’re back to being alone, feeding the animals, looking out the window while the radio plays some generic music.

Everything’s so bland and boring and you hate it.

Then, one morning, you hear a car parking in the driveway.

“Sestra!” a voice with a heavy accent calls, and your shoulders drop. You realise a moment later that you were holding your breath.

Fanny barks, eager to say hello to Riley. You open the door, your dog sprinting out to greet Yelena and her pup.

There’s a brunette trailing right behind the Russian, looking around nervously.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, you left the hospital against medical advice. What was I supposed to do?”

“Hu-huh” you cross your arms, looking at the stranger. She hesitates, taking a step forward to introduce herself.

“Kate Bishop”

“Clint’s minion” you recognise the name. He told you all about their little stint in New York. You turn to Yelena, raising your arms. “I’m fine, all healed. You can chill”

“Well, we came all the way here, could we at least stay the night?”

In that moment, Riley sits at your feet, barking excitedly. You glare at the blonde.

“Only because Riley agreed”

“Good girl” she says, scratching behind her ears. With a roll of your eyes, you turn back home, Yelena and Kate close behind you.

As you prepare coffee and the two girls make sandwiches, you think of all the things Natasha told you about Yelena.

She was my little sister.

And you knew, that if anyone could understand your grief was her, out of all the people in the world.

But that didn’t mean you wanted to spend time together. It was a constant push and pull. Talking about Natasha and avoiding the topic altogether were both equally painful.

After a while, you show them the guest room. Yelena doesn’t flinch at the sight of one bed, and even when you mention the other rooms available (or even the couch), they both walk in.

As Yelena walks by you, you arch an eyebrow, and she gives you a stern look.

“Shut it”

Figuring it���s better to give them some privacy to settle, you take a stroll around the farm, Lou happily following along while Fanny and Riley chase each other.

Your mind is a mess, and you don’t know which way to turn to hurt less. As usual, there’s a weight in your chest when you think about Natasha, and how much you miss her. But now, Wanda’s abscence is also there, the wound very much fresh and open, as only a few days ago she was in your arms, promising to stay.

For the first time in years, you miss going on missions.

“Had a good walk?” Yelena says when you’re back. You just shrug your shoulders, sighing as you go up the steps. “Well, ok. Have a seat”

“What is Bishop doing?” you ignore her invitation, taking a look through the window.

“Trying to cook dinner”

“Is she going to burn my house down?”

“I’d give it a 40-60 chance of it happening” the blonde smiles, clearly not worried about it. Then, she pats the space next to her on the porch swing. “Now come. Sit”

With a sigh, you walk up to her and lean against the bannister, crossing your arms as you look at her. Yelena rolls her eyes at your defensive stan.

“So, what’s the deal between you and this Wanda?”

“Nothing”

“Not what I heard” she shakes her head, amused. You glare.

“From who?”

“Barton”

“Oh, come on. You were trying to kill the guy a few weeks ago and now you gossip? He braids your hair while he’s at it?” you mock.

“Ok, fine. Not directly from him. He called Kate and she called me”

“She called you or you were together?” you tease her.

“Stop being an ass. Tell me what’s going on”

You look away for a moment, thinking that you could tell her it’s none of her business. Ask her to leave you alone, to try and get drunk, forget about everything that’s weighing you down.

But you can’t. Because, whether you like it or not, you’re bound by grief, and loss. And love. Love for Natasha.

If she was struggling with something, you’d be chasing her around until you made sure she was ok.

“Nothing. I thought… Hill asked me for help to protect her. And for those couple of weeks, I developed these feelings. Maybe I was just lonely”

“Feelings? Like love?”

“I guess. But she left, and it’s probably for the best. She’s right; someone always gets hurt”

“You’re already hurt” she replies, her voice gentle.

“I’m a big girl, I’ll get over it”

“But do you have to? Why not go after her? Give yourself the chance to be happy. Just once”

“I don’t think… I didn’t do anything to stop her, Yelena. I don’t think I can be happy, after failing Natasha” you finally say, voice shaking.

“You didn’t fail her. She made a choice. After everything she went through, all the possibilities that were taken from her… do you really think the last thing she ever did was against her will?”

You can’t answer that.

What’s worse? To think you could have stopped her? Or that her sacrifice was always inevitable?

Yelena stands up, her hand on your shoulder.

“Just… remember what you told me. A life worth living. That’s the best way to honor her memory”

“Yeah” you sigh, looking up. You hate crying.

Though, a second later you smell the smoke and hear Kate’s scream.

“We should probably go help her”

“And order some pizza” Yelena adds, smiling as you roll your eyes.

—

It’s been a while since you’ve been here.

The gifts and letters scattered around always warm your heart.

There are people who value her, honor her life.

Natasha’s legacy.

As far as your little tribute, it’s all the plants you placed around this hidden corner of land.

You spend some time cutting and cleaning the grass around the gravestone, and then turn your attention to the flowers.

The peonies get pruned, daffodils adding a spring of color. You know the hydrangeas aren’t blooming until early summer, but that’s fine.

Natasha once told you; bare trees or withering flowers didn’t make her sad. It meant she was staying long enough in one place to watch them go through every season. It meant she had a home.

Once you’re done removing the soil, checking the watering system you installed, and fixing the little gifts people left for her, you sit on the floor, watching your hands.

“Sorry for not coming sooner. Hill called me. And you know I answered because she was your friend. Turns out she wanted me to help out Maximoff. She got a bit more annoying than when she was running around the Compound looking like a raccoon with all that eyeliner” you chuckle at the memory of her dark clothes, rings and smoky eyes. She couldn’t look more different now.

“I should have known it was going to be trouble, and I don’t mean just because I almost got killed twice. It’s because… I started to fall for her. She has two kids, by the way. Born from magic or some weird deal I don’t really understand”

I didn’t think I had it in me, to fall in love again. Not only because I lost you, but because I had been so angry at everyone. It felt like I only had space for that emotion. Anger.

But I saw myself in Wanda. In everything she lost, in all the things that were taken from her, without so much as an apology. And I want more for her. I want her to be happy. Maybe with me. Why not?

As usual, I haven’t stopped thinking about you. It’s different this time, though. I still feel sad and lonely, but it’s also a different kind of nostalgia. I can think about you and appreciate everything we shared.

Most importantly, I think I’m finally ok with the fact that you made your choice. I have to trust that you knew what you were doing, Tasha. And that whether I like it or not, it is what you wanted.

You lean your head against her grave, the stone cold against your skin. It makes your heart ache, it makes you wish you could bring her back and feel her warmth against your body.

How could you ever think Wanda’s a monster? If you could, you’d create a new reality, a new universe where Natasha gets to live the life she always deserved.

But you can’t do that. All you can do is go and find your own happinnes.

With a final touch, you speak softly, hoping she can hear you, wherever she is.

“I love you, so damn much. And I always will”

—

Very few times in her life, has Wanda regretted putting on The Dick Van Dyke Show.

And then, she realises what episode they’re watching.

Never name a duck.

The one where Ritchie becomes attached to two ducks, but only one of them survives. Until he’s sick and the vet tells Rob he needs to be in the wild.

The words that come out of Rob’s mouth make Wanda think of you.

“But maybe that was a selfish love”

That’s exactly what she thinks her love for you is. Selfish.

You didn’t ask for any of this, and Wanda’s not about to burden you with everything she carries. She’ll manage alone, like she has done ever since Pietro died.

Except she wasn’t alone. There was Vision, Steve and Natasha. You, in the background, doing your part, fighting for Wanda’s right to have a life outside of this.

Even if she misses you, you deserve to have a life.

And so, she let you go.

“Can we watch something else?” Billy asks, and Wanda can tell the show is making him sad as well.

“Sure, sweetheart”

After watching Zootopia, the kids drag their feet to the room they’re sharing. Fury provided another safe house, while Wanda decides where to go next. Billy and Tommy need stability and of course they won’t get it by changing houses every other day.

“Can I ask you something?” Tommy says, turning to look at Billy, making sure his brother’s asleep. “Is Y/N ok?”

“I sure hope she is, my sweet boy. She knows how to take care of herself” Wanda smiles at him, hoping he doesn’t notice the tears that are almost rolling down her cheeks. “Now you get some sleep, ok? I’ll see you tomorrow”

“Night, Mom” he replies, settling in bed.

As Wanda takes a moment in the hallway, she allows herself to think about you, probably back home. Watching Ancient Aliens, cursing at the TV as you sip on a bottle of beer.

It’s stupid, how much comfort it brings her to think of you doing the most absurd things.

Said comfort doesn’t last long, though. She hears a branch snapping close to the house. It’s a small place and the road ends a few feet away from the entrance. So, whoever approaches has to leave their vehicle and walk to the front door.

Without wasting a second, she goes to the door, hand up in the air to hold the intruder.

“Hey, now wait a second” you say, smiling.

Wanda’s so shocked that she drops her hand, you crashing down immediately after.

“I’m sorry” she rushes to your side, and you sit up. Wanda places her hands in your face,  fingers tracing the cuts and bruises that are still healing.

On pure instinct, you move forward, kissing her. She moans against your lips, allowing you to wrap your strong arms around her waist. But then she remembers.

“Stop”

“No” you shake your head, pulling her closer. “You said you’d stay, Wanda”

“That was before”

“Before…”

“You almost got killed because of me” she sighs, pushing her hair back and standing up. You follow her, reaching for her hand.

“Can’t even tell you how many people have tried to kill me. And I’m still here”

“It wasn’t just him. It was Agatha too. And who knows what else? I’m like a magnet for these things. I don’t want you getting hurt” she says, arms around her own body, as if desperate to find something that can hold her together.

“Wanda… bad things are going to happen. It’s part of life. Wouldn’t you want to face them with someone who… who cares about you?” you whisper, holding her chin between your fingers.

“I’m scared”

“The thing is, we’ve both lost people. And I know, I can’t deny that a part of me will always love Natasha… but I think I have to accept she made a choice. And I should try to live my life. I think Vision would want that for you as well. I mean the real Vision; not that white awful thing” 

“I just don’t want to lose anyone else. I don’t know if I can take it” she says, finally reaching forward. You kiss her temple.

“Well, just come back home and we’ll take it one day at a a time. Together”

“The kids miss you” she says after a beat of silence.

“And I miss them, but I swear if there’s a fourth Cars movie I will burn down Pixar myself”

Wanda laughs for a moment, her breath tickling your skin.

“Promise me you won’t leave me” she says against your neck and you smile, making her look at you.

“Scout’s honor, witchy”

“Don’t…” Wanda’s about to fight you on the nickname, when you meet her lips in a soft kiss.

“Just stop fighting it. You like me too much”

“You wish” she teases, kissing you again.

Looks like you’re stuck with each other.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[levanterhaze]

── GAMEBOY, BANGCHAN

♡  ― 󠀬󠀬 fratboy!bangchan x f!reader praise kink, protected sex, rough sex, fluff & angst.

♡ synopsis ― Bangchan is the campus playboy—charming, cocky, and infuriatingly irresistible. One reckless, drunken night leads to a secret you swore you'd never have. Now, hating him is harder than keeping him your dirty little secret.

[12.3k words ]♡― here we are, at the last chapter of gameboy. writing this series has been so much fun and having the opportunity to tell the stories i love to write is a privilege. i hope i don't disappoint you with this ending, that you understand each choice made for the characters. i also hope you continue to support me, this has been so special and welcoming to me, i can't thank you enough for everything. thank you for embracing gameboy, for continuing to read and for all your support. from the bottom of my heart. PLEASE READ THE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS!!!! that said, have a good read.

♡― THE PLAYLIST.

♡ [part one] ♡[part two]♡ [part three] ♡[part four] ♡[part five] ♡[part six] ♡[part seven]

'Cause I'm right here waiting for us 때로는 두려웠어 다신 오지 않을 것 같아서 두 손 꼭 잡은 채 그 어떤 순간이 덮쳐 와도 널 놓지 않을게

After all the chaos, the only thing that made sense was leaving.

So you did.

You shot Hyunjin a text, practically begging him to take you to the bus stop. He didn’t ask questions—he was too pissed off about the whole thing, ranting the entire drive about how it was bullshit that you had to be the one to go. In his mind, Eunji and Mingyu should’ve been the ones packing their bags.

And maybe he was right. But you were exhausted. Your body ached from the tension, your head was a tangled mess of emotions, and honestly? You just didn’t have it in you to fight anymore.

By the time you got back to campus, you had a plan—or at least, a temporary bandage disguised as one. You marched straight to the admin office and spun some tragic, half-true sob story about needing to “regain focus” on your studies. A few forced tears later — maybe slightly real ones— they handed you the keys to a new dorm on the other side of campus.

No hesitation. No second-guessing. You packed what little you had and moved in before anyone even realized you were gone.

And then you disappeared.

One day after another, like clockwork. No calls, no texts, no explanations. Just silence.

Your life has shrunk down to a routine: rehearsals, studying, sleep, repeat.

Hyunjin and Seungmin still tried to pull you out of your self-imposed exile, inviting you to lunch, cracking jokes at rehearsals to get a reaction out of you—but you always politely refused. You weren’t rude, just... distant. Like a ghost of yourself.

Bangchan had tried. Over and over. Messages sent and then deleted, calls he never made, moments of hesitation that stretched into frustration. He wanted to give you space, wanted to respect whatever it was you needed, but that didn’t make it any easier. Every time he saw you, it felt like his chest was caving in.

He’d even asked Hyunjin about you, but the guy was like a vault. Hyunjin wasn’t about to betray you—not even for him. “She’s busy,” was all he ever got. “Leave her alone, man.”

But how could he, when you were right there? When you were always the last to show up at rehearsals and the first to leave, slipping away before he even had a chance to try? It was torture. Watching you go about your life like he wasn’t part of it anymore. Like he never had been.

And it was worse because he could still feel you.

In his bed, between the sheets. In his hands, aching for your touch. In his mind, where your laugh and your voice were stuck on a loop, growing more distant with every passing day—like a dream he was trapped in, running but never getting anywhere.

And you wouldn’t even look at him.

If your eyes ever landed on him in the theater, they flicked away like it physically hurt you to see him. If you spotted him on campus, walking with the boys, you immediately turned your head.

So you buried yourself in anything that wasn’t him. Anything that wasn’t Eunji. Because thinking about either of them was the only thing more unbearable than being alone.

And Eunji—who didn’t even look at you, let alone speak to you. Every time your paths crossed, she barely acknowledged your existence, like you were something rotten in her periphery. A stranger. No, worse—something beneath her.

And that hurt. Maybe even more than Bangchan.

Because you’d believed in her. In you two. In the kind of unspoken loyalty that came with late-night talks, inside jokes, and secrets exchanged under dim dorm room lights. You thought there was sisterhood in that. Something unshakable.

But in the end, it was nothing. A mirage. A mist that vanished the second you tried to hold on.

A few weeks had passed and you were enjoying your own company in the library, an iced coffee and your headphones. You were studying your lines for the next class, until someone took the seat in front of you and your eyes looked up in surprise to see Sohee sitting with her arms crossed.

“Sohee.” you murmured, almost not believing she was there.

Sohee arched her brow, unimpressed. “Oh, so you do remember me.”

You blinked, scrambling for words. “I—of course, I do. I just—”

“Disappeared?” she finished for you, leaning back in her chair. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Guilt twisted in your stomach, but you kept your expression neutral. “I’ve been busy.”

She let out a dry laugh. “Right. Busy. Too busy to text? Too busy to tell me why you packed up and moved to the other side of campus?” Her eyes narrowed. “Eunji won’t tell me what happened. Neither will Hyunjin. Which means something happened, and I need you to stop bullshitting me.”

Your mouth went dry, fingers tightening around your coffee cup. The truth sat heavy on your tongue, bitter and unspeakable. 

What if she looked at you the way Eunji did? 

Sohee exhaled, her sharpness softening just a fraction. “Look, I don’t know what went down, but I missed you, okay?”

Your heart clenched. She wasn’t angry. She was hurt. And that somehow made it worse.

You put your headphones aside and took a deep breath, gathering the courage to begin.

So you started from the very beginning. Bangchan, the secrets, then Mingyu, Eunji finding out, all your emotions, the fight between Bangchan and Mingyu, and how completely broken you’d been ever since.

Sohee listened, her expression shifting from shock to disbelief. “That’s... insane. I can’t believe Eunji would do something like that.”

“I know.” You gave a small, bitter smile. “That’s why it hurts.”

“And rightfully so. She had no right to interfere in your life or come at you like that.” Sohee leaned on the table, eyes searching yours. “But please, don’t let this kill your spark. Everyone misses you.”

And you missed them too. All of them. Without exception.

“If you must know,” Sohee drawled, cocking her head with a little smirk, “I’d already kind of guessed there was something going on with you and Bangchan.” 

You shot her a look, but she kept going, unbothered. 

“I just figured you’d spill when you were ready. No pressure. Not my circus.” She shrugged, then narrowed her eyes playfully. “But seriously… you do like him, right?”

Your chest tightened. Because the answer was obvious.

Sohee gave you a pointed look, like she could see right through you. “Oh, come on. Don’t give me that I guess it doesn’t matter bullshit.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “It doesn’t.”

“It does.” She leaned in, voice low but firm. “You’re miserable. He’s miserable. And all of this is because of what? Miscommunication and some high school level drama?”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yeah, it kinda is.” She shrugged. “You like him. He clearly likes you. But instead of dealing with it, you ran.”

“That’s not fair—”

Sohee held up a hand. “I’m not saying you didn’t have your reasons. I’m saying that if you keep avoiding it, you’re just gonna hurt yourself more. Let things cool down, sure. But don’t wait until it’s too late.”

You stared at her, words caught in your throat. Because the truth was, you were terrified. Terrified that if you faced him, he’d look at you differently. That the damage was already done.

But another, quieter part of you—the part that still remembered the warmth of his touch, the way he looked at you like you were it for him—wondered if maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t too late at all.

You were alone in the theater, the crumpled sheets of your solo scattered around you like forgotten love letters. You were dead set on nailing that high note — the heartbreak one, the kind that’s supposed to rip your chest open and bleed on stage. Humming through the first verse, you air-strummed like your life depended on it, lost in the rhythm.

“Am I crashing a rockstar's private concert?” Changbin’s voice broke through your focus, making your head snap up so fast it almost hurt. He was in his basketball jacket, the team logo front and center, and that usual mischievous grin was pulling at his mouth. He stepped closer, then plopped down next to you on the edge of the stage like he belonged there. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You’re fine.” You flashed him a crooked little smile as you scooped up the sheets from the floor. “I’ll just pretend you weren’t suspiciously wandering the theater.”

“Busted.” He lifted both hands in mock surrender. “What can I say? If you hadn’t pulled a full-on undercover mission and vanished from campus, I wouldn’t have to play detective just to track you down.”

You shot him a look. “Busted.”

His smile softened a bit, but it didn’t reach his usual brand of easy humor. Changbin had always been the steady one — loyal to Bangchan, to the whole group really. But right now, there was something quieter in him, like he’d pocketed the jokes for later.

And even though you kept your expression cool, you felt it too — the weight of whatever he wasn’t saying yet. “The guys miss you, you know that, right?”

His voice was casual, but it landed heavier than he probably meant it to. You dragged in a breath, sharp like it might actually clear out the guilt clogging your chest. 

Spoiler: it didn’t. You’d gone ghost on them, the second life got messy, and there was no pretending otherwise.

Before you could open your mouth, probably to spit out some lame excuse, Changbin raised a hand like he could see it coming from a mile away. “And no, before you even ask, he didn’t send me,” he said, shooting you a knowing look. “Didn’t even bring you up. But it wasn’t rocket science, you know? Mingyu stormed off, then Chan showed up looking like he lost a bar or something.”

You winced. “Bin… I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” He shook his head, like that wasn’t what he came here for. “This isn’t a guilt trip, alright? Whatever Mingyu pulled, he had it coming. Trust me, no one’s crying over him.”

A pause. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

You straightened up, catching the shift in his tone. Less playful, more real. The kind of real that you couldn’t dodge even if you wanted to.

“I’m just—look, I’m just trying to knock some sense into both of you,” Changbin went on, like he’d been carrying this around too long. “I don’t know all the details, and honestly? I don’t need to. But I do know my best friend’s been walking around like the lights are on, but nobody’s home.”

Your chest tightened, the words slipping past your guard way too easily.

“And I’m not saying this to dump it on you, okay? I swear,” he added, catching your expression before you could speak. “It’s just... he’s a mess. And it’s not just the basketball thing, or the usual stress — it’s you. He misses you. Bad.”

The way he said it — simple, no drama, no exaggeration — hit you harder than any speech could’ve.

And you hated it. You hated that part of you wanted to hear it. You hated that it hurt more than you expected. Because deep down, you already knew.

“I’m only doing this because he’s my guy,” Changbin started, running a hand through his hair like this whole conversation weighed more than he let on. “Chan’s always been the one to clean up after the rest of us, you know? First to show up with advice or some half-baked plan to save the day.”

You tilted your head, a small smile sneaking onto your lips despite yourself. Classic Chan.

Changbin caught it, and his own grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, softer this time. “Yeah, exactly. And when he met you? Man, it was like someone turned the lights on in his head. Swear to God, I’ve never seen him like that. He was just... lighter.”

The way he said it twisted something in your chest, but you held his gaze, letting him finish.

“What I’m saying is,” he went on, “even if you two don’t go back to being, like, whatever you were before—” he waved a vague hand between you, “—at least talk to him. He’s stuck in that ‘she hates me, so I better give her space’ spiral, and you know how Chan is. He’ll bury it to do what’s best for you.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how much that stung. “Wait... so he doesn’t hate me?”

Changbin actually laughed at that, a real, rough-around-the-edges laugh. “Hate you? Please. I don’t think that man has it in him, even if he tried.”

Your fingers tangled together, fidgeting without you meaning to. The truth slipped out before you could stop it. “I care about him. I really do.”

“Yeah,” Changbin said simply, no teasing this time, just plain fact. “I know you do. And I know you’ll figure this out.”

After a beat of quiet, Changbin pushed himself up, casually brushing nonexistent dust off his jersey like he’d just wrapped up something way more dramatic than a heart-to-heart.

“Thanks, Binnie,” you said, flashing him a crooked smile as he gave you an overly formal little bow.

He started toward the door but paused right at the exit, glancing back over his shoulder with that familiar spark in his eye. “You know I love you, right? But if you mess with my best friend’s heart, I will write the nastiest diss track you’ve ever heard. Full production. No skips.”

That earned a laugh out of you, real and warm. “Gonna throw in choreography too?”

He smirked like you’d just dared him to. “Obviously. Backup dancers and everything."

And with that, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall, his voice echoing back as he called out, “You’re not getting off that easy!”

And just like that, you were alone again—surrounded by a whole storm of thoughts you weren’t quite ready to untangle.

You’d swallowed that whole conversation with Changbin like it was a bad shot of cheap tequila — still burning in your chest, still impossible to forget. And yet, life rolled on, dragging you with it while you kept trying to figure out when the hell would be the right time to talk to Bangchan.

Problem was, the whole thing still felt like an open wound — not bleeding anymore, but definitely not ready for anyone to poke at it either.

Sohee was in your new room, fussing with the straps of her dress in front of the mirror. The place wasn’t as roomy as the one you used to share with her and Eunji, but it did the job.

“I talked to Eunji," Sohee said, swiping mascara on with laser focus. "Well — argued is probably the more accurate term. She wouldn’t even let me finish when I tried to tell her she was being a bitch."

You were sprawled across your bed, cozy in your oldest, softest pajamas, like this whole conversation wasn’t tying your stomach in knots.

"I didn’t want you two fighting because of me," you muttered, playing with the hem of your sleeve.

Sohee whipped around, one eye still missing eyeliner but her energy fully charged. “Please. I’m morally allergic to bullshit. What she did was a straight-up foul. And until she figures out how to act like a halfway decent human being, maybe it’s time we put that friendship on ice.”

You sighed, a tangled mess of guilt and low-key relief knotting in your chest. "Yeah, well... it still kinda sucks."

“Everyone’s gotta make their own choices…” Sohee went back to her makeup like it was no big deal, but then spun around again, narrowing her eyes at you. “Speaking of choices… you’re really not going to the game? It’s the final. Literally, everyone’s gonna be there.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh and flopped onto the pillows like your life depended on it.

“Yeah, hard pass. Not in the mood to humiliate myself in public, thanks.”

“Girl, come on,” Sohee groaned. “This is your perfect excuse to finally talk to Bangchan and fix things. I know he’d love to see you there, especially at his last game this semester.”

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. “I don’t know… Feels like showing up would just make it worse.”

Sohee snapped the mascara shut like it personally offended her. “Stubborn as hell, I swear. Fine. Just—promise me you won’t do something you’re gonna regret later, alright?”

“I know, I know,” you waved her off, a little smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll figure it out when the time’s right. Go have fun, kiss your boyfriend, and drink an unreasonable amount of beer in my honor.”

She grabbed her bag off the bed, but before heading out, she paused at the door and shot you a final look over her shoulder. “Last chance. Are you sure you’re staying?”

“Yeah. Have fun at the game,” you said, forcing a half-smile.

Sohee shrugged like she’d expected that answer. “Alright… I tried. Don’t say I didn’t.” She shot you a quick grin over her shoulder as she headed out. “Catch you later!”

As the minutes dragged on, boredom hit you like a brick. Your brain was way too wired to even think about running lines for the play. You tried putting on a movie, but you zoned out every five minutes and had to keep rewinding just to figure out what the hell was going on.

That’s when you decided: screw it. Time to hit the campus café and drown your existential crisis in hot chocolate and maybe the most sugar-loaded cupcake you could get your hands on. Comfort food therapy, top tier.

You threw on some cute but cozy clothes, something to shake off the emotional slump clinging to you like a bad ex. Skirt, sweater, your trusty boots — the holy trinity.

The second you stepped outside, it felt like the whole weather system had joined your pity party. What started as a light breeze had upgraded to full-blown dramatic gusts, and the sky was throwing major moody vibes with all those gloomy gray clouds.

The cafeteria was basically a ghost town. No surprise there — most people were off hyping up the basketball final, the very game everyone had been pushing you to go to. But showing up last-minute just to cause a scene was so not your style. If you were going to fix things, you’d do it on your own terms, not crash the party like some soap opera twist.

Inside, the café was warm but dead quiet. The staff looked just as miserable as you felt, probably counting down the seconds till they could ditch work and catch the game too. You kind of felt bad for bothering them. Kind of. But hey, desperate times. Your soul needed sugar before life threw another plot twist your way.

You went for the hot chocolate — obvious choice — and threw in a slice of strawberry sponge cake for good measure. Not exactly a gourmet pairing, but at this point, flavor combos were the least of your problems.

You slid into the table by the window, pulling out your phone like it could somehow save you from your own restless brain. 

Sohee had just posted a story: her, Minho, and Felix, all grins and mid-cheers. Typical. You kept scrolling, letting the endless stream of everyone else’s highlight reel wash over you. Felix, Jisung, and Hyunjin had apparently hit up a barbecue place recently, and yeah — that one stung. Hard. Like a punch right in the ribs, just above where you’d been keeping all your unresolved guilt.

Brilliant. Love that for me.

“Hey.”

The voice snapped you out of your spiral so fast you damn near fumbled your phone like it was evidence in a crime. Guiltily, you locked the screen and glanced up.

Mingyu stood there, iced coffee in hand, wearing that soft, easy smile.

“Hi…” you answered, a little awkward. He hadn’t exactly been on your recent contact list either.

"Can I sit?" He gestured at the chair across from you. "I won’t take up too much of your time, scout’s honor."

You nodded, curiosity getting the better of you. Might as well — it’s not like you were killing it at the whole “alone with your thoughts” thing anyway.

“You kinda vanished,” Mingyu said as he set his coffee down and folded his arms casually over the table. “Haven’t seen you around at all.”

You let out a humorless little laugh, more of a scoff really. “Didn’t exactly feel like I had a choice.”

“I see,” Mingyu exhaled, slow and steady, like he was gearing up to unload something heavy. “Look, I’m really sorry about everything. Honestly. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, coming out swinging at Bangchan like that.” He shook his head, as if still baffled by his own actions. “That’s not me. At all. And I’m sorry for dragging you into the mess.”

Well. That was... unexpectedly nice of him.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected — maybe some half-baked excuse or him brushing it off — but an actual, straight-up apology? Kind of refreshing.

“I should’ve seen it, you know?” He gave a small, hollow laugh. “The way he looked at you... yeah, it was pretty obvious. Can’t really blame the guy.”

There was a flicker of something in his smile, something resigned and maybe a little bit sad.

 “I’m sorry for hurting you,” you added, softer this time.

He shrugged, a wry twist to his lips. “No need. Things happen the way they’re supposed to, right? We had a good run. And well... I guess that’s it.”

“No hard feelings?” he asked, reaching his hand across the table like he was closing a deal.

You didn’t even hesitate — you took it, gave it a firm squeeze. “No hard feelings.”

“Right.” He nodded, like it was the final period of a sentence. Then he got up, grabbed his coffee, and shot you a parting smile. “I—I just hope you’re happy.”

And just like that, Mingyu walked out through the glass doors, disappearing across campus like he was just another passerby in your life. It wasn’t until the door swung shut behind him that his words really hit you, settling deep in your stomach like a lead weight.

I hope you’re happy.

And you weren’t happy. Not even close.

The brutal truth? You had no one to blame but yourself. Every twist, every wrong turn, it all traced back to your own fear, your own hesitation. If you’d been just a little braver — if you’d let people in instead of keeping them at arm’s length — maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe you’d be happy.

The cruel part? It took hearing it from Mingyu to finally see it for what it was. It was always you.

Your half-eaten cake sat abandoned on the table, the hot chocolate cooling into something sad and forgotten. Without thinking twice, you pushed back your chair and stormed out of the café, straight into the chaos waiting outside.

The wind hit you like a wall, and then, as if the universe was feeling especially theatrical today, fat, icy drops of rain began to fall — fast and merciless.

Karma? Maybe. Challenge accepted.

You didn’t slow down. You ran.

Your biker boots pounded against the slick grass, water splashing up your legs as the rain came down harder, so heavy it blurred the world into a messy watercolor. But you didn’t care. You weren’t stopping now — not when your heart was finally awake after pretending to sleep for so long.

The gym was all the way across campus, of course it was. Far enough that you were completely drenched by the time the courtyard came into view. Your chest heaved with every breath, burning like you’d sprinted through fire instead of rain. Your clothes clung to your skin, soaked to the bone, and your hair stuck to your forehead, your cheeks, your neck — like the rain wanted to wear you down.

But you kept going. You had to get there. No matter how soaked, no matter how late.

You had to.

You squared your shoulders, puffed out your chest like you had a whole army at your back, and stomped straight toward the gym doors. No hesitation. Okay — a little hesitation. Your heart was doing somersaults in your chest, adrenaline crashing into nerves like they were fighting for control.

But you pushed the doors open anyway.

Only to be greeted by... absolutely no one.

Just the janitor, casually mopping the far end of the court like this was any other boring Saturday.

Your pulse stumbled, like it tripped over itself. No way.

You yanked out your soaked phone, fingers slipping against the drenched screen, and checked the time. Way too late. The game had ended — you’d missed it. They were probably already at some bar downing cheap drinks and yelling over greasy plates of fries, and here you were, a walking raincloud with nothing to show for it.

Your thumb hovered over Sohee’s number, ready to call, beg, something — but before you could hit the dial, a voice cut through the empty court.

“Your plan is to flood the gym or what?”

Your heart flat-out stopped.

Slowly, you turned, every inch of you shivering from the rain and a healthy dose of panic.

Bangchan.

He was right there, leaning against the entrance like he hadn’t just flipped your entire internal system upside down. His hair was a mess of wet strands, some falling over his forehead in a way that should’ve been illegal.

Your mouth went dry, brain buffering like a bad connection.

"I'm... um... a little soaked," you managed, glancing down at yourself and the puddle spreading beneath your feet. A tremor ran through you, part chill, part nerves, leaving your words thin and shaky.

Bangchan gave a quiet, amused breath — almost a laugh, but softer — before he started walking toward you.

It was only then, as he drew closer, that you really saw him. His hair had grown longer, the damp curls now brushing the nape of his neck, framing his face in a way that felt painfully unfair. Draped over his shoulders was a black jacket, the kind that made him look like he’d stepped right off a movie scene.

"What are you doing here?" Bangchan’s voice cut through the hollow echo of the gym, roughened by surprise but threaded with something deeper.

With one simple movement, he removed the jacket from his shoulders and placed it over yours. You gulped, the words knotting in your throat. "I—I'm leaving," you managed, barely above a whisper.

"You're leaving?" His brows pulled together, like the thought alone caused him genuine pain.

Instinctively, you took a step back, clutching his jacket tighter around your soaked frame. Coward. Even now, even with him standing right in front of you, you were slipping into old habits, retreating when you should be reaching out.

Bangchan tilted his head, eyes flicking over your rain-soaked figure. "You really think I’m gonna buy that? After you ran through a damn storm to get here?" His voice was low, rough around the edges, but his gaze was soft.

Your throat felt like it was closing in on itself, your breath turning shallow and uneven. "I thought the game was still on," you confessed, your voice small, almost childlike.

"It ended early," he said, his tone softening. "Thunderstorm warning." He gestured toward the windows, where the rain continued to batter the glass in relentless sheets. "Most people cleared out fast. But I stayed behind."

Why? you wanted to ask. But maybe you didn’t need to — his eyes already told you everything you needed to know.

"You stayed," you echoed, almost in disbelief, as if saying it aloud would make it real.

He stepped closer, his gaze dipping to your hands, which clung to his jacket like it was the only thing keeping you afloat. When his eyes met yours again, something flickered in them — something deep and quiet, something that felt dangerously close to hope.

Bangchan’s gaze didn’t waver. "You came here for a reason," he said, his voice rough at the edges. "So stop pretending you didn’t."

Your heart twisted painfully, tangled in the unsaid. The truth clawed at your chest, desperate to surface. I wanted to see you. I wanted to stop running.

"I..." But your voice trembled, fragile as glass stretched too thin.

Bangchan’s expression softened, like he could see straight through the façade, like he saw every crack you were trying to hide. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached up and brushed a damp strand of hair from your cheek. His fingers were warm against your chilled skin, and despite yourself, you leaned into his touch.

"You’re freezing," he murmured.

"I'm fine," you lied, even as your body betrayed you with a violent shiver.

A faint, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Liar."

"I need to ask you something," you said, your voice tighter than you wanted. "That night on the beach… were you serious? About everything you said?"

His expression twisted, disbelief written all over him. “Really? Really? Don’t waste my time pretending you don’t know.”

You let out a breath, sharp through your nose. Fair enough. But you had to say it, get it off your chest before it ate you alive.

"I messed it all up," you admitted, the words tumbling out. "I kept telling myself I didn’t care what people thought, like I was above all that crap. But it turns out I care. Way more than I should. And that fear? It had me choking on my own feelings."

You risked a glance at him. He was watching you like you were the only thing left in the world worth looking at. No interruptions, no sarcastic quips — just quiet focus.

"I mean, you were— God, you were so good to me," you kept going, voice thick with regret. "And I think I freaked out because I’d already fallen for you way before I let myself admit it. Like, properly fallen. And that scared the hell out of me because I never thought I’d actually… like you. Not like this."

Your throat tightened, a painful lump that wouldn’t go away. "I liked everything. Being around you. Talking to you. Even the way you annoyed me." you smiled softly.

Your eyes stung, tears slipping free, but you kept going like you couldn’t stop. "I hate what I did to you. I hate that I messed this up beyond fixing it. And I know it’s too late... yeah. I get it. I understand."

You swallowed against the lump in your throat, words tumbling out too fast. "I just needed you to know, before I go — I’m sorry. For everything. You didn’t deserve any of it."

Your breath hitched, but you met his eyes anyway — full on, no flinching. "I’m so sorry."

Tears blurred your vision as you crossed the court toward the exit, not even bothering to shield yourself from the rain. What was the point? You were already soaked, inside and out.

You let out a choked sob, hating yourself for being such a coward — for always running when it mattered most.

“Wait—” Bangchan’s voice cut through the downpour, rough and almost swallowed by the storm.

You froze, eyes narrowing against the sheets of rain, blinking fast to see through the water streaming down your face.

“Wait," he called out again, sharper now, like the rain itself had finally lit a fuse. "What gives you the right to drop that on me and just walk away?” His anger was written all over him, carved deep into the lines of his face.

"What?" you shot back, breath catching, but the storm swallowed your voice, forcing you to yell just to be heard.

Bangchan raked a hand through his soaked hair, slicking it back as he stepped closer, chest rising fast, like he couldn’t breathe right with you this far away. "You’re running," he said, rough and tight. "Running from me. From us. Again."

And hell, he wasn’t wrong.

"Everything I’ve done," he said, the words rough-edged and raw, "since the second I met you — it’s been about you. Always you." He caught his breath, like saying it out loud made it real. "Because I wanted you. More than anything."

The confession hit like a punch to the ribs, sharp and breath-stealing.

"Since Hyunjin introduced us and you barely noticed I existed," he kept going, like he couldn’t stop now. "Since you breezed right past me without a second thought. Since you crashed into my life and wrecked every single thing I thought I had figured out."

Your heart was beating out of rhythm, too fast for your own body to keep up, like it was trying to outrun the storm — or maybe run straight to him.

"You don’t get to stand there and tell me it’s too late," Bangchan shouted over the rain, his voice tearing through the downpour like it had something to prove. His eyes burned so bright, it almost hurt to look at him. "Not when I’ve been standing here this whole time, heart wide open, just waiting for you to see me."

His chest heaved, rain sliding off him like he didn’t even notice, like all he could see was you. "I’ve been waiting for you," he said, softer this time, but it was the kind of softness that carried weight. Heavy. Unshakable. "So if you want me — really want me — you’ve got to say it. I need to hear you say it."

The storm raged around you, but it felt like the eye of it had landed right here, right between the two of you. Your pulse throbbed in your ears, every muscle strung so tight you could barely breathe.

This was terrifying. This was exhilarating. This was everything you had been too scared to want.

Your lips parted, but for a heartbeat, all you could do was try to swallow the lump in your throat. Then, steadying your breath, you let a small, shaky smile tug at the corner of your mouth. A flicker of defiance, maybe even a little hope.

"Bangchan," you said, your voice rough but sure, "there’s never been anyone else. It’s only ever been you."

There wasn’t a second of hesitation when your lips found his — only the wild, breathless certainty of two people who had run out of ways to pretend they didn’t need this.

The desperation between you felt electric, almost feverish, like your skin couldn’t decide if it was burning or freezing in the rain. You’d never felt anything like it — like the whole world had finally spun off its axis and was crashing headfirst into this moment. Into him.

When his hands, just as cold and trembling as yours, cupped your face like he was terrified you might slip away, you gasped, a sharp breath of shock and longing tangled together. Bangchan made you feel reckless. Young. Like you were caught in the middle of one of those ridiculous romance high-school movies you always scoffed at, the kind where the girl lifts her leg during the kiss — and for once, you understood why.

This kiss, soaked to the bone and laced with every scrap of resentment and longing, felt like proof. Proof that what you had wasn’t just real, but unstoppable.

You clung to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to the earth, fingers fisting in his drenched shirt as the rain poured over you both, careless and wild. And still, beneath the chaos, something pure unfurled in your chest — something terrifyingly beautiful, raw and undeniable.

Bangchan kissed you like he was starving, like he had been starving for you. He deepened the kiss, tasting every inch of you like it had haunted him in dreams and in every quiet, aching moment you’d spent apart.

It wasn’t new, this hunger — you’d felt it before. But tonight, in this storm, in his arms, it felt entirely different. Like you’d finally let yourself give in to the fire you’d been dancing around for far too long.

How you ended up sprinting down the hallway with soaked shoes that squeaked like a bad joke didn’t even matter at this point. Thunder growled overhead like it was personally offended by your existence, and Bangchan was fumbling with the dorm keys like his life depended on it.

“Could you not kill the key while you’re at it?” you shot at him, half breathless, half laughing despite the anxiety twisting in your stomach.

“I'm trying, damn it,” he muttered, jamming the key into the lock with a speed that was both impressive and completely ridiculous.

The door finally gave in, and the two of you stumbled inside, drenched to the bone. The room was dim, only lit by the bruised grey daylight leaking through the window, and for a second, the world just... stopped spinning so fast.

You didn’t even think about it. Your hand found his face like it belonged there — like you were tracing something ancient and sacred, a statue carved by the gods, Apollo himself if Apollo wore wet hair and a breathless grin. Your thumb brushed his cheekbone, and you caught yourself smiling, then sinking your teeth into your lip to hold it back.

Bangchan swore under his breath, like your touch was enough to short-circuit his whole system. He closed his eyes for half a heartbeat, then caught your hand in his, holding it like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I missed you…” you admitted, your voice low and honest, like the words had been burning a hole in your lungs.

Bangchan’s breath hitched. He caught your hand gently, his fingers wrapping around yours like he was scared you might vanish if he didn’t hold on tight enough. His eyes — god, his eyes — they searched your face like you were something holy, like every answer he’d ever wanted was written in the curve of your smile.

He kissed your knuckles, slow and passionate, and that tiny gesture nearly undid you. The way he was looking at you sent a shiver down your spine. Tears pricked behind your eyes, not from sadness, but from the insane, overwhelming relief of finally feeling. Like your chest had cracked open and light was pouring in, fierce and free.

And damn, it felt so, so good to finally breathe again.

The best part, freedom didn’t need an invitation — it just showed up, slipped right between you two like it belonged there all along.

And then, his lips found yours. No hesitation, no second-guessing, just there — warm and certain and carrying every shred of doubt far, far away. If those questions still existed, you sure as hell weren’t looking for them.

Bangchan kissed you like he knew. Like he knew exactly how long you’d been waiting for this, and he wasn’t about to ruin it with panic or rush. He was careful, but not shy — calculated without making it feel forced, a perfect balance of hunger and restraint that made your heart stutter in your chest.

This wasn’t reckless. No, this was something else entirely. This felt like he was handling something precious, like you were made of glass and he wasn’t sure if you’d shatter or melt in his hands. Maybe a bit of both.

Your arms looped around his neck, a familiar move, but now it felt charged. You’d always been secretly obsessed with how he towered over you, how his presence alone seemed to wrap around you like a second skin. Like gravity had picked favorites and he was yours.

Without even breaking the kiss, you found the hem of his drenched T-shirt, fingers brushing over cool skin as you tugged it upward. He caught the hint, helping you pull it over his head in one smooth motion before tossing it somewhere behind him like it didn’t matter — because it didn’t.

The jacket he’d draped over your shoulders slipped to the floor with a quiet thud. Your lips were still tangled in his, tasting rain and fire and something dangerously close to forever. Every brush of your mouth against his felt like a spark in a storm, friction building and building until you were certain you’d catch flame.

You didn’t know how long you’d been kissing him, and honestly? You didn’t care. All you knew was this moment — soaked skin, racing pulse, and the wild, breathless certainty that whatever this was between you, it was finally, finally real.

Before he even thought about sitting down, Bangchan stripped off every soaked, useless layer like it personally offended him. His shirt hit the floor with a wet splat, followed by the rest, and then he dropped onto the edge of the bed like he owned the damn place — which, technically, he did, but still.

You stood between his knees, and for a second, it felt like the air got thinner.

Slowly — painfully slowly, because he had to know exactly what he was doing to you — he tugged your skirt lower, knuckles grazing your skin like it was an accident. His fingers made quick work of your boots, then your sweater, all without breaking eye contact. His gaze had this impossible mix: soft but hungry, steady but burning with something you couldn’t quite name. Like you were some kind of inevitable he’d been waiting for without even realizing it.

Without a word, he curled his hand around the back of your thigh and coaxed you onto his lap, like you were gravity and he didn’t stand a chance. You went willingly — of course you did — knees bracketing his hips, your palms finding his shoulders, solid and warm beneath your hands.

He hovered at your mouth, maddeningly close but not quite there. A ghost of a smile played at the corners of his lips, easily teasing you.

His breath skimmed yours, electric and careful, until finally his lips brushed over yours, so light you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. His hands tightened at your waist, fingers sinking into your skin like he needed you closer. Like breathing wasn’t enough anymore.

The room fell into this heady, perfect silence, just the sound of your breathing, uneven and shallow, and the rain tapping against the window like it was keeping rhythm.

Your voice barely rose above a whisper, but it carried all the weight in the world. “Can we just freeze this?” you asked, your eyes tracing every line of his face like you were afraid it might vanish. “Right here, right now. Forever.”

You felt him shiver beneath your fingertips — or maybe it was you. Hard to tell anymore. His answer was the way he kissed you like yes. Like hell yes.

Bangchan let out a low, rough sound, like you’d just stolen the last ounce of self-control he had left. His mouth trailed along your jawline, barely-there kisses that felt like they were searing into your skin.

Normally, he was the one filling the space with words — teasing, coaxing, making you dizzy with how easily he could wreck you. But tonight, you wanted him to feel it. To really feel it. Not just in his head, but in his bones.

You cupped his face between your palms, your thumbs brushing the damp heat of his cheeks. God, he looked at you like you were the whole damn galaxy — like he’d waited light-years for this exact moment. And you traced your fingertip along his parted lips. He didn’t even hesitate; he kissed your fingerprint like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m yours,” you breathed, your voice barely louder than the rain tapping at the window — but it hit him like thunder all the same.

He froze, like your words had short-circuited every nerve in his body. His chest rose on a sharp inhale, his eyes drinking you in like you were the only thing keeping him alive. “I’ll always be,” you whispered, like a vow only he was meant to hear. 

His eyes softened, something raw flickering in them, right before you kissed him — full of every unspoken promise, fearless and certain, like you were stitching your heart straight into his mouth.

His hands found your waist, grounding you, as he shifted you effortlessly to the center of the bed. His lips brushed your neck, making you shiver all over again.

“My heart is yours,” he said softly, his lips brushing your skin like he was confessing a secret. “I’m all yours.” His words melted into kisses — first at your lips, then your cheek, and finally at that place beneath your ear that made your breath hitch.

You couldn’t help it. You laughed, breathless and a little reckless. He grinned against your throat, like he liked you like this — alive, teasing him back.

For a heartbeat, you just looked at him. At this man who somehow made the world quiet and loud all at once. Like maybe, just maybe, life could actually be this simple.

“God, you’re so beautiful…” he said, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, his fingers cradling your chin. His gaze dipped to your lips, dark with hunger. “Wanna touch you everywhere…”

His hand slid to the curve of your neck, making your eyes flick up in challenge.

“Make you feel so good,” he added, voice rough with intent.

You bit your lip, settled deeper into his lap, and gave him your signature smirk. “Then what are you waiting for?”

He didn’t need an invitation twice.

The kiss deepened, turned heady and hungry, but never rushed. Bangchan’s fingers toyed with the side of your panties, lazy and teasing, like he had all the time in the world to drive you insane. He hooked his finger under the edge, barely grazing your skin — just enough to send a sharp, electric pulse through your entire body.

There was heat, sure. A wildfire between you, no doubt. But underneath it, something steadier, something that felt terrifyingly like eternity. He wasn’t rushing it. He wasn’t just touching you to have you — he was memorizing you. Worshipping, almost.

“I want you,” you breathed in his mouth, voice rough around the edges, like it had been sanded down to the truth.

He didn’t waste a second. Quick, practiced, a little frantic but still smiling that lazy half-smile of his as he reached for protection, slipping it on in record time, like every second apart was unbearable.

You shifted your knees, adjusting for him — for both of you — and his eyes darkened like you’d just flipped a switch. He tugged the last stubborn scrap of fabric away, his hands lingering like he couldn’t quite let it go.

Without thinking, without hesitating, you sank down onto him, the movement natural, inevitable, like your bodies already knew this rhythm by heart. A gasp escaped you both, caught somewhere between surprise and relief.

Your hands clutched at his shoulders, not for balance, but because you needed to hold on to something real — and he was the only thing that felt like solid ground.

Bangchan buried his face in the crook of your neck, lips warm and wet against your skin, like he couldn’t get close enough. Like he wanted to taste every inch of you, commit you to memory, down to the last shiver.

You moved against him slowly at first, like you wanted to feel every single second of it — to let it burn through your nerves until it became too much to hold back. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you closer, anchoring you to him as if he couldn’t stand even a breath of distance.

Every shift of your hips dragged a sound from him, rough and raw, like he was barely holding on. His head fell back for a moment, jaw clenched tight, but then his gaze was back on you — dark, devouring, full of need that felt like it could swallow you whole.

You tried to swallow the sounds tearing out of you, sinking your teeth into your lip, into his shoulder, into whatever you could reach — but it was useless. Every slow thrust made you unravel a little more, made you feel like you were coming apart right around him. He filled you so deep, so perfectly, it felt obscene, like your body was made just to take him.

And he knew it too — the way he moved inside you was relentless, unhurried but devastating, like he wanted to make sure you felt every inch of him, every inch of what he was doing to you.

And he wasn’t any steadier.

He fought to hold himself together, but the moans kept breaking free, rough and desperate. He was lost in the delirium of being buried deep inside you, of feeling you stretch and clench around him like you were made to take him. The way you took him, so eager and tight, had his control fraying fast.

He was pulsing with need, every second of restraint twisting into something almost unbearable — too good, too much, almost painful in its pleasure.

His hand slid up to your hair, fingers threading through before he tugged it aside to expose your neck. His mouth found your skin without hesitation — warm, open kisses trailing along your pulse, his tongue tasting the sweat-slick heat of you. 

He worked his way down your neck, lips brushing teasingly over every inch of your sensitive skin. At your chest, he paused, let his tongue explore the soft skin there, coaxing a sharp gasp from you as your body reacted without thinking. He wanted to ruin you with his mouth, to taste every inch until you were dripping for him, until the only thing you could think about was how good he felt owning you like this.

You found your rhythm together, perfectly in sync, like you’d been built for this. Built for him. Each roll of your hips sent a fresh wave of need spiraling through your veins, building, tightening, pulling you both closer to the edge. His hands held you like he couldn’t bear to let go, his touch rough but reverent, worshipping every inch of you.

The room felt molten, the air thick with heat and desire. Moans tangled between you, breathless and desperate, until all you could hear was the storm outside and the sound of your bodies moving together.

"Can’t get enough of you—fuck—" Bangchan’s voice tore out of him, rough and wrecked, words slipping into broken sounds as his hips snapped into yours, chasing the high with a desperation that felt like it might kill him.

Sweat and rainwater dripped down his skin, slick between your bodies, his hair clinging damp to his forehead. He looked like sin, like every fantasy you’d ever had but filthier, messier, better.

You crashed your mouth to his, swallowing the ragged moan that escaped him, tasting the heat of it on his tongue.

“Please,” you begged, breath trembling as your lips brushed his. “God, please, just—”

"You feel—fuck," he choked, breath catching hard as you rolled your hips, grinding right where he needed you. His eyes fluttered shut, helpless to the way you squeezed around him.

"Say it," you demanded, your voice all heat and sin, lips brushing his ear like a spark to gasoline.

He groaned, wrecked. "So good, so fucking good, baby, you drive me insane."

Your lips parted on a shaky exhale, your entire body tightening around him. The knot low in your belly twisted, pulling you closer to that breaking point with every relentless thrust. The storm outside thrashed against the windows, but it was nothing compared to the storm inside you.

Your forehead pressed against his, breaths tangling, sweat-slicked skin sliding together as you moved in sync. His gaze burned into you, wild and wrecked, like he couldn’t get enough.

"That's it," he rasped, rough and hungry. His thumb worked your clit in tight, relentless circles, dragging you closer to the edge. "Cum for me, baby. Be my good girl and soak my cock. Let me feel you lose it all over me."

“Fuck, you were made for me,” he rasped, voice thick and raw, every word dripping hunger. His hips snapped into you, fast and relentless, hitting so deep it made your mind spin, had you gasping his name over and over like it was the only thing you knew how to say.

You felt impossibly full, stretched around him to the point of unbearable pleasure, and you craved it — you wanted more, wanted him to take you apart until you were nothing but his.

Bangchan’s hand slid up to your throat, not choking, just holding you there, steady and close, like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you. His other hand gripped your waist tight, dragging you harder onto his cock, like he was chasing something dangerous and beautiful all at once — like he needed to claim every part of you.

“Take every inch of me,” he growled against your skin, his lips hot at your neck as his teeth sank in, just sharp enough to make you shiver. “Fuck—yes, just like that, my perfect fucking girl.”

Your body clamped down on him, another violent wave of pleasure wracking through you as you moved together, desperate and wild. His breath stuttered, sharp and wrecked, his hips jolting hard when you clenched around him again, milking him, pulling a raw, broken moan from deep in his throat.

“Fuck, angel,—” His voice cracked, strangled on a gasp, and then he lost it completely. His hips slammed up into you, rough and frantic, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you with a helpless, guttural sound, like he was unraveling from the inside out.

The second you felt him pulse, you shattered, pleasure crashing through you in devastating waves. Your whole body jerked, trembling in his hold, your mouth falling open on a cry of his name that sounded like both worship and ruin. He groaned through his release, grinding up into you as he emptied himself fully, like he couldn’t stop, like he never wanted to stop.

Even when the aftershocks tore through you both, he kept you tight against him, breathing hard, lips brushing your skin in shaky, reverent kisses. He kissed you like he was trying to swallow your moans, like he was desperate to keep every last sound of you for himself.

Your breath was wrecked, your chest heaving against his as you clung to him, still pulsing around him like you never wanted to let him go.

“Such a perfect little thing for me,” he rasped, dark and tender all at once, “my pretty girl.”

And in his eyes, you swore you saw it — the words he didn’t say yet, thick and heavy and dangerous on the tip of his tongue.

After basically spending the entire weekend barricaded in Bangchan’s apartment — more specifically, in his bed — where you’d thoroughly explored every possible way to kill the mutual longing, you figured it was time to rejoin society. Preferably not looking like you’d just crawled out of a two-day sex coma, but well, damage done.

The perfect excuse arrived in the form of Changbin and the rest of the soccer guys throwing a victory party after their game. They won, obviously — and Bangchan had not let you forget it for even a second. He’d been strutting around the dorm like some smug MVP, dropping lines like, “You’re literally sleeping with the best basketball player, babe. Iconic behavior.”

You were so gone for him it was almost embarrassing. Almost.

It was Sunday night, and looming over you like an anxious little storm cloud was the fact that this was your last week. Final week. Curtain call was Friday, and you were already spiraling.

The panic over your performance felt like it had its own pulse — quick, sharp, and completely unnecessary, considering Hyunjin and Seungmin had basically held your hand and all but screamed, “You’re going to kill it. Stop overthinking.”

Still. Easier said than done.

Although, to be fair, the crippling anxiety had taken a temporary vacation over the last 48 hours — because Bangchan, bless him, had thoroughly, repeatedly, and almost heroically, fucked it right out of you.

Like a true gentleman.

He kept your hand in his the entire walk, fingers tangled like it was the most natural thing in the world. And you couldn't help but smile at the way he casually included you in every plan for the mid-year break. Like he couldn’t imagine doing any of it without you. You didn't even realize how much you needed that feeling until you had it.

When you got to the frat house, the party was already in full swing—music thumping, laughter spilling out into the yard. The moment you two stepped through the door, a few of the basketball guys waved, greeting Bangchan with their usual teasing banter. And, surprisingly, they were actually kind of polite to you. No eye rolls, no snickers. Just the usual ‘Hey, Bangchan’s girl’ vibes. But that was enough.

You’d chosen a dress that was a little daring—tight, short, and definitely not the kind of thing you’d wear to a casual party. But you didn’t mind it. Especially when Bangchan’s leather jacket was draped over your shoulders. It was a nice change, wearing something of his, and you kind of liked how it made you feel like you had a little piece of him with you.

And, of course, he didn’t complain about it. In fact, he was practically glowing, the way he looked at you, like he couldn’t wait to show you off. You could tell he was enjoying the attention, and somehow, that made you want to pull him in closer, just to remind him that yeah, you were his too.

The party was already in full swing when you and Bangchan walked in, fingers laced. When he squeezed your hand like a silent promise, you didn’t think twice about holding tighter.

The music was loud, people were already half-drunk on cheap beer and good vibes, but it was the way your friends froze mid-conversation that really caught your attention.

Changbin’s eyes went wide first, like he’d just seen his parents kissing. “Hold on. Hold on,” he said, pointing between you and Bangchan like he was trying to solve a crime scene. “My two pretty best friends are... doing this now?” He made a vague swirling motion with his finger that you hoped was meant to represent holding hands and not something filthier.

Hyunjin didn’t miss a beat. He scoffed and threw his arm over your shoulder, grinning like the devil himself. “Back off,” he shot back. “She’s my best friend.”

You raised a brow, looking between the two of them. “Okay, can we not make this weird?” you deadpanned, shrugging Hyunjin’s arm off with a smirk. 

Your friends were loving every second. You could see it on their faces — the shared glances, the knowing smirks, like they’d been waiting for this moment longer than you had.

"Honestly," Jisung chimed in from the couch, raising his drink dramatically, "about damn time."

Seungmin just gave you a slow, nodding approval, the corners of his lips barely twitching into a smile. “We had a pool going,” he said, as if that explained everything.

You shot him a playful, but suspicious look. "A pool? Seriously?"

"You're a very predictable couple," Seungmin replied with zero shame.

Bangchan chuckled under his breath, his smile tugging at the corners of his mouth in that way that made your knees go a little traitorous. "Told you they’d figure it out."

You nudged him with your shoulder, smiling but with a touch of sass. “I was kind of hoping for more mystery. You know, make them work for it.”

"Yeah, well," he said, leaning closer so only you could hear, his voice low and warm in your ear, "I’m not that good at pretending I don’t want you."

And just like that, you were the one who had to fight back the stupid, giddy grin threatening to take over your face.

The night rolled on with teasing jokes and too many toasts in the team’s honor, but somewhere between the crowded kitchen and the messy dance floor, you caught Bangchan watching you — like you were the only person in the room worth looking at.

And you looked at him the same way.

You were still breathless from Bangchan’s kiss, your smile stretching so wide it almost hurt. You two were dancing and kissing almost the whole night. When you felt someone step into your line of sight.

You turned, and there she was — Eunji.

Her gaze flicked between you and Bangchan, catching the way he still had his arm slung lazily around your waist like he belonged there (because he did). For a split second, something unreadable passed over her face, but then she forced a smile.

“Hey.” Eunji’s voice was quieter than usual, almost hesitant, as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Congrats on the game. You played really well.”

Bangchan blinked, caught off guard by how soft her tone was. “Uh… thanks,” he said, a little wary.

She shifted her weight, eyes flicking to you for a beat before landing back on him. “Do you think we could talk for a second?” she asked, nodding toward the hallway. “Just us?” Her gaze lingered on you, like she was asking permission. Or daring you to say no.

You shot Bangchan a quick glance. He met your eyes with quiet understanding and gave you a little nod, squeezing your hand before letting go.

Curiosity pulled you to follow her.

In the quieter corner of the frat, Eunji took a breath like she was gearing up for something heavy. 

“Look, I probably don’t have the right to even ask you to listen,” she began, voice tight. “But I need to say this.”

You didn’t move. Arms crossed, not hostile — just careful. “Okay. Say it.”

She nodded, like that tiny bit of permission gave her permission to fall apart.

"I was jealous," she admitted, the words tumbling out too fast, like they’d been bottled up for too long. "It’s stupid, I know. But it felt like you had everything — both of the hot guys," she gave a bitter, awkward laugh, "while I had no one. And it got in my head. Made me ugly inside. I hated how small I felt next to you."

Her honesty was disarming. You hadn’t expected her to just lay it out like that.

"I guess I thought," she went on, voice wobbling, "if I could tear you down, maybe I’d feel less... invisible. But it didn’t work. It only made me feel worse. And I am sorry. I’m sorry for how I treated you."

You searched her expression, looking for cracks, for any sign of performance — but what you saw was genuine. Flawed, but real.

You studied her face. No defenses. Just raw regret and maybe a little shame. For the first time, she looked like someone trying to unlearn the worst parts of herself.

You tilted your head. “Is this because of Sohee?”

Her head jerked up. “No,” she said quickly, eyes wide. “This isn’t damage control. This is me... finally being honest.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. Finally, you let out a breath.

"I can’t speak for everyone," you said honestly, thinking of your friends who had long since cut ties with her. "But for me... I need more time. You hurt me, Eunji. Really hurt me. And that’s not something I can forget overnight."

Eunji’s eyes shimmered, but she didn’t argue. She nodded slowly, lips pressed together like she was holding back a hundred other apologies. “That’s fair,” she whispered. “And... I’m happy for you. And Bangchan. You look really happy.”

You didn’t say thank you. But you didn’t walk away, either.

And maybe that was enough — for now.

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked away, her figure disappearing back into the noise of the party. You stayed there for a beat, letting the moment settle in your chest, then spun on your heel and made a beeline for Bangchan.

He caught sight of you immediately, his whole face lighting up like you were the only thing that mattered in the room. "Hey," he said, pulling you back into his arms like you were gravity itself. "Everything okay?"

You slipped your arms around his neck, your heart finally settling. "Yeah."

His grin went lazy and warm, and he kissed you again, slow and certain, like you were home.

You were pretty sure your organs were about to revolt — heart somewhere in your throat, stomach twisted in knots, lungs forgetting how to breathe. Your hands trembled as you peeked through the velvet curtain, catching a glimpse of the packed house. First row, all family. Behind them, a blur of students, teachers, and more faces than you wanted to count.

Seungmin was adding the final touches to his makeup with clinical calm, while Hyunjin stretched dramatically in the corner like he was about to run a marathon instead of hitting the stage.

You were ready — or as ready as someone could be when standing on the edge of a dream. The makeup they had given you was soft, radiant. Perfect for Seulgi — the wild, bright, untamable girl you’d spent months breathing life into. A character made of longing and light, all wild heart and messy hope. You’d love her instantly.

And tonight, you were going to give her everything.

Then, right on cue, you felt him — warm arms sliding around your waist, steady and grounding, a kiss pressed to the top of your head like a silent anchor in the storm.

You leaned into him without thinking, soaking in the calm he carried like it was oxygen.

“Holy shit,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you, his grin wide and full of awe. “My girl’s a star.”

And for a moment, everything stilled — nerves, noise, the chaos behind the curtain — like the whole world was holding its breath just for you.

You felt your face flush, your cheeks burning in that dizzying, weightless way that only came when someone made you feel so properly, soul-deep loved that it scrambled your entire system.

“I’m so nervous, I think I might faint,” you whispered, pressing a trembling hand to your stomach. The silky fabric of your dress did nothing to calm the storm underneath.

You peeked through the curtain again, heart stuttering at the packed audience. It looked endless. A sea of eyes. A million possible failures.

Bangchan gently cupped your chin, coaxing your gaze away from the chaos and back to him — steady, warm, certain.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and fierce in that quiet way of his. “You’re gonna walk out there and blow their minds. There’s not a single universe where this doesn’t go amazing — because it’s you. And you’re the best.”

It was stupid, how quickly your throat tightened. How fast your chest got all shaky, like his words had knocked the air clean out of your lungs. You blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall and mess up the makeup Nahee had so carefully painted on you.

“Stop,” you whispered, biting back a wobbly smile. “You’re gonna make me cry and then everyone’s gonna think my character dies in act one.”

He laughed, quiet and warm, and you took a shaky breath. Because suddenly, you wanted to say something that had been burning at the edges of your mind for days.

You wanted to leap, to risk it all.

“Bangchan, I—”

“Guys! It’s time!” Miss Baek’s voice cut through the moment like a bell, bright and urgent as she clapped her hands, motioning everyone to gather backstage.

You stepped back, breath caught, the confession stuck in your throat. But you weren’t ready to let go of him just yet, so instead of finishing your sentence, you reached for his hand and pulled him into the small circle forming around the cast and crew.

Miss Baek stood in the center, her eyes gleaming with pride. “All right, everyone,” she said, voice a little breathless with excitement. “This is it. You’ve worked hard for this show. Now go out there and own it. I trust you — every single one of you. So... break a leg.”

You felt Bangchan’s thumb brush over your knuckles again, grounding you.

And even with your nerves still coiled tight in your chest, a flicker of something brighter pushed through — like maybe you could do this. Maybe you were ready.

Especially with him right there, holding your hand like he never planned to let go.

The curtain rose slowly and steady, gliding open with a faint hum that made your pulse spike. Lights warmed the stage with a golden hue, soft and rich, like the first rays of sun spilling through a window on a quiet morning. The theater was silent — not the heavy, awkward kind of quiet, but the kind that buzzed with anticipation. Like everyone was holding their breath at the same time.

And then Seungmin stepped into the light.

Dressed in his costume — something timeless and simple — he looked completely at ease, the softest confidence in his posture as he took his place center stage. No theatrics. No build-up. Just him. And then he opened his mouth to sing.

It was like the world paused.

His voice slipped into the room like silk — clear, effortless, pure in that heart-wrenching kind of way that doesn’t just touch you, but clutches at something deep inside your chest. Notes floated from his mouth like a secret he trusted the whole room to keep. 

Someone in the third row audibly gasped. Someone else sniffled. And no one even cared about hiding it.

You could feel it ripple across the room — the moment where everyone realized this wasn’t just a student play. This was something real. Something alive.

And a huge part of that was Bangchan. He made a real effort to help.

You could see him in the sound booth, lit only by the glow of his equipment. His headset was on, hands gliding over the controls like he was conducting his own invisible symphony. Every rise and fall in Seungmin’s voice was perfectly balanced, wrapped in a sound that felt warm and cinematic.

The reverb was subtle, giving Seungmin's voice the echo of a cathedral without drowning him in it. The background instrumental, faded in at just the right moment, swelled like a heartbeat — quiet and steady — then soared.

The lighting shifted with the rhythm, delicate hues melting from gold to soft blue, and you knew that was Bangchan too. Timing everything. Perfecting everything. Making the show feel bigger than the stage it stood on.

The audience didn’t move. No one dared. It was like they were afraid that even a single breath might break the spell.

And when Seungmin hit the last note — long and gentle, the kind of note that settled into your bones — the silence lingered for one suspended second before the applause burst like a wave, loud and relentless, crashing against the walls of the theater.

You clapped with everyone else, heart pounding, chest full, eyes shining.

And somewhere backstage, you caught Bangchan glancing up from his booth just long enough to shoot you a grin.

As if to say, Yeah. We did that.

It was Act Three.

Your act.

The final, sweeping moment you’d been rehearsing in front of mirrors, empty classes, and late-night voice notes. And now, standing just behind the curtain with the theater buzzing like a live wire around you, it hits you all at once — the weight of it. The lights dimmed, the overture swelled, and your pulse was racing so hard it felt like it might echo through your mic.

You smoothed your dress with slightly trembling hands, eyes darting through the curtain gap to catch a glimpse of the full house. Your chest rose with a shaky inhale. 

“Hey—hey, wait,” a voice said, breathless.

You turned, confused — and there he was.

Wild-eyed, flushed, a little out of breath like he’d just run across the building — and completely not where he was supposed to be. “What are you—? You need to go,” you whispered, eyes wide. “You’re supposed to be in the booth! I’m literally about to go on—”

He didn’t answer. He just grabbed your face and kissed you.

No warning. No hesitation. Just lips on yours like it was the most natural, necessary thing in the world. And everything else — the voices, the music, the sheer panic clawing at your ribcage — melted into static. It was just him. Warm and real and grounding you in a moment that didn’t feel like it could possibly exist in real life.

When he pulled away, he didn’t go far — his forehead pressed to yours, and his hands lingered like he didn’t want to let go just yet.

“Break a leg,” he whispered. Voice low. Serious.

You were about to respond, maybe something witty to cover how stunned you were “Thank—” but then he said it.

“I love you.” He mumbled.

Just like that. No build-up, no performance. Just soft and real and tossed at your feet like a match he was willing to watch burn.

Your breath caught.

You looked up at him, eyes gleaming, lips parted — something in your chest cracked wide open, but the words stayed stuck behind your teeth. Not because you didn’t feel the same. God, you did love him back. But the moment had too much weight, too much emotion, and not enough time.

Someone offstage hissed a frantic “Places!” but neither of you moved.

Instead, you smiled. A little too wide. A little breathless. Tears covering your eyes.

And he got it. He didn’t ask for anything else. 

His entwined fingers slid unhurriedly, inch by inch, until the last touch. Then he backed away like it hurt to leave and vanished into the shadows like he’d never been there at all. 

You wanted to cry — not from sadness, but from the overwhelming weight of it all. Being loved like this, so completely, felt like being wrapped in sunlight after a lifetime of gray. It was terrifying and beautiful and everything in between.

You never expected to fall for Bangchan. Not like this. Not so fully.

But somewhere between the late-night conversations, the lingering looks, and the quiet ways he held space for you, your heart cracked open — and he simply walked in.

And that was it. You were his. And he was already yours.

And then the curtain rose. The light hit your face. And you stepped into it like you were made for it.

And as the first line left your lips, steady and clear, you weren't just playing a part anymore.

You were living it — heart full, eyes bright, and finally, finally, not acting at all.

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