#and those that are going on spaces and saying they are are living in the same world where Larry are married with children living HEA

[the-ocean-is-trans]

hey this was so egregiously fucked up that i couldn't scroll past and not say something. I'm going to break down piece by piece why i think this take is hot garbage.

the graphic: I feel like this should go without saying but you have an image equating the nigerian prince scam, a scam that is driven by financial motivation/greed, with porn bots, which aren't even scamming you but are just an inconvenience on this site, to.....people asking for money to survive genocide????????????? im going to get into why its problematic to assume that gazan fundraisers are scams at face value in a moment, but even if they *were* scams I would rather be scammed out of $20 every once in a while than have literally every single person who is experiencing unimagined levels of hell and danger have to worry about being seen as illegitimate because of the actions of those who would capitalize on a tragedy. and if you can't afford the $20 guess what? you don't have to donate and you can keep your fucking mouth shut for free!

I would like to do a line read of your text, starting with "if a stranger comes to your inbox or slides in your DMs asking you for your money with some sob story, no matter how tragic and convincing the story is, they are a scammer". hey op, have you ever had to fundraise to cover a medical procedure? housing? if you havent, you maybe don't know the level of desperation, hopelessness, and fear that come with knowing that your continued ability to survive is in strangers hands. now, again, if you do not have the ability to donate, shutting the fuck up is free, but how would you feel if one of those strangers decided that they were so offended that you even deigned ask for money that they decided to cast suspicion not only you and your needs but anyone else in a similar situation who had to raise money in this manner?

and now let's get to "especially if the story is obviously copied and pasted, formatted in the exact same way" where i will return to what i said in point 1 about unimagined levels of hell and danger. imagine that said hell and danger is being caused by a nation that subjugates the rest of the world for resources to build and hoard wealth. imagine if you asked for money, even the smallest amount helps, from people who lived in that country that has been profiting off of your destruction for generations, and the people who lived there said "the way you asked for money is too similar to how the other people in my inbox have asked for money for me to believe you need it". whether you intend to or not, you are implying that the people of Palestine have to put thought and attention to changing up the message they write asking for help each time they send it, precious time and mental space people surviving genocide do NOT have, so that YOU can feel better. once again, i will reiterate, you personally do not have to donate if you are unable, or frankly even unwilling. what is particularly heinous is you using your platform to say that anyone raising money in this manner should be assumed automatically to be doing so in bad faith. how are you not ashamed of yourself?

one day you will be in need of help from people, some of whom you may not know. this is the society we live in. we are interdependent whether we like it or not. on that day, i hope you are treated in the manner that you have treated others in their moments of vulnerability and need.

sorry to have to tell you this but if a stranger comes to your inbox or slides in your DMs asking you for your money with some sob story, no matter how tragic and convincing the story is, they are a scammer — especially if the story is obviously copied and pasted, formatted in the exact same way as the other 100 bots in your inbox

[fligniuz]

pleasure doing business with you

luigi mangione x reader

｡𖦹°‧ you’re a broke college student in a pinch. but not to worry; you’ve found someone willing to help.

word count: 14k (sorry?😭) • part of a spoonful of sugar (read here!) • nsfw • read on ao3

tag list : @mangionebabymama , @mangobabygirl , @jenisaswift13 , @mangionesdaisy , @iinfinitelimits , @daydreamingwithluigi , @mrs-cactus69 , @mashkatzi , @straw8berry , @bean-is-reading (comment to be added)

warnings : f! reader; EXPLICIT; sugar daddy AU; some OCs; unironic use of the word “brunch���; ⚠️DADDY KINK⚠️; luigi calls U “princess”; praise; oral (m! + f! receiving); some spanking

notes : hi ok i’m so excited to post this pls let me know if U like this and want me to post more of Him because i have more sugar daddy ideas💚💚

In your defense, you’re broke as hell.

That’s a blunt way of putting it. To be more direct: you are a twenty-something college student barely scraping by on financial aid and tips from your opening shift at Hilton’s Cityscape, on top of the typical, abysmal, average salary of a bartender. You live in a somewhat cheap apartment at 1 Powell Street with your cat, Butters; you sleep on a stiff mattress and survive off the local Panda Express and suffer through the chilly nights—hell will freeze over before your landlord fixes the AC. You go to class and your shifts and barely get your bills paid each month, not unlike most of the nation, and you try. You try to smile and enjoy and appreciate what you have, even if it’s next to nothing.

The good news? You’re hot.

Not because of the shitty AC. You’re hot in the colloquial sense. You were blessed with all the features other women your age pray for, a natural beauty—something quite normal to see in San Francisco, but you have something rare to offer, too: a personality. You’ve got the looks and the brains. You are what people who are too polite would call “conventionally attractive”. You’ve got it going on. You are it.

So, what do hot women who are strapped for cash in San Francisco do? 

They go to Red Velvet on Bryant Street, of course.

What the fuck is Red Velvet? is exactly what you ask Sheri when she thinks out loud to you at 3:36 one afternoon.

Sheri looks at you like you’ve grown two heads.

“Red Velvet,” she starts, “is the hottest bar for sugar daddies in SF. It’s always overflowing with guys who have too much money than they know what to do with—big tech CEOs and bankers and those types.”

“Right,” you nod, listening attentively. “So you think I should pick up a sugar daddy.”

“Well…” Sheri swipes the rag she’s holding over another glass swiftly. “I think you should pick up a sugar daddy safely.”

“Have you had one before?” you ask.

Sheri is your favorite co-worker. She’s older than you, closer to her fifties, and she is nothing if not an adventurous woman. You’ve heard many a stories of bad sex and strange men, collected over her years of hopping around the West Coast���a wonderful distraction from the equally strange men that often find themselves visiting your place of employment.

“A sugar daddy?” She laughs, grabs another glass from the dirty dish rack. “Honey, I was far too busy for that in my heydays. But a few of my girlfriends dabble in that space.”

You lean forward with your chin in your hand. “Do they like it?”

“I know a friend who’s got an arrangement with some politician from Washington,” Sheri says. “She hasn’t paid for anything in two years. I always see her wearing the gaudiest shit—fur coats and Balenciaga and shiny jewelry. She’s happy. Real happy.”

You smile to yourself.

“Sometimes,” she adds, “he lets her take some of us out to dinner with her. And, not to sound prissy, but the whole ‘fine dining’ thing? Just doesn’t make sense to me.”

“What?” You furrow your brows. “What don’t you like about it?”

“The portions are just too damn small!” she exclaims, face holding genuine resentment as she speaks—you’ve always appreciated her expressiveness. “The staff is always nice, but there’s just not enough food, if you ask me.”

That makes sense. Sheri loves her food. You do too, honestly.

“You think a sugar daddy would take me to McDonald’s?” you joke, giggling at her snort.

She shrugs it off—but you could find out.

That’s exactly what you decide to do one Saturday night, waltzing up to Red Velvet in the best dress you own: a flattering jade green with ribbing around the torso and a tight fit on the hips. To be completely transparent, you are nervous; you’re quite used to male attention, used to handling it with grace and respect for yourself, but this spot is an entirely new environment with entirely new patrons. You don’t know what to expect. You have an idea of what a sugar daddy is, what he looks like and how he acts and dresses and speaks, but it’s quite different to encounter one in the wild. People only ever do this kind of thing online, you think.

You scan the scene. There are mostly men of varying, typically older age, but there are some women, too, mainly concentrated at the bar to your left. Eye candy. Probably not regulars. You conclude that this must be your best bet, and so you grab a seat at the far end, looking over the menu and deciding on something simple: a gin and tonic.

And for a while, you enjoy it in a comfortable silence, sipping and appreciating the scenery, the ostentatious decor and dim lighting and cursive signage. It’s definitely the kind of bar that rich guys would frequent, more specifically sugar daddies, if the guests in attendance weren’t proof enough.

But your expectations are firmly challenged when you are approached by your first man of the night.

Well, not quite approached. Rather, he comes up to order, and you are at the bar—so naturally, your eyes meet and your paths cross. You survey your catch and quickly find that he is different; most of the men at Red Velvet are fifties-to-sixties, not particularly attractive (definitely not without its silver foxes, though!), typically already accompanied by a woman. This man, though…He catches your eye. He’s young, perhaps even close to your age, and he’s fit, and he’s fine. He is fine as a motherfucker, indeed. At first you peg him as a Montgomery Street type, maybe a stock trade guy—but despite his current location, ordering a drink at this high-end sugar daddy outfit, this man looks unconstrained; put together but certainly not flashy. His suit is as simple as his choice of beverage—a banana daiquiri—and the first words he utters to you are modest but direct:

“You’re wearing green.”

That you are. 

You turn to him, face kind but slightly puzzled. “Yup. Green.”

He explains: “Forgive my candor. Green is my favorite color—I never see women as pretty as you wearing it, though.” 

Oh, so he’s slick.

“I’m flattered,” you say with a smile. “Thank you.”

Looking him in the eye, you can get a much better picture of this man, even in the low light of the bar. His hair is curly, wild, begging for hands to touch and pet and pull, and his eyebrows are just as sharp as his jawline and the bridge of his nose. He’s clean-shaven, for the most part, but a neat five o’clock shadow is growing in on his jaw and under his chin; you imagine, briefly, how that stubble might feel against your lips, your neck, your—

“May I ask what brings you here?” he inquires. “It’s not often this place is blessed with such beauty.”

Man, he’s persistent, isn’t he? You tuck your hair behind your ear and rest your chin on top of your clasped hands.

“Are you here often?” you ask. It’s best to scope out any danger before you get down to business—as a young woman, you learned that the hard way. This guy could be a creeper, for all you know, picking up girls at niche bars and taking them home to chop up or god knows what.

He grins, traces the rim of his glass. “How’d you think I could point out a newbie so easily?”

You smile back.

“Do you live in the area?” he asks.

You definitely don’t. Bryant Street is twenty minutes out from the lofts at Powell. You’re starting to wonder if maybe newcomers aren’t welcome at Red Velvet; perhaps this man didn’t come to flirt. Perhaps he’s sniffing you out, keeping the turf safe from intrusion.

“Close enough,” you lie. “I work in the area.”

It isn’t that crazy of a fib—Cityscape is only an eight minute drive from here.

“Well, where do you work?”

Fuck. Fuck. Might as well stick to reality as much as you can, right? 

“I bartend at Ernest,” you say, sipping your drink. Ernest is more of a fine dining establishment than a bar, but it’s on Bryant—albeit further down the street—so it works. Sheri has mentioned grabbing drinks there before. It surprises you that you even remembered Ernest exists.

He nods, seemingly trusting. “Is it a nice place? I’ve never been, but some of my buddies have.”

You shrug. “It pays. You get pretty tired of all the sexual harassment after a while, though.”

He laughs—a soft but warm chuckle, his dimpled smile practically reaching his ears.

You’ve always liked being able to make men laugh. It helps quite a lot when they’re this handsome.

“What about you?” you ask. “Do you work around here?”

“In the city,” he answers simply. “I do data for TrueCar. Not very special.”

Ah. You’ve heard of it in passing, probably online, but you don’t know much beneath the surface. Admittedly, it does sound pretty boring. You imagine cars have to be involved, which is a bit surprising—car salesman is a certain type, and this guy is not it. Data must mean he’s either a statistics or computer science major, which aren’t the most promising career paths as far as money goes—but he is in California, which might mean he got lucky.

“And how is that working out for you?” you ask, stirring your gin and tonic.

“It pays,” he says, mirroring you. “No sexual harassment, fortunately for me. I’m very sorry about yours.”

You wave a hand and laugh. “I’m quite used to it at this point.”

Right then your eyes meet. And for what feels like forever the two of you just stare at each other, smiles bright on your faces, chemistry rippling between the bar stools that keep you apart. The tension isn’t thick—it’s palpable. You’d need more than a knife to cut through it.

“Can I be honest?” you pipe up. As if you didn’t lie to this man about your job just a few minutes ago.

He nods. “I like honesty.”

You sip your cocktail. Swallow. Breathe. Then:

“I’ve been in a tight spot with money, recently,” you explain. “A friend told me about this place, that I could maybe find someone to help me out here, so I came looking for…”

How do you put this?

“I came looking for an arrangement.”

His smile spreads across his teeth slowly, but its flame casts bright light throughout the bar—as if you are a speck of an ant on the ground, scorched by the mirror he holds.

“I knew you were here for a reason,” he remarks.

Yeah. You’re quite obvious, aren’t you?

“I feel like maybe I should apologize,” you mutter, shoulders sulking. Suddenly you feel quite shy.

“You shouldn’t,” he assures you. “Can I ask for your name?”

So you tell him, meekly. And then:

“Well,” he starts, echoing you; you make a mental note of how good your name sounds in his mouth. “I’m Luigi. I think I could help you with that money problem you have, and—if you don’t mind my saying—I’d be quite eager to.”

This Luigi guy is nothing if not blunt.

“So…” He reaches back and snatches his phone from a pocket, leaning toward you. “I’m gonna ask for your number. If you want to make one of these arrangements you speak of, you can call me anytime you like. How’s that sound?”

He’s handing you his phone now, screen already open to an empty contact page. You accept it hesitantly.

“You want me to call you?”

Luigi nods. “I want you to have time to think it over. If you change your mind, I wouldn’t want you to feel pressured.”

That makes your heart flutter a little. He’s sweet for a stranger.

You hand your completed contact to him with a smile, and he sends you a text so his number is easily accessible. 

“I think you’ll be hearing from me,” you say, emboldened.

He grins as he stands from his seat. “I’ll be looking forward to it.” Then he adds: “No pressure.”

Just like that, he’s paying his tab, and the next moment he’s gone. 

There are several thoughts swirling through your mind right now. But one thing you are sure of is that Sheri was right: Red Velvet is the spot.

“You’re telling me you found a daddy your first time there?”

Sheri looks flummoxed.

You tighten your apron and smirk. “I mean, I don’t know for sure if he’s looking for that.”

“He implied it,” she counters.

“Nothing is set in stone,” you say, popping the chewing gum in your mouth. A flood of tangerine works your tastebuds. “I’m supposed to call him to figure out our arrangement.”

“What’s he like?” Sheri asks. She turns toward the cash register.

Where to start? You hardly even know him and yet you could probably run your mouth for a solid hour about just his appearance, his honeyed voice, his sharp features.

“He’s cute,” you say simply. “Young. Kinda tall. Curly hair. I think he’s Italian, or something.”

“Italian?” She looks over her shoulder at you, quirks an eyebrow.

“His name is Luigi,” you enunciate. “You gonna tell me that’s not Italian?”

Someone at the bar orders a Galileo Highball. You pull a bottle of Hendrick’s from the shelf.

As you pour, she asks, “he got a brother?”

“Very funny,” you say, not laughing. “I don’t know. They say Italians like big families. I’d bet his is no different.”

You slide the finished cocktail toward your patron with a small smile, and Sheri comes up behind you, holding her own drink—probably Macallan, if she’s the same Sheri you know.

“What did I tell you about drinking on the job?” You shoot her a glance; half disapproving, half amused.

“It’s a slow night, mom.” She gives you a light shove on the shoulder, bangles clinking. “Tell me more about your beau.”

“I think he’s a nerd,” you offer. “He mentioned being a data scientist, or something. He works at TrueCar.”

“What is that?” Sheri narrows her thin eyebrows at you.

“They sell cars,” you shrug. “It doesn’t matter to me if he has money.”

She takes a swig from her glass. “Well, does he?”

“You said Red Velvet is where all the rich guys are, and that’s where he was at, so I don’t know, Sheri, you tell me.”

“That’s what I heard!” She raises her arms defensively. “Did he tell you how much he makes?”

Your eyes stiffen. “I think that would’ve been rude to ask.”

“It’s not rude if he’s gonna be your sugar daddy.”

She has a point.

You should probably find out.

One Tuesday afternoon before work you decide that a call is indeed in order—something to settle your nerves, fraught with anticipation since the night you met Luigi. His number is accordingly labeled with his name in your phone and it is not hard to find among your texts. Your hesitation only lasts a few seconds before you press the call button.

A familiar modest tone is quick to answer.

“Hello?”

Fuck. Fuck. You hadn’t quite thought out the rest of this.

“Luigi, hi! This is—”

“From Red Velvet,” he interjects. You’ve been recognized by voice alone. “Hi, there.”

He sounds busy. Men always sound busy. 

“Is this a bad time?” you ask.

“Not at all,” he assures you. “I’m on lunch. Happy to hear from you.”

How does this kind of thing normally come together? You’ve never taken the 101 on sugar dating, and there’s certainly not a handbook—not one that you’ve heard of, anyway. Maybe you should’ve done a little more research. 

You clear your throat. “So. I’ve been considering, um…The arrangement thing.”

His voice rumbles on the other end. “Mhm?”

“I think…I wanna try it. With you.”

It sounds like he chuckles. Then: “Is that so?”

Man, he’s not helping your nerves at all.

Swallowing thickly, you ask, “…is that okay?”

“Of course it’s okay,” Luigi says, voice warm. “I offered, silly.”

Why is it that the overwhelming urge to explain yourself always comes on the strongest with silence?

“I’m kinda nervous,” you preface. “I’ve never done anything like this before, and you’re really nice, so if I sound awkward or like I’m being an idiot, I promise it’s not on purpose—”

“Sweetheart,” he interrupts. You can practically hear the smile on his face. “It’s okay. I understand. I’m gonna walk you through it, okay?”

You nod like he can see you. “Okay.”

The noise in the background starts to quiet down as Luigi speaks:

“We’ll meet up to discuss everything first, lay out the rules and your pay and all that,” he starts. “Somewhere public. Nothing has to happen yet. Just for us to make a plan and get to know each other a little more.”

It’s comforting, how he goes out of his way to ensure that you feel safe. Meeting in an open, people-filled space seems like something you should be suggesting, rather than him. It’s sweet. Makes you feel a little woozy—in more places than one.

“You like brunch?” he asks. “I’ll get you some brunch if you want. I know a spot.”

Brunch. The word alone makes your face scrunch up. He’s cute. “Okay. That sounds nice.”

“Are you sure? We can go somewhere else. Whatever you want.”

“Brunch sounds good,” you concur. “I’m not picky.”

“Okay. Good deal.” You hear what sounds like a door closing. “Are you free this weekend?”

I can be, you don’t say. “You bet.”

“Saturday?” he pitches.

“Sure.”

“How’s eleven?”

A bit early—you like sleeping in! But you’ll do it for this gorgeous man.

At your agreement, he bookends the conversation:

“Alright. We’re gonna meet at the Wooden Spoon, on Market Street. At eleven. On Saturday. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” you affirm. 

Wooden Spoon. Market Street. Eleven. Saturday. It repeats in your head like a mantra. What will you wear? What time should you wake up? Should you eat a little bit before, so you don’t have to go wild in front of him? Not important. Not right now.

Your mind wanders further, because you allow it: do you deserve this? Are you worthy of a wealthy man’s spoils, of finer things, of something you believed you’d never once know the luxury of having? Not a day in your life did you imagine you’d wind up with this, on the phone with someone in a tax bracket you’re miles and miles behind, someone so humble and yet so blessed by whoever counsels the elite class up in heaven (or hell, more likely). These opportunities are one in a million, and you’ve found yourself lucky enough to draw the eyes of a willing devotee—you should be proud. You should be arrogant, bragging, full of yourself, flaunting the kind of ego you’ve managed to avoid for the twenty-ish years you’ve been on this planet. You just feel guilty. 

Wooden Spoon. Market Street. Eleven. Saturday.

Luigi shows up not a minute after eleven o’ clock.

You’re already there. You made the effort to show up early—thirty minutes early, exact—wearing your favorite blouse, the one with little dragonflies printed all over, nails painted and lips glossed. You smell like a bakery and you look even more delicious. Yes. You feel ready.

At least, you do until he walks in.

Because he looks great. Even for a little brunch date, he’s glowing—practically a walking fucking Caravaggio painting. His baby blue button-down compliments his olive skin perfectly, collarbone peeking out from under almost sheer linen, and when you look closely enough…A thin, silver chain snakes around his neck, hidden underneath his shirt. 

Fuck. You want it in between your teeth.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You’re almost speechless as he takes a seat across from you. Man, you really should have prepared yourself more for this.

“Hi,” you greet, meekly.

“You haven’t been waiting long, have you?”

“Not at all,” you lie. He doesn’t need to know how much time you spent sitting in this very chair, worrying about this very moment. All at your own accord.

“Good,” Luigi says, nodding. Good that you weren’t waiting long. Good that you’re here, with him. He adds: “I’m glad to see you again.”

You attempt a smile. “I promise I am, too, I’m just—”

“Nervous?”

“Yeah,” you laugh. “Very.”

He taps his fingers over the menu laying on the table invitingly. “Let’s get some food in you. That’ll calm your nerves.”

So you look it over, ponder your options: avocado toast, smoothie bowls, fried chicken, patty melt…It all sounds really good when you haven’t eaten since your drunk lunch yesterday (which, to no one’s surprise, was similarly marred by your anxiety). You know one thing: some fresh squeezed orange juice sounds fucking bomb right now. Eventually you decide some scrambled eggs and buttermilk pancakes sound nice, too. 

Luigi gets the avocado toast. Not what you were expecting.

“I felt like you’d be a bacon guy,” you say as the waitress waltzes off.

He shrugs, grins a little. “I don’t eat meat.”

Okay. So, you weren’t expecting that, either, but your next question is: How the fuck do you get that broad with no meat? You decide that’s an inappropriate question for brunch—table it for later. Later. You like the sound of a later.

“So, you work at Ernest, right?” he asks, sipping his tea. 

Oh. Fuck. You forgot about that.

Fuck.

“I should probably tell you this now,” you start, voice shakier than you anticipate. “I, um—I lied. To you. About my job.”

His face doesn’t change much—Luigi just furrows an eyebrow at you. “Did you?”

“I know, I know, I’m really sorry!” By this point you can’t even remember why you lied to him—not after he’s taken this much caution in ensuring your comfort. “When I met you I had never been in the area before, and I was trying to play it safe, so I lied about where I work and I’m so so sorry—”

“Sweetheart,” Luigi interjects, placing his big, warm hands over yours. “I get it. Take a breath for me. Okay?”

He’s smiling a little, but only in amusement at how quickly you work yourself up. Over nothing. Per usual.

You breathe. “You’re not mad?”

“Not at all,” he says, shaking his head. “I understand why you’d want to keep that to yourself at first. You barely know me.”

Oh. Oh, wow. This is the very first time you’ve met a man who isn’t personally offended by your apprehension, and you’re starting to wonder if this one in particular is just a living fever dream, something you conjured up half asleep and yearning, something angelic. Something too good for you.

“I want to know you,” you utter.

“Okay. Fresh start.” He (gently, so, so gently) slaps his hands onto the table for emphasis. “Pretend Red Velvet didn’t even happen. Where do you work?”

“Cityscape,” you say, “at the Hilton in Union Square. Honest this time.”

“I believe you,” he nods, smiling. “Is that a bar?”

You nod with him. “I work opening shifts with my friend Sheri. She’s the one who told me about Red Velvet.”

“So, what you said about the sexual harassment must’ve been true.”

You almost choke on your mouthful of OJ. “Yeah. That part was true.”

While the two of you wait for your orders Luigi asks you some basic questions: how old you are, where you’re from, if you’re in school, what major, etc etc. You spend some time talking about college; you learn that Luigi is a much more impressive man than you would’ve guessed at first glance, a man with not one, but two degrees, each in computer engineering—turns out your intuition is pretty good! There’s also a background in some ultra nerd frat. That you wouldn’t have guessed. He’s halfway through a story about the night of his hazing when the hostess brings your plates out, sets them down on the table, aromatic and steaming.

You were already feeling less on edge—but the scrambled eggs certainly help.

“So…” Luigi starts after a bite of toast. “Do you want to get down to the nitty gritty?”

You blink. “You mean money stuff?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Money stuff.”

Another bite. A sip of tea. Then:

“I like to start with paying per meet,” he says. “I figured I’d base your pay off of how much you’re needing, though. Do you have an idea of what that might be?”

“Hmm,” you hum, forking some eggs into your mouth. “Let’s see. Rent is $3,300, on top of utilities. My aid covers most of my bills for school, so that’s not a problem right now. I just need to keep a roof over my head.”

“How much are you making a month?” he asks.

“Uhh…” You rack your brain. How much do you make? “About $2,000ish?”

“And how often would you be able to meet me?”

You grin. “I can be all yours on the weekends.”

Luigi looks like he’s crunching some numbers in his head. You decide to crunch on a pancake while he works that out.

“What if we did $1,000 to meet each weekend?”

Jesus. Christ.

“$1,000?” you repeat.

“Yeah. $1,000.”

You consider it. If you’re meeting with him every weekend, for $1,000 each time…That’s $4,000 in an average month. On top of your regular salary. Much more than you typically make. More than your rent costs. More than living costs at your current rate, maybe, probably. It’s a good deal. It’s a damn good deal.

“That’s—” you stutter. “That’s a lot.”

He smiles, softly. “For you it is.”

Meaning…It’s not for him?

“Do you like the sound of that?” he asks.

Well, yeah. It’s money. Money always sounds good. But you can’t shake the feeling:

“Are you sure that’s…like…okay? With you?” 

“I think it’s fair,” he says, nodding. “If you’re only making $2,000 a month, $1,000 each weekend should be enough to keep you on your feet.” 

Not really what you were asking.

“But…” he continues.

But?

“We can wean off of that, eventually.”

Wean off. Like you’re a kitten on wet food.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

He takes a bite of his toast, then speaks:

“After a while, if you still like how this is going, we can start you on an allowance.” Luigi pops a berry into his mouth, leans back in his chair. “I’m thinking $4,000 a month, give or take. We can adjust that if you need.”

Oh? Oh. Oh, okay.

$4,000 a month. To fuck and go on dates with the sexiest thing on two legs you’ve ever looked at. To sacrifice (a word that is doing some serious heavy lifting) your weekends for dick and some good food. To be able to take care of yourself, for once—and not just that, but to have all the fancy things you dreamed of having as a girl: clothes, jewelry, books, shoes, cosmetics, stuff, just stuff to have. The kind of consumption only a lucky few are entitled to enjoy. And there are future implications, too: eventually, once you graduate, you’ll have some loans to pay off, perhaps another degree to pursue. A new car to drive. Your very own home to live in.

$4,000 a month. $1,000 per meet.

“I’m in,” you nod.

Luigi raises his eyebrows, smiles slightly. “You’re in?”

“Yeah. I like what you’re laying out.”

His smile is wider now, dimples defined in the creases of his face. “Okay. That’s all I want to hear.”

You shovel some eggs into your mouth and watch, completely unsubtle, as he adjusts his shirt on his shoulders, the veins lining his arms flexing. 

Can’t you get to the sugar part now? You don’t even need a bed. You could find some space in your car, certainly. 

“So,” he pipes up, “I think next we should lay down some ground rules.”

“Rules?” you iterate. 

“Nothing crazy,” he assures you.

“Like…Boundaries.”

“Exactly!” With that Luigi finishes the last of his avocado toast. “I only have four.”

“Hit me,” you tell him.

He claps his hands together over his plate for effect. 

“Okay. First off: be open with me. If you want something, ask for it. If you need something, tell me. Unfortunately, I can’t read your mind, so I appreciate bluntness.”

Bluntness. You can do that. Tending bar throughout your college years has taught you strength in that regard. Nodding, you down the rest of your OJ.

“I also need you to never be afraid of saying ‘no’ to me,” he says next. “Again, not a mind reader. Please let me know if you’re uncomfortable or unsatisfied or anything like that. This isn’t just for me—I would never want you to feel obligated to do something you don’t want to do anymore.”

“Sure,” you agree. “That’s easy for me.”

“Good.” He smiles warmly.

Third: “This can end any time you want. No questions asked. That goes for me, too, but I mean it mostly for you.”

What if you don’t want it to end?

“Okay,” you nod. “Any time?”

“Any time.”

You just hope he doesn’t change his mind about this whole thing.

“That being said, though…” he continues.

Oh?

Luigi extends his pointer finger outward as he continues. “I only ask that you be exclusive to me.”

Ah. This must be his fourth rule.

“Exclusive?”

He nods. “No dates, no one-night stands, no boyfriends or girlfriends. I want to be the sole provider in your life.”

So he’s a possessive type, too. You suppose it makes sense. Men don’t like to share their toys.

“Well,” you perk up, “am I going to be disappointed?”

The smug motherfucker smirks. “I don’t like to overstate my abilities, but I think you’ll be plenty satisfied.”

Plenty satisfied. You realize now that you don’t really need to fuck him to feel that way.

He adds: “I’m an earnest lover.”

Getting laid earnestly, every weekend, for $1,000. All to earn a whopping $4,000 a month, if he likes you enough. 

You’ve done worse for less—and none of it involved a sexy Italian.

“I’ll need some proof,” you say, “but I think I’m down for that.”

“I’d be happy to prove it to you this weekend.”

Well, that was fast.

You quirk a brow. “Yeah?”

And then he leans in close to you, speaking barely above a whisper: “If you can be good, that is.”

Oh. Oh. 

He’s doing this. He’s doing this at noon on a Saturday, in public. At brunch.

You graze your foot over his from under the table, gliding up, inching into his pant leg. Teasing. “If I’m good, what’s in store for me?”

Luigi smirks as the waitress makes her way toward your seat with the check—for him to pay, of course. “I’ll text you the details. Sound good to you?”

You smile back. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

He decides to walk you to your car, standing close, but not too close for comfort. There is an easy space between the two of you as you make your way to the parking lot on Sanchez Street, right behind the Wooden Spoon.

“I didn’t get to ask,” he perks up. “Do you have any rules?”

You certainly didn’t prepare any.

“Umm…” you trail off, giggling. “I didn’t make a list or anything.”

“You don’t need a list,” he says, smiling back at you. “Are there any boundaries you want to set?”

There are some obvious, more sugar related things you want cemented: condoms every date, no reverse cowgirl, probably no nudes, for the time being. But right now you’re just happy to be seen beside such a handsome man. All of the “nitty gritty”, in his words, can wait until later.

“I can��t think of anything,” you answer. “Just that I want respect and…Well, compensation.”

Luigi winks. “You’ll get that. Promise.”

You reach your car and pause, turn on your heels to face him.

His hands are in his pockets, curls rustling in the early spring wind. “So…”

“So?”

“This weekend, right?” he asks. “I’ll hit you up, probably Friday.”

“Okay,” you agree. “This weekend.”

Then, he asks: “Do you have any rules against kissing?”

You grin and blush like a little girl. “Nope. Definitely not.”

So he steps close, lingering just slightly as his hands meet your hips—and then he kisses you, sweetly and smoothly. You pull him ever closer to you by the chain on his neck and sigh against his mouth. He tastes like Earl Grey.

When he pulls away he flashes you a warm smile. 

“I think I’m gonna have to build a time machine,” he says, “so I can skip ahead to this weekend.”

You laugh. “Good luck with that.”

Luigi doesn’t get that time machine built, but the weekend comes faster than you expect.

The first text you receive on Friday is quite surprising:

Luigi : Can I get ur address so my driver knows where to pick you up?

Driver? He’s sending a fucking chauffeur for you?

The next two texts he sends you once he has what he needs are straightforward:

Luigi : OK She’ll be there like 8:30 so be ready for her

Also we’ll be in a hotel after so maybe bring anything else you’ll need for tn

At that you put together a quick overnight bag: a change of comfy clothes and an outfit for the day after, toothbrush and toothpaste, comb, a pack of wet wipes, some hair ties. Some courage you definitely don’t have—not right now, at least. 

You’re nervous.

But you’re not going to think about that, because you’ve got a date to get ready for. You’ve got a dress to put on—the very dress you met him in—makeup to do and dinner to eat…And, of course, dick to take. Luigi didn’t really give you pointers on how to look, so you pick your accessories carefully, settling for a plain silver necklace and some studs to match. Your shoes are simple: black heels, with a glossy finish that you’ve managed to not scuff up somehow.

You glance at the clock on your nightstand. 8:19. When he said 8:30, did he mean on the dot? Doesn’t matter—every second counts. You feed Butters and fill his water bowl; take a shot of Grey Goose for encouragement; unpack your overnight bag to brush your teeth twice, then pack it again. If you were a smoker you’d need a cig right about now.

And then, at 8:27, your phone buzzes:

Luigi : She’s there

Grey Mitsubishi

No backing out now.

Sure enough, a grey Mitsubishi Lancer sits parked on Cyril Magnin Street just outside your window. With your bag slung over your shoulder you make your way down to the lobby, heart pounding behind your ribcage. 

The driver of this Lancer, as you soon find out, is…

“Cheyenne,” she says, extending a hand to you. Her fingers are decorated with rings of all shapes and colors, including a few with gemstones cemented in their center. She is cold to the touch, but her smile is inviting, dark, black-lined eyes staring into every layer of your aura.

As she turns the key in the ignition, you clear your throat.

“How do you know Luigi?” you ask.

At that moment, “Dance, Dance” by Fall Out Boy blasts from her speakers at 75% volume. You immediately wince at the loud assault to your eardrums.

“Shit, shit! Sorry! I’m so sorry!”

Her fingers are fumbling with the dial instantly. “Bad habit, I know, I’m so sorry—”

You laugh, heart still pounding. “I’m fine. Just startled me. I like your taste.”

Cheyenne begins to pull off onto the street with an uncertain smile. 

“So, how do you know Luigi?” you try again.

“Oh, college,” she says. “We used to shoot the shit in Calculus II.”

“Was he any good?” you ask. “At calculus?”

“Luigi is good at just about everything,” Cheyenne says. “Well, except talking to girls. I’m still not sure how he bagged you.”

You snort. “He seemed like he knew what he was doing.”

“Trust me, he didn’t.” You pass by the Panda Express that saves you from cooking dinner most nights as Cheyenne makes her way towards…Wherever you’re going. “He called me and crashed out over the phone the night he met you. He cried because, and I quote, ‘she’s so fine it makes me sick to my stomach.’ I think he was drunk.”

The image of that is quite precious, indeed. You giggle. “That’s sweet.”

“Sweet as pie,” she agrees. “He’s got integrity. Very driven. I’m not just saying it. I’ve seen that dude help blackout drunk girls to their dorms because some guys were creeping on them.”

He certainly doesn’t fit your usual stereotype of “privileged white frat rat from the suburbs”, doesn’t give off a fuckboy vibe that you’ve been able to pick up on. No cocky posturing. No fake interest. Luigi is different. Laid back. Responsible. Tender hearted.

“And,” Cheyenne adds, “he was my wingman for a good while.”

“Wingman?”

“He helped me sneak into parties so I could get with sorority girls,” she clarifies. “I wouldn’t have met my girlfriend if it weren’t for him.”

How gallant. Luigi Mangione: Friend to Lesbians. “Ah. I see.”

Now you can see why Cheyenne seems to be so comfortable with Luigi; their bond is clearly interwoven with the safety he’s provided her throughout their friendship, likely a stark contrast to her Ivy League atmosphere. He’s probably the only male friend she’s ever had that’s never pitched the “I like someone and you know her very well” conversation—you’re still waiting to meet that unicorn.

“What do you do?” Cheyenne asks.

You assume she means job-wise. “I bartend at Cityscape, but I’m in school full-time.”

“Oh, nice!” she says, nodding. “Where at?”

As she turns onto Fifth Street, you tell her—your university, your major, how your classes are going, all the rage around campus. Cheyenne listens intently, drumming her painted nails against the steering wheel in time with the radio. By the time you’re finished complaining about the difficulties of your required second language credit, the two of you are making your way down Harrison.

“What about you?” you ask. “You look like you do something really badass. Like archery, or witchcraft.”

“I wish!” she laughs. “I’m a marine biologist. Right now I’m at the Monterey Bay Aquarium.”

“Oh, nice! You live down there?”

Cheyenne scratches her neck. “Sort of. I’m a bit of a couch hopper. Rent is brutal in Cali, so I jump between my friends’ places.”

You shrug in understanding. “Totally get it. I almost ended up on a boat with some of my dorm mates before I found my place.”

She snorts at that. Cute. You like Luigi’s friend.

The rest of the ride goes smoothly; Cheyenne’s Lancer speeds down the 280 as you overlook San Francisco, its heaving waters and cloudy skies. Occasionally she asks if you’d like to pick a song, but you decide you’re quite alright with her aux control, so you decline and leave it up to her. When she makes a sharp turn onto 25th Street, you start to understand where this might be going—perhaps Luigi knows a nice place right by the Bay.

Your destination is either what looks to be an apartment complex or a storied building squished next to it. Cheyenne directs you to the spot on the left, the taller of the two.

“He should be waiting for you up at the very top,” she explains before you get out of the car. “There’s an elevator to your right once you walk in. If you press 13 it should take you to the roof.”

The roof? Okay. This is weird.

You thank Cheyenne and carefully make your way inside, surveying the lobby. You realize now that this is somewhat of an office space, with several businesses leasing a spot in the building; you find a directory hanging on the wall by the elevator Cheyenne mentioned. On the thirteenth floor is something called “Ive’s”, and it is indeed at the very top. You step inside the elevator and observe the clock built in above the rows of buttons; its face reads 8:01. Nobody set this one back for Daylight Savings.

The building must be old, what with how the elevator rattles as it ascends to the thirteenth floor, and you thoroughly do not expect what’s waiting in front of you: the doors open to a beautiful rooftop terrace, with moody lights strung over tables and a perfect overlook of the Bay as a backdrop. And waiting by the bar is Luigi, hands clasped in front of his pelvis, standing tall and clearly alert. His eyes widen when he spots you emerging from the elevator.

“You made it!” he exclaims. “I was worried Cheyenne might confuse you.”

“Nah, I got here fine,” you say, smiling. “It’s good to see you.”

He leans in for a hug that you gladly return, whispering into your ear, “that it is.”

Luigi’s embrace is the warmest you’ve ever felt. It’s like walking into a heated pool; your body recalibrates in response to his touch, thoroughly lit alive by the mere presence of this man and his gentle ways. He holds you still for quite a while, maybe a minute, and when he pulls back his smile is bright and dimpled, only sweetened by his blush. You take the chance to look over his suit; he dons a paisley-print purple tie and a jacket with blue suede lining the inside. Prim with just a hint of fun. You would not have expected paisley.

“Shall we?” he says, offering a hand. 

With your fingers interlaced, he leads you to a table at the far edge of the rooftop, and you start to realize now that, as a matter of fact, none of these tables are occupied—nor are they set, aside from the one he’s currently guiding you toward. There isn’t a single soul at Ive’s besides you and Luigi.

“What is this place?” you ask.

He grins. “It’s called Ive’s, if that’s what you’re asking, but if you want to know what’s up…”

At that Luigi moves to pull out your chair for you. “I’m tight with the owner,” he continues as you take your seat. “I got him to clear out the place just for tonight, so we could have somewhere all to ourselves.”

He’s nothing if not a pro at blowing you away. Your guilt at even accepting his generosity flows at full force, stunning you where you sit as Luigi settles down opposite you.

“You did all of this for me?” you ask.

He shrugs flippantly, still smiling. “Ive owed me a favor.”

From…somewhere, your host for the night emerges, holding two menus and cheesing at the both of you from under a thick handlebar mustache. The first order of business:

“What are you folks drinking tonight?”

The cocktail menu excites you—lots of vodka and gin, and there’s an entire section dedicated to rosé—but after some deliberation with the waiter, you decide on a Rooftop Mojito as a fitting welcome to your date. Luigi is not a complicated drinker, because he orders the same exact thing he ordered at Red Velvet: banana daiquiri with a slice of lime. The host prances off and leaves the two of you alone.

“Sooo,” you perk up, “you said you do data stuff for TrueCar, right?”

He winces. “If we’re going to talk about me, let’s not make it about my job. I promise it’s really boring. Last thing I want to do is make this date a snoozefest.”

You scoff. “I don’t think you could manage that.”

“What, boring you? I’ll bet I could.”

With a shake of your head, you say, “not when you look like you were blessed by Venus at birth.”

Luigi chuckles at that, nose flushing rosy pink. “Well, that’s flattering. I think you’re a more apt example of that description, though.”

“Just accept the compliment,” you chide playfully. “What if I have other questions that aren’t about your job?”

“Hit me.”

Well, shit. Maybe you should’ve made a list.

“How old are you?” you settle on eventually. Not a bad inquiry, you think. He’s quite young for a sugar daddy.

“Twenty six,” he answers. “Twenty seven in May.”

A Taurus. You consider it: loyal. Stubborn. Diligent. Possessive. Truly a toss-up—any of these qualities could spell both good and bad news for you. One thing you know for sure is that Luigi’s greatest strength is one quite common for Taurus men—he is entirely irresistible.

“And you’re from San Francisco, right?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Maryland. Baltimore.”

He really looks more Italian than anything. 

“County,” he adds. “Not the city.”

There’s a Baltimore county?

“I see,” you nod. “I’m assuming Baltimore-the-county has a much different environment than Baltimore-the-city.”

“Very different,” he confirms. “What about you? Are you from San Francisco?”

“Nope,” you answer. “I moved here for college.”

That sparks a quick conversation about your home state and whether or not Luigi’s visited. As you wrap up a memorable story about the corner store you frequented in your childhood, your waiter returns to the table with your drinks, quickly retrieving his notepad and pen from his pocket.

If cocktails were hard, the food is even harder to choose from. The entire list of appetizers sounds pretty good to you, and you could go for at least three of the sandwiches—but alas, you narrow down your options to the tomato soup with a grilled cheese and a Caesar salad on the side. Meat-Free Luigi goes with the veggie poke bowl and some French onion dip with house-made chips, even though he looks like he could absolutely kill some chicken wings. Whatever. 

Sipping from your mojito, you ask, “so, no TrueCar talk—what do you do outside of that?”

“A lot of reading,” he says. You could’ve guessed that. “And I like to stay active.”

Yeah, no shit. With shoulders like that?

Luigi likes Bertrand Russell and going on hikes and he can solve a Rubik’s cube in under a minute, which isn’t hard to imagine, what with those long, dexterous fingers. He wants to see every continent on the planet at least once. You ask him if he likes traveling solo or with friends and he tells you he makes do with both. His face lights up like never before as he describes a drunk night of catching crabs in Cabo San Lucas. You ask him to tell you his favorite destination he’s ever been to, and he says, “right here, with you.”

He’s perfect. There is truly no better word for it.

As the two of you wait for the food to come you jump from topic to topic: favorite movies, the best music for a long drive, politics, least favorite movies. The backdrop of the San Francisco Bay mellows the mood, with the waves chopping and seagulls wailing in the far distance, the moonlight shining bright against the water. You both down your drinks within twenty minutes and you eventually move on to the basket of bread rolls at the center of the table, paying no mind to the passage of time; it’s simply you and him by the Bay, with a romantic scene and some good liquor to keep you busy as the cooks work their magic.

“What made you want to spend your money on this?” you ask over a nibble of bread.

He tilts his head quizzically. “Dinner with you?”

Swallowing, you clarify, “the sugar thing.”

Apparently Luigi needs a moment to ponder that one. He rests his chin on his fists and looks up to the darkened sky as if to signify to you that he’s thinking. 

“Sometimes I get in my head about not doing something more productive with my money,” he says. “There isn’t enough for people who need more. The best I can do is pitch in when the opportunity presents itself.”

“So…” You chew another piece of buttery bread roll. “It’s like charity.”

He grimaces. “That just makes it sound twisted.”

“I’m fucking with you,” you say, smiling.

You feel his foot nudge yours under the table.

“It’s rude to fuck with your date,” he quips, smiling bashfully.

“Is it?” you retort. “What are our plans for tonight, then?”

With that he leans forward, extends one of those long arms across the table and grabs your chin, gentle but firm. Looks into your eyes. 

“Don’t make me hard at dinner,” he murmurs lowly. “That’s rude.”

Wow. Wow. This man is truly the peak of duplexity.

As Luigi settles back into his chair, leaving you blushing and achy between your thighs, the host and his magnificent mustache return with your food.

And oh, man. Luigi told you that Ive’s is a family owned restaurant, one that truly values its customers—and the mouth-watering smell only serves to prove that. Rickety elevator and somewhat hidden location be damned; Ive’s is a fucking Ritz-Carlton compared to what any fine dining establishment could ever provide. The portions are hearty and, with how long they took to prepare, your chefs of the night have clearly gone out of their way to make the best possible dish for you and your date. You feel like Gordon Ramsey with your mental commentary: the grilled cheese is stunning, with sharp cheddar and fuckin’ muenster—the most underrated cheese, in your book—stacked between crispy, pillowy artisan bread, toasted to perfection. And dunked in the tomato soup? A glorious pair. You even taste hints of cream and basil among the natural sweetness. It’s rich, flavorful, and, most importantly, delicious. 

Halfway through your Caesar salad, Luigi poses a question for you:

“What about you?”

You pause, mull over it through a bite of lettuce and croutons. “What about me?”

“What brought you here? With me?” he elaborates.

Desperation? Envy? Loneliness? It could be all three, if you’re being completely honest with yourself. The truest answer, though, is quite simple:

“I didn’t have much growing up,” you start. “I’ve always been hand-in-hand with the poverty line, pretty much since the day I was born, and it’s only through scholarships and awards I worked my ass off for that I’m able to go to school in the city.”

You remember: nights spent breaking yourself apart for a steady GPA and perfect attendance, typing away and rubbing at the tension held under your pulsing temples. College in America is a bit like gambling—place your bet, and if you play your cards just right, it’s easy to get lucky. The problem is that some people are dealt a shit hand, and nobody is giving away their cards for free.

“I never got gifted with generational wealth or blessings from my bougie ancestors,” you continue, tossing your salad back-and-forth with your fork. “I never got the chance to do things I dreamed of doing as a girl. My parents struggled for as long as I can remember—and I guess, after a while, you get pretty tired of it. You start to want safer ground to land your feet on.”

Luigi nods, listening closely.

“I guess it just felt like the best option, the most doable,” you say. “I realized once I made it to college that I couldn’t take care of myself on my own. And I felt like, after all I’d done to even afford my tuition, I could really use not just the extra help, but…Everything else that comes with it. Stability. Comfort. You know?”

He smiles softly. “Everyone deserves nice things.”

A seagull whines in the distant Bay. The air smells like sea salt and sweet, sweet magnetism.

You twist the handle of your fork uncertainly. “Do you think I deserve it?”

“You deserve someone who wants to put in the work,” he answers, cupping his warm hands over yours.

“Have I found him?” you ask.

Leaning forward, he plants a kiss on the back of your hand. “I’d say so.”

Grinning, you suggest, “I think we should get the bill.”

Luigi raises a brow playfully. “No dessert?”

You shake your head. “I don’t need it. Not tonight.”

Cheyenne and her Lancer await outside of Ive’s, still carrying your bag in the backseat. When you and Luigi approach, you can hear My Chemical Romance blasting even through her rolled-up windows. She startles when she first sees the both of you, then settles and smiles shyly, tinkering with the volume dial for what must be the gazillionth time tonight.

“Hey, kids,” she greets as you file into her car. “How was dinner?”

“I really wish you wouldn’t make me feel like the troubled son of a middle-aged mother going through a divorce,” Luigi jokes with a sigh, buckling his seatbelt. He turns to you and winks.

Cheyenne whips around, eyes wide and brows furrowed. “Divorced? Middle-aged? Fuuuuuck you. We’re the same age, dick.”

“Physically,” Luigi says.

“If you didn’t have a lady with you I’d make you walk,” she barks, pulling back the gearshift. “You didn’t switch hotels on me, right?”

“Nope,” he answers, popping the p.

The hotel in question is just a few miles past Mission Bay, exactly a twelve minute drive from Ive’s. The Palace is an elegant, almost industrial building smashed between parking garages that, from the looks of the entrance, seems to be hiding a ravishing interior. Luigi opens your door for you and helps you out of the car, hand gently grasping yours.

He offers a two finger salute with his free hand, standing tall. “Thanks, Chey. I really appreciate it.”

Cheyenne mirrors him. “Don’t mention it. Nice meeting you,” she says, gesturing toward where you stand next to Luigi. 

You nod, smiling brightly and waving goodbye. “Thanks again!”

Luigi waits and watches to make sure that Cheyenne pulls off safely before he’s guiding you to the massive front doors of The Palace, past the lobby, through the high-ceiling hallways toward the elevator. It’s like something from a Wes Anderson film. When the fanciest you’ve seen is your local Hampton Inn, something like this is truly breathtaking. Your heels click against the marble of the floor as you walk with Luigi, stunned by each new chandelier you count on the ceiling. The two of you pass patrons sat in the common area, sipping from glasses of champagne or mugs of coffee and chatting amongst themselves—you imagine about fucking over the poor and hungry. What else do the horrifically rich discuss?

But god, they have taste. 

“This place is gorgeous,” you murmur to him as the two of you wait for the elevator to reach the ground floor. “Have you stayed here before?”

“Just once,” he says, still holding your hand. “You like it?”

“I do.”

He smirks. Squeezes your fingers lightly. “You haven’t even seen our room yet.”

And, much to your awe, he was right—it’s not just a room, it’s a suite. Luigi stands by and watches with subtle pride as you tour your surroundings: king bed, beautiful view of outside The Palace, separate lounge area with a variety of seating options, and a bathroom fit for a Victoria’s Secret model. There are even two white bathrobes hanging on the wall opposite the gigantic mirror. They gave you robes! You want to fall to your knees and cry with joy. You emerge from the bathroom and, to Luigi’s surprise, immediately tackle him in a hug, nearly tripping over your own feet.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” you chime, swaying him back-and-forth. “I’m so happy I could die.”

“Don’t die,” he chuckles, smoothing his hand over your lower back. “I’m happy you’re happy.”

You squeal with joy when he presses a sloppy kiss to your cheek and slowly lets you go.

“Oh,” he continues, reaching up to swipe something from the top of the dresser you’re stood next to. “And this is for you.”

Luigi hands you a plain white envelope, scrawled with your name. Cute. You can only imagine what must be inside. Carefully, you tear open the seal and pull out…

A Hallmark card. In curly font, the front reads, “If EVERYBODY had a NIECE as terrific as YOU, it wouldn’t be any BIG DEAL.” When you open it, the inside loudly remarks, “BUT THEY DON’T, SO IT IS! Hope your birthday is as terrific as YOU!”

The money is inside. Obviously.

You try not to shriek with laughter.

“I felt like it would be rude to just give you an envelope with money, but I didn’t really know what to do with the card…?” he interjects, as if he’s trying to defend himself.

“The card is a nice touch,” you agree, failing to bite back your smile. “Are we roleplaying or something?”

He cringes in anguish. “Jesus. I’m an uncle already. I don’t need to roleplay.”

As you giggle, your thumb brushes over the cash.

“You can count it, if you want,” he adds.

It feels a little callous, but you do, since he seems unbothered. There’s a $100 bill, then another, then another—ten in total. $1,000. In cash. All yours. And it’s real.

This is real. Really happening. Real money, real man, real room. Suite. Goddamn.

“Okay,” you breathe, nodding. The bills are spread out in your hands, a sight you’d only ever dreamed of before. “Okay.”

Carefully, you stuff the cash back into the card neatly, tucking it back inside of the envelope to put in your bag, which you leave next to Luigi’s by the dresser. 

“All good?” he asks.

You smirk coyly. “All good.”

“Do you mind if I kiss you now?”

You have to swallow your giggle—Luigi is almost polite to a fault, so much so that it feels silly to maintain it when he’s about to fuck you (and when he’s paying you for it, no less). So you decide to answer his question directly, physically, threading your fingers in his curls and bringing your lips to his, slow and smooth. He grunts in surprise but is quick to return the kiss; his hands caress your upper back, thumb toying at the zipper of your dress and then sliding lower, gripping your hips. The way his mouth moves against yours is leisurely but intentioned, deliberate, confident. He is certainly not new to this.

“Luigi,” you breathe against his lips, and you try to steal another kiss, but he pulls away.

He tuts, a little tsk tsk. “Is that what you call me?”

Oh. Oh. Right. He never laid his cards out on the table that clearly, but you suppose it makes sense for this to be part of your arrangement.

“Sorry, Daddy,” you murmur, face burning.

You’re certainly not mad about it. You could get used to this.

“That’s better,” Luigi whispers. “That’s much better.”

He kisses you again, harder this time. Now his hands are on your ass, alternating between groping you with greed and gliding back up to your hips; when his tongue grazes yours you let your mouth fall open for him, head lolling, and he brings up one hand to tangle his fingers in your hair and keep your lips connected to his. Having your hands in his curls after countless nights of fantasizing feels almost surreal—this whole situation just feels like the porno of your dreams playing out in front of you, right down to the exquisite location, the gorgeous man, and the events leading up to now. Having sex with other guys your age has never felt like this before.

When your calves hit the small sofa in front of the bed you decide to sit down, pulling Luigi closer to you by his paisley tie so as to not lose his kisses. He leans over you, big hands sliding up your thighs, past the hem of your dress, feeling the warmth of the flesh on your hips beneath his palms—you realize then that there are quite a few pillows in your way, and so you push them off. Luigi huffs a laugh.

His mouth moves down, over your throat, mesmerizing you effortlessly. And his hands move up, slowly but surely, tracing the outline of your body in your dress, admiring the way the green satin hugs your curves; this particular shade makes your skin tone shine, he thinks.

“I do really love this dress,” he says into your cleavage, pressing absentminded kisses here and there. “Looks so pretty on you.”

Further he goes. Cupping your breasts, feeling around. Gliding north, to your back. A palm drifts up. Fingers dance over your zipper.

“Can I take it off?” he asks, soft against your ear.

You nod. His face sinks in disapproval.

Seizing your chin between his thumb and fingers, he chides, “answer me when I ask you a question.”

“Yes, yes,” you insist. “Yes, Daddy, I’m sorry.”

Luigi grins. “That’s okay, sweet girl,” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

His lithe fingers begin to work your zipper down, down, down, the sound of it echoing in your ears, until you can feel silver resting against your coccyx. Then he helps you slip each strap off of your shoulders, peeling the dress down your torso and your hips, and you laugh lightly when he guides you backward to tug it down your legs. With your heels still on the movement is a bit clunky, but Luigi pays the hiccups no mind. Cheyenne was quite serious about him being driven.

You’re wearing a plain pink set—not very extravagant, but still the most elegant you own. There are frilly edges and a little bow on the front of the panties, girlish and angelic details. You hope he won’t be disappointed in your lack of fancy lingerie. Perhaps some of the cash he’s paid you could go towards something nicer, more intricate—an investment for him, a treat for you.

His hands scan over your body, admiring, beholding.

“What a pretty sight,” he purrs, face flaunting a Cheshire Cat-esque smile. “Did you wear this just for me?”

You shrug, grinning, flushing madly. “It’s the best I’ve got.”

“It’s perfect,” Luigi says. “Absolutely perfect. You look radiant.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” you mutter.

And then he steps back, gets onto his feet, hands moving upward. 

“Why don’t you take that off for me?” he asks. Then there’s that killer smile. “Not that I don’t love it on you. Just makes my job a bit easier.”

You grin.

As he starts to undo his tie you reach behind yourself to open the clasp of your bra, heart pounding as your chest is slowly revealed to him. Luigi is learning that you follow orders well. You move with leisure so as to even the playing field; by the time he’s wearing only his slacks, belt, and black crew socks, you’re working your panties down your thighs, arching your curves every which way to put on a show for him. You sigh at the sound of metal clinking, fabric shuffling.

When your hands reach for the strap of your left heel, he stops you:

“Leave those on,” Luigi commands.

You smirk, enlightened. “You got a thing for girls in high heels?”

“I’ve got a thing for you, pretty lady.”

As he pulls his trousers down to reveal tight black briefs and an impressive imprint he steps closer. You look up toward him expectantly, batting your eyelashes.

“You know what to do, don’t you?” he coos, stroking your hair.

Normally you’re not the biggest fan of this—but you feel graced by god himself to have been given this specific opportunity. So you peel down the edges of his boxers until his cock is springing free, balls heavy and tip leaking, and Luigi blesses you with a delicious groan when you wrap a hand around his shaft and begin to pump him in your tight fist. You almost need both your hands just to stroke him off. It’s ridiculous. He sucks in a breath above you, sharp and rushed, eyes fluttering shut and lips pressed together.

And then you stick out your tongue and lick a slow stripe all the way up the length of his cock, ending with a pronunciated gesture against his frenulum. Luigi balls your hair into a fist; the defined muscles of his stomach are pulled taut, and you glide a hand up through the thick thatch of hair on his pelvis, up further, over his faint happy trail, and when you feel his belly flexing under your palm you moan against him. Your mouth comes to wrap around the first few inches of him, lips sucked in and cheeks hollowed. Two big, warm hands cup your face.

“My god, you’re beautiful,” Luigi breathes. His thumb traces the outline of your cheekbone, tucking stray hair behind your ear. “Has anyone ever told you how good you look with your mouth full?”

You moan around his cock, pull off of him momentarily to answer: “Only you.”

“Could be a pornstar with that fuckin’ body,” he groans—his hands apply the slightest pressure to your head as you take him again. “Fuck, you’d have ‘em lined up for miles, just waiting for a chance.”

His dick begins to press into your throat and you accept him happily. As you set the pace, bobbing your head up and down, Luigi angles his hips forward, and you subdue your gag reflex by digging your fingernails into his thighs.

He compresses his lips again, draws in a deep breath when you take him to the hilt. “But you’re smarter than that, aren’t you?”

The feminist in you wants to lecture him about the complexities of women in sex work, but you figure that’d be a bit of a turn off. And besides, when you tongue at his balls with his cock still lodged down your throat he makes a heavenly sound, something straight out of your wet dreams, something deep and rocky but still so vulnerable. You love it. You need more of that yesterday.

Luigi swears under his breath as you pull off of him, switching to licking around the fat head of his cock and stroking the length untouched by your tongue. The pre beading at his slit tastes sweet, sort of pungent, but not at all unpleasant—you assume you’ve got his diet to thank for that. He groans and shivers and goosebumps rise on his tan skin, prickling underneath your palms. You wrap your lips around the tip of his length, forming a tight suction—as you suck him your hand continues a steady back-and-forth over his dick, your spit creating an effortless glide. 

And then you start twisting, as gently as possible, and every bone in his body melts inside of him.

“Oh, fuck,” he grunts, head thrown back. You can see sweat glistening on the column of his throat. “That’s a good girl. That’s a good fucking girl.”

You try to replicate the same feeling on his cockhead with your hand as you move to his balls, sucking each into your mouth, swirling your tongue, all while your beaming eyes stare up at him.

“Such a princess,” he murmurs. “Who taught you how to suck dick like this?”

You flash him a toothy grin. “You jealous?”

He moans loud when you guide your flat, wet tongue over his tip again, paying extra attention to the underside of his cock, the thin vein stretching down the length of it. Your fist continues its ministrations on his shaft all the while; stroking, twisting, squeezing, much to the delight of Luigi. As you lick your mouth moves lower, taking inch by inch, tongue still swirling to the best of your abilities—and even when it fails to circle his girth you sweep it side-to-side against his dick, your jaw slowly accepting the intrusion. 

With his cock in your throat again you repeat the swaying of your head, bobbing slowly at first and picking up the pace as his sounds intensify. You hope to god that the walls of The Palace aren’t remarkably thin—the wet noises of your mouth moving are ringing loud in your ears, only bested by Luigi’s groans and whines above you. His hips start to meet your movements, thrusting up just slightly, and when you accidentally gag on his dick he moans loud. He fists your hair and growls, your nose buried in his bush, coconut and sandalwood filling your senses. 

“Oh, Christ, yes,” he mumbles. “All of it, baby, take all of it…”

You drag your lips up his length and bring your hand back to work, tugging and twisting like before as your mouth works his cockhead. Only for a moment, though, because Luigi quickly guides you further down, until his heavy dick is fully seated on your tongue, probing your throat again. Your hand finds his balls instead, squeezing softly—you can feel them drawing up in your palm.

He sighs deeply, exhilarated. “Gonna make Daddy come in this pretty little mouth, sweetheart.”

You’ve never tasted a vegetarian’s sperm before. There’s a first time for everything, truly.

With a few more pumps of your head and some added action with your tongue Luigi is gasping and coming in your mouth, hips bucking with fervor. You don’t plan on swallowing, initially, but he tastes quite nice compared to other guys you’ve had—so before you pull off of him you gulp him down without much thought, making a show of opening your mouth to display its relative emptiness. 

Luigi leans down slightly to kiss you. Unexpected, considering the circumstances—re: his jizz in your mouth about five seconds ago—but you’re not complaining. And you realize then that Luigi was hiding something under his suit: he’s wearing the chain, the very same one you’ve been daydreaming about seeing against his perfect olive skin again. Somehow you hadn’t noticed it earlier. You can’t help but tug on it as his mouth moves with yours.

“How’d you know I love this?” you ask against his lips, smiling.

He pecks the corner of your mouth. Shrugs. “You were grabbing at it the first time I kissed you. You’re not very subtle.”

You run your finger along the rough edges of the necklace as you lick inside his mouth; but eventually it becomes difficult to resist his gorgeous curls, so your hands trail, scratching at his scalp and tugging the hairs at the nape of his neck.

Then he kneels. You offer a curious whine.

“It would be rude of me to not return the favor, princess,” Luigi says, spreading your thighs apart and guiding your legs over his broad shoulders.

Wow. 

Long fingers brush against your cunt. He’s spreading something else, too, exploring and relishing in how reactive you are to his touch. 

“Oh, my,” he murmurs. “You’re so wet. Were you having fun, baby?”

The whine that leaves you is apalling. “Yes, Daddy.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” He plants a kiss to the back of your knee, glides further, down your thigh. “You’re such a gift. I’m a lucky, lucky man.”

Two of his fingers part your lips so that all of you is exposed to him. He begins with one flat lick from hole to clit, grinding the tip of his tongue against your fluttering cunt and sweeping it side-to-side. You cry out. It’s been a long time since you found a guy this enthusiastic about eating pussy, and you’re starting to feel immensely glad that Luigi isn’t showcasing himself online—any girl could have this, and because of one chance night, you are the one that gets to indulge in his greedy mouth. Before the insecurity can come flooding back to you he sucks your clit between his lips, slowly pulling away with a resounding pop.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re really spoiling me, sweetheart.”

You’re spoiling him? Yeah. Because that makes sense.

Nothing needs to make sense, though; not when he licks up the length of your pussy again, steadying your body by wrapping his other hand around your thigh, and good god, the span of his fingers nearly covers the entire width. You could probably come just from looking at that. First his tongue circles the hood of your clit, just barely avoiding where you want him the most, and then he moves to teasing you with the pointed tip of it, flicking back and forth. It’s heaven. You’ve never had a man pay this kind of attention to your satisfaction, and you love that Luigi seems to be quite avid about your enjoyment of his efforts—every so often he’ll groan with hunger into your cunt, squeezing your supple thighs.

“Oh—” you whine, hips stuttering. “Oh, fuck, Luigi…”

And then he stops. You make a sound that can only be described as a shrill grunt, raising your head to peek at him between your legs. Luigi’s brows are set straight, eyes unamused.

Oh. Right.

“Daddy,” you plead. “I’m sorry. Please don’t stop.”

His wicked smile returns, then, and he gives your thigh a careful smack. “Atta girl.”

That perfect tongue returns, sliding up through your slick and lingering at your hole, pressing in just slightly. Your cunt is open entirely to him and he can reach every crevice of you, swirling and parting your folds, curling up to collect your arousal as it seeps from you. You’re starting to think that Luigi may not even have to pay you in cash from now on—he can simply compensate with this eager mouth of his. For a moment he takes your clit between his lips and sucks hard again, creating a pulsing sensation with the suction of his mouth that has your thighs trembling and forces sounds from you that would frankly terrify you in any other context.

When he pulls away, he murmurs, “you have the most perfect pussy, baby. Could taste you all day.”

Then he’s diving back in, hardly giving you any room to breathe—it’s just a never ending barrage of all the magic that his mouth can do, his dirty talk and the skillful work of his tongue. This time around he tenses that talented appendage and slots it inside of you, withdraws, and licks up the length of your slit, then repeats the gesture a second time, and then a third—and by the fourth time the tips of his fingers are teasing your entrance, silently asking for permission to explore.

“Please,” you whine, bucking your hips.

So Luigi licks up and collects your clit in his mouth, sucking as he eases his middle finger into your cunt. He hardly gives you time to adjust before he’s curling it, working that spongy spot inside of you with precision, and you cry out, squirming under his intensive ministrations. All the while his lips squeeze your firm clit, almost massaging it, his tongue making a special appearance every so often to stroke the sides of you.

“Fuck,” you sob. “More, please, more.”

He slides a second finger inside of you. Then a third. What really makes it special is the fact that the stretch of his fingers can’t possibly compare to his dick.

By now the build-up of your orgasm has begun to peak, coiling like hot wires in your stomach; you’re squirming ceaselessly on the couch, jittering all over, your fingers buried in Luigi’s thick curls as his fingers work inside of you. His other hand snakes around your thighs and presses against your abdomen, pinning you down so as to minimize your movements. Your thighs shoot up and frame his head, locking him in.

“I’m coming,” you warn, “I’m gonna come.”

Momentarily his mouth leaves your pussy to groan, “you’re doing so good, princess. Show Daddy how you come for him.”

And when his lips return to your clit, a deep hum vibrating in his throat and through your body, you’re coming hard on his face, gripping his hair roughly and rocking your hips against his mouth. Luigi returns your satisfaction tenfold; he moans and smiles against your cunt as he guides you through your climax, whispering fluff to you that you don’t quite comprehend through the rush.

“Such a good girl, sweetheart,” he’s saying when you come to, the ceiling almost spinning before your eyes. 

You lean up on your elbows and offer a dazed grin. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, meeting your lips in a deep kiss. “It’s a treasure to get my mouth on you, sweet girl. I’ve been dreaming of it.”

His tongue tastes like your cunt. You moan into his mouth as you suck on it, fisting his tight curls in your hand. 

“Would you mind terribly if I fucked you now?” Luigi asks when he pulls away, still smiling sweetly.

You kiss him again. “I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

At that he stands to retrieve a condom from his wallet, dick swinging shamelessly as he moves. Christ. You’re no better than a man.

He catches you staring, notices your bottom lip trapped between your teeth. “Like what you see?”

Flushing, you giggle. “I’m sorry. It’s kinda hard not to.”

Tearing open the packet, he orders with a smile: “Turn around and bend over on the bed.”

You’re obeying before the words are even out of his mouth. You sink your knees into the soft cushion of the sofa as you lean down onto the bed in front of you, back arched. Your soft ass and your sticky pussy are in perfect view for him, and he whistles lowly as you feel him approaching from behind.

“Look at that,” he remarks, spreading you with the same hands that can solve a Rubik’s cube in under a minute. “Fucking dripping wet. And all for me.”

He drags a fingertip through your slick, which is soon replaced by the head of his cock, swiping back-and-forth against your clit. You shudder at the smooth motion of it, at the way his hands knead your asscheeks.

“So gorgeous,” Luigi says as he presses inside of you.

The stretch knocks all the wind out of your lungs, and the sound you make is intense, pained, absolutely obscene. By the time he’s sheathed every inch in your cunt you’re gripping the bedsheets and squealing, praying to no one in particular that the rooms opposite each side of yours are unoccupied.

“There we go,” he murmurs, stroking your lower back. “Let it all out, sweetheart. How does that feel?”

“It—” You cut yourself off with a groan. “It’s so big.”

“Shh,” he whispers—his hand is now combing through your hair. “I know, baby, I know. Look at you, taking it so well.”

You don’t even know how to breathe again when he pulls his hips back and slowly presses inside of you once more. And then once more. And when Luigi starts to find his rhythm all you can do is blink away your tears and fall face-forward into the bed, your pathetic sounds muffled by the sheets, and he seems to return your enthusiasm—he groans, head thrown back and eyes lidded.

“Fuck, that’s perfect,” he praises. “You can handle it, can’t you, princess?”

Weakly, you nod and offer a whimper. His hand comes down hard on your ass.

“What did I tell you about answering me?” Luigi spits, voice gruff.

“Yes, Daddy, yes,” you whine, leaning back up on your elbows. “I can take it, I can.”

He squeezes your rear. “Arch your back for me.”

So you do, easily, and he’s quick to pick up the pace, slamming into you with no regard for anything that isn’t his cock pistoning inside of your warm, slick pussy. The man is relentless, tugging at your hair and panting beautifully; he’s pounding so deep that you swear you can feel the pressure of it in your chest, and you’re so wet that you’re almost worried you’ll leave behind a mess so horrific the janitors of The Palace will need therapeutic compensation for their shift tonight. 

“Oh, fuck,” you cry out, “oh, fuck…”

It’s all too much and yet you can’t not want more. You’re working your hips back-and-forth in time with his thrusts, the soft globes of your round ass meeting his pelvis with a noise that is unbearably obvious. The stretch of his cock is unforgiving. Merciless.

With a fistful of your hair, Luigi grunts, “that’s it, baby, there you go. Fuck me back.”

But you’re breaking out a sweat, lip tucked between your teeth. “I can’t—oh, fuck, please…”

“Shh,” he murmurs, tightening his grip on you. “Just rub that little clit and let me do all the work, okay?”

Your fingers swiftly find the slicked bundle of nerves between your thighs and stroke in circles, moving furiously. He’s got both hands planted firmly on your hips, thighs and arms tensing as he hunches over you, fucking into you like a madman, his dick brushing into every sweet spot deep inside of you. If you focus hard enough you can feel his silver chain swinging over your back.

Luigi makes a noise that sounds strangled and involuntary.

“Baby,” he says, “fuck, you’re tight. ‘M not gonna last much longer.”

You nod desperately, hand moving to meet his where it’s clasped over your hip. The fingers of your free hand speed up, slathering your arousal over your clit as Luigi slap-slap-slaps his hips into yours.

He wasn’t lying. It only takes a few more minutes of his vicious pounding for the both of you to come undone; you’re up first, jittering and falling flat into the bed as your toes curl and your cunt grips him like you never want to let go, and that’s all Luigi needs to meet you halfway, thrusts stuttering and slowing to a stop as you milk him. His chest is heaving and his Adam’s apple bobs as he catches his breath, his hand gently caressing your back.

“God,” he mutters as he pulls out of you. “You’re fuckin’ unbelievable.”

You’re sat up in bed, the sheets splayed over your naked body as the shower runs in the distance. By now it’s past midnight, the city only lit up by street lights and the brights of passing cars. As you watch the world pass by through the windows of your suite, you fork through a plate of chocolate mousse cake, specially made by The Palace’s chefs. The bite that fills your mouth is heavenly; it’s rich and fluffy, the icing creamy and the texture smooth. Something sweet to make up for your lack of dessert this evening.

The water turns off. Halfway through your slice of cake fresh from room service, Luigi emerges from the shower, curls wet and skin sheen with warm droplets as he tucks in the towel wrapped snugly around his waist. He smiles at you when you spot him.

“What do you think?” he asks.

You blink. “About my cake?”

He chuckles. “About tonight.”

Now you understand: he wants feedback. Wants to live up to his promises. 

“I’m an earnest lover.” 

Setting your cake and fork on the nightstand, you approach him—and he sighs happily when you wrap your arms around him and pull him in for a hug, your bare breasts pressed flush to his pecs.

Into his ear, you whisper: “I think you’re the very best Daddy I could ever ask for.”

Luigi smiles devilishly.

[asteroshearts]

Postpartum Confinement

[Xavier (Shen Xinghui 沈星回 ) + Caleb (Xia Yizhou 夏以晝)]

In Chinese culture, mothers stay and rest for a month or more after giving birth to properly recover (zuo yue zi).

Warnings: Yandere themes for Caleb's

Zayne and Sylus

Xavier (Shen Xinghui 沈星回 )

The Yue Sao (postpartum care nanny) and her little assistant, Xavier.

You and Xavier decided to hire a Yue Sao recommended by one of your older coworkers at the Hunters Association, and now Xavier could always be seen shyly shuffling behind her around the house, ready to get you anything and everything you needed at a moment's notice.

Your coworker told you that she heard many horror stories about Yue Sao or in-laws being opinionated or strict, but she told you that this woman always asked her what she wanted first.

It was true, this woman was an angel to you, so patient, asking for your opinions, making jokes with you, saying things like, "Oh, you don't want to? That's fine!"

But with Xavier...she was Gordon Ramsay, and he was her sous chef.

No more midday napping for him.

While you rested or nursed the baby, you could always see him in the background mopping, vacuuming, cleaning the kitchen, the bathroom, up and down the entire home.

Whenever his path would cross yours on his crusade, he'd always shoot such sad bunny eyes at you two... he wanted to nap with his baby too....

But the Yue Sao said you already did the brunt of the work, creating the baby for nine months, pushing them out, and experiencing the most pain you had ever felt in your life, what Xavier had to deal with was a molehill compared to your mountain.

But when she tried to teach him how to make you a postpartum soup...

["Um..." he answered awkwardly, "I don't think I should."

"Xinghui!" she scolded, and if he had bunny ears, you could imagine them drooping by now. He had normally been so above and beyond for you, so what changed? "What will happen when I'm no longer around? Who will make your wife soup?"

Those bunny ears seemed to sag even more.

"Are you going to make the mother of your child get up and make her own soup?"]

One hour later, you and your baby woke up with a jump when a loud BOOM came from your kitchen.

Your Yue Sao later apologized and swore to never let him cook again.

She later recommended some places you could order delivery from for meals specifically for postpartum women.

For some reason...why do I feel like he'd be really good at the massages meant to help you with lactation?

When the nanny tried to teach you the massage, you easily called Xavier over to learn too, as you trusted him.

He wouldn't find it awkward or weird, and would take up her lessons with seriousness.

He'd be the perfect mix of gentle and nimble, but he'd stare at your face as he'd do it, catching any microexpressions for any ounce of discomfort or pain. If the pressure was too much, he'd slow down or switch techniques immediately.

Being a nanny, your Yue Sao had seen far too many lazy, distant, or ungrateful fathers, so she was so glad to meet Xavier, who waited on you hand and foot.

As she mentioned that to him, a small smile appeared on his lips.

He didn't mind. As a knight, he lived devoted.

Caleb (Xia Yizhou 夏以晝)

A tradition where you aren't supposed to go outside, not meet with anyone else, and where all attention was on you and the ultimate proof of your love, and that you would never leave him, your child? Oh, he's over the moon.

Why should the zuo yue zi only be a month? He's telling you to make it three—five, in fact, you could stay like this forever.

Despite this, however, he doesn't trust anyone to properly take care of you and your baby. Not a random postpartum nanny, not any of the care centers, and you two had no in-laws.

He might not trust anyone, but that doesn't mean he would dare deprive you of any resource or help.

He puts it on himself to fill in the empty spaces and throws himself into learning about postpartum care, taking classes while you were still pregnant and constantly researching.

Some may say it takes a village to raise a child, but Caleb is all you need, hm?

Since it's just him doing all of the work, he wants to make sure that no stone is unturned, and falls deeply into believing postpartum superstitions and traditional medicine.

Feeds you bitter herbal stews and constantly talks about keeping the "heat" in your body.

You have to debate and argue with him that nothing will happen if you turn on the AC for just a bit in the summer, and can he please stop feeding you pork trotters!?

He's a bit sad too, though. It's just as hard for you as it is for him. Postpartum women aren't supposed to eat overly salty, oily foods, and he loves making you his famous braised chicken.

Washes your hair for you, cooks you every meal, and we all know that he's a pro at doing your laundry 😏, so the second the baby throws/spits up on you, he's there in a second with a fresh shirt and wiping you down.

It may seem excessive, but he'll say in his sweet voice that keeping clean is good for your mental health and how you view yourself.

But he'll love you no matter what. Even if you smell like baby vomit.

He takes over the night shift completely with your baby without you knowing, so much so that, for a while, you believed that your baby just didn't wake up in the middle of the night like other kids.

You had full eight-plus hours of sleep for months, and you were none the wiser that Caleb would wake up at the slightest hint of a whimper or cry from the crib beside your bed, feed the baby, rock them, and change diapers, all while you slept peacefully.

You didn't catch on until one of your calls with Jenna, she told you that it was improbable that your baby didn't wake up at all during the night, and perhaps one day, you should pretend to sleep to catch the act.

So that's why he asked you to pump so much.

Some women may beg for at least a 50/50 relationship with the father of their children, but for Caleb, 50/50 isn't enough. If he weren't human, and if he were made of machine and metal, he'd want to be built just for this. He'd make it so that you wouldn't have to lift a single finger, and he'd take care of everything.

[weaselle]

i just want to add that community and locality can often be the best solution if you can manage it.

my brother's wife started keeping chickens and we are getting eggs from her.

My sister and i have begun looking into going in together on buying a whole cow from a local school ag program.

The cows are sold to slaughter anyway, and there are many bonuses to doing this

For one thing, the money goes back into the education system. For another thing you can get details about how the cow is raised, what it was fed, what hormones or medicines were administered etc etc. The AG program people will probably be excited to tell you every detail.

Sourcing our meat from our local school ag programs means we would not be participating in the cattle industry deforestation of the Amazon and similar practices, and we would no longer be getting our meat shipped half way around the globe using fossil fuels.

the cow itself is only part of the cost, you have to pay separate for someone to butcher it and that can be hundreds of dollars, but it does mean you get to personally go look for a butcher who employs safe practices and runs a clean facility, instead of blindly trusting wherever the grocery store is currently getting their beef.

A whole cow plus the butchering is going to cost us like $2.5k, but if my brother's family and my sister's family and i all split it, it's reasonable and gets us like 500lbs of beef, which will go into three freezers (one at each household). The breakdown on price means that we get every part of the cow for the same price per pound as average hamburger meat (that means our steaks etc are much cheaper than at the store).

If every one of us for those three households eats a quarter pound of beef every single day of the year, that beef will last us almost a whole year - but since we don't eat beef every day, it will probably last us more like a year and a half or even two years. That means we will be definitely be spending less per year on beef than we do currently. If we find a butcher we trust enough for the beef and my sister in law starts keeping chickens for meat as well as eggs, our three households will be spending less money and have much more control over our food quality.

And they can't grow stuff at their houses (chickens take up a surprisingly small amount of space - plus they are pretty cheap to keep too!) but where i live right now we have a decent sized yard and we're on a well (so no water bill) and we grow lemons, oranges, plums, kiwis, guavas, grapes, cherries, strawberries, almonds, walnuts, peaches, apples, and persimmons. Plus the herb garden and we're thinking about getting the vegetable garden going again too. It's not enough to supply all of our fruits and veggies of course, but, it is enough to provide, for example all the lemons our three households need with enough left over to trade to our neighbors for some tomatoes and squash.

And, after all, if you directly control, say, about 50% of your produce this way, then you've lowered your chances of being poisoned by the anti-food-safety bullshit by quite a bit

Anyway, i know not everyone can access these exact solutions, but the local AG program thing might be doable for a lot of people out there, and there are other solutions i haven't thought of yet. Get with your friends or extended family about it and see what you can accomplish together.

My husband and I were discussing how the first felon is defending the FDA and how the quality control of our food is gonna basically disappear and I proceeded to have so much anxiety about it that I didn't sleep last night. How do we prepare for this? Is there a way to make food safe at home? How can we avoid getting poisoned from the grocery store? Sorry for bringing this anxiety to your inbox but I'm exhausted and scared and I'm hoping you've come up with food safety tips what with your general food complications.

I’m afraid I don’t have a solution for something of this scale and am just as equally terrified, but that said:

Check your local state regulations. Some states actually have strict testing that the FDA when it comes to certain things like milk. See if they are listing any recalls.

Stop eating things raw for the foreseeable future. Wash and cook everything thoroughly, even if the bag claims it’s pre-washed, wash it again. Cooking will also help eliminate any remaining pathogens. It means no more salads for a while but that’s okay.

For things like fruit, try to go with things that have an outer skin that can be taken off. If it requires you to cut into it with a knife, give the outer skin a scrub and rinse to reduce the chances of your knife being contaminated by anything like e-coli and then contaminating the insides by cutting it up.

For fruit that can’t be peeled, make sure to inspect and wash them thoroughly. If you are immunocompromised like me, consider cooking it down into a jam or pie filling to reduce further risk. Not as fun as eating it fresh for some people, but it’s a valid way of still getting the flavor and nutrients.

For things like milk, only drink pasteurized and ultra pasteurized. Try to get pasteurized eggs if you can too.

If you don’t have a meat thermometer, now is the time to get one. Make sore everything is cooked to its required internal temperature. For poultry, the recommended temperature is 165°F (74°C), while for beef and pork, the recommended temperature is 145°F (63°C) with a 3-minute rest time. Ground meats should be cooked to 160°F (71°C). Eggs should be cooked until the yolk is set. No more runny egg yolks for a bit until we get a competent source of information back about bird flu.

For things like flour, try to go for reputable brands that have their own independent testing facilities for things like gluten. They also usually test for other things and clean their facilities thoroughly. My go to is King Arthur atm.

Also, stop eating raw cookie dough if you’re not going to toast the flour in the oven first. That’s how a lot of people get sick, not necessarily from the raw egg, though stop eating raw egg right now if you do. Again, bird flu. [Addendum] I learned the flour trick in a job I used to work, but apparently, the pre-defunded FDA didn't think toasting the flour made it safe, so maybe just don't eat raw cookie dough. And I know someone's going to be a cunt in the notes like "I don't care I do what I want" good for you, hope saying that made you feel better.]

This is a dwindling possibility with the tariffs but try to buy food imported from other countries that still have food quality control. I get my masa harina from a small company that imports directly from Colombia. They can’t afford the gluten free label required to be classified as such in the USA, but considering Cheerios in the USA can afford to buy that label and the celiac foundation certification logo and still routinely sells contaminated produce due to not using gluten free oats and a mechanical sorting system that can’t be certified gluten free (1) (2) (3), I’m more inclined to go with other countries labeling right now.

With clean water under threat, use a filter for your drinking water. We currently use the ones by Life Straw. They don’t fit into your faucet but the LS filters are better than most of the ones that can be attached that way and the housing of the jugs and countertop filters are easy to clean. Make sure you do so once a week and change the filters as directed.

Most of this is just basic food hygiene stuff combined with what it’s like to be immunocompromised, but it’s always worth repeating in case someone didn’t know, but especially worth repeating right now with all our rules and regulating bodies going out the window 😞

[hhughes]

hiya, i have no idea if you do requests but i have a very brief and simple idea, which you can do your own take on - overly sensitive reader is dating oscar piastri & people are bothering her online but she doesn't tell oscar, instead she hides it and acts like she's fine but one night, she's in bed with him but then moves out to the living room & she's reading people's posts and messages about her not deserving him and she just sobs her eyes out, very quietly, thinking he's asleep - but he's not and he hears her, he walks out to the sight of her crying,,, then you can do whatever you want! just basically a hurt/comfort fic idea :) thank you!

𝒏ote , hi nonnie! thank you so much for requesting this. im convinced he is the sweetest sweetest bf and this thought goes so well with him . . .

fem!reader x oscar piastri. established relationship. hurt -> comfort. fluff. insecure!reader. mean online comments.

you knew better.

you knew better than to look. you knew better than to click on the notifications, the comments, the threads where strangers, bold and faceless, tore you apart like it cost them nothing.

you know it’s not true. these people don’t you. they don’t really know oscar. they don’t know anything about your relationship. and you knew better than to give them so much power over you, but you did it anyway.

it felt like a constant in your night routine at this point. after the steady rise and fall of oscar’s chest tells you he’s surrendered to sleep, you slip quietly from the bed.

you try to convince yourself you’re just stretching your legs, grabbing some water, anything to justify the gnawing pull toward your phone, toward the weight you tuck away during the day but can’t seem to ignore when it’s dark and that inner voice manages to convince you to look.

you curl up on the couch, wrapped in one of his hoodies that still smells faintly like him, like the smell of your safe space can wrap around you and stop the words from piercing as deep as they always do.

“he could have anyone and he settles for that?”

“you can’t convince me she’s there for anything but the money”

“he could do way better”

“why do the best guys always tend to settle for the most basic, gold digging girls”

one after another they appear on the screen. picking apart your body, your intelligence, your motives.

you don’t even realize you’re crying until the drops fall on the screen. little blots of water smearing and obstructing the words that had already twisted like knives in your chest.

you know you should turn it off. climb into bed and let oscar cuddle away all the insecurities gnawing at your chest. but it feels like you’re stuck. like if you just read one more comment, maybe you’ll find one that makes it all make sense, one that explains why you feel like you’ll never be enough for him.

you flinch when a familiar hand gently closes over yours, steady and warm, taking the phone from you. you hadn’t even heard him come in.

you don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe as he scrolls through the comments himself, brow furrowing more and more the further he goes.

after a few minutes he locks the phone and discards it on the table, settling next to you and pulling you onto his lap.

“you know none of it is true right?” he mumbles against your head, pressing a kiss to your temple and you sniffle

“osc—” you go to argue but he interrupts

“no” he says, the word so blunt and direct it catches you so off guard for a second that you pull your head away from his chest to look at him

“i’m not gonna sit here and listen to you justify what they’re saying. they don’t know you. they don’t know me. and they sure as shit don’t know anything about our relationship” he says, shaking his head slightly at the utter ridiculousness of what he just read.

“but it’s true. i’m not perfect and you could do so much bet—“ you mumble but he interrupts you again before you get the chance to finish, this time with his lips on yours, kissing you until those thoughts float away and the only thing you can focus on is the way his hand is running through your hair

“you’re perfect with me, to me, and for me. hell perfect doesn’t even begin to describe you baby. you’re everything. you’re all I want. the only way these people have any power over you is if you actually believe there’s some truth to what they’re saying. do you?” oscar asks, holding your jaw so you can’t look away from him.

“are you only with me for the money? the attention?” oscar asks, raising his eyebrows dramatically in a way that makes you wanna laugh and by the slight tilt in his lips, he knows.

“no” you say softly and he gasps in mock surprise

“really? I for sure thought you were” he teases and laughs when you hit him playfully.

“i’m just kidding baby. you hate attention even more than I do and you practically tackle me every time I try to pay for anything. and if you think for even one second that I don’t believe you’re the sexiest woman in the world, you come tell me and I’ll prove you wrong, yeah?” he says, pressing kiss after kiss against your temple, your cheek, your nose, your jaw, your lips. every inch he can reach.

“I love you” you say softly, hoping your gratitude for him shines through in your tone.

“I love you the most,” he murmurs back, no hesitation, no doubt. just the pure, simple truth.

his hands gently frame your face, thumbs brushing away the last of your tears with a tenderness that makes your chest ache all over again, but in a different way this time. a softer way.

“let’s go to bed,” he says, voice thick with exhaustion and affection as he picks you up and carries you to the bedroom, leaving your phone and all the negativity on it right there on the table.

[womanofwords]

Frozen Heart (Part 7)

TW: hospitals, descriptions of injuries.

Bruce and Damian arrived next. Bruce looked horrified at the sight of you, and Damian's eyes looked watery. "Y/N," he said softly, reaching for you. "I'm here now. There, there."

"Why?" you asked.

"Because you have been hurt, and we will get vengeance on your behalf," Damian said. "We won't let this go unpunished."

You stared at the linoleum hospital floor near their shoes. "Really? Why, exactly?"

"Because you're a member of my family, and we want to take care of you," Bruce said.

"You are a Wayne, and Waynes protect and defend one another," Damian said.

You took a deep, painful breath. "I didn't know I was a Wayne. I always thought I was a cockroach, or perhaps a rat."

The word rat bit Damian hard, sinking small, sharp teeth into his psyche. Those were his words. He'd called you those things, smirking at the horrified and heartbroken look on your face. But now it hurt him. His only blood sibling didn't feel like part of the family, and it was because of him.

Bruce's heart was also breaking. His little one had no idea that they were loved. How long had they been harbouring these feelings? What did you call him in your head? Was it Bruce? He prayed that you didn't internally call him Bruce, or worse, Mr Wayne.

And how could he have not disciplined Damian earlier? His children were bullying each other. You weren't looking at Damian when he talking, looking at the space near him or at his shoes. He was an object of fear for you. He was someone you were scared of.

You barely knew your father, you feared your brother, and he had failed you both.

That was going to change. You were going to become the centre of his universe the moment you came home from the hospital. He was going to put you somewhere where you would be easy to watch and would re-arrange his schedule so he'd always be able to spend some time with you. He'd be available for all appointments with professionals, doing the exercises with you. Physical therapy, counselling, school, you name it, and he'd be there!

(Not that you'd be going to school any more; Gotham Prep wasn't worth the money he spent in donations if you would get bullied in front of everybody. Homeschooling was where it was at.)

"Y/N, we're so, so sorry. We're going to make your world a better place to live in," Bruce said.

You snorted. "It's a little late for that, Bruce."

He'd never hated the sound of his own name more than when he heard you say it.

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Taglist: @tinybrie, @bunniotomia, @kittzu, @justwannabecat, @exactlynumberonekryptonite, @vanessa-boo, @jscrawls, @sirenetheblogger.

[thewertsearch]

You produce your most spirited LAD SCRAMBLE yet, and hop up to the next GOD TIER, achieving the illustrious REVENGE OF DOCTOR RAGNAROK. All of your vitals go completely bonkers. Your MAN GRIT is off the charts. You're embarrassed for us to even know what it is. It's that gaudy.

Remember when I described the God Tiers as 'less silly' than the Echeladder's levels?

...yeah. I should have known that wasn't going to last long.

You put forth your best LASS SCAMPER of all time, and clear another sweet GOD TIER, the nigh-unattainable SAYONARA KANSAS.

For Jade, these tiers are essentially meaningless now. She's the First Guardian of Earth, and wields powers far greater than the paltry parlor tricks of an ascended Sburb Player.

Jade's not a God Tier - She's a god.

Nobody should ever mess with you. Not even me.

And Hussie knows it.

You don't get boondollars anymore. That shit is for babies now. Instead, you are finally ready to have your first ACHIEVEMENT BADGE sewn on to your KIDDIE CAMPER HANDYSASH! You each receive the badge GIFT OF GAB, enabling you to engage in simple, direct dialogue with others, without requiring any gimmicks to facilitate communication. You don't need to type through a chat client, or talk to a sprite, or traverse through a memory in a dream bubble, or wander around in an interactive game environment, or any of that stuff. You seriously never thought you would live to see this achievement unlocked. It almost feels like cheating.

Getting a little sick of that restriction, eh, Hussie?

Sufficiently advanced Players are allowed to break the rules of the comic, a concept which is brimming with potential. Next thing you know, they'll be picking up objects without a Sylladex, naming their children before they're thirteen, or violating the sanctity of the alpha timeline wait what was that last one

A verbal conversation, with no Pesterchum handles in sight. This really does feel like a milestone, and it's incredibly funny (and on-brand) that we needed a Prestige Class to unlock it.

Also... this is decidedly not a three-millisecond journey. Just how long are they stuck here?

JADE: im not sure! JADE: some sort of limbo dimension between the two walls i guess JADE: like a realm with unusual spatial properties we have to cross through

Jade, for her part, is not aware of the metacanonical implications of this little trip. I think it was Scratch who first told her about the Fourth Wall, and it's clear he made a few tactical omissions concerning its true nature.

JOHN: we escaped the scratch? JOHN: like, we still exist and everything? JADE: yes! JADE: we still totally exist john JOHN: ok, just making sure. JOHN: i still felt pretty existy, but you never know.

A pertinent question, considering where they are.

Technically, they might be more real than they were before, since they've left the fictional medium(!) of their reality.

JOHN: i mean, we crashed through that giant window you magically made with witch powers to escape the scratch, so we can keep existing, right? JADE: yes JADE: i didnt make it with witch powers though, i captchalogued it hours ago because karkat told me to…

Wait, but wasn't it Future Jade who told Karkat to do that?

It certainly sounds like it was - and the current, post-session Jade should already be older than any 'future' Jade who talked to Karkat during the session.

By now, Jade should know why she arranged for herself to grab the Wall - but she's acting like she only did it because Karkat told her to. Maybe I'm just misinterpreting what she's saying.

JOHN: did you at least make it huge with witch powers? JADE: i did make it huge with witch powers! JOHN: so i guess that's what witch powers do, is make things huge? JADE: they also make things small JOHN: right, like you did with all those planets. JADE: yup JADE: also JADE: witch powers can teleport things, and fling things around through space at very high velocities JADE: all sorts of stuff! JADE: but to be honest, im not sure how much of that is attributable to inheriting becs abilities…

All of it, actually.

The only thing Bec didn't do was fling an object around at a high velocity...

...until you remember he did this, which absolutely counts.

So far, nothing Jade's done has been through her God Tier abilities. She's so powerful that her status as the Witch of Space is completely, utterly superfluous.

[geek-with-tea]

For people upset that their own personal public enjoyment of Harry Potter is being called out, I am going to sit with you gently but you may not like what I have to say.

Sometimes, fantasy is an addiction - and that means that sometimes, the best way to reduce harm while having it is to figure out where to do so privately.

I'll throw myself under the bus with you. I ADORE C.AI, Character.AI, all that jazz - so much so that I had to go for treatment for it. Sure, you can RP with real people but it's not that same 24/7, private access to live out everything. I am sure some of you are already pointing out the environmental damage, and how it steals and bastardizes content.

And I am sure that every alternate story recommendation feels the same. It's not the world where you feel safest, it's not as easy to access, etc.

If you want to enjoy it, enjoy it privately.

No publishing fanart outside of private discords. No publishing fanfic outside of private discords. No recommendations outside of private Harry Potter discords. Your obsession/special interest/addiction should not be used to fund JKR's hate. Read the fic, read the fanart, send private messages to art and fic creators. if you must but do not engage in public, marketable space. You do not want new people to find interest in the series, or those who are less careful finding interest. Tumblr is not private. AO3 is not private. Only closed servers are private enough.

For everyone deriding: there is a reason safe injection sites exist. There are reasons red light districts exist. Going cold turkey off a behavioural addiction is hard and there is a reason that behavioural addiction classes are often held by the same people who hold substance addiction classes. There needs to be safe places to engage without public relapse.

TL;DR: Use private, unmarketable spaces to engage in Harry Potter if you find you cannot let go. And there is help out there - a lot of groups that work with tech addictions are adequately prepared for fantasy based addictions.

to summarize: you have the moral backbone of a flatworm if your response every time harry potter comes up is to make it about your inability to give up a book

[padawan-snack-packer]

[TW: Andor Season 2 Spoilers]

You ever watch a show—really watch a show—and walk away thinking, yeah, nah, nothing is ever going to top that?

Not in quality, not in depth, not in how deeply it rearranged your insides? Like, you try to keep watching other things after, and they’re good, they’re fine, they’re even great sometimes—but nothing touches you the way that one did. Nothing digs in and refuses to leave.

For me, that show is Andor.

I hate that I compare everything else to it now. I don’t want to. That’s not the goal. Some shows are meant to be comfort, some are joy, some are pure escape—and I love those too. But Andor? Andor wasn’t made to entertain me. It was made to wreck me. It was made to carve out something in my chest and whisper, “You know this world. You live in it. What are you going to do about it?”

It’s unfair, I know it is. Because Andor is a mirror, not a window. It doesn’t ask you to imagine—it asks you to remember. It’s not fantasy, even when it’s set in space. It’s a gut punch in disguise. It’s a story about people who don’t have the luxury of magic or prophecy or chosen-one destinies. It’s about people with dirty fingernails and blood on their hands and fire in their hearts who say enough.

And I’ve never seen anything like it.

Not just in Star Wars.

Not in television, period.

Season 2? It’s shattering me. It’s not just good—it’s too good. It’s too real. It doesn’t just pull back the curtain on oppression and resistance; it rips the whole stage down. Every episode feels like it’s crawling under my skin. I watch scenes that feel like they were written by someone who saw the inside of my ribcage. The silences, the glances, the weight of every decision, the deaths, the "we almost made it"—it’s not just storytelling, it’s emotional warfare.

Brasso dies. And we don’t even get the dignity of seeing it happen. There’s no final stand, no slow-motion heroic moment. Just the aftermath. Just Cassian, stumbling, shaking, blood on his hands, and there’s Brasso—his anchor, his brother, the man who carried Maarva’s message like gospel—lying there, still.

Gone.

And Cassian collapses. He drops to his knees and pulls Brasso into his arms, cradles him. And there’s no words. Just the soft sound of Cassian’s breath hitching as he kisses Brasso’s forehead like it’ll bring him back. Like this one act can say thank you, I’m sorry, I love you all at once. But Brasso doesn’t move.

War doesn't have pity. War is not always on screen. But it's always heartbreaking.

Because Brasso deserved more. He was the best of them. He fought, he believed, he stayed. He carried everyone else. And in the end, no one carried him.

He died alone. Alone in that field, with Imperials on his back, on a simple speeder, and just like that he was gone.

And then there’s Bix. Sweet, fierce, shattered Bix. Who’s already been broken once by the Empire’s machine—who walks through her life like a ghost, barely there, the screams still echoing in her skull—and it happens again. Another officer. Another man in a uniform who thinks her body is just another thing to take. But this time? She doesn’t freeze. She fights. And it’s not cinematic. It’s messy. It’s teeth and nails and desperation and screams, and when she wins, it’s not triumph—it’s survival. Barely.

And you realize: this isn’t just a story about heroes. This is a story about survivors. People who were never given a choice.

And then the part that never stops haunting me: not everyone can afford to rebel. You see people pushed to the brink, wanting to fight, burning with anger—but they have children. Sick parents. They need their jobs to eat. They’ve seen what happens to people who step out of line.

They want to scream, but screaming gets you noticed. And the Empire notices. So they stay quiet. Not because they don’t care—but because they can’t afford to lose. The rebellion marches forward, and behind it? Thousands left behind, trapped in quiet compliance. That’s the cost. That’s the heartbreak.

That’s real.

And Mon Mothma—oh my God, Mon Mothma. The woman who tried so hard to fight with dignity. Who played the long game. Who gave speeches while her soul slowly unraveled. And what does it cost her? Everything. Her privacy. Her marriage. Her name. Her child. Because when push comes to shove, and she needs funding, she makes the deal. She marries off her daughter. Thirteen years old. Barely past childhood. Betrothed to a boy from some house, all because Mothma couldn’t find another way. Because she had to. Had to secure this.

And at first, she tells herself it’s politics. Tradition. The lesser evil. But you see it eat at her. You see it break her. Because her daughter starts leaning into it. Starts seeing it as a choice—as something good. And Mon realizes… she didn’t just sacrifice her daughter’s future—she let the Empire win in her own home. The rot got in. It touched everything. And she did that. She let it happen.

And Bee… sweet, stammering Bee. The droid that loved harder than most people ever do. Bee who repeats his questions because he needs the answers to be different this time. Bee who waits by the door, who watches the shadows, who probably still replays Maarva’s voice in his head just to feel close to someone.

And now—he’s waiting again.

But no one comes. Not Cassian. Not Bix. Not Will. Not Brasso.

Maybe he finds Brasso first. Maybe Bee rolls up to him, quiet, uncertain, his lights dimmer than usual. Maybe he nudges him. Once. Twice. Tries to say his name but it comes out glitchy and soft, like static wrapped in grief. “Br-Brasso? Brasso, wake. Wake. You… wake now.” And he keeps pushing, because this is what you do with people—you ask them to get up, and they do. Brasso always got up. He always came back. He always carried everyone else.

But this time, he doesn’t move. And Bee just stays there. No screaming, no alarms. Just this stillness. Just the heartbreak of someone who doesn’t fully understand death, only that the people he loves keep leaving. That they say goodbye without really saying it, and they don’t return, and now the room is too quiet again.

Bee, whose memory is long and clear, who plays back old moments like prayers—now adding this one to the archive, hoping if he replays it enough, Brasso might answer.

And the most devastating part? He probably waits. Sits beside Brasso like a little sentinel, flickering low, guarding what’s left.

Because that’s what Bee does.

He waits. He loves. And he doesn’t understand why love isn’t enough to make people stay.

Rebellion is fire.

It’s bravery and fury and sacrifice. But it’s also loss. It’s trauma. It’s a thousand compromises that stain your hands until you don’t recognize yourself in the mirror.

It’s holding the people you love in your arms and knowing they died for a cause that might not even make it to tomorrow.

I’m so torn after these three episodes I don’t even know what to do with myself. Genuinely.

My heart feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder—just shredded and pulsing, and somehow I’m supposed to sit here and wait for more? Like this wasn’t already too much?? Like they didn’t already rip open every wound in the span of a few hours and say, “Okay, now hold that.” And I want more—I need more—but at the same time, I’m terrified of what it’s going to cost me. What it’s going to cost them.

Because they’re fighting now. Like really fighting. There’s no turning back, no more edge-of-the-fray, no more quiet resistance in back rooms. It’s loud and bloody and real, and the whole galaxy is teetering. And I want to see it—I want to see the fire, the rebellion, the moments of victory—but I know what’s coming. We all know what’s coming.

We’ve seen Rogue One.

We know how this ends.

And yeah, they win. Technically. But it’s not the kind of win that makes you cheer. It’s the kind that makes you cry into your hands and just scream because they won but at what cost?....

It’s a pyrrhic victory—burned into the bones of every name etched into the dirt, every voice silenced, every hope that had to be handed off like a relay baton because the people carrying it didn’t make it to the finish line.

They won, but they didn’t survive.

And maybe that’s the most painful part. That I’m watching these characters I love—love—throw themselves at the fire, on the frontlines, knowing they won’t get to see the dawn. Knowing their names will never be sung. And yet, I need to see it. I need to see them fight. I need to see them choose rebellion even when it breaks them.

Because even knowing the end, every moment leading there matters. Every small act of resistance, every stolen moment of joy, every impossible choice.

That’s what Andor gets. That’s what makes it hurt. It doesn’t lie to you. It says, Tthis is the cost. Are you still willing to pay it?"

And I know—I know—it’s unfair to hold everything else up to that standard. But nothing—nothing—fantasy or not, has shaken me like this. Andor doesn’t ask to be liked. It dares you to feel it. And once you do? Nothing ever feels quite the same.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to recover from it. I don’t even know if I want to.

[formulaonecrumbs]

switching it up!! still pcos reader, maybe a race. except let’s go with alex albon or daniel ricciardo 🤭

-🧸

not today hormones ✋

Alex Albon x PCOS!reader

summary: reader experiencing a flare up while at track and alex naturally cheering her up.

warnings: pcos mention, chronic pain, alex and his sarcastic ass

A/N: AAHHHHH FINALLY. THIS IS WHAT IVE BEEN WAITING FOR. AN AELX REQUEST. i already wrote for daniel and have (surprisingly) NEVER written for albono so it was time. i feel that i don’t naturally write alex very well (or anyone except lando 😭) but i made him all silly and cute cuz that’s how i see him. imma make a more serious and helpful albono if u so please, all u gotta do is ask. anyways ENJOY, 🧸!!! LOVE U.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

it starts with your alarm not going off.

which means you wake up twenty-five minutes later than planned, heart pounding, hair a mess, and your suitcase only halfway packed. your phone buzzes violently against the nightstand — a string of texts from alex, each one more worried than the last.

alex:

where r u

u ok??

do i need to come rescue u from a sleep coma again

he would, too. dramatic little menace.

you send him a quick “omw don’t panic” text and rush through the rest of your morning with exactly zero grace. makeup half-done. hair thrown up. you’re pretty sure you put two different socks on, but there’s no time to fix it. it’s either that or miss your flight to barcelona, and alex will absolutely never let you live that down.

by the time you make it to the paddock the next day, you’re sore, irritable, and bloated beyond belief. your body’s staging a full-on hormonal protest — classic pcos. your jeans feel tight. your skin’s breaking out. you’re half convinced your uterus is trying to punch its way out of your body, and to top it all off, someone hands you a media pass that says “alex’s girlfriend” like it’s a job title.

alex finds you slumped on a folding chair near the williams motorhome, sunglasses on, head tilted back like a dramatic victorian woman fainting on a chaise lounge.

“there she is,” he grins, crouching beside you. “my radiant queen of punctuality.”

you glare at him through your sunglasses. “don’t.”

“what?”

“i swear to god, if you say anything about how late i was or how my face looks like a tomato or how my jeans are cutting off circulation to my soul, i will throw myself into the nearest tyre wall.”

alex lifts his hands in surrender, a smile still playing at his lips. “i was just gonna say hi.”

you eye him suspiciously.

he nudges your knee with the back of his hand. “hi.”

“hi,” you mumble.

“you want to talk about it?” he asks, softer now, eyes scanning your face like he already knows the answer.

you shake your head. “just one of those days. hormone hurricane. pcos is being an asshole.”

he gives you a look — not pitying, not dramatic, just… warm. understanding. “is this the kind of hurricane that needs snacks or space?”

you consider that for a second. “both.”

he stands up immediately. “done. five minutes. trust the snack man.”

you watch him walk away, still wearing his fireproofs and a backwards cap that’s barely hanging on. a few fans wave at him and he waves back, never missing a beat. a kid shouts his name and he shouts back something about being cooler than lando today.

you sigh. leave it to alex albon to be charming even while sourcing snacks.

when he comes back, he’s balancing a water bottle, a banana, a chocolate croissant, and — for some reason — a small stuffed duck wearing a williams hat.

you raise an eyebrow.

“his name’s turbo,” alex says casually. “he’s our emotional support duck.”

“you stole that from the merch table, didn’t you?”

“it was a rescue mission.”

you snort and reach for the croissant. “thanks, honey.”

he plops down beside you on the bench, shoulder pressed into yours, like he’s casually shielding you from the chaos of the paddock.

“you don’t have to thank me,” he says. “your body’s doing its own weird olympics right now. least i can do is bring you carbs and emotional poultry.”

you laugh despite yourself, mouth full of pastry. “you make it sound so noble.”

“it is noble,” he insists. “besides, you put up with me during the off-season. now it’s my turn.”

you bump your head against his shoulder. “you’re annoying.”

“you love it.”

“unfortunately.”

by the time qualifying rolls around, you’re planted in the williams garage, headphones on, duck in lap, watching alex put in a solid session despite the heat. the engineers are buzzing, data flying everywhere, and you can’t help but feel proud — even if you’re still cramping and a little dead inside.

afterwards, he finds you again, towel around his neck, face flushed.

“p10,” he says, still catching his breath. “not bad, right?”

“you’re magic,” you grin.

“you’re biased.”

“always.”

he steals a sip of your water and gives turbo a high five. “how’s the uterus?”

“still raging,” you say. “but the croissant helped.”

“i’ll bring you another tomorrow.”

“turbo demands it.”

alex grins and tugs you up by the hand. “come on. let’s go annoy logan and pretend i’m not sweating like a swamp creature.”

you follow, hand still in his, thinking maybe today wasn’t so bad after all — bloated hormones, chaos and all.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

the moment you get back to the hotel, it hits you like a freight train.

the cramps.

the heat.

the way your bra strap feels like it’s trying to cut into your shoulder blade and your jeans feel like medieval torture. your back aches. your mood’s a mess. you think about crying for literally no reason — like, someone on the street smiled at you and you were like, why would you do that to me right now, and now you’re spiraling.

alex, ever the optimist, holds the door open to your room like you’re royalty.

you barely make it three steps inside before faceplanting onto the bed with a groan that sounds borderline inhuman.

“was it something i said?” he asks lightly, dropping his bag by the window.

“it’s everything,” you mumble into the pillow. “i hate my body. i hate my ovaries. i hate the entire concept of pants.”

“you know,” he says thoughtfully, “if i had a dollar for every time you declared war on pants, i’d probably be able to retire.”

you roll onto your back and glare at the ceiling. “don’t make me laugh. it hurts.”

alex tosses his hat onto the chair, then joins you on the bed with all the grace of someone who’s been in a race car all day and now feels it in every joint. he lets out his own old-man groan before leaning on one elbow and looking down at you with a little frown.

“alright,” he says. “emergency protocol time.”

“what does that even mean.”

“it means,” he says, already leaning down and kissing your forehead gently, “we’re implementing the albon healing system.”

you blink at him.

“patent pending,” he adds, and then — another kiss, this time to your temple. “one kiss for stress.”

you snort. “you made that up just now.”

“obviously. it’s a cutting-edge technique.” kiss. cheek. “this one’s for bloating.” kiss. your jaw. “this is for hormonal rage.” kiss. the tip of your nose. “and this one’s for the fact that i saw you nearly cry when the elevator doors closed too fast.”

“you saw that?”

“sweetheart,” he says, full of dramatic pity, “you whimpered.”

you bury your face in your hands, groaning again. “i hate it here.”

“you love it here.”

“i literally don’t.”

he leans in closer. “you love me, though.”

you peek at him through your fingers. “barely.”

“so rude,” he mutters, but he’s still smiling as he kisses your forehead again — this time lingering, warm and soft and maybe a little too sincere for a moment like this.

you blink. “was that one for anything in particular?”

he shrugs. “felt like it.”

you go quiet for a beat, just listening to the hum of the air conditioner and the distant sound of someone laughing in the hallway. your body still aches — your cramps are making your lower back throb and you’re sure your skin is about to erupt into another breakout — but for the first time all day, it feels… manageable. less like you’re being punished by the universe and more like… okay. you’re okay.

alex rests his chin on your shoulder. “you know,” he says quietly, “you don’t have to pretend it’s not awful. i know it sucks. i see how much it takes out of you.”

you nod slowly. “i just feel gross. and ugly. and dramatic.”

“you’re none of those things,” he says, firm now. “you’re in pain. and your body’s going through hell. and you’re still here, joking about emotional support ducks and cheering me on and pretending to care about tyre compounds.”

you smile faintly. “i do care. mostly.”

“you’re amazing,” he says, with so much certainty it makes your throat tighten. “even when your hormones are trying to kill you.”

you shift closer to him, wrapping your arms around his middle. “thanks for the kisses.”

“anytime.” he presses one to the top of your head. “it’s a full-service treatment. comes with cuddles and optional forehead massages.”

“optional?” you ask, already tugging his hand toward your face. “i think you mean mandatory.”

he laughs, stretching out beside you. “fine, fine. i’ll just cancel my plans to be unconscious and rub your forehead for the next twenty minutes.”

“that’s what love is, albon.”

“i wouldn’t have it any other way.”

you close your eyes as his fingers move gently across your skin, his touch light but steady, and for the first time all day, your body starts to unclench — bit by bit, like it knows it’s safe.

and maybe you’re still bloated and irritable and vaguely on the verge of a meltdown, but alex is here. kissing it better.

and maybe that’s enough.

THE END :>

[maroonpascal]

Sweet nothin’

Pairing: Joel Miller x reader

Summary: nights are never easy for Joel, his mind being flooded with memories, but luckily he doesn't have to fight them alone anymore

Warnings: jackson!joel, soft!joel, mentions of nightmares, trauma, anxiety and insomnia, use of pet names (babe, darling, my love, my sunshine)

Word count: 1.8k

Notes: wrote this literally when I couldn’t sleep after that episode and I needed some comfort, so here we are 🧸 title is from “Sweet Nothing” by Taylor Swift

Divider creds: @ianrkives

“Joel, babe, come to sleep.”

You’re leaning on the door frame of the living room, the dim light bathing him as he’s at the table still working on something you don’t quite understand, and he has been at that since the afternoon.

He’s still tinkering there, wearing his cute glasses and his hands managing the tools; you know he needs this at night sometimes, as the nights are always the worst. Sometimes he’s afraid of going to sleep, as the nightmares can have the best of him, disrupting his sleep and waking him up; Joel would sit in bed panting, chest pounding and his heart beating strongly against the ribcage, holding his own hand there before yours, before you can embrace him and kiss him behind his neck, nuzzling there, whispering that it was all a bad dream, but he could rarely go back to sleep after one of those. The only thing that works is being hugged by you, he enjoys that, going pliant in your arms and letting himself rest.

“Joel.” You call him again, breaking that silence and now going closer to the table, him taking off his glasses to take a look at you, the way he’s so careful with them making you break a smile, “Hey.” You say softly when he’s in your reach, your hands going behind his neck and tangling your fingers through his curls, him closing his eyes for a moment, sighing at the soft touch.

“Hey.” He repeats your word, looking up at you and you notice all the tiredness in his eyes and all over his face. He’s working so hard for the benefit of the city, determined to do so much good, almost as a way to redeem himself from his past.

Your right hand reaches his eyebrows, smoothing your thumb over the space between them, taking away the furrowed look, Joel softening his eyes immediately at your touch, “Aren’t you tired, babe?” You ask, him rising his shoulders, lips crooked in half a smile, “Just a little, but you know that this helps me,” he presses a kiss on the inside of your wrist, beard tickling your skin, “And you’ve helped me too, so many times,” his dreamy look on you, and you can read in his eyes how he’s thinking of all the nights spent lost among the bedsheets, how you surely knew how to make him forget about everything else.

“Should I help you too tonight?” You jokingly say, keeping your tone light, as you brush your hand behind his neck and smoothing the other one on the collar of his checkered shirt, where the very first buttons have been left open, giving you a sight of his cleavage. But you know from the tired look in his eyes that all you can do for him tonight is just convince him to go to bed and then hugging him to sleep.

He sighs over your skin, his lips warm on your wrist, “Not tonight, darlin’,” he lets out, as you cup his face with both hands and brush your thumb over that scar, before pressing a kiss on his forehead, letting him know without a word that you know how he feels. “But I would love if you could hug me until I will fall asleep.” He mutters, as you beam already at the thought of doing that, and being so happy with the fact that he is so outspoken now about what he actually wants, what can make him feel at ease and comforted, not shying away anymore from asking what it can make him feel better.

“Of course, my love, of course.” You bow on his lips, kissing him softly as you feel a hand going over your waist, holding you gently.

You take that hand in yours when you part from his lips, him finally leaving that table and letting you guide him until your bedroom, reaching the warm lights of it.

“’M sorry that I’m keeping you up so late these nights.” He says, you squeezing his hand back, letting him sit on the edge of the bed, “These dreams, no, these nightmares that I have-” his voice breaks a little, and you’re ready to pick up the pieces by wrapping your arms around his shoulders, letting him rest his head over your chest, actually feeling like you’re wrapping a safe around him to shield him from all the nightmares, from all the evil that there is in this world.

“It’s okay, Joel, it’s okay,” you utter, placing a kiss over his curls, “I’m the one choosing to stay up with you. There is no other place where I would rather be, only here with you, no matter what.”

He lightly nods on your chest, a hand gripping your t-shirt, anchoring himself to you, his safe harbour.

The nightmares most of the times are flashbacks, moments that wouldn’t leave his mind, not even while being asleep, not giving him peace. And somehow, the only peace he has is you. He feels that sense of peace as he’s holding onto you right now, feeling your fingers through his curls and thumb behind his neck, circling in a soothing movement. Your heartbeat is the best symphony he could ever hear, it’s what brings him home every single time, each heartbeat allowing himself to get away from the cruel reality and hiding somewhere else, a place where nothing could ever hurt him or hurt you.

And he wishes he could make his heart stop drumming so hard against his chest, that he could connect it with the rhythm of your heart, calm and soothing.

You can feel his heartbeat against you, strong as ever, “Joel, no one can hurt you, you are safe.” Your whisper followed by a kiss on his curls.

Your hand reaches over his back, trying to ease his anxiety by rubbing it there, feeling so much tension.

“I’m here, my sunshine, I’m here.” You repeat, him actually rising up his head at you at the word sunshine, a little smile drawn on his lips.

“Nothing could ever hurt you again.” And he really lets those word sink into his mind, become part of it, leaving somewhere else the baggage of trauma that he carries with him.

A hand goes through his curls, and you thank him mentally for having let those curls grow, so soft under your fingertips.

Slowly you can feel his grip on you becoming less strong just like his heartbeat is coming back to normal, his calm breathing over you neck now, brushing your thumb over his forehead.

“Feeling better?” You ask, pressing a kiss on his head, as you still cradle him in your arms.

You get a slow nod from him, feeling his thumb brushing over your hip, still slightly holding you, “Yes, thank you.”

That is all that matters to you, because it really doesn’t matter that sometimes you have to stay up a little longer with him to give him some of that peace he searches and aches for so desperately, you could do that again and again, and you’re sure that you will always do, never trading that for something else. Everyone has traumas in this world but you knew even before getting together with him that his trauma was really heavy, that it doesn’t heal in one night, that it takes patience and a lot of time. And you happen to have lots of that.

“Finally feelin’ tired,” he utters, leaving your hips and looking up at you, the golden in his eyes making you feel a wave of warmth over you.

You press another kiss on his forehead, him blinking his eyes slowly at you, like cats would do, “Let’s go to sleep then, alright?” You check in, waiting for him to nod before climbing the bed and then waiting for him to come lay down next to you, under the warm blankets.

You close the distance with him when you press your lips over his, him pulling you even closer with an arm around your waist, your bodies coming together like magnets.

“You are my North Star.” His words fall softly from his lips onto yours, your caress gentle on his beard, “Thank you for always bringing me home.”

“You are my whole universe, Joel.” You reassure him, him sinking a little more on the pillow, and you swear your could see really the whole universe in his eyes.

He presses a kiss on your forehead, hand hovering on your cheek; his thumb brushing on your skin, as your hand goes wrapping around his arm, until reaching his shoulder, rubbing it a bit there.

“Just turn around, babe,” you say softly over his his cheek, leaving a kiss there as you brush away a curl from his eyes, him nodding and being so content about the way you call him “babe”, how it feels so right to him and so endearing.

He does as told, and you soon cocoon on his side, wrapping an arm around him, landing it on his chest, rubbing it a little there, the heartbeat under your palm telling you how finally relaxed he is right now.

And Joel really thinks that he couldn’t ask for more, as he sinks in your hug, sighing at the way you land kisses behind his neck, carefully placing each one with so much tenderness. He never thought he could ever experience such softness again in his life or that he even deserved to have it, as he had thought for such a long time that he wasn’t deserving of that, that somehow no one would have ever dared to be with him.

And that is why he cherishes every single moment, every single joy that he has with you, he puts it in a sacred place carved in his heart, hoping that nothing will ever take that away; being hugged to sleep definitely goes into that place, it is probably his favourite thing, how he can allow himself to let his guard down, and not be in charge of anything, but letting someone else protect him and shield him, both metaphorically and physically.

“I love you so much, Joel.” He feels your words on his neck, your nose brushing on his skin, and his chest reverberates with his answer, “I love you too, darlin’” his words coming out slow and slurred, the sleep having the best of him right now.

He lets himself fall more into your arms, feeling your heartbeat behind his ribcage and for the hundredth night he thanks whoever put you in his path, because life has never been the same ever since and it never will.

And that is the life he’s settling for, a slow life, with easy mornings with shared coffee, patrolling together in the early morning and then coming back home together, him being able to tinker with his stuff and then knowing that at night he will always end up in his safe space, that your arms will always be ready to hug him and bring him home.

[stalkedbytrains]

Sword in one hand, shield in the other, you stood as a bulwark against the tide of revolution that wanted to drown the child emperor.

"They are but a child," you say as you parry one blow with your shield and strike out with your sword. "Only a revolution as cruel as yours would seek to kill a child."

"And only a horrifyingly corrupt system would task a child to lead it," the head revolutionary counters as he dodges your blow and quickly strikes out twice more.

His blades are quick, and sharp, but not sharp enough to cut through your defenses or your armor.

"The Emperor is doing his best. He is trying to do the best for his citizens," you say as the dance of your combat leads you further from the center of the room. You've pushed the revolutionary back.

"No child should dictate the lives of millions. It's cruel to the child and their subjects."

"So you would execute them for that?"

"For that? No. For the unfortunate fact that your ward represents all present and future attacks? Yes. I might."

"I will not let anyone that will willingly murder a child pass unharmed."

"And yet you defend an Empire, an ideal, that is nothing but cruel and contemptuous to any and all children not born into a noble caste. How many thousands die in childbirth because the Glorious Golden Empire will not extend medical aid to the poorest nations?"

His blade has slipped your defenses, slashing at a weak point between the metal plates. You feel the cut. It is shallow, but still you bleed. It is a victory, a metaphorical one, but one that he can press.

And he knows it.

"You swore an oath to the Empire. You pled your life and faith to what the Empire stands for. And so you deny the will of hundreds of thousands, millions, of her citizens to defend a boy Emperor that has no business sitting on the throne. Did you pledge yourself to the Emperor or the Empire?"

He attacks fast, hard, with the strength of his convictions.

It is hard to bolster your own convictions against his well honed blades. You have seen the news, you know the failings of your Empire. But this has been your life for years, for as long as you can remember.

And they are here to execute the Child Emperor.

This, you can not stand.

You push against the revolutionary. Your holy convictions burn bright and hot and are more than one man can stand against.

"I will not let you kill a child," you snarl.

"So it's proximity based then. If I had the one hundred children from the Jala Plains that are going to die of the Wet Rot disease that came with the floods, you would defend them as fervently as you do your Emperor?"

You know the trap laid before you, you can see it. But you snarl and grit your teeth and answer true.

"I would give my life for them."

More cuts. Shallow, in the empty spaces of your armor, now filled with blood.

"And you'd still give your life for your Emperor, but not the Empire?"

The word leaves your lips before you can think on it, "Yes."

"Then it is good that this was never a fair fight," the revolutionary says.

You know that you had lost, that your life was going to be given in service of the Emperor. You know it shouldn't have. You know that it should have been so many other things. But the bounds of duty, the job, the life that you were forced into demanded nothing less than everything you had. You wished you could have sided with the revolutionaries, they had a point. There could have been a compromise somewhere along the way. You knew that. But the people in power refused to negotiate with the people with legitimate problems. So those with problems returned to their only option: violence. You had refused to stand with your personal convictions, you refused to do anything less than what the job demanded.

It didn't surprise you when you felt the knives dig into your back. Revolutionary knives from behind you.

If someone had compromised. If someone had tried to reform the laws that was the problems, to change the system this wouldn't come to this. If someone who had power made a few concessions to the people. If someone had stood up in the pinnacles of power and said something, done something. If you hadn't been such a coward and defended the status quo because it was safe and familiar.

The knives felt cold and heavy in your chest.

You knew that the Emperor, child that he was, was lost. He had many chances to abdicate, the people shouted it at him. But he had lived his entire life in the lap of privileged and wouldn't give that up for anything. His parents failed him. You failed him in more than one way.

The revolutionaries couldn't leave the child alive, any conservative and anti-revolutionary would be clamoring to return the child emperor to the throne and it would cause no end of wars and counter-revolutions.

You knew all of this. And you were dying. There were many options, many roads that could have been taken. You could have taken any number of them.

But the cold steel piercing your heart reminded you that you didn't pick any of them. You chose this path. Your determination, your faith, your belief in the system led to all of this death, to your death.

If only there was something you could have done.

if you like this i have a kofi

You are a paladin of the Golden Empire. You stand in the throne room, as revolutionaries storm the palace. Behind you on the throne sits the monarch, a frightened child of only 16 years. They tried their best. How could things go so wrong?

[lonely-ey3s]

Heartlines | Chapter Three

pairing: harry castillo (materialists) x f!reader

chapter summary : After you take lunch to his work, Harry asks you to be his date to his work masquerade party. However, he takes you shopping for the event beforehand, showing you how important you are and how serious he is about being with you.

chapter warnings: fluff, slow burn, angst, Harry speaks Spanish (translations will be there), switched POV's, drinking, thoughts of smut (18+ MDNI), flirting, if I missed anything, lmk!!

word count: 10.6k

a/n: i am super proud of this chapter. i hope you all enjoy it as much as i loved writing it. something about watching episode 2 just made me want to write anything but what i was feeling and it just poured into this chapter for harry and the reader.

also just a reminder! chapters will be every other sunday alternating ride or die !! enjoy 💗

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune

Masterlist

You were called into the office early the next morning, another hiccup.

After everything calmed down and everyone from the wedding party had left for the airport or checked out, you had the rest of the day to yourself. 

After talking with Lila last night, and how well the conversation went with Harry, you wanted to return the favor to him. 

You ran to a classic sandwich shop down the street from the hotel, then took a cab to the address Lila provided you for where Harry worked. 

You got out of the taxi, and a tall building stood in front of you.

You'd lived in New York most of your life and the skyscrapers in the city weren't anything new, but they still overwhelmed you when you got this close.

You looked up and estimated it had over 100 floors, easily.

You took a deep breath as a wave of anxiety washed over you. Your heart started to pound — you felt like you were going to be sick. Something inside of you was trying to pull you back and away– put the walls back up. 

You shook your head and swallowed it all down, you weren't going to let it control you anymore. Not when you had a chance at being happy.

With that you put one foot in front of the other and made your way inside. 

Lila told you to go to the elevators and go to the 64th floor, so that’s what you did. 

The bellboy smiled at you as you entered. “I’ve not seen you here before…” he said, looking down at the bag you were holding. “Bringing someone lunch?” 

You nodded and looked down at the bag, smiling softly. 

“64th floor is all those investors… your friend rich?” he asked, trying to make small talk.

You chuckled as you tilted your head upward, watching the numbers slowly rise. “He does well for himself…” 

He scoffed and turned to look at the doors, back to assuming his position, “That’s just a nice way of saying he’s loaded,” he teased.

You shrugged, letting out a small chuckle, then looked at the doors as you approached the 64th floor. “I guess it is...”

The bell dinged, and the doors opened.

You looked over at him and nodded politely, “Thank you.” Then you stepped out and began walking down the hallway toward the large glass doors with the company logo on it. 

The moment you stepped inside, the air shifted.

It was colder than you expected — not in temperature, but in tone. Sleek, polished, professional. The kind of place where every inch had been carefully curated to project power without ever needing to say it aloud.

You swallowed at the scale; the complete change of environment from where you worked was overwhelming.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched along one wall, letting in the hard, clear light of the city. Every desk gleamed like it had been buffed ten minutes ago. Dark wood, glass, leather chairs—everything was uniform, clean cut.

The soft hum of voices and muted clicks of keyboards filled the air — no shouting, no chaos — just the efficient, almost clinical buzz of money moving from one place to another.

Men and women in sharp suits moved through the space with purpose, their watches catching the light, their gazes focused and far too busy to notice you lingering near the front.

Behind a massive desk, a receptionist with a headset gave you a tight, polite smile. Her nails tapped against the keyboard like she was marking time until the next meeting.

You noticed the voice coming from the other side of the desk and immediately felt relieved at the first sign of someone interacting with you instead of ignoring you. "Delivery?"

You came over and shook your head shyly, “I’m uh, not delivering, I'm actually here to have lunch with a uhm, someone who works here? Harry Castillo?” you looked at her with an eyebrow raised, hoping you were in the right place.

She smiled brightly, “Oh, Mr. Castillo! Let me page his assistant!” She touched a button on the desk phone. 

“No!” you shouted, making her jump. “Sorry, no… I uh, I’m surprising him,” you chuckled nervously. 

“Oh!” she softly giggled, nodding. “Let me take you to where his office is. You can wait for him in there,” she smiled softly and stood to walk around the reception desk, “He’s just in a meeting for maybe another 15 minutes or so…” 

You nodded and smiled politely as you trailed closely behind her. 

She started to walk through the office, smiling and nodding at a few people here and there. You looked around and got a sense of what Harry might do for work, picking up on small details. 

You heard your name being called from across the office floor and turned to follow where the call was coming from. 

Ben smiled and waved to you. “What the heck are you doing here?” he said as he started to come over to you. 

You smiled and chuckled lightly, holding up the bag you had in your hand, “I was going to surprise Harry with lunch…” You nodded towards the receptionist, who stopped walking as you did. 

Ben waved her off, “I’ll take her the rest of the way, Lucy, thank you for helping,” he smiled. 

She nodded and walked back to her desk, leaving you and Ben alone. 

“So... you and Harry?” he grinned and offered his arm for you to hold while you two continued to walk. 

You chuckled as you took it, “Nothin’ is… we uhm, we aren’t exclusive.” You shyly scrambled over your response. 

Ben huffed out a small chuckle, “Not exclusive? He’s head over heels for you! And I think, based on how Lila came home last night, gossiping about your little phone call– you are feeling the same way,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes and nudged him playfully. 

There was a small pause before you spoke again, “I’m not sure how to feel. We haven’t gone out on an official date yet. Just flirting, you know... getting to know each other…” You glanced up at him. 

“Ah, I see…” he nodded, softly tutting. He then opened a door that had Harry’s name on a placard by it. “Can I offer some advice then?” 

You stepped in and let go of his arm. “Advice for me or him?” you joked. 

He chuckled at your jab but then sighed softly and smiled somewhat sadly, “I’ve known Harry for a long time. He’s been hurt just as much as you have.” He looked down for a moment and then back up at you. “He’s someone who puts everything into someone…” he nodded towards his desk, “If you can… find a way to reciprocate it? Give each other a chance. Let him take care of you, but also... take care of him…” 

Your eyes scanned over his desk. Of all the other desks you saw, Harry's had a warmth to it. There were framed photos and even a small Lego Batman figure you assumed was from one of his nephews or nieces. A flashback from the wedding make you chuckle as you thought about the joke you two had walking down the aisle.

You then looked back at Ben, understanding what he meant. “I’ll do my best,” you smiled softly. 

He nodded and gently patted the door frame. “I know you will,”

You both heard his name being called from another part of the office. He cleared his throat and sighed. “I’m being summoned,” he said, chuckling. 

You nodded and came over, gently kissing his cheek, “It’s good to see you. I’ll come say goodbye before I leave.” 

He nodded and returned the gentle kiss on your cheek, “You better…” 

You chuckled softly and nodded, then walked back to sit in a chair that sat in front of Harry’s desk before he closed the door and left. 

Harry’s POV

He had been in this meeting for almost an hour now, and Kent’s monotone voice was almost lulling him to sleep. 

Slide 28 of 35.

‘God help us all.’ he thought as he looked at his watch to see the time, eager to get on with his day.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting back to the slideshow in front of him and the rest of the executives as they attentively watched. 

Another chart. Another bullet point. Another pointless deep dive into data he’d already skimmed three days ago, processed, and moved on from.

He glanced at his phone, barely visible in his lap under the glass table. He’d been itching to give you a call back since this morning. Especially after last night's phone call was cut short by his own fatigue. 

He sat there and wondered what you were doing right now. God, how he wanted nothing more than to spend 20 minutes in your presence.

Ever since the wedding, it seemed like the two of you couldn’t catch a break. You both are constantly being pulled away from each other. The mere thought of having a whole evening with you, dinner or something, where the two of you can just be… it was all he could think about. 

“…and now we’ll open it up for thoughts on how we might approach portfolio diversification in Q3,” Kent’s voice at the end of the table cut through his thoughts. “Harry, any thoughts?”

He looked up sharply, blinking once as the room’s attention shifted toward him.

He softly cleared his throat, put his phone into his pocket, and straightened his tie. He leaned forward just enough to appear engaged, not like he had mentally disconnected from the meeting 10 slides ago.

“Well,” he began smoothly, “given the volatility we’ve seen in international equities and the Fed’s latest posture, I’d say it’s less about diversification and more abou–” he stopped. 

For a moment, he thought his eyes were playing a sick joke on him as he saw you, smiling, walking through the office. His office. 

He blinked to refocus his vision, but you were still there. Arm in arm with Ben, both of you heading towards his office.

His heart stuttered, then picked up speed like it was trying to catch up with what his eyes were seeing. A warmth flooded his chest—not the soft kind, but the kind that made him feel a little dizzy. It made him feel alive.

The only thing he could focus on was you— how the light caught your eyes, how your smile lit up the room. 

A small smile cracked through onto his lips. 

Another executive cleared his throat, which snapped his attention back to the group. 

He cleared his throat and turned a soft shade of red. “Excuse me. As I was saying, uh…” He chuckled softly, feeling a bit nervous from his sudden distraction. 

He looked at you once more before turning his attention to the table, “It’s less about diversification and more about precision. Risk-adjusted returns only mean something if you’re holding the right risk.” 

He watched as a few heads nodded in agreement. One guy scribbled something down on his pad as if it were gospel. No one questioned it. They rarely did with Harry.

He leaned back in his seat and anxiously tapped his thumb against the file folder in front of him, creating a soft thumping. 

He wasn’t eager for this meeting to end due to its boredom now; he was keen for it to end so he could go to you.

He watched your location from the corner of his vision. After a few minutes, Ben left and closed his door, meaning only one thing: you were in his office alone, and he could have you all to himself. 

About 10 minutes later, Mr. Clarkson, the CEO, stood up and started gathering his belongings. “Thanks so much for your time today, everyone. As a reminder, Ruby will send you all the formal invitations for our dinner party this Friday, involving Tets Investments closing with us.”

His ears perked to the announcement. He'd completely forgotten about it. 'That's it. I'll ask her to be my date...'

Everyone else stood and collected their bearings, nodding in acknowledgment. 

A young man opened the glass door and headed towards Harry.

It was his assistant Peter. He had a tablet and a few folders in his arm along with a wireless headset in his ear. “Ok, so you’ve got a meeting with Angela and Bryan from accounting in about 30 minutes. This is the paperwork you need to look over,” he handed Harry the file folder, exchanging it for the one he had from the meeting. 

Harry started walking out of the conference room, buttoning his suit jacket up as he strolled, “I need to reschedule that.” He held the folder for Peter to take back.

Peter scoffed, letting out a bewildered chuckle, “What, why?” He took the folder back and began scrolling through Harry’s calendar on the tablet, trying to see what openings were in their schedules to rebook. 

“Something came up. Just make it happen please...” he smiled as he straightened his tie and huffed his breath into his palm to check if it smelled decent. 

Peter turned his head to observe everything he was doing, confused for a moment but continued. “Uhm, do you need me to reschedule your 3 pm meeting with Elsie from marketing then?” 

“Let’s keep that, but I’ll let you know if that needs to be changed.” He went to reach for the handle, but Peter beat him to it out of habit and opened it. 

“Of course. Just let me kn—” he stopped, seeing you in the middle of Harry’s office. “Oh…” 

You quickly stood and smiled, putting your hands in front of you shyly, “Surprise…” you beamed. 

Harry’s head quickly snapped from looking at Peter to you and smiled brightly, playing along with your surprise, “You’re here…” he chuckled and squeezed through the door that Peter was standing gobsmacked in front of.

He came over and gently touched your hand, leaning down to kiss your cheek.  

You held up the bag of food in between you, “I uhm, I brought lunch… do you have some time?” your cheeks turned rosy red as he looked down at you. 

Peter cleared his throat softly and grinned sinfully, "I’ll see if Elsie can reschedule for tomorrow. I'll tell her something came up...” he teased.

Harry looked back at him and shook his head, smiled softly at the jab, “This is my assistant, Peter.” he looked back at you. 

You smiled and held out your hand as you walked over to him, “Peter, it’s lovely to meet you. I’m Y/N.” 

He took your hand and grinned wider, “Wait... Y/N as in Y/N from the wedding?” he looked at Harry, jaw slacked dramatically. 

You chuckled and looked back at him, “Have you been talkin’ about me around the office now?” you teased. 

Peter smirked, “Oh, he’s not shut up since… he won’t—” 

Harry interjected quickly, turning red, “Is that the phone I hear?” he nodded towards Peter’s desk. 

There was no phone ringing. 

You bit your lip, trying to hide a giggle, and looked down shyly. 

Peter cleared his throat softly, getting the memo Harry was trying to send. “It’s lovely to meet you again,” he said, touching your arm gently. “Enjoy your lunch.” 

You smiled softly and thanked him before he closed the door softly. 

After a moment of silence, Harry softly cleared his throat and looked over at you, “I uhm… I’ve been meanin’ to call you since last night…” He took off his jacket, placing it on the back of the chair where he stood, and started to roll up his sleeves. 

You turned around and tucked some loose hairs behind your ears. “I’ve been meaning to do the same.” You walked over slowly, the tension suddenly felt high. 

Another small moment of silence. 

“I had things end a little earlier than we planned at the hotel, so I thought I’d… you know… return the favor and come surprise you.” You softly smiled at him. 

The act of you matching the level of interest he'd been displaying since the wedding was heartwarming to him. He was getting what he put in, put out towards him. It was something he hadn't had in a partner in a very long time. It was all he wanted, someone to match his love language, or at least appreciate it.

He had a sweet and warm smile across his lips as he watched you, “I’ve missed you…” 

You looked down into the bag shyly, “I’ve missed you too…” You started pulling the food out and setting it on the table. 

Harry watched for a moment from where he was standing and then moved to stand behind you, putting his hand on the small of your back. “Can I help?” 

It was just a touch—barely anything. His hand was barely on your back, light as a whisper.

But it hit like a lightning strike.

A wave of warmth flooded your chest, spreading out like someone had turned on a light from the inside.

Your cheeks burned instantly, that unmistakable flush that crept up your neck no matter how hard you had tried to will it away. Your heart skipped a beat, the one that made your mind short-circuit. 

Butterflies? More like a full-blown riot in your stomach. 

You turned your head to look at him and nodded but then got lost in his gaze momentarily. 

He said your name softly, his eyes flickering to your lips. 

You inhaled a shaky, nervous breath before blurting out. “N-Napkins…” 

His gaze flickered up to your eyes, grinning like he knew what he was doing to you. 

“Do you have any napkins?” you grinned sheepishly. 

He nodded. “Yeah, they're in my desk…” He walked around to the other side to retrieve them. 

You looked down at the food you’d laid out and tried to settle yourself– taking in a small deep breath. 

Harry tutted, “So– I may have figured out a first date for us if you’re up for it?” He looked up from his drawer.

You glanced at him and softly chuckled, “Oh? What would that be?” 

He came back around his desk with a small pile of napkins, smiling warmly. He sat down on his desk before taking his sandwich, then patting the area beside him for you to sit. “I have a work dinner party on Friday. It’s a masquerade-type thing…” he kept his gaze on the sandwich as he spoke. 

You sat down and looked at him as he spoke, unwrapping your sandwich, “Are you asking me to be your date, Mr. Castillo?” you teased, lightly nudging his side with your elbow. 

He let out a light chuckle and looked at you, a twinkle in his big brown eyes had become clearer now that you were closer. “I’m askin’ you to be my date, sweetheart…” 

You hummed, and your eyes danced across his features, then you looked down at your sandwich. “In that case, I need to go shopping for a mask…” You smiled as you bit your bottom lip. 

“Is that a yes?” he kept his gaze on you, his smile slowly grew. 

You looked back up at him and your smile became softer, “That’s a yes…” 

He looked back at his sandwich and took a bite, saying with his mouth somewhat full, making you giggle, “Good. Then that means I get to take you dress shopping…” 

You also took a bite and then paused, covering your mouth with your hand. “Wait, what?” You thought you misheard him. 

He chewed and swallowed, turning to look at you. “I’m taking you dress shopping,” he shrugged, smiling to himself as if it were no big deal. 

You chortled, now thinking he was joking. 

“What’s so funny?” he smiled innocently. 

You tilted your head to the side to gauge him out and scooted away from him to see him better, “Harry, you’re kidding, right?” 

His smile didn’t waver as he shook his head, “Why would I joke about that?” he snickered softly. 

You stuttered, “I just… like you want to go with me when I shop? Help me pick out something?” You set your sandwich down. This now needing your full, undivided attention.

He set his sandwich down as well and turned slightly, finding you amusing, “I want to buy you a dress, accessories, shoes… the mask… anything you might want for the event.” He reached forward and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “I want to take care of you.” 

You looked down shyly at your hand sitting flat on the desk. You didn’t know what to say. You felt like words weren’t computing inside your brain. It was like you were short-circuiting again.

“Will you let me do that?” he asked. 

Ben’s words echoed in your head, ‘Let him take care of you.’

You looked up and did the only thing you could. You nodded while a shy smile slipped onto your lips. 

“Good.” He leaned forward and softly kissed your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. It was as if he were savoring the tender contact, the intimate gesture. He pulled away and smiled warmly, “Do you have time to go this evening?” 

“Yeah… I’ve got time,” you croaked out, your voice cracking slightly. You cleared your throat and lightly let out a chuckle, for which he joined in.

You readjusted to sit back as you were before and picked up your sandwich.

You sat there for a moment, then scooted closer and leaned your head on his shoulder. “So tell me, how was your meeting?” You took a bite, then slid your hand into his. 

He couldn’t help the idiot grin he had on his face but couldn’t give a shit.

He hummed softly, contentedly, and took his sandwich with his free hand and sighed softly, “Long version or short version, hermosa?”  

You nuzzled your head in softly, “Long version…” 

After you left Harry’s work and went back to yours, he told you that he’d pick you up from the hotel to go shopping around 5 pm. 

In true Harry Castillo fashion, he was 10 minutes early, standing outside his car with a new bouquet. This time, it was of peonies. 

You clocked out a few minutes early and walked out to find him leaning against the all black SUV, his eyes on the flowers. He was now dressed in a tan button-down and dark-wash jeans.

You smiled at the sight, “Do you ever not look dashing?” you teased. 

His eyes snapped up to you and instantly had a smile on his face, “Hey there, beautiful…” 

You came up and gently kissed his cheek. “What do we have this time?” you looked down at the flowers, your cheeks pink. 

He leaned down and kissed your cheek back, then held up the flowers a little to present them, “Peonies…” 

You took them from him gently and took a small sniff, “Ooh, I like the smell of those…” you glanced up at him. 

He smiled wider, excited, “Oh? Have we found a favorite?” He had his hand gently on yours, his thumb rubbing the outside of your wrist. 

You blushed at the tenderness, “I think we have a contender, but let’s still run through other flowers. You know, just to be sure…” You winked. 

He chuckled, “Noted.” He then leaned in and kissed your forehead. “Shall we?”  

You nodded and went to get into the front passenger seat out of habit. 

Meanwhile, he opened the back door for you and waited for you to notice.

You turned around to him, confused about why you'd be sitting in the backseat. But then you saw there was a driver in the front seat and tutted. “Should have known better,” you giggled and came back, getting in the back seat.  

Ted, Harry’s driver, took you both to a shopping plaza in SoHo. 

The moment Harry opened your door and you stepped out, you saw places like Chanel, Dior, and Louis Vuitton. 

You chuckled and shook your head, backing up towards the car, not knowing how to react. “Harry, we are not shopping at places like this… It’s too expensive… I…” You looked up at the pretty neon signs above the store's doors. “This is…” You scoffed, not able to find the words. 

You didn’t feel worth it. 

You didn’t feel that him spending this much money on you was something you deserved. 

It felt wrong. But there it was again, Ben’s words, ‘Let him take care of you,’ and for Harry, this was his way of doing just that. 

He chuckled at your reaction and looked at Ted. “Meet us back here in a few hours.” 

Ted nodded and drove off, leaving you looking at Harry with a bewildered smile on your face, to which he just smiled adoringly at you. 

“What?” you giggled. 

He held out his hand and sighed. “Just trust me?” he said, smiling warmly. 

You bit your lip and shook your head, but then sighed playfully, “Alright… fine…” You slid your hand into his. 

He led you into the first store, Chanel, where a shopping attendant greeted you both at the door, eager to make a nice commission. 

She looked lavish and expensive, dressed head to toe in 'completely out of your budget' attire—even the air she was exhaling made you feel poor. “Welcome in! My name is Genevieve. Is there anything I can help you find?” 

You looked up to Harry, unsure of what to do or say. Everything about this seemed like an out-of-body experience to you. 

He smiled and looked at her, letting go of your hand, setting his on the small of your back. “Genevieve, we have a masquerade ball this weekend, and she needs a new dress, new shoes… she needs it all,” he grinned.

You smiled shyly at her, “Maybe we can just start with a dress? I have stuff at home, I’m sure I can use…” You looked up at Harry for a moment, then back at her. 

You didn’t want to be like every other girl Harry had been with; you didn’t want to feel like a gold digger. 

He mouthed to her, ‘Everything’, then winked and grinned. 

She chuckled and nodded at him, understanding completely. “Well, that sounds like fun!” She looked at you and said, “Let's start with what colors you have in mind?” 

She started to walk through the store, heading towards the dresses, and you both followed close behind. 

You looked around, eyes scanning over everything. It was all so immaculate, gleaming, and expensive. You’d never even thought you’d own anything like this, let alone be walking through one of the stores. “Well, I usually go towards darker colors, but I’ve been told I look good in red?” you glanced at her.  

She nodded and started skimming through some of the selections, grabbing some options, humming as she did so. 

Harry walked to another section with you, pulling out a dark red dress, one with a slit up the thigh, but it was just what you liked or would have picked out yourself. “Thoughts?” He glanced at you. 

You nodded and smiled, barely running your fingers over the silky fabric, “I like it.” 

Genevieve gasped, coming over, seeing his selection, “Good choice!” She smiled and took it from him, putting it in the small pile she’d gathered over her arm. “Why don’t we try these on? And then we can narrow down what we do and don’t like– and if we need to go from there.” 

You nodded and smiled. 

“Perfect. If you’d follow me… and then Mr. Castillo, if you’ll take a seat, we’ll get started.” She nodded for you to follow her.

Harry softly rubbed your back, “I’ll just be out here,” then kissed your cheek gently. 

You nodded and smiled up at him.

You walked away and followed her into the dressing room, your hands shyly behind your back. 

You entered the dressing room and changed into a dark brown dress with a very deep bust and dangerously high slit up the thigh. It felt a little too inappropriate for the party you were attending. 

You looked at yourself in the mirror and shook your head, then looked at Genevieve, “I think this is too much…” You looked down at the plunge that opened up your cleavage, blushing at what Harry might think. 

“Do you want to go out and show your boyfriend? Just to get a feel for it?” She smiled and tilted her head, “You know, give him a show?” She giggled playfully. 

“Oh, um, he’s not my— well not yet… I mean, I hope eventually he– Fuck sorry...” You were stumbling over your words. 

She grinned and tilted her head mischievously, “Even more reason to then…” 

You chuckled lightly and looked back at yourself in the mirror. You had to admit, you looked good. No. You looked fucking amazing. The dress accentuated your curves, complemented your skin tone, it made you radiant. “Alright…” you looked at her. “What’s the harm?” you smirked and picked up the front to walk out. 

She cleared her throat and began walking to the main floor to catch Harry's attention. 

Harry was sitting back on the couch, but then immediately straightened up and turned a light shade of red the moment he saw you. He quietly cleared his throat and mumbled under his breath, “Fuck me…” 

You stepped onto the platform and turned to look in the mirrors, watching Harry’s reaction from behind you with a slight smirk. 

“You’re wearing one of our vintage evening gowns from 1987…” She began straightening some parts as she continued, “This is typically worn with black velvet gloves, which would go quite nicely with your masquerade theme…” She began to adjust the train of the dress to present it. 

Harry was speechless. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you, off your body.

His mouth went dry. His mind—usually so sharp, so calculated—was suddenly fogged with one thought, one need, one echo pounding in time with his pulse:

Want.

His pulse thundered in his ears. The slit in the dress climbed like a secret up your thigh, and the way your eyes flicked to him in the mirror—slow, knowing—sent fire curling in his gut.

His thoughts? Completely undone. Replaced by vivid flashes: your back against a wall, lips crashing into his, fingers in his hair, that dress tangled somewhere on the floor.

Genevieve clocked his reaction in the mirror and glanced at you, giving you a knowing wink and a slight smirk. 

You turned around and smiled innocently his way, “Thoughts?” 

His eyes continued to drink you in, eyes trailing down your body— not hearing a word you said. 

You let out a soft giggle, “Harry?”

His gaze snapped up to yours, and he cleared his throat, turning a darker shade of red.

“Sorry, sweetheart, did you say something? I…” he ran his thumb over his bottom lip and looked back down your body, “You look…" he exhaled, "Wow…” he said lowly, sitting forward a bit. 

You blushed and turned back to look at yourself in the mirror. “I feel it might be too much for a work party, you know?” You slid your hands down your body to smooth out the dress. Not knowing it was doing something to him, giving him a little show. 

He chuckled nervously as he adjusted his hips from the unwelcome bulge starting to form.  “I… look, you’re hearin’ no complaints from me…” He swallowed, trying to calm himself down.

You looked back at him and bit your bottom lip, “So, you like this one?” 

His eyes snapped back up to yours and he grinned, “Darlin’, you make anythin’ look good… Of course I like it.” he nodded towards the dressing rooms, “But let’s try on some more, get a feel for what you like, not what I like...” he raised his eyebrow, being supportive of you dressing for you, not for him. 

Genevieve spoke up, “I like what he said. This is about what you like.” She offered her hand. “Plus, we can always return to this one and see if our minds change…” She looked up at you and smiled politely. 

You looked down at Genevieve, taking her hand, stepping off the platform, and smiled back, “I agree…” 

She nodded and then led you back to the dressing room, where she had you put on a few more dresses. 

You walked out and showed Harry each time, but they didn’t have the same reaction as the first—for you or him. 

However, there was one last dress.

It was the one that Harry had found.

And once it was on you, it fit like a glove. 

It was everything— elegant, sexy, tasteful, but allowed for slight teasing. 

It had a high slit up the thigh and had a somewhat lower cut in the bust. However, it was more tasteful than the first as it highlighted your collarbones and shoulders beautifully. 

You couldn’t help but beam when you looked at yourself in the mirror.

You looked radiant. 

You walked out to see Harry on his phone texting, but the second he heard Genevieve’s high heels hit the floor, his attention snapped up.

It was like all the air had been sucked out of his lungs the way his breath caught as he saw you. 

You bit your bottom lip and blushed at the clear reaction. You knew this one was it with how his eyes drank every inch of you in. 

The first was fun—something to wear to a more intimate and casual event. However, this one was tasteful and had the exact same effect on him, leaving him speechless. 

You stepped up and looked into the mirrors. You now were able to see how it hugged every curve of you beautifully. Every line— highlighted. 

You worked your angles, making sure everything fit perfectly, and then looked at Harry in the mirror, “Thoughts?” 

He took a moment to absorb how beautiful you looked.

He was thinking about how much he’d been waiting for so long to feel this way for someone, and now here you are— right in front of him. He wasn’t going to let you go or let you down. As he looked at you in this moment, not only was the dress the one, but so are you. 

He smiled adoringly and nodded at you, “I’m going to be the luckiest man at the party with how beautiful you look in that dress, querida…” He leaned forward, giving you his fullest attention. 

You blushed and found his eyes in the mirror. You took a deep breath and nodded at him, "Ok, this is the one."

Genevieve giggled, which pulled your focus to her. She clapped her hands together a couple times, “Ah! I love it! This dress was made for you…” 

She took a step back and hummed, “However, it’s missing something…” She tapped her fingers on her lips as she began thinking for a few seconds, then she lit up and held up a finger, “I’ve got it! Wait here…” She then disappeared into the store on the hunt. 

You looked back over your shoulder and chuckled, “What could possibly be missing?” 

Harry looked behind his shoulder to see where she had gone, but couldn’t find her.

He looked back at you, and both of you smiled shyly at each other. 

He stood from the couch and made his way over to you. The closer he got, the more his eyes ran over every part of you. You shyly looked back at the mirror and watched his movements.

He hummed before offering his hand for you to step off the platform, “Well… it may not be what she’s thinking… but I do have something in mind that I’ve been thinking might make it better…” 

You took his hand and stepped off the platform, slightly confused but intrigued. You looked up at him and smiled softly, “Oh? What would that be?” you teased, feeling shy under his gaze. 

He swallowed down his nerves, then found your eyes, “Just my opinion, but…” He slowly reached up and cupped your cheek before leaning in, his voice a hushed whisper lost between the beats of your heart. His thumb brushed gently along your cheekbone, eyes searching yours like he needed to be sure this moment was real.

The world seemed to blur around you—no more noise, no more people, just the closeness between you and him. You could feel the warmth of his breath as the space narrowed, your lips a breath apart.

Your hands—unsure at first—found their way to the fabric of his shirt, fingers curling lightly near his chest. You could feel his heartbeat beneath your palms, quick like yours. One hand slid up almost instinctively, fingertips grazing the side of his neck, drawn to the way he leaned into your touch.

“…this,” he finished, his words trembling on the edge of a kiss.

Your thoughts became rushed—Is this really happening? Can he feel how nervous I am? God, please don’t mess this up. But beneath all that noise was something quieter, something softer: I want this. I want him.

And then he closed the distance.

It was gentle and deliberate, as if he wanted to memorize the shape of your lips. Your eyes fluttered closed, and for a moment, all those thoughts dissolved. There was only the feeling—the warmth, the closeness, the way the world melted away until it was just him.

Your fingers tightened slightly in his shirt as the kiss deepened, just a little, and you tilted your head to meet him more fully. You felt seen. Wanted. Safe.

When he pulled back, barely an inch, his forehead rested against yours. His breath mingled with yours, both of you smiling in the quiet.

Your eyes flutter open, and you let out a soft chuckle, whispering, “I um, I think to add that to the outfit, there’s an added fee…” you joked, gently caressing his jawline with your fingertips, studying his features, memorizing everything about this moment. 

His eyes remained closed, forehead still against yours as he chuckled, low and warm in his chest, before he leaned back in and murmured against your lips, “Whatever the price… I’ll pay millions if it means I get to kiss you like that, querida…”

You barely had time to smile before his lips were on yours again—this time slower, deeper, like he had all the time in the world and no intention of rushing any second of it.

His hand slid from your cheek down to your waist, fingers splaying there as he gently pulled you in, closing the last bit of distance between your bodies. The warmth of his touch burned through the thin fabric, and the feeling of his body pressed against yours sent a shiver down your spine.

Your hands moved instinctively, trailing up his chest—feeling the steady beat of his heart — before loosely wrapping around his neck, fingertips threading into his hair. You tilted your head slightly, leaning into him, meeting the kiss with just as much quiet urgency.

It was deep, but not desperate—tender in its intensity. He kissed you like he needed you to feel what he couldn’t quite say out loud yet. Like he wanted you to know this wasn’t just a moment. It was the moment.

Your breaths mingled, uneven now, but neither of you seemed to care. The world outside your embrace didn’t exist anymore—not when his thumb was drawing slow circles against your waist, not when you felt him smile slightly against your lips like kissing you was the best decision he'd ever made.

Genevieve’s voice cut through the haze you two were in, making you both slowly pull away and look at each other, both smiling like idiots.  

“I found thi—” she saw what she’d interrupted and shyly chuckled, “Oh, pardon me, umm…” she turned away, attempting to give you both privacy.

Harry lightly chuckled and kissed your forehead. “No, no… pardon me...” He let go of your waist and looked at Genevieve as she turned back around, his lips somewhat red and cheeks rosy. “What did you find for her?” he nodded to her as he went and sat back down. 

You let out a slow exhale, and tucked a strand of loose hair behind your ear as she came over and had some jewelry and handbags to show you. 

You looked away first, cheeks warming all over again as Genevieve continued talking, holding up a clutch with little gold details. You nodded along, barely catching half of what she said—your heart still somewhere between his hands and that kiss.

You caught him glancing at you again from the corner of your eye.

Not in a way that demanded anything, just… there. Warm, steady, a little breathless—like he was still replaying that kiss in his head the same way you were.

Your lips curved into a shy smile before you could stop it. You no longer tried to hide it. Not when the air still hummed between you. Not when he looked at you like that kiss opened up that part in his heart deep down like it did for you.

He tilted his head just slightly, like he was memorizing the way you looked when you were trying not to smile. Like this was his new favorite view.

Genevieve didn’t seem to notice—or if she did, she was kind enough to pretend. She kept chatting as she turned to the mirror, holding up one of the necklaces to your neckline.

And in the quiet moment that followed, your eyes met his again.

This time, you held the look.

Long enough for it to say everything,

I liked that. I want more. We’re not done.

And when he gave you that barely-there smile again—the one that said I know, me too—your heart skipped, flipped, and practically melted into your chest.

Friday 

You managed to get off work around 4 pm, as you were panicking about being ready on time. 

Harry told you last night that he’d pick you up at seven. With that being said, that would give you 3 hours to run around your place like a madwoman while Lila chased you around, trying to help put you together.

As expected, he knocked right on time, 7 pm sharp. 

Lila was still there unexpectedly, as there was a last-minute makeup snafu. 

You whispered hearing the door, “Fuck! You aren’t supposed to be here!” 

She quietly giggled and shoved you towards the door. 

You turned back and chuckled, pointing behind the couch, “Hide! Quickly!” 

She ran and hid behind the couch, peeking around so she could see the front door.  

You let out a breath and shook your hands shaking out all the nerves. 

You hadn’t seen Harry since that day he took you shopping. Afterwards, both your schedules picked up again– his taking him out of town for the last couple of days. 

All the nervousness and tension had been building up from the calls and texts you two shared over the last couple of days. You both were very eager to see each other. 

Lila popped out and loudly whispered, “Oh for Christ sake, open the door!” 

You turned around and waved her off, shushing her, giggling. 

She popped back down, and you opened the door— and there he was. 

He looked absolutely devastating in a dark, subtly patterned suit that hugged his frame perfectly, the crisp white of his shirt peeking through just enough to make him seem both dangerous and heartbreakingly polite. His hair was tousled back, like he’d run his hands through it a few too many times in nervous excitement. He had a little smirk across his lips — the one that made his deep-set eyes soften — aimed straight at you.

‘God damn it, how was I supposed to survive tonight when he looks like that?’ 

He was holding a bouquet that was wrapped in brown paper, tied sweetly with a dark red bow, one to match your dress. 

The moment he laid eyes on you, for a second — maybe longer — he forgot how to breathe.

He dragged his eyes back up to yours, trying (and failing) not to look too awestruck. His heart was pounding like he’d just run a mile.

"Wow..." he breathed out, voice a little rougher than he intended. He chuckled low, shaking his head as he stepped closer, the world around him narrowing down to nothing but you.

"You’re... you're going to ruin me tonight, aren’t you?" he smirked.

Before you could even tease him back with a response, he was already moving, drawn in like gravity had decided you were the center of the universe.

He cupped your face gently, and then he kissed you — slow at first, like he wanted to savor the moment, then a little deeper when he felt you lean into him.

It wasn't rushed, wasn't messy — it was the kind of kiss that promised a night neither of you would forget, filled with heat, laughter, and something dangerously close to falling head over heels.

When he finally pulled back, barely an inch, his forehead rested against yours, and he whispered, a little breathless, "You have no idea what you’re doing to me..."

You breathlessly whispered, reaching up to cup his cheek, “I’ve missed you…” 

He smiled like he’d never smiled before hearing that. His arm moved down to wrap around your waist and pull you close to him, “God, I’ve missed you too…” 

You giggled and leaned back in, forgetting about Lila completely– who was watching from behind the couch with a shit eating grin on her face trying not to make a peep.

This time, you kissed him deeper.

You melted into him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, needing something to hold onto as the kiss grew hotter, messier — the kind that made time stutter and your heart pound in your ears.

He tilted his head, deepening it even more, a low sound escaping from the back of his throat that made your knees threaten to give out. It wasn’t just desire in the kiss — it was something hungry, something that said he’d been waiting for this without even realizing it.

When you finally broke apart, both of you felt a little dizzy. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in like you were oxygen.

"If we don't leave right now..." he murmured, his voice thick with desire, "... I’m not sure we ever will." He gently squeezed your waist, pulling you close to him.

You swallowed and nodded, your eyes staying closed for a moment while you centered yourself. 

Your eyes opened, and slowly, reluctantly pulled away from him, blushing, “I uhm, I need to grab my mask and purse.” 

You nodded to your living room, “Make yourself at home.” 

You went to turn away when he gasped and pulled you back, “Shit, I uhm, I got these for you…” he held up the bouquet between the two of you, smiling down at you. 

You leaned down and sniffed them, blushing as he watched. 

“Chocolate ranunculus…” he softly said. 

“I like them. They match my dress…” You smiled sweetly up at him. 

He tutted and tilted his head, biting his lip, “That may have been intentional, hermosa…”

You hummed and took them from him softly, “Well, I’m going to go put these in a vase before we leave… I’ll be quick.” You reached up on your toes and pecked his lips, leaving him smiling like a fool as you disappeared down the hall.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, still feeling the ghost of your lips, and began casually pacing your living room — taking in the framed photos, souvenirs, and small touches that felt undeniably you. 

His smile widened when he spotted a photo of you and Lila on your wall at the beach, arms wrapped around each other, laughing mid-splash. 

That’s when he heard it — the soft creak of movement behind the couch.

He tilted his head slowly. “You know,” he said, loud enough to be heard but still casual, “if you’re gonna spy on your sister’s love life, Lila, you should at least bring popcorn to enjoy the show.”

Lila popped up like a guilty meerkat, her expression caught somewhere between sheepish and exasperated. “I knew I should’ve hid in the coat closet,” she muttered.

He crossed his arms, grinning smugly. “That would’ve made it so much less suspicious...” He chuckled.

“Don’t look so proud of yourself, okay?” she grumbled. “I wasn’t spying. I was... waiting for my moment to escape when you two left.”

“By hiding behind a piece of furniture like a sitcom character?” he teased.

“You were early!” she snapped, pointing an accusatory finger. 

He just laughed. “I was on time!”

Just then, you reappeared, carrying a vase of freshly arranged flowers — and immediately froze.

“Oh my God.” You stared at the two of them, eyes wide. “Lila you didn’t just see—”

“She did,” he said, without missing a beat.

“She didn’t,” Lila cut in at the same time, trying to sidestep around him with her dignity barely intact.

“You did, you saw…” you groaned, half-laughing, half-mortified.

Lila chuckled, feeling your embarrassment, “I’m sorry… but for the record... you guys are adorable... all love sick and needy!” she teased.

You waved a hand at the door. “Just go. Get out. Shoo. Go. Vanish...”

Lila muttered something under her breath that made Harry chuckle, then finally slipped out, leaving the door swinging shut behind her.

He looked at you, still smiling. “You two really are sisters.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your clutch and mask. “Oh, stop it...” Your cheeks are still red with embarrassment. 

He chuckled lowly. “You’re cute when you’re like this…” he said, offering you his arm. “Ready?”

You looped your arm through his, still grinning as the two of you stepped out into the night — leaving behind the flowers, the laughter, and the sister-shaped chaos.

Ted drove the two of you to the Cipriani 25 Broadway venue.

When the two of you got inside, the hall was packed.

His hand was warm against the small of your back as the heavy doors creaked open before the two of you. For a moment, you both just stood there, the world inside the ballroom spilling out, enchanting you.

The hall was bathed in gold and shadow, candlelight flickering off marble columns — soaring, painted ceilings.

Nearly two hundred masked figures swirled and laughed, their movements weaving an intricate and glowing motion.

You could hear music coming from a hidden quartet, which made the atmosphere feel delicate and rich. 

You felt his breath hitch– you glanced up to find him already looking down at you. His dark suit caught the light just right. It was enough to hint at its texture — and the sharp line of his jaw was only partly hidden by the black Venetian mask he wore. He looked deliciously handsome, and you could instantly tell he was the envy of the room — as most of the women’s heads turned towards him. 

"You’re breathtaking," he murmured, low enough that only you could hear, his voice rough around the edges. His fingers squeezed gently at your waist to reassure himself that you were real and his.

You smiled behind your delicate, dark red mask and reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his with easy, intimate familiarity. “I feel quite lucky tonight…” 

He let out a soft chuckle as the two of you began strolling further inside to find a table. “Why’s that?” 

Sharp eyes behind jeweled masks raked over his tall frame, his dark suit cut to perfection, as he strode with quiet confidence.

And then they looked at you. At his hand, which you held. How close the two of you walked. At how his attention — his energy — and how it was wholly yours.

It felt electric. Intoxicating.

You lifted your chin slightly as you moved past them, feeling bold beneath your lace mask. Their stares didn’t shake you once. In fact, you felt emboldened by them. Let them look. Let them wonder who you were, and what you’d done to make him look at you the way he did.

“You seem to have been the goal for all the single ladies tonight, and I’m afraid I may have stepped on some toes... burst some bubbles…” You nodded towards a group of women — their eyes not so subtly watching the two of you, drinking champagne, surely gossiping about who you were and why you’re with him. 

Harry looked that way, then he stopped and slowly pulled you close, “Then why don’t we give them somethin’ better to stare and gossip about?” he grinned sinfully.

You barely had time to process the mischievous gleam in his eye before he slid his hand along your jaw, tilting your chin up toward him. The music, the crowd, the glittering spectacle of the ballroom — all of it blurred into nothing the second he leaned in.

His mouth captured yours in a slow, almost teasing kiss. His thumb brushed along your cheek as if he was savoring the moment, deepening it little by little until you felt yourself melting into him.

Gasps rippled through the nearby crowd that you’d just pointed out. You could feel the stares on you like a thousand tiny sparks, but you didn’t care. Not when his arms wrapped fully around you, drawing you so tightly against him that there was no mistaking it — no mistaking the claim he was making by doing this.

The kiss grew deeper, hungrier, his hand sliding down your spine in a way that made you arch instinctively closer. When he finally pulled back — reluctantly, slowly — he stayed close enough that you could still feel the brush of his breath against your mouth.

He grinned, all wickedness and charm.

“Think they got the message?” he murmured, softly nudging his nose against yours.

You barely found your voice. “Loud and clear.”

He chuckled low, stealing one more soft, lingering kiss before slipping his arm firmly around your waist and leading you further into the glittering masquerade, leaving behind a trail of envious stares and whispered speculation in your wake.

And you couldn’t help the smile that curved your lips.

If they weren’t watching before, they sure as hell were now.

The night went on with dinner and the importance of this event was discussed around you — closing the deal with Tets Investments. 

When the two of you sat down to eat dinner a few of his coworkers attempted to talk shop. However, he constantly shifted the conversation to topics you could be included in as well as the other plus ones. 

You admired how he spoke to others — he was confident but not arrogant. He made everyone feel welcome, included, and supported. It wasn’t a shock that there were so many people who came to say hello. Each time he’d hold you close, introduce you, and keep you involved in whatever was being discussed. 

Close to 9 o'clock, the rhythm slowed down, and the two of you stood in the back of the ballroom, sipping champagne, watching those on the dance floor.

Harry stood with his arm around your waist from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. He whispered little facts or stories about certain people to you he'd pointed out, fully opening up his world — his life to you. 

You had never felt so welcomed into someone’s life. Everyone you’d been with in the last couple of years was always so shut off. They always had something to hide. They feared letting you get too close, or maybe you didn’t want to get that close deep down. But, things with Harry felt different. At some points, it's all too good to be true. You’ve thought he deserves better, but there he is, every time those thoughts come up, reassuring he wants nothing — nobody but you. 

—

The music shifted at one point—a slow, pulsing waltz began. Without a word, he moved from behind you and tugged gently at your hand, his other settling possessively at your waist. Your breath caught as he pulled you close, chest to chest, the heat of him sinking through the silk of your dress.

"You owe me a dance," he said, voice a low tease against the shell of my ear.

You smiled, tilting your head up toward him. "I don’t remember agreeing to that, handsome."

His mouth curved into a lazy, wicked grin. "You didn’t. I’m cashing it in anyway."

Before you could say another word, he guided you onto the floor, folding you into him so naturally it felt like both of you had danced this way a hundred times before. 

He pulled you closer, his hand sliding low on your back as you moved together, bodies swaying in time with the slow, sultry music. The candlelight flickered across his mask, but you could still see the warmth in his brown eyes — the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the entire room.

He leaned in, his mouth brushing just beside your ear as he whispered, voice rich and teasing, "You know, I think you might just be my favorite view tonight."

Your breath caught, a smile curving your lips as a delicious shiver ran down your spine.

You tilted your head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze — playful, daring.

"Just tonight?" you teased.

He laughed under his breath, the sound low and intimate, and tightened his hold ever so slightly, pulling you even closer.

"Darlin', you've been my favorite view every night since that wedding..."

Your heart skipped wildly in your chest, the world around you fading even further away as you let yourself fall a little deeper into him.

The music slowed down as it wrapped around you both. His fingers tightened gently on yours, and without warning, he spun you out — just a step, just far enough that you caught a few eyes, those still envious of you and their stares aimed at you. 

You laughed, the sound light and breathless, and the moment your hand found his again, he pulled you right back in — closer than before.

The smile he wore was adoring and charming — he looked at you as if you were the moon and stars. 

Then, before you could catch your breath, he slid his hand down your back and dipped you low, his arm strong and sure behind you, the beautiful painted ceiling above you with the skylight creating a halo around his head. 

The world spun, tilted, and all you could do was cling to him, laughing, and breathless as you stared up into his smiling eyes.

"God, you're beautiful," he whispered, just for you.

He brought you up slowly, holding you so close your masks brushed, your noses almost touching, your breaths shared in the tiny space between you.

You clutched at his lapel, heart hammering in your chest, completely lost in the moment — but completely his.

You tilted your chin up and closed the distance between the two of you.

The kiss started slow, achingly slow — the two of you memorizing it all, the feeling of each other in one another's arms. 

But then he groaned low in his throat, a sound that went straight through you, causing an ache to stir deep below, between your legs. 

You deepened the kiss — heated, hungry, losing every bit of restraint you had pretended to have all night.

His hand slid higher, threading into the hair at the back of your head, anchoring you to him. 

When he finally pulled back after the song ended and started into a new one, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard, smiling without meaning to.

"God help me…" he muttered against your lips, "... you’re going to be the death of me tonight if you keep kissin’ me like that."

Before either of you could speak again — still breathless, still clinging to the high of that kiss, a deep, rich voice cut clean through the haze.

“There you are.”

You both turned slightly, still tangled together. A tall man in a navy velvet jacket stood a few feet away. He exuded the unmistakable air of people around him beckoning to his call.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he added with a cheeky smile that said otherwise, “but I need a quick word with you before the Tets people get too deep into the champagne.” he nodded towards a group of people across the room, all enjoying the party. He turned to Harry, touching his shoulder, starting to pull him to join him, completely ignoring you. 

You felt Harry shift, his posture subtly straightening, and just like that, the man you’d been dancing with, the one who’d whispered things that still buzzed in your veins — slipping into something more polished, more composed. But his hand didn’t leave your waist, he didn’t let himself be pulled away towards the gentleman. 

“Of course, sir,” he said, then paused — just long enough to turn to you and place a steadying hand on the small of your back. “But before I disappear—” he looked back at the man, his voice smooth, but warm, “—I’d like to introduce you to my girlfriend.”

‘Girlfriend? Did he really just say that?’

The word hung in the air for half a second longer than it should have, stealing the breath from your lungs and making your heart pound excitedly. 

Your eyes fluttered up at him, but he didn’t flinch — just gave you the softest, quickest squeeze at your side. His eyes flicked down, as if to say yes, I meant that, and I hope you’re okay with this, all at once.

A blush flared beneath my mask, but you managed a graceful and polite smile as the gentleman held out his hand for you to shake. 

You gently took it and quickly ran through your head at who he may be. He was someone higher than Harry who commanded respect. From conversations with him, the only person you could think of that he could be was the CEO, so you took a blind shot. “You must be Mr. Clarkson, it’s lovely to meet you, sir.” 

“Pleasure is all mine, sweetheart,” he said, gently shaking your hand.

'Bullseye. Thank god'

He offered a short soft smile. “Glad he’s not here alone — man needs someone to keep him grounded.”

You shook his hand and offered some polite response that you barely remembered the second it left your mouth, because your brain was still short-circuiting around that one word.

Girlfriend.

Mr. Clarkson nodded at Harry to follow him before walking away.

Harry leaned down again, his voice lower, private, “I’ll make this fast. Don’t run off too far.” he joked and gave you a quick wink. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it” You whispered back, still trying to keep the smile in your voice as your thoughts were running wild.

He brushed his lips against your cheek ever so softly.

Before you knew it, he turned to follow his boss toward the edge of the ballroom, already murmuring numbers and terms as they walked away — leaving you on cloud nine.

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[everythingmp3]

can’t get enough

adult!Van x fem!reader

living with your girlfriend has many upsides: spending slow mornings together, sharing a sense of home, falling asleep in her arms, and the fact that shes there to offer you relief when youre feeling needier than usual, when you keep wanting more and she keeps giving in

authors note: I wont lie, this one came from me thinking about how certain phases of your cycle can make you feel crazy, so it’s heavier on the smut than usual, but there’s a decent amount of plot too, that’s why it’s around 9k! hope you enjoy <3

warnings: smut (reader receiving)

you couldn´t have asked for a better kind of Sunday.

you were blessed with beautiful early spring weather, Van´s was apartment flooded by golden afternoon light, which intensified the feeling of it being your safe haven. you´d spent the early hours of the day doing nothing but delight in each other´s presence, savoring all those hours of freedom and ease.

even though you´d been dating her for nearly seven months by that point, you were in a new kind of honeymoon phase, since you had moved into her apartment only about a month before, which made it one of the first weekends of you living together as a couple. 

up until that point, it had been nothing but lovely, all of the little anxious thoughts that had gotten to you during the moving process - like the fear that you´d start getting on each other´s nerves or lose some of that intense spark you´d felt before - proving to be completely unwarranted because if anything you only fell more deeply in love when you finally got to see the other person during moments where they felt unwatched, like when Van hummed a song to herself while making coffee, or when you took a nap on the couch in her clothes and she almost melted on the spot when she walked in on it. 

none of it was truly surprising considering how lovestruck you both still felt even half a year into your relationship, just as passionate as that night you´d first kissed like you were scared that you´d just dreamed each other up, clinging on for dear life. 

one of the things that Van did for you before you moved in, was that she´d put a little desk in her bedroom for you to use whenever you had assignments to write and needed to be by yourself, in a separate space, in order not to get distracted by her presence nearby. 

that Sunday afternoon, you had an essay to finish, so you were seated at the desk, staring outside of the bedroom window, unable to concentrate, unable to write as much as a single word, silently losing your mind due to one pressing issue: you were horny out of your mind.

it was the kind of horniness that simply would not subside, for hours and hours, that could get you worked up just from a simple thought, that could wreck you just from a minute of fantasizing, so you found yourself almost shaking with need, breathing unevenly, acutely aware that jerking off would not relieve you of the craving that was eating you from the inside out. 

moving in together naturally meant that you and Van started having sex more than before, it was inevitable with all that access to each other that you followed your instincts whenever they took a hold of you, no matter what time of day or what you were both supposed to be doing instead, it was exciting to share that new domestic kind of sexuality, for Van especially, since few things turned her on more than being pursued and corned by you. sharing a living space with you gave her that tingling sense of anticipation, the thrill of not knowing when she might feel your hand slide under her shirt, your breath on her neck, your wordless way of saying “give into me”, which she did, every time, often just waiting to surrender, to go pliant under your touch, to do whatever you wanted. 

you fell into a comfortable rhythm, which usually stayed somewhat the same, except for the days where you truly couldn´t keep your hands of each other and fucking turned into an all-day thing, round after round after round while abandoning whatever it was that you´d told yourself you would get done that day, not a care in the world about anything but devouring each other only to starve again within no time, barely giving your bodies time to recover, leaving you entirely spent by nightfall, but happily so. 

that day was one of those days, especially on your part. it started right after you woke up. it took you about a minute of laying next to her and watching her stir until you started feeling her up, kissing her neck, pushing her shirt up to feel her chest, which turned into a lazy, sensual hour of touching and eventually getting each other off, her hand staying between your thighs until you stopped whining for more. after breakfast, you snuggled up on the couch, which turned into kissing, which turned into making out, a proper heavy-breathing, sloppy, borderline dry-humping make-out session, the kind that she never allowed herself with previous lovers, addicted to every part of it, the way you caressed her hair, the way you grabbed her jaw whenever you needed to deepen the kiss, the way you´d sometimes pull back to kiss her face in a rush of affection before returning your lips to hers, every part of it, so that morning you made out for ages until you caved again and fucked on the couch for a while, laying there breathless and swollen-lipped for a decent amount of time afterwards, enjoying the luxury of having a morning all to yourself, to do whatever you pleased, or rather, whoever you pleased. a few hours of being outside, eating lunch, and getting things done around the apartment passed, until it was around 4pm and Van offered to give you head when she sensed how riled up you still were, really taking her time with it, drawing it out until you were unsure how much more you could take, which ended in you riding her face until you had to tap out, ruined by the sight of her beautiful smile as she laid there with her mouth open, glistening in the sunlight, licking her lips like she hadn´t just gotten smothered by that taste.

in moments like that she was almost in shock about just how deep your need for her seemed to be able to run, seemingly no amount of her touch enough to make you wish she´d stop. she knew in her heart that she could´ve insisted on having you again and again and again that day without meeting any kind of hesitancy, and the thought alone made her feel high on adoration for you, the way you´d come into her life and suddenly made her feel so desirable again, after years of feeling like a shell of herself, empty, unappealing. 

as you were sitting at your desk, haunted by the fresh memory of her devoted touch, your skin still burning where her fingertips had dug in to hold you in place, you told yourself to leave her alone and get to work, but nothing helped, you were a mess, so around fifteen minutes after you´d left her alone in the living room with the words “okay, I´m gonna go get this thing done” you admitted defeat and walked back out into the living space, too desperate for more of her to spend another second away from her. 

Van was sitting on the couch, reading her book, blissfully unaware of the hunger her girlfriend was eyeing her with. you took a second just to watch her from where you were standing, her freshly washed hair glowing like flames in a way that made you want to bury your nose in it and take the deepest breath, the way you often did at night when you were the big spoon. 

eventually, you got over yourself and quietly walked over to her. at first, she didn´t react, so you flopped down next to her on the couch and watched her from the side as she pretended not to notice, her eyes still cast down, her smile giving away that she wasn´t reading at all, that she was just waiting for you to say something, to admit why you were not doing what you were supposed to, but after a moment she dropped her book and turned her body to face you directly with a fond, amused expression, almost like a parent who´d caught their child staying up way past bedtime. 

“yes, can I help you, darling?” she said, her tone overly sweet, clearly teasing you about your inability to stay away. “yes…” you answered, your tone quieter and huskier than intended, strained by your obvious pressing need, it was clear what you wanted, but she pretended not to notice, still messing with you a bit when she cocked her head and asked “you done with your essay already?”. 

you shook your head, “no, but it´s not due til tomorrow” it wasn´t a lie, but she was too clever to fall for it “well, we have plans tomorrow night, so, that´s no excuse”. you didn´t laugh, you were too riled up to have any humor, which was not the case too often, so seeing you sit there like that, pouting, made her reach out and caress your knee while laughing, “hey, you okay there?”. 

her touch was enough for you to lose all ability to restrain yourself, so you sighed “no, no not at all.. I need you so bad..” while climbing over and getting half on her lap to grab her neck, breathing against her face then, trying your best to persuade her, your body basically vibrating with need as she wrapped her arms around your back and felt you cling to her, which got a labored breath out of Van, the way your weight pressed down against her, the feeling of being climbed like that. she searched your eyes and said “again already? it´s barely been an hour”, she was clearly baiting you to flatter her a bit, but you were glad to do it, so you nodded and gave her a brief but heartfelt kiss “yeah I know…can´t help it…”. 

she could tell that you were genuinely already just as worked up as before, so she cooed “poor thing, you´re really going through it today, aren´t you?”, aware that the faux-mocking would only rile you up more, so she used the moment to her advantage and went in for the kill, kissing your neck while slipping her hands under your shirt, an undignified sound leaving you because the way she moved her lips all over your pulse-point didn´t alleviate you from your ache, it only deepened it, to a worrying degree, each wet kiss making you squirm and bite your lip in an effort to stay quiet while your nails dug into her skin, jerking forward on her lap, chasing friction.

you heard a quiet laugh as she felt you shiver all over and pulled away, whispering “so needy today..”, no malice to her words at all, just her usual way of using foreplay to seem composed, because the second you actually got down to it, she could never pretend to be anything but weak in the knees for you, a slave to your every wish, so you let it slide, her momentary cockiness, only nodding, unable to deny that you were in fact the picture of neediness right then. 

Van pulled back and looked at you, holding your face in her hands, gently, stroking your cheeks “I should tell you to get back to your work, you know” she mused. you both knew that there was no world in which she could ever deny you, but even just the thought of stopping right then made a wave of terror wash over you, so you said “no” a bit sharper than intended, “no?” she echoed, grinning, moving her hands from your face to your shoulders.

“please just.. I don´t need much baby, I´ll be quick, please, only a few minutes” you were out of your mind, usually you wouldn´t have bargained for sex with her, you would´ve made a joke or been more playful about it, but you were sucked up in such a vortex of desire that you couldn´t speak or think the way you normally would, which made Van feel a kind of power that wasn´t unpleasant, still, she wasn´t one to be sadistic, so she dropped the teasing “hm, well I think I can do better than just a few minutes”. 

“yeah?” you asked with bright eyes, but it wasn´t a surprise, Van was not the type for quick aggressive sex, rushed attempts at getting off, she was a romantic at heart, especially in bed, so the most satisfying intimacy for her was the kind both you and her could savor, draw out, drown out time and space with, so she gestured for you to get up and grabbed your hand to lead you back to the bedroom, endeared by the way your eyes seemed to sparkle at her suggestion, “yes, come on, let me see what I can do for you”. as you let her tug you forward you felt anticipatory relief from what was about to happen, and a rush of heat from her formal way of phrasing it, as if she was talking about a business offer, not you, getting ruined by her.

you were only wearing a pair of shorts and a shirt without a bra, so within seconds you were undressed, unwilling to play it cool or act coy, your underwear already discarded on the floor when Van was still peeling off her flannel and her jeans, leaving her in her underwear and a thin white tank top as she crawled up on the bed where you´d already found your place. 

Van was about to get between your legs but you beckoned her closer“wait no, come here”, eager to kiss her, so she smiled and obliged, letting you pull her into a deep and hungry kiss, melting into it for a second, a pleased groan when you kept going and going, lavishing her with the kind of kisses that one might give a lover after having missed them for weeks, when it had been just an hour since you´d last made out. she seemed surprised, judging by the moan stuck in her throat, but it was nothing new, no amount of time spent with her seemed to ever make you feel like you had gotten enough of her lips, the softness, the warmth, the way she tasted, but after a while you grew too hot and separated, panting, nodding as if to say “okay, now you can get down there”, which she did, gladly, kissing a line all the way from the hollow of your throat to your lower stomach, working you up even more, which made you brace yourself on your elbows to watch her, breathing heavy, parting your legs wider to give her space, to invite her, impatient, a sudden throbbing sensation where you where dying to feel the heat of her mouth once more.

Van looked up at you and let out a quiet, vaguely pitying “ohh baby” when she saw how helpless you looked, how you couldn´t even smile because you were so sick with desire, which made her feel equal parts protective and possessive, an acute sense of “only I get to see her like this, nobody else”. it stirred something deep within her, so she leaned in and kissed your inner thigh feverishly, licked over it, bit down ever so lightly, marked her territory before she moved up and reached out to drag her fingers over your cunt to part you, a high-pitched whimper from you as she took a moment to appreciate how wet you´d already gotten for her. after a moment of playing with you, she leaned in and kissed the outside area, slowly dipped her tongue between your folds, met by that taste she could never tire of, a moan from her that matched yours as you laid back and felt her start to move her tongue up and down in long, self-indulgent strokes, over and over, gripping your thighs and getting her face all up in you, the way she always did, clearly never waiting for your approval or praise but just enjoying herself so deeply that it was a given you were too, heavily making out with your cunt, lewd sounds that almost drowned out the whimpers you couldn´t keep in. 

after a while of unravelling you, she focused only on your clit, relentlessly, applying just enough pressure to satisfy, while making you whine for more, faint, muffled “hmm” sounds coming from her as the tip of her tongue flicked over you again and again, a rhythm that you matched by rocking your hips up to meet her mouth, which only made her go harder. 

when she really loved someone, the way she loved you, she found a place of worship between her lovers legs, poured all of her feelings into the act of giving head, which was why you were addicted, the same way she was, both of you oftentimes taking turns multiple times in one night until your jaws hurt. in that moment, it was no different, you were all hers, moaning and sighing praises as she kept going, your hands finding their way into her hair as you lifted your upper body a bit to be able to watch, lovingly caressing the back of her head as you looked down at her and felt a tightening ache at your core, your breathing even more rapid from the sight of her eating, the divine perversity of it, a sharp breath in when she let her gaze flicker up at you and held eye-contact for a moment while you kept her trapped, your legs close to her ears, and felt her reach up to hold your hands, squeezing them in reassurance, until she could feel that you were getting close and freed her right hand again, moving her mouth away for a second, panting, chin slick with you, so she could see what she was doing as she slipped two of her fingers into you, an instant sigh of relief as you felt her inside of you, so you moaned “yeah like that..” and laid back again, fully surrendered. 

she took the cue and went to finish you off by curling her fingers up in you, hitting the spot she knew so well by then over and over, while attaching her mouth back onto you and hearing the familiar sound of your pleading and cursing, your hands clutching the sheets, your mind blank, your walls clenching around her fingers as she didn´t let up one bit and sucked on your clit until you couldn´t hold out any longer and came all over her fingers, her free hand gripping your thigh to keep you from closing your legs as she kept going all throughout your climax until your muscles finally relaxed and you let out a deep shuddering sigh, shaking, high on the orgasm in a way that left you needing more, much more. one wouldn´t be enough, even while you were still recovering from the intense release, your body was already calling for the same thing again, a tremor taking you over that would not subside, Van could tell, so she caressed you and kissed your leg to catch a small break, before she pushed her messed up hair out of her face, which made you move your head to see it and marvel at her, the beauty of her in that moment, her face all flushed, her lips raw and red, a glow that made her look like she´d just come as well, which knowing her, perhaps she had, it had happened before, that she´d finished just from pleasing you. 

“.. you´re so pretty…” you sighed, still breathless, which made her grin and move up to kiss you, softly, a faint residue of your taste hitting you, her face so hot that it radiated onto yours, both of you ready to push it further, to look even more wrecked by the end. 

you needed more, badly, the throbbing wouldn´t go away, nothing would help, so you felt the urge to take her strap. you didn´t do it too often, it was something you reserved for when either or both of you wanted to be fucked so badly that fingers wouldn´t suffice anymore, which wasn´t every time, but right then, you were in that state, and a shared look between you was enough to communicate, you didn´t even have to ask, but still, she made sure, “need a bit more than that, don´t you?”, so you nodded “yeah.. please”, and the return of your begging was enough to make her need it as well, to see you get what you were craving, to watch you come again, but harder than before, it was ringing in her ears then, the memory of how you´d sounded the last time she´d fucked you that way. 

before she got up from the bed, she moved your hand between your legs and smiled devilishly as she whispered “go on, touch yourself a bit, feel how wet you are” a pause before she added “how ready” the last word said in a low tone that made you choke up on your own spit almost because it was unlike her, to speak like that, and it was clear she said it half-jokingly, as if she was putting on a different voice than her own, but still, it thrilled you, to have her insinuate that your body was just waiting for her to invade it, which it was, had been all day. 

you used your fingers to apply just enough pressure to keep yourself worked up as you watched her red rid of her remaining clothes, unwilling to deny herself the feeling of being flush against her lover, her back turned to you, your gaze lingering on her legs, the soft, delicate nature of them that contrasted her tough exterior, a point of obsession for you, since only you got to see her legs fully in the nude. it was a ritual for you to kiss her calves, her knees, her thighs, whenever you´d just finished giving her head and used the time she needed to recover to cover her lower half in kisses.

it was no different in that moment, you felt a rush of heat go to your face when you saw the contrast of the black of the harness and the paleness of her skin, some of her flesh spilling out over the straps, a sudden urge to bite into it, a shiver down your spine when you saw the aggressive hand movement of her making sure everything was truly tight enough, sitting right over her hips, around her sides, a whimpering sound as you touched yourself a bit harder then, unable to restrain yourself, which made her flip her hair back over her shoulders in a slightly cocky way as she come back to you and watched you shamelessly stare at her with that same helpless expression as before, moving over to make space for her. 

Van knew what you wanted, so she sat down next to you and patted her lap, conscious of the fact that having you on top first was ideal, not just selfishly because she wanted to get a good show, but because it gave you the freedom to tire yourself out, before being finished off by her afterwards. so, you got up and shook a little as you climbed over her and felt her hands on your sides, to steady you, both your eyes and hers cast down, watching you take the strap in your hand to guide it into yourself, carefully, which wasn´t necessary, you arousal so intense that there was no resistance whatsoever, your cunt drenched and throbbing as you sat down, feeling yourself be stretched and filled, your eyes fluttering shut from the overwhelming relief, the sensation so good that you kept still for a moment to soak it up, while moving your legs to a comfortable position, one you could last in, a “hmmm” sound escaping you, which made Van smile as she tenderly caressed your back and sighed “there you go baby, that´s better, hm”. 

it turned you on to know that Van felt like it was actually her cock you were taking, so you started moving with her help, her hands travelling down to guide you a bit, deeply turned on by the fragility you exuded in that moment, the trust you placed in her, the way you put yourself in her hands in your most vulnerable state, drunk on the whimpers you let out while rocking back and forth on it, feeling the strap deep inside, your walls clenched, slicking it up as you picked up a rhythm, trembling because it had been a while since you´d taken it like that, so violently turned on that you were sick with the need to come, hard, chasing the all consuming high with blind need, the kind that doesn´t happen fast, that takes time to build up to, and Van could tell you were overly eager, at risk of rushing it, so she tried to bring you back to the present moment, to enjoy the feeling of pained pleasure, the submission to that pre-orgasm ache, so she cooed “you´re okay, shhh, easy, nice and slow, let me take my time with you” and pulled your face closer to kiss your cheek. 

you leaned forward in response and held onto her neck as you felt more secure and found a good angle, breathed against her face and heard her whispering sweet nothings to you as your clit brushed up against her in a way that made you moan louder again, your lips brushing up against her cheek, a shiver down her spine. you weren´t bouncing on it the way you might have if you hadn´t fucked all day, you were too weak for it, but you had enough energy to manage a bit of that motion, moving up and down a few inches, again and again, your juices leaking down the strap, her arms firm around your back as you kept whining and riding her, turned on by your own motion, the romantic yet pornographic feel of it, the feeling that you were performing for her, your cunt sucking the strap up easily over and over, a neverending feeling of “more, more, more” as you went a bit faster and felt a rush of confidence that made you lean back and brace yourself with your palms flat against the sheets, to show of your chest and tilt your head up to the ceiling, which allowed Van the perfect view of not just your body but the way the silicone disappeared in you, your arousal milky white against the black of the toy, her mouth open in hunger, her chest flushed pink in response, her whole body. 

you could hear her whisper “jesus.. look at you..” under her breath as she palmed your tits and watched you ride yourself into oblivion, your moans more pathetic than before, her thumbs brushing over your nipples to hear you wince in pleasure, her hands reverently moving all the way down your stomach, until they rested right above where you were getting fucked, fucking yourself, both, that thrill of being on top, the double feeling of she´s doing it to me, I´m doing it to myself.

Van was the type of lover who often preferred to use her hands and mouth on you, it was what she craved most days, the filth of having you drip all over her lips and fingers, the sensuality of it, but whenever you did end up wanting to get strapped by her, she enjoyed every little thing about it, rediscovered her eagerness to see you take more than what she could naturally fuck you with. it drove her wild, to see the way you gave in and opened yourself up, you could hear it from her heavy breathing, felt in the way her hands grabbed you wherever she could reach, worshipful, her own composure crumbling by the second, both of you letting out little curses and groans. 

eventually you needed support, so you leaned all the way forward and braced yourself against the headboard with both hands, which made your tits eyes level with her, so Van lost no time and held you in place and started sucking on your right breast, hard enough to make my cry out, the double arousal making you see stars as she closed her lips around your nipple and refused to let go, addicted to the soft feel of it, her teeth digging in for a second as you tried your best to keep up your rhythm, panting, needing release so badly that you were scared of losing your stamina, but you pushed through the intensity of being fucked and sucked on, until you whined “baby I can´t, I´m so.. fuck” unable to find the words, so Van let moved her hands to your waist and held on firmly. “I´ve got you, just keep your hands right there” she reassured you, so you did as she said, braced yourself, slowed down, allowing her to take over, which she did, thrusting up into you from below in a way that made it clear she wanted to see you come, soon, so you surrendered to the fast, deep strokes and heard the slapping sounds of your skin meeting, over and over, as you couldn´t do anything but let out moans that were matched by hers, as if she was also being fucked, both of you gone by then, high-pitched cries falling from your lips until you felt like you might cry from how hard she was hitting the right spot deep inside, so you groaned “fuck fuck I can´t I´m gonna-” choking up on the last word and shuddering just as it all crashed over you, hard, overwhelming, your entire body shaking as she kept going but eased up a bit, your orgasm ripping through you, leaving you spent and breathless on top of her, your hands on her shoulders then as she caressed you, soothed you through the aftershocks, waited for you to ride it out, patient, her own breathing ragged and laced with faint whimpering sounds. 

once you felt the tremors subside a bit, you climbed off her and let out a sigh from the sudden emptiness where you were still raw, still sensitive, her hands never leaving you as you followed your urge to suck her off and licked over the side of the strap all the way up until you reached the tip, briefly taking it in your mouth, tasting yourself, drooling on it, her hand in your hair as she let out an “oh…” sound of disbelief, a shiver taking hold of her from the unexpected thrill of seeing you do that, for a second almost forgetting that it wasn´t part of her, a phantom feeling of actually having her dick sucked by you leaving her a mess then as you wiped your mouth and tried to get your bearings. 

you laid down next to her, riled up the max, the ache from before less pressing but still there, so you looked at her and whispered “please..”, which you didn´t have to say twice. Van got up and moved to kneel before you, saying “lay back and relax for me”, as she reached out to gently put a flat pillow below your hips, creating a better angle, making sure you were comfortable before she smiled down at you and saw an exhausted but happy smile being directed back at her, her heart melting at the sight, her own wetness almost matching yours by that point, so she got to it and held one of your legs up in a way that opened you wider, teasing for a second by just moving the tip over your outside area, slicking it up, until she heard an impatient “baby…” and gave in, pushing herself all the way in with one swift motion as she leaned over you, a deep groan leaving you as you were filled again, your hands on her back then, nails scratching down as she placed her hands by your head and kissed your face, your cheek, ever so softly, a maddening contrast to the deep, slow strokes she was giving you, your legs wrapped around her waist to keep her as close as possible, your chest pressed against hers, your heartbeats close, so close, a feeling of melting into one as she almost hugged you while fucking you, groaning from the effort, a deeply intimate feel to it that made every movement of her inside of you feel even more intense. 

“fuck..” you whined, her breath hot against your face as she sighed “feels good?”, “yeah so good…I love you.. so much” it just spilled out, you couldn´t contain it, the adoration for her that was threatening to tear you apart, crying from it it almost, so she moved her face to stare down at you, her beautiful flushed face, her pink lips, the glowing waves of her hair, all of it adding to your feeling of “god I am so in love with her” as she stared you with the same exact feeling written all over her face and sighed “I love you too..” right as she hit a spot in you that made the words burn not just in your heart but your cunt, body and soul ablaze with the way she was handling you, the way she used sex like that for intense passion, not aggression or dominance over you, her motions never too hard, always just the right amount of pressure - for a second you both just breathed into each other´s open mouths while listening to the “huh” sound that left you with each thrust, Van fixated on how much she adored the way getting it from her always turned you so docile and lamb-like, in awe of it all, her lips brushing yours, a deep intimacy to it, both of you staring into each other´s souls until you caved and started making out, desperately, your hands on her neck as you opened your mouth and felt your tongue against hers, in heaven then, bursting with how good it felt to have her on you, in you, while kissing like that - you couldn´t get enough of the bliss of being wrapped up in her presence like that, her perfume and and shampoo and natural musk hitting you where you were weakest, every part of you claimed by her intoxicating physicality, the same for her as she tasted and smelled and felt you, both of you refusing to let go even when you struggled to continue from how heavy your moans were getting in the way. 

eventually she changed her position a bit to have more control and grabbed your legs right under your knees to push your thighs back a bit, up towards your face, to go even deeper, which made you let out a borderline pained “ohh fuck..”, Van mesmerized by the sight of the strap moving in and out of you, using her stabile position to really fuck you, giving you a moment of just being pounded, so you rested against the pillows and took it, scared that you´d come already but holding it together to have an even more rewarding release, breathing through it, until she slowed down again, aware that switching between different speeds was what always got you, not immediate release but gradual building up to it with small setbacks until she gave it to you for good, it drove you crazy in the best way. she leaned back over you and kept your legs up with her arms and leaned down to lick over your chest, animal-like, as if she was trying to devour you, tasting your sweat, your hot skin, her hair spilling over you  as she sucked on the flesh of your tits erratically and used her hands to keep you open, both of you addicted to the filthy wet sounds that were filling the air, each move into you creating another maddening sound, the muscles in your lower stomach tight and ready to release again, your cunt overstimulated and leaking all over the strap and yourself, both of you addicted to the sensations, the primal nature of your actions, your sounds, the scent, everything about it. 

Van sounded just as pathetic as you then as she sighed “god..” and shut her eyes, as if she was praying for the strength to hold on, so you gripped her shoulders and pleaded “baby please.. I can´t” as you felt the intensity challenge what you were capable of handling, but she insisted, encouraged “it´s okay, you can take it baby, just a bit more, you´re doing so well” so you listened and took a deep breath, remembering how much better you came whenever you didn´t hold the air in, so you willed yourself to relax and saw her approve “that´s it” her face buried in the crook of your neck then, soothing you, “I´m right here, I´ve got you, I´ve got you”, your nails digging into her shoulder blades as you whimpered and got scared of your release, after all that build-up, so she commanded you “come for me baby, just let go, make a mess”, and somehow the last part got to you, your body eager to comply, so she kept you pinned down and didn´t change a thing about the pace and depth she was going at as she felt you come undone beneath her, kissing your face all throughout it, encouraging you “there you go” as you cried out and felt your whole body shudder and shake, sweat dripping down your forehead, spit collecting in your mouth, your legs tensed up, your body unravelling in the most deliciously violent way, no part of you unaffected by the climax, Van staying right where she was, still inside you, out of breath, obsessed, drinking in every sound, every sigh, every touch of your desperate hands, the way you clung to her in your moment of dying of pleasure and coming back to life anew.

you shared a frantic kiss and then her gaze was drawn to where a few tears had escaped you, without you even realizing, so she kissed them away too, tasting the salt, feeling you relax even more from her gentility, so she cupped your face in her hands and used her palms to infuse you with all the soothing touch you needed while recovering from the multiple highs you´d just been through. you shut your eyes and whispered “thank you..” but she didn´t want any gratitude, so she shushed you with another kiss, briefly rubbing your temples with her thumb, trying her best to burn that moment deep into her psyche, to keep it, forever. 

eventually she gave you some space and moved on the bed. “be right back” she promised as she got up and freed herself of the harness to put her clothes back on, before she cracked the window open and grabbed a tissue from the bedside table to wipe the sweat off your chest, the juices off your inner thighs, a few deliberate swipes here and there to clean you up a bit, to be of service not just during sex, but afterwards too. for a moment after she just stood there next to the bed and grinned as her gaze traveled all the way over you, the way you laid there, dazed, satisfied, glowing.“damn, what a view...” she marveled while appreciatively running her index finger all the way up your leg, so you smiled and twisted your body a bit to get into a more flattering position, “all yours” you whispered, meaning it, so she got back on the bed with you and pressed a kiss to your stomach “that´s right. all mine” the words spoken against your skin, her voice all raspy and deep, a tingle on your skin where her the breath of the word “mine” left its impact.

it took no time for her to want you close again, so she moved behind you on the bed and sat upright while you draped yourself half over her lap, her arms around your waist, both of you quiet as you melted against her and heard her sigh “my angel”, a quiet laugh from you considering how far from saintly you´d just behaved for her. “you´re a fucking dream, you know that?” she said, her voice clearer and louder then, her grip on you tightening, her chin resting on your shoulder, “you are..” you countered, while lacing your hand through hers and squeezing them.

“god. I needed that so bad…” you confessed, which made her smile to herself “you don´t say”.  there it was again, the teasing, her usual tone coming back, “but clearly I did too.. you drive me fucking crazy”. you nuzzled up closer to her and felt her grip on you tighten a bit as you said “I always want you, of course, but on days like today…” you paused to sigh and shake your head “I´m not joking I could just go on and on, I feel insane” your hand wrapped around her wrist then, your cheek resting against her upper arm, her heart swelling from the sight. she laughed at your way of phrasing that “well, don´t ever hold back for my sake, please, I might tease you about it but don´t think I don´t love it when you get like this. it´s hot.” 

“yeah?” you asked, just to hear a bit more, already aware that she definitely meant it, so she indulged you “of course, I mean I´d have to be beyond ungrateful to complain about my situation here, having a hot girl want me over and over, that´s about as close to heaven as I´m allowed to get in this life I think” she laid it on thick, so you turned your head to look at her with a questioning but undeniably pleased look, Van grinned, standing by her statement, and leaned down to kiss your forehead, her lips lingering long enough to hear something close to a purr from you. 

“you know” you said, playing with a strand of her hair as she leaned back again and caressed you absentmindedly “yeah?” she asked, her tone soft and patient, so you went on,“you might not be the first person I´ve ever been with” a fake gasp of shock from her in response to that,“but!” you insisted, laughing at her dramatics “it still feels like you are because it´s so intense when you´re in love, which is very much a first for me. it´s just so much better like this. I mean clearly it´s addictive to me..” alluding to your never-ending hunger for her that matched hers for you, the kind that made homebodies instead of a couple who spent entire weekends outdoors. 

Van nodded and thought for a second before she added to your thought “yeah I mean I wasn´t exactly inexperienced when we met but this is definitely very new to me as well, to actually need someone and feel like touch can be.. healing” she said the last word quietly, as if she was a bit embarrassed about being so earnest, but you squeezed her hand to encourage her to go on. “forgot what that felt like. this might sound corny but I don´t care, it honestly feels like my body came alive again with you. you changed everything for me. everything, I swear.” she sounded like she might choke up, so you moved out of her arms to face her directly and put your hands at the back of her head, your fingers tangled in her hair, scratching gently. “so did you..” you told her and leaned in to kiss her nose, that part of her face you felt so tenderly for, the way it scrunched up whenever she really smiled, a few soft kisses that instantly made her weak again. 

“did I wear you out?” you asked after you pulled back, straddling her lap by then, the sight of you completely nude on her clothed body a sight that stirred something deep within her as she cocked her head and ran her fingertips up and down your spine. “your concern for the elderly is very touching, really, but I can keep up. for now. besides, I´m the one who should be asking you that, you´re the one who took it”. she squeezed your hip for emphasis, which caused an involuntary motion from you that made you rub up against her thigh in a way that almost got you going again, but you held back, still, she saw it, the flicker of need behind your eyes, unsure how she got lucky enough to have someone so wrapped around her finger. 

“I´m a bit sore, but I kinda like that, so I´m good” you mused and watched her eyelids lower the way they always did when she was suspicious. “you like being sore?” she asked, unsure if you were trying to rile her up or being for real, but you insisted “when it´s your doing, yes” whispering it lasciviously, so she played along “oh really?” her own voice dripping in sensuality then, “yeah, I remember the morning after I first slept here, I was so giddy all the way home when I felt my muscles aching.” 

“damn” Van laughed, “you´re something else, girl” you shrugged and settled back in her arms, laying down again, sprawled out over her. “but I agree, I also like when you leave your impact on me” Van admitted, her masochistic nature not a secret to you, so you took her arm and playfully bit down enough to leave some faint teeth marks, which made her wince but more from pleasure than pain, her smile audible when she said “yeah, something like that” and hoped that the indents would actually stay for at least an hour or so, already hoping you´d bruise her inner thigh the next time you gave her head.

for about ten minutes you continued to lay there, eyes closed, breathing in unison, a deep relaxation settling over you in that moment of precious, quiet intimacy. 

before either of you could fall asleep, Van tapped you on the shoulder and said “so. is there any point in me leaving the bed and telling you to get to work now, or are you just gonna come crawling all over me again in ten minutes?”. you sat upright then and went to go gather your clothes from the floor to get dressed again “I´ll try to restrain myself. I mean, you could also just tie my legs to the chair”. Van watched you from where she was still sitting and laughed “oh, don´t tempt me” 

“okay, so” she said as she also got up from the bed and went over to you, snaking her arms around your waist “how about you finish your work while I cook us something nice, then after dinner we could go get some fresh air and then get back to bed later. how does that sound”, you smiled, nodding “perfect”. 

before she could leave you shared one last thought “you know you´re the first..” you were searching for the right word “lover” you said, which elicited a grin from her, “that I have ever lived with and I can´t imagine it going better than how it is right now. I feel so at peace here, like I´m home, for real”. Van´s expression softened “I know, I´ve shed some tears about it, trust me, I feel very lucky”.

you wrapped your arms around each other and breathed in each other´s scent one last time and then begrudgingly separated, a groan from you as you sat back down at the desk, so she turned around and said “alright, in and hour I wanna see at least 500 words progress, are we clear? don´t ruin your academic career because you´re too busy throwing yourself at me”. 

you whipped your head around and found her leaning against the doorframe, clearly satisfied with herself, a hint of pride in her demeanor that suited her “you calling me a whore?” you joked, watching her smile get even wider as she countered “I´d never”. she blew you a kiss, half-teasing, half-earnest, and left you to it, uttering “good luck” as she closed the door behind herself. 

miraculously you actually managed to put your head down and push through the last few pages of your assignment without taking breaks or distracting yourself or letting thoughts of Van get a hold of you too heavily, so after about an hour and fifteen minutes of sitting there and typing away, you emerged from the bedroom and joined her in the kitchen where she was putting the finishing touches on a nice pasta dish she´d cooked up. you wanted to be close to her, so instead of taking a seat, you stood there with her, picking up random things on the counter and putting them back down again to occupy your hands, so she said “trying to find a good space to bend over for me?”, not willing to let it go yet, that you´d been needy as hell all day, a smug grin as she kept her eyes on the plates she was preparing while you scoffed  “you wish”, pretending to be offended, a little turned on from the mental image.

after you both got some energy back into your system from the pasta and some ice-cold soda, you decided to go out and enjoy the beauty of the golden hour, the sky empty save for a few clouds here and there, the breeze just mild enough to allow you to leave your jackets, but fresh enough to make you link your arms in order to be cozy.

after an hour of wandering around in the park and stocking up on sweets for later on, you went back home and both a had a shower, she first, then you, and right as you freed yourself of your clothes to wash yourself, you saw that you´d bled into your underwear a little, confirming what she´d alluded to earlier, that your sex-drive had been intensified by your impending period. she´d said it off-handedly that morning in bed, that she remembered you bleeding one morning after you´d begged her to keep going and going all night, but you´d brushed it off, certain that you weren´t getting it until at least a week later, but it had in fact come a bit early that month and it made you emotional in a way, to know that she paid such close attention to your body, to your moods, everything. 

Van was waiting for you in her sleeping clothes on the couch when you walked over and said “well you were right earlier, I got it now..”, so she perked up, immediately alert, always concerned about any pain you might be in, “fuck I´m sorry, does it hurt?”. “a bit yeah, but not as bad as usual, you can take credit I think, relaxed my muscles” you smiled as you approached the couch and carefully sat down, your hands on your stomach.

Van grabbed your knee, searching your eyes from up close “still, do you need a pain killer?” and you considered her offer just a second too long before answering, so she cut you off and decided for you “yes you do”. she rushed over to the cabinet to get some pills and a glass of water and brought them back once you´d obediently swallowed them.

“come here” she said once she sat back down and opened her arms, so you laid on top of her, your back against her chest in a way that allowed her to caress your abdomen, ever so gently, trying to alleviate you from any tension that might´ve been causing discomfort. 

“comfortable?” she inquired as she felt you go slack and breathe out “yeah very. you´re so warm” you hummed while resting your hand above hers, “and you´re so beautiful..” she answered quietly, her eyes fixed on the space where your sweatpants had been pushed down a little, your skin visible below her palm. you smiled when you heard the reverence in her tone, moved by it, so you shifted your position a little and gave her a kiss before you rested your head on her shoulder, by the crook of her neck, suddenly emotional over her way of caring for you as if it was second nature to her. 

“oh you´re killing me today baby” she sighed and held you close, unsure how to handle the feeling of having you curl up on her like that, your body so pliant and open under her touch. “I haven’t gotten used to it yet, that I get to be held like this all the time now..” you told her. she agreed, “yeah me neither. and it´s been like a month of you living here but I still have these moments where I wake up at night and see you there next to me, or when I come up the stairs and you´re already there and I didn´t expect it and feel such a rush. the same way I did when I first met you.” 

you smiled and clung to her “god I´m so glad I have you…” your eyes getting heavy, hers too, “my baby” she whispered and let you drift off. before you could fall asleep, you mumbled “love you.. ”, her voice just as fragile “love you too..”. 

both of you were too relaxed and content to move and got to bed already, so instead she pulled blanket from the couch over you and let you stay on top of her, keeping you warm and safe as you both dozed off to the feeling of each other´s chest rising and falling pressed against your own, heart to heart.

as your consciousness became hazy, you found yourself in a state of almost prayer-like, deep gratitude for Van, the way she tended to you, body and soul, the way she could overwhelm you with pleasure, make you lose yourself in passion, but also soothe any ache or discomfort and still your being with the simplest gesture and touch.

a memory from earlier that day was the last thing you thought of, you heard it echoing in your head, what she´d said, and repeated it back to yourself, to affirm it, revel in the fact that no dream you were about to sink into could match the sweetness of your reality: I´m hers. all hers.  

[literatemisfit]

Re: Talking about JKR on David's episode of "The Assembly"

I love how he immediately got emotional when talking about why standing up for trans rights was important to him. I often forget how emotionally tied he is to the cause, not only because of his own child being affected, but also because of his long-held core belief that members of the lgbtq are as valid and normal as any other (see: working with RTD, Phil Collinson, early interviews with Alan Carr and Graham Norton where there's playfulness around him being attractive to gay men etc.). And when people like JKR are somehow countering that as if it's normal to deny people's human rights to be who they are or love who they love and endangering all these people in his own life that he loves, of course he's tied to it, not only in terms of logic and reason and the injustice, but by emotion and worry and care for those other people.

But also, I love that when he starts talking about JKR (he also did this at a recent comic con), he starts by saying and acknowledging that she is a brilliant author who has created amazing stories and I find that so interesting because often, when people disagree with each other on huge core beliefs (esp on social media), they have to tear them down and jump to insults (fat-shaming t**mp, etc) which is not helpful to any kind of discourse. It will only add fuel to the fire for the other side to disagree with that kind of sentiment, having now fat-shamed other fat people - maybe who were on your side - and essentially saying that the reason you dislike him is because of his looks, and not his actions, which should be the focus. And I love that David takes the time to acknowledge that JKR did create great stories and that's not something he's taking away just because he can't understand her political/human rights worldview. He's not coming at it from a place of anger, emotion, telling her to fuck off and saying well her stories weren't even that good anyway - because that's not helpful, and it's not the POINT. The point is where the money is going - fueling anti-trans legislation. There isn't any of that pettiness or emotional language that a lot of people jump to in big heated emotional arguments, and for him to not give them the fodder for attacking him on an emotional argument because he does admit to the quality of her work WHILE ALSO absolutely countering her on human rights. I worry a bit that some fans WANT him to jump in and tear her down and go off on her as the father of a trans kid, but the truth of that is that it's not helpful. It's social media, it's tabloid BS that takes away from the POINT which is human lives are being aversely affected by right-wing politicians. He's not giving them that fodder because he's coming at it from a place of logic and reason, and not from a place of emotion, which is ironically what JKR is doing on twitter.

I love that, I love that it's a power move and a strength that he has as someone who is not on social media and who has the time and space (no pun intended) to breathe and think and react and answer truthfully and thoughtfully. I admire that in him because I think I also struggle to put the emotion away and not jump on someone and insult them, but to step back and take a deep breath and pinpoint what you actually disagree with someone on, and the rest of it isn't relevant because you CAN be the most amazing artist in the world, but that still doesn't mean you get to forge a movement against a marginalized community and say such backwards things about other people.

[xylatox]

frostbite || psh

Awake and ready to read another Rain fic :) The synopsis literally enraptured me, I'm so glad I can finally read it!!

Writing this as I've finished sharing my thoughts, apologies its longer than intended hehe.

Sunghoon walked into the rink like a fallen prince returning to a ruined kingdom. — I wanna talk about a LoL character here so bad because of the simile used but I'll shut my yap on that today :)

Oh my god, the way you described how the cold was welcomed?? I am on my knees for thst expression.

I always love to read the writing of others because you always see the difference in the way things are said, the way certain things are articulated that makes them, well, uniquely them just makes me so happy to see. I love the uniqueness of us as humans. I'm saying all this to say, I love how natural you right Rain, it feels almost as if you are speaking to me; something that feels so comforting I'd say, never lose that part about you ♡

Not because he hadn’t heard, but because he had. Her voice sank beneath his skin like snowmelt — cold, but oddly soft. He hated that about her. Hated how she turned everything into beauty. How she made it look easy. — unfortunately I am very much Sunghoon in this moment. Especially from the standpoint as an ex-athlete, the grumpy, hatred feelings were definitely present with me when I was in that space.

Not because she was cold, but because she was warm — the kind of warm you feel right before the skin goes numb. Right before the blood stops moving. Right before the damage sets in. She had felt like that from the start. Quick. Unexpected. Beautiful.  — this is such a beautiful expression, oh my god.

“Sharing a rink with Park Sunghoon? Pfft. Easy. He’s just one very grumpy man with a stick. It’s basically like living with a thunderstorm. Moody, loud, and occasionally electric — but you bring an umbrella and move on.” — I can't help but think she's adorable

You didn’t speak. Not once. But you felt him. And somehow, that was worse. Every time he passed, your chest tightened just a little, remembering the way his voice had clipped those words this morning, how he’d tossed your world aside with a single breath. But the cold has a way of preserving more than just bruises; it clears the mind, too. By the time practice wound to a close, your hurt had melted into determination, soft and fierce. — god my heart hurts but not in the typical sense, it just :(( idk how to explain it. Also it's taking everything in me to not reference every other paragraph you wrote because I just love every moment??

God, from mc offering to help Hoon with his form (God bless her heart) and Hoon calling her Sunshine? which has like the most miniscule bite to it, i absolutely love it.

Also Ruka's behaviour at the rink, I want to comment on how off-putting it is, but I'll wait till later in the fic :)

Jake's girlfriend mention🤭Jake fic remembered😞 ugh fine I'll reread it.

“Hear me out. I’ve been thinking and don’t roll your eyes, this is important I’ve been thinking that maybe, just maybe, you need me.” He didn’t look up. You didn’t let it stop you. “Your form is off. I’m not just saying that to be annoying. I mean, I am annoying, but not this time. You’re straining the wrong muscle groups and you’re compensating for your knee in a way that’s going to make it worse. You’re going to tear something again and then you really won’t be able to play. And I know, I know I’m just a figure skater and you think I don’t get it, but we fall for a living. Literally. And we fall well. We learn to twist midair so the ice kisses us instead of cracking us open, and I could show you, I could help you—”  SHES SO CUTE😭😭😭😭😭 OH MY GOD SHE IS ADORABLE, forget Hoon I want her, she's such a cutie ugh.

Also the Sunshine nickname has me weak in the knees, it's so ahh??? I naturally am more of a grumpy cat person sadly but it's so heartwarming when people are just naturally so sweet. It nice to see it since I'm so guarded, living through her in this moment.

Bambi-on-ice :( a cutie pie

“Hockey’s the love of my life,” he said, eyes sharp like ice shards, like truth he’d carved out long ago. “That’s enough for me.” You tilted your head, letting your hair fall like a curtain of gold and starlight across your cheek. “That’s a sad way to live,” you said gently, not accusing, just… observing. “Everyone deserves to love. To be loved.” — I didn't expect to feel sad reading this :') I unfortunately see myself a bit too much in how Hoon is portrayed (which is absolutely lovely) and I think that's why it hurts to see :(

Ah, I am back to make my comment on Ruka and in fact, the distaste I had for her initially has increased ten-fold. I do not take kindly to people talking I'll of others especially when you don't know them or what they've been true...I'm annoyed 💀

He smirked then, small, fleeting. Like sunrise just peeking over frostbitten windows. “Heeseung says that all the time.” — I know Heeseung was mentioned earlier, but I'm going to particularly reference this one because the pancakes statement was so cute and Hee's cute like that (if it's obvious I'm Hee biased we ignore it :) ). I do love the moment between them at the diner, I think it's really sweet and shows the progression of their relationship

You blinked, surprised by the breach in his usual barricade. “It’s set to Clair de Lune,” you said quietly, suddenly shy. “I wanted something soft this time. Something like… falling in love with the sky.” — as a child when I played piano more often I was so obsessed with Claire de Lune :((

The mc talking so sweetly about Ruka just shows how wonderful she is as a person with no Ill intent towards her and Ruka just....disappoints somehow.

GIRL😭not her lying about seeing him after the mc just saw him. She's too sweet because I would've definitely mentioned just seeing him😭😭 girl be fr.

After you mentioned Claire de Lune, I went to relisten to it for the memories, and as I read, I feel like their story is like that song. Their feelings aren't obvious and in your face, but it's soft, slowly creeping in and it comforts you in the progression that their relationship takes.

AND THE KISS😭😭when it happens it feels like the highlight of the song begins, ugh I absolutely love it. Your writing is so inspiring Rain. And also laughing at Ruka (not literally but in a scorpio sense), I'm so glad she saw that.

HOW DOES RUKA MAKE IT WORSE FOR HERSELF???? OH MY GOD. I love that Hoon stands up for her :( ik it's like basic stuff but that means the world to me.

He didn’t say a word. Instead, his hands found your waist. Not rough or hurried, just certain. He pulled you into him like gravity had finally done its job. And before your voice could form another word, his mouth was on yours. Soft. Fierce. Unapologetic. Your breath caught in your chest, surprise flaring wide in your eyes, but you melted into him with instinct. There was no hesitation in the way you kissed him back. For a moment the ice outside, the night, the ache of the past, none of it existed. There was only the warmth of his touch, the sincerity of his hold, the vulnerability in that kiss.  — god. God.....God oh my wow. This??? Rain girl you left me speechless

He pressed you back against the lockers again — not harshly, never harshly — but close enough that you could feel every breath, every heartbeat, every inch of tension. His hands gripped your waist like he needed the contact to stay steady, like if he let go, the whole world might stop turning. “God,” he muttered against your lips, his voice thick and rough and nothing like the usual sharp-edged sarcasm. “You drive me crazy.” — haha I am also being driven crazy rn

IM SO GLAD MC FINALLY MET THE BOYS!!! EEK!!

“Hey, Ruka! You made it, have you met everyone?” The sweetness in your tone was genuine, like you hadn’t noticed the way her eyes cut through you, like maybe this time would be different, like maybe she’d smile back and offer a polite nod. But she didn’t. — I will sob mc is so fucking sweet oh my god.

Also Ruka is so fucking evil? idk how else to phrase it but is it thst hard seeing people happy?

“Wait—please,” Sunghoon called out, breathless. You spun on him just as he reached the porch, voice trembling with hurt and rage. “Don’t.”— god my poor baby :(

“I love you.” — I will throw up. And he diednt follow this time I feel sick

“I just wanted to feel safe with you,” you continue, softer now. “I wanted to be seen. And Ruka… she hates me for reasons I can’t understand. I don’t want to be in competition with her. I don’t want any of this.” His hand tightens around yours. “I know. And I hate that I let her use me like that. That I gave her the opening. But I swear to you none of what I said was real. You are not a waste of time. You are the only thing in my life that makes sense.” You lean your forehead against his, your breath mingling with his in the cold air between you. — sorry for referencing this entire moment, I absolutely could not help it I feel so sick.

When you part, your foreheads stay pressed together. His thumb brushes away your tears. “I forgive you,” you murmur, voice trembling. “But please… no more lies. Not even the ones you tell yourself.”— god, I love the mc so much.

You're watching him. And he's not just skating. He's flying. — oh my god.

Rain. This was such a beautiful piece. It was so comforting, especially from the standpoint of someone who was an athlete who used to compete and got an injury. My place in the sporting world unfortunately was something bittersweet (being more bitter than anything else) but your piece bought me comfort, helping me realize that it isn't so bad to feel if that makes sense? I love that it showed a healthy approach of being able to still continue in the athlete world even though injuries happen.

There was something really healing when Hoon was able to go back on ice. After I got injured, it was left to fester, despite doing physical therapy, I still have pain to this day unfortunately. I left my world of sport 2 years ago not because of the damage (something I was willing to take) but the treatment.

I'm just saying all this to say, thank you, Rain :) ♡

FROSTBITE p.sh

synopsis ⤑ Sunghoon’s injury was comparable to the end of the world, at least for him it was. Having not been cleared in time to start practice with his team, Sunghoon is stuck practicing alone after hours, except he's not alone. Forced to share the rink with the practicing figure skaters was his version of hell, especially when one of them couldn't shut up about the fact that the world was their oyster and taking a positive look on life was the only way to live? How could he be positive when the only thing that made him happy was taken away from him. She had felt like frostbite sinking into his skin. Frostbite was quick, it stung and then it killed before you could even see it coming.

pairings ⤑ hockey player!sunghoon x figure skater!reader word count ⤑ 25k

warnings ⤑ smut, mentions of injury, grumpy x sunshine, ft. Ruka from baby monster, angst, probably more I'm missing...reader is heavily inspired by my yapping baby @beomiracles (serene).

crossing the line masterlist here.

Prologue. 

Sunghoon walked into the rink like a fallen prince returning to a ruined kingdom.

The cold welcomed him. Not with open arms, but with teeth. It bit through the seams of his hoodie, gnawed at the edges of his breath, and curled around the ache in his knee like a reminder. The air here was always sharp, always clean, always brimming with the promise of speed and sweat and glory. But tonight, it only felt hollow. Like an echo of the past, stretched thin over the bones of now. His blades scraped against the ice with a sound that used to thrill him. Now it felt surgical, sterile, like a scalpel carving open the truth he couldn’t avoid. 

He wasn’t on the team. Not really. Not anymore. Not while he recovered. And to Sunghoon, that meant the end of the world. Not playing hockey was his apocalypse. Jay said he needed time. Coach Bennett had nodded, voice clipped and clinical, masking the decision behind phrases like “risk mitigation” and “long-term recovery.” But Sunghoon knew what it meant: they didn’t trust his body, and maybe just maybe they didn’t trust him. What a load of bullshit. Sunghoon could play through the pain. He’s done it before. He wasn’t one to shy away from a little leg injury. Who cares, he’d push through. That’s what real pros did and Sunghoon would be a real pro one day. 

He clenched his jaw as the thought burned through him. His knee twinged again, and he tried not to limp, tried to walk like it didn’t hurt, tried to be the player he used to be. Every movement felt like a performance for an audience that had already left the theater. And then he heard it. A laugh. Light and lilted, drifting through the rink like glitter in a snow globe. He didn’t need to turn to know who it belonged to.

The figure skaters were still here. Of course they were. Sunghoon let out a groan, loud enough to be heard, sharp enough to cut. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered. She was the worst of them. Not in talent, but in spirit. Always smiling, always talking like life was some golden sunrise just waiting to be kissed. She had that annoying, relentless optimism, the kind that made Sunghoon’s blood itch. It wasn't just naive — it was offensive. Especially to someone like him, whose world had cracked open and swallowed him whole. How can someone look at the world and life and all that it offers and be happy about that? Life chewed you up and spit you out like old gum whenever it had the chance. 

She was all light. He was the void that light avoided. Still, she twirled like the world had never wronged her. Every glide, every spin, every leap across the ice was effortless. She was a poem written in motion. And somehow, her presence made the silence of his isolation scream louder. He dragged a puck across the rink, his stick slicing through the quiet like a blade. The sound was dull, defeated. She didn’t leave. Of course not. She was too kind or too stubborn or too oblivious to understand that he didn’t want to share this place. Not with anyone. Especially not her. She skated past, the breeze of her motion catching his hoodie, lifting it for a fraction of a second. She left behind a sentence as light as her blades: “Pretty night, huh? Ice looks good.” 

Sunghoon didn’t respond. 

Not because he hadn’t heard, but because he had. Her voice sank beneath his skin like snowmelt — cold, but oddly soft. He hated that about her. Hated how she turned everything into beauty. How she made it look easy. But figure skaters didn’t know what it was to fall and stay broken. They didn’t know what it was to wake every day and feel your identity splinter under your ribs. They didn’t know how it felt to sit in the stands while your teammates practiced without you. Laughed without you. Moved on without you.  

He looked at her then, really looked. And for a moment, he thought of frostbite. 

Not because she was cold, but because she was warm — the kind of warm you feel right before the skin goes numb. Right before the blood stops moving. Right before the damage sets in. She had felt like that from the start. Quick. Unexpected. Beautiful. 

And by the time he noticed her, by the time he realized she was changing something in him, it was already too late. 

After. 

Sunghoon didn’t look at you again. Not when you moved like a falling star tracing soft-burning arcs in a frozen sky. Not when your laughter spilled into the rafters, bright as windchimes caught in a spring storm. Not even when you passed close enough for your perfume, warm citrus and something he couldn’t name to slip beneath his guard and settle in his lungs like memory. He focused instead on his own rhythm. On fury and fire, on the merciless repetition of sprints. Forward, brake. Backward, pivot. Turn. Drive. His blades carved the ice with the same fury that burned behind his eyes, every motion a prayer to reclaim what he’d lost. 

Jay said he wasn’t ready. Coach Bennett nodded like a verdict had been passed, and just like that, his kingdom of ice and glory had crumbled beneath him. Now, he ran drills alone in the shadow-hours, a ghost trying to resurrect himself one sharp breath at a time. This was supposed to be penance. Precision. Control. But then there was you. 

You weren’t supposed to be here. Not really. Not like that. Not with your reckless grace and your endless optimism. You spun where he sprinted. You leapt where he lunged. And you smiled like life hadn’t carved a hole in your chest and left you breathless in the wreckage. You were a contradiction. Light in a place he’d turned dark on purpose. 

Still, he moved around you. Like a storm steering around a cathedral. Like a soldier tiptoeing through a garden he didn’t believe in. Until you skated into his path. He didn’t see you at first, he was locked in the repetition, the heartbeat-thunder of his blades slicing the world into before and after. But then, there you were, gliding in without hesitation, your body all poetry and provocation.  

Sunghoon veered, instinct sharp and immediate. His edge caught. Balance tipped. His world lurched and for one heart-clenching second, he was weightless and helpless and human. He caught himself on the boards with a sharp breath, pain flashing down his leg like a warning flare. Behind him, your voice rose, bright, amused, infuriating.  

“That was a triple lutz of fury. You okay, Mr. Thundercloud?” He turned slowly, every muscle tight with the effort not to snap. 

“This is a hockey rink,” he bit out, eyes dark, voice heavy with disdain. “Not a ballerina recital.” 

You just grinned, like you hadn’t heard the venom — or worse, didn’t care. “It’s called figure skating,” you replied, the words wrapped in sunlight and sarcasm. “But I’ll let the insult slide… this time.” He stared at you for a beat too long. You were smiling. Like you’d won something. Like this was a game and he was your opponent. And for the briefest, strangest moment, he forgot how to breathe. 

Then he scoffed under his breath, muttered something bitter and small, and pushed off again away from your voice, your grin, your golden defiance. But your laughter followed him across the ice, light as snowfall, impossible to ignore. He skated harder. Faster. Angry at the sound. Angrier at the way it stayed. You were the flame he never meant to touch. But you’d already left blisters behind. 

The house loomed before him, golden-lit and quiet in the blue hush of evening. Sunghoon stepped across the threshold like a soldier returning from war, though the battlefield had only been frozen water and a girl who laughed like she belonged to the light. He limped. Not dramatically he would never allow that but enough that each step sent sparks of fire through his knee. His leg was screaming, a symphony of torn sinew and stubborn pride. He didn’t slow. Wouldn’t. Not for pain. Not for anyone. 

The frat house was unusually still for a Friday night. No bass shaking the walls. No shouted dares or the sound of someone racing through the halls with a fire extinguisher again. Just a soft, echoing quiet that pressed against the walls like an old quilt — threadbare, familiar. Heeseung was probably with his girlfriend, tangled up in the kind of love that softened even his sharpest sarcasm. And Jake, well, Jake had been quieter lately too. Ever since his girlfriend’s due date began casting long shadows across his smile. The house had learned to tiptoe around anticipation, around the hush of something sacred arriving. 

Sometimes Jay played his guitar in the evenings, those bittersweet chords bleeding down the stairs like spilled wine. But tonight, there was no music. Only the faint crackle of something cooking and the rhythmic clink of a wooden spoon against a pot. Sunghoon followed the scent to the kitchen, where Jay stood at the stove in a hoodie and sweatpants, sleeves pushed to his elbows, stirring something that smelled warm and nostalgic, tomato sauce, maybe. Garlic. Something close to comfort. 

Jay glanced up, eyes flicking to the limp before Sunghoon could hide it. “You okay?” he asked, brow creasing. “You’re pushing too hard again. You need to slow down.” 

Sunghoon’s jaw clenched. The words hit like cold water, shocking, unwelcome. He dropped his stick against the wall with a dull thunk, the sound far too final. “I don’t need your concern,” he snapped, voice low, bitter. “And I sure as hell don’t need advice from the guy who kicked me off the team.” 

Jay’s stirring paused. The kitchen seemed to hold its breath. “You weren’t kicked off,” Jay said carefully, like choosing the wrong word might light a fuse. “It’s a recovery period. You know that. It’s just protocol—” 

“Protocol?” Sunghoon echoed, a scoff splitting the word in two. “You think I care what the official term is? You benched me, Jay. You and Coach. And now you want to play big brother?” Jay turned fully now, eyes steady but tired. “It’s not about playing anything. I care, Sunghoon. That’s why we’re doing this. You’re not ready yet.”

“You don’t get to decide that.” 

“Someone has to.” 

There it was. The truth, bare and blunt. And it cracked something in Sunghoon, something already splintered beneath the surface. He stepped back, breath short, throat tight with all the things he didn’t want to admit: that the rink didn’t feel the same, that he wasn’t sure he’d ever skate like he used to, that you haunted the corners of his mind like a flame that refused to go out. He turned on his heel, ignoring the flare of pain that shot up his leg. “Whatever. Just—keep your advice to yourself.” 

And then he was out of the kitchen, storming up the stairs two at a time like he could leave the conversation behind if he moved fast enough. The pain chased him anyway. At the top of the landing, he paused, one hand on the railing, the other clenched into a fist. The house was silent again. Jay hadn’t followed. The scent of sauce still lingered, but it no longer smelled like comfort. It smelled like a life that was continuing without him. 

He exhaled shakily. And behind his eyes, he saw the rink. Saw you. Spinning like the world was made of light. Smiling like you’d never been broken. He hated that it stayed with him. Hated it more that he wanted it to. 

Your dorm room was warm in the way a lived-in space should be. Golden light pooled against the far wall like honey, slanting through the blinds in stripes, soft and sleepy. The hum of a quiet Friday night filtered in through the window, distant laughter, footsteps echoing down the hall, the occasional door creak or hallway chatter swallowed by plaster walls. 

Ruka was where she always was at this hour, curled up at her desk like a monk in silent study, her headphones draped loosely around her neck, textbooks spread like sacred offerings across the surface. She barely glanced up when you opened the door, nose buried in something with a terrifying title, highlighter held like a dagger mid-stroke. You didn’t mind. 

The two of you weren’t close, not in the way girls braided hair and whispered secrets into pillows at three in the morning. But there was a quiet kind of companionship in coexisting. She listened. You filled the air. She was younger than you, ran with a different crowd. 

As always, you started talking. Words spilled from your mouth like marbles from an upturned jar, clattering over every thought you hadn’t had time to process. You flopped onto your bed and kicked off your shoes, legs hanging over the side like punctuation. “I swear the rink was cursed today. I could feel it in the air — like the ghosts of last season were judging me. And someone — won’t name names — almost ran me over. Again. Do I have a sign on my back that says ‘human speed bump’? Honestly, it’s impressive how fast he moves for someone with a busted knee. Like, hello? Take a nap, eat a granola bar, embrace mortality or something—” 

You paused to take a breath, dragging your fingers through your hair. “Anyway,” you continued, flopping dramatically onto your back, staring up at the ceiling as if it held answers. “I survived. Mostly. Though Park Sunghoon nearly gave me frostbite with just a look. I swear, I’ve never seen someone skate like they’re mad at God.” That was when Ruka looked up. 

It was subtle — a tilt of the head, a flicker of curiosity beneath her steady gaze. But you caught it. The way her highlighter froze mid-air. The way one perfectly arched brow quirked in delicate, deliberate motion. “Wait,” she said slowly, voice soft but edged with intrigue. “Park Sunghoon?” 

You blinked, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Yeah?” 

“The hockey player?” 

You nodded, slower this time, as if each motion unlocked some hidden meaning. A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, so rare and quiet it felt like catching a butterfly mid-flight. “He’s really cute,” she said simply. “I kind of have a crush on him.” And just like that, the air shifted. 

Not drastically, no thunderclap, no sudden gust, but in the way a still lake ripples when someone tosses a stone. The world tilted a few degrees. You stared at her. Not out of disbelief, but in the strange, dissonant surprise that came from hearing someone else say his name with softness instead of frustration. Because you had only ever spoken of Sunghoon with fire in your voice. Sharp-edged. Wry. Annoyed, mostly. 

But Ruka’s words were wrapped in ribbon. Gentle. Blushing. You laughed, more to yourself than at her. “Well, that makes one of us.” 

She looked at you then, really looked, head tilted, eyes curious. “You don’t think he’s cute?” You hesitated. The thing was… you didn’t know. Not really. He was all sharp lines and silent storms, the kind of boy who walked like he didn’t belong to the earth. Beautiful, maybe, but in the way wolves were, wild, cold, untouchable. 

“I think,” you said finally, drawing each word like a thread between your fingers, “he’s complicated.” 

Ruka smiled again, turning back to her textbook with a knowing kind of grace. “Those usually are.” And just like that, the moment passed. She was back to her quiet, and you were left staring at the ceiling again, wondering when his name had started tasting different in your mouth. Like something that might linger. Like something that might matter. 

Monday morning clung to the world like a yawn that never quite finished. The sky was that dreamy kind of blue, the color of notebook margins and sleepy eyes, and you were already two sips into your iced coffee, pretending it had magical properties. Your lecture hall buzzed softly with life, pages flipping, keyboards clacking, the distant groan of someone remembering they had a quiz. You sank into your seat and opened your laptop, but your fingers hovered above the keys like dancers unsure of the next step. Your mind? Miles away. Lost somewhere between calculus and chaos. 

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself, drawing shapes in the condensation on your cup. “Finals are coming. Sure. Death approaches in a syllabus-shaped cloak. But we’re gonna be fine. We’ve survived worse. Like that chem lab last semester. Or the time you accidentally locked yourself in the practice rink because you thought the red button opened the door. That was fun.” You laughed a little to yourself, a soft musical thing, then added quietly, “Sharing a rink with Park Sunghoon? Pfft. Easy. He’s just one very grumpy man with a stick. It’s basically like living with a thunderstorm. Moody, loud, and occasionally electric — but you bring an umbrella and move on.” 

You told yourself this because optimism was your armor. Because the world was already heavy enough, and if you didn’t keep spinning, you feared you’d sink. And besides, you liked spinning. You liked believing that everything, in its own way, would bloom eventually. Your fingers tapped absent-mindedly on your notebook. You were mid-thought — something about figuring out a study schedule, maybe, with your chin resting in your hand, your eyes soft and unfocused, when the air in the room shifted. 

Louder voices broke through the usual murmur like a crack of thunder across calm skies. You blinked, sat up straighter. At the back of the lecture hall, four silhouettes gathered in a tight circle. You recognized them instantly. Jay’s dark hair, Jake’s easy posture, Heeseung’s lazy slouch. And Sunghoon, standing like a blade half-drawn from its sheath, tension coiled in every muscle. Their voices weren’t loud loud, but they carried. 

“I told you, I’m fine,” Sunghoon bit out, arms crossed like a shield. “You’re treating me like I’ve lost a leg.” Jay said something quieter — calmer — but you couldn’t make out the words. Sunghoon shook his head, jaw clenched. 

“I’m not some kid who needs babysitting. I could be out there with you. But instead? I’m stuck skating in circles with the goddamn figure skaters.” The words hit like a slap. No warning. No mercy. You blinked once. Twice. You looked down at your notebook, at the spirals you’d been doodling that suddenly looked like a fall. Like something unraveling. 

You weren’t surprised, not really. Not when you’d seen the anger in his shoulders, the way he moved like something had been carved out of him. Grief in motion. Frustration dressed in skates and scowls. Still, hearing it out loud… hurt. Just a little. Like biting into something sweet and finding the bitter underneath.

You forced a smile. Told yourself, He’s just mad. Just hurting. And people in pain say things they don’t mean. You knew that. You’d always known that. So you tucked the ache somewhere deep, beneath the layers of warmth you wrapped around your heart every day. You held your chin a little higher. Kept the sunshine burning in your chest even when the clouds gathered. 

Because that’s what you did. You stayed soft. You stayed bright. Even when the world gave you every reason not to. You glanced back at them one more time, just long enough to catch the storm still brewing in his eyes. Then you turned away. And smiled again. Even though this one didn’t quite reach your eyes. 

The late afternoon folded over the campus like a well-worn quilt, stitched in gold and quiet. Shadows stretched long and slow across the sidewalks, and the sky blushed softly, unsure whether it wanted to be day or night. You walked back to your dorm with your headphones on but no music playing, just the hush of your own thoughts echoing in the space between footsteps and fading sunlight. 

The building was its usual self: scuffed floors, sleepy corridors, the scent of someone's attempt at instant noodles clinging to the stairwell air. You climbed the steps like you always did, counting them beneath your breath like charms. 

One, two, three, four—everything will be fine.

Five, six, seven—you're stronger than this.

Eight, nine—just lace your skates and keep moving. 

Your key clicked into the lock, the door creaked open, and — Silence. Stillness, not unfamiliar, but… different. Ruka’s side of the room sat in its usual state of meticulous calm. Bed made like a hotel sheet ad, her books aligned like soldiers on her desk. But the chair was empty. Her headphones were gone. Her little desk lamp, usually the only star in your shared little galaxy was off. Your brows furrowed. She wasn’t the type to vanish without a trace. She was quiet, sure. Steady as a heartbeat. But dependable as gravity. On Saturdays, she studied. With her color-coded notes and an herbal tea steaming gently beside her elbow. A ritual. A rhythm.

You dropped your bag onto your bed and stood for a moment, frozen between thoughts. The silence was thick, pressing at your ears like water, and you almost called out her name, just to hear a sound bounce back. But you didn’t. You let it go. People have lives. Maybe she went out. Maybe someone swept her into a spontaneous adventure, a brief rebellion against her usual constellations. Maybe she just needed to breathe outside these four walls. You told yourself all of this, gently, while pulling open your bottom drawer.

Inside, your skates gleamed dully in the late-day light, blades catching the edge of dusk. You ran your fingers over the laces, the leather warm from where your dreams lived inside them. Then you pulled out your duffel, began packing with practiced hands, pads, gloves, that ridiculous fleece-lined jacket you never actually wore but always brought just in case. Each item folded like a promise. Each zipper, a punctuation mark. Each movement, a ritual. This is how we prepare. This is how we carry on. 

You glanced again at Ruka’s desk as you slung the bag over your shoulder, something quiet fluttering in your chest. Not quite worry, not quite longing. Just the awareness that something familiar had gone just a little bit strange.

You left the dorm with that feeling trailing behind you like a thread, caught in the breeze of your footsteps. Outside, the sky was starting to darken. Time to skate. Time to shine.

Even if someone else’s words still echoed like bruises in the back of your mind. 

The rink was a cathedral of echoes when you arrived, cold light spilling from the overheads like moonlight dragged down to earth. You stepped through the side door with your duffel swinging low and your breath fogging in the air, a silent offering to the frozen gods of routine. The chill kissed your cheeks the moment you entered, familiar and unbothered by your presence. The ice welcomed you without question unlike the boy skating circles at the far end of the rink, cutting lines through frost like he was angry at the surface itself. 

Park Sunghoon. 

You saw him the moment you stepped through the arch of metal and fluorescent glow. Sharp lines of movement, precise but edged with frustration, like a dancer trying to turn fury into choreography. He didn’t look up. Of course, he didn’t. You might as well have been a ghost to him, a passing flicker in his periphery. And still… his words from this morning clung to you like fog to a mirror. “I’m stuck skating in circles with the goddamn figure skaters.” 

You could’ve held onto that. Let it curdle in your chest. But you didn’t. You’d already chosen to let it melt like frost under sunlight. Because that was how you survived people like him, people with cold hearts and stormy eyes. You stayed warm. You stayed soft. Gooey, like a cookie. Even if his silence sliced like wind over bare skin. 

You moved toward the bench in the corner, began lacing your skates with steady fingers. A familiar rhythm. Loop. Pull. Loop. Pull. You took a deep breath. Told yourself that the ice was still yours. That joy could still be found here. And then you stepped onto it. The rink hummed beneath your blades. You skated a gentle warm-up, smooth glides and soft turns, tracing patterns in silence like a painter laying down the first strokes of something that might become beautiful. You didn’t look at him. Not really. But you felt him, like a shadow trailing just out of view. 

He kept his distance. Good. Let him.

You spun into your routine, finding the quiet joy in motion again. Practicing your turns, letting momentum carry you like a whispered secret. And then, a voice loud and shrill broke the icy silence between you two. “WOO! GO, SUNGHOON!” Your skate caught slightly on the edge of your turn, not enough to fall, but enough to blink you out of your trance. You slowed to a glide, turning toward the source. 

There, in the bleachers near the glass, waving like she was at a concert and not a cold, half-empty rink, was none other than Ruka. Your brows lifted before you could stop them. She had swapped her usual hoodie-and-headphones look for something more casual-cute. Perched on the edge of the seat like a cat in a sunbeam. And her eyes? They were locked onto Sunghoon like he was something out of a dream she’d once dared to whisper aloud. 

“Come on, you look great out there!” she called, clapping. “That last sprint? Totally NHL-worthy!” You blinked. Slowly. Sunghoon, mid-stride, skidded slightly, his jaw ticking as he looked over at her. Not a smile. Not a nod. Just the sharp exhale of a man who’d rather be anywhere else. His annoyance was visible in the set of his shoulders, the way he stared past her like she was fog on the glass, there but inconvenient. 

Your heart tilted sideways in your chest. Not because of the awkwardness. Not because Ruka was cheering for the very boy who had called your world a joke in a voice laced with disdain. But because you saw him. You saw how he stiffened under her praise, how his skates moved sharper, faster, like he was trying to outskate her words. Like kindness grated on him more than silence. Like admiration was a language he didn’t know how to read. 

You stayed still for a moment, one hand on your hip, the other brushing a strand of hair from your eyes. You watched the way he avoided your gaze with deliberate precision. Like even eye contact might unravel him. Then you took a breath. Pushed off. Returned to your own practice. 

Because the ice didn’t belong to him. And your light didn’t need permission to shine.

Still, as you skated, you felt something settle into your bones. Not quite sadness. Not quite jealousy. Just… the sharp awareness that everyone wore masks. Even the ones who scowled at sunshine and rolled their eyes at laughter. Especially them. 

The hours unfurled like ribbons across the ice, silver and slow. You and Sunghoon spun your separate galaxies across the same frozen sky, orbiting each other in careful silence. His skates tore into the rink with force, blades slicing like twin swords, while yours curved and dipped with the grace of moonlight slipping through branches. He was precision and thunder. You were rhythm and light. 

You didn’t speak. Not once. But you felt him. And somehow, that was worse. Every time he passed, your chest tightened just a little, remembering the way his voice had clipped those words this morning, how he’d tossed your world aside with a single breath. But the cold has a way of preserving more than just bruises; it clears the mind, too. By the time practice wound to a close, your hurt had melted into determination, soft and fierce. 

The locker room door creaked as you stepped off the ice. And there he was, Sunghoon, perched on the bench like a statue carved from winter itself. He sat hunched over his skates, fingers tugging sharply at the laces, his jaw tight, sweat painting constellations at his temple. You watched him for a beat. The way his leg trembled slightly. The sharp inhale when he shifted. Pain. Not just ghost pain, not the phantom ache of healing. Real. Present.

Your eyes narrowed, and the words came out before you could swallow them. “You’re doing it wrong,” you said, stepping forward, breath curling in the cold. 

Sunghoon didn’t look up. “Doing what wrong?” 

“Your stride,” you said, matter-of-fact but warm, like you were offering a cup of tea to a frostbitten soul. “That’s why your leg still hurts so bad. Your form’s all off.” 

He finally glanced at you, those glacier eyes narrowing, irritation flickering just behind them like lightning beneath snowclouds. “I’m what?” 

“You’re playing wrong,” you repeated, standing tall despite your worn skates, your cheeks pink from the chill and adrenaline. “You’re putting too much pressure on the outer part of your knee when you push off. You’re compensating for the pain, which is making it worse.” 

He scoffed. “And you’re what, a doctor now?” 

“Nope.” You smiled, brightly, undeterred. “Just someone who’s fallen on her ass about a thousand times. Figure skaters crash constantly, but we know how to angle our bodies so the impact spreads. It’s all physics. Leverage. Balance. Control.” He looked back down at his skates, tugging harder now, the muscle in his forearm twitching. 

“I can help you, if you want,” you offered, genuine, hopeful, stubborn. “Just with the angles. Not to overstep. Just to help you skate without pain.” He didn’t answer right away. For a heartbeat, you thought maybe — just maybe — he was considering it. That something in his storm-cloud gaze might soften. Then he snorted. “No thanks, Sunshine.”

The nickname was sharp, but not cruel. More like a brush-off wrapped in thin sarcasm, tossed over his shoulder like a towel. He stood, grabbed his jacket, and limped toward the exit, each step radiating quiet fury. You watched him go, your hands still resting on your hips, heart stung but not shattered. Because here’s the thing about sunshine. It doesn’t need permission to rise. It just does.

So you exhaled. Smiled again, just for yourself. And whispered under your breath like a promise: “Tomorrow, then.” Because you weren’t done. Not even close. The ice hadn’t melted between you yet.

You slipped through the dorm door with your skates still swinging from your shoulder, the scent of cold clinging to your hair like snowflakes that refused to melt. The hallway was dim, the kind of golden hush that only existed in the sliver of hours between late afternoon and true evening, and the air in your room felt just a degree warmer than the rink, barely but enough to sting your fingers with returning blood. And there she was.

Ruka. Curled cross-legged on her bed, laptop open, notebooks spread like wings around her. Her hair was tucked into a low bun, earbuds in, and she was scribbling something down with a pencil that had been chewed nearly to death. For a moment, you paused in the doorway. Something felt…off. Not visibly. Not loudly. But you knew people the way skaters knew their balance points — by instinct. You could feel when someone had shifted, even if they looked the same. She didn’t look up when you came in. 

Still, you offered a bright little sigh, a soft smile breaking across your face like morning light spilling across your pillow. “Hey, you disappeared before I left the rink.” You tossed your bag gently onto the floor and began tugging off your coat, the fabric whispering across your skin. “Didn’t even hear you leave. Were you skating again?” You played dumb, of course. 

Ruka blinked at her notebook, then slowly pulled an earbud free. Her eyes met yours. cool, calm, unreadable. “I wasn’t skating,” she said simply. 

You tilted your head, fingers pausing mid-zip on your hoodie. “Oh. So… what were you doing there?” 

it was a harmless question. Light as air. But her answer landed like a stone. “Just watching.” She turned back to her notes like punctuation, and you blinked. Something in her voice had been dipped in frost. Not biting, but distant. Measured. Not her usual soft-spoken stillness, the kind that let you chatter through silences without ever feeling unwelcome. No—this was different. This was cold. You stood there for a beat, hoodie half unzipped, heart tilting a little sideways. 

“Right,” you said, voice laced in artificial warmth. “That’s cool. I didn’t know you were a fan of the rink.” Ruka didn’t reply.

You let out a little laugh, quiet, the kind that fills a space just to prove you still can. And then, still smiling, you crossed the room and sat on your bed, your bones aching from practice, your mind unraveling in quiet questions. You didn’t press. You didn’t pry. That wasn’t your way.

But you thought about the way she had cheered earlier, about how her voice had filled the cold air with warmth meant for someone else. You thought about Sunghoon, skating like he could outrun something, and the way her gaze had followed him like he was the sun she’d never dared look at before. You lay back against the pillow, eyes on the ceiling. Sometimes, things shift before you see them coming. And sometimes, people surprise you in the quietest ways.

But still, you stayed kind. Stayed bright. Because even if the room was colder than you remembered, you refused to stop being the warmth. 

The night had softened by the time Sunghoon made it back to the house, the sky bruised with the fading violet of dusk, and the air bit at his skin like it resented his stubbornness. His leg burned. Not the sharp, immediate pain of an old injury flaring, but the deep, heavy ache of something being pushed past its breaking point. Again. 

The front door creaked open under his weight, and the warmth of the frat house spilled over him like syrup. thick and too sweet. Familiar voices tangled together just past the hallway. Laughter. The clink of plates. The low strum of Jay’s voice. He almost turned around. But pride is a chain wrapped around the ribs. And his wouldn’t let go. He stepped inside.

The living room glowed gold, lit by the low hum of lamplight and the occasional flicker of the muted TV. Jay was leaned back on the couch, an open water bottle in hand, while Jake sat beside his very pregnant girlfriend, who had her feet propped up on a pillow. Her belly rose like a gentle tide beneath her sweater, and her eyes shone with that ever-glowing light. soft, observant, and infinitely kind. Three heads turned as Sunghoon limped through the door, his hoodie half-zipped and damp with leftover sweat from practice. 

“You’re limping worse than yesterday,” Jay said, always the captain, always the voice of reason. 

Jake chimed in a beat later, his brows drawn in concern. “Why won’t you just rest, man? You’re not gonna heal if you keep pushing like this.” Sunghoon dropped his gear by the door with a heavy thud, his jaw tight, the pain crawling up his leg like a storm trying to find a place to land. 

“I’m fine,” he gritted out, not looking at them. “I don’t need a lecture.” 

Jay sighed, the sound edged with exhaustion. “It’s not a lecture, Hoon. It’s basic logic. You’re tearing yourself up out there. You think Coach Bennett’ll let you back in if you break yourself completely?” 

Sunghoon turned, irritation flashing sharp and raw in his eyes. “I wouldn’t be ‘breaking’ if you hadn’t pulled me off the ice in the first place.” 

“You’re not off the team,” Jay replied calmly, setting his bottle down. “You’re on a required recovery period.” 

“The same thing,” Sunghoon snapped. “Don’t split hairs.” 

A quiet cough cut through the tension, and Jake’s girlfriend — sweet as spring rain — shifted a little on the couch. “I think what they’re trying to say is… maybe listening to your body isn’t the worst idea,” she said gently, her voice like a balm. “I mean, sometimes we think we’re fine just because we want to be.” 

It should’ve landed like comfort. But it struck like a match. “Mind your business,” Sunghoon said sharply, the words out before he could call them back. The room froze.

Jake’s head snapped around, his eyes flaring. “Hey. Don’t talk to my girl like that.” The silence that followed was molten. Sunghoon’s anger flickered, dimmed, and died out in a single breath. He stared at the floor, guilt pooling heavy in his chest like sleet. 

“I didn’t mean…” His voice cracked, quieter now. “Sorry. That was—stupid. I’m sorry.” Jake’s girlfriend gave him a small, understanding smile. She always forgave too easily. That only made it worse. 

Sunghoon grabbed his water bottle and turned away, shoulders stiff, shame clinging to him like another layer of sweat-soaked fabric. He climbed the stairs slowly, every step a needle driven into the muscle behind his knee. When he reached his room, he shut the door softly almost tenderly and stood there in the quiet, staring at nothing for a long moment. The pain was still there, pulsing like a second heartbeat. But deeper than that — beneath the bruised ego and the battered pride was something else. 

Your voice, bright and persistent, kept echoing in his mind.

“You’re playing wrong.”“It’s all physics. Leverage. Balance.”“I can help you.”

Sunghoon ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling just a little. It had sounded ridiculous earlier. But now, with the pain sharp and unrelenting, and the silence of the room pressing in like a judgment, your offer didn’t seem so foolish. Maybe it wasn’t pity. Maybe it wasn’t an insult. Maybe you actually knew what you were talking about.

He sighed and sat on the edge of his bed, leg stretched out in front of him like a broken line. The ice, the skates, the ache, the quiet praise you gave him even when he hadn’t earned it… it all blurred together. And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t try to push the pain away. He let it sit beside him like a mirror. Maybe see you again tomorrow. And maybe… he’d listen this time. 

The sky was the color of wet pearls as you made your way to the rink, the kind of soft gray that promised rain but never delivered. Your skates were slung over your shoulder, biting at your hip with every step, and your breath came out in visible puffs that floated like little ghosts of determination. You were a girl on a mission, fueled by blind optimism and an unyielding belief that even the most frozen things could melt if you were warm enough, loud enough, kind enough. And Sunghoon? He was a glacier. But even glaciers cracked under time and pressure.

The door to the rink groaned open and welcomed you with that familiar chill, that bite of air laced with the perfume of ice and steel. You stepped in like it was a cathedral, reverent in your own way, eyes scanning the space that had become your evening altar. He was there. Already. Park Sunghoon. Laced in shadow and silence. 

He sat on the bench near the boards, bent over his skates, fingers threading laces with a quiet intensity, jaw set like it was carved from marble. His hair was damp at the edges, the kind of mess that spoke of someone who didn’t care enough to fix it but hadn’t quite let go of vanity either. The light caught on the sharp curve of his cheekbone, and for a moment you paused just a moment because something about him looked… different. He looked Less angry. Or maybe just tired of being angry. You couldn’t figure out which was which. 

You marched up anyway, smile already blooming like a sunflower on your face, warmth radiating off of you in a way the ice couldn’t fight. “Okay,” you said, breathless not from the cold but from the flurry of thoughts bursting behind your eyes. “Hear me out. I’ve been thinking and don’t roll your eyes, this is important I’ve been thinking that maybe, just maybe, you need me.” He didn’t look up. You didn’t let it stop you. “Your form is off. I’m not just saying that to be annoying. I mean, I am annoying, but not this time. You’re straining the wrong muscle groups and you’re compensating for your knee in a way that’s going to make it worse. You’re going to tear something again and then you really won’t be able to play. And I know, I know I’m just a figure skater and you think I don’t get it, but we fall for a living. Literally. And we fall well. We learn to twist midair so the ice kisses us instead of cracking us open, and I could show you, I could help you—” 

“Okay.”

You blinked.

“What?”

Sunghoon finally looked up. His eyes met yours, dark and steady, but not cruel. Not cold. Just quiet. “I said okay,” he repeated, voice low but clear. “Meet me here. Every weekday. 6:30 p.m. sharp.” 

You stared at him, stunned into something dangerously close to speechless. “Wait. Wait, did you — did you say yes?”

“I did.”

“Well don’t deny me — wait. What.” A ghost of a smirk, barely there, almost imaginary curved at the corner of his mouth. “Meet me here on time, Sunshine.” 

You laughed, half in disbelief, half in relief, the sound tumbling out of you like birds startled into flight. “Sunshine, huh? You really can’t help yourself with the nicknames.” He stood then, tall and limping slightly, but not so much that you missed the way his frame shifted lighter. Like saying yes had peeled off a layer of armor. Like hope, when it finally arrived, it didn't have to announce itself loudly; it just had to be there. “6:30,” he repeated. “Don’t be late.”

You saluted with mock seriousness, grinning wide. “Sir, yes sir.”

He rolled his eyes and skated toward the ice, but this time… this time he didn’t avoid you. Not entirely. And just like that, a crack had opened in the glacier. Small. Fragile. But real. And you, all sun and stubbornness, were ready to shine straight through it. 

The next day dawned with a sky stretched in pale watercolor, as if the heavens themselves were yawning awake. And you moved with purpose, energy stitched into your limbs like golden thread, skipping down the hallway with your skates in one hand and a banana in the other, mid-bite, mid-monologue about how today was going to be the day Sunghoon learned the art of surrender. Not to defeat — oh no but to gravity. To momentum. To pain that teaches rather than punishes. 

The rink was quieter than usual when you arrived, its emptiness echoing with the soft hum of the refrigeration system beneath the ice. The air was its usual crisp kiss, sharp enough to sting but not to bruise. Sunghoon was already there, of course, punctual and pouting. He sat on the bench with his skate half-laced and his hoodie still on, like a knight begrudgingly preparing for a battle he didn’t believe in. You practically twirled in, dropping your bag with theatrical flair. “Alright, Captain Crankypants,” you called out, voice bright and bell-clear, “today we begin with the basics. Lesson one: how to fall like a pro.” 

He groaned, long and low, as if your very presence was the headache he couldn’t shake. “You want me to fall? On purpose?” His eyes flicked up at you, unimpressed. “Yeah, that sounds super smart.” You beamed at him, entirely unbothered. “Not just fall. Fall well. There’s an art to it, you know. A science. A rhythm. You can’t just slam into the ground like a dropped dumbbell, you’ll wreck yourself that way.” 

He scoffed, standing slowly, testing his weight on that healing leg with guarded precision. “Pretty sure falling’s the last thing I should be doing if I want to get back on the ice with my team.” 

“But that’s exactly why you should,” you replied, tilting your head, as if the answer was written in the frost forming along the glass. “Because falling isn’t the problem, Sunghoon. It’s how you fall. We don’t learn to stop gravity. We learn to meet it, roll with it, get back up without it stealing anything more than our breath.” His eyes narrowed, a storm cloud gathering, quiet but looming. “That’s figure skating stuff.” 

“Exactly,” you chirped. “Which is why you’re lucky you’ve got me.” 

He looked at you like you were speaking in tongues. “You’re enjoying this way too much.” 

“Oh, absolutely,” you said, laughing as you tugged on your gloves. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” With slow reluctance, like a stubborn mountain giving in to time, Sunghoon followed you onto the ice. His strides were careful, a ghost of his former fluidity trailing behind each push. You watched him move with a softness in your gaze, knowing he was fighting something far deeper than physical injury. He was mourning a version of himself that had been left behind in the locker room that day, when his knee gave out and the world fell with it. You stopped near center rink and turned to face him. “Okay. Watch me.” 

You let yourself fall, dramatically and deliberately. A gentle twist of the hips, a tuck of the arms, a controlled slide that kissed the ice instead of collided with it. You rose just as quickly, nimble and unbothered. “See? Easy peasy, gravity is greedy but we’re smarter.” 

He muttered something under his breath, something about this being ridiculous, but you caught the way his lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite disapproval. Just… conflict. And curiosity. “Try it,” you said, your voice dipped in sugar and sunshine. “Don’t think. Just fall. Trust that I’ll teach you how to land softer.” 

He hesitated, eyes flickering across the rink like it might mock him, like it might remember how once, not long ago, it had hurt him. But finally, with a sigh that could have been mistaken for wind, he crouched a little, awkward and stiff, and let himself go. It wasn’t perfect. Not even close. He landed with a thud and a grunt, half-turned and slightly off balance. But he didn’t scream. He didn’t wince. And he didn’t stay down. You clapped, delighted. “Not bad! You’ve got the makings of a Bambi-on-ice!” 

He rolled his eyes, but he was sitting up now, flexing his leg, and something in his face had shifted. A flicker of belief. A spark of possibility.

You offered your hand. He didn’t take it. But he stood on his own. And that, in your eyes, was progress painted in frost and stubborn hope. Practice ended in a flurry of silence and exhale, the kind that leaves your lungs aching and your limbs trembling from exhaustion masked as endurance. The rink had settled into a sleepy hush, the overhead lights casting silver puddles onto the ice like pools of moonlight spilled from a weary sky. Sunghoon had spent most of the hour gliding just beyond your reach, stoic and brooding, a storm cloud in a jersey, orbiting your sunshine in quiet, reluctant circles. But progress had been made. Not in leaps or bounds, but in small things: the twitch of a smile that he didn’t quite manage to kill, the way he didn’t protest when you told him his weight distribution was off. Tiny steps, quiet victories. 

You both sat now on the bench that bordered the rink, his skates half-untied, yours dangling from your fingers as you caught your breath. His hoodie clung to him in damp creases, his hair plastered to his forehead, and yet he still managed to look like he’d stepped out of some tragic poem. A sonnet of scraped ice and stubbornness. “So…” you began, voice light as lace, “about Ruka.” 

He didn’t look at you, only furrowed his brows deeper into the shadows of his lashes. “Who?” 

You turned slightly, lacing one skate in slow loops as you stole a glance at his profile. “The girl who was here the other day. Cheering for you like it was the Olympics.” Realization flickered across his face like lightning fast, dismissive. “Oh. The cheerleader.” 

You laughed, not unkindly. “She’s not a cheerleader, she’s my roommate. And she might have a tiny little crush on you.” Sunghoon groaned, tipping his head back as if the ceiling above might offer him divine rescue. “Great. Just what I need.” 

“What, adoration?” you teased, nudging his knee with yours. “Must be so hard.” He didn’t answer right away, his jaw working through something he didn’t say aloud. Finally, he muttered, “I don’t date.” 

You raised a brow. “Really?” 

“Hockey’s the love of my life,” he said, eyes sharp like ice shards, like truth he’d carved out long ago. “That’s enough for me.” You tilted your head, letting your hair fall like a curtain of gold and starlight across your cheek. “That’s a sad way to live,” you said gently, not accusing, just… observing. “Everyone deserves to love. To be loved.” 

He looked at you then, a long, lingering look, as if trying to decide whether your optimism was a costume or a calling. “I do love,” he said, softer this time. “I love the game. That’s all I’ve ever needed.” 

“But maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet,” you offered, voice barely more than a breath. He let out a short laugh — dry, not cruel. “Sounds like something out of one of those cheesy rom-coms you’d make me watch.” 

You smiled, undeterred, pulling your coat tighter around you as the cold began to kiss at your skin. “You’d be surprised what stories can teach you.” 

Sunghoon didn’t reply. He stood, the worn laces of his skates now untied completely, his posture tight, shoulders stiff with the ache he wouldn’t admit. He slung his bag over one arm and glanced at you, his expression unreadable under the dull glow of the rink’s overhead light.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, voice low.

“At 6:30,” you replied, standing too.

He nodded, already walking away, and you watched him disappear into the tunnel that led out of the rink, his shadow swallowed by silence. Still, even as the chill pressed into your bones and your breath misted in the air, you smiled. Because he hadn’t said no. And sometimes, that was the first word in a yes.

The frat house was pulsing, alive with sound and sweat and lights that flickered like epileptic stars. The bass thumped through the walls like a second heartbeat, the kind that didn’t come from within you but pressed on your ribs from the outside, trying to break in. It was the kind of night made for forgetting, flashing cups, flushed cheeks, dizzy laughter. But Sunghoon had nothing he wanted to forget, only things he was trying to survive. His body was a map of ache, his knee a smoldering ember, his back tensed and twisted, his temples drumming a painful rhythm. He should’ve gone to bed. Should’ve wrapped himself in the quiet and left the world to burn without him. 

Instead, he pushed through the crowd, ignoring the limbs that bumped against his shoulders, the haze of perfume and cologne, the drunk declarations and loud, sloppy choruses of songs everyone pretended to know. The lights made everything look fake — skin too bright, eyes too glassy. He moved like a ghost among the living. The kitchen was a marginally calmer pocket of air, though even it buzzed with tension. Soobin stood near the counter, arms crossed, stoic in a way that looked practiced. Yunjin stood in front of him, animated, eyebrows tight and lips moving too fast, too sharp. Sunghoon didn’t catch the words, but the emotion slapped against the tile floor like broken glass. Love turned into a battlefield over cheap beer and pride. 

Heeseung leaned against the fridge, sipping something bright and unholy from a red plastic cup, and Jay stood beside him, eyes flicking from Soobin and Yunjin to Sunghoon with a practiced detachment. “Rough night?” Heeseung asked, his tone too casual to be innocent. 

Sunghoon didn’t answer. He glanced at the tension in the room, the cracked silence in Soobin’s stance, the hurt in Yunjin’s voice. “What’s their deal?” he asked, jerking his chin in their direction. Jay shrugged, reaching for a half-empty bag of chips. “Who knows. Been like that all week.” 

“We try not to get involved,” Heeseung added, a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. Sunghoon gave a noncommittal grunt and moved to grab a water bottle from the counter. The cold plastic stung his palm, grounded him for a second. The kitchen smelled like too many people and too many drinks, but it was better than the noise outside. 

Jay leaned in slightly. “Hey, by the way — a girl was walking around asking for you earlier.”  

At that, something in Sunghoon stuttered some quiet spark of thought, unspoken and unacknowledged. His mind flicked to you, impossibly bright and smiling, always halfway through a sentence, your words cotton candy and conviction. It was a fleeting hope, gone before he could even name it. Then Jay nodded toward the hallway, where Ruka stood, wearing confidence like perfume and eyeing the room like she owned it. 

Sunghoon’s mouth twisted. The little spark of hope snuffed out before it could catch flame. “Of course,” he muttered. He didn’t wait for her to notice him. He turned on his heel and left the kitchen, weaving back through the crowd, avoiding her gaze like it might pierce him. He wasn’t in the mood for polite smiles or coy compliments, not in the mood to be someone else’s fantasy when he couldn’t even bear being himself right now. 

He was almost free, fingers brushing the door to his room, sanctuary just a heartbeat away when her voice cut through the noise behind him. “Sunghoon, wait.” 

He froze. Not in obedience, but in dread the way a predator might freeze in the moment it realizes it’s been cornered. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t slow. Just kept walking, because if he didn’t look at her, maybe she’d vanish into the static of the party behind them. But Ruka didn’t vanish. She chased. Her heels clicked across the floor like punctuation in a sentence he didn’t want to read. Then her hand was on his arm — cloying, too warm, too familiar. He yanked away from her grasp like her touch burned. And maybe it did. Maybe everything burned lately. 

She flinched at his reaction, then softened her voice into something apologetic and breathy, practiced like a song she’d sung too many times. “I’m sorry, okay? I just— I wanted to say something.” He said nothing, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the stairwell. “She’s not who you think she is,” Ruka said then, her voice low but sharp, like a knife being slipped between the ribs. “That girl you’ve been skating with. All that sunshine and sparkle? It’s a show. She’s not that happy. She's actually really depressing.” 

The words echoed strangely in the space between them, bouncing off the noise of the house and falling like lead at his feet. Sunghoon turned then, slowly, like something ancient and brimming with wrath. His face was calm, but his eyes — his eyes held storms. Not the kind that pass, but the kind that drown entire cities. “Mind your business,” he said, his voice cold enough to crack glass. 

Ruka blinked, taken aback. Maybe she’d expected amusement. Maybe she thought he’d nod in agreement or laugh, or at the very least, care. But he didn’t laugh. And he did care and that infuriated him even more. He didn’t wait for her response. He turned and stormed back down the stairs, shoving past strangers with empty smiles and red plastic cups. The house felt suffocating, bloated with sound and people and things he didn’t have the patience for. His skin felt tight, his heart loud, his thoughts louder. 

Why did it bother him? Why did her words sink under his skin like a splinter?

She didn’t know you. Not really. Not the way he’d started to. Not in the way you spoke about falling like it was an art form, not in the way you tried to fix him like he was something worth mending.  He shoved out the front door, the cold air biting at his skin like it, too, had something to prove. His breath left in bursts of fog, pain pulsing behind his kneecap as if to remind him of every bruise he carried, every truth he refused to name. 

He walked towards the diner that nearly everyone frequented on campus. Hoping and praying for some sense of solace. 

The booth by the window smelled of syrup and coffee and the kind of late-night grease that clung to the bones of a day too long lived. The diner was warm in the way a memory is warm, buzzing neon lights humming above like lullabies, and the soft clink of forks on ceramic drifting through the air like wind chimes in a storm's lull. You sat alone, chin propped up in your palm, tracing swirls in the condensation of your water glass, legs still sore from practice but your spirit untouched, untouched the way a flame dances even after the wax is nearly gone. Your plate was half full, pancakes cut into clumsy quarters, syrup pooling in the valleys. You were halfway through recounting your own day in your head out loud, of course, because silence had never been your companion when the bell above the door rang. 

You looked up. The words on your tongue stuttered into stillness. Sunghoon. It was Sunghoon. 

Still dressed in the hoodie he’d been wearing at the rink, his hair damp with sweat or melted frost, eyes dark with something that stormed just beneath the surface. He paused when he saw you, shoulders sinking with theatrical dread. Of course, he thought. Of course you’d be here, light personified, smile too wide for the hour and heart too open for someone who’d barely gotten a thank you out of him. 

“Sunghoon!” you beamed, like the sky had cracked open just to drop this moment into your lap. Your voice, effervescent as soda fizz, bounced toward him like a pebble skipping across water. He groaned. It was low, dramatic, and pulled from somewhere that wanted desperately to be annoyed, but didn’t quite make it. “Of course you’re here.” 

“Where else would I be?” you grinned, motioning to the seat across from you like you’d always meant it for him. “So… what brings you to this fine establishment at such a glamorous hour?” 

“I was hungry,” he deadpanned, walking over with the kind of gait that whispered of pain. He didn’t explain the limp, didn’t bother to soften his tone. “Why else would someone come to a diner?” Your smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew.

“Touché,” you said, then leaned in with a twinkle in your eye. “Want to sit with me?” 

He opened his mouth, likely to decline with something sarcastic and sharp-edged, but the words caught on the way out. Maybe it was your smile, or the glow of the booth light painting soft halos in your hair, or maybe — though he’d never admit it —i t was just that being near you quieted something in him, something he didn’t know needed quieting. “Sure,” he muttered. 

He slid into the seat across from you, his movements slow, like each inch of space between pain and stillness had to be negotiated. You didn’t mention the way he winced as he sat. You just smiled again, folding your hands in front of you like this was a normal thing, the two of you, alone together in a corner of the night that didn’t feel so lonely anymore. Sunghoon didn’t tell you what Ruka had said. He didn’t tell you how it sat on his chest like a stone, how her voice echoed in his skull like wind through a cracked window. Because it wasn’t his to say. And because, deep down, he already knew it wasn’t true. 

He saw you fall on the ice and rise again like it was a song your body knew by heart. He heard the way your laughter curved around your words and the way your voice filled silence with life, not noise. No — whatever Ruka thought she knew of you, it was only a fraction, and not the kind he cared to carry. Instead, he stared down at your plate, brows raised. 

“Pancakes at midnight?” he asked. 

You shrugged, delighted. “Midnight pancakes fix all problems. Haven’t you heard?” 

He smirked then, small, fleeting. Like sunrise just peeking over frostbitten windows. “Heeseung says that all the time.” 

“Well he sounds like a pretty smart guy.” You quirked, picking at your pancakes leisurely. 

Sunghoon huffed a laugh — small but still there. “Sure.” For a while, the two of you sat in something not quite silence, not quite conversation, but alive and breathing all the same. And in the quiet hum of syrup-sticky booths and flickering neon signs, something invisible began to shift. The hiss of the coffee machine behind the counter had become a kind of lullaby, murmuring softly beneath the quiet chatter of the few remaining night owls nestled into booths and barstools. Across from you, Sunghoon picked at the edge of a sugar packet, his fingers deft and idle, not quite meeting your eyes, but listening in that particular way he always did, like he was preparing to argue but got caught up in your melody instead. 

You sat across from him, legs tucked under you like a child curling into a story, your face glowing with the heat of possibility rather than the diner’s neon haze. And he watched you, not that he’d admit it. Not that he knew what to do with someone like you. “I’m going to make the podium this year,” you said, sudden and certain, stabbing a lone pancake piece with your fork like it was fate itself. “I don’t care what place. Bronze, silver, first runner-up to the crowd favorite. I just want to stand there, see the crowd, and know I didn’t fall flat.” 

Sunghoon blinked at you. “Figure skating finals?” 

You nodded, then grinned. “The big ones. My coach calls it the crown jewel. The end of the season, the whole year in a single performance. I tanked last time. fell on my opening jump and never recovered. My blade caught the edge, and it all spiraled. Couldn’t hear the music over the panic. I was supposed to shine and instead I… dulled.” 

The words weren’t bitter, just honest. You spoke of failure with a sort of reverent gentleness, as if it were a bruise you had long since accepted. It surprised him how freely you gave that part of yourself away. No dramatics. No self-pity. Just truth. He leaned forward, arms crossed on the table. “And you’re trying again?” 

“Of course.” Your voice was light, but sure. “I owe it to the version of me that cried backstage and promised to do better. I owe it to the dream that didn’t die just because I messed up once. Besides, we fall all the time in figure skating on ice, off ice. You just get up and do it again.” Something in him shifted at that. The ice in his chest cracked a little more, as if the warmth in your voice could thaw even the places he'd long buried under frost and fury. 

You caught the flicker in his eyes and smiled, like sunshine breaking through cloud cover. “Don’t look at me like I’ve grown a second head. You’re the one always brooding like the main character in a sports anime.” Sunghoon rolled his eyes, but the edge was gone. He stared at the last of his fries, then slowly pushed the plate aside. “You’re weird,” he muttered, almost like it was a compliment. 

You beamed, unbothered. “Takes one to know one.” And just like that, between the flicker of fluorescent lights and the taste of melted syrup, the world felt a little less heavy. He didn’t tell you about Ruka. He didn’t mention the ache in his knee or the fact that, for the first time in a long while, he hadn’t felt like lashing out or retreating. He just sat there, listening to you talk about your music selection and how you were planning to bedazzle your new competition costume yourself  “with enough rhinestones to blind the front row” and something quiet inside him settled.

He didn’t believe in miracles. But maybe… maybe he could believe in second chances. Especially the ones that came in the shape of bright eyes, chipped diner mugs, and a voice that refused to give up. Even on him. 

The night air was a velvet hush wrapped around the world, stitched with distant traffic and the occasional hum of streetlamp flicker. The diner door swung shut behind you both with a bell's chime like the last note of a lullaby. Outside, the cold kissed your cheeks and painted your exhales into fleeting ghosts, trailing behind you like forgotten sentences. You walked beside him, your boots crunching gently over old salt and fractured pavement, the glow of the diner still soft behind you. He walked with his hands buried deep in his coat pockets, shoulders tense, as if he were always prepared for winter — even in spring. 

But you, you carried warmth like it bloomed from your chest. You talked, because silence begged to be filled and your thoughts were too colorful to keep caged. "I always liked walking at night," you began, voice barely louder than the rustle of your jacket. "When I was little, my dad used to say the stars came out just to eavesdrop on our dreams. I used to whisper to them before bed. Tell them everything I was too scared to say out loud." Sunghoon said nothing, only shifted slightly, head tilted as though your words trailed behind his ears like music on low volume. His footsteps matched yours, deliberate, steady. Listening. Always listening. 

You glanced up at the sky, where stars flickered shyly through the sprawl of city haze. “Some nights, when I’m scared before a competition, I still talk to them. Like, ‘Hey, I know I biffed the last triple loop but if you could just not let me crash this time, that’d be amazing.’” You laughed lightly. “They’re probably tired of hearing about my spiral sequences.” He almost smiled. Almost. You kept going, because silence in his company no longer felt daunting, only deep. A pool that welcomed your words, let them sink in, soak through. He didn’t need to speak. He just needed to be there, and somehow, he was. 

“I don’t think people realize how lonely it is to try to be great,” you mused. “Everyone sees the sparkle, the applause, the medals. But they don’t see the bruised knees. The missed meals. The days where you cry on the cold rink floor because you can’t land a stupid jump you’ve done a thousand times. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just chasing a spotlight that’ll burn me up before I ever reach it.” Still, no answer. Just his steady breath beside you, vapor blooming and vanishing. But his eyes had that quiet fire, the kind that flickered only for the things that mattered. 

“I think… that’s why I don’t let myself stay down. Because even when it hurts, I still want it. Not the spotlight. Just the chance. To be better. To feel like I’m flying again, even if only for four minutes.” The street turned quieter, the neighborhood dipping into darker corners, sleepy houses pressing close together like secrets being kept warm. You stole a glance at him then, expecting — what? A laugh? A scoff? 

But Sunghoon’s gaze was forward, brows drawn in thought. He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t walk faster, either. He stayed at your side like a shadow that had chosen you. And then, after a silence long enough to count heartbeats, he said, low and rough, “What’s your program this year?” 

You blinked, surprised by the breach in his usual barricade. “It’s set to Clair de Lune,” you said quietly, suddenly shy. “I wanted something soft this time. Something like… falling in love with the sky.” He nodded once. Just once. And somehow, it felt like the biggest applause. You didn’t need him to say more. You didn’t need him to match your sunshine with light. He was the stillness where your words could echo and not be lost. And for that, you walked beside him in silence the rest of the way, the night folding around you both like a promise waiting to be made. 

The night had mellowed into something hushed and golden, a quiet that settled over your shared footsteps like falling petals. The city exhaled slowly, as if sighing into sleep, and still you walked beside him, two shadows drawn in parallel ink, aligned but never touching. Then, out of the hush, his voice rose like a single note plucked from a cello string, low and sudden. “What’s your deal with Ruka?” 

You blinked, startled by the sound, by the question, by the way his words cut through your stardust-thoughts like a falling star slicing the sky. You turned to him with raised brows, lips parted with a breath that hadn’t yet become a word. “Ruka?” you echoed, the name tasting foreign when it came from your mouth. 

He didn’t look at you, just kept walking, hands still in his pockets, his jaw set like stone worn smooth by time. It didn’t sound like idle curiosity. But then again, nothing about Park Sunghoon ever felt idle. You wrapped your arms around yourself, not because of the cold, but because something inside you had curled up, uncertain. 

“Oh, um. We’re not really close,” you said, the words spilling like marbles rolling across a hardwood floor — easy, but a little scattered. “She’s my roommate this year, just this year. My last roommate, Sakura, graduated early. We were kind of inseparable.” You smiled faintly at the memory, soft and aching. “She used to help me with my hair before competitions. Always had a bobby pin in her pocket, even if we were just going to the store. I miss her.” 

He said nothing, just nodded once. The moonlight caught his profile and painted it silver. “She’s really smart, Ruka,” you went on, feeling the silence ask for more even if he didn’t. “Always has her headphones in. Always studying. We talk sometimes, but mostly she just… lets me ramble. Which, you know, I tend to do.” You gave a light laugh, hoping the sound would cut the tension, soften the edges. 

But he didn’t laugh with you. He didn’t look at you. Just nodded again, like your words were being filed away in some hidden drawer inside him. And for a moment — brief and bitter and fleeting you felt a twinge. A single pulse of something dark and unfamiliar. It settled beneath your ribs like a secret. Jealousy. You didn’t want to call it that. You didn’t want to name the way your throat tightened when he asked about her, or the way your heart gave a suspicious little stutter at the thought of her name brushing his interest. 

Did he like her? The thought was ridiculous. Maybe. Maybe not. But it lodged in your chest like a thorn. And what surprised you most wasn’t the question. It was how much it mattered. You shook the feeling off with a practiced smile, the kind you wore in the mirror before competition, the one that told the world everything was okay, even if your knees were shaking. 

“She’s alright,” you said, voice light, breezy, so casual it almost disguised the knot in your gut. “But I think she prefers silence. I talk too much for her taste.” Still, he said nothing.

And you wondered, as the two of you drifted past sleeping houses and rustling trees, if you could ever stop wanting to know what was running behind his quiet eyes. Maybe he’d never say it. Maybe he didn’t even know it himself. But tonight, walking beside him through the tender hours of the dark, you wished he’d turn and say something that would loosen the twinge in your chest. Instead, he walked on. Still and silent. And you matched his pace, wondering if maybe that was enough. At least for now. 

The dorm room welcomed you with the kind of stillness that felt staged, like a scene waiting for the actors to step into place. The air was warm, tinged faintly with lavender and printer ink, the signature scent of shared space and sleepless study. You slipped inside quietly, the door closing behind you with a hush instead of a click. For once, your voice didn’t follow you in. 

You didn’t start with a story or a sigh, didn’t fill the silence with your usual cascade of chatter about a late-night craving or a skater’s cramp or how the moon had looked like a sugar cookie on the walk back. No, tonight you simply moved through the space like a ghost of yourself soft-footed, uncharacteristically quiet. Ruka was there, as always, hunched over her desk like a cathedral of discipline, shoulders drawn tight under the glow of her desk lamp. Her highlighter moved like a slow metronome across the page, precise and deliberate. But when you entered without a word, she paused. 

You didn’t notice at first. You were too focused on your routine kicking off your shoes, dropping your bag by the door, tucking your food container into the small fridge like you were sealing away the last hour of your night. The remnants of warm laughter and cool night air still clung to your skin, even as the fluorescent light washed everything colorless. It was only when she turned, slow and deliberate that you met her gaze. “I went to see Sunghoon tonight,” she said, her voice smooth but wrapped in something slippery. Something rehearsed. 

You blinked. Tilted your head. “Oh?” 

She nodded, looking back at her notes for a second like they might give her the courage to lie again. “Yeah. We talked for hours at his party. I just left from seeing him.” The words hung there like wet clothes on a line, dripping, sagging under the weight of their own fabrication. And you knew. You knew in the marrow of your bones, in the quiet thrum of your heartbeat still synced to the rhythm of footsteps beside Sunghoon’s. You knew because you had just walked home with him, the ache of his silence still pressed like thumbprints into your thoughts. But you said nothing.

You didn’t call her out or laugh or ask her why she thought you wouldn’t notice the lie curling like smoke between her syllables. You didn’t say, “Actually, I just walked home with him,” or, “That’s strange, he didn’t mention you.” No. Instead, you sat down at your desk, unzipping your jacket, fingers steady as you untied your shoes. You offered her a smile — small, polite, hollow in the middle and said, “That’s nice.” 

Ruka turned back to her notes, and you turned to face the wall, blinking slowly as if you could paint over the moment with enough quiet. And though you didn’t say it out loud, a strange new feeling began to settle beneath your ribs, something like suspicion, something like sadness. Not because of the lie itself, but because you couldn’t understand why she’d told it. What purpose it served. What it meant. But more than that, what unsettled you the most was how your heart gave the tiniest tug at the idea that she wanted Sunghoon to herself. That maybe, just maybe, she knew you were starting to want him too. And you hated how that made you feel.

By the time Sunghoon returned to the frat house, the storm of music and voices had softened into something gentler like rain losing its temper. The halls no longer throbbed with bass, just pulsed quietly with leftover laughter, the clink of bottles, the occasional shriek from the living room where someone was trying to revive a dying game of beer pong. The air smelled like stale cologne, cheap beer, and exhaustion.  

He pushed through the front door, body aching in ways he didn’t dare name, shoulders stiff with memory. The walk home had helped, a little. The diner even more so. Or maybe it wasn’t the diner, it was you. That smile. That damn voice of yours, all melody and motion, coloring every dull corner of his night until it looked like morning. He hadn’t even meant to go out. He just couldn’t stay there, not after the lies that curled out of Ruka’s mouth like perfume. 

Heeseung was sprawled across the couch with a bag of chips, half-asleep and still wearing his shoes. Jay sat nearby, nursing a water bottle like it was whiskey, his guitar leaning against the side table, untouched. They looked up when Sunghoon walked in, both of them clocking the shift in him, the unbrushed hair, the frown lines that had softened just barely, like something had tried to loosen their hold. Jay raised an eyebrow. “Where’ve you been?” 

“Diner,” Sunghoon muttered, heading toward the kitchen to grab a glass of water. His muscles cried out as he moved, his knee barking like it wanted to collapse. “You missed the show,” Heeseung said through a yawn. “Your little fangirl was here. Again.” 

Jay snorted. “Ruka. She was asking around for you. Whole place thought she’d get a kiss out of you before midnight.” Then came the question, as casual as it was crude, tossed out like a beer can into a bonfire. 

“So?” Jay leaned back, grinning. “You tap that?” 

The words hung in the room like fog, heavy and misplaced. Sunghoon didn’t even look up from the sink as he filled his glass. He stood still for a breath. Then another. “Hell no,” he said flatly. “I just went to the diner.” 

it wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even irritated. It was simply true delivered with the sharp edge of certainty. A line drawn clean in the dirt. Jay let out a low whistle. Heeseung chuckled under his breath. “Didn’t know you were such a gentleman.” 

Sunghoon didn’t answer. He just sipped his water, jaw tense, eyes fixed on a spot on the counter like he was trying to smooth it out with sheer will.

Because what he didn’t say not to Jay, not to Heeseung, not even to himself was that he didn’t want Ruka. Had never wanted her. Not with her lipsticked lies and her eyes that always seemed to be searching for attention like it was currency. And yet, somehow, your voice kept echoing in his head like a melody he didn’t want to forget. “Falling is inevitable unless you can stop gravity.” He couldn’t stop gravity. Not on the ice. Not in his chest. And it was starting to terrify him. 

Monday came with the bite of wind and the soft shiver of pre-dawn blue, the kind of chill that kissed your skin and whispered promises of something new. The rink sat like a cathedral of silence, your shared sanctuary of sweat and bruised ego, laughter and aching limbs. The boards were cold. The air was colder. But you… you were warm, incandescent, still grinning as you laced your skates with hope braided into every loop. 

Sunghoon was already there, stretching his legs like the world had done him a personal disservice. He looked like he hadn’t slept well, but his eyes those, wintry things, found you easily, like a compass that refused to point anywhere else. His movements were stiff, his expression unreadable, but he didn’t complain as you chirped about your new routine, about your bruised knee from the spin you biffed on Saturday, about how this week felt like the start of something. He didn’t say much. He rarely did. But he skated. And fell. A lot.

You counted at least thirteen crashes before you stopped keeping score—some clumsy, some oddly graceful, all equally frustrating for him. Each time, he’d scowl, curse under his breath, and brush himself off like he was made of pride stitched too tight. But you never stopped encouraging him, your words a steady stream of sunlight spilling through his clouds.

“Better!”

“That fall was cleaner!”

“You angled your shoulder perfectly!”

He looked at you like you were ridiculous. Which, maybe, you were. But you were ridiculously happy to be here. With him. By the time the clock curled toward the last stretch of practice, he’d finally done it. Not a fall, but a landing. A descent that didn’t jar his bones, one where his body absorbed the impact like water receiving rain, smooth, natural, right. You gasped and your joy exploded out of you, bright and loud and uncontainable.

“You did it!” you cheered, skates clattering against the ice as you skidded over to him. “You actually did it, Sunghoon!”

He looked up from where he was still crouched slightly, his breath misting the air, eyes wide. And for the first time, the very first time, he smiled. It wasn’t a smirk. It wasn’t that half-tilted, cynical curl he used when he was being sarcastic or amused. It was real. Unburdened. And somehow, it made him look like a boy again, soft-edged, bright-eyed, touched by something other than pain or pressure. The moment lingered. Too long. 

His smile stayed, your breath caught in your throat like a fluttering thing. The distance between you thinned until there was only the sound of the ice humming beneath your skates, and then,  Then you kissed him. You didn’t think. You didn’t plan it. You just leaned forward, heart drumming in your chest like a war cry and a lullaby all at once, and kissed him — soft and sure, like the ice beneath your feet had whispered that you wouldn’t fall.

But he didn’t kiss you back. 

You pulled away instantly, horror creeping into your chest like cold water. “Oh my god—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—well, I did, but not like that—I mean I wasn’t trying to—ugh—Sunghoon, I just got caught up in the—” And then he was kissing you. Fast. Sure. No warning, no wind-up, just his lips on yours like punctuation, like a sentence he’d been writing in his head for days but didn’t know how to say out loud. You blinked when he pulled back. He looked stunned, maybe a little dazed. You were definitely breathless. And then, as if nothing had happened, you both went back to skating. Circling each other like stars in orbit silent, spinning, on fire. Neither of you mentioned the kiss. But neither of you forgot it. 

Outside the glow of the floodlights, just beyond the fragile safety of the rink’s boards, a shadow lingered silent and still like frost waiting to bloom. Ruka stood there, tucked in the hollow between concrete and glass, her presence cloaked by the buzz of overhead lamps and the trance of celebration that unfolded before her. She hadn’t meant to come. She had only wanted to stop by, to catch another glimpse of him, of Sunghoon in that candid, breathless space where his armor sometimes slipped. Maybe she would pretend it was a coincidence again. Maybe she’d bring him something warm, an excuse wrapped in a paper cup and a shy smile. But what she saw was not Sunghoon alone. 

Through the gleaming haze of the ice, through the rhythm of blades carving truth into frozen ground, she saw you. Beaming. Radiant in your joy. And she saw Sunghoon — grinning back. Not his usual strained grimace or practiced smirk. No, this smile was something else. Real. Unearthed. Unearned, in her eyes. And then, the kiss. Her breath caught like a gasp in winter wind. She pressed her palm flat against the glass as if to steady herself, as if to break through the divide between her and what she saw, a moment that didn’t belong to her but felt like it should have. That soft, charged touch of lips in the heart of the rink burned like a betrayal, even if no promises had ever been made to her. It was a kiss that seemed to split the ice beneath her feet. And she hated how gentle it was, how true. 

The rage came slowly, like an icicle forming drip by bitter drip. A seethe in her gut. A fire in her lungs. She had spent so much time watching, studying, calculating, positioning herself at just the right angle to catch his eye. She knew the timing of his strides, the way his brows furrowed when he was lost in thought. She had noticed him long before you had ever touched the same ice. And yet it was you — scatterbrained, sunny, ever-yapping you — that he kissed.

She backed away, breath coming out in little bursts of fog, eyes trained on the scene unfolding before her like a play she hadn’t auditioned for but still wanted a lead in. She didn’t care that he pulled away quickly. She didn’t care that you stammered your apology. All she could see was the connection, the tether stretching invisible and unbreakable between your smile and his rare, reluctant joy. She could feel the bitterness pool in her chest like ink in water, spreading fast and without mercy. You hadn’t seen her. Neither had he. You never noticed the fracture blooming quietly in the corner of the world you shared. But she did. And it stung, not because it was love lost, but because it never even had the chance to begin. 

The walk back to the dorm felt like treading on the edge of a dream, your feet barely touching the ground, your breath catching on the remnants of laughter that still lingered like glitter in your chest. The night air was cool, brushing your cheeks like a secret, the kind that only stars overhead seemed to know. You tucked your hands into your coat pockets, smiled like a secret was blossoming behind your lips, and tilted your face skyward, as if asking the moon to keep your moment safe. You had kissed him. Or maybe the moment kissed you, soft and strange and suspended in time, like a snowflake caught mid-fall. It didn’t matter who leaned in first, or that he hesitated, or that nothing had been said after. What mattered was the way the world tilted after. The way his eyes had widened before he kissed you back like something inside him had cracked open. Like he’d been waiting all along but just didn’t know it. Something had changed, undeniably and irreversibly, and it made your limbs feel like cotton, your thoughts like honey. 

There was a shift now. Subtle but seismic. You could feel it humming in the soles of your feet, echoing in the memory of the moment. You didn’t know what it meant yet, not exactly but something had softened between you two, and in that softness, you found a kind of quiet joy. When you reached your building, you entered with the reverence of someone carrying something precious. The hallway lights buzzed faintly, and your steps echoed gently down the corridor, a rhythm almost musical in its contentment. You reached your door and turned the knob, half-expecting to see Ruka with her usual mess of notebooks and headphones, wrapped in her silent storm of thoughts and solitude. But the room was empty. 

The lights were off save for the sliver of streetlamp that painted silver lines through the blinds. The air was still, undisturbed. Ruka’s bed was neatly made, her chair tucked in, her world untouched. And for once, you were grateful. You slipped inside and let the door close behind you with a soft click, as if trying not to disturb the fragile bubble that wrapped around your joy. There was something beautiful in the quiet, something that gave you space to breathe, to process, to smile without anyone asking why. You moved slowly, deliberately, putting away your things, peeling off layers like petals until only your giddy little heart remained.

And then, standing there in the low light, you allowed yourself to relive the glide of your skates, the crispness of the air, the look on his face just before he closed the distance. You pressed your fingers gently to your lips, almost to confirm they still tingled. It didn’t matter that you hadn’t spoken about it. Not yet. It mattered that it happened. It mattered that, for the first time in a long time, your heart felt like it had been seen. And for that, you let yourself float just a little longer on the dream of it all. 

The walk home was quiet, but for once, it didn’t feel heavy. Sunghoon’s limbs ached as usual, the kind of ache that seeped into marrow and muscle and made itself at home but tonight, it was quieter. Like even the pain had decided to take a breath, loosen its grip on his body and allow him a moment of peace. There was a strange calm moving through him, something light and unfamiliar. His mind replayed that kiss, not obsessively, but gently, like turning over a smooth stone in his pocket. The softness of your lips. The way you smiled before it happened. The burst of something warm and startling that bloomed in his chest when you leaned in, and even more so when he kissed you back. Like an ember flickering to life in a long-cold hearth. He didn’t want to overthink it, and yet, it sat with him now — steady, glowing, undeniable. But as the frat house came into view, that flickering warmth began to dim. She was there.

Perched like a stormcloud on the stone steps, her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, face streaked with tears that glistened under the porch light. Ruka. Her presence felt like a sudden cold front, a sharp drop in temperature, a wind that bit instead of kissed. Sunghoon paused at the edge of the sidewalk, every instinct screaming at him to turn around and disappear into the dark. But she looked up. And she saw him. 

He kept walking. Slow, steady, bracing himself. The steps creaked beneath his weight as he stopped in front of her. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice low and laced with quiet exhaustion. 

Ruka sniffled, wiping at her cheeks with the sleeve of her too-expensive cardigan. “I saw you,” she said, voice breaking on the edge of accusation. “I saw you guys… kissing.” 

Sunghoon blinked at her, unimpressed. “Okay?” he answered flatly, as if that alone should be the end of it. But of course, it wasn’t. “She’s a fraud,” Ruka spat, sitting up straighter now, her voice rising with that familiar, jealous tension. “That whole sunshine act? It’s fake. She’s just pretending to be all sweet and happy. But it’s all a show. She’s actually, she’s miserable. She’s depressing. She’s not what you think she is.”  

He stared at her for a long moment. The wind rustled the trees, and somewhere in the distance, someone laughed a sound so far removed from the bitter drama at his feet. Sunghoon exhaled, slow and sharp like a blade pulled from a sheath. “You know what?” he said, voice like ice over steel. “Maybe you could stand to be a little more like her.” Ruka’s mouth parted in shock, but he didn’t give her time to respond. 

“She’s kind,” he went on. “She shows up for people. She cares even when she doesn’t have to. She’s loud and ridiculous and warm, and yeah, maybe that annoys the shit out of me sometimes, but at least she’s not hiding behind fake tears and whispering poison about other people to make herself feel better.” Her expression crumpled, her mouth trembling. 

“You don’t know her,” she whispered. “Neither do you,” he snapped. “You don’t get to decide who she is because she threatens your tiny little world.” 

Ruka’s hands curled into fists on her knees. “If you really want to know who she is, look her up,” she hissed, the venom returning. “Look up last year’s figure skating finals. Her name. Go ahead. See it for yourself.” He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. 

“Fuck off, Ruka,” Sunghoon said, and his voice was calm. Steady. Done. He pushed past her without another glance, the door slamming shut behind him like the end of a chapter. The warmth inside him didn’t dim this time. Not completely. In fact, it burned brighter now not in spite of her words, but because of the fact that he’d chosen to ignore them. That he’d defended you, and meant every syllable. He didn’t need to search your name. He didn’t care about the past you carried like quiet luggage. Because when he looked at you, all he saw was someone who got back up. Again and again. And that, more than anything, was real. 

Upstairs, behind the closed door of his room where the noise of the party below had faded to a dull, insignificant hum, Sunghoon sat on the edge of his bed like the silence itself had weight. It pooled in the corners of the room, settled on his shoulders, curled around his ankles. The warm echo of your kiss still lingered, on his lips, in his chest but so did Ruka’s voice. Sharp, needling. Insistent. “Look it up. Last year’s figure skating finals. Her name.” 

He didn’t want to. He knew better. He should have let it die on the doorstep where it belonged. But curiosity was a sly little creature. It nudged at him like a breeze slipping through a cracked window, whispering just look until he caved. So he did. 

With stiff fingers and an unsteady breath, he typed your name into the search bar, letting muscle memory carry him when intention hesitated. The first result glowed like a ghost: “Skater Meltdown at Regionals – Full Clip.” A thumbnail of you frozen mid-fall, your face blurred by motion, your body crumpling like something once fluid and graceful now shattered. He clicked play. 

The screen lit up with harsh white ice and the sound of polite applause. There you were, twirling onto the rink, arms extended, posture poised, the embodiment of elegance. And then it happened. A stumble, a miscalculation. The slip. The crash. You hit the ice with a sound that wasn't picked up by the microphones, but he could feel it all the same, sharp and echoing in his bones. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst came after. The camera didn’t cut away. It kept rolling as you stood up, only to fall again. And again. And again. Until your hands were shaking and your breathing was uneven and your eyes — oh, your eyes — were wild with disbelief, glazed with tears that refused to fall quietly. 

You broke. On camera. In front of judges and coaches and strangers and teammates and the faceless audience of the internet. You wept, not just from pain, but from something deeper, something raw and human and jagged with betrayal. You shouted through your tears, voice cracking like thawing ice, about how people only came to see the crash. How they clapped louder for the break than the recovery. How they waited for failure like it was a performance. Sunghoon felt something crawl into his throat and settle there — tight and aching. Not pity. Not embarrassment. But fury. 

Fury at Ruka, for daring to use this as a weapon. Because what he saw wasn’t weakness. What he saw was someone who got back up. Someone who, even in the middle of a storm that stole her breath and shattered her pride, still stood. Still tried. Still gave the world her tears because hiding them would’ve meant giving up entirely. He didn’t want to close the video. But he did. And then, with that same fire that lived in his limbs when he skated, he opened his phone and typed fast, not giving himself the chance to rethink it.

Sunghoon [11:43 PM]: Meet me at the rink. Please. 

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t even a plan. It was an instinct, pulled from somewhere honest and immediate. Because he needed to see you, not just the practiced, cheery version of you that lit up rinks and rooms, but you, unfiltered, unguarded, as real as you’d been in that video. He needed you to know that it didn’t scare him. That it didn’t change anything. No. If anything, it only made him want to fall with you. And this time, not get back up alone. 

The rink was dark when you arrived, the overhead lights low like the stars were keeping secrets. The air was biting, laced with the cold whisper of ice and memory. Your breath puffed in clouds before you, and your heart thundered a frantic beat in your chest. You’d gotten Sunghoon’s message and hadn’t hesitated, you didn’t even change out of your practice clothes, just threw on a coat and sprinted across campus as if your soul had sensed something fragile waiting on the other end. The moment you stepped inside, your voice echoed in the stillness. “Sunghoon?” 

No response. The silence felt unfamiliar, too thick, too full of unsaid things. You found him in the locker room, perched on one of the benches, still in his practice gear, his elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. The second you saw him, panic flickered behind your eyes. Was he hurt? Was something wrong? “Are you okay? Are you—oh my god, did something happen?” you rambled as you rushed to him, your hands fluttering over his arms, down to his knees, then back to his shoulders like you were checking for breaks or bruises. “Why did you call me? Are you hurt? Did you fall again? Why didn’t you just text what happened, Sunghoon, seriously, what is going—?” 

He didn’t say a word. Instead, his hands found your waist. Not rough or hurried, just certain. He pulled you into him like gravity had finally done its job. And before your voice could form another word, his mouth was on yours. Soft. Fierce. Unapologetic. Your breath caught in your chest, surprise flaring wide in your eyes, but you melted into him with instinct. There was no hesitation in the way you kissed him back. For a moment the ice outside, the night, the ache of the past, none of it existed. There was only the warmth of his touch, the sincerity of his hold, the vulnerability in that kiss. 

When he pulled back, your fingers lingered near his jaw, your gaze flickering with confusion. “Sunghoon… what’s going on?” He looked at you like he was still catching up to his own heartbeat, his voice quiet but steady. “Ruka showed up at the house. Told me to look you up. Last year’s finals.” 

The words dropped like ice in your stomach. You stepped back, just slightly, and your body stiffened before you could stop it. “Oh.” Sunghoon saw it immediately, the way your shoulders curled inward, how your eyes shimmered with tears you didn’t want to spill. Your lips parted like you wanted to defend yourself, but no argument came, only the truth, raw and trembling. “I had a breakdown,” you whispered. “A really bad one. I’d been practicing that routine for weeks, getting up at dawn, going to bed at two, skipping meals, skipping sleep. I thought… if I could just nail that trick, I’d prove I was more than just the bubbly girl with the pretty smile. I was exhausted and wired and terrified. And when I fell… it was like the world collapsed with me.” 

You paused, voice cracking. “But I got back up. I always do. Even when it hurt. Even when the crowd didn’t cheer.” Sunghoon stood, eyes never leaving yours, and took your hands in his — warm, calloused, steady. “I know,” he said simply. “I watched the whole thing. And you — you — were the strongest person I’ve ever seen.” 

Your lips quivered. “But I broke down. I was angry and ugly and scared and—” 

“And you got back up,” he said, firmer now. “You didn’t stay on the ice. You didn’t let it define you. I—” he exhaled, voice softening, “—I was going to quit. When I got hurt, when it felt like everything I’d worked for just vanished, I wanted to give up. I didn’t see the point.” He reached up, brushing a tear from your cheek. “But then I met you,” he continued. “And you reminded me that even when it hurts, we keep skating. That it’s not the fall that defines us, it’s the moment after.” 

A silence stretched between you, delicate and profound. And in that stillness, you smiled. Not the bright, performative kind you wore in hallways and crowded rooms, but something quieter. Realer. “Thank you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t need to reply. The way his fingers laced with yours said everything. The space between you fizzled like ice cracking under a sudden flame. There was a flicker of hesitation in your eyes, an instinct, perhaps, to hold back but it crumbled under the heat of the moment. Your hands were still curled inside his, trembling slightly, not from fear but from the rawness of being seen. 

Then you kissed him. No hesitancy this time. No uncertainty. You surged forward, your mouth finding his with a quiet kind of desperation, the kind that had been building for weeks, hidden behind teasing words and soft glances, behind shared practices and unspoken understandings. His lips met yours like a dam finally breaking, and suddenly you were both lost to it. 

Sunghoon responded with a heat that startled even him. His hands slid from your waist to your back, holding you like he was afraid you might disappear. Your fingers curled into the hem of his shirt, clutching at the fabric like it could anchor you to something real, something burning and alive. There was nothing cautious about it now, the kiss deepened, mouths parting with breathless urgency, tongues tangling, exhales catching like thunder on the edge of a storm. You gasped softly against his mouth when he walked you backward, your spine brushing the cool lockers behind you. The contrast only made you shiver more, and he kissed you again to chase it away. His hands were in your hair now, cradling the nape of your neck like you were something precious. And you were, he kissed you like you were rare, like you were the first warmth he’d felt after winter. 

Your body curved into his as if you’d always belonged there. You could feel the way he was holding back, restrained despite the tension humming through every inch of him. And maybe that’s what made it even more electric, knowing how tightly he was wound, how carefully he moved against you even as his breath quickened and his hands lingered. “Sunghoon…” you murmured against his lips, dizzy from the intensity. 

He didn’t answer, not in words. But the way he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth, the way your breath hitched, the way your hands trembled where they clutched at his chest was its own kind of vow. The air between you felt heady, thick with longing, the room humming with the pulse of everything unspoken. You weren’t sure how long you stood there in the glow of the locker room light, locked together in something fierce and tender and brand new. 

But when you finally pulled back, your foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, the silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt full of everything still waiting to be said, still waiting to be felt. And neither of you ran from it. No, you welcomed it like an incoming tide washing over your heart and your entire being. Your forehead stayed pressed to his, your breaths mingling in the space between like steam curling from a fresh cup of tea. His hands still cradled your face, thumbs brushing gently over your cheekbones as if to memorize the texture of your skin, like maybe touching you was the only way to make sense of the storm inside him. 

You whispered his name again, barely a breath, and that was all it took. He kissed you once more, slower this time, deeper. There was a reverence in it, a kind of awe like he still couldn’t believe you were real and here and kissing him back. His hands slid down from your face to your waist again, and he pulled you in until there was nothing between you but heat and air. Your fingers wove into the dark strands of his hair, curling just slightly at the ends, tugging him closer in the most delicate, desperate way. 

The kiss grew from soft to smoldering, like fire catching slowly at first, then flaring brighter when the wind shifts. His lips moved against yours with more certainty now, more hunger, and yours responded in kind. It was dizzying, this exchange of breath and want, of emotion too big to name. Every brush of his mouth against yours made your knees weak, every sigh from his throat made your heart race like a drum in a thunderstorm.  You tugged at the hem of his shirt, not to take it off, but just to feel the warmth of him under your hands, the dip of his back, the rise of his spine, the solidness of muscle beneath skin. He shivered under your touch and kissed you like he was unraveling. 

He pressed you back against the lockers again — not harshly, never harshly — but close enough that you could feel every breath, every heartbeat, every inch of tension. His hands gripped your waist like he needed the contact to stay steady, like if he let go, the whole world might stop turning. “God,” he muttered against your lips, his voice thick and rough and nothing like the usual sharp-edged sarcasm. “You drive me crazy.” 

You laughed softly into the kiss, breathless and glowing. “Good crazy or bad crazy?” 

He kissed you again instead of answering, and the answer was everything. For a long, lingering moment, the rink, the cold, the ice, the noise of the world, all of it faded away. There was only the warmth between you, only the taste of each other’s names on your tongues, only the ache of something new blooming fast and bright like spring breaking through the frost. 

With your back still pressed against the cold metal of the lockers you allowed yourself the luxury of tracing your hands up and down Sunghoon’s broad chest, feeling every contour, every muscle beneath your palms. Filthy thoughts filled your head as Sunghoon’s lips trailed down the expanse of your neck and collarbone. A gasp fell from your lips as he sucked on the skin where your neck met your collarbone. 

“Oh!” You squeaked, running your hands through his hair fisting the tufts in your nimble hands like your life depended on it. “Sunghoon…” Your voice trailed with heat laced in the words, want. “I want you.” 

“You want me?” He hummed, continuing his exploration of your neck. “How badly do you want me?” He was toying with you, playing with your need for him — your want. 

“So bad.” Your voice was airy — needy almost. His smirk said he loved it, the way you were willing to beg for him and willing you were. You don’t even remember the last time you’ve been touched so intimately, with someone you cared for so fiercely. The pure lust and adrenaline coursing through your veins had left you feeling like you were ablaze. 

“Beg for it.” His voice was sharp — stern. It was so so hot. The way lips let your body, the way his eyes searched your traveling down your body drinking you in. The way your chest rose and fell as red hot searing need coursed through you. You do anything he asks of you at this moment, anything. 

“Please” You whimpered, hands grabbing at his hoodie. “Please, fuck me.” Your voice was sweet and light your eyes wide as you stared up at him. “I need it so bad.” 

“Fuckkkk” He groaned and next thing you knew his hands were under your thighs lifting you in his arms in one fail swoop. “I can’t resist you, Sunshine.” 

“I don’t want you to.” You pant as his hands find your skirt lifting it enough to show your panties. It was going to be quick, dirty. And that's exactly how you needed him. 

“Take me out.” He hissed at you. Your hands reach for his sweatpants pulling them down just enough to release him from his boxers. He was hard, of course. The tip red and angry with need. Your hand made a fist around his shaft pumping up and down. 

“Oh fuck.” He groaned, his forehead falling forward to meet yours. “Touch yourself before i fuck you.” 

You listened carefully, moving your other hand down, pulling your white cotton panties to the side and rubbing at your sensitive nub with your fingers. “Oh my god.” You whined out. “Please Sunghoon, please” 

“Just a little bit more, baby.” He cooed, “You’re almost ready for me.” 

“I’m ready now.” You couldn’t contain the whimper that threatened to fall from your lips. “I need you, so bad.” 

“Okay, Sunshine.” He nodded, taking his length in his own hand all the whilst holding you up against the lockers. “I got you.” 

Sunghoon’s gazed fell from your face to where the two of you met, his tip slapping against your entrance like a knock. A gasp leaving your lips the instant he pushed into you — creating a beautiful stretch you felt through your entire body. 

Sunghoon started with a slow pace, allowing hips to tap against yours lightly. It was almost romantic the way his forehead rested against yours. His breath fanning your face with short pants. You were in love with this feeling — in love with this moment and how it consumes you whole. 

“Faster.” You whined, hands gripping Sunghoon’s shoulders with white knuckles. You were trying to ground yourself, the pleasure taking you to a whole other planet entirely. “Faster please Sunghoon.” 

Sunghoon said nothing, his only response was the quick motion of his hips against yours. The sound of skin slapping filling the silence of the locker room like a melody, it was a tune you’d grow to love if given the chance. “Oh– my god.” You chanted. “Oh my god.” 

“You close?” Sunghoon grunts, his voice gritty and harsh. “Take it.” 

“Yes.” Your head was weightless as it bobbled up and down in tune with Sunghoon’s harsh thrusts. “I’m so close.” 

“Gooood girl..” He cooed in your ear. “Cum for me.” 

Your end splashed into you like a tidal wave, washing over your body in an overbearing pleasure you’d never felt before. Your thighs trembled in Sunghoon’s hands as you rode out your high. Sunghoon falling suit, moaning your name like a mantra. You had never felt more connected to someone then you did in this moment. Tied together a web of emotion and something that felt so close to love. 

You were falling in love. It was fast and blinding and scary but it was true. You were falling in love. And you hoped and prayed Sunghoon was too. 

By the time you situated yourself it was almost too late into the night to try and sneak back into your dorm room. Plus the thought of seeing Ruka right now with the knowledge of what she had done had been sickening. Sunghoon offered for you to stay at his place and you were in no position to turn the offer down. You allowed him to take you home. You allowed him to worship your body until all hours of the night. And most importantly you allowed yourself to fall in love deeper and deeper as the clock ticked on. 

The morning sun trickled through the blinds in gentle stripes, painting golden bars across the sheets tangled around your legs. The air was still tinged with last night’s sweetness, a lull of warmth that lingered between your skin and his, and the scent of cold air and something distinctly him like mint and pine and a little bit of wild. You stirred slowly, your limbs heavy but content, the kind of ache that whispered of a night where nothing was said aloud but everything was understood in touches, in sighs, in the soft tremble of lips pressed together in quiet devotion. 

Sunghoon was already up, standing near the edge of the room, half-dressed and slipping his hoodie over his head. The light hit his face just right, catching the soft curve of his cheek and the tired determination in his eyes. He looked like someone ready to face something, and for once, not run from it. You sat up, the covers pooling around your waist like the soft folds of a curtain falling back. “You’re up early,” you murmured, voice still raspy with sleep and something sweeter. 

He glanced at you, and there was a flicker in his gaze, that rare smile he barely gave anyone, small, crooked, a secret stitched between two hearts. “I’m going to talk to Jay,” he said, adjusting the sleeves of his hoodie. “I want to ask him… to let me play again.” For a second, it felt like everything stopped. Not because you were surprised — no, you’d seen it coming, inching closer each time he took a fall and got up again, each time he looked at the ice with something softer than hate but because this was a moment of return. A full circle. A boy broken now choosing not to stay shattered. 

You smiled, and it was bright enough to make the room feel warmer. “You should,” you said, voice thick with pride. “You’re ready.” He stepped over to the bed, leaned down, and kissed you, quick and soft, like a promise sealed in the hush of morning. It wasn’t heated like the night before, but it burned all the same, quiet fire beneath skin.

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him like the final note of a song, leaving you alone with tangled sheets, sunlit silence, and a chest full of warmth. You fell back into the pillows with a sigh, fingers brushing your lips. Something had shifted. And you knew, with a certainty that reached down to your bones, that things were only just beginning. 

The cold kiss of the arena hit Sunghoon the moment he stepped through the doors, but it felt different now, less like an echo of pain and more like a memory rediscovered. The air smelled of ice and rubber and worn leather, a scent that once haunted him, now stirring something in him that almost felt like peace. Almost. He walked toward the rink, skates slung over his shoulder, confidence stitched into the rhythm of his steps. The moment he stepped past the glass, heads turned. Jake was the first to notice, eyebrows lifting in surprise, his helmet tucked under one arm. Heeseung followed, stopping mid-lace with a crooked smile playing at the edge of his mouth. Jay’s brows drew together in disbelief, and even Soobin looked up from where he was adjusting his gloves. Coach Bennett, stoic as always, stood at the edge of the rink with his clipboard like it was a shield. 

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Jay muttered, not unkindly, but wary. 

Sunghoon didn’t flinch. “I’m here to show you I’m ready.” The words settled into the air like frost, and no one moved for a moment. Coach’s lips pressed into a flat line. “Sunghoon…” 

“I’m serious,” Sunghoon said, voice sharp as skates on fresh ice. “I’ve been training, I’ve been pushing myself. I’m not here to sit on the bench and clap for everyone else. I want to play.” There was a silence, heavy and cautious. Jake rubbed the back of his neck, looking at Heeseung, who gave him nothing but a tight nod. “You’ve been through a lot,” Soobin offered gently. “It’s not about wanting. It’s about being cleared.” 

“I am cleared,” Sunghoon snapped, the warmth from earlier that morning slipping through his fingers like melting snow. “I’m cleared, I’m stronger, I’ve been working every goddamn day. But every time I come back here, you all look at me like I’m broken glass.” Coach Bennett looked down at his clipboard, unreadable. “It’s not about doubt, it’s about safety.” 

“Bullshit,” Sunghoon muttered. His jaw tensed, breath fogging in front of him. “You think I’d put myself back on this ice if I wasn’t ready?” Still, they didn’t move, didn’t soften. And something in him snapped, not the injury, not the tendon, but something deeper. A flare of frustration bloomed in his chest, blooming red hot. Heeseung, trying to defuse the crackle in the air, said, “Maybe just keep training with the figure skater—” 

Sunghoon’s head snapped up, and without meaning to, without even thinking, the words spilled out sharp and cruel. “I’m done wasting time with that ballerina on ice.” It felt like the words echoed, like even the boards flinched from them. A sting curled behind his ribs the moment it left his mouth, regret instantaneous, but pride, wounded and loud, kept him from pulling it back. “I want to come back to the real game,” he added, voice quieter, but iron-edged. “I’m done sitting out while you all pretend like I don’t exist.” 

A thick pause. Coach Bennett looked at him long and hard, then said slowly, “You can skate at next week’s practice. We’ll see then.” And just like that, it was done. But the victory tasted hollow on his tongue, and when Sunghoon sat to lace up his skates, the chill of the words he’d thrown, not at them, but at you, clung to him like frostbite. 

In the dim hush of the arena’s far bleachers, behind a column of shadow where the sun dared not reach, Ruka sat like a ghost in waiting, silent, calculating, and out of place. The buzz of the overhead lights hummed above her, flickering faintly, illuminating the sharp gleam in her eyes as she angled her phone just so. Her hand was steady. Patient. She shouldn’t have been there, wasn't allowed, wasn’t invited but Ruka had learned long ago that the world didn’t bend for those who asked politely. It bowed for the ones who took what they wanted. And right now, what she wanted was to unravel the ribbon of warmth that had started to thread its way between you and Sunghoon, to cut it with precision, to remind the world of who belonged in the spotlight and who didn’t. 

Her phone was already recording when Sunghoon stormed in, voice clear and edged with fire. She leaned forward, breath caught, her ears tuned sharply to every syllable. And then, there it was. The perfect storm. “I’m done wasting time with that ballerina on ice.” it hit the air like a slap, reverberating across the rink, and Ruka’s mouth curved into something that might have been mistaken for a smile if it weren’t so cold. Her thumb paused just long enough to ensure it had been captured, every inch of his exasperation, the tension in his voice, the pride bleeding into his posture. She tucked the phone into her coat pocket like a prize, one she’d deliver when the time was right, when the sting would land deepest. 

She didn’t care if Sunghoon hadn’t meant it. She didn’t care that he might already regret it. She wasn’t after truth, she was after control, and perception was always stronger than honesty in the court of whispered judgment. As the team fell into uneasy silence, she slipped out like a wisp of smoke, unnoticed and unseen, her heels light on the concrete floor, her breath misting in the chilled air. The doors of the arena sighed open and closed behind her with a hush. Outside, the sky stretched pale and gray, the wind carrying a sharpness that mirrored her resolve. 

Ruka wasn’t stupid she’d seen the way you looked at him, the way your smile bloomed for him like the first flower of spring. And more than that, she’d seen the way he looked back, that faint, unguarded flicker that once might have belonged to her but now seemed to burn only for you. So fine, she thought. If fire was what it took to make him see, then she’d set the whole thing ablaze. Let the ballerina dance on thin ice. She’d make sure the cracks came quick.

The front door creaked open with a burst of wind and sunlight, and Sunghoon stepped inside, shoulders high and heart thundering like blades against ice. His cheeks were flushed, not from the cold but from the triumph still coursing through him like static. The house was quiet, a rare lull between chaos, there you were. Sprawled across the living room floor in one of his oversized sweatshirts, your legs curled beneath you, your eyes bright as twin stars as they landed on him. The moment you saw his face, your own lit up like the sky on New Year’s Eve. 

"Did they say yes? What did they say? Oh my god, are you back? When do you start? What did Jay say? Wait, did Heeseung—" Your words spilled out like a melody, fast and tumbling and effervescent, each one building on the last in that way only you could manage. It was a deluge of sunshine, and Sunghoon didn’t answer — not with words, not yet. Instead, with one smooth movement and a grin tugging at the corners of his lips, he crossed the room in three long strides, swept you up with one arm around your waist, and kissed you. Firm, grounded, and breath-stealing. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for permission because it already knows it’s home.

You let out a delighted squeal, half-laughter against his mouth, your hands flying to his shoulders as your feet dangled above the floor. “I take it they said yes,” you murmured when you pulled back, breathless, the corners of your mouth lifting in that way that always made his chest ache a little in the best way. “Yes,” he said, barely above a whisper, but his voice held so much more than just agreement. It was relief and victory and hope. “Practice starts next week.” 

You beamed like you had swallowed the moon whole, eyes soft and full of a pride that wasn’t loud, but deep and unwavering. “I knew they’d say yes,” you said, cupping his cheek. “You were born for the ice.” He kissed you again, this time slower, with a touch more reverence, as if he was grounding himself in you. As if your faith in him was the thing tethering him to the world. And maybe it was.

He set you gently down, but your arms remained looped around his neck, unwilling to let go just yet. You leaned your forehead against his and closed your eyes for a beat. “I’m so happy for you, Hoon.” His name on your lips still made something in him tremble. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You would’ve,” you whispered. “But I’m glad I got to watch you do it anyway.” Outside, the wind whispered promises against the windows, and inside, in the soft glow of late afternoon, Sunghoon realized that somewhere between all the broken things, the injuries, the pressure, the pain he had found something whole. You. 

That night, the frat house was glowing, music vibrating through the walls like a heartbeat, laughter spilling out into the cold night air, the scent of cheap beer and cologne wrapping around the porch in a familiar haze. When Sunghoon leaned against your doorframe earlier, looking all casual with his hands shoved in his pockets and a soft smile threatening the edge of his mouth, asking you to come with him to the party, your yes had come quicker than your breath. There was no way you’d miss it not after the week the two of you had. So now, walking in beside him, hand ghosting near his like some secret tether, you tried not to look too amazed at the wild warmth of it all. Lights strung from the ceiling blinked like dying stars, red cups swirled in every hand, and voices collided like waves. It was chaos, but it was the good kind, the kind where possibility clung to the air like perfume.

Sunghoon didn’t even hesitate. He kept his hand on the small of your back, leading you through the crowd with a quiet confidence, and then he said it, just loud enough for the group clustered near the kitchen island to hear. “This is my girl.” It took you a second to process the words. Your heart leapt to your throat, and your smile tried to hide behind the cup in your hand, but you felt it. The gravity of it. How he said it so simply, like it wasn’t anything new, like it had been true for ages and he was just now stating a fact everyone should already know.

His friends turned toward you all at once, a mix of grins and raised brows. Jay was first to reach out, pulling you into a quick, one-armed hug. “So you’re the figure skater.”

You laughed. “Guilty.”

“I’m Jake,” said the one with dimples, his voice warm and curious, like he’d been waiting to meet you. “You’re way too happy to be hanging out with Sunghoon.”

You giggled and nudged your shoulder into Sunghoon’s. “I think I balance him out.”

“Or drive him insane,” Soobin added dryly from the couch. His arm was loosely slung around a girl who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. She was beautiful, no doubt, sleek and poised, but her smile was more of a formality than anything real. That had to be Yunjin. She gave you a quick nod. “You’re very…bubbly.”

“Is that code for loud?” you asked, grinning wide. “It’s okay, I get that a lot.” Soobin cracked a half-smile, and even Yunjin let out the tiniest huff that could’ve been a laugh if you squinted. Still, there was tension between them, an invisible thread pulled too tight. They stood close but didn’t seem to touch, not really. Their words skipped past each other like stones across water, and you wondered what storm brewed quietly behind their silence. Heeseung leaned in then, arms crossed, eyes flicking between you and Sunghoon. “She’s the opposite of you, man. Like…completely.”

Sunghoon only shrugged, sipping his drink with a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. I know.” And the way he looked at you when he said it like it wasn’t a flaw, like it was the best thing about you, made your chest bloom with something warm and wild. You reached for his hand, and this time he didn’t hesitate. His fingers curled into yours like they belonged there, like maybe they always had. The music shifted into something slower, the kind of beat that made everything else fade, and the crowd swayed around you like the sea. You weren’t quite sure how the night would end, but for now, wrapped in the golden hum of laughter and light, with Sunghoon by your side and your name spoken like something precious between strangers who might become friends you were exactly where you were meant to be. 

The night had curled itself into comfort, like a candle-lit secret shared between strangers now growing familiar. You stood with Sunghoon and his friends in the corner of the room where the music wasn’t too loud, where voices could still dance freely. You were mid-laugh, something Jake had said, your face lit with that easy, golden joy you wore like a second skin. Sunghoon stood close to you, his arm brushing yours every so often, eyes softer than anyone had seen them in weeks. You didn’t know it, but he’d been watching you like you were a lighthouse in the storm, something to steer by. And then the room chilled.

It was subtle at first, just a shift in air, the way conversation dulled, footsteps falling heavy behind the group. You turned before Sunghoon did, and there she was. Ruka. Her presence bled tension into the moment, a sharpness that made smiles go stiff and gazes flick downward. She stood with her arms crossed, dressed like she belonged and yet looking so out of place. You smiled at her anyway, your voice honeyed and warm.

“Hey, Ruka! You made it, have you met everyone?” The sweetness in your tone was genuine, like you hadn’t noticed the way her eyes cut through you, like maybe this time would be different, like maybe she’d smile back and offer a polite nod. But she didn’t.

Instead, her lip curled, and her voice dropped low, sharp enough to wound. “Drop the act.” The words sliced through the air like glass breaking. The laughter stopped, your own breath hitching slightly as confusion passed across your face. “What?” you asked, softly, not in disbelief, but in the kind of gentle hope that maybe you’d misheard her.

“I said,” Ruka stepped closer now, venom twisting in her pretty mouth, “drop the fucking act. The bubbly sunshine girl thing? It's fake. And everyone here’s falling for it, but it’s pathetic.” A heavy silence fell. Jake blinked, Soobin muttered something under his breath. Yunjin folded her arms tightly. And beside you, you felt Sunghoon stiffen, like his muscles remembered rage before his mind caught up.

“Back off,” he said, his voice low and dangerously calm. But Ruka only laughed, a cold, humorless thing that curled at the edges like smoke. “Really? You’re defending her?” She looked at him, eyes glinting with something twisted and triumphant. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who said he was wasting his time with the ‘ballerina on ice.’”

You froze. The words hung between you like frost. You turned, your head tilting slightly toward Sunghoon, expression unreadable. But he was already shaking his head, already stepping forward. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, voice rising, urgent. “I was pissed, I was trying to prove I was ready to play again, and I said something stupid—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Ruka said smoothly. “They can hear it for themselves.” She pulled out her phone, unlocking it with the ease of someone who’d been waiting for this moment. The recording played loud and clear, his voice unmistakable: “I’m just wasting time with the ballerina on ice. I want to come back to the real game.”

The words hit like a slap. Your chest ached, something invisible curling tight around your lungs. You stood still, perfectly still, like movement might make it worse. The others glanced between you both, some awkward, some stunned. Heeseung winced. Jay looked furious. Jake muttered, “Dude,” under his breath. Sunghoon reached for you then, eyes wide, desperate. “I didn’t mean it—” You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pull away. But your smile, your radiant, effortless smile — wavered. Only a flicker, barely there, like a candle in the wind.

The music faded. Or maybe it didn't, maybe it still pulsed behind you, still thudded with the bass of cheap speakers and louder laughter, but in your ears it was gone. Replaced by the sound of your own heartbeat — wild and feral, pounding like fists against a closed door. Your cheeks flushed hot, but your hands had gone cold, and everything in the room blurred with the sting of unshed tears. Your eyes found Sunghoon’s, but it wasn’t safety you felt.

It was betrayal. And shame. Shame so sudden it roared up your throat and turned the warmth in your chest to something molten and broken. “Wait—” he whispered, stepping toward you. You pulled back.

He looked like he’d been struck, like the reach of his hand had meant everything. Maybe it had. But you were already moving, weaving between people, ignoring the murmurs and awkward stares, the way the group parted like water around you. Your heels scraped the floor. Someone said your name, maybe Jake, maybe Heeseung, but you didn’t turn back. You pushed through the door and into the yard where the cold night air hit your face like glass. You breathed it in too fast, too hard, hoping it would drown out the heat of humiliation clawing at your throat. The stars blurred above you, cruel and glinting. Behind you — footsteps.

“Wait—please,” Sunghoon called out, breathless. You spun on him just as he reached the porch, voice trembling with hurt and rage. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, voice cracking. “I swear I didn’t mean it.”

“Don’t lie to me.” You tried to keep your voice strong, but it wavered at the edges, shivering like frost under sunlight. “Don’t act like I didn’t hear it. Everyone heard it, Sunghoon.”

“I was angry,” he said. “They wouldn’t let me play, I—I said something I didn’t mean because I was desperate. I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t.”

“You called me a waste of time,” you whispered, voice breaking now. “You said I wasn’t the real game.” His expression collapsed. “That’s not what I meant—”

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to want something that bad?” You laughed, but it came out brittle and sharp. “To work every night until your legs give out? To fall and fall and fall and keep getting up? I gave everything to this. To the ice. To you.” Tears spilled hot down your cheeks, and you hated how fast they came, how they betrayed the tremor in your heart.

“I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t ask for you to kiss me. I didn’t ask to be anything more than the annoying figure skater who shares your rink time.”

“You’re not—don’t say that,” he said, stepping closer. But you stepped back.

“I should’ve known better,” you said, voice low now, shaking. “You were always going to go back to them. To the game. And I was just practice. Just something to pass the time.”

“That’s not true.” His hands curled into fists at his sides. “You’re more than that. You mean—fuck, you mean everything.” And then he said it.

“I love you.”

The words cracked the night in two. You stared at him, eyes wide, breath stolen clean from your lungs. But it was too late. You shook your head, tears still slipping down your cheeks, chest heaving. “Don’t say that now.”

“I mean it.”

“Then why did you say that?” The question hung between you like a blade. And he had no answer. Or maybe he did, but not one that could stitch the wound he’d just made. So you turned. You turned before he could see the way your whole body broke in half. Before he could see the shiver in your spine and the way your hands curled into your coat like it could somehow hold you together. You walked. Past the yard, down the sidewalk, away from the party that once felt like light. Sunghoon didn’t follow this time. And maybe that’s what hurt the most.

The days pass like shadows beneath your skates, faint and fleeting, yet always there. Each morning you wake with a hollow echo in your chest, a silence that’s grown too familiar. You lace up your skates like armor, wear your routines like battle hymns. You skate harder now, faster, carving the ice like it wronged you. Blades slicing through your thoughts, breath fogging in the cold as you spin through everything you can’t say. You haven’t spoken to Sunghoon since that night. You’ve seen him in passing, walking across campus, laughing with Heeseung outside the rink, nodding at Coach Bennett with that quiet intensity in his eyes, but you never linger. You turn corners when he comes close. Pretend not to hear when his voice drifts from down the hallway. You are your own silence, sharp and unyielding.

The dorm is no better. Ruka has become a ghost, and you let her be. You don’t look at her, don’t respond to her passive remarks or the way she sighs when you walk in. She’s tried to speak, maybe once, maybe twice, but you shut her out with the same coldness she once offered you. You spend more time out of the room than in it. Your application to switch dorms is in the system now, a silent wish sent to the stars. All you can do is wait. But the nights… the nights are the worst. Sleep doesn’t come easily anymore. Your mind replays everything, his voice, his kiss, the look on his face when you turned away. You wonder if he’s been practicing. You wonder if he hates himself for what he said. You wonder if he meant it.

That night, the silence in your room presses in too tightly, the hum of your mini-fridge too loud, the shadows too long. You grab your skates and your coat. The rink calls to you not just as an escape, but as something close to home. Familiar. Honest. The moment you step inside, the air hits you like memory. Cold. Quiet. Unforgiving. You walk past the front lobby, past the empty locker rooms, and step onto the bleachers with the intention of warming up slowly, maybe skating alone under the low light until the sun peeks over the horizon. 

But you stop short. Because he’s already there. Sunghoon. Alone. On the ice. He’s skating, not perfectly, not as fluid as you’ve seen before, but he’s trying. Focused. Determined. His brows are drawn together, the sweat at his temples shining under the low rink lights. He doesn’t see you at first. Doesn’t hear the way your breath catches. You don’t move. You watch him glide forward, stumble slightly, then correct. He exhales, pushes again. Again. And again. He’s practicing. Your chest tightens. 

At first, you want to run. The moment you see him standing there beneath the pale glow of the rink lights, alone, waiting, searching the dark for something like hope, your body tells you to turn around. To vanish into the quiet of night and not look back. You’ve been skating circles around your own heart for days now, tightening the laces of your silence so securely that the thought of unraveling them in front of him makes you tremble. But it’s too late. His eyes catch yours, and you freeze like a deer in the frost. The tension between you snaps taut.

“Wait,” he says, voice catching, breathless. “Please—don’t go.” You don’t speak. He steps closer, every movement slow, like he’s approaching something delicate, something sacred. His eyes are wide and shining in the cold, like he’s on the edge of something, begging not to fall.

“Just talk to me,” he says. “Please. I—I need to say something.” You don’t know what compels you to stay. Maybe it’s the quiver in his voice or the way your name falls from his lips like a prayer. Maybe it’s the days of silence, heavy as snowfall, finally breaking. But you nod. You sit. And you listen. “I’m sorry,” he says first, and the words drop between you like stones sinking into a still lake. “I’m so, so sorry.”

You don’t look at him yet. You’re afraid to. Afraid that if you do, your heart will unravel right there on the ice. He keeps going. “When you first asked me if I believed in love, I told you I didn’t. That it wasn’t real. That it was for other people, not me. And you, you just smiled like you knew something I didn’t. You said I just hadn’t found the right person yet.” You lift your eyes to meet his. He’s closer now. Kneeling in front of you, his palms flat against the boards, like he’s anchoring himself to you.

“I found her,” he whispers. “I found you.” The words hit you like a gust of wind, unexpected, sharp, and tender. You blink, and the tears finally come, soft and shimmering, gliding down your cheeks like melting snow. His gaze flickers, worried, but you raise a hand, just one, and rest it over his.

“What you said that night…” you begin, voice cracking like a brittle branch. “It hurt, Sunghoon. God, it hurt. But I don’t think it was the words, not really. It was the moment. The humiliation. Being exposed in front of everyone. Like I was something to be mocked.” He looks like he might cry too.

“I just wanted to feel safe with you,” you continue, softer now. “I wanted to be seen. And Ruka… she hates me for reasons I can’t understand. I don’t want to be in competition with her. I don’t want any of this.” His hand tightens around yours. “I know. And I hate that I let her use me like that. That I gave her the opening. But I swear to you none of what I said was real. You are not a waste of time. You are the only thing in my life that makes sense.” You lean your forehead against his, your breath mingling with his in the cold air between you.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” you whisper.

“I mean every word,” he breathes. “I love you.”

Your lips tremble. And before either of you can speak again, you kiss him. It’s not the fiery kiss of confession or the desperate press of need. It’s gentle. Forgiving. It’s two broken pieces finding a way to fit again, not quite perfect, but perfectly trying. His arms circle your waist, pulling you in close, grounding you as your fingers brush his jaw, his neck, his hair. The kiss deepens with every second. Not in heat, but in heart. Like a vow passed between mouths too tired for words.

When you part, your foreheads stay pressed together. His thumb brushes away your tears. “I forgive you,” you murmur, voice trembling. “But please… no more lies. Not even the ones you tell yourself.”

“I promise,” he replies, voice raw. “No more.” And in that quiet, ice-slicked space between apology and absolution, you feel it, that something between you hasn’t shattered. It’s only just begun to bloom. 

Epilogue. 

The arena hums like a living thing, buzzing nerves and echoing chants, the chill of the ice rising into the rafters like ghosts of old games, old dreams. You sit somewhere in the middle of it all, wrapped in a scarf and a soft coat, heart thudding so loud it’s almost a drumline. Your fingers are clasped tight in your lap, your breath fogs in little puffs before your lips, and your eyes are locked on the rink like the story of your whole life might unfold across its frozen face. It’s his first game back.

Sunghoon. And you can’t remember the last time you were this full of feeling, pride, nerves, joy, a fragile ribbon of fear, but most of all, love. Love so big and bright and burning it feels like a comet carved into your chest. The lights above dim slightly, just a flicker, and then the team is called out one by one. The crowd roars like a wave, cresting and crashing with every name announced, jerseys flashing, skates hissing against the ice as the players appear. And then, there he is. Sunghoon skates out like he’s flying, his form clean and sharp and easy, like every moment he ever doubted himself has been burned away. The crowd cheers louder, not because they know the whole story, but because they can feel it. The comeback. The storm stilled. The boy who refused to give in.

You feel breathless watching him. And then, mid-glide, he turns his head. Finds you in the crowd like a compass always knows where north is. His eyes catch yours and in that moment, the noise fades. The arena, the lights, the cheers — all of it vanishes, melting away like frost under the sun. There’s just him. And you. He points at you — simple, easy, certain. And then his mouth moves, slow and deliberate.

“I love you.” Three words mouthed without a sound, but somehow louder than thunder. Your chest caves in, and a laugh breaks from your throat, trembling and tearful all at once. You nod, hand over your heart, mouthing it back: I love you too. And in that charged quiet between you, across ice and lights and distance, the ache of the past slips into something softer. Something holy. The game begins but you're not really watching the puck.

You're watching him. And he's not just skating. He's flying.

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