#all of this to keep everything under HER control

[yogirl-willow]

The Crimson Pact | Part 10

Characterizations | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

SoulBond!AU

Pairings: Yandere!Saja Boys x F!Reader

Synopsis: You were never supposed to remember them.

Four hundred years ago, a pact was made—a blood-soaked bond tying five demons to one human soul: yours.

They’ve waited lifetimes for your reincarnation, cursed with obsession, tethered by fate.

And now that you’ve returned?

They’ll burn the world before they let you go again.

Warnings: Explicit Smut / NSFW. Minors DNI (Do Not Interact), Fingering, Touching, Penetrative Sex (P in V), Breeding Kink / Creampie, Size Kink, Praise Kink, Soul bond with the Saja Boys, Yandere themes!, obsessive behavior / possessiveness, romantic psychological tension, intense emotional fixation, yearning, dark romance.

A/N: Here's part 10! Thank you to everyone who sent over messages and comments. I'm so glad so many of you are enjoying my series. Plot rolls in the first half of this, and there is smut at the end. :) Next chapter will also have smut just because I didn't want to rush any of the moments once again. But the plot and conflicts will really get rolling from here. I hope you all enjoy this one!

───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

The Saja boys are all demons.

They are wrath and ruin. Jealousy and death.

And yet, before her, they kneel.

Because she is the Heart. Because her soul is what keeps them from unraveling into true monsters. Because they were bound by her love and her curse.

They don’t just crave her—they depend on her. Without her presence, their minds deteriorate. Their bodies decay. Their hunger becomes unbearable.

Only Y/N’s touch tames the demon inside.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Names (For those who get confused): Haneul (Abby), Seoha (Romance), Hwimori/Hwi (Mystery), Seungho (Baby)

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Part 10:

Every Version of You

The bass thumped through the Huntrix penthouse, shaking the mirrored walls as Mira struck the next beat of the routine. Her cropped hoodie flew with each sharp turn, every kick hitting with fierce precision.

"One, two, spin, down—Rumi, Zoey, hit the arm combo together, please!" Mira barked.

Zoey huffed, brushing sweaty bangs from her forehead. "You're acting like we're going to war."

“We are,” Mira snapped. “This is Takedown, remember? Demon-dissing choreo has to be sharp. Idol Awards are in a few days. We’re not just performing—we’re making a statement.”

Rumi held her pose, chest heaving. Sweat dripped down her temple. “It’s just... hard to focus with everything going on.” She flopped onto the couch dramatically. “Speaking of which... has she replied yet?”

Mira paused, lowering her arms slowly. “Did she see your message?”

“She read it,” Zoey murmured, checking her phone. “No reply though.”

Mira exhaled sharply, arms crossed. “So she’s alive, at least.”

“Or...” Zoey’s voice trembled. “What if they just have her phone? What if she’s being controlled? Or trapped? What if she’s being held hostage?!”

Mira’s fists clenched. “If they’re keeping a human hostage—”

Zoey added, horrified, “What if they’re doing horrible things to her—”

“Oh, I think she might enjoy that...” Rumi muttered under her breath.

Both heads snapped toward her. “What was that?” Mira asked sharply.

“Nothing!” Rumi said quickly, brushing hair behind her ear. “Just... we don’t know the whole story.”

Zoey frowned, concern dark in her eyes. “Do you really think she’s okay?”

Rumi looked away. “Look... based on what we saw—they were protective. Obsessively, even.”

“That could be an act,” Mira snapped. “Demons don’t feel. They mimic. That’s how they manipulate humans.”

“You don’t know that.”

Mira narrowed her eyes. “Why are you defending them?”

“I’m not—” Rumi said, too quickly. “I just think... maybe we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

The silence that followed was thick and tense. Zoey looked between her two friends, biting her lip in apprehension. “Okay, okay, let’s chill,” she said, forcing a weak smile. “How about we call it a day? Tomorrow we can try tracking her—maybe check traffic cams near her café?”

“She hasn’t been to her café,” Mira said coldly. “It’s closed. And her apartment? Empty for weeks. What else do you need? She’s with those demons.”

Then, quieter, sharper: “What if she knows?”

Rumi’s stomach twisted.

“What if she knows what they are—and still stays with them?”

Rumi didn’t answer. Maybe… she does know. Really know what they are, and yet… chooses to stay?

The girls filtered off to their rooms, tension unresolved. Mira’s footsteps were sharp and angry, Zoey’s slow and tired. But Rumi stayed.

She remained seated on the floor of the practice studio, knees curled to her chest, the city glowing behind her through the glass. Her muscles ached from hours of choreography, but her mind refused to quiet.

She could still hear Jinu’s voice. "We’re soulbonded."

There was something in the way he said it. Not just conviction, but reverence. Like the word meant more than the world itself. Like the bond wasn’t just real—it was sacred. And the others? The way they looked at you, hovered near you, protected you like something precious? It wasn’t just possession.

It was devotion. And maybe it was all a lie. Maybe Mira was right…

But Rumi couldn’t stop wondering: What if it wasn’t? What if demons could feel something that deep? That powerful?

What if… her father had felt it too?

The thought hit her harder than expected. It had been something she tried to brush off for days now, ever since Jinu had told her about the soulbond. She’d never known her parents. Just flashes in half-dreams and a handful of secondhand memories from Celine. But now, watching the way you looked at the boys—and how they looked at you—it stirred something in her chest.

Something unshaped. Undefined. Longing, maybe. Or just the ache of not knowing. Could her mother have loved like that? Could she have fought for something that impossible?

Rumi exhaled shakily and rubbed her arms, feeling the faint, cursed heat of her demon marks just beneath her skin. They had always marked her as different. Not enough of one thing. Too much of another. A walking half-truth Celine refused to explain.

She had tried asking before. Dozens of times. What was my mother like? Why did she fall in love with a demon? Who was he? Each time was met with silence. Each time: “You don’t need to know.”

But now Rumi did. She needed to know. Not just for herself. But for what was coming.

If you were really soulbonded to demons… If a bond that powerful could change the rules, rewrite the laws they’d lived under their entire lives— Maybe her parents had tried too. Maybe there was something they left behind.

And what if… that soulbond was somehow tied to their demise. She had to know- is that the same fate that awaited Jinu? The same fate that awaited you?

She stood slowly and walked to her bedroom closet, where a weathered duffel bag lay tucked behind rows of performance shoes. From its inner lining, she retrieved a small brass key—one she had stolen years ago from Celine’s drawer, hidden away on instinct. The key to a locked chest in her old childhood home. The one Celine had told her never to open.

Rumi stared at the key for a long moment. Then, she curled her fingers around it and whispered to the empty room:

“I’m sorry, Celine. But I need the truth.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The scent of sesame oil and gochugaru fills the air, warm and rich, as you perch on the edge of the kitchen island in Haneul’s oversized shirt, your bare legs swinging gently. Haneul hums quietly as he moves through the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, muscles still slick from earlier, now focused as he stirs a steaming pot.

“Kimchi jjigae tonight,” he says proudly, ladling a bit into a spoon and holding it up to your lips. “Taste this for me?”

You lean forward, letting him feed you. It’s spicy and savory, exactly how you like it. “Mmm. That’s perfect.”

“Perfect’s what you are,” he says, wiping the corner of your mouth with his thumb. His voice lowers, brushing with something more carnal. “I still haven’t recovered from earlier, y’know.”

You flush. “You’re not supposed to say that while cooking.”

“I can multitask,” he smirks.

Just then, a pair of warm hands glide around your bare thighs. You jump slightly as Seungho presses a kiss to your cheek from the side. He was shirtless, leaving his lean muscles out for you to admire. For someone who’s nicknamed “Baby”, he sure didn’t look it when he was dressed like this without the sweaters.

He slides between your knees, gaze half-lidded, teasing. “God, you look good like this,” he murmurs. “One of our shirts, no shame… You trying to kill me, baby?”

Your hand goes to push him away, but your smirk betrays you. “Just sitting here.”

“Yeah, and I’m just breathing,” he deadpans, “but apparently that’s a sin too.” His hand squeezes your thigh. “Keep testing me and see what happens.”

You giggle, clearly not sorry. Before he can get carried away, the front door bursts open.

“We’re home!” Seoha’s voice sings.

You hop off the counter just in time for Jinu’s arms to catch you mid-run. He pulls you into him like he hasn’t seen you in weeks, burying his face into your neck. “Missed you, baby,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder.

Seoha’s next, sweeping you up and spinning you dramatically before peppering your face with kisses—forehead, nose, cheeks. “I nearly died from missing you,” he sighs, as if wounded. “I considered throwing myself into traffic.”

“Dramatic as always,” you roll your eyes, laughing.

“And yet you keep coming back to me,” he says smugly, carrying you bridal-style back to the kitchen. Seungho is already setting the table, now with a shirt on. Seoha plops down and keeps you seated firmly on his lap.

“So,” you ask, “what were you guys out doing?”

“Logistics,” Jinu replies. “Stage cues, wardrobe adjustments, dealing with sponsors. Idol Awards are in a few days.”

You blink. “It’s that soon?”

Haneul sets down a plate in front of you—steaming rice, kimchi jjigae, marinated beef, banchan laid out lovingly. You try to shift to your own seat, but Seoha tightens his arms around you.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he whispers into your ear, voice low and territorial. “Not after being away from me all day.”

Your face heats as you squirm in his hold. “Where’s Hwimori?” you ask, trying to redirect the attention.

“Studio,” Seungho says, grabbing another pair of chopsticks. “Hasn’t left it since noon.”

“He’s still working?” You frown. “He hasn’t eaten?”

“He never eats when he’s focused,” Jinu sighs. “Like a damn wolf on a hunt.”

Moments later, Hwimori finally comes down. His hair’s tousled, shirt inside-out. He pads over silently, bending to kiss the top of your head. You soften at the gesture. “You haven’t eaten anything, have you?”

He looks at you, startled. Then grins. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” you scold lightly. “Sit. Eat.”

His gaze dips to your hands as he picks them up to press soft kisses across your knuckles. “Your care for me is more filling than any meal, Y/N,” he murmurs, almost bashful—except for the glint of heat in his eyes.

You blush, looking away. "You say the creepiest sweet things..."

Dinner begins. Laughter, gentle clinks of chopsticks. They argue over which brand of soju is superior. Seoha tries to spoon-feed you until Jinu takes over with more finesse. Seungho complains, “You’re all obsessed,” to which they all agree.

“You are too,” Haneul deadpans.

You ask casually, “So what song are you performing for the Idol Awards?”

Hwimori looks up from his bowl. “It’s a new one. I’m halfway done with the mix.”

“Ooh, can I hear it?”

A pause. Their reactions don’t match your enthusiasm. “It’s not finished yet,” Seoha says quickly.

“You’ll hear it soon,” Jinu adds with a reassuring smile.

Your brow furrows—but you brush it off. Hwimori leans over to you. “Come to the studio after dinner,” he says. “I’ll show you.”

You nod, heart skipping a little.

The kitchen is filled with the comforting clatter of chopsticks and soft laughter, the scent of kimchi jjigae still thick in the air. You’re tucked on Seoha’s lap all throughout, your legs curled beneath you, a half-eaten spoonful paused in your hand as you watch the boys move through their dinner routine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Jinu reaches across Haneul’s plate to steal a piece of beef. Haneul slaps his hand away without looking up.

Seoha rests his chin on your shoulder and softly nuzzles into your skin, murmuring, “You’re my favorite side dish.”

Seungho groans. “You’re disgusting.”

They argue. They tease. Hwimori eats quietly at the edge of the table, chopsticks in one hand, notebook beside him, already jotting lyrics and notes between bites. No one tells him to stop. No one complains that he’s multitasking again. You chew slowly, eyes drifting between them. And then you stop eating.

Something about this moment… it feels too good. Too quiet. Too normal. You set your spoon down and lean back slightly into Seoha’s chest, gaze flicking toward the warm kitchen light above the table. It bathes the boys in gold—catching on the edge of Hwi’s silver earring, the subtle curl of Jinu’s ink-black hair, the sweat still lingering on Haneul’s collarbone.

And you think— “This doesn’t look like a house full of demons.”

It looks like a home.

You glance at the sink, where Haneul now rinses a pot. Jinu has a towel draped over one shoulder as he air-dries dishes. Seoha’s rubbing a spot on your ankle like it soothes something in him just to touch you. And Seungho is yelling at the rice cooker as if it’s personally offended him.

You close your eyes for a moment and listen to the mundane sounds of it all—water running, footsteps padding on the floor, laughter, the scrape of porcelain. ‘Is this real?’ you think. ‘Or is this… something they’ve created for me? Something they’re maintaining so I don’t run?’

You remember what they said. How they’d waited lifetimes. How they knew you from before. How they love you, need you, worship you. But you also remember how you woke up here. The pain. The fear. The sheer loss of control.

‘They say they love me. But do they love me? Or the version of me they’ve carried for centuries?’

You swallow, suddenly unsure of your own heartbeat. The soulbond pulls tight in your chest like thread wound too firmly around your ribs. You can feel each of them—every glance, every flicker of emotion—and it’s overwhelming how much they feel. For you. But…

‘What if they’re just in love with the memory of me? With someone I don’t even remember being?’

You think of your past lives. The fragments that flicker in your dreams. A hand in yours. A kiss in the dark. Blood. Fire. Death. Always ending in death.

‘Do I even have a choice in all of this? Or is fate choosing for me?’

You open your eyes again and see Jinu watching you. Noticing. As always. His expression softens as your eyes meet. He doesn’t say anything, just sends you a smile that feels like it was forged in a lifetime of waiting. One that says, ‘We see you.’

Your chest tightens. Because you know what you're afraid to admit: ‘They make me feel safe. Even when they shouldn’t. Even when I know what they are.’

And still… Am I just playing a role? Or is this… actually love?

Your fingers brush your thigh, grounding yourself. Seoha murmurs something into your hair, and Haneul walks by and drops a sweet kiss to the crown of your head. Seungho brushes his fingers across your lower back in passing, almost unconsciously. They touch you like they need to make sure you’re still here.

And in that moment, you don’t have an answer. But you want to believe. You want this to be real. And maybe… just maybe…

You already do.

From the corner of your eye, you see Hwimori pause in the hallway. His fingers tap the doorframe, hesitant. His voice is soft, almost shy. “You coming?”

You blink up at him. His golden eyes catch the light. And just like that, the ache eases. “Yes,” you whisper. “I’m coming.”

His fingers find yours before you’ve even stepped into the hallway. Delicately, he laces your fingers together like he’s memorizing the shape of them, then brings your joined hands to his lips and kisses your knuckles as you walk, eyes still fixed ahead. You swear you feel something in your chest flutter and curl at the gesture—quiet, unassuming, and completely devastating.

You don’t say anything. You just follow him.

Hwimori leads you gently through the dim apartment, the distant sound of dishes and laughter fading behind you. The studio door opens with a soft click, and the scent of sound foam and something faintly like cedar greets you. Inside, the room glows with a soft blue light from a large curved monitor, its screen filled with waveforms and sound levels. There’s a single black desk chair facing the setup, and handwritten notes scattered across the desk—some in Korean, some in English, a few in what looks like ancient runes.

He sits first, pulling you without a word into his lap. You settle there, curling comfortably against him, thighs warm over his, his hand never leaving your waist.

“This is where you work?” you murmur.

He nods against your shoulder. “Mhm.”

Your eyes roam across the workspace. “And this is where the magic happens?”

Hwimori hums again, the softest smile pulling at his lips. “Kind of. Jinu writes most of the lyrics. I handle the production, mixing, layering. Sometimes I add vocals.” He reaches to adjust a dial, the screen blinking in response. “This one’s still a work-in-progress.”

You tilt your head, reading the title scrawled in the corner of the page next to the monitor. “Your Idol.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Ominous.”

He gives a sheepish shrug. “Did you want to hear a little of it? I haven’t added in the final vocals yet.”

You grin. “Aren’t you cutting it a little close for the Idol Awards?”

His hand lifts, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. The gesture is tender—unconsciously so. “We’ll be singing live,” he murmurs. “This is just the backing track.”

You hum in understanding, but your eyes linger on his face. He’s usually so quiet, almost shadow-like. But in this space, surrounded by his work, his music, his presence feels different. Grounded. Whole.

He reaches behind you and gently lifts a pair of large over-ear headphones. “Here,” he says, placing them carefully over your ears. The size swallows your head a little, and you catch him smiling as he adjusts them.

“What?” you ask, your voice muffled.

He chuckles, leaning in to press a kiss to your nose. “You just look so cute.”

Your cheeks heat instantly, and you shift in his lap—just slightly. He doesn’t let you move far. His hands settle more firmly on your waist as he hits play. The first sound is a whisper.

Dies irae Illa…

A chant. Ethereal. Latin. So far removed from the sparkly, bubblegum tones of Soda Pop that it doesn’t even feel like the same group.

The low rumble of a bass begins to rise beneath the vocals. Haunting. Slow. Then the drop hits—hard, distorted, angry. Layers of eerie harmonies weave in and out, and a new pulse sets the rhythm. It's darker, heavier… yet oddly beautiful.

Your spine straightens instinctively. This doesn’t feel like an idol song. It feels like a warning.

After a minute or two, you carefully lift the headphones off, holding them in your lap as the silence returns to the studio. “It sounds… so different,” you say, your voice small.

Hwimori nods, looking straight ahead, eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Jinu wanted to try something new.”

“Are you guys rebranding?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just hums quietly. “Something like that.”

You look at him then—really look.

Under the low studio light, his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and his bangs fall over his eyes in a silky curtain. You can’t help but reach up, brushing the corner of his hair. His eyes widen slightly, but he lets you. Your fingers tuck some strands behind his ears, revealing more of the amber in his gaze—molten, unblinking, completely focused on you. “You’re beautiful, Hwimori,” you whisper.

He exhales like you’ve struck something inside him.

Then—without a word—he buries his head against your chest, arms wrapping around your back as if he can’t bear a second more of not being as close as possible. You feel his breath stutter. Feel the silent emotion he doesn’t know how to say.

You stay there, letting the music fade behind you, and hold him like he’s always been yours. Neither of you speak for a long while. Just the soft whir of the monitor, the warm hush of breath between you. There’s a peace in it—a rare kind. But even in the quiet, something lingers. A hum beneath your skin. And he feels it too.

“I felt it,” Hwimori murmurs, voice muffled into the fabric of your shirt. “At dinner.”

You blink, confused.

“The way your heart pulled,” he clarifies, lifting his head slowly to look at you. His eyes are searching, soft. “You felt uneasy.”

You stiffen. There’s no use denying it—not to him. He sees right through you, like he always has. You look away, but his hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing gently over your skin, coaxing you back to him. You turn your gaze slowly, and he’s already watching you like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed to see.

“You were quiet for a little bit,” he says. “But not the kind of quiet you get when you’re sleepy or full. It was the kind that hurts.”

You flinch. Not because he’s wrong, but because he’s so, so right. You don’t answer, and you don’t need to. Hwimori’s fingers gently reach for your cheek, brushing your hair behind your ear. His touch is impossibly tender. His gaze steady and warm.

“You’ve always been like that,” he says softly. “Since before you knew my name.”

You tilt your head.

“There was one night,” he continues. “From a long time ago. You were just a girl in a little village, taking care of too many people with too little help.”

A memory stirs. Familiar but distant. “It was after a long storm,” Hwimori says, voice laced with something warm. “Your roof leaked. The firewood got soaked. You’d spent all day patching it up with your bare hands, and you still went to the river to wash your siblings’ blankets by moonlight.”

You suck in a soft breath. He hadn’t been visible then. But he’d seen.

“I followed you there, like I always did. And you were singing to yourself, – albeit, a little off-key,” he chuckles, and you huff a soft laugh. “You were humming just to stay awake. Kneeling in the freezing water, shivering, hands raw. I could tell you were exhausted. Your voice was shaking.”

He pauses, as if savoring the memory. “And then a rabbit came to you. It was limping. Barely able to move. I thought you’d ignore it—you had enough to worry about. But you just… stopped everything. You dropped the blanket, picked up the rabbit, and tucked it in your coat.”

Your throat tightens. “You stayed like that, holding it. Rocking it. Whispering, ‘You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,’ like it was your own child.”

His voice drops to a whisper. “That’s when I knew,” he says. “That you had the gentlest heart I’d ever seen. Even after everything life had done to you, your instinct was still to love. To care. Even when you had nothing left.”

You can’t breathe for a moment. He presses his forehead against yours. “You made me want to be something more. Something that could hold you. Protect you. Stay beside you. That was the first night I had ever desired to be more. To be felt. So I could feel you.”

You don’t realize tears have welled in your eyes until he brushes them away with the soft pad of his thumb. Hwi’s words hang in the air like the final note of a love song — quiet, aching. His eyes shimmer, blinking slowly beneath your gentle touch.

You stare at him, overwhelmed. And then… The doubt creeps in again. It’s a quiet voice, but sharp. Your fingers still on his cheeks.

“What if…” your voice cracks slightly. “What if that wasn’t me?”

He blinks.

“What if the girl you saw that night—the one who rocked a dying rabbit to sleep—was someone else? Someone better? I might be her soul, but I’m not her. I don’t remember that life. I don’t sing at the river. I haven’t—haven’t done anything like that. I’m not soft like she was. What if you’re feeling all these things for someone that doesn’t exist anymore?”

Your heart aches at the words. And you hate that you mean them. You try to look away, but he catches your chin—gently, like a thread of silk. He doesn’t force you to meet his gaze. Just holds you still, holds you softly.

And he whispers: “But you are her.” His thumb brushes your cheek. “You’re the same soul who reached for a broken thing instead of turning away. You’re the same heart that gave kindness without needing a reason. You still do. Every single day.”

You tremble slightly, lips parting. But he isn’t finished. “I didn’t fall in love with a girl who sang to the river. I fell in love with the soul that chose to love, even when it hurt. Even now—when you could hate us, when you should be afraid—you still sit here with your arms around a demon and ask if your love is real.”

He leans in slowly, forehead pressed to yours, and his voice drops lower.

“That’s you. That’s always been you. No matter how many lives we live. I’ll always know you. Even if the world forgets. I’ll know your soul, and how it calls for me. And I will always answer.”

Tears blur your vision as you swallow hard. He smiles softly—barely there, but achingly real. “You could cut your hair, pick up new hobbies, forget how to sing, fall in love with different books, dress differently, dream new dreams…”

His voice lowers, “And I would still find ways to love every version of you. Every change. Every chapter. Because it’s still you. Your soul is eternal. And I was made to follow it.”

His thumb brushes away a tear that slips down your cheek. “That’s what love is, isn’t it? Not clinging to who someone was—but choosing them again and again, as they become. I’ve done it for centuries. And I’ll do it for as many more as you’ll let me.”

And then he whispers—almost breathlessly— “My name is Hwimori… because I needed a name to worship you with. It’s the name you gave me. As long as you call me, I will always answer. In every life.”

You break, tears fully running now. Your heart hurts in the most beautiful way — with the kind of love that makes your whole body ache. A sound escapes you- half sob, half chuckle in disbelief. It was almost unreal, the love they had for you. The love Hwimori had for you. The love you were starting to remember you had for him, and the love that was growing rapidly in your chest for all of them.

“You say the most beautiful things…” You say breathily, hands wiping away your tears. You reach for him again. His face. His eyes. You unclip your hairpin and clip his bangs back fully, needing to see all of him, this creature made of devotion.

His eyes are breathtaking. Violet and gold and amber, like the inside of a star. Lashes long, silver, like dust spun from moonlight. And all of it—all of him—was made for you. This soulbeast became a man just to stay by my side.

Your loyal, wild-hearted creature. The one who never asked for anything but to be near you. Your lips brush over his eyelids. He shudders. A soft, needy sound escapes him—barely a breath. 

You kiss the other. He exhales like he’s letting go of centuries of longing. Then his nose. His cheeks. His jaw. And when your lips finally meet his— He melts.

He melts into you like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed. The only warmth he’s ever known. The bond between you hums, low and deep, like a drumbeat just beneath your ribs. And in his kiss, there is nothing but truth. 

It starts slow. Hwimori kisses you like a creature in worship, his lips brushing yours in soft, fleeting touches. Then he deepens it, and it changes. Desperation curls at the edges. His tongue traces your bottom lip before claiming your mouth fully, and you feel it—his need, his hunger, his aching loyalty. 

Like a beast starved, yet patient. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you, the taste, the scent. His hands glide along your hips, pulling you tighter against him. You gasp slightly as you feel the heat of his arousal press up beneath you through his clothes. Your thighs clench instinctively.

You shift in his lap, just enough to grind against him—slowly, deliberately. His breath catches, and a low whimper escapes his throat, sharp and broken.

“Ah… d–don’t do that,” he pleads, his voice ragged. His fingers clench at your hips, claws nearly unsheathing. “You don’t know what you’re waking up in me, my love…”

Your eyes glint with a teasing defiance. So you do it again. 

And he breaks.

With a growl, Hwimori stands in one smooth motion, lifting you effortlessly. You squeal softly in surprise but he doesn’t release your lips—not for a second. He walks you across the studio and lowers onto the velvet couch with you straddling him, breath hot and wild. His hands roam beneath your shirt, sliding up your back as he kisses you harder—possessive, trembling with restraint.

“Is that what you want?” he growls softly. “To see what I become when I stop pretending to be tame?” 

───────── SMUT ─────────

He lifts your shirt in one motion, leaving you bare save for the thin fabric of your panties. His breath hitches as he looks at you—chest rising, flushed, vulnerable. Worshipful silence falls over him for just a second. His gaze travels up—devouring you slowly—and when your eyes meet, it nearly steals the air from your lungs.

There’s nothing human in his expression. Just awe. Hunger. Adoration so intense it borders on unhinged. His hands grip your thighs, fingers trailing up, rough and hot all at once. “You’re mine,” he breathes—low, almost like a growl against your skin. “You’re my soul. My everything. The reason I even have this form.”

You lean forward to kiss his neck, pressing soft kisses against his pulse. You couldn’t help yourself. Not when his face looked like that. Flushed, needy, and oh so beautiful you could combust. He shudders beneath you.

Your hands slide beneath his shirt, fingertips brushing his skin. He moans—a raw, choked sound—and you feel the muscles of his torso tense beneath your touch. You peel the fabric off him slowly, revealing the sculpted lines of his chest and arms, and your breath catches at how perfectly carved he is. Like a statue built to guard you.

You kiss down his chest, lips leaving warm trails as his hands grip yours tightly, long fingers intertwined with your own. He trembles beneath your mouth.

“I love it when you touch me like that,” he murmurs, breath shaky. “It makes my skin sing. Makes my heart believe I’m not dreaming you.”

You feel him twitch beneath you as your hips move again, wetness pooling between your legs. Your mouth curls into a sly smirk. “Lucky for you, I can make those dreams into a reality.”

He groans at your teasing, eyes alight with fire. His mouth finds your neck, biting softly—claiming. You gasp as you feel his fingers trace the line of your damp panties. He groans, “You’re soaking. Just from my voice? My fingers?” His voice dips into a snarl, “This little body is desperate for me, huh? You were made to take me.”

The sound of his voice, so heavy and laced with desire almost makes you cream. You nod obediently, bottom lip captured beneath your teeth. “Uh huh,” you mutter faintly. 

He slides your panties to the side and growls low in his throat as he feels how wet you are for him. His fingers glide through your folds before slowly sinking one inside you. You cry out softly at the sudden stretch, clutching onto his shoulders. 

“So tight,” he pants, pressing his forehead to yours. “Always so tight for me. You let me in so easily… like your body already knows me.”

A second finger joins the first, and he begins a slow, precise rhythm, watching your every expression like he’s memorizing your ruin. His thumb brushes your clit, and your body jolts in response.

“Hwi,” you moan, kissing his temple as your eyebrows furrow in pleasure. “It feels so good. You feel so good-”

He growls in satisfaction, your name leaves his lips like a prayer—hoarse, wild. “I can feel you through the bond,” he gasps. “Every pulse, every squeeze—fuck, it echoes in me—I’m going insane with it—”

Your walls tighten around his fingers, your breath stuttering. You grip his hair and moan into his mouth as he kisses you through it, slow and deep and so loving it aches. And when you come undone, trembling, pulsing around his fingers—he kisses you like he needs it to survive. Like your pleasure is oxygen. Like he feels the intensity of your undoing.

He pulls back only when your body softens against him, watching you pant and tremble in his lap. Then, without a word and without tearing his eyes off yours, you watch as he raises his hand to his mouth and licks his fingers clean—moaning low, possessive heat flashing in his eyes.

“Every drop of you is mine,” he growls, licking the corner of his lips. “You taste like spiritfire. Like everything I’ve ever wanted and could never reach—until you let me.”

His words send a jolt of arousal through you. Endless heat pooling at your core. For him. A sudden idea pops into your head. You barely recover before you lean forward, lips brushing his neck, your hand drifting low with intent. He freezes as your fingers brush his waistband.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice husky, breathless.

You smile softly, gaze heated. “You’ve tasted me,” you whisper. “Isn’t it only fair I get to taste you?”

His eyes go wide. “My love… you don’t have to—”

You kiss his neck, then down his torso, across his abdomen until you plant a kiss on his hipbone and feel him twitch. “I want to,” you say. “Let me give you a preview of your birthday gift…”

He groans, head falling back as your fingers slide beneath his waistband, breath shuddering with anticipation. Your fingers wrap around him—thick, flushed, twitching with need—and stroke him once, slow. 

Hwimori’s head snaps back. A breathless moan rips from his throat, desperate and shaking.

“Gods—your hands,” he pants. “Soft… warm… like they were made just to touch me…”

You pull the waistband of his shorts and his cock springs free. Hot and huge against your face. Hwi looks down at the sight of you kneeling before him in awe. Watching how you look so pretty next to his aching shaft. He brushes a lock of  hair behind your ear lovingly. 

You stare at his member before you, albeit a little bit intimidated as there’s no way that’s all going to fit in your mouth. As if he could read your mind he says gently, “You don’t have to baby. You can just take what you can, or even-”

His sentence it cut short as you lean in, tongue trailing up his length in one long, slow stroke—and he chokes on a groan so wrecked it echoes in your chest. “F-fuck—” His thighs jerk beneath you. His claws tear faintly into the couch cushions, muscles trembling. “Baby, don’t—don’t tease me like that—”

But you do. Again.

Your tongue trails ever so slowly from the thick base all the way to the tip, swirling around the head of his shaft. Hwi’s head tilts back in pleasure, a helpless groan escapes him as he clutches his hands tight against the couch. 

You look up at him through your lashes prettily, “But it’s so fun seeing you like this, Hwi…” 

Your fingers flutter against the base and corners of him and it has him bucking his hips in desperation. Now you understood why they liked seeing you beg so much… this kind of power was something you could get drunk with. And seeing Hwi’s desperate reactions, how crazy you’re making him right now, was one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen. 

"Fuck baby you're driving me crazy," he groans, “My love, please—”

You take him into your mouth—his tip brushing the back of your tongue—and he gasps. His whole body tenses under your touch. Then he breaks.

A cry, ragged and raw. His hands fly to your hair, trembling fingers carding through the strands, gently cradling the back of your head like you’re something sacred. “Fuck,” he groans at the feel of your hot mouth wrapped around him. He’s never felt this kind of pleasure before in his life, and it was driving him absolutely mad. 

His hips buck just slightly—restrained. Worshipful. Still trying to hold himself back for you. He was quite girthy, so you took what you could in your mouth and used your hands to cover the rest. Your fingers wrapped around him, twisting in opposite directions. 

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he breathes, voice barely coherent. “You’re too much—I can feel everything—every flick of your tongue, every sound you make—gods, your mouth is heaven—”

You suck gently, cheeks hollowed, lips slick around him—and he keens, hands trembling. His body begins to shimmer. Veins glowing faintly beneath his skin. Ethereal demon markings pulse along his torso, crawling upward like wildfire. His beast is showing. His restraint, unraveling.

“You’re not just touching my body,” he gasps. “You’re inside my soul. I can feel it—every moan you make, I feel it in me, like I’m the one falling apart—fuck, baby—please—”

He thrusts gently into your mouth, hips rocking upward with a soft growl. The sounds he makes—raw, primal, completely lost in you—only make you want to worship him more. His hands are tangled in your hair, pushing you down gently to take more of him. You loved the sounds he was making. You loved how good you were making him feel. You look up at him from under your lashes and moan at the sight. 

His face, flushed with heat and eyes hot with desire, looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Like he’s careful not to break you but also holding himself back from thrusting in too deep into your mouth. He looked like you were undoing him from the inside out. You moan at the beautiful sight of him and he tips his head back hotly at the vibrations wrapped around him.  

But then—his grip suddenly tightens, trembling.

“Stop—baby, stop—” he whimpers. “I’m gonna cum—gods—I can’t—”

He pulls you off with a wet gasp, eyes wide, chest heaving, cock glistening in the low light. He’s panting. Shaking. Eyes blown wide with lust and love and awe. You’re confused for a moment, a quick flash of insecurity rushes through you. Did he not like it—

“I need to be inside you,” he says, voice hoarse. “Now. I need it—I need you. Please—please—”

Oh.

He pulls you into his lap again, cradling you like you’re fragile. His face was filled with need and so much yearning. He wanted– no, needed you wrapped around him. Badly. 

You smile slightly. He was so cute like this, and so hot. You shift on top of him. His hands fly to your ass, desperate and needy. You tilt his head up. Eyes molten pools of gold and violet. And without breaking eye contact, you line him up beneath you, and slowly, slowly, you sink down onto him.

And it shatters him.

Hwimori moans—loud and aching—head falling back, mouth open in a soundless cry. His claws dig into your hips like anchors, and his whole body trembles. You look at him, mouth parted slightly at the huge stretch of him sinking deeper into you. You moan and whimper at the feeling.

“You’re so warm—tight—fuck, I can feel your soul—” he gasps, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. His hands guide your hips lower, sinking himself deeper inside you. You feel as if there was no end. Every inch sinks in deliciously with a stretch, reaching places within you so deep it almost has you seeing stars. 

You both grunt as he bottoms out, your head sinking into his shoulder as he stills inside you, allowing you to accommodate the sheer size of him. 

“You feel incredible – fuck.” The last word is broken, shattered. 

You start to move—slow, deliberate—rocking your hips against him with sensual grace. He gasps softly at the friction, hands tightening on your waist like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world.

Then his eyes meet yours. Wide. Wild. Awestruck. Shining like he’s beholding something holy. “You’re inside me too,” he whispers, voice trembling. “Every part of you… your heart, your voice… it’s echoing in my chest—I can feel you in my soul…”

“Really?” you breathe, stunned by the depth of it and his connection with you. Your body trembles. He nods, mouth parted, lips pink and kiss-swollen. “It’s like the bond has no beginning or end. Just you… burning in me.”

You lift your hips—slow, torturous. His cock drags along your walls and you feel him twitch inside you, thick and hot and pulsing. Then you drop your hips again, taking him deep—and he moans. It vibrates through both your chests, your moan echoing right after, the soulbond creating a perfect feedback loop of heat and pleasure.

You start to ride him—slow at first, letting him feel every wet drag of your walls. His hands explore you like he’s mapping the surface of a dream. They roam up your thighs, over your hips, along the delicate curve of your spine. He cups the back of your head with one palm, the other pressing into the small of your back as if he could hold your soul there forever.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs through gasps. “So powerful. So fucking mine.”

You roll your hips harder, drawing circles with your pelvis—and his eyes flutter, his body arching up into yours. Then you lean close, kiss his throat, and moan his name softly into his skin.

And it breaks him.

With a snarl, his hands shoot to your waist. He growls—a deep, primal sound—and in one quick, fluid movement, he flips you.

You barely register the shift before you’re on your hands and knees, breath caught in your throat, his chest behind you, his cock pressed at your entrance from behind—hard, throbbing, wild with need. And then he drives into you.

Hard.

You cry out, hands fisting in the cushions for support as his cock spears deep, reaching places unknown in this new position. The sheer force of his thrust makes you jolt forward—only for his arms to pull you back again, anchoring you against him.

He finds his rhythm. Deep. Powerful. Devastating. Like an beast on a mission to claim.

“Your scent,” he pants, voice guttural, animal. “Your voice—your fucking moans— they make me crazy. I want you messy. I want you needy. I want you like this every day.”

He’s slamming into you now, sweat-slick and burning hot. You cry out as his hips meet yours with obscene sounds, your skin echoing against his like drums to some ancient mating rhythm. His demon patterns were on full display now, no longer able to hold back any longer his primal urge to mark you, to claim you. 

You arch back into him, sobbing out his name again and again—and it shreds what little restraint he had left.

He growls, fangs bared, and pushes your chest down flat into the velvet. Your cheek rests against the cushion, stomach flat against the couch, hips raised high as he looms over you, his weight pressing your back flat with his own.

Now he’s fucking you in earnest. Hard. Fast. Possessed. His lips drag across your spine, fangs grazing the curve of your shoulder. Your cries are muffled against the cushions. His nose presses into the crook of your neck, inhaling you like it’s all he needs to live.

“You were made for this,” he snarls, breath shaking. “To be mine. To take me—all of me. Gods, you fit me so perfectly. So fucking perfectly—”

Your moans crack into gasps, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity. “Yours,” you mumble, almost deleriously against the velvet. “I’m yours, Hwi-”

Every thrust punches a cry from your lungs. Every kiss down your spine lights up your nerves like lightning. Your walls clench tighter and tighter—every stroke inside you driving you closer to a cliff you can’t see the bottom of.

“Let me mark you,” he begs. “Please. Let me leave something of me on you.”

You nod, helplessly. And he bites down on the side of your neck—not enough to break skin, just enough to claim. Your back arches under him, body trembling as he groans against your skin.

“I want you warm and full and mine,” he growls. “Let me fill you. Let me stay inside you.”

You scream his name as your orgasm crashes over you—twitching around him, sobbing, shattering. White hot pleasure sizzles down your spine and in your core as you close your eyes at the sheer intensity of it. The bond explodes in your chest. Your pleasure echoes into his—his hips falter, then slam one final time—

He moans your name as he cums. Buried deep. Hot, thick, endless.

He jerks as he empties himself into you, cock twitching inside your still-clenching walls, his breath catching as his entire body locks above yours. You feel every spurt of him flood you—so full you feel it dripping down your thighs. 

His hands have yours pinned by your head, fingers intertwined and tight against yours as he crashes through his release. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull out. He just collapses over you. Breathing ragged. Arms caging you beneath him possessively.  Nose in your neck.

And you—soaked, trembling, filled and full of him—let yourself melt beneath his weight. Safe. Claimed. His.

──────── SMUT ENDS ────────

“I’ll never let you go,” he breathes against your skin. “Even if all that’s left is instinct… I’ll love you in every form. Every time you’re born, I’ll find you. And I’ll love you again.”

You turn your head to meet his eyes, breath still shaking. “Yours, Hwi. You have me.”

His kiss is searing as he presses it to your cheek, your ear, your temple. And he whispers, broken and beautiful: “Mine.”

The bond pulses one last time. Then it quiets. Wrapped around each other. Hearts tangled. Souls glowing. 

Beast and tether.

His weight is still pressed against your back—hot, heavy, anchoring. But his thrusts are gone now, replaced by slow, trembling breaths against the shell of your ear. The room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the bond and the thunder of two hearts tangled together.

You feel his arms tighten around your waist like he’s scared you might slip through them. “Hwi,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak at first—just buries his nose into your hair and breathes you in like a prayer. Then, softly, brokenly: “Thank you.”

You blink. “For what?”

“For… this. For you. For letting me—” His voice cracks. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to feel you like this. Not with skin. Not with hands. Not like this…”

You turn in his embrace, and he lets you, gently helping you onto your back. He hovers above you, eyes shining with something too big to hold. “I was never supposed to be this,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I was a spirit. A guardian. A thing without touch, without form. But I would've given it up a thousand times over. I did—for you.”

He lowers his forehead to yours, his silver lashes brushing your skin. “If falling from grace means I get to hold you like this—love you like this—I’d fall every time.”

Your throat tightens, your heart breaking and healing in the same breath. “You’re not fallen,” you say, gently brushing his cheek. “You just… came home.”

He swallows hard, eyes closing at your touch. He kisses your palm, your wrist, then your chest—over your heart. And stays there, listening. “I’ll love every version of you,” he murmurs against your skin. “Even the pieces you haven’t met yet. Even the parts that change.”

You take his face in your hands, and he melts into them, leaning into your touch like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. “Thank you.” You say, “For always reassuring me. For loving me like this. Hearing you say things like that, makes it sound too good to be true.” You sigh, “I can’t believe you want to be mine-”

“I only ever knew how to be yours,” he says, voice trembling. “I don’t know how to be anything else. And now that I’ve had you like this… I can’t go back.”

Your breath hitches.

“I live to worship you,” he whispers. “To care for you. Provide for you. Cherish you. Love you. Every version. Every life. Every shape you take.”

Something in you shatters. You let out a soft sound—half sob, half laugh—and press a thousand kisses to his shoulder, his collarbone, his cheeks, his hands. 

“You don’t know what that does to me,” you whisper. “To be loved like this. After years of solitude. Loneliness…”

He hushes you gently, laying his head against your chest as you softly play with his hair. “I’m here now,” he says. “You won’t ever be without me. Without us.” 

His arms tighten again around your middle. His voice is quieter now, small and honest. “I won’t just stand by this time,” he promises. “I won’t let the world take you from me again. I don’t care what I become. I’ll fight fate, gods, time—everything. I’ll bare my teeth and rip the stars down if they try to take you.”

You smile faintly through the warmth in your chest. “Sounds like my beast.”

He grins, eyes glassy with emotion. “I’d burn the sky just to keep you in my arms.”

Then he shifts, wrapping you in his shirt and lifting you in his arms. Your head rests tiredly on his shoulder as he walks and carries you to your room. 

Opening the door, he walks over to the bed and places you on it gently. He gets in right next to you—pulling the blanket over both of you, wrapping his arms around your waist and tucking you close until your legs tangle and your bodies settle in perfect symmetry.

He presses one last kiss to your forehead and whispers, “Sleep now, my love. I’ll guard your dreams.”

And you do. Wrapped in his warmth. His scent. His soul.

Belonging. At last.

TO BE CONTINUED

───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

A/N: I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Mystery/ Hwimori gets his turn on this one. Wrote this with all my Hwimori girls in mind. I figured his go would be a bit different as he's a soulbeast and always had this type of spiritual connection to the reader. Seeds of doubt slowly creep into her mind in this one as well. Hwi silences them for now, but who knows where they'll go in the next chapters. I think you all know who comes next ;) Let me know what you guys think, and as always, thank you for reading! Much Love, Willa x

───────── ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆ ─────────

Taglist: @emily-2010 @indigogo3031 @akiraadoesthingz @just-a-blue-nerd @lucy-loaf @natpakk @l0wlifepr1ncess @akirafushiguro @rubyninja1 @shellsarepretty @random5sthings @bakusquadobsessed @sirens-and-moonflowers @faerie-soirxx @luluprincess230lp @maiznamai @miss-goldenweek @ilovemyths2003 @amercanfailure @selena-rocker27 @nubyeol @type-ink @rissareader @sillygirlnat @accountforreading123 @sungjinwooscertifiedwife @imissnanami @ateezswonderland @athena-portgas @atl4ntxc @badbishsblog @bearb33 @beppybeesnuggets @bloobewy @booknerd2004 @candylandrules @casperleghosty @chirikoheina @chugjugg @cloudfxvrs @cottonheadedninnymugggins @crustypatatos @dragongirl642 @eggosside @enerofairy @ezri261 @faerie-soirxx @fanficriter @ffcfffr @g-l-1-t-c-h-3-r @girlwiththegoats @givecyrustheirflowers @insomniacfigure @invinciblewaffles @irethepotato @iv-vee @izzieg3987 @jamaicanqueen007 @jamerlynn @justanerd1 @lavnderluv @letsmakethingsclear-ididntask @levifiance @limerenceisserenity @littlemissfix-itfic @littlepotaaatosimp @loomindoors @lovely-maryj @lovely-tulipp @lovelymelon @luxylucylou @maniacalism @meeeegaaan @mel3484 @meridian-of-misery @miffysoo @airwolf92 @akira-yan @aleclockwood @amercanfailure @animal-and-flower-lover @anisimp @anonymousewrites @apelepikozume @arieslucy @perfectlywingedflower @permanently-tired-pigeon @pleasantlyspookycreation @pookiei-bookie @poptrim @procookie2007 @qmabailor @quantumorquanta @raineandcl0uds @realifezompire @s3ungm1nxxl0ve @saltedcoffeescotch @sarah22447 @scaranao @shadowlover321 @shadyplaidwagonmuffin @shinebright2000 @sin-for-jin @sleepyamaya @slutforsmut4ever @sollum @soy-soi-si @gwinamlvr @h3110-dar1in9 @hi-itsmee28 @himikoquack @hornehlittleweeblet2 @ibby-miyoshi-nerd @imjusthereforthecake56 @insane-scientist @spiderset @sra7riddle-malfoy @starlight100 @storyteller-le @strayharmony943 @sunoosmainchick @tenaciouskittenpuff @the-sweet-psycho @tommyinnit-kinnie @udejoenrlddo @unadulteratedwizardrunaway @unsolicitedopal @venommie @vi1326 @vita-nire @vixyvlo @weponxwrites @wpdarlingpan @yandereaficionado @yepitsmesendhelp @your-favorite-god @yumekono @zuhaeri @misdollface @mitsuakashi @mjustag1rl @moonlight-rosevine @mossy-luna @mshope16 @natllo @nesrynsblog @neuvilletteswife4ever @nonetheartist

[littledykeblue]

(𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟑/𝟒: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓)

──𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓;

(lead guitar!vi x band manager!reader): managing a punk band is the dream gig. for you, it's made all the more sweeter by the sexy guitarist you get to call yours.

wc: 8.4k | cw: guitarist!vi, dom!reader, sub!vi, oral sex (v! and r!receiving), fingering (v!receiving), strap-on usage, cowgirl, degredation, praise kink, exhibitionism (public sex), orgasm control, MINORS DNI.

note: vi time!! this fic really took me through the trenches, but i emerged victorious! omg i can't believe we're almost done, team. it's been wild.

Managing a bunch of punk rockers wasn’t part of your five-year plan. You got the big, shiny business degree, racked up honors, and stood at the precipice of a dozen possible futures. The world was your oyster and, yet, you found yourself in your parents’ guest room (previously your room) with your laptop open and your ambition flickering like a dying light. 

The job market wasn’t kind and neither were your expectations. Everything sounded boring. Everything looked like it would suck your soul dry. Then Mel Medarda called.

She had joined her brother at No Kings Records, a newer label still trying to carve out a space in a saturated industry. She said there was a band she was watching—loud, messy, brilliant—and they were about to be a big deal. 

What they needed was someone smart, someone tough, someone who could wrangle chaos into results. Someone like you. She didn’t sugarcoat the gig. She said it would be brutal, exhausting, loud, and probably short-lived. But if you were willing to get your hands dirty, it might just be fun.

It started out better than fun. It was electric. Your rhythm with the girls clicked instantly and it was clear they weren’t in it for just fun or quick cash. They were out to make noise, make change, and burn the whole scene down while they were at it. 

You brought Caitlyn into the fold when they needed a bassist, though she was hesitant to step into the spotlight. She agreed to join on one condition: anonymity. You made it happen. You built C.K. from the ground up, constructed her persona, masked her identity, and made her the most mysterious face in the genre. No one’s cracked it yet.

You pulled Sevika out of a failing band and got her to join without too much fuss. That alone earned you serious credit. Sevika doesn’t do petty drama, doesn’t do bullshit, and definitely doesn’t like being handled. But she trusts you. They all do. And they should. You’re the spine of Hotwired. You take care of the money, the contracts, the schedule, the messes they leave behind. You make sure the machine keeps running and that the engine never burns out.

You’ve made a name for yourself in this business. People know better than to try and lowball your artists or waste your time. Other bands keep you on retainer just to negotiate their tours. 

But you stay with Hotwired. This band is yours. And maybe that has something to do with Violet Lanes, lead guitarist and walking temptation. You’ve been tangled up with her for almost a year now. There’s no label, no public declaration, and no press leaks. It’s a secret, for now. One that works. Sort of.

It started at a wrap party. Just one of the many half-organized, fully unhinged celebrations the band liked to throw after a successful leg of touring or the end of a video shoot. 

A handful of close friends, the crew, and the few trusted people under NDA who were allowed to look Caitlyn in the face. There was good booze, bad lighting, and music blasting from a Bluetooth speaker someone forgot to charge. It wasn’t glamorous. None of their parties ever were. But it was loud, it was fun, and you let yourself unwind a little. For once.

Vi had been watching you all night. You’d felt it in the way her gaze clung a second too long, in how her laughter got louder whenever you were nearby. 

You weren’t exactly blind to her, either. She looked good. Messy pink hair, eyeliner smudged from the heat, tank top sticking to her chest. She was holding a red cup and leaning against the wall like she was trying to look casual, but it wasn’t hard to see through her. She wanted you to notice. You did.

The touches started as slow, harmless things. A hand grazing your lower back as she passed. The brief brush of fingers when she handed you a drink. It built in the spaces between words and glances until the tension stopped feeling subtle and started to feel like something alive. The two of you slipped out without much fanfare. Her car was parked around the corner, windows tinted, backseat big enough. You’d barely closed the door before her mouth was on yours.

It was supposed to be a one-time thing. You were both buzzed on whiskey and adrenaline, and nobody said anything about seeing each other again. But you did. Again and again. Late nights in hotel rooms. Quickies in dressing rooms with your hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. Her name in your phone saved as something boring. A recurring thing. A routine. A secret.

And that was the problem.

It’s unprofessional. You know that. She knows that. You’re her manager, and managers don’t fuck their talent. Not if they want to keep their reputations clean. Not if they want to avoid HR disasters or bloodthirsty tabloids. But it’s not just that. Vi’s publicist—some smug asshole from her label who thinks he invented branding—made it painfully clear that her appeal is built on sex and availability. She’s not supposed to be anyone’s. That’s the fantasy. A girl like Vi Lanes doesn’t settle down. She tempts. She teases. She performs.

Which means this—whatever this is—has to stay behind closed doors. No slip-ups, no PDA, no getting caught. Not that it’s easy. Vi’s never been particularly good at doing what she’s told.

Your phone buzzes against the glass table beside your laptop. You glance over, already knowing who it is from the contact photo alone—a blurry picture of Vi flipping off the camera while mid-laugh, pink hair catching the sunlight, middle finger painted black. You answer it without thinking.

"Hey, Boss."

Her voice has that usual lilt to it, all lazy mischief and unspoken suggestion. It grates on your nerves in the way only she can manage. You lean back in your chair, clicking your pen shut and tossing it onto a notepad full of half-legible scribbles. "You only call me that when you want something."

"That’s not true," she says, but it absolutely is. "Sometimes I call you that when I’m thinking about you. Which is, like, all the time."

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrays you with a twitch. “What do you want, Vi?”

“Dinner. With me. Tonight.” There’s the brief sound of a lighter clicking, a slow exhale on the other end. She smokes too much when she’s bored. “I’m making that thing you like. With the spicy oil and the noodles.”

“You hate cooking.”

“Yeah, well, I hate a lot of things. But I like you. So.” Another puff. “Come over.”

You glance at the time. It’s barely past three. “You’re back in town already? Vegas not offer enough stimulation for you?”

Vi laughs, low and warm and just a little rough. “Vegas was a blur. Got proposed to a bunch I’m pretty sure I gambled away a small fortune. That was the highlight. No offense to the city of sin, but I missed you.”

Your stomach does that stupid little flip it always does when she says shit like that. “Is that right?”

“Dead serious,” she says. “You’re the only stimulation I need, baby.”

You exhale through your nose, already standing to grab your keys off the counter. “You’re disgusting.”

“And yet, you’re coming over.”

You don’t bother denying it. “Yeah. I’m coming over.”

Vi hums her approval. “Knew I could count on you. I’ll have wine ready.”

“Don’t drink it all before I get there,” you warn.

“No promises,” she says, laughing. 

—

You pull into Vi’s driveway just as the sky starts its descent into gold. You know the way by heart. The sensor lights flick on before your foot even hits the step, and you don’t bother with the doorbell. Vi gave up on coming to greet you at the front door every time a while ago.

You kick your shoes off in the foyer, leaving them in the haphazard pile already there. The house smells like garlic and something rich, spicy. You hear the low hiss of a pan and follow the sound, feet padding over hardwood and past the framed gold records and chaotic art she’s nailed directly into the walls.

She’s in the kitchen, standing at the stove in a loose black tank and those threadbare sweatpants she frequents at home. There’s a towel slung over her shoulder and her hair’s half up, slightly damp like she showered not long ago. The sleeves of tattoos peeking out under the hem of her shirt look darker than usual, saturated in the evening light and soft sweat.

Vi turns when she hears you enter. That easy grin stretches across her face, sharp and crooked. “Hey, you.”

“Hey yourself.” You cross the kitchen slowly, with clear intent.

You slide your hands around her waist without hesitation, palms settling low on her hips. She’s warm and solid under your touch. Your lips find the space just beneath her jaw, pressing in gently, breathing her in. She tilts her head for you, and you kiss her mouth next, slow and familiar.

Vi smiles against your lips, then pulls away with one last peck. “I already poured your wine,” she says, jerking her head toward the counter. “Go on, sit. Let me cook for you, will you?”

You take her in for a beat longer before moving to grab the glass, leaning against the island to watch her work. You know better than to argue when she’s like this. Comfortable in her home, in her skin, in the rhythm of a domestic moment she’d once sworn wasn’t her thing.

And maybe it still isn’t. But she lets it be with you.

Vi moves easily around the kitchen, shifting a pan with practiced flicks of her wrist, tossing in a handful of basil like she’s done this a hundred times before. You sip at the wine she poured for you, content to let the soft sounds of sizzling garlic and her low hum fill the space.

“You cook like this for all your hookups?” you ask lightly, tracing the rim of your glass with one finger.

Vi smirks without looking up. “Only the ones who handle my tour schedule and have full access to my financials.”

You huff a laugh. “Careful, Lanes. You’re starting to sound a little clingy..”

She tosses you a look over her shoulder, eyes bright and teasing. “You’re the one who came all this way just to see me. Don’t act like I’m the clingy one.”

“Mm. You called me.”

“Touché.”

She sets the sauce to simmer and wipes her hands on the towel slung over her shoulder. Then she’s crossing the space between you, slow and deliberate, until she’s standing between your knees. Her hands slide up your thighs and rest just beneath the hem of your shirt.

“I missed you,” she says, the teasing edge gone from her voice. “More than I probably should have.”

You look up at her, searching her face for the sincerity you already know is there. “Yeah?”

Vi nods and leans in to kiss you again, mouth warm and familiar. She takes her time with it, lips parting just enough to pull a small sound from you. When she pulls back, her voice is low. “Thought about you every damn day.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Prove it.”

Vi’s smile shifts into something eager, almost conspiratorial. Her hands are already at your waistband, fingers deftly unbuttoning your pants. You lift your hips without hesitation, letting her ease them down just enough to expose the tops of your thighs and the line of your underwear.

She sinks to her knees, hands running up and down your bare skin with a reverence that borders on obscene. She drags your pants the rest of the way down as she goes. “You wanna know how I got through those long nights in Vegas?”

You open your mouth to answer, but the words catch when she leans in and presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss against the inside of your thigh. Then another, closer to where you’re already aching for her. Her hands settle on your hips, firm and grounding.

“Thought about this,” she murmurs against your skin. “The way you taste, the way you sound when I get you worked up, how fuckin’ mean you get. Drove myself crazy.”

Another kiss lands over the damp heat of your underwear, sloppy and lingering. She noses along the seam, breathing you in with a low, satisfied hum that vibrates right through your core. You thread your fingers into her hair, heart pounding against your ribs.

Vi doesn’t wait for permission. She never does. She slips your panties to the side with two fingers and dives in with a moan that vibrates through your core. 

Her mouth is hot, sloppy, ravenous. She licks you like she missed you more than she can admit, like she needs this to live. Her tongue slides through your folds, her nose bumping against your clit as she moans into you.

You lean back on your elbows, watching her work, your fingers already tangling in her hair. She’s making a mess of you, wet sounds filling the kitchen as she devours you with single-minded focus.

"Is that really your best?" you ask, voice cool. You yank her head back by the hair just enough to look into her eyes. "Because right now? It feels lazy."

Vi pants against you, cheeks flushed, lips wet. "Fuck you."

"Not until you earn it."

You push her head back down and grind against her mouth. She whines, but she doesn’t resist. Your fingers tighten in her hair, holding her exactly where you want her. You set the pace, fucking her mouth until she starts doing better, until those moans turn broken and bleed into helpless whimpers.

She tries to tease you again, tongue slowing just a little, testing your patience. That earns her a sharp pull to the scalp and a withering look from you. It clearly only serves to turn her on more. "You want to be difficult? Fine. I'll finish without you."

Vi whimpers.

"Then stop fucking around."

She snaps back to it, tongue moving fast and purposeful, sucking your clit between her lips like she finally remembers what you like. Her hands grip your thighs tighter now, grounding herself as you pull her even closer. Her mouth is filthy, her moans desperate. You're right there, and she knows it. You feel her murmuring against you, hot, broken pleas that only make your release come faster.

When you come, it’s with your head thrown back and a hand fisted tight in Vi's hair. She keeps her mouth on you the whole time, letting you ride out every last wave, only stopping when your thighs start to tremble from overstimulation.

You pull her back by the hair, slowly. She’s flushed, mouth shiny, eyes hazy. You rub your thumb over her spit-slick bottom lip.

"Now that," you say, breathless, "was better."

Vi looks wrecked. She grins anyway. "Told you I missed you."

You lean down and kiss her hard, tasting yourself on her lips, claiming her in every sense of the word.

Vi stands on trembling legs as you instruct her to get back to dinner; you slip your underwear back into place and pull your pants up without bothering to button them. They’ll be right back off in a few minutes anyway, so there’s really no need. 

And that’s how it is between the two of you sometimes: sex, a nice dinner and the time simply melting away. 

Sometimes, though, it’s much riskier.

—

It’s been a long shoot day. You’ve been managing half a dozen people, answering too many questions, reviewing footage, and trying to make sure everything runs on schedule. And then there’s Vi.

Vi, who keeps casting you smug little smirks between takes. Who "accidentally" misses her marks. Who saunters up to you every time the cameras stop rolling just to press a kiss to your cheek when she knows damn well she shouldn’t be touching you in public. 

Vi, who’s sitting in the makeup chair now and spinning slowly, round and round, kicking her boots against the wood like a kid who’s just discovered what being annoying can get her. You’re doing your best to ignore her antics, you easily bury yourself in the countless emails you’ve got.

"You know, Boss," she says, real casual, like she hasn’t been grating your last nerve since lunch. “You look real tense. Want me to rub your shoulders? Or ride your face? I’m generous like that.”

You level a look at her. Vi grins.

She’s testing you. She’s been testing you all damn day. And you’ve been good. You’ve been so good. Because there are cameras. There are stylists and lighting techs and assistants. Because you’ve got to be the responsible one. But now you’re alone in the dressing room while everyone’s setting up the next scene, and she’s still talking.

“I mean, I’m just saying,” Vi adds, standing from the chair and stretching in that deliberately slow way she does, arms above her head, tank top riding up just enough to show off the waistband of her boxers. “If you’re so stressed, I could help.”

You cross the room slowly, watching her eyes light up when she realizes she’s finally pushed you far enough.

“Hands on the dresser,” you say quietly, firmly. “Bend over.”

For a moment, she doesn’t move. But you can see it: the way her throat bobs when she swallows. The slight shift in her stance like her body’s already heating up, anticipating what’s coming.

Then Vi obeys. And it’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen.

She plants her hands against the vanity, arching her back just slightly. She looks at you in the mirror, eyes wide and a little smug. “This better not fuck up my makeup,” she says, but it’s breathless. You take a slow step behind her and press a hand between her shoulder blades, making her fold more fully over the dresser.

“You should’ve thought about your makeup,” you murmur, voice low and sharp, “before you spent the last four hours acting like a spoiled little brat.”

Vi shivers. Her smirk falters just a little, and you catch the way her fingers tighten against the wood.

“I wasn’t that bad.”

You lean down, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“Don’t lie to me now. You begged for this.”

You curl your fingers into the waistband of Vi’s sweats and yank them down to mid-thigh, her boxers caught in the same tug. She gasps softly, biting down on the inside of her cheek as the cold air licks at her skin. Her ass is already pink from the spanking, a delicious contrast to the black ink of her thigh tattoos and the tension in her frame.

“Hands flat, feet planted,” you murmur, close to her ear. “And stay quiet.”

“Not really my forte,” she says, voice shaking just enough to betray her anticipation.

Your fingers skim the crease where her thigh meets her pelvis, careful not to give her what she wants. Not yet. Vi’s hips twitch. She’s always like this: bratty, stubborn, aching to be broken down and remade in your hands. You trail one hand over the curve of her ass, squeeze, then slap hard enough to make her jolt and groan.

“This what you’ve been acting up for?” you ask.

“No,” she says, the word tinged in amusement. 

You slap her again, harder this time. She gasps, but holds her place.

“You sure? Because I can keep going like this until your knees give out.”

She moans quietly, pressing her forehead to the mirror. “Yes, fuck, fine. You’re just too put together all the time. Somebody’s gotta loosen you up.”

You hum, finally letting your fingers drift between her thighs. She’s soaked. You drag two fingers through it, not slipping inside—just letting the slickness coat your fingertips. Her thighs quiver as you bump her clit and just as quickly retreat.

“Of course you’re dripping. All it takes is a little discipline, huh?”

Vi whimpers, turning her head so she can see you over her shoulder. “Please.”

“Please what?”

She tries to grind her hips back into your touch, but you quickly correct the behavior with another hard swat at her ass. Her hips still and she makes a small, desperate sound. She knows, just like you do, that you don’t have a lot of time.

“Don’t be an asshole,” Vi says, voice bordering on petulant. “You know what I want. Pretty sure you want it, too.”

“Is that how we ask for things?” You lean in to whisper it in her ear and revel in the way they go a little pink at the tips. You circle her clit in slow, lazy circles and watch as she fights not to keep her hips still. “I don’t know how long you plan to keep playing this little game, but we don’t have forever.”

“Oh my god, fuck off,” she says instantly. Like reflex. Then, she seems to think better of it. “...Fuck me with your fingers…please. I’ll be on my best fuckin’ behavior.”

Normally, you would drag it out considerably more. It’s a true joy to reduce a woman so frequently larger than life to a crying, begging mess. But, simply put, there isn't time. “I’ll remember your poor manners for later,” you promise. 

You press two fingers inside her without another word. Her head falls forward, a raw moan escaping her lips. You curl your fingers just right and start working her over with steady, relentless precision. Vi clings to the dresser like it’s the only thing keeping her upright, panting and trying so hard to stay quiet like you told her to.

“That’s it,” you mutter. “That’s what you get when you behave.”

She nods, breathless, hips rocking back to meet every thrust. You reach around with your other hand, thumb circling her clit in slow, tight strokes. Vi’s legs shake under her and her voice starts to slip past her lips in soft, gasped whimpers.

“Such a mess for me,” you murmur. “You like when I fuck the attitude out of you, don’t you?”

“Y-yeah,” she breathes, so close. “I love it.”

You’re well and truly fucking your fingers into her, basking in every little punched out moan you pull from her . Vi is so close she’s shaking, her knees barely holding her up, hips rolling back into your touch with frantic rhythm. Her breaths are short and ragged, her hands pressed flat to the dresser just like you told her.

“Please,” she whispers, voice cracking. “Please, baby, I’m right there.”

“I know,” you murmur, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You’re doing so well.”

She shudders under your praise, body tightening like a bowstring.

Then—

A knock. Sharp. Followed by a voice from the other side of the dressing room door.

“Vi? We need you on set in five. Are you almost ready?”

You freeze, fingers still snug inside her, the pad of your thumb barely hovering over her clit. Vi lets out a strangled sound, somewhere between a whine and a sob, her forehead dropping against the mirror.

You push your fingers in slow, letting Vi feel the stretch. It’s clear she’s letting herself get lost in it, completely ignoring the person just on the other side of the door. And you can’t have anyone getting suspicious.

“She asked you a question,” you say, quiet and cold.

Vi grits her teeth, her hips stuttering against the building pressure. “Be—” Her voice cracks and she tries again, shakier this time. “Be right there!”

“Good girl.” Your fingers curl inside her, your thumb making tight, fast circles across her clit. You watch the way she arches into the touch, the pants falling free from her lips. She jerks forward, biting down on her own forearm to muffle the scream building in her throat.

She comes like that, trembling and desperate and completely at your mercy, her entire body contracting around your fingers as she lets the orgasm crash over her in trembling silence.

“Now get back to work,” you say, pulling her pants back up over her ass. “Swing by my place when you’re done.”

Vi turns and wraps her arms around your waist. “You’re leaving?” She asks, voice soft around the edges. And she’s looking into your eyes like a lost puppy. It really is unbearably cute. 

“Yep. I’m gonna lay across my bed, fully naked and fuck myself open until you get there,” you answer. You watch as her face flushes, a grin breaking out across her lips. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll have forgiven you by then.” It’s a lie and you both know it. 

“Can’t wait,” Vi says, capturing your lips in a lingering kiss. 

—

It’s not often that Vi asks for anything plainly. She’s all suggestive comments and lazy assumptions, convinced she doesn’t need to beg because you’ll always end up giving her what she wants anyway. But a few days before the show, she calls you directly and there’s something in her voice that sets her apart from every other interaction you’ve had.

“I want you to come,” she says. No slyness, no teasing. Just raw honesty. “It’s a big night. I want you there.”

It isn’t even a choice. You say yes before she’s even done talking.

Now you’re backstage, leaning against the cool cement wall just a few feet off the wings of the stage. The house lights are dimming, the crowd of fans beyond the curtains an endless sea of bodies, their buzz already palpable, vibrating in your teeth and your chest. You can hear them shouting, stamping, calling for the band to come out like they’ve all been waiting a lifetime.

Your arms are crossed loosely, but your attention is razor-sharp, zeroed in on the movement near the far side of the stage. Vi appears first, guitar already strapped over her shoulder, the stage lights catching the glint of her chains, the shocking pink of her tousled hair. She’s dressed like she always is for these moments: low-slung jeans with the waistband of her boxers proudly on display, a tank top that clings to her frame, showing off her tattoos, the view entirely indecent.

The applause hits as soon as she steps into the light, deafening and almost aggressive. Your pulse responds accordingly, as if your body is feeding off the crowd's energy by proxy.

Sevika saunters out next, twirling a drumstick between her fingers. C.K. emerges from the opposite side, mask already in place, head down, shoulders set in that quiet intensity she carries like a second skin. And then Jinx, of course, skipping out like a bomb with a pulled pin, grinning from ear to ear, hands raised like she’s blessing her congregation.

Vi’s the last to approach the mic, the rest of the band already in position. She doesn’t speak right away. Just stands there, letting the frenzy of the audience wash over her. She looks out into the darkness like she can see the faces of every single person that got them here, that packed this place wall to wall just for them.

When she finally speaks, her voice is a low purr that still carries through the mic, dripping with casual charm. “Happy fucking anniversary, huh?”

The crowd screams back their approval, a wall of sound.

“You know full well who the fuck we are,” Jinx says, riding the wave Vi’s started. “It’s been a long journey to get this here. If you would’ve told baby Jinx and Vi that one day they’d be playing sold out shows, I would’ve laughed in your face. Hard.” There’s a ripple of cheers and laughter; Jinx always lights up under the attention. “But here we are! And, boy, have we got a show for you!”

“Wouldn’t wanna do it with anyone else, sis,” Vi says, yanking Jinx into a hug that seems to take her totally by surprise. You see a million cameras flash to capture the moment. 

Vi releases her sister and hustles back to her spot.

You watch her in profile as she slings her guitar into place. She looks good under the lights, the lean cut of her arms, the practiced ease of her hands on the strings. You know those hands in other contexts, on your body, in your mouth, curled tight in your hair. You think about the way her voice sounds when she’s right against your ear, the way she begs and whines. You think about how tonight, after the show, she’ll be buzzing from the high of the stage, desperate to blow off steam, and you’ll be more than happy to give her that outlet. You’ll remind her who keeps her grounded.

The music kicks in, hard and fast, a thrumming bassline that reverberates straight through the soles of your feet. Vi tears into the first riff, her body moving with the rhythm like it’s muscle memory, like her guitar is just another extension of herself. She’s in her element here, head tilted back, eyes hooded, hair falling wild around her face.

And she knows exactly where you are. She steals glances between verses, finds you in the dark, mouth curling into a smirk when your eyes meet. It’s a look you’ve seen a hundred times before in hotel rooms and greenrooms and the backseat of her car. It says tonight’s yours, boss, just you wait.

Jinx is spinning across the stage, climbing on amps, nearly eating it twice but catching herself with the same chaotic grace that keeps the crowd glued to her every erratic movement. Sevika’s arms are steady and brutal on the kit, her gaze flicking to C.K. now and then to keep the unspoken communication alive between drummer and bassist. The whole band moves like one organism, electric and loud and so goddamn alive.

You lean against the wall and let yourself enjoy it. The show. The music. The certainty that later, when the lights come down and the last encore is played, Vi will find you, still flushed with adrenaline, and drag you somewhere dark and private.

You think about the things she’ll beg for, the things she’ll call you when she forgets herself completely.

The lights go up and the crowd is still roaring, but backstage the energy has already begun to settle into that warm, post-show haze. The band filters off one by one, each of them slick with sweat, drunk on adrenaline but grinning ear to ear. You’re waiting just inside the hallway, the pulse of the venue still thudding faintly through the walls, your body practically humming from proximity alone.

Jinx finds you first, bounding over and throwing her arms around your shoulders, still vibrating like she’s got electricity running under her skin. “We fuckin’ killed that, huh?”

You chuckle, steadying her before she can knock you both over. “You killed it, Jinx. Don’t let it go to your head, though.”

“Too late!” She’s already peeling off toward the rest of the crew, tossing waves and blowing kisses, basking in the last dregs of applause.

Sevika brushes past next, towel slung over her shoulder, the collar of her shirt stretched from yanking it off during the encore. She pauses just long enough to nudge your arm with a fist. “You sticking around for the after-party?”

“Doubt it,” you reply, already anticipating the real reason you’re not staying. “I’ve got other plans.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Sevika snorts, but there’s no malice in it. She moves on, calling after Jinx.

Caitlyn walks by with her mask already off, face flushed from the heat but collected as always. She offers a small smile and a quiet, “Good to see you,” before following the others.

You’re scanning the crowd for Vi when your phone buzzes in your pocket. One look and your stomach flips.

Vi: wanna get outta here? wait by my car. Vi: wanna put my mouth on you already

You huff out a breath and pocket your phone, weaving your way toward the back exit. No one pays you much attention. That’s the point. You leave first, like you always do, and wait in the shadow of Vi’s black muscle car parked just outside the artist entrance.

It only takes a couple of minutes before you hear her boots on the pavement. She rounds the corner, jacket slung over her shoulder, damp hair pushed back, still flushed from the show. She sees you waiting and grins wide and cocky, like she’s already won.

Then she’s on you.

Vi crowds you against the car without hesitation, her mouth slanting over yours before you can get a word out. She kisses like she plays—hungry, all teeth and tongue, hands bracketing your hips before sliding lower, her fingers skimming beneath the hem of your shirt like she’s already claiming the skin beneath.

You make the mistake of moaning into her mouth, which only encourages her. Her hands go bolder, squeezing your ass, grinding her hips forward like she can’t even be bothered to wait until you’re somewhere private.

You break the kiss with a gasp, lips wet, still panting into her mouth. “Vi—”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Get in the fucking car,” you order, voice low and tight. “Get us home. I’m sick of waiting.”

Vi grins, cocky and unrepentant. “Yes, ma’am.”

She presses one last kiss to your jaw, all mock sweetness, before finally pulling back to open the door. You’re already sliding into the passenger seat, pulse racing, thighs pressed tight together.

The second the door clicks shut behind you, Vi's on you again—grabbing at your hips, trying to crowd you against the wall. But you’re quicker, stronger when she’s all pliant for you. You spin her, pressing her back to the door with a heavy thud, one hand wrapping around her throat, the other braced above her head.

Her breath catches, pupils blown wide already, that signature grin starting to creep back. She loves when you catch her like this—when you remind her who she belongs to. She tests your grip anyway, dragging her hands under your shirt, cool fingers skating up your sides.

You tighten your grip just slightly, enough to get your point across. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Vi swallows hard, her hands freezing. “Yes, ma’am.”

You lean in close, just enough for her to feel the heat of your breath on her lips without the satisfaction of a kiss. Then you step back and nod toward the stairs. “Upstairs. Now.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice. She practically jogs up the stairs, the sound of her boots thudding against each step, and you follow at a more deliberate pace. You want her flustered. You want her desperate.

When you reach the bedroom, she’s already standing there waiting, practically vibrating. You take a seat on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide, and tilt your chin up at her.

“Undress,” you tell her, voice level, commanding. “Here.”

She steps between your legs without hesitation, standing right where you want her. Her eyes don’t leave yours as she peels off her jacket and tosses it aside. Then she grips the hem of her shirt, pulling it off slow, all the while rolling her hips just a little—like she’s still on stage performing for a crowd.

It’s all for you.

She shimmies out of her jeans next, dragging them down with a little wiggle of her hips, bare legs flexing as she steps out of them. She kicks them away carelessly, left only in her boxers and the sports bra clinging to her chest. The ink of her tattoos stands out stark against her flushed skin.

She hooks her thumbs in her waistband, pausing, watching your face like she’s waiting to see if you’ll crack.

You don’t. You keep your face steady, unimpressed, though your pulse is already hammering in your throat.

“Don’t stop on my account,” you murmur.

Vi grins as she peels her boxers down her thighs, slow enough to tease, dragging the soft fabric over the curve of her ass and the muscles of her legs. She kicks them aside and stands fully naked between your legs, shoulders back like she’s showing off. She is.

Her body’s already warm with color, her skin flushed with anticipation. She knows she’s gorgeous like this—cocky and unashamed—but still, her eyes flick to yours, looking for that flicker of approval.

You don’t give it to her yet. You keep your face even, one eyebrow ticking up like you’re still deciding if she’s done well enough. She squirms just a little under your gaze, her hands twitching at her sides, like she doesn’t know where to put them.

“Like what you see?” she asks, voice breathy and rougher than she probably intended. There’s a wobble under the playfulness, like she can’t quite keep herself steady under your attention.

You hum, eyes dragging over every inch of her, slow and deliberate. You take your bottom lip between your teeth, letting it catch there as you admire her. “You know I do, baby,” you tell her, voice soft and warm, full of the kind of honesty that always gets under her skin. “You’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen.”

That earns you a flush that creeps from her chest to her cheeks. She looks away, fussing with her hair, trying to act like it’s no big deal, but the nervous habit betrays her. She always does this when she doesn’t know what to do with your sincerity. You smile, fond, as you stand and gesture to the bed. “C’mere and lay down for me.”

Vi obeys without argument, grinning like she’s still got the upper hand, like she thinks she knows exactly where this is headed. She drops onto the bed with a satisfying bounce, stretching out like she’s expecting to be pampered. She props herself up on her elbows to keep you in view, her eyes hungry as they follow your every movement.

You strip slowly, letting her watch the reveal of your skin piece by piece, each discarded item joining the pile she left behind. The room feels thick with it now. Anticipation, tension, want that neither of you have bothered to hide.

By the time you’re climbing onto the mattress, her eyes have darkened considerably. That smirk she wears, the one that always promises trouble, starts to waver when you settle between her thighs and start dragging your palms up the length of her legs, parting them just enough to make her breath catch.

“I’ve been thinking about this all night. Having you under me like this,” you murmur, lips brushing over the jut of her hip. Your teeth scrape lightly against her skin, just enough to sting. “You gonna be good?”

She shivers beneath you, muscles twitching. “Yeah,” she whispers, throat bobbing on the swallow.

You close your mouth around her, finding her already so wet from just the anticipation of what you’re going to do for her. You start out with long, deliberate licks, unhurried, savoring her. It barely takes anything rile Vi up. You mouth at her clit until she’s moaning, hips lifting to chase your mouth. 

The sounds she makes are soft at first, the occasional gasp, a breathy curse, but the longer you tease, the more she squirms. You feel it, every little tremble in her thighs, every sharp inhale when you get too close to the spot she wants most.

Just when her breathing picks up, when her body starts to shake in that telltale way that means she’s close, you pull back. She lets out a broken, frustrated groan, her head dropping back onto the bed, fists curling tight in the sheets.

“You’re fucking evil,” she huffs, panting, her voice ragged.

You smirk, nails dragging lightly down the inside of her thighs, leaving trails of flushed skin in your wake. “You know what to do if you want it.”

Vi whines, twisting beneath you, eyes pleading. You watch in vague amusement as she bites the inside of her cheek; she always pretends to hate this part but you can see the shift in her. The way her breathing speeds up, the way her fingers twitch to touch you. “Please,” she gasps, finally. “With sugar on top,” she can’t help but add. Anything to lessen the suffocating pleasure.

You lap lazily at her again, slow enough to make her sob. “No. Be patient or I stop,” you warn, voice low and firm, even as you keep her right there, straddling the edge.

By the time you work her up again, she’s shaking so hard it’s a wonder she hasn’t snapped already. Her hips stutter, trying to fuck your mouth on instinct, and her hands fly to her hair, tugging, like she can ground herself with the pain.

“Hold it,” you repeat, firmer now, when you feel that pulse under your tongue.

“I can’t,” she whimpers, nearly crying with it. “Please, I can’t—I’m so close.”

“Ask me nicely.”

Her breathing stutters, and her hands clench tighter in her hair. When she looks down at you, her eyes are wet, shining with need. “Please, please let me come. I’ll be good, I’ll be so fucking good for you. Just let me have it, I need you so bad, please.”

That does it. You grin against her, finally satisfied. “Good job,” you say, entirely patronizing and smug. “You can come.”

She allows herself to grind her cunt against your eager tongue with reckless abandon, her mouth falling open to mutter and whine words that slur together. 

Her whole body goes taut, back arching high off the bed before collapsing again. She shudders through it, loud and filthy, her hips jerking helplessly with every flick of your tongue until she’s boneless, gasping, thoroughly spent.

You press a kiss to Vi’s thigh, then another higher up, lips dragging over sweat-slick skin. She’s still trembling, still catching her breath, but the look she gives you is nothing short of starved.

You hum, pleased with her wrecked state, and crawl up the length of her body until you’re nose to nose. She’s flushed and sweaty, lips kiss-bitten, eyes heavy-lidded but still burning for more.

“You earned yourself a reward,” you murmur, brushing your mouth against hers, not quite kissing yet. “You want it, baby?”

Vi nods without hesitation, swallowing thickly. “'Course I do.”

You cock your head, smiling faintly. “You wanna fuck me? Or do you want me to fuck you?”

She grabs weakly at your waist like she’d drag you down right now if she could. “Need you to fuck me,” she whispers, voice hoarse. “I wanna be full. Need it rough, boss.”

There’s something sweet in the way she asks, even when she’s desperate for it. You kiss her, slow but heavy, your tongue sweeping into her mouth until she’s gasping into it. “Good girl,” you praise, just before you pull back. “Hold tight.”

You slide off the bed, naked and still flushed from everything that’s come before. Vi watches you, gaze tracking your every movement as you cross the room to where you keep the harness stashed.

She licks her lips when you pull it on, adjusting the straps snugly against your hips. She can’t tear her eyes away once you’re fully strapped in, her chest rising and falling faster just at the sight.

Once you’re back in bed, you stretch out on your back and gesture her closer with a crook of your finger. “C’mere. On top.”

Vi wastes no time shifting on the bed, straddling your waist with that crooked grin you love so much. But there’s something softer beneath the bravado—a tremble in her thighs, the way her breath hitches as she lowers herself until her cunt brushes against the silicone. You let your hands roam up the backs of her thighs, slow and easy, feeling the way her muscles twitch under your palms.

“Wanna make sure you’re ready,” you tell her, your voice a low rumble meant just for her. You slip a hand between her legs, fingers gliding easily through the wet mess she’s already made. She’s soaked, your name practically written between her legs, but you slide two fingers in anyway, curling them just right, feeling the way she clamps down instantly.

Vi lets out a guttural moan, bracing her hands on your chest, hips rolling in little needy circles. “More,” she pants. “Fuck, I want more.”

You oblige her, working her open with your fingers, slow but firm, making sure she feels every inch of it. She whines, hips canting down, desperate for more friction, more stretch, more of anything you’ll give her.

“You sure you’re ready?” you ask, though your cock is already slicked with her, lined up and pulsing with anticipation.

“Yes,” she growls, practically shaking, “fuck me.” She pauses for a moment and then, remembering her manners, adds, "Please."

You grin and guide her hips, holding steady as she sinks down, slow at first. She lets out a strangled sound, breath stuttering, eyes fluttering shut as she takes you deeper.

Vi tries to take control, riding you with all that bratty confidence still clinging to her, her hands braced on your stomach for leverage. She bounces on your cock with a sharp rhythm, panting hard, her face scrunched up in concentration like she’s determined to make a show of it.

But it doesn’t last. She starts to falter, hips shaking, pace stuttering every time she sinks too deep. The slick drag of her pussy around you gets messier, louder, and her thighs are already trembling like she’s barely holding herself up.

You grin, watching her struggle, hands resting lazily on her hips. “What’s the matter, baby? That all you’ve got? Thought you were gonna show me how bad you needed it.”

She lets out a whimper, trying to keep moving, but she’s uncoordinated and desperate, eyes squeezed shut. You let her flail for a few more seconds before you’ve had enough.

Your hands clamp down on her hips, hard enough to bruise, and you start fucking up into her, heavy, punishing thrusts that drive her right back into the mattress with every bounce.

Vi cries out, head dropping back, mouth open and sloppy sounds pouring out without shame. Every sharp snap of your hips has her yelping, her whole body rocking with the force of it.

“That’s better,” you murmur, voice thick with hunger. “This is the Vi no one else gets to see, huh? Everybody out there thinks you’re so dangerous. Hotwired’s wild little guitarist. But here you are—my pretty little pet.”

She moans high and breathy, nails digging into your ribs, but she doesn’t deny it. Can’t.

“You beg to come for me. Make those pretty fucking noises for me. You’re lucky I’m the only one who knows what a mess you really are.”

Vi’s hips are jerking, erratic, like she’s caught between trying to meet your thrusts and just taking it, letting you use her how you want. She’s babbling now, gasped little pleas, your name in a shaky loop, spit pooling in the corners of her mouth.

“You look so fucking pretty like this, baby. Like you’re made to take it. That right?”

“Yeah,” she gasps, barely audible. “Fuck, yeah—please, I can’t—”

“Oh, you can,” you croon, fucking her harder, deeper, the wet sound of her pussy getting louder with each thrust. “You’re gonna take every fucking inch until I say you’re done.”

Vi shatters then, body locking up with a wrecked sob as she clamps down around you, her climax ripping through her so violently it sends her whole body shaking. You don’t stop. You fuck her through it, driving her higher until she’s gone glassy-eyed, until every cry from her mouth is half-formed and breathless.

The rest of the night barely feels real. You don’t let up on her, not for a second, keeping Vi pinned under you or in your lap, tangled in the sheets and each other until the sky outside the window starts to pale with the earliest morning light.

At some point, bodies sore and spent, you both finally crash in the mess of the bed, limbs locked together, your breath still mingling. She whispers something sweet to you, something warm and quiet and meant just for this private space between you, but you’re too far gone, too comfortable to hold onto the exact words. You just know it felt good to hear.

It's morning now, the both of you in the tub, the heat of the water doing its best to soothe the ache deep in your muscles. Vi’s pressed to your side, thigh over yours, idly toying with the wet ends of your hair while you lazily glide a washcloth over her shoulder and down her arm. The two of you trade sleepy barbs, teasing over who wore the other out more, Vi insisting it wasn't your 'best work', even though the bruises on her hips say otherwise.

It’s soft. Easy. Like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

Then Vi’s phone starts buzzing on the tile floor. She groans, stretching just far enough to snag it, drying off her hand on the nearby towel before answering and switching it to speaker.

“What?”

“Bitch!” Jinx’s voice comes through loud and shrill, her tone somewhere between delighted and scandalized. “How the fuck did you manage to keep a secret relationship from me? From us?! I thought we told each other everything!”

Vi barks a laugh, her brows furrowing together in obvious confusion. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you and our fucking manager! You’ve been bumping uglies this whole time and didn’t say shit! How long has this been going on?! Sevika says she’s known for months. Cait won’t confirm, but she sounded real smug about it. I feel fucking betrayed!”

You sit up straight, heart dropping into your stomach, already reaching for your phone on instinct. You unlock it, pull up your socials—and sure enough, your feed is flooded.

Pictures. Dozens of them. Of you and Vi at the car after the show, all over each other, making out like the world wasn’t watching. Multiple angles. The articles have already spun it up—Hotwired’s Violet Lanes Spotted in Secret Relationship with Band Manager! Is Our Rebel Girl Finally Settling Down?

“Fuck,” you whisper, scrolling fast, your pulse spiking. “Vi, we’re fucked.”

“Speak for yourself,” Vi chuckles, looking over your shoulder at the screen, completely unbothered. “I think we look hot.”

Taglist (lmk if u wanna be added!!): @izzy-sevika, @shxdy0ariia, @sevikas-whore, @mcqueeferson, @ctrlaltedits, @riotstemple29

[shanastoryteller]

happy birthday!!! something Naruto please? love ur work <3 🌻🌻🌻🌻

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19

Fighting a demon container to exhaustion is impossible, of course, except by another demon container. Especially one with eight more tails to her name.

Eventually, Shukaku can't take it anymore and collapses back into himself. He shrinks down, retreating to the safety of the seal and leaving behind the too still body of Gaara. She only pauses long enough to check that he's breathing before she's running. The ANBU will find Gaara easily, or the Uchiha, or, she doesn't know, anyone who follows the very obvious path of destruction they left behind.

Naruto runs.

She retreats into the deepest parts of the woods, not bothering to fold the fox's chakra back because there's not much point in it. She finds a high branch, wide and sturdy enough to support her, and leans her back against the trunk and pulls her knees to her chest.

No one was ever supposed to know the truth of what she was.

Sasuke, of course, because she had no secrets from him. Sakura too, but that hadn't been as much of a risk because as prejudiced as civilians could be, they also didn't really understand what they were supposed to be afraid of and Sakura hadn't either with only the Academy's education.

And now everyone knew what she was. Half the village feared or hated her already and this meant the other half would too. Sure, the Uchiha would probably remain loyal even through this, and her friends probably would too.

But her and her imperfect seal were a threat to the safety of the village. It wouldn't matter how many times she explained that she could control it, that Kurama was as safely contained within her as ever, that the demonic chakra was under her command.

Her parents had never trusted her before. They won't start now.

She's well aware how her father handles threats to his village. She knows exactly where she falls on her father's list of priorities when it comes to keeping Konoha safe from the nine tailed demon and when it comes to protecting his daughter.

She wouldn't be a demon container in the first place if he had different priorities, after all.

There's weight on the branch in front of her and she hastily wipes her face. If she's to dragged back for, she doesn't know, trial, or something like it, although it'll all be a bit of a farce because everyone saw, then the least she can do is maintain some of her dignity.

A handkerchief appears in her vision.

She stares at it for a long moment before lifting her head up the rest of the way.

Orochimaru crouches on the branch in front of her. He's smiling.

"What do you want?" she asks. She wishes her voice didn't sound so rough.

"That was quite impressive," he says. "You've done a wonderful job modifying your seal."

She flinches. He'd known. When he touched her in her father's office, he'd known, and he hadn't said anything. He'd protected her secret. She repeats, "What do you want?"

He pushes the handkerchief closer towards her and she takes with an eyeroll. He waits for her to wipe her face before he says, "I too once found the village small minded and stifling. If you want to run, I have somewhere for you to go."

Naruto stares.

"Oto is lovely this time of year," he says, his grin an invitation for her to join in on the joke. He holds out his hand. "Would you like to see it?"

If she goes with Orochimaru, she'll be a missing nin. She'll be turning her back on all her friends, on her village, on everything she stands for.

If she goes with Orochimaru, she won't have to face her father's judgement.

She takes his hand.

[sevikaswinkinghole]

Nights Like This

NSFW

You and Sevika go out for date night drinks and dinner, but will Sev make it through the night with a vibrator inside her?

CW: afab!reader, pet names, mentions of reader on period, face riding, public sex, porn with very little plot, Sevika drinks but isn’t drunk

Word count: 2.4k

The dark of night peaked over the horizon outside of the large window you peered through. The golden amber and pink swirls of the sun setting added to the romantic aura of the jazz restaurant you sat in with your love next to you. It was date night for you and Sevika, and you suggested a new jazz club with raving reviews and a great wine menu.

The night was going perfectly so far, you sat in a dark booth near the back next to the window, had ample privacy, and a great view of the stage where a jazz band sat playing old hits and romantic ballads.

You hummed softly as you looked at the expansive menu, casually looking at the wine selection and caressing your girl’s trembling thigh. Sevika sat beside you with her head in her hands, thighs shaking under the table as she wiggled around uncomfortably. You bit back a smile as you opened your phone, trying to keep a neutral expression on your face while looking at the settings of the app controlling the vibrator inside Sevika. Your mind wandered back to a few hours ago…

⋆°•☁︎⋆

“Love, are you almost ready?” You called out, fixing your earrings and smoothing your dress out in the full length mirror in front of you. You wore a simple black satin midi dress, the softness of the fabric draping over your curves as you paired it with kitten heels and a striking red bag for a pop of color.

Sevika walked over from the other side of the room and admired your figure, her large flesh hand running over the soft fabric of your dress in adoration. You couldn’t help the flutter in your stomach at the sight of her in the mirror, she was truly a marvel to look at. She wore plain slacks and a matching black button up with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows to show off her muscular arms and freshly polished prosthetic. Her short hair covered her eyes as she brushed her knuckles against the smooth satin of your dress and pressed a gentle love filled kiss on your shoulder.

“Ready when you are doll, but,” She paused and picked up a small box off your shared dresser “Wanted to try this tonight..”

She held up a vibrator box in the mirror, the image on the front showing the shape of the phallic object. The oblong head was shaped like an egg, and it trailed off into a long tail with a smaller vibe at the tip of it. Sevika bought it during your last anniversary as a gag gift and you never had an opportunity to put it to use.

You glanced at the box and continued with fixing your outfit, trying to ignore the throbbing heat that began between your thighs. “I came on my period this evening hun, I’d make a mess all over the restaurant..” your words trail off as you spin around in Sevika’s strong arms, running your hands along her broad shoulders with an innocent smile “But we could always test it out…some other way”

⋆°•☁︎⋆

Sevika panting softly brought you back to the present, her body tensing and releasing every few seconds while the vibrator hummed low and slow inside her spongy core. The agonizing vibrations burned and wrecked her in ways she hadn’t felt before, and the vibrator was only at a low setting. She had never been the object of this level of torture, and the intense pressure that gathered below her navel was something she couldn’t get used to. The constant low buzzing and lewd thoughts clouded Sevika’s mind to the point where she could barely speak.

Big strong Sevika was utterly speechless and at the mercy of you with a stupid app and a little vibrator that made her feel so soft and pliable, she was kinda getting off on it. The lack of control, the feeling of being so exposed in the crowded restaurant, everything about the evening pushed her so far out of her comfort zone that she couldn’t help but throb with need for release. You turned from your phone to check on your poor baby, your hand gently reaching out to caress her hair. You wiped away the sweat that started to bead along her hair line as you saw her body freeze under the feeling of your touch.

“How you doin’ Vika? Hm?” You cooed, her head peering up from her shaking hands to glance at you. Her pupils dilated as her lower lip trembled.

“I-Im…uh..good….” She mumbled, trying to clear her throat from the strangled noise that threatened to slip out. You bit back a smirk at seeing her all flustered, it wasn’t easy to get Sevika so riled up, but you could tell the effect of the vibrator was wearing into the older woman.

A perky waitress soon walked up to your table with water and silverware, she then introduced herself before pulling out a little pad of paper and a pen to take your order.

“We’ll start with a bottle of merlot for the table, and do you want anything else my love?” You asked Sevika with a sweet grin, her eyes flickering to you before shaking her head silently. The waitress nodded and left with a turn of her heel, leaving you giggling in your seat. Sevika’s silence and obvious struggle made you feel so powerful, having your girlfriend’s pleasure in the palm of your hand and seeing her so wrecked was intoxicating. It gave you a rush that you knew you’d have to chase until one (or both) of you were satisfied. Your hand moved to rub slow circles in Sevika’s back as your thumb pressed a button on your phone, increasing the vibrations from low to medium.

Sevika sat upright and groaned low and rough, her head leaning back against the booth chair as her eyes squeezed shut. The tail of the vibrator had a smaller clit stimulator at the tip, which rubbed painfully against Sevika’s sensitive nub. She was practically leaking through her boy-shorts as the vibrations ruined her from the inside. You could barely hear the hum of the vibrator, but the look on Sevika’s face told you it was enough to wreck her. Her flesh hand balled up into a tight fist while her mech hand gripped the table for dear life, trying to stabilize herself in the most discrete way possible. The vibrator was lodged so deep inside her pussy, the tip of the egg rocked against her aching g-spot deliciously, the intensity making her back arch away from the palm of your hand.

“Baby if it’s too much please let me know,” You whisper as you lean in closer to her ear, lips dangerously close to the sensitive skin as your nose nuzzled against her neck “It would be a shame if you made a mess all over the seat~” You chuckle darkly, your teasing words egging you both on in a game neither of you had a chance of winning. Sevika whined softly and tried to scoot away from your crude words, but her sudden movement made the tail end of the vibrations nudge her clit harder.

Sevika’s whole body jolted forward, her trembling hands finding their way back to hide her blushing face. She was so utterly embarrassed, the vibrations were fully controlling her mind and body to the point where she couldn’t even think straight. Her mind was fogged over with such pleasure, she had to resist using your hands to get her off right there under the table.

The waitress soon after brought over the bottle of wine in an ice bucket and two glasses, setting them in front of you both before asking about food and appetizers. You could tell Sevika would barely last through the bottle of wine, let alone a full dinner and possibly dessert.

“I think we’ll just stick with the wine for tonight,” You spoke clearly with a polite smile, Sevika’s silence remaining as she yanked the wine bottle from the bucket and poured a full glass for herself. The waitress nodded and furrowed her brow at Sevika’s actions before walking off.

You watched as your flustered girlfriend downed the first glass of wine, wiping her mouth clean before going in for another glass. You grabbed her hand and tried not to laugh at how desperately she gripped the glass with her mech hand.

“Vika slow down! The wine might make it worse.” You spoke with a cheeky grin as Sevika shook her head.

“Need s-somethin’ to distract me..” She grumbled and poured another glass, leaving you with less than half of the bottle left. You shook your head and laughed softly as you poured your own glass, knowing the night would end much differently now.

Sevika was at her wits end by the last sip of her third glass of wine. She was sweating profusely as her hips unceremoniously grinded against the seat below her, waves of intense pleasure coursing through her worn body. As you suspected, the expensive wine with notes of cherry and chocolate, only added to Sevika’s aching desire. The rich red wine coursed through her bloodstream and greatly added to the intense heat radiating off her (and inside her). And with the added pressure of you turning the vibrations on high, your girlfriend was past the point of caring about anybody else in that restaurant. She was soaking wet and ready to finish.

Before you could even register her movements, she pushed you out of the corner booth and onto your feet, pulling you by the hand towards the back of the building.

“Sev wait!-” You exclaimed as she pushed her way through people to get to the single use bathroom. She kept a look out for workers as she pulled you inside, locking the door quickly behind you as her large frame pinned you against it. Sevika panted heavily, her sparkly grey eyes pleading with you wordlessly as her thighs shook from intense pain and pleasure.

“H-Help me doll..it’s too much i’m f’nna lose it….” She groans, mech hand placed against the door for stability as her flesh one wrapped around the back of your neck and pulled you in for a filthy kiss. It was all tongue and warm breath as you french kissed her, your hands moving to loosen the belt secured along Sevika’s waist. You pulled down the belt and slacks before Sevika used her grip around your neck to pull you away from the indecent kiss and push you down onto your knees.

She pulled down her underwear to expose the obscene wetness dripping from them, it soaked through the thin fabric and coated her muscular thighs, your mouth drooling as you watched a droplet of slick drip from the neon pink vibrator going mad inside of her. She slowly pulled the vibrator out of her wrecked pussy and moaned as it exited, moving her mech hand from the door to grip your lower jaw and force your mouth open.

“Open wide..” She growled, the drenched toy still buzzing as she pressed it against your tongue, letting you taste the mess she created. You moaned at the salty taste of the toy as your tongue swirled around it, Sevika’s pheromones driving you wild as your spit mixed with her wetness that dripped from your mouth. The pornographic moan that escaped your mouth only made you hungry for more as you looked up at her through fluttering lashes. She pulled the toy from your mouth and moved her mechanical hand to grab a forceful fist of your hair, pulling your head back as she angled her hips over your mouth.

“You caused this mess, clean it up” Sevika smirked as she pushed your face directly into her warm mound. Your nose rested in the thick dark hair on her mons as you buried your tongue deep between her folds, lapping up her sweet secretion like you’d never eat again. The aromatic musk of her skin and sweat filled your nose while your hands found their way up to her ass, you gripped the plump skin desperately as Sevika moaned and whimpered on top of your face. The previous stimulations had her so gone that her needy thrusts against your warm mouth were uneven and haste, her approaching orgasm evident.

“F-Fuuck that mouth…” Sevika groaned seductively, the lewd sounds escaping her mouth making your thighs rub together to sooth your own throbbing “Got me s-so riled up, need you so bad baby..” The older woman babbled hopelessly over you, chasing the growing orgasm that threatened to rip through her very soul.

Her hips humped into your mouth fervently, strangled moans leaving her drooling lips as you hollowed your cheeks to suck on her clit. Your finger nails dig deep into her skin as your eyes open to watch the show on top of you. Sevika was coated in a thin layer of sweat, the sheen on her brown skin elevating her beauty as strands of hair stuck to her slick forehead. Her soft grey eyes were clamped shut as her hips moved in lazy circles against your wet tongue. The pleasure was so intense, she couldn’t bear to look at how perfect you looked on your knees in a dirty bathroom just to get her off.

The thought alone made the climbing orgasm in her stomach boil over and wreck through her body, her grip on your hair tightening as she let out a depraved moan while rutting into your sore mouth to ride out her high. Your jaw burned at just how hard she fucked your mouth, but you wouldn’t have it any over way.

You slowly pull away as thin strands of spit and slick connect you to Sevika’s pulsating core. You groan greedily and press an open mouth kiss directly on her sensitive nub, wishing you could surgically attach yourself between her muscular legs. She winced and flinched away, chuckling low and evil as she grabbed her pants and underwear from the floor.

“Enough of that, let’s get home so I can return the favor sweetness.” Sevika smirked as she helped you off the floor, this allowing you to dust your knees off while she put her slacks back on.

“I’m on my period remember?”

“Did I ask?” Sevika spoke with a dark look in her eye as she unlocked and opened the bathroom door, tapping your ass as you walked through it and towards the exit of the restaurant.

You couldn’t help the blush on your cheeks as you headed home with Sevika, the slight wobble in her step matching your bruised knees in perfect synchronicity.

Hi sweetiesssss! ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ )

writers block has been fucking me raw with no lube so,,,i'm sorry for disappearing! it will probably happen again 😅

You know the drill, ily ily ily and thank you for reading!!! drink some water and remember to eat <3

Love,

Squuoosh ❤︎₊ ⊹

Taglist: @lonerslug , @sapphicstrawcore

[immaqulate]

mommy knows best | c.s

— sub! chris sturniolo x dom! fem reader

— warnings: SMUT, dom/sub dynamics, edging & orgasm denial, verbal dominance/power play, praise kink, use of “mommy”, hand around throat (light, consensual), overstimulation (mild), begging, crying, and wrecked sub behavior, mentions of creampie, implied unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it plz), reader fully in control (emotionally and physically)

Chris spends the whole day being teased, edged, and denied by you—until he’s desperate, trembling, and begging to come. But she’s not done playing with her good boy just yet…

dividers by @hyuneskkami

It starts that morning, with nothing more than your hand on his thigh under the table.

You’re out at brunch with friends, both of you sitting way too close in the booth. You’re smiling, laughing, sipping your drink like everything’s normal—but your fingers keep tracing soft, lazy circles just inches from where he’s already half-hard.

He shifts, clears his throat. You don’t stop.

By the time you’re in the car, he’s quiet. Flushed. Palming himself through his jeans the second you pull away from the parking lot. 

You slap his hand away, eyes still on the road. “You touch yourself without permission again, I’ll edge you until you’re crying.” He groans—actually groans—like the threat turns him on even more.

—

You toy with him all day. A not-so-innocent kiss behind a door when no one’s looking, a whisper of “be good” when he tries to grind against you while you’re doing laundry. 

You wear the tight dress you know drives him insane, bend over in front of him just to hear the sharp breath he takes. He’s wrecked before anything even happens. 

By evening, he’s following you around the hotel room like a puppy. Hard. Quiet. Obedient. He hasn’t begged yet, but he’s close. You can tell. 

You don’t touch him again until he’s lying back on the bed, arms already trembling with restraint.

“You’ve been good, haven’t you?” you murmur, unzipping your hoodie slow enough to make him bite his lip. He nods, breath catching. “So good. I—I tried. All day.”

“You didn’t touch yourself?”

“No.”

“You didn’t come?”

“No. Please…” Your smirk deepens as you crawl onto the bed, settling between his thighs.

His cock twitches at the sight of you hovering over him. “You want Mommy to make you feel good?”  His breath hitches. “Yes—please, please—” 

Your fingers brush down his stomach. Not enough. Just a ghost of contact. His hips buck helplessly. 

And then you grip him in your hand—slow, firm, merciless. His breath catches—already trembling, already so close…

–

He’s a mess.

Laid out across the bed, shirtless, hands fisting the sheets, cock red and leaking, twitching against his stomach as you stroke him slow, Too slow. 

Just enough to keep him there right at the edge. “Don’t come yet,” you whisper, lips at his ear. “Not until I say.”

You hum. “Mm. You’ve waited long enough, haven’t you?” 

He nods. Frantic. Already been edged twice. He’s panting. Whining. Thighs trembling like he’s about to snap.

You’re sitting between his legs—legs that won’t stop twitching—watching him fall apart with every lazy drag of your hand. “M-Mommy, please—” he chokes out, voice wrecked.

You smile, stroke harder..then stop. Entirely. He cries out, hips bucking into nothing, his head falling back with a broken gasp.

“You didn’t ask nicely,” you say sweetly, dragging your fingers through his slick.

 “Try again.” His eyes flutter open. Blue and glassy and so fucked-out it’s delicious.

“Please, Mommy,” he whispers. “I—I need it. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good for you.” You hum. Start stroking again, tighter now, faster—but just barely.  

Just enough to make him shake. “You will?” “Y-Yes—yes, I swear—please let me come, Mommy, please—”

You wait, Hold his eyes. Watch him tremble beneath you, legs spread, abs tensing, cock leaking all over your hand. And then, you lean close.

“Come for me, baby. Let Mommy see how pretty you look when you fall apart.”

He breaks. Comes hard. So hard he chokes on it—head back, back arched, moaning your name like a prayer while he spills all over himself, twitching in your grip, whimpering through every pulse.

And when he’s done, he’s shaking..Breathing like he ran a marathon.

You lean down, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Good boy.”

He smiles, eyes flutter closed. “Told you I’d be good.”

He’s shaking. You’ve got him flat on his back, arms stretched above his head, muscles flexing beneath your fingers as you grind down slowly, hips rolling sweet and deep, drawing out every sound he’s trying to swallow. 

And he’s trying.. God, he’s trying. 

Eyes squeezed shut, lips bitten raw. Thighs trembling beneath you. You watch him fight it—fight the noise, the pleasure, the way his stomach tenses every time your pussy flutters around him.

So you lean in, slow and close, lips brushing his ear. “No, baby…”

His eyes open—wide, glossy, begging. “I said I wanna hear you.” 

“Now. Be a good boy for mommy… yeah?”

That last word—“mommy”—makes him break. 

His head falls back, a filthy, choked moan ripping out of his chest as you grind down harder, pressing right where he needs you most. “Th–thank you, fuck, I’m—mmph—”  

You shush him gently, fingers wrapping around his throat—not tight, just there, just enough. “There he is,” you whisper. “That’s my good boy. So sensitive, baby. So loud for mommy.”

He whimpers again—real, raw, soaked in need. Your pace doesn’t change—still slow, still controlled—but your words? They get filthier. 

“You like when I ride you like this?.. Like being my toy, huh?”

“All mine to use, to tease, to keep cockdrunk and begging under me?” He nods—desperate, wrecked. 

You smile, soft and smug, rolling your hips deeper. 

“Then be good for me, baby. Come when I say. Not a second before.”

again.. this has been sitting in my drafts for months.. so here ya go :P

click here to be added to my taglist and here for masterlist <3

taglist 1 ✎ @chrisbratt333 @chrisissobabygirl @sturnzwrld @strnilolover @sweetshuga @mattslilies @sirensdollesque @slxtarchive @heartsonlyforchris @sturns-mermaid @bluessturniolo @pasteldreams @endereies @solarsturniolo @drewswife @conspiracy-ash @courta13 @ivytthew @blushsturns @surprisecurlyfriess @mazzystarrysky @eclipsturns @riasturns @mattsgirl4ever @elisesturnz @ribbonlovergirl @chrisslut04 @pair-of-pantaloons @obxfansstuff @poppetbaby02 @bgfshai @kalel2005 @sturniszn @leahfaith @rafespuppyy @babciaala13 @whump-loverz @chrispycremedonut @mattsdivaa @sturnsblogs @chrisissos3xy

[lotusmar]

Wait can we get a part two of this maybe like throughout her pregnancy and also after she has the baby https://www.tumblr.com/lotusmar/788801882021904384/pastors-daughter-finding-out-that-shes-pregnant-i

ofc! im working on the next part, after she has the baby!

They All Look at Me Different Now.

pastorsdaughter!reader x badboy!rafe

WARNINGS: pregnancy, religious guilt, emotional distress, parental tension, insecurity, isolation, soft angst, comfort

The door shut behind you with a sound too soft to match how hard your heart was beating.

Your father didn’t look at you right away.

He sat in his study chair, hands folded, Bible unopened in front of him — like he wasn’t sure what page could possibly fix this. Like none of the verses applied to you anymore.

You waited.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t sit.

Your fingers curled tighter around the test in your hoodie pocket, as if hiding it now could change what he saw.

He finally spoke.

“Who else knows?”

You hesitated. “Just Rafe.”

Silence.

You swallowed hard. “And now you.”

More silence.

Your throat burned. “Please say something.”

His voice was quiet. Controlled. The worst kind. “What do you want me to say?”

You blinked fast. “I don’t know. Anything but this.”

He finally looked up at you. And it hurt — that look. Because it wasn’t rage. It wasn’t fire. It was disappointment wrapped in something even worse: distance.

“You’re my daughter,” he said slowly, “and I raised you to walk in truth. To walk with God. You know that.”

You opened your mouth to speak. Nothing came out.

“I don’t even recognize you right now.”

That did it.

You took a shaky step back, your voice sharp through your tears. “I’m still me.”

“You are not the girl who sat in this chapel a month ago.”

“I didn’t stop believing!” you cried. “I didn’t stop praying. I just— I made a mistake, okay? One mistake!”

His expression didn’t budge. “Mistakes have consequences.”

“And this one cries,” you snapped. “And kicks. And has a heartbeat.”

He didn’t answer.

You felt like a child again. Powerless. Small. Except now your body was changing and your life was exploding and he still couldn’t look at you the way he used to.

You backed away. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Where do you plan on going?”

You wiped your cheeks with the sleeve of your hoodie. “I’ll figure it out,” you repeated.

He looked down again. “You’ll stay here. You’ll keep this child. You’ll be homeschooled. You won’t see him again.”

You choked. “So I’m a prisoner now?”

“You’re my daughter.”

“No,” you snapped. “I’m just your mistake.”

You didn’t leave that night. You couldn’t.

But you didn’t speak to your father again for two days. You barely left your room. The cross on the wall made your stomach twist. You kept catching your reflection in the mirror, tugging your hoodie lower.

You didn’t feel like a person. You felt like a headline.

Rafe texted again and again.

rafe: are you okay rafe: baby please rafe: say anything baby rafe: i swear i’ll fix it just tell me what to do rafe: do u want me to come to the fence?

Eventually, you replied.

you: after dark.

That night, you met him behind the fence like it was a sin all over again.

You didn’t cry at first. Just stood there, arms folded, too tired to cry.

Rafe stepped closer, slowly, like you might break.

“You look…” His voice faltered. “You okay?”

You laughed. It came out wet and bitter. “What part of me looks okay?”

He stepped closer, resting a hand gently on your arm.

“I’m scared,” you admitted. “Not just of this. Of… everything.”

He didn’t say “it’ll be fine.” He didn’t lie. He just nodded.

“Me too.”

You sat in the bed of his truck that night, under the stars, knees drawn to your chest, your body not yet showing but your future already carved in stone.

“I’m never gonna get to go back,” you whispered. “To being… just me.”

Rafe looked over. “Maybe not.”

You turned your head. “That’s not helpful.”

He gave a breathy laugh. “No. But I’ll say something that is.”

You raised a brow.

“I’m still here.”

He said it like it meant everything. And to you, it did.

“Even if I screw it up more?” you asked.

“Especially then.”

You blinked back new tears. “You don’t have to be.”

“I know.”

You leaned into his chest, fingers curling into the hem of his hoodie.

And for the first time in days — You let yourself fall apart.

And he caught every single piece.

The first 4 months were filled with tears and secrets. Eventually daddy had stopped yelling- not cause he didn't care, but cause it was getting exhausting.

By the fifth month, there was no hiding it.

Not the bump. Not the stares. Not the looks from women in the grocery store like they knew exactly who you were and exactly what you did.

You’d never felt so seen and so invisible at the same time.

Rafe started parking around the back of your house instead of out front. Not because he was ashamed — he told you that every day — but because your dad would stand on the porch with his arms crossed, eyes cold, and Rafe knew what that did to you.

“I’m still proud to be here,” he said once, pulling you into his chest. “I’d shout it from the steeple if I thought it would help.”

You had to laugh at that. “You’d get struck by lightning.”

“Worth it.”

Your dad had stopped yelling.

He didn’t bring up the pregnancy. He didn’t ask how you were. Didn’t say anything when your back started to ache or when your face went pale from throwing up in the mornings.

He just… didn’t speak.

It was worse than yelling.

You started eating dinner alone most nights, or at Rafe’s place. You slept longer. Cried harder.

He let you.

But he always pulled you into his lap after, hands spread over your stomach, whispering things like:

“You’re not dirty.” “You’re not broken.” “You’re doing so good.” “You’re the strongest person I know.”

You told him once, around month six, that you felt like everyone saw right through you now.

“They don’t see me as me anymore,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Just a warning.”

Rafe’s brows furrowed. ���A warning?”

“To their daughters. To their sons. To the town.”

He cupped your face. “Baby, you’re not a warning.”

“I used to be someone they looked up to.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your forehead. “Now you’re someone they’ll never forget.”

You almost sobbed. “That’s not a good thing.”

He tilted your chin up. “Doesn’t mean it’s bad.”

You started writing in your Bible again. Quiet little notes in the margins. Not perfect ones. Not hopeful ones. But honest ones.

Like:

“Please don’t let them hate me forever.” “Help me forgive myself.” “Help me believe Rafe when he says he’s not leaving.”

At seven months, the church ladies threw you a baby shower in the basement — probably because they felt guilty. Or pressured. Or maybe just nosy.

You wore a white dress and cried in the bathroom halfway through.

Rafe wasn’t allowed to come, but he waited in his truck the whole time. Drove you home after. Didn’t ask why your mascara was smeared. Just kissed your hand over and over at the stoplights until you smiled again.

One night, you were curled up in his bed, belly poking out under one of his hoodies, and you whispered, “Do you think she’ll be like me?”

Rafe glanced over. “Like how?”

You hesitated. “Good. Before I messed everything up.”

He rolled over and kissed your stomach gently. “She’s gonna be better. Because she’ll know what strength looks like.”

You blinked. “From me?”

He nodded. “From you.”

You swallowed. “You’re too good to me.”

“Not possible,” he whispered. “Not when you saved my life and gave me another one at the same time.”

You fell asleep with his hand on your stomach.

And for the first time in months, the weight of being watched… didn’t feel so heavy.

[suliigwp]

YOU'VE BEEN—GETTING TO ME LATELY

max verstappen x reader | fluff?, part two

SULI: Part two is here! Omg suli writing adults acting like adults?🙀 Hope you guys like this and the next fic I post will be tronabs next chapter🫶🫶🫶

SUMMARY: You and Max find that the world didn't end when you were nineteen and dumb. Part one here!

WORD COUNT: 6,904

WARNINGS: little swearing, tiny mentions of sexual acts, y/n usage.

The email came at 9:42 AM.

She was halfway through her second coffee, a pencil between her teeth, red ink bleeding across a contract in her lap. Her phone buzzed once — then again — then lit up with the subject line:

Welcome to the FIA Legal Counsel Program – Assigned Placement: Red Bull Racing.

She blinked.

Once.Twice.

Then she slowly lowered her coffee to the desk, rereading the words.

Red Bull Racing.

Red.

Bull.

Fucking. Racing.

The same team she used to watch at seventeen. The same garage she once stood outside of when she was nineteen.

The name still sat bitter in the back of her throat, like the taste of old smoke.

When she arrived at the paddock for the first time, everything felt too loud.

Her heels clicked against the concrete walkways, her team lanyard bounced against her tailored blazer, and the world of Formula 1 swallowed her whole in a matter of seconds.

She kept her gaze forward. Poised. Confident.

Because she didn’t come here to chase ghosts.

She came to do her job — clean contracts, keep the media in check, ensure no dumb lawsuit turned headlines during a championship year.

“You must be the new legal rep,” someone said, offering a hand. “Y/n, right?”

She shook it firmly. “That’s me.”

“We’ve had... a few characters in this role before. Hopefully you’re not another one.”

She smirked. “I bite back, but only when bitten first.”

They laughed. She didn’t.

By mid-afternoon, her badge was cleared, her email connected, and her files organized on a Red Bull–branded tablet. She was already scanning through NDAs when she heard a familiar voice outside the makeshift media room.

The Red Bull garage smelled the same.

Burnt rubber. Warm metal. Engine oil and heat and tension laced into the walls like wallpaper.

It was louder than she remembered. Or maybe she was just more aware of the noise now — the radios crackling, the air compressors hissing, the drone of dozens of conversations happening at once.

Y/n stood just off to the side of the garage’s back offices, tablet in hand, arms folded neatly, blazer sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her badge sat against her chest on a Red Bull–branded lanyard. She hadn’t touched this world in years — not since she was nineteen and too tangled in it to see straight.

Now, at twenty-five, she was here again. Not as a guest. Not as someone’s problem.

As counsel.

FIA Legal Counsel Placement Program. A six-month rotational internship across several F1 teams.

She’d applied thinking she might end up with a midfield team. Maybe Sauber. Maybe Haas.

She hadn’t expected this. Red Bull. His team.

Of all the garages in the world.

She stood perfectly still. Professional. Controlled.

A laminated folder was tucked under her arm — onboarding notes, contact sheets, release forms. The screen of her tablet glowed faintly in the afternoon light, displaying a digital contract. Simple clause addition. Routine. The kind of formality they barely blinked at.

“Driver's on his way,” someone called over their shoulder as they passed. “Media release clause needs signing before press.”

She nodded once. Crisp. “It’s ready.”

And then she heard it — not his voice, but the way the air shifted. Like gravity adjusting. A silence beneath the noise.

He stepped through the back garage entrance, towel slung around his neck, Red Bull polo slightly damp from sim training. Head down, talking to a race engineer — until someone pointed.

“There. She’s got it.”

Max followed the motion.

And his eyes found her.

Still. Sharp. Hesitation locked between his brows for just a moment.

Then he walked forward.

The last time she’d seen him in person, they we're yelling at each other like it was the only thing keeping them alive.

Now he was coming straight toward her with a signature to give and no reason to speak.

“Legal?” he asked, voice flatter than she remembered. Neutral.

“Y/n,” she corrected calmly. “FIA Legal Placement. Assigned to Red Bull until Singapore.”

She didn’t offer her hand.

Just extended the tablet toward him, already preloaded to the clause in question.

He reached for it — paused for a heartbeat — then took it.

She watched as he skimmed it.

“This is the revised media clause?”

“Yes. Covers third-party publication rights and image reproduction, effective immediately. It’s standard.”

He nodded once. Didn’t say anything. His thumb hovered over the e-signature box.

Then he signed. Clean. Precise.

He handed the tablet back.

“You’ll need copies?”

“They’re automatically sent to team PR and the FIA archive,” she replied. “I’ll flag you if anything new gets added.”

A pause. Just long enough to register.

Max looked like he might say something else. But then — he didn’t.

His mouth opened slightly, then shut.

Y/n cleared her throat gently. “Is there anything further you need from legal before media?”

“No. That’s it.”

“Understood.”

She took one step back. A formal nod.

“Have a good session, Mr. Verstappen.”

His expression twitched.

“Max is fine.”

She gave the smallest smile — the kind people use in courtrooms when they’re winning.

“Noted.”

And then she turned and walked away — her steps quiet, controlled, like she couldn’t feel the burn still pulsing just beneath her skin.

…

The paddock had quieted by evening.

Most of the staff had cleared out after post-session debriefs, the lights in the Red Bull garage dimmed to standby mode. Outside, the sunset bled gold across the concrete, casting long shadows over empty pit boxes and tire stacks.

Y/n was still at her workstation — a temporary desk set up inside the operations trailer, stacked with contracts, review notes, and a cold coffee she’d forgotten to drink. Her blazer was draped over the back of the chair, heels kicked off under the desk.

She was halfway through redlining a sponsor clause when a knock rapped softly against the doorframe.

She looked up. Her heart didn’t race — not visibly. But her hand paused mid-line.

Max leaned one shoulder against the door. Black hoodie. Joggers. His hair damp, probably from a shower after sim debriefs. There was something strangely casual about it. Like he wasn’t still the most talked-about man on the grid.

“Hey,” he said. “You busy?”

She blinked at him. Then flicked her eyes toward her screen, then back.

“Kind of.”

“It won’t take long.”

He didn’t wait for permission. Just stepped in and closed the door behind him with a soft click. The tiny space suddenly felt smaller.

She sat straighter. Cleared her throat. “Is this about the media clause?”

“No. It’s... kind of related.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Which part?”

Max scratched the back of his neck. A familiar tic. One she used to call out when they were kids playing at love.

“You mentioned something about third-party rights,” he said, avoiding her gaze just enough to make it obvious. “Is that like... photo tags? Or just licensing?”

Her mouth twitched. He knew what it meant. Of course he did. He’d signed hundreds of these. But she didn’t call him on it.

“It’s about usage rights,” she said. “Any footage or photos the team captures can be sold or repurposed — ads, promos, stuff like that. It’s standard.”

He nodded. “Right. Thought so.”

She let the silence hang.

“Was that all?”

Max shifted his weight. Looked around the trailer like he’d never been inside it before. His eyes landed on the open file beside her.

“You’re really organized,” he murmured.

“You’re bad at pretending this is about legal questions.”

That made him smile — small, lopsided, surprised.

She hated how familiar it still felt. How warm it used to make her chest.

“Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe I didn’t come just for that.”

“Shocking.”

Another pause.

“I didn’t know you were coming here,” he said quietly.

Y/n closed her laptop lid with a soft click. Leaned back.

“Neither did I. It was a placement. They assigned me after Silverstone.”

“You think they knew?”

“Probably.” She gave a dry laugh. “But I signed the contract anyway. Didn’t seem like a good enough reason to say no.”

“Still,” he said. “Kind of a weird reunion.”

She folded her arms. “Weirder than you showing up at my desk asking about image rights?”

That earned a quiet chuckle. “Fair.”

There was a moment then — not long, but not short either. Where he looked at her and she looked back, and neither of them said what they were clearly thinking.

Then—

“You look good,” he said, almost like it slipped out.

Her pulse kicked. She looked at him, he kept her gaze.

Y/n exhaled slowly. Her voice, when it came, was level.

“You too. The championships suit you. Congratulations, by the way.”

He nodded in silent thank you.

He shrugged, like it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t sit heavy on his shoulders some days.

“I saw your name on the bar results last year,” he said. “You trended for a bit.”

She tilted her head. “You googled me?”

“No. Someone sent it. Couldn’t miss it if I tried.”

“Right. Must’ve been awful for you.”

His smile tugged again, crooked. “It wasn’t awful.”

“Hm.”

Another silence. This one... gentler.

He stepped forward just slightly. Not close enough to cross a line. But enough to notice. To remind her that they used to stand a lot closer than this. In darker rooms. With a lot fewer clothes.

“This is weird,” he said.

“Very.”

“But not as bad as I thought it’d be.”

“Same.”She nodded once, slow and quiet.

“We’re older now,” she said. “A little less reckless.”

Max let out a breath through his nose — not quite a laugh.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

She looked over at him, and for a second, neither of them said anything. There was something there, buried in the silence — not anger, not regret. Just history. The kind that doesn’t ask to be named.

Then, softer:

“I’m not angry anymore,” she said. “Haven’t been for a while.”

Max didn’t respond immediately.

But when he looked at her, it was different this time — more direct. Like he finally let himself acknowledge what he was looking at.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me neither.”

The pause that followed wasn’t tense. It just… was. Heavy with what they didn’t say. What they weren’t ready to revisit.

“We were young,” she murmured.

“And stupid,” he added.

She gave the smallest nod. “You especially.”

That made his mouth twitch — barely. But he didn’t argue.

“We handled everything wrong,” she said after a second. Not accusing. Just honest.

“Yeah,” he said. “We did.”

No apology. No explanation. Just mutual recognition. Like survivors of the same wreck.

Something shifted then — not closure, but maybe something close to calm.

Max pushed away from the desk, straightening.

He glanced at her desk again. At the open folder, the legal pad covered in scribbles.

“Well. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Appreciated.”

He moved toward the door, hand resting on the handle — then stopped.

“If it ever gets... I don’t know. Too weird. Let me know.”

She met his eyes. “You too.”

He nodded once.

Then pushed the door open, the hallway light spilling across the floor.

“Good night, y/n.”

“Night, Max.”

And just like that, he was gone.

She didn’t let herself move for a few seconds.

Didn’t let herself think too hard about the way her name sounded in his voice again.

Then she opened her laptop and went back to work — as if her hands weren’t shaking.

…

The van was cramped.

It always was during race weekends — a rotating mess of PR reps, engineers, comms staff, and whoever else needed to be shuttled between the paddock and the track hotel. Today, they’d crammed seven people into a vehicle made for five. Middle seats squished, bags tossed under legs, knees bumping, elbows tucked awkwardly to avoid full-on war.

Y/n slid in last, her blazer folded neatly in her lap, laptop bag clutched tight to her side.

She took the far left of the third row, back seat. Pressed up against the window. She’d assumed the empty space beside her would stay that way.

Then Max climbed in.

He didn’t say anything — just nodded once, gave a polite enough smile to the intern sitting near the door, and wedged himself into the spot next to her like he hadn’t once had her legs over his shoulders.

Their arms brushed immediately. There was no avoiding it. His thigh pressed against hers every time the driver took a turn too sharp.

Y/n shifted. Just slightly. Enough to create the illusion of space without making it obvious.

He didn’t move.

She stared ahead. At the back of the headrest in front of her. She could feel him glance sideways once or twice, but he didn’t say anything. Neither did she.

Ten minutes into the ride, someone up front cracked a joke — something about one of the Red Bull mechanics and his “mystery blonde from Monaco.” It spiraled quickly into a string of stories. Flings. Exes. Drunken regrets.

“Tell me you saw Nico sneaking out of La Rascasse with that mystery blonde in Monaco!”

The middle-row engineer barked a laugh.

“Mystery? She was filmed on three fan cams. Nico’s doomed.”

PR manager Jen chimed in:

“Guys, if there isn’t an NDA, I don’t want to hear it.”

Nico, somewhere in the middle seat, groaned:

“No NDA, Just pain.”

Laughter filled the van. Someone launched into a competition of worst situationships:

“I once ghosted a girl and found out she was our tyre rep’s niece.”

“Please, I ended up at a wedding seated next to my ex’s new fiancée.”

“Top that? I accidentally texted my ex a voice note rant—meant for my therapist.”

The stories rolled on—names omitted, embarrassment shared.

“Okay, wait—” someone in the middle row cut in, laughter still bubbling, “I’ve got the worst one. Listen.”

The whole van went quiet, waiting.

“It was uni. I hooked up with this guy for like... eight months. We weren't dating, we weren't friends. Thought I was over it until we both showed up working the same internship two years later.”

A collective groan rippled through the van.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” she replied, grinning. “Same office, same meetings, same everything. And of course, he walks in like it was all ancient history and I’m sitting there pretending I don’t remember exactly what he sounds like at 2 a.m.”

Laughter again. Someone muttered, “That’s criminal.”

She added. “Just said, ‘Nice to see you again,’ like we hadn’t ruined each other’s sleep cycles for an entire semester.”

More laughter.

But in the very back row, Y/n didn’t laugh. Neither did Max.

At the same time—like muscle memory—they both turned slightly. Eyes met.

Just for a second.

And then just as quickly, they looked away.

She refocused on the raindrops racing down the glass.

He looked down at his hands.

Laughter echoed all the way to the back row.

Max exhaled through his nose. A quiet huff. Amused or annoyed — she couldn’t tell.

“You’d think PR would stop talking like that when there’s a lawyer in the car.”

His voice was casual, low enough not to carry forward. But it was meant for her.

She didn’t even glance at him.

“You’d think a three-time world champion would stop needing legal cleanups.”

His lips twitched. The barest hint of a smirk. She caught it in the reflection of the window — quick and crooked and too familiar.

Silence followed.

A pothole hit. Not hard, but enough to jolt the frame of the van. Their knees knocked.

Neither of them shifted.

She pretended to read something on her phone. He ran a hand through his hair like the movement might burn some of the tension off.

Outside, the rain started.

Inside, it was warm. Too warm. His shoulder brushed hers again when he adjusted his position. She could smell his cologne — faint, sharp, still the same brand he’d used when they were nineteen and stupid.

Another bump. Another contact.

Still, no one moved.

The conversation in the front row shifted to pit lane rumors. Max leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. His voice was lower this time, meant just for her.

“This doesn’t have to be weird, you know.”

Y/n didn’t look at him.

“It’s not weird.”

“You’re gripping your phone like it owes you rent.”

She eased her fingers — only a little.

She looked away again. The van slowed, pulling into the hotel drive. The end of the ride couldn’t have come sooner.

Still, for one small, loaded second, neither of them made the first move to get out.

…

It poured.

The kind of storm that made even the paddock feel slow. Media was postponed. FP1 delayed. Mechanics leaned on carts, PR staff checked forecasts they couldn’t change, and drivers lingered inside hospitality trying not to look bored.

Y/n sat near the back, tucked on a bench by the window. Her laptop was open on her knees, though she hadn’t typed in ten minutes. Her shoes were off. Her coffee was cold. She stared out at the rain as if watching it fall would tell her when it would stop.

Then Max sat down across from her.

No announcement. No dramatic pause. Just him, damp curls under his hoodie, elbows on his knees like it was any other conversation. Like they hadn’t spent weeks politely orbiting each other without ever making real contact.

She looked up. No smile, no scowl. Just… acknowledgment.

“Still working?” he asked after a moment.

“Always.”

He nodded, eyes flicking to the laptop, then back out the window.

“You used to fall asleep the second you sat still.”

A flicker of something — not a smile, exactly, but close — tugged at her lips.

She didn’t look at him.

“I don’t do a lot of things I used to.”

He leaned forward a little, elbows resting on his thighs.

“Like me?”

That made her pause.

Her fingers stopped hovering above the keyboard. She looked at him — really looked — and something about it softened her face. Not fond, not forgiving. Just… real.

“I don’t think either of us knew what we were doing.”

Max gave a quiet huff of agreement.

“We really thought we had it figured out.”

“We were arrogant as hell.”

“And stubborn.”

“Still are.”

He smiled — small, self-deprecating.

A few seconds passed.

Outside, the rain came down harder. Inside, the quiet felt oddly warm.

“I think about it sometimes,” he said.

She didn’t ask what “it” was. She didn’t need to.

“I try not to,” she said, still watching the rain. “But yeah.”

He shifted again, like the bench didn’t quite sit right.

“I wish I’d handled it better. I was shitty to you,” he said. “I know that.”

She tilted her head, gaze fixed on a droplet racing down the window.

“I wasn’t exactly easy to love, either.”

That pulled something in his expression — not guilt, but something adjacent to it.

Her head tilted, eyes meeting his again. Calm. Measured.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “But I still could’ve done more.”

There was something honest about that. Not performative. Not looking for forgiveness. Just… saying it, because it was true.

He looked down at his hands, thumb tracing a line along his palm. Then—

“I don’t know. Maybe I could still make up for it.”

She inhaled slowly. Held it for a beat.

“You don’t have to,” she said. “That’s not what this is.”

“What is this?”

She gave a small shrug, gaze drifting back to the window.

“I think… it’s just now. This moment. And that’s okay.”

He didn’t respond right away. Then:

“Okay.”

No fight. No argument.

Just that.

He stood after a moment, stretching his legs. His hoodie was damp at the shoulders. He looked down at her, something unreadable in his expression.

“If the rain clears, I’ll see you in the garage.”

“Yeah. See you there.”

She didn’t watch him go.

But her fingers didn’t quite settle back on the keys for another minute.

…

The garage was winding down.

Post-race cleanup was mostly done, the main lights dimmed to low, and the air smelled faintly of fuel, metal, and old coffee. Radios buzzed quietly on a shelf near the front, and someone’s leftover Red Bull can rattled across a rolling cart as it passed by.

Y/n was still at her desk in the back corner — the folding one they’d set up next to the tire data screens.

She’d long since taken off her blazer, now draped over the chair’s back, and the cuffs of her white shirt were pushed up to her elbows. A quiet, focused kind of tired hung over her —

She didn’t look up when she heard him.

His footsteps were slower than they’d been during the day — post-debrief, post-shower, post-whatever internal engine he turned off only after the garage had emptied. He stopped a few feet from her desk.

“You’re still here.”

She tapped at her keyboard. “So are you.”

“I don’t have to be. You look like you’re still rewriting half the team contracts.”

“That’s because I am.”

She didn’t smile. But the edge in her voice wasn’t sharp. More like… dry. Familiar.

He took a step closer. Arms crossed loosely over his chest. He was in a hoodie again — same grey one from earlier — with the hood pushed back, hair still damp like he hadn’t bothered to dry it fully after showering.

“Did you eat?”

“Not yet.”

“You should.”

“I’m aware.”

A short pause.

He leaned a hip against the worktable across from her, eyes scanning the mess of highlighted printouts. “You always did like burying yourself in this stuff.”

“Better than being bored.”

“You’re not bored.”

She looked up at him, just briefly. “You think you know that?”

He didn’t answer. Just let a small smile pull at the edge of his mouth — not cocky, not smug. Just Max. Still Max.

The silence stretched.

He shifted his weight slightly, and then, voice lower now:

“Would you wanna grab dinner sometime?”

The words landed softly.

Not forced. Not rehearsed. Just there — like he’d been thinking about it and didn’t feel like pretending he wasn’t.

Y/n didn’t react immediately. She closed the tab she was in. Sat back slightly in her chair. Her eyes stayed on him.

She didn’t frown. Didn’t laugh either.

Just… considered him.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah.”

“Why now?”

“Because it feels like the first time I could ask without it blowing up.”

She let out a breath. Not quite a sigh.

“Max.”

“It’s just dinner.”

“It’s not just dinner, and you know that.”

“I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m asking if you want to sit across from me at a table and eat something that doesn’t come in a plastic container.”

She didn’t answer that right away.

Instead, she looked down at her laptop. Ran her finger slowly along the edge of the space bar. Then:

“Maybe after the six months are up.”

He was quiet.

“Because of the job?”

She nodded once. “Because it’s complicated enough. And because it’d look bad for both of us. Especially me.”

“Yeah. Makes sense.”

“And because I want to know it’s not just nostalgia or boredom or…” She stopped herself.

“I get it.”

There was no frustration in his voice. No push. Just honesty.

He stood there for another moment before shifting off the table.

“So, ask again in… five and a half months?”

She finally smiled — small, reluctant, a little tired.

“Something like that.”

He took a slow step backward toward the door.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. I want to.”

She didn’t reply.

He didn’t wait for one.

He just gave her a nod — quiet, sure — and turned to go.

She listened to his footsteps fading into the hallway before she let out the breath she’d been holding.

Then she turned back to the screen, reopened the tab, and started typing again.

Week 1

Her name on the team chat thread.

His name in her inbox.

Every reply brief. Polite. Not cold. Just… professional.

Max passes her in the hallway the day after that late-night dinner invitation. He doesn’t say anything. Neither does she.

Week 3

A sponsor dinner. Too many forks. Assigned seating.

She ends up next to Max.

He makes a dry joke about being underdressed. She surprises him with a comeback that makes even Christian stifle a laugh.

Later, she catches him watching her across the table, thumb pressed to his wine glass, half a smile tugging at his lips.

She doesn’t smile back. But her ears burn.

Week 5

Rain delays the race. Everyone’s stuffed into the hospitality suite.

Max is sitting on the floor with a few of the engineers, arguing over a card game. She walks past, coffee in hand, tablet tucked under her arm.

He glances up, says nothig.

Week 7

A team photo day. Chaos. Laughter. Someone brings props.

Y/n stands behind the photographer, clipboard in hand, making sure no one forgets the media waiver.

Max tosses a Red Bull bucket hat on Christian’s head. She snorts, unguarded.

He looks over. That same crooked smile appears — only this time, she doesn’t look away so quickly.

Week 9

A mechanical delay strands half the team on the tarmac in Bahrain.

She ends up sitting next to Max on the shuttle to the hotel.

They talk about anything but the past — the food, the weather, how many suitcases their press officer travels with.

She laughs at one of his jokes. Real, not forced.

He blinks, surprised. Like he hadn’t meant to make her laugh, but likes the sound of it.

Week 11

She catches a cold in Monaco.

Not dramatic. Just enough to keep her wrapped in a scarf and living off throat lozenges for three days.

Max passes her a mug of tea in the garage, no words, no look, just sets it on her desk and walks away.

Week 14

He wins. Again.

The celebration is loud, champagne everywhere. She ducks the worst of it, tucked in the back with legal paperwork in a Ziploc sleeve.

At some point, Max finds her. A little tipsy. Still grinning.

“You gonna fine me if I pour this on you?”

“Try me.”

He doesn’t.

But when he passes, his fingers brush hers just a little longer than they need to.

Week 18

Carlos makes a crack about Max’s “lawyer crush” at a press dinner.

Max kicks him under the table so fast no one notices. Y/n arches a brow across the table but doesn’t comment.

Week 21

A late-night flight home.

They’re both in row 3. Separated by the aisle, but close enough that when turbulence hits, they both glance up at the same time.

He gives her a look — brief, unreadable.

She gives one back — tired, amused, resigned.

She falls asleep. He watches her for a minute longer than he should.

Week 22

She’s sitting alone in the back of the paddock lounge — headphones in, blazer folded neatly beside her, laptop open on the FIA careers page. Her screen shows a half-finished application form.

Max walks past. Stops. Doubles back.

“You applying for the full-time role?”

She pulls one earbud out. Doesn’t answer immediately.

“Thinking about it.”

“You should.”

She glances up.

“You don’t think it’d be... weird? You and me. Same circles again.”

Max shrugs, leaning one shoulder against the frame of the glass wall.

“It’s already weird.”

That earns the barest smile from her.

He watches her for a beat.

“You’d be good there.”

She looks at him — properly this time. Not like a colleague. Not like an echo of what they were.

“Thanks.”

He nods. Pushes off the wall.

“Good luck with it.”

“Thanks, Max.”

He turns to go, but before the door closes behind him, she glances back at her screen — and starts typing again.

Week 24

The final briefing. Six-month mark.

She hands off her badge. Max doesn’t speak to her during the whole meeting.

Afterward, as the others drift out, he finds her in the hallway. Quiet. Tired. Braced.

“So… six months.”

“Yeah.”

“Does that mean I can ask again now?”

She looks at him.

The corner of her mouth tugs upward.

“You can.”

…

The restaurant wasn’t fancy. That’s why he chose it.

Tucked on a quieter street in Monaco, it was dimly lit, warm, tucked-away — the kind of place locals liked and tourists didn’t know. No cameras. No team personnel. Just wine, good food, and quiet.

Y/n arrived just after seven. Max was already at the table, scrolling through his phone, a half-full glass of water in front of him.

He looked up as she approached — and stood.

“Hey,” he said, with a half-smile. “You found it.”

“Wasn’t hard.”

“Glad you came.”

She gave a small nod as she took the seat across from him. He sat down again, a little too fast, like he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be doing with his hands. For a second, they both fiddled with their menus like they hadn’t already stalked the place online and picked what they wanted.

She was the first to speak again.

“So… how does this work?”

“We order food. Try not to insult each other. Hope nothing ends in public scandal.”

“Sounds safe.”

“Safe’s a nice change.”

The waiter came. They both ordered the same wine. Smiled at each other awkwardly.

It stayed casual — to start. Light conversation. The race schedule. Summer break. That ridiculous argument in the garage last week over whether the Red Bull hospitality had better cookies than Ferrari’s. (Max, of course, had been insulted anyone even entertained the debate.)

But somewhere after the starters, the silence started filling with more than just leftover conversation.

She played with the edge of her napkin. Max leaned back a little in his chair, watching her.

“I wasn’t sure you’d actually say yes,” he said eventually.

“You waited until my contract ended.”

“Still could’ve said no.”

“I thought about it.”

“And?”

“I figured I’d regret not finding out.”

That quieted him for a second. Not in a heavy way — just thoughtful.

“Same.”

The waiter brought mains. Her fork clinked against the side of her plate. She caught Max watching her again and finally met his gaze straight on.

“This feels weird.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But not bad.”

“No,” she agreed. “Not bad.”

She smiled without meaning to. He smiled back — slower, like he hadn’t let himself fully relax until just now.

They didn’t talk about the past. Not really. Just referenced it in passing. The old versions of themselves. How different everything was now.

He told her about sim days that ran too long. She told him about FIA contract nightmares and how she missed having a coffee machine that didn’t scream.

Somewhere near the end, she reached for the wine bottle just as he did. Their fingers brushed.

They both paused — just briefly. But neither pulled away.

Max didn’t say anything right away. Then—

“I’m not trying to pick up where we left off,” he said. “I just want to see where it goes now. If that’s something you want too.”

She considered that.

Not just the words. The way he said them. No pressure. No games. Just... him.

“Maybe,” she said softly. “Ask me again. After the second date.”

He blinked. Then grinned.

“Fair enough.”

He didn't let her pay her half even after she almost yelled at him.

They left the restaurant slowly. No rush. No awkward ending. Just a walk down a quiet Monaco street, side by side.

He glanced sideways.

“That wasn’t terrible.”

She smirked. “High praise.”

“I meant it.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just kept walking, the pavement smooth beneath her heels, the lights of the marina reflected in the water below.

Then — without thinking, without planning — she reached out.

Just slightly.

Her fingers brushed the back of his hand. He paused.

Looked down.

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like it hadn’t taken years to get here, he laced their fingers together.

Their hands fit differently now. Bigger, older, steadier. But it still felt the same — that quiet hum of something familiar, something unfinished.

Neither of them looked at the other.

They just kept walking, hand in hand, like maybe this didn’t have to be complicated anymore.

Maybe it could just be.

…

It wasn’t a restaurant this time.

It was a tucked-away bookstore café in Nice — her choice. Max hadn’t even questioned it. He’d just said, “Send me the address,” like it was the most normal thing in the world for him to trade a race sim day for almond croissants and lattes in cracked ceramic cups.

He got there first again.

Y/n spotted him through the window, slouched on a wooden bench in a grey hoodie, scrolling through his phone with a half-drunk coffee beside him. He didn’t look up until she opened the door.

“They have those little cinnamon rolls you like,” he said without a hello. “I told the guy you’d probably want three.”

She laughed — an actual laugh, light and surprised.

“You remember that?”

“You used to steal mine. It’s not hard to remember trauma.”

They sat across from each other near the back, tucked between overstuffed shelves and quiet couples. The playlist was soft jazz and the lighting warm, golden from the morning sun.

She did order three cinnamon rolls.

Max didn’t comment — just slid one onto his plate like he was claiming his tax.

“You always eat like this before you go over contracts?” he asked, halfway through his espresso.

“Only when I didn't sleep that night.”

“Nothing says adrenaline like sugar and mergers.”

“Exactly.”

They talked like that — playful, unhurried. About nothing important. About books they pretended they’d read. About how he still hated planes and how her new apartment had a window that leaked every time it rained.

She teased him for still using wired earbuds. He pointed out that her phone was at 8% with no charger in sight.

“I function on chaos,” she said, licking sugar off her thumb.

“No kidding.”

At one point, she laughed so hard she snorted into her coffee. He just grinned, leaned back in his chair like it was the best thing he’d seen all week.

“You’re different when you’re not trying to win an argument,” he said after a while.

“You’re different when you’re not trying to piss me off.”

“We’re evolving.”

They left hours later. It wasn’t even supposed to be a long date — just coffee, maybe a walk — but the afternoon had crept up on them.

Outside, the sky was soft with clouds, the breeze lifting her hair from her shoulders.

Max shoved his hands in his jacket, but not before she reached for one, he took her hand inside his pocket, warming it.

No hesitation this time.

They walked down the narrow street, hand in hand, fingers warm.

“This felt... easy,” she said.

“It was.”

“That’s new.”

He bumped her shoulder lightly. “Let’s not mess it up.”

“You’re assuming we will.”

“I’m assuming we’re us.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t disagree.

And when they paused at the corner, waiting to cross, he looked at her like he couldn’t quite believe this was real — that they were here, again, but without all the wreckage.

“What?” she asked, catching him.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“Just—” he shrugged. “You’re really here.”

She squeezed his hand.

The sky had deepened by the time they reached her building.

It wasn’t far from the café — a quiet walk through cobblestone streets, shoes tapping gently beneath conversation. The kind of evening that felt suspended in time, where the world went slow, soft around the edges. Every moment hummed with something unspoken but not urgent. They didn’t need to name it.

Max stopped with her at the front steps.

He didn’t let go of her hand until she gave the gentlest tug.

“You taking the train back tonight?” she asked, turning to face him, one foot already on the first step.

“I was gonna call a car.”

“You don’t have to.”

She said it easily. Like it wasn’t loaded. Like it wasn’t the first time she’d said those words in years — and meant something entirely different now.

He didn’t answer right away.

Just looked at her, quiet. Not hesitant. Just making sure.

She held his gaze, keys already in her palm.

“It’s just tea,” she added. “Or water. Or coffee. You don’t have to—”

“Okay.”

He said it before she finished.

“Okay?”

He nodded once. Stepped up beside her. Not rushing. Not pushing.

“Tea sounds good.”

Her apartment was quiet when they stepped in.

Clean, warm, lived-in. Books stacked on the side table. A hoodie draped over the back of the couch. A half-finished legal pad on the counter. The scent of the café still lingered in the air — cinnamon, sugar, and something that was probably her perfume.

Max glanced around like he was seeing the inside of her head. Noticing things without commenting.

“You can sit,” she said, toeing off her shoes. “I’ll make the tea.”

“You still drink that weird herbal stuff?”

“It’s chamomile. Grow up.”

“Sounds fake.”

She tossed a smile over her shoulder as she disappeared into the kitchen.

He didn’t sit. Not right away. Just wandered. Hands in pockets. Taking it in.

She returned a few minutes later with two mismatched mugs — one blue, one plain white.

He took the blue one without asking. Sat beside her on the couch, a comfortable arm’s length away.

They sipped in silence for a while. The streetlight outside threw soft yellow lines across the rug.

“Thanks for today,” he said eventually.

She glanced at him. “It was a good day.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. Not heavy. Not awkward.

“You’ve changed,” he added.

“So have you.”

He turned his mug between his palms. “Maybe we had to.”

“Definetly.”

She didn’t say more than that. Didn’t need to.

She curled her feet beneath her, leaned back into the cushion, her mug resting on her knees.

Max looked at her again.

Not like he had something to say.

Just like he didn’t want the moment to end.

And for once — neither did she.

…

a month later

She was here as a guest — Max’s guest.

She hadn’t stepped foot in the paddock without work responsibilities in over six months. It felt strange. Loose. Unanchored.

The Red Bull hospitality still smelled the same: coffee, tire rubber, sharp citrus diffused through the air vents. But she sat differently now — not behind a laptop, not squinting at contract lines.

Just one leg crossed over the other, phone in hand, an untouched espresso in front of her.

She got the call just after noon.

And then she froze.

The voice on the other end was official. Warm. Congratulatory.

"We’d like to offer you the role, effective post-season."

She blinked at the papers in front of her, words suddenly blurring.

“I—sorry, could you say that again?”

They did. Slowly this time.

She nodded, whispered a stunned “yes,” scribbled a shaky signature on the digital acceptance form they sent through minutes later.

The trailer was too quiet after.

For a second, she just sat there, fingers still on the trackpad, chest rising and falling like her lungs had only just caught up. Then—

“Holy shit,” she whispered.

The door opened behind her before she could stand.

“You good?” Max asked, stepping halfway in. “One of the techs said you looked like you saw God or an FIA fine.”

She turned.

Just looked at him.

He paused, sensing it immediately — the energy, the stillness, the shine in her eyes.

“What?” he asked, a little softer.

She lifted the tablet in her hands. Held it up without a word.

He stepped closer to read.

His eyes scanned the message, then flicked up to hers.

“You got it?”

She nodded once. Smiled.

“You’re looking at FIA’s newest regulatory legal officer.”

Max blinked. Then let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“Holy shit.”

“That’s what I said!”

“Wait—you got it.”

“I got it.”

She barely got the last word out before he closed the space between them.

No hesitation this time. No second-guessing.

He cupped her jaw and kissed her — soft, sure, with the kind of care that came from waiting too long and not wanting to ruin it now.

She melted into it.

There wasn’t fire behind it, not like the old days. No anger. No desperation. Just warmth. Familiarity. A kind of knowing.

When they pulled apart, her hands were still holding on to his wrists.

“Took you long enough,” she murmured.

“To kiss you or to congratulate you?”

“Both.”

He smiled — small, crooked, and real.

“You earned this. All of it.”

She looked up at him — the same eyes she used to hate for how well they read her, now soft and proud.

“You’re gonna kill it,” he added. “I’m serious.”

“You planning to follow all FIA rules now just because I’ll be writing half of them?”

“Hell no.”

She laughed.

“Guess I’ll see you in court.”

“Can’t wait.”

@angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu @freyathehuntress @suibianupyourass @panicattgegrandprix @landosbabe4

Comment to be added! If your name is in white make sure you're allowed to be tagged!

[ggukvnly]

✦ before we knew › 03 ✦

➶ synopsis; He was her brother's best friend. That should've been the line - but the way they looked at each other said otherwise. It was always there. They just hadn't admitted it yet.

➶ genre; brother's best friend, slow burn, fluff, angst, mutual pining

➶ warnings; mild explicit content. mdni!

➶ pairing; jungkook x you

➶ word count; 5.1k

‧˚₊ series masterlist | main masterlist | 02 |

The music is loud. The bass shakes in your chest, your throat, like it's crawling under your skin. The lights are dimmer here too, glowing red and blue. They flicker across the sweaty walls and all the people packed together. It's crowded, but you and Kai still push your way in.

You drank a lot. More than you probably should have. You feel it in the way your head tilts too easily when you laugh, and how your body feels too warm. The music sounds louder now, the lights brighter. You're not out of control, but you're definitely not thinking straight either. Everything feels light. Spinning, a little. Like anything could happen, and maybe you'd let it.

Kai pulls you close and starts moving to the beat. His hands find your waist, light at first, then a little firmer. You notice, but you don't stop him. Your hands land on his shoulders, and you let your body sway with his, close and in sync. It feels natural. It's not deep. It's not serious. It's just dancing. Fun.

You smile when he leans in and says something you don't quite catch. Your hearing is fuzzy from the music and the drinks, but you laugh anyway. He smells like citrus and something stronger, and there's a faint sheen of sweat at his collar. He's warm. Confident. Handsome, probably, in a way you never really looked at before.

His fingers slide a little lower on your waist as he pulls you closer. Your bodies move in rhythm, pressed tighter now, and when your hips brush, neither of you pulls back. You feel the press of his chest against yours and his breath near your ear when he leans in again, like he's about to say something else. He doesn't. He just lingers there, his hand brushing the exposed skin just above your waistband.

You're aware of it. You're aware of everything. But still, you don't move away.

It's not like you're trying to prove a point. It's not about anyone watching, though maybe, somewhere in the back of your mind, you hope someone is. Mostly, it just feels good not to care. To be here, doing something fun. Not overthinking for once. Not holding yourself back.

Kai spins you once, badly, and you laugh. Your head falls back, and you have to grab his arm to steady yourself. He catches you easily, both hands at your waist now. You're close again. Closer than before.

He grins down at you. "You good?"

You nod, laughing again. "Just dizzy."

"Want to sit?"

You shake your head. "No. I wanna dance."

He shrugs and keeps moving with you. His grip on your hips tightens just slightly as your bodies fall back into rhythm. He's a good dancer, or at least he knows how to move. Confident, easygoing.

At one point, he leans in, his face close to yours again. You can feel his breath near your cheek, the way his lips almost brush your skin. He doesn't kiss you. Not yet. But the moment lingers.

You look up at him, still smiling, eyes a little hazy. He looks back at you like he's waiting for some kind of sign. You don't give him one. But you also don't move away.

You're warm. Buzzed. Lightheaded. But not unhappy. In this moment, there's no Jungkook. No ache. No tension. Just the beat of the music, the press of Kai's hands, and your own decision not to pull away.

You let yourself dance. You let yourself feel it.

Just for now.

You're still dancing when Kai leans in again. This time, he doesn't say anything right away. His face is close to yours, eyes locked. You can feel the tension shift.

He tilts his head slightly. "You know," he says, voice low near your ear, "I like you."

You don't react right away. You just keep swaying a little, eyes still on his. Maybe it's the music. Maybe it's the drinks. You can't tell.

"I mean it," he says, his hands steady on your waist. "I've been thinking about it. You're cool. You're smart. Hot, obviously."

You raise your eyebrows at that, but he just laughs, a little breathless. He doesn't stop.

"I wanna kiss you," he adds, more serious now. "Not just here. I want to take you upstairs. I want to do everything I've been thinking about since the first time we talked."

Your breath catches, but not from shock. You knew something like this was coming. Maybe you even wanted it.

He looks at you carefully, like he's waiting for a sign to stop. You don't give him one.

You just stare at him for a second. Then you shrug lightly. "Okay."

He blinks, almost surprised. Then grins. "Okay?"

You nod again, not smiling. "Let's just have fun."

He doesn't ask more. He doesn't need to.

Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. A small joint, barely rolled. "Before we go up," he says, "wanna smoke a little? Might make it more fun."

You hesitate just for a second, then take it from his hand and hold it between your fingers.

"Of course," you say.

He lights it. You take one long inhale, cough a little on the way out, and then laugh it off. He takes it back, does the same.

You're not sure what it is — the alcohol, the smoke, the music — but something inside you is loose now. Numb in places where it used to hurt. Your thoughts come in waves.

You tell yourself this is fine. Everyone does this. People hook up. People move on.

You tell yourself it doesn't matter.

Jungkook's not yours. Never was. What he does with other girls, how his hands were on someone else tonight — that shouldn't matter. That has nothing to do with you.

You're tired of thinking. Tired of waiting. Tired of being the one who always steps back.

So when Kai takes your hand and leads you through the crowd toward the stairs, you follow without a word.

Upstairs is quieter. Not silent, but the noise downstairs feels far away now. The hallway is dim, empty. The first door you pass is closed. Someone's already in there. He pulls you toward the next one.

You're only halfway there when he stops suddenly and turns. Before you can say anything, he presses you against the door with more force than you expected.

His mouth is on your neck almost immediately, lips dragging over your skin, hands already at your sides. His fingers slide up under your top, warm against your ribs, thumbs brushing over your bra. His mouth moves along your jaw, your throat, catching on your collarbone.

You gasp, more from surprise than anything else. Your hands catch his shoulders, trying to find something to hold onto. He's not slow or soft — he's eager. Hungry. Like he's been waiting too long and now he's not wasting a second.

His knee presses between your thighs, his hands now at your lower back, pulling you against him. He's murmuring something against your skin, but you can't hear it. Your head feels foggy, too much and not enough at once.

His fingers slip down, hooking into the waistband of your jeans. His mouth is back at your neck, biting a little this time, his hand sliding to the front of your pants when—

He's gone.

Suddenly, Kai is ripped back with a force that makes you stumble. You blink, trying to steady yourself, heart racing, chest rising too fast.

You look up.

Jungkook has him by the hair, dragging him backward and off balance. His face is hard. His grip is tighter than you've ever seen. His eyes aren't just angry — they're furious.

Kai's stumbling, trying to get his footing, one hand reaching up to break Jungkook's grip. "What the f—"

Jungkook punches him. Hard. One hit, clean across the jaw, loud and sharp. Kai jerks sideways, grabbing the wall to stay upright.

"You motherfucker," Jungkook spits, voice low but burning."How dare you touch her?" He grabs his collar, drags him up — and hits him harder.

"You don't touch her." Another punch.

"Not now. Not ever." His fist slams into him again.

"You don't fucking play with her." Another hit, sharp and mean.

You're frozen. Heart pounding, breath caught somewhere between your ribs. Your back is still pressed to the door. Everything happened too fast.

Kai straightens again, wiping the corner of his mouth. His lip is already split.

"She said yes," he snaps. "She came with me. She said yes. Who the fuck are you to act like she's your property?"

"She's drunk, you piece of shit."

"She can still make her own decisions," Kai throws back. "She said yes. You think you can just walk in and take over her life?"

"No," Jungkook says through clenched teeth. "But I know her. And I know she doesn't fucking drink. You gave her that shit on purpose."

Kai scoffs, breathing hard. "She's not a child. She's grown. She wanted to drink. She wanted to fuck. Who the fuck are you to say anything?"

Jungkook doesn't answer. He just hits him again. Right in the gut. Kai doubles over with a choked sound, clutching his side.

"You think that's consent?" Jungkook shouts, stepping closer. "She's half gone, and you're dragging her upstairs like it's nothing?"

Kai staggers back. He looks shaken now. Angry, but quiet.

Jungkook towers over him. His fists are still clenched. He doesn't swing again, but he's close..

"You don't touch her again. You don't come near her again," Jungkook says, his voice shaking with rage. "You fucking hear me? If I see you anywhere near her — if I even catch you looking at her — I'll rip your fucking throat out and cut your dick off."

Kai glances at you — just once. You can't read the look. Shock, maybe. Bitterness. Embarrassment. He doesn't say anything. He just straightens up slowly, eyes still on you for a second longer than you like.

Then he walks away.

Jungkook doesn't move. He stands there, breathing hard, hand still clenched at his side, shoulders tight. You can see the tremble in his arm, the way he's still barely holding it together.

Kai disappears down the stairs. The music from downstairs hums up faintly through the walls again, like the night's still happening and none of this mattered.

But it did.Jungkook doesn't move.

His breathing's still uneven. His knuckles are red. His eyes stay locked on the spot where Kai stood a second ago. Then he takes your wrist and pulls you into the room, quick and without a word, he slams the door shut behind him, and turns to face you.

"What the hell are you doing?" he snaps. His voice is sharp. Rough. "What the fuck was that?"

You don't answer. You're still catching up to everything that just happened.

"I told you what kind of guy he is," he keeps going. "He's a fuckboy. He doesn't give a shit about anyone's feelings. He screws girls, uses them, then walks off.

His eyes are wild. Angry. Like he doesn't even know what to do with himself.

"And you—what the hell were you doing with him?" he says, voice rising. "You don't even drink. You never drink. And now you're upstairs with some guy's hands all over you like it's normal?"

You feel your chest tighten. Something rises in your throat.

He keeps going.

"Your brother agreed to let you come because we  persuaded . He thought you'd have fun. Safe fun. But this?" Jungkook gestures toward the stairs. "This is what you do?"

That's it.

Something in you snaps.

You step towards him, voice already shaking. "Oh really? And what the fuck were you doing, Jungkook?"

He blinks.

"You wanna talk about what I was doing?" your voice cracks open, louder now. "You were downstairs grinding on some girl like you forgot where the hell you were. Her mouth was all over yours, your hands were all over her, and you didn't even fucking blink."

He doesn't answer.

"You were eating her face like it was dessert. You didn't care who saw."

He flinches at that. Barely. But you catch it.

"So why can you do that, huh?" you ask, breath uneven. "Why can you make out with whoever you want, fuck whoever you want, and then come upstairs and act like you're in charge of my life?"

You're yelling now. You don't even care. "You've always done this. You hook up. You move on. You have flings and girlfriends and exes and drama. And no one ever stops you."

You point at yourself. "But I say yes one time, and suddenly the world's on fire?"

His jaw tightens, but still, he doesn't say anything.

"I'm not your problem, Jungkook," you say, voice cracking. "I wanted to fuck Kai. I agreed. Because I'm an adult. And I have desires, too. Yeah, I wanted it. So what?"

You step forward, close enough now that you can see the tightness in his expression, the storm in his eyes.

"You don't get to control me," you say. "You don't get to act like I'm some little kid who doesn't know what she's doing. You were practically hooking up with someone in front of everyone. I didn't stop you. I didn't fucking interrupt you."

He looks at you now, really looks. His mouth is tight. His fists are still clenched at his

Your chest is heaving. You're shaking now. From anger. From whatever else is tangled up inside you.

"I've watched you live your life. All of you. You, Taehyung, Jimin— You guys do whatever you want."

You start pacing, hands flying.

"You hook up. You party. You disappear for nights. You bring girls home. You flirt, you drink, you live."

Your voice cracks.

"And it's all fine. It's always fine. But the second I try to have fun, everyone loses their mind."

You turn to him again, eyes burning. "How many times Jimin's told me to stay home? To focus on studies? To not go out late? He can go out all night, get wasted, stumble in at 4 a.m., and no one bats an eye."

You shake your head. "But me? I step out of line once, and suddenly I need babysitting."

Jungkook swallows, but doesn't interrupt.

" I'm the one who gets told what to do. I'm the one who has to be careful. I'm the one who's treated like a fucking child."

Your voice breaks again.

"I'm not a kid," you say, quieter now. "I'm not someone who needs to be guarded every second like I'm about to break."

"I said yes. Not because I'm stupid. Not because I don't know better. But because I wanted to. Because I'm allowed to fucking want things."

The silence that follows is crushing. You can hear the music again downstairs, muffled, distant — like a different world.

You're still breathing hard. So is Jungkook.

He finally speaks, voice low but steady.

"Y/n, You're Jimin's sister," he says. "You're practically a sister to me."

You freeze.

Your chest rises, then falls. And then rises again, sharper.

"A sister," you repeat, your voice cold. "Is that really what I am to you?"

He blinks, caught off guard. "No. I didn't mean it like that."

You take a step closer. "Then how did you mean it?"

"You're not just his sister. You're—" He sighs. "You're special. You're my friend. We've known each other for years. Jimin says that stuff because he cares. Because he wants to keep you safe. We all do."

"Yeah? From what?" you snap. "From people like Kai?"

"Yes," Jungkook says without hesitation. "He's not a good guy."

"And you are?" you shout, eyes narrowing. "Because what I saw tonight— You were basically on top of that girl! Her hands were in your hair. Her mouth was all over you. You didn't care. You didn't stop her."

You scoff, furious now. "You had your hands under her shirt. She was grinding on you like you were her boyfriend. And you looked like you liked it."

"Because —" Jungkook starts, but doesn't finish.

You don't give him the chance.

"Because you knew her?" you spit. "That's your excuse? You knew her?"

He doesn't move.

"You always know them," you say bitterly. "That's the thing with you. It's about you. What you want. What you get to do. And no one says a damn thing."

He stares at you. Hard. "What are you saying?"

You shake your head, fists clenched. "I'm saying I've spent years watching you do whatever you want. Sleep with whoever you want. Go out, get drunk, fuck around. And I've been quiet. I've been good. I stayed in my lane."

You step closer. Voice rising again. "But the one time I try to live— to have fun, to feel something— you come at me like I've done something wrong."

Then he says it.

His voice is too calm. .

"What are you, jealous?"

The air leaves your lungs.

You stare at him.

"Jealous?" you whisper.

And then you explode.

"Why the fuck would I be jealous?" you shout. "You get to hook up. You get to have flings and girls who don't even remember your name. You get to drink and dance and mess around like nothing matters."

Your voice cracks.

"And I get left behind."

You pause, breathing hard.

"You think I want to sit around while everyone else gets to live? No. I want to drink. I want to fuck. And I can. I will."

You take a step back. "So don't step into my life like you belong there."

You turn to leave, feet already moving.

But Jungkook grabs your wrist.

"Come on," he says, voice low. "Let's get you home."

You want to scream again. You want to pull your arm away. You want to say something that'll ruin him the way he's ruined your night.

But you don't.

Your heart's too heavy, your head's too full, and the party noise behind you suddenly feels like the worst place to be.

So you don't fight it.

You let him hold your wrist.

You let him walk you out.

You and Jungkook are halfway down the stairs when Jimin finds you.

"There you are," he says, voice tight. "Where the hell were you? We were looking everywhere."

You don't respond.

Jimin's eyes shift to Jungkook. His shoulders relax slightly, like he's relieved you're with him.

"We're going home," he says. "I'll drop her." "Where's Tae?"

Jimin shrugs, annoyed. "Probably banging some girl he met in the kitchen."

Jungkook doesn't react to that either.

He just grabs your hand again and keeps walking, not even asking if you're okay with it.

Jimin doesn't stop him.

You don't, either

Outside, the air hits colder. Loud music spills from the house behind you, but it feels distant now.

Jungkook opens the passenger door and waits until you slide in. Then he gets in and starts the car.

Silence.

Not a word passes between you the whole drive.

You don't look at him. He doesn't look at you.

Your mind is a blur. Nothing makes sense anymore. Your head's pounding. Your throat's dry. The streetlights blur past the windows, glowing soft and far away.

At some point, you realize your cheeks feel wet.

You touch your face. You're crying.

But you don't remember when it started.

You blink fast, wipe your face, but another one falls just as quick. Your chest feels tight, and there's this low, awful throb inside you — like everything finally caught up all at once.

Jungkook glances over. His eyes land on your face, and the way his expression shifts is almost instant. Quiet concern.

He pulls over without asking.

The car rolls to a gentle stop near the curb. He turns to face you, voice low.

He watches you for a few seconds longer before he says, "I'm sorry."

You still don't speak. Just keep looking out the windshield like it'll save you from having to deal with this.

"I know it's your life," he continues. "And I didn't have the right to yell. I should've said things differently. I was just..." He pauses. "I was worried. But that doesn't excuse it."

You hear him. You know he means it.

And that's when he reaches over.

Slow. Careful.

He pulls you into a hug.

It's warm. Steady. Quiet.

And it hurts more than anything else tonight.

Because you hug him back. You lean into it. But your heart's not in the same place his is.

He's holding you like someone he cares about — but not the way you want. Not the way you've always wished he would. His hand on your back is gentle, reassuring. Like a brother. Like a best friend. Like he's just trying to calm you down.

And it stings.

You don't want this kind of hug. Not the safe kind. Not the comforting kind.

You want the kind that means something. The kind that happens when two people want each other. Want to be closer. Want more.

But that's not what this is. Not for him.

That's what makes you cry harder.

The tears come faster now. You bury your face against his hoodie, and you hate how natural it feels. How much you've missed this kind of closeness — even if it's the wrong kind. Your hands clutch at the fabric, holding on tighter than you should.

And he just holds you.

Still calm. Still steady.

Like he doesn't know you're breaking inside over the very thing he's doing.

Like he doesn't realize the hug that's meant to comfort you is the same one that's tearing you apart.

You stay there anyway.

Because even if it's not what you want — it's still him.

And right now, that's enough to make you fall apart quietly in his arms.

You don't know how long it's been since you started crying, but somewhere in between, your body gave out.

You must've fallen asleep in his arms.

There's no real memory of when it happened — just the lingering warmth of his hoodie, the faint beat of his heart against your cheek, the steady way his hand rested between your shoulder blades like he wasn't going anywhere. Your body's heavy now. Drained.

Jungkook notices when your weight shifts, your head drooping more against him, breath soft and even. He stays like that for a minute longer, arms still around you, eyes flicking over your face like he's making sure.

Then, gently, he eases you back into your seat.

Careful hands. He fastens the seatbelt across your body, his touch light so he doesn't wake you. You slump a little to the side, eyelids fluttering, but you don't stir fully. He watches for a second, just to be sure, before turning back to the wheel.

The drive is quiet.  His hand stays on the steering wheel, but his thoughts are somewhere else.

When he finally pulls up outside the apartment, he turns off the engine and glances at you again.

You're still asleep.

There's a small crease between your brows, like your body's resting but your mind isn't. He hates that. He can see it, even now.

He opens his door and circles around. The cold hits him the second he steps out, but he moves fast, careful with each step. When he opens your side of the door, he crouches down and slides one arm under your knees, the other behind your back.

He lifts you easily.

You don't wake.

Your head falls against his shoulder as he holds you. One of your hands brushes lightly against his chest, but stays there, limp.

Jungkook carries you through the front door. He knows the passcode — everyone in the group does. It beeps softly as he enters it and pushes the door open with his shoulder.

The apartment is dark, quiet.

Inside, he walks straight toward your room and pushes the door open with his foot. He moves carefully, like every noise might shatter the quiet. The bed's already turned down a little from this morning, and he gently lowers you onto it.

You shift slightly, groaning something under your breath, but your eyes don't open.

He kneels by the edge of the bed.

First, your boots. He slides them off one by one, placing them neatly by the wall.

Then your socks. You twitch a little as he peels them off, but still don't wake.

He gets up and disappears into the bathroom. When he returns, he has a small pack of tissues and a damp towel. He crouches again, gently brushing the makeup from your face. It's smudged now, faded. He wipes away the streaks beneath your eyes, then presses the towel to your forehead just for a second.

You look softer now. Tired, but soft.

He sits back on his heels, unsure.

You need to change. That's obvious. But waking you feels wrong — even if he knows you wouldn't want to sleep like this.

Still, he reaches out and touches your arm. Lightly.

"Y/n," he says quietly. "Can you wake up for a second?"

You blink slowly. Then groan.

"Hmm?"

"You should change," he says. "Your top's uncomfortable. It'll feel better if—"

But before he finishes the sentence, your hands are already moving. Dazed. Half-asleep. Reaching for the hem of your shirt.

And he panics.

"No— no, wait— hey— stop," he blurts out, jumping up and immediately turning around. "I'm going. I'm outside. Just— change. Please."

He doesn't wait. He steps out into the hallway and closes the door behind him, running a hand down his face.

He stands there for a minute. Just breathing.

Then he heads to the kitchen, opens the fridge, grabs a water bottle. Checks the cabinet. There's a small box of hangover tablets Jimin keeps around, and Jungkook takes one out. He pulls out a pot and makes something simple — a soup, the instant kind. It's not great, but it's warm. While it's getting ready , he unpacks the sandwiches,that you absolutely love, he bought earlier on the way home .

Then he stops and grabs a small bucket — just in case. You drank a lot, and he knows how that can end.

By the time he returns to your room, the lights are dimmed again — and you're asleep.

Changed into a T-shirt and shorts. Lying sideways now, arms curled under your pillow, face half-buried.

He exhales.

He sets the things down on your bedside table, then crouches beside the bed.

"Y/n," he says softly. Nothing.

"Come on," he tries again, nudging your arm. "You gotta eat something first."

You groan, eyes barely opening. "I'm fine," you mumble.

"You're not. I made soup." He lifts the bowl slightly. "And I brought sandwiches, the ones you love. Five minutes. That's it."

You don't argue. You're too tired to. He helps you sit up a little, careful with every movement, and holds the spoon out. You take a sip, slow and quiet. The warmth helps. He feeds you another. Then another. You don't talk. You don't need to.

After a few more spoonfuls, you mutter, "That's enough," and start leaning back again.

"No, it's not," he says gently, not letting you go just yet. "You need it. You're running on nothing."

You groan again, but he doesn't budge. "Soup now.

You let him feed you a little more. Then he opens the paper bag, pulls out a small sandwich, and holds it up like it's a challenge.

"One bite," he says.

You sigh, take it. Then another. He watches, quiet, until he's sure you've had enough.

Finally, you lie back down, eyes already shutting. He sets the bowl and wrapper aside, places the patch and tablet near your pillow, and leaves the bucket nearby just in case. Then he pulls the blanket over your legs, smoothing it out without thinking.

By the time he looks at you again, you're already asleep.

He doesn't say anything.

Just looks at you.

He doesn't understand what happened tonight. Or maybe he does and just doesn't want to admit it. But something cracked — he can feel it. And whatever it is between you two, it's not what it used to be.

He watches your breathing, the way your lashes rest against your skin, the faint rise and fall of your chest.

She looks tired, he thinks. Not just from tonight. From everything.

He gets up slowly, without a sound.

He leaves your room, shutting the door softly behind him.

He's about to leave when the sound of stumbling footsteps pulls his attention toward the hallway.

Jimin.

Hair a mess, shirt halfway untucked, and clearly still drunk out of his mind.

Jungkook blinks. "What the hell— how did you even get here?"

Jimin just grins, swaying a little as he holds onto the wall. "I'm magic," he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.

Jungkook shakes his head. "God, you drank too much."

Jimin doesn't answer. Just laughs — this weird, wheezy sound like he's in his own world.

Then he looks up at Jungkook, blinking slowly. "Is she here?"

"Yeah," Jungkook replies. "She's asleep. Don't worry."

Jimin's grin softens a little. "She eat anything?"

"I gave her some snacks," Jungkook mutters, already moving toward the door. "Don't shout, you motherfucking ass. Let her rest. You sleep too."

Jimin throws his hand up like a salute. "Yeah, yeah. Go, go, go."

Then his smirk returns, twisted, loose with alcohol. "Your company's waiting."

Jungkook pauses. "What?"

"She was so frustrated when you left," Jimin slurs. "Mad. Real mad. Couldn't stop pacing. Kept looking at her phone.You must be very good, huh?"

And just like that, Jungkook knows.

He's talking about Mina.

But Jungkook doesn't say anything. Just exhales through his nose and steps out, shutting the door behind him.

The air outside hits cold, sharp.

He walks to his car, unlocks it, and gets in. Slams the door a little harder than he means to.

Silence.

He grips the steering wheel for a second. Lets his head fall back against the headrest. Closes his eyes.

Then his phone buzzes. He reaches for it slowly, screen lighting up in his palm.

1 new message — Mina

Where the fuck did you go?

You left me.

We said tonight was our night, Jungkook.

I looked like an idiot waiting there.

You said you'd come back.

Where the hell did you go?

He reads it once. Then again. And then he puts the phone face-down on the passenger seat.

He doesn't reply. He doesn't know what to say.

His mind's clouded. Thick with noise. Too many things piling on top of each other.

Your voice. Your eyes. Your tears in the car.

His hands still smell faintly like your perfume. His shirt still has your mascara on the shoulder.

He sits there for a while. Not thinking clearly. Not doing anything.

Just breathing. Slowly. Like maybe he's trying to convince himself this will all make sense in the morning.

But it doesn't.

Not yet.

✿₊˚ Hey lovelies! Thank you so much for reading! Do leave a review and let me know how you liked this chapter and how the story is going so far. You can click here to do so! It seriously makes me so happy to hear your thoughts and see how you’re experiencing everything. And if you enjoyed it feel free to like and reblog too!

♡ taglist ♡

@senaqsstuff @stars4kooo @sheshya @sadiayn @mimi1097 @taemond-in-the-ruff @beattiestreet @mar-lo-pap @whoa-jo @almatiarau @hottiejkay @hottigerboba @namgimini @jjeonjjk7 @matryoshka-poetry @yungies @mymelodybummy @osakis-gf

➤ want to be added to the taglist? click here for info!

[justastraymoa]

Resignation

Masterlist

Warnings for hurt, not really any comfort, hospitals, medical issues with children, mentions of blood and bruising, hurt children, sad, bad husband behavior, emotional abuse, no happy ending.

Nothing within reflects anyone or anything irl. Pics off pinterest. Im not a medical or seizure professional. I googled. Do not repost.

You stared blankly at the phone in your shaking hands. A tear dripped onto the screen, blurring your husband’s dismissive and cruel words. The sirens of the ambulance were deafening as paramedics moved around you and the tiny body lying on the stretcher.

Your daughter was still out of it, unable to form words and eyes unfocused. She was crying quietly, scared and confused about what was happening. It was heartbreaking to watch her eyes slide over you without recognition.

A young male paramedic placed a gentle, comforting hand on your arm, the purple rubber glove feeling odd against your skin. You give him your attention.

“Don’t worry. Temporary amnesia isn’t uncommon after a seizure.” He soothed. “Her vitals look good. You did very good helping her.”

You didn’t feel like you did good. You completely froze when your little girl suddenly started acting off then collapsed on the living room floor amongst her toys and jerked violently over and over again.

Your knowledge about seizures and what to do was very limited. It felt like it took hours for you to jump into action, quickly shoving her toys away and turning her onto her side. She was making deep guttural grunts and at some point, you didn’t notice she had lost control of her bladder, soaking her pants and the floor around her.

You had no idea how long the seizure lasted. That was one of the first questions the paramedics had asked you. You only knew if felt like an eternity as you sobbed out your daughter’s name repeatedly.

As soon as the shaking stopped you sprinted to your phone across the room, quickly dialing the emergency number before getting back to Maya. She was unconscious but breathing.

Before the paramedics arrived, Maya had another seizure – and your heart stopped.

On top of everything already happening, having your husband blow off both you and your daughter hurt. It hurts to have your asking for help be called a temper tantrum like you were some clingy, needy person. You have never once asked him for help like this. But he had always said that he would be there for you. Now it seems like that was only just sweet words. It felt like you were on your own.

Still, you texted him the hospital address anyway. Just in case.

It took two hours for the ER to do all the testing and scans they needed to do to find out what happened. Maya didn’t start to recognize you for almost an hour after her second seizure and you almost collapsed in relief when she finally looked at you and softly called “Mommy”. It was the sweetest sound you had ever heard.

You looked up from the clipboard of paperwork as Maya started fingering her IV again. “Babygirl, you need to leave that alone. Its fiving you medicine.” You chastise gently, explaining the importance to her.

“I’m sick?” She asked, her big brown eyes looking up at you in concern.

Reaching out you gently smooth her hair, the curls sticking up in odd directions. The doctor had explained to you that she may never remember the seizure or even the hours leading up to it or after it. “Yeah, you are. But these nice doctors and nurses are going to help you.”

She sat and processed that for a few moments. She was such a steady, thoughtful child. Always has been. “That’s why they did all the machines and shots?” She confirmed.

You nod. “They are trying to find out why you are sick so we can get you better and keep you healthy.”

She mirrored your nod with a twist of her full pink lips. You stayed silent and let her think through her feelings, rubbing her shin under the scratchy rubber duck scrubs the hospital had made you change her into. You were so thankful she was back to normal acting. The color was back in her cheeks and everything.

“Where’s daddy?”

Your chest went cold. You had been avoiding mentioning anything to do with Chan. You didn’t want to see the look of resigned disappointment she would undoubtably have. You saw it every time you had to explain to her that daddy was busy with work and couldn’t come to her recital, or to her birthday party, or to the father-daughter dance.

His absence from your lives was something you were both far too used to. She barely knew her daddy, and what she did know mostly came from Stray Kids video uploads or articles you read to her every night like bedtime stories.

“He’s really busy at work, baby, but he will come see you when he can.” No need to try and explain that he didn’t even know what had happened or asked after her health or recovery. You didn’t want to have to tell her that he cared more about work than either of you. It was bad enough you knew it; she didn’t need that heart ache as well.

He loved you both. Of course he did. And you know it. And you knew way back when, when you two first got together that he would be away more often than not. That he would miss holiday, important dates, events, milestones. And when you found out you were pregnant, you knew none of that would change. You knew and you were okay with it because you loved him and were so proud of him and his work.

You just didn’t understand, weren’t prepared for how much it would hurt to see your daughter go through this with you. You had a choice. You chose this. Maya didn’t. She had no choice; she was born into this. And you did that to her.

“Can we watch skizz family?”

“Sure babe.” You pull up her favorite skz skit and hand your phone over to her as you climbed into the bed with her to cuddle and hopefully get her to sleep.

Just as she was settling in, our phone buzzed with an incoming text.

She thrust the phone back into your hand. “Uncle Bokbok is texting.”

Just over thirty minutes later several bags of takeout and snacks and a large glittery gift bag arrived. Maya squealed happily as soon as she saw the chocolate brown stuffed bear.

You were happy for the bed set and clothes he had thought to send along so both of you could sleep more comfortably tonight. And felix also sent over all your favorite foods and Mayas. He really earned his angel status and more.

Taking a few minutes, you changed Maya and put the sheets and pillowcase on, laying the blanket over both of you before snapping a pic to send to Lix.

Even now you were unwilling to speak poorly about Chan to his members. Even to Felix who was truly like a brother to you and an uncle to your daughter. All skz were her doting uncles, of course. But Felix was always the closest to both of you. Today just proved that more.

Maya fell asleep not even halfway through her video, holding her bear close and snuggling into your ribs. She was exhausted from the day. You let the video continue, watching Chan play his young character.

The tears snuck up on you. Falling down your face in large silent drops.

Sniffing deeply, you swipe them away. Mayas okay now, there is no reason for tears.

Tucking the blanket around you both a bit tighter, you get as comfortable as possible and close your eyes to sleep, your phone still playing the video.

It was a sweet older nurse who woke you up an hour and a half later to give you the results of Mayas tests. You were immediately alert at her words, anxious to find out what happened.

Slipping carefully out of bed so you didn’t wake Maya up, you followed the nurse to the hall to talk.

The results were all within normal ranges and expectations for the situation, so now they wanted to do some more extensive testing.

Which meant a three-day neural test to watch the activity in her brain for any abnormalities.

Just over an hour later you and Maya were climbing into an Uber. She looked like a science experiment with a white cap over her head and wires poking out from everywhere.

Ans she was miserable. Sore and tired, cranky from being poked, prodded, and woken up. She wouldn’t even talk to you in more than short grunts and huffs. She still held her stuffed bear tightly in her arms.

You couldn’t wait for the familiar sight of your apartment and the comfort and warmth of your bed.

What you could wait for was the inevitable argument with Chan.

Unfortunately for you, he was awake and waiting for you when you walked in carrying a sleeping Maya against your shoulder.

He rounded on you immediately. “Where the fuck have you been? It’s late as hell!”

You shushed him urgently, gesturing with one hand to Maya. You didn’t want to wake her up again. She had a rough day and deserved a little sleep.

Chan looked down at her like he just noticed she was there. His eyes took in the cap and wires. The bruises, dried blood, and bandages. His anger turned to confusion and concern.

He let you by to tuck Maya into her bed and shut the door, so she won’t wake up.

“What happened?” He asked, significantly calmer now.

You glare at him and brush past, heading to the kitchen for a glass of water. “We’ve been at the hospital getting tests done.” You chose to answer his first question. You were facing away from him, towards the sink as you drank and let all your emotions swirl dangerously within you like a tornado.

“Testing for what? And what’s on her head? What happened?” He repeated.

The glass cup clanged as you set it in the sink, now empty. “She had two seizures. Tonic - Clonic seizures.”

“Seizures! What the fuck! Why didn’t you tell me?”

You whirled around, hands shaking in anger. “Why didn’t - ! I texted you from the ambulance, Chris!” You began, fighting to keep your voice down. “I begged you for help! Told you I needed you – that Maya needed you! Remember?”

Stunned, Chan paled, realization dawning in his eyes.

You nod. “Yeah. Thought so.”

“I – I didn’t know! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was just having a temper tantrum. And you were too busy.”

He flinched and grew paler. He stepped closer, but you threw a hand up to stop him. “Honey, I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize! I fucked up, I’m sorry!” He pleaded.

“We were at the hospital for hours, Chris, and you never asked. Never came. Never called. Never texted. Nothing.”

“I didn’t know.” He repeated helplessly.

“You didn’t want to know! You didn’t care!”

“Of course I care! She’s my daughter!”

“Is she? You’re a stranger to her. Her dad is a man she watches on my phone. Someone from dispatch pictures and articles I read to her at night. She’s four years old and she doesn’t know her own father.”

You deflated at the heartbroken look on your husband’s face and ran a hand over your face and hair with a sigh.

“Just – forget it. It’s fine. We both understand. Let’s just forget about it. I’m tired.”

Without waiting for a response, you slip past him and into your room, sliding quietly under the covers and numbly closing your eyes to sleep.

It was useless to tell him any of this anyway. It is what it is. But you still love him regardless.

💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

Resignation Taglist: @mbioooo0000 @afararraaaa @dilfdetector @imma-much-happier-person @bangchansgirlsblog @diekleinesuesse @beckahhope @breakmeoff

General Taglist @stellasays45 @beebee18 @weird-bookworm @velvetmoonlght

[ackerlikesmen]

"You're biased and just hate Annabeth!!"

Recently, I've noticed posts criticizing anti-Percabeth shippers for being biased against Annabeth because we overlook Percy's mistakes. There's some truth to that.

We focus more on Annabeth's actions than Percy's because they're more impactful and harmful, at least that's me. That's not to say Percy is a saint because he's not. While I do see more criticism of Annabeth, I also see criticism of Percy, such as his passivity when Annabeth does something he dislikes or his lack of openness to her. Hell, a lot of anti-percabeth stans feel Percy is a shell of himself and don't like where he's heading. I also see them criticize how he treated Bob in Tartarus because he was manipulative and a dick. I'm sure there's a lot more to criticize him on.

Percy gets criticized as a character and his choices, but for percabeth, he's rarely the issue here.

To keep it short, let's ask ourselves:

Has Percy done ANY of the following to Annabeth?

Has he called her mean names, intending to bring her down, so he feels better about himself?

Did he demean Annabeth for not understanding something?

Did he crap over her accomplishments because others acknowledge her achievements, then get happy when she's being insulted and told she can't do anything without Percy's help?

Has he insulted her family members or friends?

While Annabeth mourns for her dead brother, has Percy made that moment about himself?

Did he stalk her while she was changing and make excuses for it?

Did he yell and scream at her during stressful times, causing more stress?

Has he made her afraid of him to the point she expects to get hit or chewed out for getting something wrong, even if it's a little?

Has he hit, kicked, shoved, and body slammed her because she ANNOYED or ANGERED him? We're not talking about sparring. Has Percy put his hands on her because she did something he didn't like?

Has he shown a lack of appreciation when she does something kind because she can't afford to do something extravagant?

Has he made her plan everything and hold expectations while he sits on his ass, only to later judge her efforts???

Has he put her life at risk by shoving her into a dangerous situation with a dangerous god/goddess wanting to kill her, watching her getting her shit rocked, and when she asks for help, he sits on his ass and points to his "watch"? Did he do all of this, not knowing if she'll survive?

Has he tried to control her? Make her do something she doesn't like, or make him uncomfortable about interacting, or even think about others?

Has he brought up an ex in fucking Tartarus with the intention of making her uncomfortable?

Has he shamed her for using dark powers that literally saved their lives? Again, showing no gratitude.

Has he gossiped about her to a friend and let his friend paint her as an animal/monster that needs to be leashed?

Has he tried to guilt-trip Annabeth into doing things?

All of those are no.

But Annabeth has done them to Percy.

What's worse? She hasn't apologized. Not once.

Now do you understand why anti-percabeth stans don't like her or are critical of her? It's hard to like a character that's not only a bitch but a bitch that faces little to no consequences, on top of stans calling you 'sexist' for not kissing her feet and calling their relationship the "golden standard".

Trying to shift blame onto Percy is annoying at best and scummy at worst. It's victim blaming. Yes, Percy has done some rude things, but that's nowhere near as horrific as what she did.

When I hear stans talk about her changing, part of changing is acknowledging WHAT NEEDS TO BE CHANGED. Being aware of your wrongdoings. Please list where she has apologized to Percy for being a cunt? Where does she realize she's being cruel and needs to change?

It's Percy who either apologizes or looks over what she did.

That's not changing or becoming better. That's sweeping your shit under the rug and hoping no one smells it. It's the victim trying to tell themselves that what they're going through isn't terrible, and they need to "toughen up".

Yesterday, I saw a stan bashing a fanfic writer for writing Annabeth in a critical light. When the author gave evidence of how Annabeth mistreats him, not only did they ignore it, but they also bash Percy and blame him for things he didn't do or were out of his control.

And that's why I criticize her more. Her actions are more impactful and harmful than Percy's ever will be. The fact Percy EXPECTS her to hurt him is damaging enough. That's probably how fucking Sally feels with Gabe. If I do something wrong, he'll hurt me. Why the fuck can't this be considered the same or similar to Percabeth? Her intent to bring him down and hurt him because of her insecurities is why I voice my complaints, and when I got hardcore stans trying to OVERLOOK and DEFEND her actions, even blaming Percy, I can't help but scorn and bitch louder.

You stans want Percy to share the blame when he isn't required to. You want Annabeth to seem less bad and mean, and I am not okay with that. We should not lessen the blows she delivered. I get that some people can blow things out of proportion, but we have evidence that she's similar to Gabe and is just a nasty person.

Overall, it's not bad that one person gets more blame, especially when they're the ones causing the problems, and that someone is Annabeth Chase, and I won't stop being vocal about that.

Alright. Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.

Have a good night xxx.

[halfmoonaria]

wasn’t supposed to

pairing: sam carpenter & female reader

summary: sam didn’t trust her sister’s new tutor, but the more she pushed her away, the more she started wanting her around.

word count: 10.2k

author’s note: this was a request, but i absolutely hate this so i do apologize if this wasn’t what you imagined.

Sam didn't like the word "friends."

It sounded too soft. Too safe. Too much like something people said before they disappeared or turned on you — or worse, expected you to need them.

Friends asked questions. Friends crossed lines. Friends got hurt.

Sam had tried once, maybe twice, to let someone get close. But people always wanted more than she could give, and when she failed to meet their expectations — when she wasn't open enough or warm enough — they left. Or judged. Or flinched the second her last name came up in conversation.

So she stopped trying. It was easier that way. Keep it small. Tara, Mindy, Chad — even that felt like too much, sometimes.

She didn't like when new people showed up, either. Especially the ones who wormed their way into Tara's life — the ones who made her laugh in a way Sam hadn't heard in months, who knew what she was studying, what she was struggling with, who called her smart and meant it.

Tara had always let people in easier than Sam did. Even as a kid, her little sister never needed convincing — she just trusted people, let them get close, believed that kindness meant safety. But after Woodsboro, after everything they'd survived, that kind of trust wasn't a strength. Not anymore.

Sam had tried to teach her that. Tried to set rules, boundaries, warnings. But Tara never really followed Sam's rules — not when they were kids, and definitely not now. Not when she was older, smarter, and convinced she could handle herself.

People like that didn't show up without wanting something. And Sam had gotten very good at spotting what people wanted.

Which was why her stomach had twisted the second Tara mentioned that one of her professors had recommended a tutoring option after Tara bombed a test she swore she had studied for.

Sam hadn't liked the sound of that. Not the vagueness, not the fact that this mysterious "help" came in the form of a single person, and definitely not that the sessions were happening weekly, sometimes twice a week, in offices or on quiet corners of campus. If Sam had to imagine the perfect setup for someone trying to get close to her sister — trying to study her, learn her schedule, her trust patterns — this was it.

It was the dream Ghostface scenario.

But Tara hadn't seen the danger. She'd barely even humored Sam's warnings. All she cared about was passing the class.

"I'm sorry," she'd snapped one night, exasperated, "so you'd rather I fail psych just to avoid anyone who isn't already on your vetted list?"

And the worst part? She had a point. Because even though Sam hated the situation, she also knew Tara couldn't afford to fall behind. The last few months had already been hell enough. She didn't want her sister to drown in school stress on top of everything else.

So she'd bitten her tongue. Let the tutoring sessions happen. Let this person — this professor — circle closer and closer around the one person Sam couldn't afford to lose.

But she was watching. And the second something felt wrong, she would step in.

She tried not to be dramatic about it. That was the promise she'd made to herself when Tara first mentioned the tutoring thing. Just be calm. Be rational. Reasonable.

It was only one session. The first one. That meant there was still time to shift the plan, make it safer, more controlled. Time to keep things from going sideways before they even started.

She brought it up the morning Tara was supposed to meet you. While Tara was shuffling around the kitchen — still in pajama pants, hair tied messily back, sleep heavy under her eyes as she half-blindly prepared the coffee. Sam stayed seated at the table, pretending to scroll through her phone. Waiting for the right moment. Keeping her tone easy.

"I could come with you," she said finally, watching as Tara dumped spoonfuls of grounds into the machine. "Not for the whole time. Just to check things out. You said it's in the library, right? I could sit a table away. Pretend I'm studying or something."

Tara didn't even glance at her. "No."

Sam blinked. "Just no?"

"I don't need a babysitter," Tara muttered, reaching for the milk as she moved to pour cereal into a chipped bowl. "Tutoring's already bad enough. Do you want me to wear a giant I'm failing sign too?"

Sam had tried not to bristle. She really had. But that stung more than she expected it to.

It wasn't that she thought Tara was weak, or dumb, or incapable. If anything, she was proud of her for being willing to get help. But that didn't mean Sam had to trust the person giving it. Especially not someone she'd never met. Especially not in this city, after everything they'd been through. You didn't just let strangers get that close — not anymore.

So she tried again.

"You could have her come here," she said, keeping her voice measured. "Just this once, maybe. You know... do the session in the apartment. That way you're comfortable, it's a familiar place, I'm around—"

"I said no," Tara cut in sharply, this time turning to look at her. "That would be weird. I don't want some random girl I've never met walking into our apartment just because you're being weird about this."

Sam opened her mouth, then shut it again. Random girl. She hated the way Tara said it like that — like it was nothing. Like being careful was something to roll her eyes at.

Sam blinked, her temper flaring. "Random? I thought you said you knew who she was."

Tara rolled her eyes. "I do."

"But you've never met her?"

"I've heard about her," Tara argued, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter. "Other students know her — she tutors, like, half the psych department. And Professor Perry said she's smart as hell and actually gets the material. That's more than enough."

Sam let out a humorless laugh. "So now word-of-mouth and one professor's opinion make someone safe?"

Tara didn't answer. She just looked at her — annoyed, a little tired. Like she'd already had this argument in her head a dozen times and nothing Sam could say would change her mind.

Sam exhaled slowly through her nose, still watching Tara move around the kitchen. "How old is she again?"

Tara didn't look up, turning towards the fridge instead. "I don't know. Twenty? Twenty-two, maybe"

"Right," Sam said. "So she's, what, a couple years older than you? And she's just... made a career out of tutoring undergrads?"

Tara let out a dry laugh as she pulled out the carton of milk and shut the fridge with her hip, "Jesus, Sam."

"I'm just saying it's weird," Sam pressed. "She's not a TA. She's not on payroll. But she's spending her time helping psych majors for free?"

"For free?" Tara turned then, eyebrows raised. "Who said anything about for free?"

Sam blinked. "You're paying her?"

"Of course I'm paying her. What, did you think she was just doing it out of the goodness of her heart?"

Sam didn't answer.

Tara shook her head, her voice sharpening. "I'm trying to pass this class, Sam. I don't need some guilt-tripped pity sessions. I need actual help."

"And you think she's the answer?"

"She gets it. Professor Perry literally said she's one of the best students she's ever had — and that if anyone could explain the material, it'd be her."

Sam's jaw clenched. "Right. The twenty-year-old genius who just happens to be available and interested in helping you."

Tara turned away again, putting a cup down on the counter hard enough to make a point. "You'd rather I fail?"

"That's not what I—"

"Look, Sam," Tara cut in, finally turning around fully. Her coffee steamed in her hand, her expression sharp. "I'm going to this session. You don't have to like it. You don't have to approve. But I'm going."

Sam stared at her, lips parting slightly, like maybe she still had something to say. But Tara didn't wait.

She turned and left the kitchen, footsteps heavy against the floor, retreating to her room without another word. The door didn't slam — Tara wasn't like that — but the quiet click of it shutting still felt final.

She didn't speak to Sam for the rest of the morning. Didn't come out for breakfast, didn't offer a goodbye. When Sam heard the front door open a little after eight, she didn't even get a glance on the way out. Just the sound of keys, the rustle of a backpack strap, and the dull thud of the door closing behind her.

So that was how Sam's day began — and how it stayed. Eight hours behind the counter at the café, apron on, dish towel in hand, wiping down tables that never seemed clean enough. Her mind wasn't there, not really. Not in the espresso shots or the lukewarm tip jar or the regular who always asked for too much syrup.

It was with Tara. With you.

Somewhere in that crowded library, probably at one of the back tables where no one really looked twice. You'd be sitting together, talking. You'd be asking her questions, and Tara would be answering them. Laughing, maybe. Smiling.

Sam hated how much it bothered her — hated the way her stomach turned every time she pictured it. Because it shouldn't have been a big deal. It was just one session. One hour. Nothing.

But it didn't feel like nothing.

It felt like letting her sister walk straight into something she couldn't see — and being told not to get in the way.

After that, it just... continued.

One session turned into two. Two turned into a weekly thing. And soon it wasn't just tutoring anymore — not the way Tara talked about it.

She'd come home with that buzz in her voice, the kind she used when she liked something but didn't want to admit how much. When she'd drop your name into stories about her day like it wasn't anything — like you were just there. Like a given.

"You'd think this class would make more sense," she'd mutter, flipping through a highlighted packet on the couch. "But even she said the material's kind of trash. So, y'know, not just me."

She. Not the tutor. Not some girl from the psych department. Just you now — casual, assumed, familiar.

Sam hated how familiar it sounded.

She tried to be normal about it. She really did. She'd ask how the sessions went, nod along when Tara talked about how smart you were, how patient. How you made things make sense in a way her professor didn't. Sometimes, Tara would laugh and say you reminded her of someone — some dork from high school or a character from a show she liked. Sam would pretend to laugh, too.

But she didn't like it. Any of it.

Sometimes, she managed to keep her mouth shut. She'd just hum and change the subject or excuse herself to go do dishes that didn't need doing. But sometimes the words slipped out anyway.

"Just... don't get too close," she'd said once, barely loud enough to count. Tara had looked up from the couch with a frown.

"What does that mean?"

Sam hadn't answered. She just waved it off. Something about boundaries. About how tutoring was tutoring, and maybe it should stay that way.

But Tara didn't listen. She never really had.

"She's not a serial killer," she said once, dryly, when Sam had brought it up again. "She's literally a TA. You're acting like I'm going on tutoring dates with Ghostface."

Sam hadn't even dignified that one with a response. Just stared at the wall, jaw tight.

Because it wasn't just about danger. It wasn't just about keeping Tara safe. It was about the way things shifted. The way your name came up more and more often, the way Tara spoke about you like she already trusted you.

And Sam knew her sister. Knew how she let people in too easily. Knew how she looked for softness in places that didn't always deserve it.

And she knew — even if she couldn't prove it yet — that something about this wasn't right.

Still, she kept her mouth shut. For a few days, at least. Let Tara have her little victories. Let her pretend this was just school and help and nothing else.

But when another Friday came around — the end of Tara's second full week of sessions — Sam offered to pick her up. Said she'd be in the area anyway. Didn't mention that she'd gotten off work early, or that she'd planned it that way.

The campus was mostly cleared out by then. Late afternoon, sun starting to dip, the building quiet except for the dull hum of vending machines and the occasional echo of footsteps down the hall. Sam found the classroom easily — tucked near the end, just like Tara had texted — and leaned against the wall outside.

The door was open an inch.

Inside, she heard voices. Her sister's — light, relaxed, full of something warm. Then yours, steady and calm, with this almost annoying gentleness in it. Not flirty. Not even particularly enthusiastic.

Just familiar.

Sam didn't move. Not yet. Her hand hovered near the door, but her eyes caught the angle between the wood and the frame. She looked.

Tara sat at one of the desks, papers scattered in front of her, pen twirling between her fingers as she laughed at something. Across from her was you. You were relaxed, leaned back just slightly in your chair, speaking with your hands as you explained something she clearly didn't get the first time — but you weren't annoyed about it. You weren't even trying hard.

It just looked easy.

Like you'd done this before. Like you knew her. Like the two of you knew each other.

Sam's jaw clenched.

She didn't know what she expected — maybe boredom, maybe formality, maybe even tension. But not this. Not Tara smiling like that, not you smiling back. Not the air in the room feeling warm in that settled way. She couldn't hear everything, but she didn't need to.

It was the way Tara kept looking at you. The way you kept looking back.

Too comfortable. Too fast.

You were sitting on the other side of the desk, one ankle tucked over the other, posture relaxed in a way that didn't scream "teacher" but didn't cross into casual either. You wore a dark long-sleeve, something fitted but simple, sleeves pushed halfway up your arms. Your hair was a little messy, but not in the careless way — in the intentional way. Like you didn't care, but still managed to look too put-together.

Not flashy. Not even particularly intimidating. Just... cool. And older.

Mid-twenties, maybe. Comfortable in your skin. And it showed — in the way you tilted your head when Tara said something dumb, or how your smile curved at the edge like you were holding in a laugh.

There was nothing overtly inappropriate about the scene. No lingering looks, no touching, no boundary crossed.

But Sam didn't like the way Tara kept leaning in a little. Or how you mirrored it — subtle, automatic, like you were just used to the rhythm of talking to her.

She could already hear Tara's voice in her head: "It's not like that."

It didn't matter.

She hated the way you looked at her sister. Even worse, she hated how comfortable you were with it — like this was routine. Like you'd both gotten used to each other way too quickly.

Her hand curled into a loose fist at her side, and just as she was about to push the door fully open, you glanced up and noticed her.

You looked straight at her. No startled double-take. No awkward scramble. Just a blink — slow and even — before you stood.

You were tall. Not taller than Sam, but tall enough that it was the first thing she noticed. The second was your expression: polite, faintly warm, like you'd been expecting someone eventually. You offered her a hand, voice smooth and professional.

"Hi," you said, smiling just enough to show it was real. "You must be Sam. I'm—"

She didn't take it.

"I'm just here to pick up my sister."

The words weren't rude, exactly. Just... cold. Dry. Dropped like a pin in the middle of what had been an easy, flowing moment.

There was a short silence after that — not awkward, but definitely clipped. A shift. Like someone had hit pause and turned the temperature down.

You didn't flinch. You just let your hand fall naturally back to your side, the smile on your face slipping into something more neutral. Not offended. Not even surprised. Just... reset.

"Of course," you said simply, still holding eye contact for a beat longer than necessary. "Tara's made real progress."

That was when Sam felt it.

The tone of it. The quiet confidence. The way you said her sister's name like it wasn't borrowed — like it belonged to you too. Like you'd earned the right to say it that way.

Sam hated it.

She hated how you said it. Like you were proud of her. Like you had any idea who she really was.

Not because it was flirtatious — it wasn't. Not even close. But it was familiar. Warm. Like you knew her. Like you were proud of her. Like you saw something in Tara that maybe even Sam hadn't been able to get her to show lately.

She didn't say anything. Just stared at you with that same cool expression, shoulders square, hands in the pockets of her coat. Still holding her ground in the doorway like she had every right to stand there, to interrupt, to judge.

Tara stood behind you, finally rising from her seat and brushing a hand over the top of her backpack. The sound of the zipper gave the moment somewhere to land.

"Hey," she said, turning toward the door. Her voice was lighter than usual. Easy. "You're early."

"Traffic was light."

Sam's eyes flicked to her sister now — finally. Tara was still in the same shirt and jeans she'd left the apartment in that morning, hair pulled up into a messy knot that somehow still worked. She looked relaxed. At ease. Like she wanted to be here.

Like she wasn't in a rush to leave.

You didn't say anything else, just smiled again — smaller this time, polite, purely professional — and turned back to your things. Your hair fell in front of your cheek as you bent slightly over your notebook. Neat handwriting. A few color-coded tabs poking out from the corners.

Sam watched all of it.

You were older than Tara, that much was clear. Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. Something about you was put-together in a way college students weren't usually — like you actually slept, actually planned. You wore a soft sweater tucked slightly into black jeans, the kind of look that seemed effortless but wasn't. Your jewelry was minimal — just one small ring and a pair of earrings. Gold. Clean.

Everything about you was... neutral. Soft. Harmless.

Sam didn't believe that for a second.

Tara slung her bag over one shoulder as she reached for her phone. "Same time Monday?"

"Yeah," you replied, glancing up at her with a small nod. "Unless you need to move it."

"No, Monday's good."

You told her to have a good weekend. Then you glanced at Sam again and added, with simple sincerity, "Take care."

And then you walked out — calm, unbothered, collected. Like you didn't feel the strange charge still hanging in the air. Or maybe you just didn't care.

The moment the hallway swallowed your footsteps, Tara turned to her sister.

She shot her a look — one that could've cut glass. Short, sharp, annoyed.

"She was being nice," Tara muttered under her breath. "You could've just said hi."

Sam didn't answer at first. Just crossed her arms, jaw tight.

"She's friendly," she said finally, voice flat.

"She's not a stranger," Tara snapped back.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "She's still new."

"She's literally my professor," Tara said, brushing past her on the way to the door. "And she's helped me more than anyone else."

Sam stood there for a second, catching the door with her hand before it could swing shut behind Tara. She followed, a step behind, her mouth set in a hard line.

It wasn't jealousy.

But something in her felt off-kilter. Like she'd just lost a round in a game she didn't agree to play. Like she'd watched someone else pull Tara further out of reach — and hadn't even been given a chance to stop it.

The car ride home was quiet at first. Just the low hum of the engine and the occasional sound of Tara shifting in her seat, tapping her nails against her phone screen as she texted someone — probably you.

Then she started talking.

Not about anything major. Just bits and pieces from the session. The chapter she finally understood. The way you explained something using examples no one else had thought to use. How it just clicked. How smart you were. How easy you made it feel.

Sam stared ahead at the road, hands locked at ten and two, the muscle in her jaw twitching.

Tara didn't notice. Or maybe she did and didn't care.

"She said something today about cognitive frameworks," Tara added, adjusting the volume of her own voice like she didn't even realize she was smiling. "The way she broke it down — like, actually made sense. It's kind of insane how good she is at this."

Sam didn't respond.

She just tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

Tara knew better. Knew not to trust people so quickly. Not to let them too close, too fast.

And yet here she was — windows down, backpack half-zipped, talking about some twenty-something tutor like she'd known her for years.

Sam felt it again. That quiet, gnawing sense of something slipping just beyond her reach.

And this time, it wasn't going away.

The sessions didn't go away after that day either — if anything, they started happening more often. What began as scheduled weekly meetings turned into casual text exchanges, late-night reschedules, extra time added "just to review a few things." Tara talked about you more often, too — not in any way that would normally matter. Just in passing. Offhanded mentions of things you'd said, concepts you'd helped her understand, the books you recommended that she "actually kind of wanted to read."

At first, Sam told herself it wasn't that deep.

But over the next few weeks, it started to feel deeper.

You were always around. Or if you weren't, it felt like you had just been. Tara would leave the apartment with her hair barely dry from the shower, always rushing, always saying she didn't want to be late — not for class, but for you. She started staying later after school, coming home in better moods, more talkative. More sure of herself in the way she explained her ideas.

It wasn't that Sam didn't want her to be doing better. That wasn't it.

But something about it rubbed against every protective instinct she had.

Because it wasn't just about the studying anymore. Sam could hear it in the way Tara spoke — more relaxed, more familiar. There was this warmth in her voice, one she rarely let slip for anyone else.

You were no longer just her professor. You were becoming a part of her life. Softly, gradually, without Sam's permission.

She noticed it everywhere. In the extra coffee mugs on the counter sometimes — one of them not theirs. In the new books stacked on Tara's desk, all borrowed. In the small, thoughtful things: a sticky note Tara had saved with reminders in your handwriting. The way she mentioned something "you'd" said about learning styles or memorization techniques, like you were a mutual friend they both had.

And then there was that afternoon.

Sam came home early, the front door still halfway unlocked. She had just stepped into the apartment when she heard it — the low sound of laughter coming from outside. She walked to the window just in time to see Tara shutting the passenger door of your car, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, smiling at something you'd said through the window. She lingered. So did you.

Nothing inappropriate. Nothing obvious.

But Sam felt it anyway — the way you both fit into that moment like it had been practiced a dozen times before.

When Tara came inside, Sam didn't say anything right away. Just gave her a quick look and went back to wiping down the kitchen counter, as if it hadn't meant anything.

But later that evening, when she passed Tara's room and saw her curled up on her bed with a textbook open — the corner of a napkin used as a bookmark, with your handwriting on it again — she couldn't help herself.

"She drives you home now?" Sam asked, leaning in the doorway.

Tara didn't even look up. "Sometimes. If we finish late."

Sam nodded slowly, arms crossed. "That's nice of her."

Tara finally glanced over. "Why do you sound like that?"

"Like what?”

"You know what."

Sam just gave a faint shrug and said nothing.

From that point on, her interactions with you became clipped. Cool. The kind of polite that almost bordered on passive-aggressive. Never outright rude — never something anyone could really call her on. But enough.

A slightly too-long pause before answering your greetings. A dry "huh" when you offered a compliment about Tara's progress. A subtle edge to her voice anytime your name came up.

She didn't trust you. She didn't like that she couldn't explain why.

And worst of all — she didn't like how much Tara seemed to.

You weren't around often, not directly. Tutors weren't supposed to linger, and Sam figured you knew that. But still — you existed. Within earshot, within reach, inside her sister's life in a way Sam hadn't agreed to. And somehow, you were still always there.

A name in passing. A quiet chuckle when Tara remembered something you said. A phone vibration Tara answered a little too quickly.

It got under Sam's skin more than she'd admit.

She didn't know how to place you, and that bothered her. You were kind, but never too familiar. Professional, but not stiff. And worst of all, you never gave her a real reason to be mad at you. You never overstepped — not obviously. Not directly. But there was something about you she couldn't shake, something that made her feel like she was being quietly replaced.

Whenever you and Sam crossed paths, the tension lived in the smallest details.

You'd greet her, polite, neutral — "Hi, Sam" — and she'd nod once without looking up from whatever she was pretending to do.

You'd say something encouraging about Tara's work, and she'd mutter, "She's always been capable."

You'd offer a small joke once, lightly, while Tara was laughing beside you — and Sam's smile wouldn't even reach her eyes.

None of it was loud. But it stung, even if no one else seemed to notice.

What made it worse was how Tara started talking about you like you were something more. Not just her professor. Not just a tutor. But a person. Someone funny. Someone helpful. Someone she liked.

It wasn't romantic — Sam could admit that. She wasn't being irrational.

But it was something else. Something worse.

It sounded like Tara considered you a friend.

That part burned. Because Sam knew what that meant. Tara didn't let people in like that — not often, and definitely not gently. But she let you in, and Sam didn't know what that said about you, or worse, about her.

She tried not to care. She really did. There were a thousand ways to reason herself out of it. But every time she heard your name from Tara's mouth, something in her bristled.

She wanted to push you out — cut the cord, find some polite excuse to stop the sessions, make Tara study with her instead.

But she already knew how that would go.

They'd tried before. It ended with slammed doors and Tara storming off, her voice sharp with irritation. "You're not helping," she'd snapped once, back when Sam tried to reteach her freshman psych notes. "You're just making me hate this."

And then you had entered the picture.

And Sam had stayed out of it. At least on the surface.

But the thing that really got to her — the moment that kept replaying in the back of her mind — was the time Tara had invited you over.

It had happened weeks ago, maybe longer, but Sam still thought about it.

Tara had done it without telling her. Said it was because she focused better at home. Said she'd clean the place herself. Said Sam would be at the café all afternoon, anyway.

You had tried to decline, as far as Sam could tell. You'd said you preferred public or campus spaces. But somehow, Tara had worn you down — and for a few hours, you'd been sitting in their living room, with your notes spread out across the coffee table and Tara's knee bouncing as she scribbled down whatever you were saying.

Sam didn't even find out until later — days later, when she noticed a notecard with your handwriting stuck inside one of Tara's textbooks and asked where it came from.

"Oh," Tara had said, way too casually. "That was from when she came here. I needed help before the midterm. You were at work."

Just like that. Not a big deal. Nothing to be defensive about.

But Sam had flipped. Not in front of Tara — not fully — but enough. Her jaw tightened. Her voice dropped an octave.

"You let her come here?"

Tara rolled her eyes. "I didn't let her. I asked her. And it's not like I let her into my room or anything."

"You didn't think to tell me?"

"I didn't think you'd care."

That part stung most of all.

Because of course Sam cared. Because this was her space. Her sister. And it felt like you'd stepped into it — not forcefully, not arrogantly, but comfortably. Like you belonged.

And Sam wasn't sure if that said something about you.

Or something about how far she'd already been pushed out.

But more than that — more than the invisible lines you seemed to cross without hesitation — it was the certainty that got to her. The comfort. The trust.

Because Sam didn't trust anyone.

Not really. Not anymore.

Not after everything they'd survived. Not after what people turned out to be. After how easily someone could smile at you — offer help, offer kindness — only to drive a knife through your spine the second you let your guard down.

She had learned that lesson the hardest way possible. And it was burned into her now, bone-deep.

So when she saw Tara relaxing around you — smiling without effort, leaning in to listen, opening herself up — something in Sam twitched. Alarm bells, sirens, something.

You were new. Polite. Well-spoken. Friendly. All the things Amber had been, too.

That was the worst part.

You didn't seem dangerous. You didn't act suspicious. And that made Sam trust you even less.

Because the ones who meant it — the ones who planned it — never did.

So no, she didn't think you were just some harmless academic. She didn't care how many degrees you had, or how patient you were with Tara's questions, or how helpful your notes might've been. She cared about why. Why you were here. Why you'd agreed to help in the first place. Why you were still sticking around even now.

And whether or not you were waiting for the moment Tara finally let her guard down just enough.

She couldn't prove it — not yet. But Sam had learned how to live with that kind of doubt. She carried it everywhere now. Like instinct. Like armor.

And even if she was wrong about you — even if you were just... you — that didn't stop the fear from crawling up her spine every time she saw Tara laugh in your direction.

Because Sam didn't just worry about losing her sister.

She worried about watching it happen. One slow, trusting step at a time.

And that was why Sam felt this deep, burning rage every time she saw you.

Because she knew. Or at least, she thought she did.

She knew what this was. The slow disarming. The calculated softness. The ease with which you'd slipped into Tara's world. The careful way you stayed polite, professional — likable — while making yourself impossible to ignore.

She saw it coming.

She felt it in her gut, the way she used to before a knife came down — the heavy, sick pulse of something about to snap.

You were going to hurt Tara. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But it was coming. Sam could feel it.

And yet... she wasn't sure. Not completely.

Because what if you weren't like the others? What if you were just some regular person — kind, patient, weirdly generous with your time? What if you were actually helping?

She couldn't exactly pull you aside, corner you in some hallway and accuse you of plotting murder. Not without proof. Not without risking Tara looking at her like she was crazy again.

So instead, Sam just stood there. Watching. Seething. Caught between her instincts and her doubt.

Because no one was that soft for no reason. No one stuck around that long — gave that much — without wanting something.

No one looked at Tara the way you did unless they meant something by it.

And Sam didn't know what it was yet.

But she was going to find out.

Because that was what Sam did. She knew how to spot danger — she had to. Her whole body lived in it, breathed in it, woke up every morning already braced for whatever was coming. It was survival now, the way her shoulders never quite relaxed and her jaw never fully unclenched.

And still, somehow, all that tension had to go somewhere.

She wasn't stupid — she knew she walked through life with a fuse already half-burned. Most days, it just sat there, simmering under the surface. But on bad days — really bad days — it felt like the whole world was just waiting to strike the match.

And today had been hell.

The espresso machine broke down mid-rush. The new girl on register kept messing up orders and blaming Sam when customers got pissed. Some guy knocked over a tray of drinks and left without apologizing. And worst of all, her manager — who always pretended she was "just trying to help" — hovered the whole time, correcting Sam like she'd never worked a food service job in her life.

By the time she clocked out, her shirt was soaked with milk, her shoes were sticky, and her hands stung from scrubbing dried syrup off counters someone else was supposed to clean.

All she wanted was to get home, shower, and sit in silence.

But when she stepped into the apartment — dropped her keys onto the kitchen counter and kicked off her shoes — the first thing she saw wasn't quiet.

It was you.

There again, sitting beside Tara at the table. Books and papers spread across the surface, a cup of coffee in front of you like this was your place. Like you lived here.

Sam stood still for a second, frozen in the doorway. Not because she was surprised. Just because of course this was happening.

Of course Tara had invited you over again.

Of course you were laughing softly at something, that same effortless calm in your voice as you leaned over to point at something in her notes. Of course Tara was smiling — open and easy in a way Sam didn't get to see anymore.

Sam didn't say anything. Not yet.

She just dropped her bag a little harder than she needed to, loud enough that the both of you looked up.

Tara blinked. "Hey. You're home early."

"Yeah," Sam said. Voice flat. "Finished my shift."

You smiled — polite, as always. "Hi, Sam."

She didn't answer. Just gave you a look, sharp and unreadable, before turning toward the fridge like you hadn't spoken at all.

She could feel her pulse behind her eyes. Could feel the shift in the room — not dramatic, but enough. Enough to light the fuse a little more.

Because there you were again.

In her space.

In Tara's space.

And Sam could already feel what was coming.

The tension wasn't just in her shoulders anymore — it had spread. Crawled under her skin, curled hot behind her ribs. That low, seething burn that told her something needed to snap.

She headed straight for the sink.

The dishes were still piled up from last night — bowls streaked with congealed sauce, two mugs stained with dried coffee rings, a plate with crumbs hardened onto it like glue. She stared at the mess for a second, jaw tightening.

Of course.

Of course Tara hadn't done them. Because why would she? She had you here. Sitting cozy at the kitchen table. Like you were both college roommates or something.

Sam turned the tap on. Hot — too hot. It scalded her hands when it hit her skin, but she didn't flinch. Just grabbed the first mug and started scrubbing.

One by one, she cleaned them — not carefully, but fast and rough, her fingers slipping from the soap. The sound of plates clattering against each other echoed through the kitchen. One slammed down a little too hard against the next, sharp enough to make Tara glance over.

"You okay?" she asked, casual, half-distracted.

"Fine," Sam muttered.

She wasn't listening. Not really. She didn't want to hear.

But she couldn't not.

Your voice drifted over the clatter — low, calm, patient. Sam couldn't make out every word, but she didn't need to. She knew the sound. That soft, level tone people used when they cared. The kind of voice you used to walk someone through something, to keep them from giving up on themselves.

And Tara responded. Sam heard it in the tiny confirmations, the small hums of understanding. The way she said "Ohhh, okay, that makes sense now," like her world had just unlocked another door.

She didn't sound bored. Or defeated. Or irritated the way she did when Sam tried to help.

No — Tara was focused. Present. Engaged.

And then you said something else — Sam couldn't hear what — but it made Tara laugh.

That light, easy laugh that Sam hadn't heard in weeks.

It made something snap loose in her chest.

She dropped a plate into the drying rack harder than she meant to. It clanged loudly, unmissable. Tara flinched a little at the sound, just barely, and Sam's knuckles turned white around the sponge.

Her stomach twisted.

Because she knew she wasn't being fair.

But rage didn't care about fair. Rage only needed an opening. And Sam could feel it rising now, flooding in fast. Her thoughts turning sharp and cruel, already searching for somewhere to land.

And you, sitting there in her kitchen like you belonged, were the easiest place to start.

Sam dropped the last plate into the sink with a sharp, glassy clink — loud enough to break whatever calm had been hanging in the air.

You flinched. Just slightly. But Sam caught it.

She reached for the dish towel, hands still wet from the heat of the water. She wiped them dry, slow and deliberate, gaze already shifting to you — not polite or casual or curious. Just hard.

She wanted you gone.

"Isn't it time for Y/N to head home now?"

Your head turned, caught off guard by the sudden edge in her voice. You looked surprised. Maybe confused. But you didn't answer right away — which only made her jaw tighten further.

Sam tilted her head just enough to keep the tension sharp. "That's your name, right?" she said, voice low but flat. "Y/N?"

You nodded slowly, uncertain. "...Yeah."

Tara's pencil stopped moving. She looked up from her notebook, frowning just enough to notice.

"She'll leave when we're finished," she said, not rude — but firmer than before. "We're almost done."

Sam didn't move. Didn't blink.

Tara's voice came again, slightly sharper this time. "Why are you in a rush? You just got home."

Sam opened her mouth. Closed it. A million biting things sat on the tip of her tongue — things she could say, accusations she could throw. But none of them would land right. Not yet.

So she just shrugged once. "Didn't realize tutoring needed hours every other night."

Tara rolled her eyes. "Jesus, Sam."

You said nothing. Still seated, still quiet — like you didn't know whether to excuse yourself or stay frozen in place. You looked over at Tara like maybe she would tell you what to do.

And that made Sam's chest clench.

Because now you were waiting on Tara. Like she was your person. Like she made the call. Like she decided when it was time for you to go.

And Sam couldn't fucking take it.

The dish towel hit the counter with a slap, and she turned fully to face you both — barely managing to keep her tone level, but the fury bled through anyway.

"How long is this tutoring thing supposed to go on?" she asked, her arms crossing as if that could contain the heat in her chest. "Or is this just... a new hobby?”

You looked up, confused. Tara turned toward her sister, brows already drawing together.

"Or is this really just tutoring?"

The question landed sharp and sudden, cutting through the ease in the room like a blade.

Sam didn't stop. Didn't breathe.

"Because I don't know many professors who go out of their way like this for one student. Who text late at night. Who show up multiple times a week. Who laugh like that in someone else's kitchen."

Your throat tightened.

Tara straightened in her seat. "What the hell are you talking about—"

"I'm saying," Sam went on, louder now, eyes fixed on you, "that maybe you're not helping her because you care about her grades. Maybe it's something else."

A silence fell — not the usual kind. Not awkward or paused or uncertain.

This was thick. Charged.

"Sam," Tara said, voice low, warning.

But she wasn't done.

"You're what — three years older? You think she's special? You think she needs you? Or are you just bored enough to pretend you're doing this for free out of the kindness of your heart?"

Sam didn't stop. Her voice was low, sharp, dripping with that kind of condescension that didn't even try to mask itself anymore.

"Or is this some little fantasy for you? Tara — the shy, smart student. You — the helpful, older mentor. Is that what this is?"

Your mouth parted slightly, like you were about to speak — like you wanted to explain, to clear it up, to understand. But Sam cut you off before a single word escaped.

"Don't," she snapped. "Don't give me that look like you don't know what I'm talking about."

Tara's chair scraped against the tile, harsh and sudden. But Sam kept going.

"You're too invested. Too available. Too fucking interested. No one just gives this much of a shit about someone they barely know."

You flinched, visibly this time, but Sam didn't care. She was breathing fast now, eyes locked on you like she couldn't look anywhere else.

"Showing up here like it's normal. Acting like you're part of her life. Laughing at everything she says. Do you think she doesn't notice that? Do you think I don't?"

Tara said your name — quiet, a warning — but Sam kept talking like she hadn't even heard it.

"You're not her friend. You're not her fucking therapist. And you're definitely not just her tutor. So what are you?"

That one echoed. That one stuck.

You looked stunned, pale — like the room had shifted underneath you. Because you hadn't thought of it like that. Not even close.

But Sam had. Over and over. For weeks. She'd built it up in her head, let every laugh and every lingering glance rot into something suspicious, something dangerous, something she knew had to be real.

"You're obsessed," she muttered, almost like it was the only thing that made sense anymore. "You don't even see it, but it's fucking obvious."

And then, silence.

Still and tight and ugly.

Because she'd finally said it. Every accusation she'd held in, every awful thought she'd spun in her head — out loud, no way to take it back.

And now it just sat there between you all.

Burning.

That was it. That was the one that landed.

Because even Tara didn't speak for a second.

And Sam knew she'd gone too far. But for a moment, it felt right. Like throwing a punch in a dream. Like finally saying the thing that had been rotting in the back of her throat for weeks.

She wanted to regret it. But she didn't. Not yet.

Not when you were sitting there, stunned, trying not to show how much it hurt.

Not when Tara's face had gone still. Cold.

Not when Sam finally, finally, felt like she had a little power back. FINALLY

___

Everything shifted after that night.

You hadn't raised your voice.

Hadn't argued. Hadn't even defended yourself.

You'd just blinked — once, slow — like you were still trying to make sense of what you'd heard. Then you stood up, collected your things with quiet, deliberate movements, and offered a strained, polite, "I think I should get going.”

Tara had shot up from her seat. "Wait — you don't have to—"

But you were already shaking your head. Already forcing a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes.

"It's fine. I've got a lot to do anyway. Tell me how the chapter goes."

Tara had followed — not close enough to stop you, but close enough that it felt like she wanted to.

"I'll text you," she'd said, just as you reached the door.

You gave a soft nod. "Yeah. Sure.”

And then you left. Quiet. Shaken. Gone.

The door had barely clicked shut before Tara turned.

"Thanks," she snapped, voice sharp and unforgiving. "You ruined everything."

Sam hadn't said anything. Not right away. Not because she didn't have a defense — but because none of it would've made her look better. Not when Tara was glaring at her like that. Not when it was already so clear whose side she was on.

Tara shook her head, hands on her hips like she needed something to hold herself together.

"All you had to do was be normal," she muttered. "Just once."

Sam stood in the kitchen, jaw clenched, hands still damp from the dish towel she'd twisted too tightly a few minutes earlier. Her chest ached — from the mess, from the things she'd said, and worse, from how much she'd meant them. Not consciously. Not completely. But enough.

"You always do this," Tara bit out, stepping forward. "You don't like something, so you burn it down. Just because you can't keep your temper in check—"

"She's too close," Sam cut in — too fast, too defensive. "She's not just tutoring you. You don't see it."

"No, you don't." Tara's voice trembled, but it didn't lose its force. "She actually gives a shit about me. She helps me. She shows up. And the second that threatens your little control complex, you tear her apart."

"She could be dangerous," Sam hissed. "You think I'm just paranoid? You think I haven't seen people like her before?"

Tara's laugh was sharp, cold. "You've never seen anyone like her before."

And then she was gone — disappearing down the hallway with quick, angry steps and a slammed door, choosing silence over staying in the blast radius of her sister's fear.

Sam had stayed in the kitchen, motionless, surrounded by everything she'd created. Plates still wet in the sink. One of your notes left behind on the counter. Her breath heavy in her chest.

And for the first time, something like regret had a place to sit.

A week passed.

Tutoring didn't happen.

There were no texts asking if Thursday still worked, no last-minute reminders or reschedules. No shared notes left on the counter. No sign of you at all.

But Tara didn't bring it up. Not once. And Sam didn't ask.

Still — she noticed.

She noticed everything.

She noticed the way Tara's phone barely left her hand now. How she wasn't scrolling through socials or mindlessly watching reels like usual — she was in her messages, always, staring at something, rereading, typing something out and then deleting it. Stopping. Starting again. Changing her mind.

She noticed how Tara would get a reply, and it would quiet her even more. How she'd go still for a second, like she was trying not to react to it. Like whatever she got back wasn't what she was hoping for. Not angry. Just... disappointed. Or maybe sad. It was hard to tell — Tara was guarded now in a way Sam hadn't seen since their first year in New York.

And Sam could connect the dots.

Because Tara didn't just stop texting people for no reason. And Tara didn't just sigh after checking her phone unless she was waiting for someone.

You were still responding — that much was clear. But your replies were short. Not cold, exactly. Just formal. Like someone pulling away carefully, hoping not to cause a scene.

And Sam didn't ask if Tara had reached out again.

Didn't ask how often you texted, or if Tara was the one keeping the conversation going.

She didn't ask if the silence between you and the apartment was mutual — or if it was just what happened after someone realized they weren't welcome anymore.

But she thought about it.

At night, mostly — when the apartment was too quiet, and Tara hadn't left her room in hours, and Sam was doing that thing she always did: reliving every conversation she'd ruined by saying too much too fast. She replayed it all. The plates, the glare, the way you'd flinched. The sound of her own voice, low and cruel and far too confident. The way your face had gone still when she'd said your name like it was something ugly.

She didn't regret the instinct — not entirely. But she regretted how it stuck now. How she'd meant for you to leave, and now you had, and it didn't feel the way it was supposed to.

And Tara wasn't letting it go either.

She wasn't yelling anymore. No slamming doors. No full-out confrontations.

Just cold. Every time she spoke to Sam, it was with a new kind of distance. A deliberate chill. One-word replies, long silences. Conversations that used to last ten minutes were over in ten seconds. If Sam asked how school was going, Tara would shrug. If she asked what she wanted for dinner, Tara would say she'd eat later. If she asked anything else, Tara wouldn't even look up from her phone.

It was punishment. Not loud. Not dramatic.

But it was punishment.

And Sam didn't say anything back, because she knew exactly what this was. Tara was waiting for her to admit it. To say she'd gone too far. To take it back. But Sam didn't.

Because they were both stubborn. Always had been.

Tara thought the silence would break Sam first.

Sam thought Tara would get over it.

And in the meantime, the apartment stayed quiet.

But it wasn't like things stayed broken forever.

Eventually, the next Thursday came. And then the one after that.

And the sessions started again.

No one had asked. No one had said anything. The text from you had just come in — simple, direct.

Still good for tonight?

Tara had stared at it for a long time before replying.

yeah. of course.

And you'd shown up. Right on time. Notebook in hand. Polite smile. The same way you always had.

But it wasn't the same.

Because you weren't asking about Tara's week anymore. You weren't laughing at her sarcastic comments, or telling her weird stories about your walk over. You didn't bring her favorite snacks. You didn't call her out for zoning out during a grammar question or gently tease her about always skipping the last page of assigned readings.

You were still kind. Still patient. Still you, technically.

But something in your voice had changed. Detached, maybe. Just enough that it made it clear: you weren't her friend right now.

You were her tutor. That was it.

And Tara noticed it right away.

The first night, she kept waiting for the shift — like you were just tired or stressed, and it would wear off once you got talking. But it didn't. You stayed focused. Friendly. Distant.

By the second session, it was a pattern.

You asked the right questions. You corrected her answers. You said goodnight with a soft smile and the same quiet professionalism she hated hearing from her professors.

Tara didn't say anything about it. Not during the sessions. Not after.

But it was obvious something had changed.

And when she finally asked — when you were packing up your things one night and she just blurted it out — she regretted it almost instantly.

"Did something happen?"

You looked up, caught off guard.

Tara knew something had happened. She also knew what had happened. Who had happened.

She didn't know why she'd asked. But she continued anyway, she needed to hear you confirm her sister had ruined yet another thing in her life.

Tara tried to soften it. "I mean... did I do something?"

And you'd hesitated. Not because you didn't have an answer. But because saying it out loud felt like picking sides.

"No," you said carefully. "Nothing you did."

Another pause. Your bag slung over your shoulder. A small shrug.

"It's just... I don't want to cause trouble."

Tara's stomach twisted. "You're not."

You gave her a look. It wasn't mean. It wasn't angry. It just... was.

Then you looked down, fiddled with the strap of your bag, and said, "I think maybe I just overstepped."

That caught Tara off guard. "What?"

You offered a small, careful shrug. "Your sister doesn't want me around. I get it."

Tara's jaw tensed. "That's not—"

"It's okay," you cut in, too quickly. "It really is. I'm still happy to help you. This doesn't have to be awkward."

But it was awkward. It had been awkward for days. Ever since Sam said what she said and you just... stopped acting like any of this mattered to you beyond homework.

And Tara wasn't stupid. She could hear it in your voice — how hard you were trying to make it sound like none of this bothered you. Like you weren't hurt. Like it wasn't still happening every time you walked through their door.

"I'll talk to her," Tara said suddenly. "About what she said. She had no right—"

"No, no—" you rushed to cut her off, already shaking your head. "Please don't. I don't want to make this a thing. She doesn't even have to be there."

Tara blinked. "What?"

You hesitated — then tried to make it sound casual. Like it wasn't a big deal. "I was just thinking... maybe we could start meeting somewhere else. Library, coffee shop, whatever. It'd probably be easier for both of us."

And you were smiling when you said it. That same smile you'd been using all week — polite, easy, and completely not real.

Tara stared at you, and slowly, the pieces clicked into place.

You didn't want to come over anymore.

You weren't just pulling back — you were scared. Scared that Sam would say something else. Scared she'd come into the kitchen again, cold and calm and cruel, and throw another grenade into something that had once felt so safe.

"Right," Tara said quietly. "Sure. That makes sense."

She didn't fight you on it. She could tell you didn't want her to.

But she didn't know what pissed her off more: that you were pulling away, or that you were being so damn nice about it.

Because it meant she couldn't even be angry at you.

So instead, she'd taken it out on Sam.

That night, after you left — again — Tara had followed Sam into the kitchen and snapped, "She's still uncomfortable, by the way. In case you were wondering."

Sam hadn't even looked up. "She came back, didn't she?"

And Tara had rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. "Yeah. Because she's nicer than you. Not because she forgot what you said." NICER THAN YOU

Sam had said nothing. She didn't apologize. Didn't explain. Just stood there like she always did — quiet, unreadable, like that made her immune to being wrong.

And Tara had tried again, the next night. Tried to get her to talk about it, or at least acknowledge that she'd messed everything up.

But Sam just shrugged her off again. Told her she was being dramatic. Said maybe if you were that quick to switch up, you were never as genuine as you looked.

And Tara hated her for it. Hated her for acting like none of this mattered. Like you didn't matter. Like Tara hadn't just spent weeks actually feeling okay for once — and now it was all ruined.

And even worse: you weren't even angry. You were just... gone in a way that made it feel like you weren't coming back.

Like you'd already decided it wasn't worth the mess.

Tara could feel it.

And so could Sam — though she'd never admit it out loud.

She noticed the cold shoulders. The one-word answers. The silence between rooms that used to be filled with laughter.

But unlike Tara, Sam didn't take it as a loss.

She took it as confirmation.

You were pulling away — fine. But that didn't mean you were harmless. If anything, it made you more suspicious. More calculated. Because Sam had seen people like you before. Friendly. Charming. Helpful. Too helpful. Always ready to show up, always quick to care — until you got close enough to do damage.

And she'd let you get too close. She'd waited too long.

So she started paying attention.

Not to Tara. Not anymore. This time, she watched you.

She didn't mean to at first. It wasn't like she'd planned anything. But she'd been walking back from the store when she spotted you leaving the library — alone, earphones in, hoodie pulled up like you didn't want to be noticed.

And she'd just... paused.

Watched you cross the street. Watched you duck into that little café you always went to after your study sessions.

It didn't mean anything.

Except it did.

Because the next day, she lingered a little longer in the same neighborhood. And the day after that, she changed her shift so she could take the later train — the one that passed by campus around the time you usually left.

It was never anything direct. Never anything obvious. She just kept ending up where you were.

To make sure.

To be sure.

To prove she was right.

Because something was off about you. Something had always been off. You were too careful. Too nice. You'd formed a bond with Tara like it had been planned — slow, natural, believable — and then you'd backed away the second you were confronted.

That wasn't normal. That wasn't how innocent people acted.

And Sam couldn't shake the feeling that you were still waiting — still watching. That the second she let her guard down, you'd try again. Try to win Tara back. Try to pull her further out of reach.

So she followed.

Not because she was obsessed. Not because she was afraid of losing her sister.

But because she knew something was wrong with you.

And she needed to see it for herself.

At first, it was just once or twice. A passing glance. A coincidence. That's what she told herself.

But then it was three times. Four. Then she started recognizing your schedule — the classes you must've been leaving based on the time, the path you always took down the side of campus, the small moments you didn't think anyone saw.

You usually had your headphones in. You never walked fast. Always polite when someone stopped you — a student needing help, a professor who knew your name — but you never lingered. Never smiled.

You answered everything kindly, patiently. You were never short. Never rude.

Just... distant.

Like you were only halfway there.

It was the same in the café you always went to. You sat in the corner with your laptop open, a notebook pressed flat to one side. You didn't scroll your phone or check your reflection or look at anyone walking in. You didn't laugh. You didn't eat with friends.

You just sat there, sipping coffee that probably went cold too fast, scribbling something into the margins of papers you didn't even have to grade.

Like you were trying to keep busy just to keep from thinking.

By the end of the second day, Sam could see it clearly. You weren't dangerous. You weren't calculated. You weren't planning anything.

You were just... sad.

Moving through your day like a ghost.

And the worst part? Sam hated that she noticed. Hated that it made her feel anything.

So she buried it.

Started making excuses — for herself, for Tara. She wasn't following you. No. She was just taking a different route home. Just checking out a bookstore she'd never noticed before. Just passing by the quad at the same time your tutoring sessions usually ended. That's all.

And when Tara asked what she'd been up to all afternoon — where she'd gone, what she'd been doing — Sam didn't even hesitate.

"Errands."

"Walked around a bit."

"There's this new place opening on 9th."

"Needed some air."

None of it true.

But all of it necessary.

Because she had to be right.

Had to believe there was something she was missing. That you were putting on an act. That she just hadn't caught it yet.

Because if she had been wrong — if she'd said all those things to someone who didn't deserve it — if that was what had shattered everything...

She wasn't sure she could live with it.

So she kept watching.

Even after the truth had started to make itself obvious.

The fifth time she followed you — it was almost by accident. She'd told Tara she needed to go to the pharmacy. Something about prescriptions. Vitamins. Whatever came out of her mouth fastest. She didn't even care if it made sense.

She just needed to see.

You took the bus this time. A short ride. She followed in her car, always two cars behind. Parked on the street and waited, engine still running, trying not to feel like this was completely insane.

You didn't go into a store. Didn't meet up with anyone. You walked for a while down a quieter road, a small paper bag tucked under your arm. You turned into a cemetery.

That was the first time Sam had to turn her car off.

You stayed there for a long time. Almost an hour, just sitting on the grass. You didn't cry. You didn't do anything dramatic. You just sat there, legs crossed, facing the headstone like you were waiting for someone to talk back. After a while, you laid down a small bouquet of flowers from the bag. Daisies. Nothing expensive. Just quiet.

You stayed until the sun started to dip. Until the light caught your profile and made you look younger.

That image stayed with Sam for days. It made her feel something, which pissed her off even more.

But she didn't stop following you.

She went back the next day. Not to spy — or so she told herself. Just to check the grave. Just to... understand.

And that's when she saw it:

In loving memory of Harper L/N

Beloved Daughter, Sister, Granddaughter and Niece

★ November 20 2002

✞ April 23rd 2021

More than anything we could've wished for. 

She didn't need to do the math. That birthday year— that was the same as Tara's.

It hit her like a punch to the ribs.

Because suddenly it all clicked. You hadn't seen Tara as some new shiny thing to manipulate or get close to. You hadn't seen her as a project. You hadn't been calculating.

You'd just seen her.

Someone the same age. Someone who reminded you of someone else. Someone you couldn't save.

Sam stood in front of that headstone for a long time, arms crossed so tightly it hurt her ribs.

But even then, she didn't let herself believe it was that simple. That clean.

She'd lost people too. She'd buried people too. People she loved. People who died screaming.

And just because you were grieving didn't mean you were safe.

Just because you were sad didn't mean you were right.

So she walked back to her car with her jaw clenched, heart pounding, trying to forget the flowers you'd left behind.

And trying even harder to forget the way you sat there like you didn't have anyone left.

But she couldn't.

She tried.

She went home, showered, changed, scrolled through her phone like everything was normal. She even laughed at something on TV, once — loud, forced, stupid. She kept waiting for it to pass. That ache in her chest. That image of you, cross-legged in the grass, hands folded like you were praying without meaning to.

But it didn't pass.

Days went by, and it stayed.

It stayed when she made coffee in the morning. When she cleaned up Tara's mess in the kitchen. When she passed your building by accident on the way to the gym. That name —Harper— it clung to the walls of her brain like smoke.

And what frustrated her most — what actually made her angry — was that she started to feel sorry for you.

Sorry.

After everything she'd told herself, after every reason she'd built up for why she was right to push you away — now she felt sorry?

It made her want to slam a door. Throw something.

Because she knew what she saw. That closeness. That softness Tara saved just for you. And it had terrified her. Still did. Because feelings like that could make people blind. And Sam knew better than anyone what happened when you stopped looking over your shoulder.

So why couldn't she stop thinking about the way your fingers smoothed the grass beside that grave?

Why couldn't she stop remembering how you'd smiled — once — the very first time she met you, before she even had a reason to be suspicious?

Why did she keep replaying how quietly you sat there, like you weren't waiting for someone to rescue you, just... sitting with it. Like that's all you had left.

And why — why — did she feel like she'd seen that same kind of quiet before, in the mirror, years ago?

It pissed her off. All of it.

She didn't want to care.

She wasn't supposed to care.

But now that she'd seen it — really seen it — she couldn't stop.

And worse than that, she wanted to apologize.

Not out of guilt. Not out of obligation. Not even because Tara would've told her to — because she hadn't told Tara. Wouldn't. That would've only made things worse. Tara would've gotten upset, said Sam couldn't keep treating people like suspects just because she didn't know their stories. She would've said that again, like it was something new.

But Sam always had the same answer.

You don't know what people are.

That was the rule. The thing that had kept them alive. Amber had smiled at them too. So had Quinn. So had Ethan.

But even saying that to herself didn't land the same anymore. Not since she'd seen you there, knees tucked up in the grass like you'd already learned how to live without being comforted. Not since she heard that name.

Harper.

She didn't even know who that was. And yet it haunted her.

So yeah — she wanted to apologize.

Not because anyone told her to. Just because... she needed to.

But the chance never came.

She kept waiting for you to come back to the apartment. For another tutoring session to happen, like before. She'd come home from work on edge, hoping you'd be there, half-expecting to hear your voice. She even stopped at the store once just to buy more of that tea you drank, the one with the ridiculous name she always rolled her eyes at.

But the table stayed empty. The door stayed shut.

And Sam didn't ask about it. She wasn't stupid. She already knew why.

She told herself maybe it had just moved to the library or a café or wherever else people studied. But deep down, she knew that wasn't it. You weren't coming back. Not while she was there. Not if you could help it.

So she tried something else.

"I'll pick you up," she offered, casual, when Tara mentioned a session one night. "If it's late."

She said it again the next time. And the next.

Tara didn't question it much — just shrugged, said "sure," tossed her bag in the car like it didn't matter. But Sam knew what she was doing. She was creating a window. A sliver of opportunity. One hallway, one sidewalk, one parking lot. That's all she needed.

But every time, it ended the same.

You were "in a rush."

Always with that same tone. Light, polite, no sharp edges. But no room either. No pause long enough for Sam to get a word in.

And she told herself it didn't mean anything. That maybe you were in a rush. Maybe you had somewhere to be.

But she didn't believe it.

She'd seen it in your eyes. That flicker of avoidance. Like you were expecting her to say something and wanted to be gone before she could.

And once, when you'd barely nodded goodbye and disappeared across the street, Tara had muttered something under her breath — just loud enough for Sam to catch.

"She doesn't want to talk to you."

Sam didn't say anything back. Just clenched the steering wheel harder and watched you go.

She couldn't blame you.

But that didn't stop her from wanting another chance.

And eventually, it got to the point where she wasn't just hoping anymore — she was planning. Watching the calendar. Tracking your sessions like they were appointments that mattered to her.

When Tara mentioned the library, Sam said she'd pick her up again — casual, like always. But this time, she left work early. Parked two blocks down. Walked over and stood across the street, leaning against a brick wall with her hands in her jacket pockets, trying to look like she wasn't waiting for anything.

But she was.

She was waiting for you.

She heard your voices first. The soft hum of goodbye. Papers being tucked away, zippers closing. And then the doors opened, and there you were — smiling at something Tara said, gentle and brief, like a reflex you hadn't totally lost yet.

You saw her before Tara did.

Your smile dipped — not completely, but just enough. A quick, soft flicker of nerves across your face, like a kid caught sneaking out. You didn't stop walking, didn't freeze, but Sam could tell you didn't know what to do either. Like maybe you were hoping someone else would make the decision for you.

Tara clocked her a second later.

"Oh," she said, half a groan. "You're early."

Sam shrugged. "Figured I'd come straight here."

You nodded, quiet. Almost like you were trying not to disturb anything.

Tara turned back to you, her voice all easy again. "See you Thursday?"

You nodded. "Yeah of course. Bye."

You stepped back, already starting toward the sidewalk, but Sam cut in before you could escape.

"Actually..." Her voice came out steady, but her heart wasn't. "I'd like to talk to Y/N real quick."

You both looked at her. Tara blinked.

"Why?"

"I just—" Sam shifted her weight. "Just a minute. In private."

Tara's eyebrows knit, defensive before you even needed her to be. "Why? What's going on?”

"Nothing," Sam said quickly. Too quickly. "It's not like that."

Tara didn't move. "I'll stay."

"No," Sam said, sharp. She softened it. "Please."

That just made Tara squint harder. "Why should I—"

"Because I need to say something I should've said weeks ago," Sam cut in, firm now, eyes locked on Tara's. "And because I need to say it without you standing there glaring at me the whole time."

Tara opened her mouth again, but hesitated.

And that was all Sam needed.

"Go wait in the car."

Tara looked at you once — just a flash — before stepping back, clearly unhappy but not arguing anymore. She shoved her hands in her pockets and started walking, slow and sulky, like she expected to be called back any second.

Then it was just you and Sam.

And that silence — it hit hard.

You were still standing there, clutching the strap of your bag like it gave you something to do. You didn't look angry. You didn't look anything, really. Just unsure. Bracing for something. Or trying not to.

Sam didn't waste time.

"I was wrong," she said.

Your eyes flicked up to hers, surprised — but not shocked.

"I don't have an excuse," she went on. "I was wrong. About a lot of things. And I'm sorry."

You didn't speak right away. You just looked at her. And then you nodded — once, small.

"Thank you."

That was it. Just those two words. No hesitation. No bitterness.

And Sam didn't know why, but it knocked the air out of her.

Because she hadn't expected it to be that simple. She hadn't expected you to be that simple.

She thought maybe you'd glare at her. Say nothing. Turn away.

But you hadn't.

You forgave her like it was easy.

Like it wasn't the first apology you'd ever gotten. Or maybe it was — and that's why you took it so quietly, so carefully. Like it mattered.

And after that, Sam couldn't stop seeing it. That thing she'd been trying not to notice.

The way you kept your head down when you walked through crowds. The way you laughed with your shoulders tensed, like you weren't sure if it was allowed. The way you waited outside buildings for a few seconds longer than necessary, like you weren't in a rush to go home.

The way Tara always texted you first.

The way you never asked for anything.

The way no one else really said your name.

She hadn't seen it before.

Now she couldn't unsee it.

And when you murmured a quiet bye and turned to leave, she stood there a second longer than she meant to. Watching you walk down the sidewalk with that same steady pace, bag strap slung over your shoulder like always, hoodie pulled up half-shielding your face from the wind.

No flinching. No final glance back. Just gone.

Tara was waiting in the car with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face when Sam finally got in.

She didn't ask what was said.

And Sam didn't offer.

But the silence was lighter than usual.

That night, Sam couldn't sleep. Not from guilt — or not only that — but something else, something that felt like the tight ache of wanting to redo something. Like the feeling you get when you leave a conversation too early and realize too late there was more you could've said.

So the next time there was a tutoring session — back in their apartment again — Sam didn't hide in her room. She didn't come up with errands to run or excuses to leave.

She stayed. Kept the kitchen door open. Made dinner slow enough that she had a reason to hover nearby.

You greeted her politely. Nothing more. And that made her insane, in a way she didn't expect. Because the apology had been real. She meant it. So why did it still feel like you were folding in on yourself every time she walked in the room?

She tried to let it go.

But the next session, she made enough pasta for three. Left a bowl on the table where you were working and said, "You can have some if you want." Not warm, not cold — just flat, casual. Like she wasn't holding her breath.

You blinked. Hesitated. But then you said thank you. Ate half of it. Said goodnight before you left.

Small things.

After that, it got harder to tell what was guilt and what wasn't.

Because it wasn't just dinner. She started looking up articles she thought you might like — weird ones, sometimes, about obscure history or psychology or whatever you'd once mentioned offhand to Tara. She'd forward them through Tara at first, never directly. But then Tara got annoyed.

"Why don't you just send them to her yourself?" she muttered one night, not looking up from her phone.

So she did.

And it didn't stop there.

Movie night came around — something Tara insisted on every Friday — and Sam found herself asking, too casually, "Is Y/N coming?"

Tara had raised a brow. "No. Why?"

Sam shrugged. "Just thought she might want to. You could invite her."

"You want her to come?"

"I don't care."

But she did.

Because she kept checking the clock during the opening credits.

Because when you actually did show up the next week, something inside her unclenched.

You sat on the far end of the couch, quiet as ever, legs pulled up, sleeves hiding your hands. And Sam watched you when she wasn't supposed to. Watched the way you leaned toward Tara when you whispered a question. The way you smiled at the screen when you thought no one was paying attention.

And when you laughed — actually laughed — Sam didn't even hear the punchline. Her brain just froze, stunned.

She found herself wanting it again. That sound. That version of you.

She wanted you to look at her like that, just once.

And that's when she realized something had changed. Somewhere in the middle of all that guilt and all that trying, something had shifted.

It wasn't about proving a point anymore.

It wasn't about earning forgiveness.

She just... liked you.

More than she should.

And what scared her most wasn't the fact that she felt it. It was the fact that she needed you to feel it too.

And that... made her angry.

Because she wasn't supposed to like you.

That wasn't what this was.

You were Tara's friend — quiet, steady, harmless. Kind in a way Sam didn't know what to do with. You weren't part of her life. You weren't supposed to matter. And yet — now — she caught herself checking the apartment calendar. Looking for the days Tara had scribbled little "tutor 4pm" notes with hearts over the i's. She found herself staring at the clock fifteen minutes before your sessions were set to end, wondering if she had time to fix her hair or change her shirt or at least look like she wasn't waiting.

And then Tara had said it.

"Why are you suddenly inviting her to everything?"

Sam blinked from where she stood at the stove. "What?"

"You never used to care. And now it's like — dinner, movies, sending her articles? It's weird."

Sam clenched the wooden spoon in her hand.

"It's not weird. I'm being polite."

"You've never been polite," Tara said, only half teasing.

"I'm trying," Sam snapped.

Tara raised both brows. "Try a little less. You're freaking her out."

And maybe she was. Because even when you smiled now — soft, polite, quiet — it never quite reached. It felt cautious. Like you were waiting for something to snap.

So one afternoon, after another session in their apartment — another polite goodbye, another tight smile — Sam didn't let it go.

You'd just slung your bag over your shoulder when she followed you toward the door. Tara had already wandered off toward the kitchen.

"Hey," Sam said, a little too quick, voice catching.

You turned, mid-step. "Yeah?"

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Tried again.

"I don't—" she paused, hand half-raised like she needed to physically pull the words out. "I don't hate you."

You blinked. Confused.

She kept going — because stopping would be worse.

"I know I acted like I did. For a while. And I probably came off... hostile. But I didn't— I mean, I don't. I was just..." She let out a breath through her nose, short and irritated. "It doesn't matter. I was wrong. That's all I'm saying."

You stared at her for a beat. Not cold. Not defensive. Just... surprised.

Then you said, gently, "I don't dislike you either."

Sam's chest tightened.

"I just didn't want to get in the way."

She hated how fast her heart moved at that. Like the idea of you feeling in the way lodged itself somewhere behind her ribs.

"You weren't," she said quickly, and softer than she meant to. "You're not."

You nodded. "Okay."

Another silence.

Sam could still hear Tara clinking something in the kitchen, like she was giving them space on purpose — but just barely.

She looked at you, really looked, and realized how much of herself she saw there now. How she'd judged too fast and held on too long and maybe missed a dozen chances to be decent — to be kind — just because she'd been afraid.

Afraid of what it meant to want something soft. Afraid of you.

"I'm sorry," she said again.

You smiled. Not all the way. But it was real this time.

"Thank you," you said.

Then you opened the door and left — like you always did.

But for the first time, Sam stood there smiling, too.

She didn't mean to keep watching the door after it closed.

She just... did.

And for the rest of that evening, she felt like something had shifted. Not huge. Not dramatic. But real. Like a door had cracked open somewhere between you.

She wasn't chasing you out of guilt anymore.

She knew it as clearly as she knew her own name. Guilt had driven her before — that sharp, sour taste of regret in her mouth, the sleepless nights turning over your face in her memory like a puzzle she couldn't solve. But now it was something quieter. Slower. Almost peaceful.

She wanted to know you.

That was it.

Not to fix what she'd broken. Not to earn forgiveness. She just wanted to know you — to be near you, to make you laugh, to hear your voice when you weren't just speaking for Tara's sake. She started noticing the way her day felt better if she knew you were coming over. How she lingered a little too long in the living room under the excuse of folding laundry when you and Tara were studying. How she listened more closely when you spoke, even if it wasn't to her.

And you — you changed too.

Gradually. Carefully.

It showed in how you stopped rushing out the door. In how you stayed behind a few extra minutes to finish a sentence or to ask Sam if she wanted any of the leftover tea. In how you started making eye contact again. Longer. Softer. Less afraid.

One night, Tara fell asleep early on the couch, half-buried under a throw blanket with a textbook open across her stomach. You stayed — you didn't have to, but you did — helping Sam clean up the mess of takeout containers and notebooks without being asked. Sam offered to walk you home.

You said yes.

It was a short walk. Barely ten minutes. But neither of you spoke for most of it. Just the sound of your shoes on the pavement, the occasional hum of a passing car, and the way Sam's hand kept brushing yours by accident.

She didn't apologize for it. You didn't pull away.

At your building, you turned to her like you almost wanted to say something — but couldn't find the words. And Sam, who usually had nothing but sharpness and suspicion in her mouth, just gave you a small nod.

"Get home safe," you murmured.

"You too," she said, like it was habit now.

You lingered a second longer, and then went inside. And Sam walked the whole way home with her hands in her jacket pockets and a strange ache under her ribs — warm, familiar, terrifying.

She didn't see it happening. Not exactly.

It was just that one day, she realized she'd stopped thinking of you as Tara's friend.

You were just you.

It was in the way things quieted around you. How the air in the apartment felt different when you were there — not tense anymore, just aware. The kind of silence that made you listen more carefully. The kind of silence Sam had never been comfortable in, until now.

You started answering her texts more often. A couple of emojis at first. Then a few words. Then full sentences.

You laughed at something she said once — something stupid, something she hadn't meant to be funny — and it caught her completely off guard. It made her feel light. Stupidly, dangerously light.

And she started to notice things.

Not just the way your voice softened when you were tired, or how you'd tug on the sleeves of your sweater when you were thinking. But how being around you didn't feel like a risk anymore. It felt like a want. A quiet, steady want that built itself into her routine without asking permission.

She caught herself cooking more than she needed. Making enough for three even when Tara wasn't home. Asking if you wanted to stay, even when it was late, even when you probably had other places to be.

You didn't always say yes. But sometimes you did.

And those were the nights that lingered.

One of them — after dinner, after Tara had left to crash at a friend's — you stayed. You sat beside Sam on the couch, the TV humming in the background, both of you watching it without really watching.

You didn't talk much. Just shared the same space.

That was new.

And that was when she noticed — how close you'd shifted. How your knee almost touched hers. How you didn't move away.

She didn't know what it meant. Not really. But she knew how it made her feel.

It didn't happen all at once.

But it happened.

And when it did, she didn't fight it this time.

She let herself want you.

Not in the loud, reckless way she used to want things — not like impulse or desperation or fear. This was different. Quieter. Slower. Something that built over time and stayed even when she tried to brush it off.

She started noticing the small things.

How your laugh sounded when Tara wasn't in the room. How you always sat with one foot tucked beneath you. How your fingers fidgeted with the frayed edge of your sleeve whenever you were too tired to filter your thoughts.

She started listening more.

Asking things she'd never cared to ask before. About your day. Your classes. Your favorite movies — even the dumb ones. She made fun of you for liking Twilight but secretly looked up the soundtrack just to hear what you heard in it.

And it wasn't guilt anymore that made her care. It wasn't regret.

It was you.

The way you leaned into her when you were tired.

The way you said her name now — like it didn't hurt anymore.

The way she wanted to keep you in the room just a little longer, every time.

She didn't tell anyone. Not Tara. Not even herself, not really.

But it was there, always. Quiet and stubborn. Settling under her skin.

It showed up in the way she kept sitting closer.

In the way her knee brushed yours and didn't move.

In the way she didn't pretend to care about the show playing in front of you — just let the silence settle between you, comfortable now, soft in a way she couldn't name.

And then

And then you turned to look at her. Smiled.

So did she.

And for a second, neither of you moved.

You were the one who looked away first — down, almost shy — like maybe you were about to say something but didn't.

And Sam... she wasn't thinking when she reached for you. She wasn't planning.

Her fingers brushed your wrist, so gently it almost wasn't there. But you looked up again, and this time you didn't step back.

She kissed you before she could talk herself out of it.

Soft. Careful. Not like a question, but not like an answer either — more like a quiet thing passed between people who didn't know where they stood but knew they wanted to.

You kissed her back.

Not for long. Not urgently. Just long enough for her to know it wasn't a mistake.

When you pulled away, you didn't speak. You just looked at her like maybe you were still trying to believe it happened. And Sam — Sam didn't say anything either. She only watched you nod once, breath shaky.

And in that moment — on that couch, the TV still playing some half-forgotten movie in the background — Sam didn't feel guilty. Or confused. Or scared.

She just felt... full.

Like every version of herself that had pushed people away, that had ruined things before they could matter — all of it had fallen quiet, just long enough to let this happen.

You pulled back first. But only barely.

You looked at her — a little stunned, a little breathless — and she could feel it in the air between you. That shift. That something.

She didn't speak.

Didn't have to.

Because for the first time, she wasn't chasing you to make something right.

She wasn't trying to fix what she broke.

She just wanted you. And you wanted her, too.

And in that moment, she thought — without panic, without fear —God, I think I'm falling for her.

And for the first time in a long, long time...

that didn't scare her at all.

[cameronsbabydoll]

i read the scc wine mum thing

and i think its so perfect cuz so many mothers are labelled as the "wine mum" and its usually a coping mechanims for ppd or pp anxiety or just the general pressures of motherhood

and w husband who doesnt see her as a person shes bound to feel struggles

what do you think she was like w ppd? like had her thoughts ever turned dark? had she ever realised it was rafe making her feel this way? had she ever tried therapy or anything? and esp like how her kids and rafe felt ab it?

separate to that i'd love to see scc!reader make a genuine friend without rafe

honestly i just want her to acc be happy highkey without rafe tbh but just genuinely happy

this is such a real, necessary reflection — and you're right: so much of the “wine mom” identity is romanticized when, underneath, it’s often grief in disguise. a coping mechanism. a band-aid slapped over a hemorrhage.

and for scc!reader, whose girlhood was swallowed by the illusion of a perfect life… the postpartum crash wasn’t just about hormones — it was about the silent, aching realization that no one was going to save her from this life.

🍼 what was scc!reader like with postpartum depression?

soft. withdrawn. numb.

not sobbing in the nursery (though sometimes that, too), but mostly… just not there.
not fully present.
not fully herself.

she moves through the house like a shadow in silk pajamas.
she forgets to eat. forgets to drink water. forgets to brush her hair unless the nanny reminds her.

at her lowest, her thoughts probably did turn dark.
not about harming the baby — no, never — but about vanishing.

what would happen if i just… walked into the water? kept driving? stopped waking up?

it terrified her.
but what terrified her more was knowing she couldn’t tell anyone.

because rafe didn’t see sadness as something to tend to.
he saw it as something to fix. something to control.

“you’re just tired.”
“you have everything you need.”
“plenty of women would kill for this life.”

so she smiled for him. for the photos. for the housekeepers and in-laws and baby showers.
and then cried in the shower, gripping the tiled walls, biting her hand to keep quiet.

💬 did she ever realize it was rafe?

not at first.

early on, she blamed herself.

i’m too young. i’m too fragile. i’m ungrateful.

it wasn’t until later — maybe during the second baby — when she started noticing patterns.
how her mood dipped every time he left.
how she felt lighter when he was gone and tensed the second his keys hit the counter.
how even in her most tender moments with the baby, she felt watched. controlled. owned.

that’s when the fog began to lift — not all at once, but just enough to realize:

maybe it’s not just motherhood that’s suffocating me. maybe it’s him.

🧠 therapy? she probably tried… quietly.

maybe she reached out to a private therapist under a fake name.
maybe the nanny helped cover for her.
maybe she went three or four times and felt so close to naming it — all of it — but the guilt pulled her back.

because therapy meant she was struggling.
and struggling meant she was failing.
and failing, in rafe’s world, meant you don’t deserve this life.

so she gave it up.
told rafe she was just getting massages or facials when she went out.

but she never really stopped wishing someone — anyone — would say:

“i see you. you’re not broken. and you don’t have to keep pretending.”

🧸 how do the kids feel?

as they grow, they start to notice.
especially the oldest — who saw things before he had words to name them.

he remembers her tired eyes.
how she used to hold him a little too tight.
how she smiled with her mouth but not her eyes.

so maybe — just maybe — she starts healing.
not because of rafe.
not in spite of him.
but entirely outside of him.
on her own terms.
with her own hands.

and maybe that’s what she needed all along:
not to be saved.
but to be seen.
and believed.
and held.
as her own.

[redfacedpalindrome]

so while i do have a very real longer project going that i desperately want to write...as soon as i started i've started dying to write something else! so here's a little snippet of a medical/hospital au lestappen

lestappen, 800 words:

The ER is way too chaotic to get ahold of the charge nurse, and fuck if Max remembers what idiot is running the trauma department this month. Those damned fools rotated in and out every couple weeks, too busy chasing their next adrenaline high by bungee jumping off the Burj Khalifa or whatever the fuck. So Max does something extremely reasonable and not at all crazy: he hops up on the nurses station, cups his hands around his mouth and yells.

“HEY! Which one of you idiots let a cardiac patient die in ten minutes?”

One key thing to keep in mind: shouting a question like that in a packed emergency department filled with patients who, at least in their own minds, are fighting for their life, is usually a good source of mass panic. Another thing to keep in mind: Max became a cardiothoracic surgeon because he likes patients just fine but he likes them better when they’re in bed, calm, and preferably largely asleep. Oscar buries his face in his hands, not willing to claim any responsibility for this mess. The charge nurse, Susie, finally appears and uses the edge of a clipboard to smack the back of Max’s knee, making him buckle over and essentially fall to the ground.

“Ow. Susie, what the fuck?”

“Stop yelling – and better yet stop yelling stupid shit in my ER, and I won’t hit you.” Max massages the back of his knee and hisses. “Everything is perfectly under control, we just have some dramatic doctors on staff. As you were.” And everyone just…listens to her. Within minutes the ER has calmed down (relatively) and returned to its business. Susie is scary.

“So who’s the cardiac patient who died? I need to review the case, see what got missed while I wasn’t here.” Susie smiles at him beatifically. “No cardiac patient died, Max.”

“Then why the fuck did they stop paging me? What trauma room are they in? I can help, I’m not letting a trauma patient die down here with cardiac complications-”

“–I see now, what Sebastian meant by self-important.” Max almost reels back in shock as he hears an accented voice from behind him. His accent is difficult to place, definitely French in origin, but like he’s spent a lot of time around English speakers. Then he registers what the voice said and he pivots in indignation.

“I don’t know who the fuck you are, but-” holy fuck you’re pretty. Max’s brain has gone offline for sure. This has to be a derm resident or something; the skin under his eyes is glowing, so there’s no way he’s pulled an all-nighter in this century. His eyes crinkle in the corners, and that doesn’t do anything to blunt the impact of those beautiful green irises. Max kind of wants to map his facial structure on feel alone. He wonders if the man will believe that they need to use him as a model for a surgical skills lab.

“Dr. Verstappen, oui? I’ve heard a lot about you.” Max is still mute. He thinks he can hear Oscar chuckling behind him. Traitor.

“We stopped paging you because we didn’t need you.” Max bristles then, still not sure who this person even is. “Listen, pretty privilege, I’m fairly certain the only person down here qualified to decide whether I’m needed or not in a cardiac emergency is me.” The man looks wildly amused, mouthing ‘pretty privilege’ to himself. Max has never been more confused.

“That’s Dr. Pretty Privilege to you, Verstappen. As in, your new chief of trauma surgery and head of the ED. Though, my name is actually Dr. Charles Leclerc, but you can call me pretty anytime.” Max scoffs. “You won’t last a week. I don’t put up with incompetence, even if it has a pretty face.” Now Oscar is starting to intervene, and even Max isn’t sure where this is coming from – there’s just something about this guy that gets under his skin.

Charles’s face has hardened, no longer amused. “I don’t either, Verstappen. I also don’t put up with graceless jerks who wander into my emergency department acting like they’re god’s gift to the scalpel and the only man in the principality that can do a damn pericardiocentesis.”

“You did a pericardiocentesis? Without supervision?”

“Without-putain de dieu, get out of my emergency department.” Charles’s eyes are blazing now, and he looks inches from shoving Max through the double doors. “There are plenty of cardiothoracic surgeons in this hospital, and we will page one of them when we need. You step foot on this floor without my permission, and I’ll run you over with my car.”

The thing is, Max knows he’s kind of a prick. He even recognizes he’s being a bonus prick right now it’s just–

–whatever. If this guy, Dr. Charles Leclerc, wants to be a prick right back? Max will just get him fired.

------------------------------------------------

quick note: while i am rapidly approaching my medical education all that really means is i'm aware of all the cliches stereotypes and inaccuracies i've worked into this; it for some reason does not mean that i can circumvent them. no offense is meant from any of this and pls god do not assume any of this is fact

[rubywillkins]

The Grand Pursuit|7

Don’t Let Go Until I Say So

“Closeness reveals more than distance ever could. Especially when you’re not allowed to look away.”

Previously on Grand Pursuit…

Oscar tried to explain, but Y/N didn’t let him off the hook. Revan finally snapped, accusing Y/N of stealing Lando — and called her a villain in disguise. Y/N stayed strong… until she didn’t. On the balcony, under moonlight, she let herself break — and Charles held her through it. But behind confessional walls, Jessica whispered:

MORNING – TASK ANNOUNCEMENT – COURTYARD

The contestants gather in the courtyard, where a low platform has been built. It’s surrounded by ropes, mats, and a rack of folded black blindfolds.

Everyone is tense. Curious.

A speaker crackles.

HOST : “Good morning, players. Today’s challenge is about trust, control, and how well you handle heat — without flinching.”

“We call it: Don’t Let Go Until I Say So.”

Eyes exchange. Lando raises a brow. Lewis folds his arms. Jessica smirks.

“You’ll be randomly paired. One of you will be blindfolded and tied. The other will lead them — by voice, by hand… or by touch.”

“If your partner lets go before the buzzer, you’re disqualified.”

“And the winners? Get a night away from the house — with one person of their choice.”

Oscar (under breath):

“This is going to ruin people.”

PAIRINGS REVEALED – TENSION BUILDS

The host’s voice echoes.

“Charles & Y/N”

Gasps ripple through the courtyard. Jessica’s brows lift. Revan immediately looks away. Lando? His jaw tightens — eyes flicking between them.

Y/N (to herself):

“Of course.”

“Lando & Jessica”

She grins like a cat. He mutters, “Fucking hell.”

“Oscar & Revan”

They don’t even look at each other.

“Lewis & Laila” “Carlos & Natalie” “Max & Cassie” “Franco gets the buzzer timer”

CHARLES & Y/N — TASK BEGINNING

A mat. A harness. A black blindfold in Charles’s hand.

Charles (quiet):

“You sure you’re okay with this?”

Y/N (teasing):

“If I wasn’t, would that stop you?”

He steps closer. His fingers brush her cheek as he slips the blindfold on.

Charles (murmurs):

“Tell me if anything’s too much.”

Y/N (smirking):

“Too much is kind of my thing.”

He kneels behind her and begins securing the tie. It’s not tight — just enough to restrict movement, not hurt. His fingers linger.

Charles (close to her ear):

“I need you to trust me.”

Y/N (whispered):

“I already do.”

TASK STARTS – MOVEMENT & WHISPERS

Charles guides her gently — hands on her waist, leading her in slow steps. Her arms are behind her back, tied loosely at the wrists, blindfold wrapped tight.

Y/N:

“What if I fall?”

Charles (softly):

“I’ll catch you before you even tilt.”

His hand slides to her hip to steady her. His breath brushes her temple. Their movements are slow, choreographed — like something more intimate than a game.

Charles:

“Turn left.”

She follows. Instinctively.

Y/N (smiling):

“Are you enjoying this?”

Charles (smirks):

“Dangerously.”

His hands brush her shoulders as he adjusts her. His fingers trail slowly down her arms, keeping contact.

Charles (quiet):

“This close… you feel everything.”

Y/N (murmured):

“I know. That’s why it’s dangerous.”

Their voices drop to whispers. Every touch now feels loaded. Electric.

MEANWHILE – LANDO & JESSICA

Jessica (flirty):

“You don’t have to enjoy this so much.”

Lando (tight smile):

“I’m not.”

Jessica (purrs):

“You sure? Because your eyes are all over her.”

He doesn’t respond. But his eyes flick toward Y/N and Charles again. She’s laughing under the blindfold. Charles is whispering something only she can hear.

Jessica sees it.

Jessica (leaning in):

“Careful, Lando. That storm you’re chasing? It already found a harbor.”

CHARLES & Y/N – TASK CONTINUES

Charles:

“Bend slightly. Hands forward. Feel the rope.”

Y/N (grinning):

“Are you giving me orders now?”

Charles (smirks):

“Only the ones you’ll like.”

She leans forward, brushing his chest by accident. Her breath catches. He catches it, too.

Charles (voice lower):

“That was not an accident.”

Y/N (softly):

“Maybe not.”

The buzzer sounds — task over.

RESULTS

Charles & Y/N — WINNERS Reward: A one-night getaway. With any person of their choice.

POST-TASK – DRINKS ON THE TERRACE

Everyone’s debriefing with drinks and teasing.

Oscar (to Lando):

“You alright, mate?”

Lando:

“Yeah. Peachy.”

Oscar:

“You don’t look peachy.”

Lando (bitterly):

“Just watching someone else get what you didn’t know you wanted.”

Across the table, Charles and Y/N sit quietly together. Her hand is resting beside his on the table — not touching, but almost.

NIGHTFALL – Y/N’S ROOM

She’s removing her makeup in the mirror. There’s a knock. She opens the door.

It’s Charles.

Charles (quiet):

“You get to pick who joins the night away. But I wanted you to know — if it’s not me, I won’t take it personally.”

Y/N (smiling):

“Why would it not be you?”

Charles (softly):

“Because if it is… it might mean something I can’t take back.”

She pauses.

Y/N:

“Good. I’m tired of taking things back.”

Their eyes lock. They don’t move. The tension doesn’t break — it grows.

Charles (steps forward):

“I’ll wait downstairs. Just in case.”

He leaves. She exhales — slow and shaky.

CONFESSIONAL – Y/N

“Everyone keeps asking what game I’m playing. But what if this isn’t a game anymore?”

LIVING ROOM – NIGHT

Lando sits alone on the couch, fiddling with a bottle cap. Jessica approaches, holding two drinks.

Jessica:

“You know what I hate most about losing?”

Lando (dry):

“Everything?”

Jessica (smirking):

“Watching someone else win with the person you wanted.”

She sets the drink down beside him, leans in, and whispers:

Jessica:

“But I can still make sure they don’t last long.”

Lando doesn’t move. But his grip on the bottle tightens.

The screen glitches —

Then flashes to a new scene:

Charles and Y/N standing beside the waiting SUV. She turns to him.

Y/N:

“If we do this...”

Charles:

“We don’t do it halfway.”

They get in. The door closes.

To Be Continued...

[didalexiabreakupwitholgaisback]

I'm not Spanish, nor do I have any interest in them, but it's a bit strange that many players now say that everything is perfect and that there's an excellent relationship between staff and players, as if it wasn't already like that before. They forget that there are players, besides Misa and Jenni, who aren't called up because they play for Atlético Madrid, and other players who go to the national team without any merit. It almost seems like they want to distance themselves from the problems they themselves have swept under the rug. If Tomé hadn't called up Alexia for the Nations League, depriving her of the chance to win a trophy while injured, do you really think they would be as happy as they are now? I don't think so. Basically, things are fine until they affect one of them, then I'm curious if they still think so.

okay, so you need to look at this in context. none of the players are saying that the team is "perfect." in fact, several of them have acknowledged that there is still work to do. but the conditions and treatment of the team is a lot better than it was in the past, that we can all agree upon.

first, the players agree that there is team unity that wasn't present before. keep in mind that there are 12 players on this team now that were not present at the 2023 world cup (including many barça and ex-barça players), which is a more than 50% turnover. so it's obvious that the dynamics will be completely different than the divided locker room of the world cup.

patri guijarro

claudia pina

vicky lópez

jana fernández

laia aleixandri

leila ouahabi

adriana nanclares

esther sullastres

maría méndez

maite zubieta

lucía garcía

cristina martín-prieto

and vilda purposefully chose players that he could control, including the captain's squad, and that's how that team operated. he also micromanaged the squad, visited players at night, wanted to know what they were doing during their off time and even checked their bags if they went shopping. montse is an incompetent loser, but she's not doing *that level* of nonsense as vilda has done.

not to mention that the selection now has all the basics, including a nutritionist, proper facilities to train, and better travel conditions. so if you are comparing what life was like before to what life is like now, it's night and day. which is why players like jana has made the statement saying there is a good atmosphere within the team.

finally, what does atletí have anything to do with anything? if there is one team that rfef has a problem with, it's barça way more than atletí. 🤔

[mullermilkshake]

Laying the foundations

Part 8 <- Part 9 -> Part 10

The first day is always the hardest.

Sperm donor!Satoru Gojo x New mom!reader x Husband!Suguru Geto Tags - Manipulation, Coercion, Toxic behaviour, references around dub-con and non-con

<<< For more Satoru content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

<<< Or this fics Master list >>>

<<< Mood board >>>

Title font - 1001fonts.com

“Hey.” Satoru came round the next morning, earlier than you expected.

“Hi.” You said, stepping back to allow him through, rubbing the bags under your eyes.

You never slept well last night, clinging to Suguru’s shirt from the hamper just so the bed stayed smelling like him. Sakura must have picked up on your defeated spirit, because she was up every hour on the hour like clockwork.

“Are you okay?” Satoru brushed your cheek with his index finger, dipping his head to watch you like a concerned puppy. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

He walked past you into the living room, grinning away when he saw the baby, kicking about on the floor with her little hanging fish dangling by her face. 

“I uh, I didn’t really sleep, no.” Was there any point in lying?

“You should have called me-Hello Princess!- I would have dropped everything and come over.”

And do what, chat my ear off until I shout at you, or just unsettle me until I cry?  

“No… it’s fine. I just needed space to process everything. I’m not coping very well.”

“Of course you’re not, you’re going through a divorce with a guy you thought you’d be with for a while, it’s perfectly logical to be anxious.”

You stood there in the doorway, watching a man who pulled you down the stairs, manipulated your mother-in-law and tried controlling the narrative that you were a cheating spouse. How he talked and handled your daughter was someone else entirely.

Someone understanding. Words of support like… Suguru.

“Right…” You sat down on the sofa, rubbing your eyes again.

“Baby, you look exhausted, it’s only nine o’clock. Why don’t you nap while we bond a little bit?” 

Like you were just going to nap while he cuddled your little girl. You wanted to address the pet name, but you were struggling to keep your eyes open.

“I can’t… she’s due a feed in an hour. I have to be up to nurse her.”

“Then I can wake you when she gets grumpy. But you should nap when you can- but don’t worry, I'll come over every day, I’ll always be there to have Sakura while you rest. It’s important you get enough sleep.”

You couldn’t sleep, no matter how exhausted you’d get, you couldn’t do it. “I can’t, it’ll ruin my sleep pattern.”

Satoru’s laugh should have been jokingly detailed amongst the baby toys and spare diapers on the coffee table, except there was a cool trim of darkness to it. “No it won’t, mommy should always try to sleep when baby does… it’s not like I’m gonna whisk her off somewhere. Do you need anything done while you sleep?”

It wasn’t a threat. 

Why did it seem like it was?

“It’s fine. I did the laundry yesterday. Everything’s sorted.”

Yeah, sorted enough that you had time to sob your heart out last night for two hours until you fell asleep because you couldn’t physically keep your eyes open, only to wake up twenty minutes later. You did all of your housework in the early hours of the morning, wearing Suguru’s shirt to keep you company. In fact, the house had never looked so clean, though Suguru’s shirt started smelling like bleach.

“C’mon.” He smiled, wiggling Sakura’s pink rabbit in front of her as she cooed in her little vest and shorts. “There’s a seven week old baby in the house, there’s always something to do..." He nuzzled her and picked her up. "Well, you're practically eight weeks now, aren't you baby girl?"

Since when did he get so paternal? He’d always been good with the baby, but his responses were textbook, almost automated to suit your answers.

Think-Think… I can’t sleep while he’s here. 

With a meek smile, you neatened yourself up, brushing your hair with your fingers and rubbing your cheeks as though it would bring the colour back.

“Well, this little one kept getting up every hour, so I did all my chores in the night. Everything is done for now.”

Satoru gasped, feigning surprise as he held Sakura up. “You kept mommy up all night? She has to get her beauty sleep too, no wonder you’re looking so adorable today. Baby, you should really get some sleep- are you hungry? I can order take out-“

“No, really. I’m just fine.” You regretted even mentioning it.

It was too much already. Your stomach plummeted, the struggle of keeping your yawns hidden and the fact that you were actually starving overwhelmed you, and Satoru hadn’t even been here ten minutes.

“Are you sure? You look peaky. I can make you something instead?”

“You don’t strike me as the type to cook for someone.”

He scooped the baby in his arms and sat himself next to you on the sofa, closer than you would have liked. Watching Sakura dribble was your only vice to stay awake and keep yourself out of his orbit.

“I have a lot of time on my hands these days, I’ve picked up a thing or two about cooking. I just prefer ordering, that way I don't need to cook…” His pause told you everything. “But when it comes to a pretty girl? I can whip something up.”

“Satoru, please quit with that, I said I needed space.” You didn’t dare look at him, but you could already sense the awkward aura in the room shift.

“What? I can’t call you pretty? I’m not makin’ a move, I’m just calling it how I see it. Is that a crime?”

The atmosphere was suffocating. “You’re here to see Sakura. That’s all.”

“I’m here to see my daughter and the mother of my child. If I had it my way, I’d be sayin’ a lot more right now, but you wanted space. So I’m giving you space.” He fiddled with a little bow on Sakura’s sock. “So if I can give you space, you shouldn't  ie to me, either.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell me everything is fine when I can see the bags under your eyes through the makeup you put on. You think I’m not capable of taking care of our daughter?”

You sat there, unsure if it was just your exhaustion, or the audacity that this man dared to accuse you of lying after all the shit he’d already done. But your nerves were on their last legs.

“I never said that. And I don’t want to sleep.”

“But you may as well have said it, right?” Satoru eyed you closely with lidded eyes, they darkened like his voice dropped. “You think I’ll run off with her, don’t you?” 

What could you possibly say to that? Regardless, your tiredness pushed itself far enough to become redundant.

“Satoru, put Sakura in her bassinet.”

He laughed again, it sickened the lining of your throat, the pit of your stomach so that it twisted in knots like thorny vines around your lungs so you couldn’t breathe. However, you could not show it. Not while he was so close he would smell it.

“Why, mommy? She’s happy, cuddling daddy.”

The courage only came because it involved your daughter. “I said put her in the bassinet, and we’ll discuss it out in the kitchen. I don’t want my daughter around this.”

You got to your feet and trudged on over towards the kitchen before he could respond. Picking up the baby monitor on the sideboard, you brought it with you and set it down on the kitchen counter, just waiting for him to come through the doorway without the baby.

“I’m sorry, what do you mean this around her?”

Yeah, you had no idea where the courage came from, throwing all what Suguru told you about Satoru’s behaviour out of the window.

I have to set an example, set clear boundaries if I’m going to survive the next few months. 

“I mean this.” You waved your hand between Satoru and yourself rather aggressively. “If you want whatever-the-fuck-this-is to work? You need to take a step back and stop smothering me.”

“I’m smothering you? All I did was compliment you and offer to care for our daughter while you slept, and you couldn’t even be honest with me. How the fuck am I smothering you when all I’m doing is trying to help?”

“Are you serious right now?”

He was more deranged than you could have imagined. Still, you kept the kitchen island between you and shifted around it any time that he moved.

“Yeah, I’m pretty serious.” Satoru placed his palms flat on the marble counter, standing there like he’d move it all together. “I don’t know why you’re so against this, fighting me on everything I try to do for you and our daughter-”

“Stop it! I didn’t want the help, or the attention. I want space, and to be left alone! What part of that are you failing to grasp here? I’m exhausted, Suguru moved out yesterday and all I want to do is sleep- and excuse me if I don’t trust anyone watching my eight week old daughter besides my mother while I’m unconscious!”

Satoru actually seemed like he was reflecting on his actions.

“Oh, I get it. I can’t believe I let it slip over my head like that, I’m sorry… You’re still really upset about the divorce. Well, I hoped you’d be better about it today, but you’re worse off than you were yesterday.”

Maybe not.

“Satoru, Please listen to me when I say this. If you want this…” It killed you even saying it. “Co-parenting thing to work, then you need to respect my boundaries.”

“Of course I do- no, no, no.” He pulled your hands close and cupped them firmly. “Please don’t think that I don’t respect you, of course I do. It’s just that I’ve waited so long for this, and I’ll admit I can get a bit over excited. But you have to understand that I don’t see the point in grieving that relationship when we were made for each other, we have so much lost time to catch up on.”

How could you respond to that when he tucked your hair out of your face so lovingly, and commanded such an antagonising presence at the same time?

“Baby, there’s so much I wanna do with you and Sakura, she’s growing up so fast and I don’t see why we should wait.” Again, his soft chuckle stuck like razor sharp sticks in your ears. “To be honest, if I had it my way, I’d already be askin’ you to move in with me, maybe try for baby number two? Properly. But… you want space, so I’ll give it to you.”

Your stunned words only came out as a whisper. “That’s what you call space?” 

“Mhm, I think a couple of weeks is enough, don’t you?”

“U-Until what?” You wanted to pull away, run from him and take Sakura to your moms and call the police.

What would they realistically do?

“Until we try for real, we settle down and catch up to where we should have been if you walked down the aisle to me, instead of Suguru.”

“I might want children in the future, Satoru. But not right now.”

He pinched your cheek like a child, tilting his head like he was going to kiss you. “Oh, c’mon. You’re tellin’ me you want to keep Sakura as an only child? You were so beautiful pregnant, wearing those little jumper dresses over Christmas, and balancing the remote on your belly just so Sakura could kick it off when she was active…”

How you didn’t flinch when he rubbed his nose with yours, was a miracle. Your gut gravitated naturally to getting to Suguru, to calling this whole thing off and taking your chances with the courts.

I’m doing this for my family, for my daughter. I don’t have to do anything like that, not what I don’t want to do. 

Satoru wasn’t about to touch you like that. You may have just given birth to a baby, but you’d stab the bastard before he even dreamed of doing anything like that.

“But… What if I don’t want another baby? I-I’m seven weeks post partum… I want time with Sakura before I even think of that.”

He noticed the way you cleared your throat, he stepped back and rubbed his neck like he was shy. “Oh my god! No, not right now- you want space. Please don’t- oh shit… please don’t think I’d rush you into something, not until you were ready to do anything like that with me. I mean, I’ve waited this long, I can wait a little longer.”

It wasn’t reassuring.

It was an act.

“Satoru… I haven’t- I mean, not with Suguru since after I found out I was pregnant. I’m not going to be ready for anything like that for a while.”

“Oh… right, well, let’s take this slow then, hm?”

It was still a fucking act.

But slow was better than right now. “Yeah, slow.”

“Good.” He said, turning to leave the kitchen. “Let’s watch a movie, it really feels like movie weather.”

The whiplash left you standing there, speechless and gripping onto the kitchen counter until your fingers trembled and knuckles turned white.

How on earth were you going to make it through this?

Part 8 <- Part 9 -> Part 10

If you would like to be tagged, please let me know! 🤗

Tag list - @ryomenslvr @ilovebattinson @ilyannailyanna @charlenexoxo1 @satorupied

@nommingonfood @tweekdoescosplay @gojojjknanami @kiwikeeahwah @ryannae-luuvv

@merceriee @dyavorange @tweekdoescosplay @yesdere @qardasngan 

@bubera974 @yourlocalcatscammer @livelaughlovekuni @sugurunugget @cisseadven

@universal-s1ut  @thenightperson

DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work thank you!