#and given that it feels like something is trying to claw its way out of my uterus rn and i actually have a free evening to rest

[seventh-district]

babe wake up a new Venti-coded song just droppped

“I’m as sober as a drunk.

I’m as high as rock bottom.

Free as a man with his hands handcuffed to the bar.”

[nejackdaw]

They would be friends

[shomatoriashi]

09/23/24; 01:32pm

{ 18+ headcanons / drabbles }

[ the things they say to try and keep you ]

featuring: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel

[ minors don’t interact; by choosing to interact with this content, you have consented to viewing something n-fw despite the warnings. ]

you were getting tired of this constant back and forth relationship you had with sylus, where getting a true reading on sylus and how he was feeling was forcing you to walk on damn near eggshells around him.

despite how you had a cordial relationship with him, it was completely different when night came. despite never once moving in and sharing a living space with him, that didn't stop sylus from visiting you.

his arrival would always be at the most inopportune time as well, usually when you came straight out of a shower. before you could even fully wrap the plush towel around your naked body, sylus would suddenly appear beside you, his hot mouth pressing heated kisses behind your ear.

"s-sylus?" you bite back a moan, feeling the way his teeth lightly nips at the sensitive skin of your neck. he ends up licking away the stray droplets of water that remains against your skin, letting out a soft groan of your name all while pushing his large hand up against your damp towel.

"ssh, work has gotten... pretty taxing lately, and i need you." dear gods, when you hear his husky voice whispering within your ear, oozing seduction while tasting as decadent and sinful as chocolate, you felt your knees tremble beneath him.

his erection was felt pressed up against your backside, making a familiar ache appear between your legs. needing to kiss him, you turn your head to press your lips against his in a searing kiss. you nearly fell against your linoleum floors the moment sylus pressed the palm of his hand against your naked cunt, shamelessly collecting the moisture against his calloused skin with a grunt.

with his lips never once leaving your neck, he continues pressing heated kisses against your skin all while sliding a single finger within your slick heat. the sensation of it all was enough to make you melt for him, your moans echoing throughout the bathroom. the squelching sounds that comes out as evidence to your neediness fills at the air, making the onslaught of pleasure you felt become all the more sweeter in response.

you were so close, and just as your pussy gripped at sylus's fingers in a vice grip, the insufferable man ends up removing his thick digits from it. the sudden loss of him was what makes you let out a string of curses, feeling sylus turn you around before setting you on top of your counter.

a smirk paints his ridiculously devastating face, and you were left breathing heavily when sylus slides the plush towel off of your body. goosebumps end up appearing all across your skin as sylus takes off the belt that hold the waistband of his pants in place. he pulls it down just enough to release his hardened cock from the confines of his boxers, its tip an angry shade of red as beads of precum was seen coming from it.

with a few strokes, sylus presses his cock against your entrance, earning a moan from you. he teases you for a few seconds, sliding the tip of his dick around your pussy lips before licking at his lips.

what he does next makes you do a double take, watching as he removes his phone from the pocket of his suit before setting a timer that counts down from the 3 minute mark. setting off the timer to the side, sylus grips at the fat of your thighs before telling you with a smirk, “if i can make you cum in less than three minutes, you’re mine.”

no other warning was given to you when the onychinus leader was felt completely sheathing his cock deep inside of you. your voice echoes throughout the bathroom, with your hands clawing at sylus's back the moment he continues to pound harshly inside of you.

you had been with a few other men here and there before in your life, but never one who was quite like sylus. even as he continues his relentless pounding against your cunt, you swore that you could feel him pressed up against your throat. the hedonistic sensations of it all was enough to make your head spin, feeling the way his veins seemed to pulsate eagerly as his shaft was buried so sweetly deep inside of you.

and despite your best efforts to hold off on climaxing against him, you lost all of your senses as you felt that familiar snap within your abdomen, making you spill your juices against sylus's still hardened cock.

with a grunt of your name, sylus looks down at the way your walls seemed to clench around the tip of his cock, seeing a clear fluid reach down the base of it before looking at his phone. a smug expression paints his features, and he reaches over to show you his phone. "you came within 2 minutes... heh, looks like you're mine after all."

your mind was in a haze, trying to comprehend what had just happened, "what?"

"tch, no complaints, sweetheart." lifting up both of your legs, he tosses them both over his shoulders before proceeding to pound into you once more, "a deal's a deal; you're mine now."

when zayne had invited you into his office for a 'regular checkup'-

this was not what you were expecting.

it was late at night, nearing 3am when your good friend and doctor, zayne, suddenly calls you, alerting you of how he had to see you. detecting the worry in his voice, you head over to akso hospital almost immediately.

after taking the elevators to his floor, you meet with zayne in his office, watching him as his pristine demeanor morphs into something a bit more... casual-

sensual, even.

his usually perfectly styled, ebony locks of hair appeared mussed, like he had spent a considerable amount of time running his fingers through them. along with his tousled hair, you noticed how his dress shirt had a few of the top buttons unbuttoned, giving you a brief view of his chest.

his voice takes on an almost husky quality, saying your name before leading you toward the examination seat. he coaxes you to lay down against it, "zayne, what is this?"

zayne gives you a familiar, kind smile, "you've been long overdue for a routine check up, right? so i figured i could help you out with that."

"yes, but, i have my own doctor i could go to-"

"nonsense." zayne brushes off your words, already grabbing his stethoscope as he makes his way over to you. "now, just take deep, even breaths for me."

you nod, simply remaining still as zayne began his physical examination on you. grasping at the fabric of your blouse, he gently unbuttons it, revealing the soft material of your bra. you nearly jump when he places the flat end of his stethoscope against your chest, listening to your rapidly beating heart.

"hm, your heart... it's racing. are you nervous?" zayne trails his stethoscope across your skin, taking note of the goosebumps seen erupting. "interesting..."

your breathing becomes labored, watching as zayne sets aside his stethoscope. he suddenly leans closer to you, pressing his hands between your thighs, "so tell me, are you sexually active currently?"

feeling your mouth turn dry upon hearing his question, you felt your heart skip its beats before shakily telling him, "w-why do you need to know?"

"i'm a doctor, and it's important to me that you maintain your health, especially if you're sexually active."

you could feel the heat against your cheeks, a wave of embarrassment coursing through you when you shake your head and admit to him. "n-no, i'm only active when i'm in a relationship..."

zayne lets out a gentle (yet approving) hum. "good... now... on to the next part."

suddenly, zayne frames at your face, his expression filled with longing, before crashing his lips against yours in a kiss that takes your very breath away. unable to hide your feelings for him much longer, you kiss him back with just as much fervor.

gone were all thoughts of coherency, for all you wanted was himhimhimhim...!

in the midst of your passions, zayne had managed to take off all of your clothes along with his, throwing the crumpled fabric in a pile near the back of the room. he keeps your body against the bed, spreading your legs with both of his arms while slotting the side of his cock beneath your entrance.

his voice was hoarse, filled with need for you when he tells you, “if i can make you spill yourself all over me, then you’ll belong to me alone.”

your mouth was open, ready to tell him that you would have belonged to him either way when zayne suddenly thrusts himself into you. stars immediately fill your vision as the red hot pleasure seemed to course through your veins.

with your name coming from zayne's lips in broken syllables, you could feel your arousal getting stronger, watching as such a perfect doctor was falling apart-

all because of you.

"i-i never believed i could feel so strongly about you... you came into my life when i needed you the most." zayne tells you with a gasp, still moving his hips rapidly in and out of you all while pressing lingering kisses against your hand. "you're mine... and if i can just-"

an intense look of concentration was seen on zayne's face, and when he manages to angle his cock ever so slightly inside of you, you felt the way your pleasure seemed to intensify. words left you, and your moans were the last thing zayne could hear when you felt somethin snap deep within you, making a gush of fluid travel down his cock.

you listen as zayne lets out a broken groan, stilling his hips before releasing everything he had inside of you. the overwhelming sensation of your walls spilling all of its juices against zayne's cock takes your very breath away, leaving you in a haze. just as you were about to let the exhaustion take over, you could feel the way your new lover presses kisses against the side of your neck, murmuring a single phrase like a never-ending mantra:

"you're mine... you're finally mine."

xavier had simply invited you over to have a movie night with him. he knew all about the stress you felt when it came to your university work, and he wanted to do something to help you with relieving it.

at first, you thought he was referring to the arrangement you had set up with him-

the friends with benefits type of arrangement where you could help each other destress in the most pleasurable of ways.

with you helping xavier blow off steam after his work as a hunter-

and you letting out your frustrations from college.

upon entering his apartment, you had already planned to shed your clothes, but he holds up a hand to stop you. "no, we're not doing anything like that... i just wanted to help you relax... literally.”

you give him a wide grin, "is that so? so, you seriously don't want-"

the way xavier looks away from you, yet still shakes his head in mere seconds, makes you feel a bit suspicious. "no, i don't. lets just relax together. i even ordered something for us to enjoy tonight."

not wishing to question him, you enter his apartment, feeling your eyes go wide upon seeing the spread of your favorite takeout on his coffee table. "no way! you ordered all of this for me?"

xavier simply gives you a sheepish smile. "yeah, i figured you needed something like this after your brutal midterms. come on, let's dig in. i'll put on something for us to watch."

staying true to his words, xavier allows you to enjoy your evening, all while spoiling you with all of your favorite foods. as you both ate your dinner in silence, you looked at the movie playing on the screen, but wasn't really paying attention to it. throughout the night, you saw the way xavier kept sneaking glances at you all while seeming to inch his body closer to yours.

by the end of the second movie, you couldn't ignore xavier's proximity and decided to play a little game with him.

"hey, xavier?"

he was currently flipping through the movies on the television screen, "yeah?"

you shake your head and take away the remote, turning off the tv as xavier gives you a questioning glance. "i think i've had my fill of movies... why don't we play a little game?"

"okay, what's the game?"

you give xavier an innocent smile before climbing on top of his lap. watching his eyes go wide before a blush dyes his cheeks makes you give him a victorious smile. "it's a simple game, really... we'll take turns touching each other, teasing the other party's weak spot, and whoever moans first loses."

his once sapphire eyes were now eclipsed by darkness, serving as evidence of his lust for you. with a grunt of your name, xavier places both hands against your waist. "okay, if you win...?"

"then you have to take me to the amusement park next weekend and pay for everything, tickets and all." you giggle, teasingly wrapping your arms around xavier's neck. "and if you win...?"

xavier meets your gaze, eyes filled with determination, "if i win, then i get to keep you as mine- we'll be exclusive."

his words manages to catch you off guard, making it easier for him to pin you against his sofa within mere seconds. a look of hunger graces his handsome features when he spreads your legs, gently unbuttoning the button of your shorts before sliding them off of you. you were left in your panties, jumping when you felt xavier pressing his finger against your clothed heat.

"n-no fair! you're cheating-" your protests end up breaking off in a moan, feeling the way xavier slides down your panties with his teeth alone. once you could feel the cold air hitting at your aching core, you swore that the moisture was felt nearly flooding out of you the moment xavier places his hot mouth over your cunt.

his tongue works on tasting every inch of you, drinking up all you had to offer as your hands automatically delve into his hair. your moans were all that were heard echoing throughout the living room. when you could feel xavier's smirk against your pussy lips, you gave his hair a sharp tug, his groans sending pleasant vibrations throughout your entire body.

using his extensive knowledge of your body, he plays it like an instrument, eliciting gasps and sighs of his name at the right moment without fail. and when he became so needy for you, he manages to stop eating you out like a man starved, replacing the spot where his mouth had once been with his cock.

you were quickly losing your mind now, letting out cries of his name when he sits back on the couch, forcing you to bounce up and down his cock all while weakly glaring at him. "n-no fair, you were totally c-cheating!"

xavier ends up smiling, all while watching you taking him in with such expert precision, “what can i say? i don’t play fair when it comes to you… especially when it comes to finally having you.”

upon finishing his statement, he places one of your perky nipples in his mouth while simply enjoying the show, wanting nothing more than to see you lose control all while claiming you as his-

forever.

when you accepted rafayel's confession, allowing him to claim you as his sole girlfriend, he was afraid that you didn't understand just how serious he was when it came to you.

he recalls his first meeting with you as being something serendipitous; one where he caught the eye of a pretty girl while exploring the museum together.

the young artist saw how you were all alone then decided to keep you company. of course, his act of kindness was simply a means to keep you safe and away from any potential males who could cause you discomfort. yes, all he wanted to do was to give you a peaceful experience-

yet what he wasn't planning on was falling head over heels for you, the lumerian's heart somehow resuming its once silent beats as it came back to life the moment you smiled at him.

of course, he was so happy when you accepted his confession-

but now, it was time to show you that you were truly his forever.

getting close to your 6 month anniversary together, rafayel invites you over to his place, already planning a wonderful spread of food filled with the most luxurious of seafood dishes. from king crab legs served with butter to the lobster fettuccine, everything was perfect.

between sips of the sparkling white wine, rafayel simply takes in the sight of you enjoying the meal so happily, his eyes never once straying away from you for too long. once you had your fill, rafayel gently reaches over to you, wiping away the stray sauce that decorates your lips momentarily before kissing you.

the artist swore that he lived for your laughter, hearing the sweet sound coming from your parted lips. unable to hold back his love and adoration for you for much longer, rafayel picks you up from your seat, carrying you like you were his bride before placing you on top of the silk sheets of his bed.

"rafe?" you call out to him, and he could see the way your expression became flustered when he places himself between your legs. leaning down, he grasps your hands within his larger ones, leaning down to press lingering, butterfly kisses against your features. upon feeling such soft touches, you visibly relax from beneath him, giggling once more.

rafayel smiles against your skin before moving his head back, framing at your face as he met your gaze, "you are by far, the best thing that has ever happened to me. your unconditional love and care for me... has become something i truly cannot live without."

your name escapes from his parted lips in an almost reverent manner. "when i asked you to be mine, i didn't mean this as something that's meant to pass and grow stale with time... i meant this is as the start of forever."

he looks away from you, taking something out of the confines of his dress pants before revealing a tiny velvet box to you. his eyes were glimmering with hope and affection for you, gesturing at you to open it.

you sharply inhale, opening the box to reveal a cute promise ring in the shape of a seashell. in the middle of the shell was your favorite gemstone, and the sight of it was enough to make the tears well up in your eyes. "oh, rafayel... it's beautiful."

his smile was filled with pride the moment he takes the ring out and places against your left ring finger. "a promise, for what's to come... but... if you need more convincing..."

your beloved was felt leaning closer to you now, whispering against your ear, “if i can make you cry out my name, then you are mine to keep forever.” he finishes his statement with a bite against your earlobe-

and you knew that your heart was doomed from the start-

that you never stood a chance when it came to resisting him.

clothes were tossed carelessly aside, as if you were both filled with a hunger to feel each other without any barriers. skin to skin, heart to heart-

like how it has always been when you are with rafayel.

when he settles your body against the bed, all while exploring the sweetness between your legs with his tongue alone, you knew that you were close to losing your mind, your hair pulling against those precious strands of curls. rafayel was insatiable when it came to finally tasting you, almost greedily drinking in all you had to offer as you moved your pulsating core against his face.

only when your desire to have something fill you became too much did rafayel finally relent. letting out a gasp of your name, rafayel pulls you closer to him by grasping at your ankles. he teases your entrance with the mushroom tip of his cock, allowing your sweet arousal to stain at it before gently pushing himself deep inside of you.

your mind felt like it was drunk, eagerly taking in every inch that rafayel had to offer, your breasts bouncing in tune with his thrusts that were quickly becoming fueled by desperation and need for you. and throughout the night, neither one of you wished to stop as you ended up bouncing on top of rafayel with only his name being screamed at the top of your lungs each time you pushed your hips against his, riding him with an equal sense of desperation.

and as you chased your pleasure using rafayel alone, you were unaware of his sly smirk against your skin, for now, you truly belonged to him forever.

end notes: a thirst post based on the fantasies i've had pertaining to the lads men 🫠 currently unedited, but i'll make changes once this is posted. my laptop is heating up as i write this;;;

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[cherrysweets-world]

Eyes of the Gods XII

series masterlist - part eleven

Pairing: Caracalla x fem!Reader x Geta

Summary: You rise to the challenge set before you.

Warnings: 18+, minors dni, unhealthy relationships, controlling behavior, threesome, biting, breeding kink, period typical sexism, obsessive/possessive/ relationships, talk of pregnancy, historical inaccuracies, manipulative behavior, jealousy, past domestic/child abuse, unedited - there are many, many historical inaccuracies here so don’t read if that will bother you!

Word Count: 8.1k

Caracalla's room was oddly dark given the time of day. It was as though the sunlight itself was too afraid to enter the emperor's chambers, instead lingering just outside, peeking anxiously in.

The room smelt strongly of blood. You swallowed, almost tasting the iron on your tongue. You stole a quick glance at Geta over your shoulder. He placed a firm hand on the small of your back, steering you further into his brother's room. It was quite clear that he expected you to be the one to deal with him.

This was, after all, your fault.

There, surrounded by shattered pottery and broken ornaments, was Caracalla. There was blood everywhere you looked, smeared throughout the room. It looked as though Mars himself had crushed the entire room in his grip and left only destruction.

Caracalla was on the floor in the centre of it all. One foot was swinging back and forth but the rest of him was entirely still. His gaze was trained steadily on the ceiling and you could hear him muttering something to himself, perhaps a rhyme.

Geta’s hand was still on your back. Even if you wanted to turn back, he would not let you.

You stopped at the edge of the room, where the chaos began. “Caracalla?”

His foot stopped swinging. Slowly, his head turned until he was staring directly at you. His eyes were eerily clear. Once they were trained on you it was hard to fight off the shiver that was trying to claw its way up your spine.

A muscle in his face twitched. Gradually his arm rose from his side until he was holding it out, palm facing you. His fingers curled, beckoning you closer.

Tentatively, you tip-toed your way through the destruction. Caracalla had settled himself in the small amount of space in which there was no glass and you met him there, crouching down beside him. His eyes sparkled like rare jewels, tracking your every move.

You placed your hand in his, trying to ignore the slight quiver in your fingers. His palm was warm, slightly clammy. For a moment he just stared up at you, eyes darting over the planes of your face.

“Caracalla- “you began.

He used your hand to yank you toward him and pull himself up at the same time. Your chests collided with an audible thump and you had barely a moment to register his face buried in the side of your neck before he was biting down. Hard.

You cried out and pushed feebly against his chest. Geta moved somewhere in your periphery but did not come closer. Seconds ticked by like minutes until he finally unclamped his jaw from your neck, leaning back until he could stare up into your sweating face.

“You left,” his lips curled.

You could see your own blood smeared across his lips, his teeth. Your neck throbbed but you did not reach up to touch it.

“I came back,” you said simply.

“Does not matter,” his hand squeezed yours, “the Praetorians would have returned you to us sooner or later. You left.”

“I was afraid,” you told him honestly, “Afraid for any child I might have. Our child. I – I could not see how such a vulnerable thing could survive such a place.”

Caracalla’s lips thinned, his eyes darting over your shoulder before settling back on you. “Our mother and father never cared about such things.”

It was a heavy statement. You had heard things, of course, about the father of the emperors but. . .

“How would you feel?” you pulled his hand down to rest on your stomach. “How would you feel if you knew someone wanted to hurt our child?”

His nostrils flared. “They would burn for even entertaining the thought.”

“I may not be with child,” you admitted, “but, it would only be a matter of time. I was afraid and I – I could not think clearly. As soon as I regained control of my head I returned. I do not intend to leave again.”

Caracalla laughed, the sound raspy and broken. “As though you could.”

His tongue ran over his lips, chasing the flavour of your blood. Geta had crept closer and you could feel him looming over you. You should have felt trapped. Instead, you felt safe.

“I knew you would return,” Caracalla continued, “I prayed to the gods and they heard me.”

You let him take your hand once more, let him place it against his chest. You could feel his heart thudding beneath his clothing. It was as if it wanted to leap right out into your palm.

“I prayed for other things, too,” he murmured, tilting his head.

“What did you pray for?” you whispered.

Caracalla’s hand delved into the folds of his tunic, beneath the neckline. You saw the glint of something gold at his neck and then a pop as it snapped. He pulled out his hand to reveal a ring, gold and glinting, between his fingers.

You blinked repeatedly, half expecting the tiny thing to disappear before your very eyes. Caracalla gripped your hand tightly and pushed the ring down, down, until it was very firmly on your finger.

“The empress of Rome cannot very well abandon her people,” Geta said, “or her husbands.”

The band was thick and engraved with several symbols A winged infant, a pomegranate and studded with tiny jewels; it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. You did not feel worthy.

“How can I -?” bewildered, you looked between the two for answers.

“Officially, you will marry Caracalla,” Geta scowled, “but you are also mine. We know it, you know it.”

Geta still sounded bitter over the fact and it would’ve made you laugh if you weren’t still so confused. Caracalla had lifted your hand to his face and was busy admiring the ring when he wasn’t nipping at your fingertips.

“I meant,” you tried again, “how could you marry me? I am nothing –“

“You have become everything,” Geta interrupted, insistent. “It is only fitting that your position reflects this. As far as anyone knows, you are a Lady.”

That, you doubted. Surely you were not so quiet that no senators would recognise you? And the slaves, the Praetorians, they would talk.

You focused your attention back on Caracalla. There would be time to further question him and Geta on their plans later. You felt as though if you ignored him for too long, Caracalla would be quick to set his teeth to your skin again.

Caracalla tapped the ring. “Do you know why this is the finger that the ring is placed upon?”

“I do not,” you admitted.

“This finger contains the vein of love,” Caracalla eyed you carefully. “Though I am not sure you possess it, so cruel you were in leaving us. Perhaps I should slice it open and see it for myself.”

There was that cruel edge in his voice again. His anger seemed to seep from his pores, drawing guilt from you in return.

“It is there,” you leaned close, “I know it.”

“How?” Caracalla brushed his nose against yours, so close that you could only make out the blue of his eyes.

“When I look at you,” you breathed, “I can feel it. Just there, thrumming against my bones. You make it sing.”

Caracalla eyes were wide, his lips parting. “Show me.”

It was hard to say exactly how you made it to the bed. Geta took the lead and you followed closely behind with Caracalla. You dared not take your eyes off him. You could see the war going on inside of him; that wrath colliding with desire. You knew which side you wanted to win and you were not willing to leave it to chance.

Geta was quiet. You could sense the jealousy brewing in him but he seemed to understand that his brother was barely tethered to reality. You met his eyes as you dropped onto the bed and hoped he could see the emotion in your eyes.

Geta pulled you backwards until your back was flush against his chest and you were settled between his legs. Even with all the clothing in the way you could feel his warmth. He blew air over the bite mark his brother had left behind and you flinched, reminded of the task at hand.

Caracalla stood at the end of the bed, swaying slightly as though drunk. His eyes were heavy as he watched you wriggle out of your clothes until you were bare before him. This was no place for embarrassment or coyness so you shoved both to the side, determined to do what he had asked.

“Come here, please?” you raised your hands.

As though in a trace, Caracalla crawled onto the bed, eyes glued to your face. You knew that if there was so much as a hint of regret or dishonesty that he would lash out. You kept your face open and honest, allowing the very real yearning you were experiencing to seep through.

Geta drew his knees up, allowing more room for his brother who had stopped between your knees. His eyes dipped, searching and hungry, before coming back up on your face.

You leaned forward and carefully took his left hand in yours, bringing it to rest upon your breast. His palm was firm against your nipple, drawing a languid sigh from your lips.

“Can you feel that?” you asked. “My heart?”

“Yes,” he swallowed dryly, “it feels like a bird. So fast.”

“It’s for you.”

You dragged his hands lower, lower, until his fingers were pressed against your cunt. Already you could feel your own arousal starting to leak out. It coated Caracalla’s fingers, making it harder to remember the point you were trying to make.

“This is for me as well?” he asked.

“Yes,” you quivered, allowing one more moment before pulling his hand up to rest on your stomach. “And this. My womb.”

Caracalla’s fingers left tiny smears of wetness as he touched your stomach, jaw going slack. “Yes,” he nodded frantically, enthusiastically, “mine. I will fill it with children, with heirs.”

“As is your right,” you breathed, “as my husband.”

Caracalla choked out a moan, eyes clouded with want. You recognised the feeling in yourself and let your knees fall open, wider, baring yourself to Caracalla and Geta with little shame.

Geta pressed his face into your hair and adjusted himself, grinding his length against your ass. You curled your arm up and around the back of his neck, holding him close as Caracalla tore at his own clothing.

It was a frenzied scene. Limbs knocked against limbs, hair was pulled, teeth were used. Geta slipped his hands beneath your knees to keep your cunt unbarred, his grip tight and unrelenting. You could feel that honey-sweet flutter emerging, working its way through your entire body.

Caracalla’s cock looked painfully hard as he squeezed it in his fist. “My wife,” he said to himself, “I am going to fuck my wife.”

You tilted your hips, hoping to urge him closer. It worked. He pressed a kiss to your lips, tongue flickering into your waiting mouth as he took and took and took. You were all to happy to give. You could taste your own blood in the kiss and it only heightened the intensity of the kiss.

His cock brushed against your inner thigh, then your puffy lips. With only a slight adjustment, Caracalla was sliding all the way home in a motion that was so quick it almost made you shout. Slight pain pinched at your insides but it was soothed by the alluring feeling of fullness, of belonging.

Caracalla looked unsteadily down at where you were joined. The sight was obscene; the swollen folds of your cunt swallowing down the thickness of his cock like you were born for it. He pulled back slowly until just the tip was left. You would’ve squirmed if Geta hadn’t had such a tight grip on you.

“Take her, brother,” Geta commanded, “she returned to us. Reward her.”

“Yes,” Caracalla agreed, “yes. Reward.”

Caracalla’s hips were flush with yours as he pushed in, all the way to the root. You swore to all the gods that you could feel him in your throat. With Caracalla at your front and Geta at your back there was no escaping.

An unsteady pace was set, Caracalla’s hips snapping into yours as he fucked you dizzy. Your head lolled back onto Geta’s shoulder and he nipped at your earlobes, whispering sweet praises and filthy words directly into your ear. His hands slipped around to your breasts, cupping them and swiping across your nipples with his thumbs.

Caracalla’s head found your shoulder once more, face burying into your neck. Geta urged you to relax, let his brother take what he was owed. Caracalla’s tongue lapped at the wound he had created earlier and he moaned at the metallic taste of your blood.

“Everything,” he shuddered, “I want everything.”

Your own orgasm prickled at your insides but you kept it at bay, allowing Caracalla to fuck into you at a near brutal pace. If you were not with child already then you felt quite certain you soon would be.

“I am yours,” you bit out, reaching up to cup his cheek. The coolness of the ring contrasted greatly with the warmth radiating from his red cheeks. “Your wife.”

Caracalla let out a pathetic mewl, hips slamming into yours for one final time as he emptied himself inside you.

You cupped the back of his head and pressed a kiss to his cheek. It was difficult to think clearly when you were still so aroused. The thought of Caracalla’s seed inside you was enough to make you feel slightly dazed and delirious.

You cried out as Caracalla slid his softening cock from your cunt. Before any of his seed could spill, he pulled you forward whilst simultaneously lying back until you were draped across his chest. His eyes were wild, cheeks red and slick with sweat. He looked content and you breathed a ragged sigh of relief, letting your cheek press into his chest.

You almost didn’t notice Geta positioning himself behind you until his cock brushed against your ass. You jolted and tried to sit up but Caracalla kept you locked down with his arms until he felt sure you weren’t going to run.

Geta slid his hands under your hips, urging you to your knees. The position was new to you and felt somehow more wanton than before. You knew better than to question them. Your chest began to heave with anticipation, your nipples stimulated by the hairs on Caracalla’s chest. The sensation drove you wild, made you present your cunt as though you were an animal in heat.

“Good girl,” Geta praised, sliding his fingers through the wet mess of you.

You thought that not being able to see might dampen your excitement but, if anything, it made the anticipation all the sweeter. You could hear the erotic sound of him using your wetness to stroke his cock, his breath stuttering out of his chest. Your imagination provided you with countless images; Geta’s hand on his cock, his eyes on your cunt, his head falling back in pleasure.

“Please,” you finally whined, “Geta. Please.”

The head of his cock teased your clit once, twice, until it was almost unbearable. Finally, he allowed himself to be sucked in by your greedy cunt. It was enough to send your orgasm ripping through you, knees going numb against the mattress as you tightened around Geta’s cock.

“Fuck,” he swore. His palm cracked down on the globe of your ass. “Foolish girl, trying to take this away from me.”

“I’m sorry,” you babbled, eyes threatening to roll behind your eyelids. “I’m sorry, Geta, please.”

“Your place is beside us,” he reminded you again, hips slapping against your ass. “Cunt full of cock and belly swollen with child.”

You bit out your eager agreement. If you talked too much you felt as though you were at risk of biting off your own tongue and swallowing it. You remembered that night in the baths with Caracalla, how you had felt as though you would do terrible things if only you could feel this pleasure forever. The thought rose now, burying itself in the forefront of your mind where it could be sure you would not forget it.

Soreness was beginning to spread but it felt delicious, like scratching too hard at an itch that had been bothering you all day. Geta’s hands were fastened at your hips as he fucked you, drawing out sounds you hadn’t even known you were capable of making.

“You are also mine,” Geta rasped. “Do not forget it.”

His palm pressed into the centre of your back as he rode you to his own orgasm, wringing another one out of you with just the pulsing of his cock inside you. Your cunt spasmed around him, urging his seed further inside even as he pulled out of you.

You raised your head unsteadily from Caracalla’s chest, blinking blearily. Caracalla laughed at your expression, reaching down to pinch at your nipples. Geta appeared at your side with a pillow in hand and you were helpless as he pulled you from his brother, arranging you so that you were on your back with the pillow tucked beneath your hips.

“There,” Geta said mildly, “that will help.”

Caracalla curled up at your side like a satisfied cat. Although he seemed tired, he did not close his eyes, nor did Geta on your opposite side.

Your body was already beginning to feel the repercussion of being so thoroughly fucked. You felt as though their fingerprints were surely branded upon your skin. Your body was littered with red marks from teeth and hands and your cunt was beginning to develop a pleasant ache.

“Sleep,” Geta instructed.

“What about you?” you asked.

“We will not until you do,” Geta said, stern. “And I shall remind you now that there are Praetorians outside the door under specific instruction not to allow you to go anywhere.”

“You will tell us if you require something,” Caracalla said, settling a hand onto your stomach. “We heard that it is best you do not move after. It gives the seed a better chance to take root.”

“You are future empress of Rome and mother to our children,” Geta reminded you, staring down at your bare body with firm eyes. “To leave us now would be treason. Sleep, and dream only of us.”

Treason. The very word made you uneasy but not as much as it would have a month ago. You had no intention to betray the emperors.

Your brief time alone had told you where you wanted to be and who you wanted to be with. A cage, perhaps, but gilded it was. It did not feel as difficult as it should have been to settle back into it.

The marriage ceremony was to take place less than two weeks later.

Neither Geta or Caracalla were particularly concerned with how you would be received. They did not believe that anyone would have reason (or the nerve) to question you. This did not deter you from keeping a closer eye on the Praetorians than usual, and seeking eye contact with every slave you passed.

You searched them for malice, judgement, anger. You found none of that, only a quiet acceptance and something like relief. Perhaps that paranoia caused by Macrinus and his hired killer would always be there, stuck to your back, just out of sight but able to whisper in your ear.

Macrinus was dead. Geta had told you after you had woken in the night, sweaty and panicked. You had imagined he was just there, poisoned wine in one had and dagger in the other. He had told you that you must choose. You had woken up before you could.

“I wish I could have been the one to do it,” Caracalla had said, “His corpse is still down there, rotting away. Do you want to see?”

“No,” you had shaken your head, “I believe you.”

Both brothers were kept busy for the majority of the week but that did not mean you were ever left alone. The constant company was grating but you understood that you had brought it upon yourself and so you endured it with a pleasant smile and relaxed demeanor.

Neither of them seemed comfortable unless you were glued to their side. Caracalla seemed intent on continuing to test you, to make sure you were not so much as thinking of leaving them again. He had several outbursts – not at you, but at the Praetorians. Each time he would have a number in his mind, different every time, and if the number of Praetorians outside the door did not match that exact number, then hell would break loose.

Geta took to patrolling the entrances and exits of the palace himself at random times through-out the day. You had woken up at least twice to find his side of the bed empty, leading you to assume that he was conducting his surprise checks at night as well. If he found the level of security unsatisfying, his temper would flare almost as badly as his brother’s.

 The first few days you were with at least one of them at all times. It was better that way, calmer. As the days passed by and they could no longer afford to neglect their duties, you were left with dressmakers and the Praetorians, both of whom were issued deadly threats for if you should so much as get pricked by a pin.

That was where you found yourself now. Never had you been so thoroughly measured and fussed about before. The woman talked lowly amongst themselves, occasionally offering you small smiles and tentative compliments as they fluttered around you.

It was conflicting. You did not have the demeanor of a Lady and you were sure they noticed. You did not feel worthy of the attention nor the clothing. But the women treated you as if you were, and you were beginning to realise that that might just be enough to get you through. Like your attacker had said, this was not really about you. It was about the emperors.

Four Praetorians were scattered about the room. One was Consus, from all those weeks ago. The others were unfamiliar to you, but not for long. They were your personally assigned guards. The emperors had decided it was safer for you to have personal guards; less likely anyone would get loose and reckless when they knew anything that happened to you could be traced directly back to them.

Though you also thought that there was perhaps a second reason. You had been selfish that night, deceiving guards and openly lying to them. Even now you had not worked up the courage to ask if anyone had faced any consequences for your actions that night. It had been easier, then, because you did not know them. They may as well have been faceless ghosts for all the care you had.

You would get to know these men. Their lives, their preferences, their families. It would not be so easy to look them in the eye and throw them to the wolves.

Sabina, a woman a few years older than yourself, held up a hairnet for you to touch. “What do you think, my Lady?”

You reached out to run your fingers over the fabric. It was a sunny colour, the colour of freshly cracked yolks. You had seen yellow before but this seemed far richer. Strands of gold were woven into it, causing it to glitter in the sun, adding depth and texture. It was coarse to the touch and would ensure that your hair was kept out of the way.

“It is beautiful,” you smiled, “you possess true talent, Sabine.”

Sabine flushed under your gaze, her mouth opening and closing several times as though she was nervous. “It is an honour to hear such a compliment from the future empress of Rome. I am sure we will flourish under your rule.”

You hoped so. That was, after all, part of the reason why you had returned. And if you could not do anything for Rome, perhaps your child could. Either way, you would offer your home and your husbands everything you had and pray that the fates would grant you a positive outcome.

The room quietened down as the door opened and Geta entered, robe billowing out behind him as he strode directly in. He looked every bit the young god, hair vibrant and glowing, tall and imposing, eyes once again smeared in that familiar kohl.

Without a word, everyone filed out apart from your personal guard. They positioned themselves by the door, just out of earshot, and politely averted their gazes. You remained up on the raised platform, watching as the emperor approached.

Geta gave you an intensely appraising look, eyes zeroing in on the golden hairnet in your hand. It stood out against the white tunic you were wearing. The tunic was thin, allowing for easier measurements, and your nipples peaked at Geta’s attention.

“My brother wanted to see you,” he said, “but I told him that he would have more than enough time to do that in the upcoming days.”

You rolled your lips together. “I am happy to marry Caracalla. Truly. I – I only wonder – “

“Why him?” Geta interrupted. “Why him and not me?”

That was a question you had been pondering over for almost a week. It did not matter, really. You knew that your relationship with both of them meant more than paperwork or titles or the opinion of others. Simple curiosity had kept the question at the forefront of your mind, no matter how hard you tried to shoulder past it.

“You were meant to be for him,” Geta laughed lightly, mockingly. “I am sure he has mentioned it before. I saw the way you comforted him, the way you were kind when you did not have to be, and I thought that it would be beneficial to have another person able to calm him as I can.”

You remembered that night clearly and now, fondly. At the time your own terror had kept you quick and anxious, desperate to squirm out from under the oppressive weight of their attention. Now you flourished under it, craved it almost above all else. The gods likely thought your mercurial nature was amusing.

 “Less than a day passed, a single interaction, and I wanted you for myself,” Geta reached up, tracing a careful finger over your lips. “I suppose that it is highly fortunate that my brother and I have always shared.”

“Then how did you decide that Caracalla would be the one to marry me?”

“I love my brother,” Geta said, “and I can see that he needs you. Without you, even with me, he experienced only chaos. I would do anything to ensure that he does not have to endure such madness again. Including this.”

“You do not need me, Geta?” you asked quietly.

His lips parted. “You know the answer, enchantress.”

You had done the right thing in coming back. You felt more confident in your decision than ever and relaxed a little, continuing to watch Geta as he stepped back and shot a quick glance over his shoulder at your guards.

“Our father was an unpleasant man,” he said suddenly, bluntly. “I gathered that yours was not so different.”

“How?” you asked, stunned.

“I asked you about your carving once. I asked if your father had made it,” Geta paused, running his tongue over his lip before continuing. “The venom in your voice when you answered reminded me of how I feel about my own father.”

Images of your younger years rose unbidden, clouding your mind with their turmoil and bitterness. Your father had stolen your mother from you and you felt her loss more keenly now, whilst preparing to be married, than you had in years.

“They are gone,” you said firmly, more to yourself than him. “Both of them.”

Geta nodded, seeming to come back to himself a little bit. You were surprised that he would share such things with you but were appreciative of his honesty. It was difficult to speak about; you knew this from experience. Even on days you tried to forget, the most painful of reminders could sneak up on you like assassins and ply you with vicious memories.

“You are the opposite to him in every way,” Geta murmured. “Kindness to his cruelty. Love to his hate. We intend to keep you by our sides for the rest of our lives and your marriage to my brother will help ensure this.”

Geta left, allowing the dressmakers to return to the room and continue their work. The mood was pleasant and light and you allowed yourself to sink into the attention, offering your opinion when necessary and trying on pieces as they constructed them, trying to ignore the nerves that were scraping at your insides.

In a week, you would be married to a man you had once feared.

In a week, you would be empress of Rome.

The intricacies of the ceremony were decided upon, the clothing complete. You were not sure exactly what had been decided upon until the day arrived.

Looking at yourself now, dressed in the clothing of a future empress, you could not help but admire yourself. You certainly looked the part. Now you believed that it may be possible that no-one would question you.

Your hair shone from a combination of careful brushing and expensive oils. Your skin reflected in a similar way; heavily scented and smoothed with creams and oils. Even your nails had been trimmed and shaped, dead skin filed away until you felt like an entirely different person.

After today, you would be. It was easier to let your past slip from your fingers when they were busy reaching out for something else. That was what you focused on; the future. Not just yours, but Rome’s.

Sabine stepped back, admiring her handiwork. Normally dressing you would be the task of a ladies’ maid but the clothing was so delicate and finely crafted that you hadn’t felt right letting anyone other than its creator touch it. You had also contributed where you could, as it was common for a bride to fashion her wedding clothing, but had quickly found you hadn’t the skill for it and instead stepped back and let Sabine do her work.

That, and you had not yet been assigned any maids. Anyone in such close proximity to you had to have been closely vetted and the emperors already felt on edge with you being surrounded by so many people on your wedding week.

The belt at your waist felt sturdy and impossible to ignore. You lifted up your hand and traced the edges with your fingers. It was for Caracalla to undo. After that, you would be joined once more, but as man and wife.

There was still much that was unknown to you. You were aware of all the usual traditions but also knew that you would not be able to take part in most of them. You had tried to pull answers from Geta and Caracalla several times but they had brushed you off with soft assurances and teasing pinches.

You smoothed your hands over the front of the white toga. The sensation was pleasantly cool despite the heat of the late afternoon.

The streets were abuzz with people. It was no secret that there was to be a wedding. You were aware of the sacrifice offered to the gods, a bull slaughtered, and the sharing of food and drink in the streets below. The mouth-watering scent of roasted meat floated in through the windows. It should have been appealing but your own nerves were stamping out your appetite.

Sabine had retreated to the door and was exchanging quiet words with Consus. Your brows furrowed at the discreet conversation and you tilted your head, hoping to pick up on a word or two.

Sabine returned with a light cloak. It was as dark as night. She looked to you for permission before wrapping it around your shoulders, pulling it close at the front to hide any glimpse of white. The hood was tugged up over the gold of your hairnet. You looked like a secret, concealed and tucked away.

“I shall pray for your good fortune,” Sabine smiled.

Surrounded by your guards, you were led from the palace and to a discreet carriage, empty apart from a driver. It was plain, the type you regularly saw around Rome. You glanced at them for some sort of answer but they only ushered you inside. One joined the driver at the front and the other three slipped in beside you, looking uncomfortable and warm in their uniforms as they tried to settle in.

There was a jolt as the carriage began to move. “Consus,” you tried again, “where am I being taken?”

“The emperors wish for Rome to welcome you as the empress you will be,” he said simply.

His answer was not entirely helpful. With a sigh, you sat back in your seat. When you reached up to remove the hood, Consus shook his head.

So, you were a secret. The lengths that the emperors would go to in order to disguise your past from prying eyes was not unexpected. You looked down at your hands in your lap, slowly unclenching your fists until your hands were open, fingers shaking.

There, you said to yourself, I am letting go.

You rode in the carriage for quite some time. You kept looking to Consus for information but he would not provide it. Eventually the carriage rolled to a stop. When you rose to your feet, Consus stopped you.

“Oh,” you said, hands raising to your cloak. With unsteady fingers, you unwound the ties and gently tugged it off.

The air was warm and soothing, softly curling around your arms as you stepped from the carriage. The sun had begun to set; you had not realised it was quite so late in the day. You were surrounded by fields, all empty. Likely any workers had been removed specifically so you could come here safely. Above you there was an archway, and at it’s peak, a wolf and two suckling children.

“Romulus and Remus,” you said to yourself.

Your own carving had looked almost identical to the one marking the entrance to the city. You wondered if your grandfather had been here, if it was this that had inspired him to make one for his daughter. You paused, searching for a feeling, a sign, that your mother was perhaps with you.

There was another carriage in front of you, only this one was not so plain. Outlined with colourful paints and murals, this was the carriage of a noble. This would be the carriage that would take you back to Rome.

Even with the distance you could still hear the city. You looked at it and thought of the emperors that inhabited it, the emperors who were waiting for you now. You had left Rome the daughter of a murdered woman, a simple kitchen worker, lover to the emperors. You would be entering as the its empress.

The Praetorians seemed to sense the enormity of the moment as they did not rush you, instead allowing you to watch the sun a moment more. Every time you turned or took a step they would tense, ready to detain you. In the end you stood still, admiring the view with an unsettling feeling that this would be the last time you would ever see it exactly like that. The sun would not change, of course, but you would.

An instrument sounded in the distance, the sound of trumpet. They echoed across the fields and reverberated through the city.  Your lips parted at the sight of a hundred torches being lit – for you. To guide you into Rome. The Praetorians did not have to tell you that now was the time. You could see it. You could feel it.

You set your shoulders back, trying to emulate the posture you often saw on noblewomen. Consus opened the door and you set forth without pause. The interior of the carriage was more comfortable than the one previously. You kept your body as still as you could, apart from your index finger, which you tapped against your leg.

As the carriage approached the city once more, you peeked anxiously out of the small window. It was mostly shielded by gauzy curtains but you were still able to catch a glimpse of the world outside. The closer you got to the city, the more Praetorians you saw. They lined the roads and were quick to snuff out any fights or eager citizens.

And the people – the sheer amount of them left you reeling. It was a mystery to you that you had been able to sneak out of the city at all. For every Praetorian there was at least five people. They craned their necks to get a glimpse of your carriage, a glimpse of you. Heart pounding, you pressed your back against your seat.

Consus cleared his throat. “Perhaps. . .you might try waving?”

Waving. Yes, you could wave. With an audible gulp, you sat forward once more and raised your hand, hoping the jolting of the carriage would hide its shakiness. If possible, the crowd got louder. People threw their hands up in response, smiling and pointing.

That was how you wanted them. Entertained, content. Anything to avoid their ire. Keep the emperors calm, keep them blithe, and you may just be able to do that. The pressure was quickly mounting but you were determined to shoulder the burden.

The imperial palace loomed over you once more. The crowds thinned out as you arrived, likely for the safety of the emperors and yourself. They were still close enough to see, and you felt them collectively inhale as the carriage rolled to a stop.

Cheers rose as Caracalla emerged from the palace. He flashed his gold-toothed grin, regal and immaculate in his toga virils. A wreath was perched amongst his unruly curls and his toga was embroidered with what looked like golden thread.

Your breath snagged in your throat as he arrived at the door of the carriage, pulled it open and held out his hand. You met his eyes and lifted your hand but did not place it in his. It felt as though your knees were about to collapse right out from underneath you.

“You are certainly playing the part of the unwilling bride,” Caracalla cackled once before a sober expression settled over his features. “Come to me, wife.”

You got to your feet and settled your hand in his. He helped you from the carriage with an eagerness that almost made you forget the hundreds of people that were watching. Would they know that you were one of them?

You looked down at your clothing and then up at the red-headed emperor before you. Perhaps you had not been one of them for quite some time.

Caracalla shuddered at the sight of you in your wedding clothes, blue eyes darting over you as though he could hardly take it in. His hand clenched tightly around yours as he pulled you closer, closer, until your shoulders were brushing.

The crowd was quieter now, murmuring amongst themselves. You dared not even spare them a glance as Caracalla led you up the steps, further into the palace. You thought you saw Geta, grim-faced and jealous, but Caracalla would not allow you to take your eyes off of him.

As you entered the palace, you felt the eyes of the crowd dropping from you one by one. They were replaced by the eyes of the gods, judgemental and amused. You would not be here, if not for them, steered by a hundred tiny choices that could have been different but had led to you being here.

Empress of Rome.

The room Caracalla led you to was not one you had been to before. As always, the door was full of incredibly carvings and details but one in particular stood out. A woman, regal and tall. On one arm was a shield, in the other she held a pomegranate. Juno.

Caracalla tugged you into the room with an insistence you could not ignore. The room was lowly lit and not as big as you were expecting. In it’s centre was a lectus, draped with fabrics and with a pillow at either end. It was clear what was expected of you, but you felt no dread; only the low rumblings of desire beginning to chase away your anxieties.

You gasped as Caracalla whirled, crowding you up against the door and nosing at your jawline. “Hello, wife.”

Wife. Your heart seemed to pause for a moment before resuming. Caracalla’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright and keen. Already his hands were grasping at your arms, your waist, your ass. You could not help but arch into his touch.

“Husband,” you greeted, dusting a kiss across his bitten lips.

He giggled, the sound contrasting with the serious nature of your surroundings. It helped you relax more, melt further into his wandering hands and insistent mouth.

Your mind strayed, latching instead onto the other twin. Geta. Where was he? Although this marriage was happening with his approval it had been clear he was not entirely pleased. His love for his brother was admirable and softened you further.

Caracalla’s mouth found the scarred remnants of the bite mark he had left weeks earlier. His teeth slotted into it perfectly, dragging sweet pain down your spine and into your stomach. You stayed still, allowing him to continue mouthing at the mark.

“You are thinking of him,” he pulled away a little, “I can tell.”

Caracalla pouted and you quickly reached up to cup his cheek with your hand. “You are my husband, Caracalla. Tonight, I will be just yours.”

A pleased grin tugged at the edges of his lips as his hands slid to your upper thighs, urging you to hike one around his waist. Your toga was dragged up, and up, and up until you could feel his arousal pressing against you.

Caracalla’s eyes fluttered. It felt as though the room got hotter as he considered your position and the budding of your arousal that he could no doubt feel. He let your leg drop down to the floor before taking your hands again and almost dragging you to the lectus.

His hands found the knot at your waist. He admired it for only a second before pulling at it almost violently. He tossed it carelessly to the floor before placing his hand on your chest, pushing you down and back until you were laid out on the lectus beneath his greedy gaze.

The position seemed to change something in Caracalla. His hands clenched and unclenched, his jaw working furiously as he stared at you. The torches cast golden light over his face, orange flames caressing his pale skin as the moments stretched on.

“Is this real?” he finally asked, gazing down at you with a yearning so strong it made your eyes water.

“This is real,” you whispered, holding up your hand. Your ring glinted in the light, drawing his attention. “You gave me this, remember?”

Caracalla took your hand, first placing it on his chest before dragging it up to his face. His tongue flickered at your ring finger before he took it into his mouth, sucking at the digit as he palmed at his cock with his spare hand.

You squeezed your thighs together for relief, a whimper escaping your throat before you could catch it. Caracalla bit lightly at your finger before pulling away.

“Tell me you love me,” he breathed, crouching down beside you.

He watched your mouth with searching eyes, desperate hands clutching at your white toga. The arousal was coming off of him in waves, each one threatening to knock you and drag you down with it. It felt like a physical thing, filling the room until you had no choice but to breathe it in.

“I love you, Caracalla,” you answered.

 In the quiet of the room, it echoed. You saw the words hit him, saw him soak them up and swallow them down.

“I shall never want for anything ever again,” he rasped, “for you have given me everything.”

When he fell into your arms, it was unbelievably gentle. There was an underlying firmness to his touch that you knew would not allow for protests or pushing away. You held still as he peppered kisses across the planes of your face, as he got acquainted with your body not as a lover, but as a husband.

He took the liberty of freeing you from your clothing before attending to himself. He climbed on top of you, nestled between your thighs as though he belonged there. There was no discomfort or self-consciousness as his hands dragged over your skin, skillful ministrations preparing you to be taken by him.

You could feel yourself, wet and clenching. Caracalla did not tease you; he entered your cunt with a swiftness you had not expected. There was a twinge as you adjusted to his thickness, hands tight around his forearms as he began to pump in and out.

It felt like more the fucking. It felt like something divine, something you had been made for. Like the first gasp of air after being underwater; you could not stop your sounds, could not stop your encouragements as he increased his pace.

“Tell me again,” he pleaded, “tell me.”

“I love you,” you bit out, “Caracalla, my husband, I love you.”

Every time you thought he might be able to spill over the edge he would paise, chest heaving, and lavish attention upon your breasts. Your nipples were stiff under his tongue, between his fingers, and you could already feel the beginnings of bruises on the soft flesh.

It was hard to say when it was really over. Caracalla wrung orgasms from you as though it was his god-given gift, leaving you clenching and shuddering around him as his fingers rubbed tight circles into your swollen clit. He followed you over the pulsing edge several times but did not seem to tire. He seemed determined to make sure you left the room with the beginnings of life budding in your womb.

You were helpless and could do nothing but lie there and allow yourself to be split apart on his cock. Every thrust sent him deeper, his head nudging at a place that made you see stars. Even as you began to squirm and whine, he did not stop, pinning you down with a hot hand between your breasts.

Your orgasm rippled out from that place deep inside you, urging you to lock your ankles around Caracalla’s hips to keep him close as he pumped inside of you. Your eyelids slammed closed involuntarily as your back arched almost painfully up off the lectus, hands scrabbling for purchase as he squeezed you dry.

I must have pleased the gods, you thought, if this is to be my fate.

At some point, after what felt like hours, fatigue reared its head and rose to snatch the both of you down into thick sleep. Whilst drifting you were aware of his warmth on top of you, head resting between your breasts, his hair dusting your chin with every inhale.

You were also aware when the door opened, a familiar figure slipping in. Your eyes slowly opened as Geta approached, staring down at the pair of you whilst twisting at the rings on his fingers. His nostrils flared at the picture the pair of you no doubt painted.

Without a word, you held out your hand and beckoned him closer. Something like relief spread across his pale features as he settled on his knees beside the lectus, lifting your hand to press a reverent kiss on back. Your breath caught in your throat at the gesture.

“Do not neglect me,” he warned you. “Empress.”

“I could not,” you answered honestly.

With careful arrangement and much grumbling from Caracalla, Geta was able to wedge himself on the lectus with both of you. It was a warm tangle of limbs and mouths and always reaching hands. In your mind, it was a true reflection of your union, of your connection to the emperors.

So deeply entwined that even the gods could not tear you apart. You closed your eyes again and let your mind be seduced by sleep.

In the morning, you would take your place beside them both as empress of Rome. You would begin your lessons with tutors, meet senators, sit beside your lovers on a throne of your own. You would look to the people, hold their gaze, and you would not flinch.

Authors Note - please, please let me know your thoughts. This was a beast of a chapter to write and I can’t believe it’s the end!

This was always how I intended to end it. I kinda see this entire fic as a prequel towards the rest of their lives?

If you have questions or thoughts (be kind) do not hesitate to send asks!

Please reblog, comment, like, etc if you enjoyed. Interaction is what keeps me motivated!♥️

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[dexteri0us]

now i’m breathin' like i’m runnin' 'cause you're taking me there; don’t you know you spin me out of control?

pairing: dexter morgan x f!reader

warnings: reader is a freak, mentions of corpses, smut - dom!dexter (but he's soft<3), sir kink, oral (f and m receiving), some slapping, some pussy slapping, bondage, knife play, brush play, wartenberg wheel (all sterilized of course).

summary: you, being an annoying girlfriend, and dexter, being an incredible boyfriend. (be careful though, he might as well just off you one day if you keep asking for it).

w/c: around 7,280

a/n: no pun intended. if i forgot any warnings, let me know, my brain is kinda fried

Dexter hadn’t exactly told you that he was a killer. A murderer, a criminal, or whatever label fit his particular shade of darkness. But he also never denied it when your insinuations crept too close to the truth. He knew that you knew, and that was enough for you. Knowing that he was okay with that was enough for you. Well, until recently.

He’d given you a blurry picture of what he did to his victims. Not because he offered it, but you had a knack for prodding, especially when you sensed he was buttered up just enough. You knew a crime scene or a sample of blood brought a smile to his face, but you didn’t exactly have that kind of power to bring those things to him. You found your own ways to make Dexter smile. Leaving a post-it note on his coffee machine that read “Kill the day”. Buying him a new shirt for work or a romantic dinner. Making him a playlist for his late-night boat rides. Or you’d plan a quiet night with nature docs to stimulate his intellect.

And if you were feeling bold, you’d cook. Well, try to cook. Homemade pizza was your speciality. Your best and only. Dexter never complained, though, always giving you a small, approving nod as he chewed slowly.

Still, he didn’t give you the exact answers either. He might roll his eyes, sigh heavily, or offer a cryptic one-word response, but you could always tell when you’d hit the nail on the head.

“Do you have a special place where you do it? Like a basement or something?”

Roll of his eyes. No.

“Do you ever regret it? Like, afterward?”

No.

“Do you stalk them?”

Side eye. Yes.

“Do you talk to them first? Like, try to scare them or mess with their heads:”

...Yes?

You played this game as if it was the most normal thing in the world, without batting an eye. It was fun for you until you headed in an unpleasant direction of the questions.

“Does it get messy? What do you use to clean up? What about their clothes? Do you get them naked before getting rid of the body?”

Yes.

Oh. “…Before killing them?”

Yes.

The wheels in your head began to turn, your thoughts spiraling into uncharted territory. “Even the women?”

Yes.

Huh. Suddenly, the game wasn’t so fun anymore. You didn’t know how you felt about that. You pictured the men and women you didn’t know, beautiful, vulnerable, dead. It was stupid to feel jealous of corpses, but you couldn’t help it. It clawed at you.

For a while, you stopped asking questions. Not because you didn’t want to know, but because you were too distracted by the answers you’d already gotten. And maybe you were afraid of what else you’d uncover.

If you were jealous of them before, now that jealousy skyrocketed into different dimensions.

You were in the middle of baking banana bread, working the batter longer than necessary. It was your fourth loaf this week, and you’d already had to give a few away to Deb and Joey, because you weren’t capable of eating all of it.

You were happy that Deb and Joey appreciated it because Dexter didn’t even like banana bread that much. He ate it because you made it. Which was sweet. But still, he seemed to enjoy talking to naked strangers more than eating your baked goods.

What the fuck is his problem?

“Another banana bread?” Dexter’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. “You know, it’s gonna lose its sweetness if you keep mixing all the frustration into it.”

Normally, you’d snort at the deadpan delivery of his stupid joke, but now was really not the time to remind you of the mood you were trying to suppress.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked is all seriousness now, coming over to you and leaning one hip against the counter. You didn’t look at him, keeping your focus on the batter. “Okay, you’re not. What can I do?” he asked, waiting patiently for you to open up.

“Nothing.”

He stood there and you felt his eyes on you, probably trying to read you. You still didn’t acknowledge him, but his presence pressed against you and it was starting to make you uncomfortable. He knew better than to push; it would only make you more frustrated, but he wasn’t one to just walk away either. Besides, he knew you’d crack eventually. And you did, dropping the spatula into the bowl and turning to face him.

“Why don’t you like my banana bread?”

He squinted his eyes, trying to decide if you were joking or not.

“I like your banana bread. Just… an appropriate amount. Not five loaves in a week.”

“Four,” you corrected.

“Five,” he countered, not missing a beat. “You made two yesterday, one on Monday and one on Wednesday.”

Shit, he was right. But could he blame you? He was driving you nuts. Well, you were driving yourself nuts, but it was because of him!

“Hey, I know my brain is limited, but is that really what’s bothering you? Will you help me out, or should I try to piece it together on my own?” he said softly.

He always did that, giving you space but never giving up on saving you from the sea of worrisome thoughts, never ignoring your closed off behavior. He’d always told you that you were like a puzzle to him. And he claimed he liked puzzles.

But you didn’t want to be a puzzle this time. You knew keeping him guessing wouldn't be healthy, so you spilled it out. You told him about your stupid insecurity and the stupid jealousy, the anger and frustration that boiled over when he told you about how he stripped his victims naked. And he couldn’t have had a more baffled expression on his face

For the first time, he told you a little bit about his hobby without you having to pull it from him. He reassured you that there was no sexual motivation behind it whatsoever. None. That the people he killed were disgusting and vile human beings who didn’t deserve even the faintest semblance of intimacy. Well, not that kind of intimacy. They deserved nothing but to die.

“I promise,” he said as he brushed his thumb over your cheek, “the only body I admire is yours. It’s an unhealthy obsession, really. Unhealthier than the other one.”

And with that, he finally made you laugh and roll your eyes at him. You gave him a playful shove, making him smile as you turned back to your batter. He moved closer one more time, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple, then your cheek. As he stepped back, he gave your triceps a playful pinch, leaving you to your baking.

You didn’t have a reason not to trust him. Even though he held onto a big secret, he never outright lied. He just never told you the whole truth, and you respected that. He’d told you it was better this way, something about plausible deniability. And yes, you made it a little hard for him, but what can you say, you were nosy.

Later that night, he went out of his way to worship your body, to prove that you were truly his number one obsession. He looked you in the eye as he fucked you, making you see how you made him feel and showing you every ounce of devotion he had for you. When he put his tongue on you, he didn’t stop eating your pussy until you had to push him away.

Afterward, you lay on your stomach while Dexter rested beside you, propped on one elbow, his other hand tracing invisible shapes on your back.

He let you guess what he drew or wrote with his fingers, and you both giggled when you guessed something ridiculous when he drew something completely simple. It was your favorite kind of peace, lying in his arms, your warm skin against his. You almost couldn’t believe that these same arms were capable of something else.

It wouldn’t be you if you weren’t greedy, though. And sometimes, when your mood was just right, that greed turned you into a bit of a brat.

You were on your way from the farmer’s market, the basket of fresh carrots and strawberries balanced on your lap as Dexter focused on the road, one hand casually resting on the wheel.

You were just telling him how you wanted to have a garden of your own one day, grow your own fruits and veggies, maybe even have a little flock of chickens.

“Can you imagine? You’d have fresh eggs for breakfast every morning, and I could make you a fruit salad to take to work.”

He glanced over, just briefly, before fixing his eyes back on the road. “You’d want me to share that with you?”

You felt a small tug of your heart. It made you reach out to gently tug the short hair behind his ear. He liked that. He’d said it was soothing when you played with his hair, especially around the ears, and you made a mental note to do more of it later tonight.

“Dex, you’re stuck with me. You’ll need to kill me to get rid of me,” you joked and he shot you a look, but you giggled at your own quip.  

Truthfully, it broke your heart sometimes, the way he thought so little of himself. Sure, he was confident, sometimes even a little too sure of his skills, and it could momentarily turn him into a smug asshole. But you worried that he’d never feel how loved he actually was. How many people cared about him.

Before you could spiral too far into those thoughts, his phone buzzed. He was being called to a scene, and he initially wanted to drop you off at home, but you convinced him there was no point. It was literally on the way, and you could just wait in the car.

“Alright,” he said as he gathered his things, “half an hour, tops.” You nodded and he stepped out of the car.

You watched him work from the car, though you could barely make him out through the crowd of people that gathered at the scene. Still, you admired how focused and precise he was, the way he was handling the camera and the lifeless body.

It was impossible not to think about how those same hands had touched you, traced every curve and dip of your skin. Fuck, you were sick. He was professionally documenting death for Christ's sake.

Still, your mind couldn’t help but wander elsewhere, wondering if he handled them with the same care. So, once you were back on the road, you couldn’t help yourself.

“You know, I thought of a way you could prove your ‘obsession’ with my body.”

He paused, glancing at you with furrowed brow, confused. “I thought we were past that.”

“Well, you know, it does something to a girl, knowing her boyfriend’s hobby involves working with naked bodies.”

“I can’t believe that that’s what bothers you about this whole situation.”

You shrugged, letting the silence hang for a moment.

“Alright, I’ll bite. What’d you have in mind?”

“I want to experience it.”

“'It'. Try to be a little more specific.”

“You know… the setup. Like, a roleplay kinda thing. You’ll be you, and I’ll be your victim. Or like a 'draw me like one of your french girls' kinda situation."

You honestly thought that it was a good idea, but you just proved to him how much little you understood about the whole serial killer thing, which he let you know quite candidly.

Don’t get me wrong, he adored you, but he didn’t have a problem with calling you out on your stupidity and reminding you how close you sometimes got to crossing lines you didn’t fully understand. That’s what made your relationship great.

“First of all, why would you think they are French?" he asked, confused by the movie reference, but you jusrt rolled your eyes. "And second of all, I actually wonder whether it’s you or me who’s sick in the head here,” he scoffed, shaking his head as he went on to tell you that it wasn't a fucking game that you played. He is a serial killer. “I actually like your body intact.”

“But you wouldn’t actually –”

“No.”

“Come on, wouldn’t you like to see me all tied up, immobilized, completely at your mercy?”

His jaw tightened just slightly before he answered. Oh?

“No. End of discussion.”

“Fine,” you groaned with a sigh, sinking back into your seat like a scolded child, your fingers idly tracing the ridges of the basket in your lap.

You wanted to be petty about it but instead, you decided to be on your best behavior. The reason? You’d definitely gotten into his head. You didn’t know if he’d started fantasizing about you like that, or if he was coming to the realization that you might actually need a psychiatric evaluation. You hoped it was the former, so when you caught him lost in thought, his gaze lingering on you as if he were in a trance, you resisted the urge to poke the bear, only sending a sweet smile his way.

The sex had gotten more… intense. Also more frequent, and you had a theory that it correlated with his early returns from his hunts. He never seemed to be satisfied, always came home frustrated with himself and he took it out on you. He’d take you against the nearest surface he could find; the couch, the kitchen counter, even the floor. You thought there wasn’t a single surface in his apartment that wasn’t defiled.

Once, when he’d gotten home before you, he threatened to take you outside in the external corridor where his neighbors could see and hear everything. Well, you wouldn’t mind, but he was a flying-under-the-radar kind of guy.

Either way, you’d struck a chord. And while you still hadn’t gotten exactly what you wanted, you couldn’t deny you enjoyed the way he’d been lately.

You just got out of shower, slipped into your pajamas and plopped onto the couch, turning on some white noise on your phone as you pulled out some notes for your upcoming exam. No, you weren’t capable of studying after you changed into your sleeping attire, but it was better than doing nothing.

Your eyes skimmed mindlessly across the words when you heard the door unlock, revealing Dexter in his khaki henley and cargos. You greeted him with a smile, sending him into kitchen where his take-out was, before turning your head back to your notes.

You didn’t register him moving closer to you, until you felt the nylon of a cuff around your wrist.

“What the fuck?” you murmured and looked at your wrist. It wasn’t your first time he used bondage on you, of course, but this was weird. You tugged instinctively at the chain, but his firm grip on the other buckle didn’t allow you much movement. “Dex, I don’t have time for this now.”

“My victims don’t really get to pick when their time is up.”

You looked at him, the confusion apparent on your face, but then when you locked eyes with him, it started to gradually dawn on you. Your eyes flicked from his face, to his clothes, to the chain around your wrist.

Was this what you thought it was? You didn’t want to celebrate too early.

And just like that, Dexter gave a sharp tug on the chain, pulling you to your feet.

“The first thing that usually happens,” he began, leading you to the bedroom, “is the weight of their tranquilized bodies pulls them to the ground.”

Before you could react, he slammed the door shut behind you and in one swift motion, your back hit the hard wood. Your other wrist was caught and cuffed too, the chain between them yanked taut as he raised your arms above your head, hooking the chain on the hook mounted on the door, leaving you stertched out.

It was too high and the position forced you onto your tiptoes, your whole body arching and making your ass press firmly against the door.

Dexter grabbed your jaw and kissed you aggressively, your teeth clanking against each other and your tongues tangling together, making your mixed saliva drip down your chin.

He looked at you with that signature intensity, eyes hooded and plush lips parted slightly. His hot breath fanned across your chin as he spread the spit over your cheek and jawline, massaging it into your skin.

You admired the way his hair curled at his forehead and around his ears, it gave him this innocent vibe that put him into contrast with those strong features of his face.

Then he kissed you again, this time more softly, snaking his arm into the space between the door and your arched back, pressing himself against you and making you feel the hardness in his cargo pants. His hand slid lower, over the curve of your lower back, slipping beneath your shirt to cup your ass firmly. His fingers kneaded your flesh before grasping the hem of your panties and tugging up, the fabric pressing tightly against your pussy.

The pressure sent a jolt of pleasure straight through you, the cloth stimulating your clit as he gave it individual tugs. You whimpered into his mouth, your body writhing against him even though it was almost physically impossible. To amplify the pleasure, Dexter's thigh slid between your legs, the textured fabric of his cargos creating a delicious sensation.

When he was satisfied with the wet spot you created on his pants, he dropped to his knees. He teased you some more, licking along the hem of your panties, placing wet kisses on your thighs and burying his nose against your heat, telling you how good you smell.

“Dex,” you whined. Your cunt screamed for release as well as your strained arms. You wanted nothing more than to tangle your fingers in his hair and grind yourself against his mouth until the dam broke.

He had told you before that his face was made for you to sit on. Once, Deb had jokingly called him a chair, which turned out to be a thought her therapist had passed on to her. Your mind couldn’t help but wander to the nights when he made you sit on his cock as he went over his subjects. He blindfolded you each time, naturally.

And from the look on your face, Deb knew instantly where your thoughts had gone, and said that she didn’t need that mental image in her head. You both laughed about it later. Honestly, you two loved sharing your sexcapades with each other.

Dexter found out through Quinn, because of course Deb would share, especially if you gave her inspiration. And he couldn't resist taking a jab at Dexter.

“I didn’t know you were such an animal, Dex,” Joey had told him with that smug grin of his.

Dex had given you an earful about how you had kind of compromised his privacy. It was only a matter of time until Masuka learned about this, and he was already exasperating. Dexter was afraid Masuka would take it as a shared hobby, something they could finally, really talk about with passion, like two guys. Ugh, the thought alone made him uncomfortable already.

But you'd told him that Deb was your best friend, and that girlfriends just had to talk about this stuff.

“It’s like therapy.”

“Don’t you say that about sex too?”

“Depends on the circumstances. Besides, it’s good for tips. You should thank her. If you thought making me squirt was all your talent, think again.”

After that, you made a deal not to bring up your sex club discussions in front of Dexter, and Deb made Quinn promise he wouldn’t say a word in front of Vince.

However, you did joke about the chair thing often, because he did provide the best seat in the house, whether it was his lap or his face.

But this time, he wasn't giving it up so easily. He wanted to make you earn it, but you couldn’t do anything except to wait.

When he finally did put his tongue on you, he didn’t take your panties off. He made you cum with them on, licking your clit over your panties, sometimes brushing his thumb over the sensitive bundle of nerves before sliding to your hole and pushing against the cloth, to the point your underwear became uncomfortable from how soaked it was with your cum.

Then he finally pushed your panties aside, the wet material sticking to your skin. He shuffled closer, his forehead grazing your stomach and his hair tickling your skin as he looked down at you, sliding his fingers through your folds and over your sensitive clit. you begged him to make you cum again, thinking he’d finally eat you out properly, but he just used his fingers.

He stayed on his knees for a while, admiring your shiny pussy and grazing his fingernails over your clit, teasing you, before standing up to his full height and properly fucking you hard with his fingers.

He wrapped his arm around you once again, bracing himself to your side as he started snapping his palm against your clit, two of his fingers sliding in and out of you and filling the room with wet sounds.

When you started cumming again, his other hand, that was resting on your hip reached down and tugged on your panties again, positioning the crotch back between your pussy lips and pulling, wiggling it to create stimulation against your clit.

“That’s it,” he growled, his lower jaw dropping down as he admired your squirming body.

You cried out from the sensation, your head banging against the door and one of your legs bending in the knee as you pressed your thighs together, trying to escape from the overstimulation.

You were so consumed by coming down from your high that you didn’t expect Dexter to unhitch the chain from the hook on the door, making you lose your balance. You would have surely fallen to the ground if Dexter hadn’t been there, but he was ready to catch you.

He shifted your body, picking you up bridal style. You thought that he’d lay you down onto the bed and fuck you there, but instead, he opened the door and headed out of the room. And as you rested in the comfort of his strong arms, your head against his shoulder, you noticed that his shirt smelt differently. It wasn’t the usual sweat and blood, or different human remains. It was a laundry detergent, meaning he truly did this just for you. It was your night.

He carried you through the living room, making his way toward his desk where he sat you down.

Unlike every other day, the computer was gone, as well as the photo of him and Deb. In fact, it was completely cleared out.

How have you not noticed that?

He stood between your thighs, working the cuffs to separate them from each other before pulling your sleep shirt over your head, leaving you exposed to him. His hand reached out, pinching your nipple as he kissed you, sharing the taste of your pussy with you. He pressed himself against you, the button of his cargos grazing your clit and making you moan. You were still sensitive, but you loved every second of it.

He leaned into you, forcing you to lie down, the coldness of the desk hitting your back and spreading goosebumps over your skin. He positioned you to his liking, moving you up so your feet rested on the top of the desk.

“I make sure they can’t escape,” he continued his description of the way he’d done things, pulling out another set of cuffs from the desk drawer and clasping each around your ankles before cuffing them to your wrist cuffs. You weren’t unfamiliar with any of this, but then he pulled out two other clasps and attached the ankle cuffs to the D-rings built in the desk.

Were those always there?

Now, you were all spread out for him, your nipples stiff for him to feed on, your legs bent in the knees and putting the outline of your cunt under your ruined panties on full display. You were capable of minimal movement with your ankles attached to the desk and your hands dependent on the movement of your legs. You weren’t going anywhere. Not that you wanted to.

“Are you good?” he asked, making sure he wasn’t doing anything you weren’t up to.

“Yes.”

“What’s your safe word?”

“Magazine.”

You watched as Dexter moved around the apartment, disappearing from your sight to retrieve a black, flat bag. When he returned to the kitchen counter, he seemed to unroll the bag, his back to you. You had to crane your neck to see, the vertebrae in your neck squishing together as you tried to get a glimpse of what lay inside. Something steely caught the light as he pulled it out. Then Dexter turned around, a pointed tool spinning under the force of his index finger. A Wartenberg wheel.

Your throat tightened, chills coursing down your spine as your body shifted in anticipation. Nothing could have prepared you for the next set of events. You were sure the next time you and Deb swapped stories, she would be the one taking notes.

Dexter tortured the fuck out of you.

He started with the pinwheel, rolling it all over your body. The pins were sharp enough to prickle your skin as they trailed along your arms, but it didn’t hurt. At first, it was even nice, relaxing almost. Then he moved to your chest, the wheel gliding from the hollow of your neck, down between your breasts and over you stomach.

As it neared the waistband of your soaked panties, you thought he’d continue further down and toward your aching pussy. But just as it reached below your navel, the wheel disappeared, making you huff.

That was your mistake. You’d worked yourself up by stupidly thinking that he’d go there right away. Foolish.

“I cut them up.”

You flinched at the sudden sound, startled, but he didn’t comment. The pinwheel resumed its path, drawing invisible lines across your wrists, elbows, shoulders, mimicking incisions. You closed your eyes, letting your imagination take over.

“Into evenly cut pieces,” he added.

Now the tool traveled lower, grazing your legs, running from your ankle to your bent knee, then up the sensitive skin of inner thigh. You trembled under his touch, your breath catching in your throat.

You reveled in the thought of this man, this predator, choosing to worship you instead of discarding you. Who knows, maybe one day, he would snap. But the possibility only made your body quake more.

He noticed, stopping the wheel just where your thigh met your hip. “Are you scared?”

“No.” you said, though your voice betrayed you, shaking on the single syllable.

But you really weren’t. If you were truly scared, you wouldn’t have misbehaved just now.

Before you could think about what would happen next, his hand struck, his palm landing sharply against your clothed pussy, and it was just then that you noticed he had put on his gloves, the leather making the sting more searing. You gasped, your hips jerking from the impact.

“If you thought you’d get a free pass, you were sorely mistaken.” He leaned over you, his hand sliding from your core to your thigh, squeezing the flesh. “Let’s try again. Are you scared?”

“No, sir.”

Other times, if you failed to call him sir right away, you’d get a warning. Maybe a slap to your thigh, or a firm squeeze of your neck. Never your pussy. Not at first.

“Such a brave girl.” This time, he ran the pinwheel slowly from your waist toward your chest. He altered its course, pressing it against your breast, applying more pressure as he reached your nipple, the sharp points dragging over it. “See? They could never measure up to you.”

Dexter turned the wheel again, guiding it slowly down your heaving stomach. You swore one of the metallic points grazed the bow on your panties, but he halted the motion, the wheel twisting 90 degrees to trace the hem of your underwear instead. Your hips tilted upwards instinctively, a desperate attempt to bring your pussy closer to his hand, but it was useless.

He continued to tease you, switching from one thigh to another, running it so close to your center, but never quite touching it. You kept waiting for that moment, but it never came.

“This is getting boring. I’ll go get something else,” he said nonchalantly, making his way toward the counter. Fucker.

“Wait,” you blurted without thinking. “I mean, please, sir…”

His footsteps paused, then drew closer again, stopping beside your head and smiling down at you.

“Did you want something?”

“Can you please touch my pussy?”

“Of course,” he said, a mocking lilt in his voice. “I just have to make my hands free,” he replied, taking a step toward the counter again, but you were quick to react.

“No!” You immediately regretted your words as he returned to the same spot. Dexter’s hand tilted your head, his gloved fingers squeezing your cheeks. The leather was firm and hot against your face. “I’m sorry, sir,” you added quickly, your voice muffled under his grip.

He leaned in closer. “You’d better realize your place, sweetheart. Or I’ll make sure this won’t be a fun experience.”

You apologized again, not forgetting the title, and he released your face, giving you a nod.

“Can you please touch my pussy with… that?”

Fuck your pride, right?

He raised his hand in front of his face, inspecting the pinwheel as though it had just appeared in his hand.

“Oh, this?” he said, feigning ignorance, clearly mocking you. “You want me to–” He moved the tool lazily through the air above your body, stopping just over your lower half “Touch you here?”

With a swift motion, the wheel skimmed between your legs, the pins grazing your panties. You didn’t even have the time to register it before he removed it again, but the electrifying sensation that came and went made you moan as your clit pulsed with excitement.  

“Yes, please.”

His nose brushed against yours as he leaned over again, and you thought he was going to kiss you. Instead, he mocked you again, his voice dripping with condescension as he cupped your chin. “Aw, you’re such a dirty girl, huh?”

His head dropped, his hair tickling your cheek as he glanced downward, watching his hand between your thighs. He made another contact with your pussy, slowly this time, focused. A mix of relief and hunger flooded you as he ran it up and down your wet underwear, the prickling sensation shooting through your nerves. “You want me to fuck you with it too? Are you that sick, hm?”

When you didn’t respond, he stopped and his head snapped towards you. His gloved hand left your face, only to land a slap across your cheek. The sting spread across your face, your skin burning under the impact.

“I didn’t fucking hear you.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

What can you say? Slapping didn’t really work on you. He knew that, it’s the reason he did it. So he could do it again.

The corner of his mouth twitched. He slapped you again, this time harder, the leather stinging even more than his bare hand.  

“If that’s what you wanted, sir, I’d take it.” You managed to keep your voice steady despite the heat in your cheek.

His lips curved into a smile. He stood up, walking towards the counter. “Jesus Christ,” he said with a shake of his head. “You’re lucky you found me. Anyone else would’ve committed your ass to a psychiatric hospital.”

“Fate,” you commented, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t punish you. Meaning you made him smile.

Dexter returned with a knife, and he dragged it across the chains, the clinking sound of metal scraping against metal echoing in the room.

He focused on your pussy now, rubbing the flat side of the knife against your clit, occasionally tapping it against you, and you half-expected he might nick the skin of your thighs if he wasn’t careful.

Then, Dexter flipped the knife again, teasing you with its blunt edge before bringing it to your breasts. He drew circles around your nipples with the tip of the knife, sharper than the pinwheel.

His body moved again, positioning himself behind you. His face, upside down, loomed above, gently cupping the underside of your chin, tilting your head back. The leather of his gloves gave you an unnerving sensation as his fingers held you in place. You felt the cold steel of the knife at your throat, running from one carotid to the other.

“Sometimes I cut their throats. But it’s not really my favorite style,” he said, the blade left your neck, drifting downward until it hovered over your left breast, settling directly above your wildly beating heart. He pressed the tip of the knife just enough for your skin to dip under its force. He could do anything to you. He could kill you right then and there.

“I love you,” you confessed for what felt like umpteenth time.

Dexter smiled, leaning down and placing a tender kiss on your forehead, all while controlling the force he still had on the knife.

He straightened, moving to your side again. His gloved fingers trailed over your stomach as he slid the knife under the hem of your underwear. The sharp edge pressed upwards, and you felt the fabric give way with a faint snick as the first small tear formed.

He moved the blade lower, repeating the motion. Each cut widened the tear, revealing the top of your clit. He shredded the panties until they were completely off, leaving you slickness glistening in the dim light and dripping onto the table beneath you.

Dexter removed his gloves and slid his fingers between your pussy lips, coating them in your wetness, before he brought them to his mouth. He just made you cum with his mouth, surely he wouldn’t–

But before you could finish your thought, he bent down over your torso and in a millisecond, his head was between your thighs. Mouth wide open, his tongue resting on his chin as he pressed it flat against your clit, and his upper lip collecting your juices straight from the source.

It was a single, devastating taste, but it was enough to make your legs tremble, the chains stopping you from closing them.

“Shit, I might as well eat you out again.”

Yeah, he might. Without anything in the way this time.  

It was just stroking your ego. It really made you proud, how his tongue was addicted to your pussy.

He brought the final tool of the night – a small brush that looked like it belonged in a makeup kit. It also looked like the softest instrumentof the night, but turned out to be the most torturing one.

The bristles touched your clit with featherlight strokes, maddeningly soft. The individual bristles tickled and stimulated every single nerve ending, sending vibrations through your entire body.

You gasped, your hips jerking involuntarily. Dexter worked the brush in slow, torturous circles, teasing your clit to the brink. Just as you thought you couldn’t take any more, he stuffed two fingers inside your hole, wiggling them inside to massage the spot that made your eyes roll back in your head.

The synergy was overwhelming. Your body writhed against the chains, chasing the orgasm building rapidly within you. But just as the climax was about to crash over you, he stopped. His fingers withdrew and the brush disappeared, your back arching in desperation as you felt the pleasure simmer out, leaving your abdomen hollow and aching from the loss.

“Please, sir, can I come?”

“Of course you can,” he said in a soft voice.

But he didn’t let you. He edged you again and again, pushing you to the brink, only to yank you back. He was playing with you, letting you know that your body wasn’t yours tonight. It was under his control. You were his.

The brush was drenched in your juices at this point, ruined just like your panties and your throbbing cunt. A few tears slipped from your eyes, mixing with the sweat slicking your skin. So you begged, desperate for the release. You begged until he finally finger-fucked, plunging his fingers into you and pumping them relentlessly. His thumb rubbed your puffy clit, sending you spiraling into an earth-shattering orgasm.

You came hard, your juices spilling over his hand and splattering onto his watch. He only pulled his fingers out to spank your clit, amplifying the intensity of your orgasm. At one point, he reached for the discarded glove, fisting it and placing harsh smacks against your sore pussy. You screamed, and after he landed his last smack, feeling you were nearing another orgasm, he switched the rough sensation of the leather for the softness of his tongue, firmly pressing against you and shaking his head from side to side, letting you cum into you his mouth.

You could barely take it and you were scared he might pull out a vibrator, because he liked to do that when you came twice in the span of two minutes. But he didn’t, removing his glistening face from your center and standing up. You just laid there, your body a racing circuit for the endorphins and oxytocin at this point.

Dexter gave you only a few second before he undid the chains, the clinking of metal barely audible over the pounding in your ears. He didn’t let you move, though, keeping you sprawled on table as he shifted your body higher until your head hung off the edge.

He stood in front of your face, and you knew what he wanted. You reached for the button of his cargo pants, undoing them and pulling them down along with his underwear. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy. Gorgeous. You didn’t waste a moment, leaning forward, licking the bead of precum from his tip before taking him into your mouth.

Dexter groaned, the sound vibrating through you. Soon, he took over, thrusting into your throat as he held you down. One hand pressed against your neck, feeling the way you swallowed his cock, while the other pinched and tugged at your nipples.

You gagged around him, bubbles forming in the corners of your mouth as you struggled to keep up. This time, your eyes outright stung from the tears that were forcing their way out, but you didn’t stop. It wasn’t until you coughed, your throat tightening involuntarily and squeezing around him, that he pulled out with a groan.

You gasped for air, your chest heaving, but he didn’t give you long to recover. His hand gripped your neck and yanked you up, forcing you into a kneeling position on the table. You just sat there, dazed, your hands resting in your lap like the picture of innocence. Messy hair, glassy eyes, and swollen lips.

Dexter kissed them, shoving his tongue into your mouth, tasting himself and making you taste yourself again. His beard scratched against your sensitive skin, adding to the long list of stimuli.

You dared to sneak your hand away from your lap, circling your fingers around his cock and stroking him slowly. Your thumb swiped over the sensitive head and he moaned into your mouth before his head fell back. You leaned forward, your lips brushing against Dexter’s neck, sucking on his pulse point and grazing it with your teeth.

You moved your hand up and down, and Dexter’s moans and gasps grew louder and more frantic. You quickened your pace, his hips jerking into your hand as he chased his own orgasm. You twisted your hand, and he came with a guttural groan. His cum spilled onto your stomach, warm and sticky, and his hand shot out to grip the hair at the back of your neck, yanking you into another kiss as he came down from his high.

When his breathing slowed, you awkwardly shifted your legs over the edge of the table, letting them dangle as you wrapped your arms around his waist. You pulled him close, burying your face in his chest, a content sigh escaping you as you enjoyed the warmth, the softness of his body.

He cupped your head, his thumb brushing small crescents against your scalp with returned tenderness as he let out a soft sigh of his own, his chest rising and falling against you.

“Are you okay?”

You didn’t pull away to look at him, your body too spent to do much more than to snuggle deeper into his chest and squeeze his torso.

“Better than,” you mumbled.

“I know this wasn’t what you wanted,” he said.

That made you lift your head. You looked at him, your brows drawing together in confusion.

“But this,” he gestured to the table, his brow raising, “is the only table I want to see you on. The only restraints I ever want to see on you. And I need you to get it through that thick skull of yours that there’s nothing sexy about what I do.”

“In my dreams there is,” you said, your lips curving into a teasing smile.

“YN,” he warned.

“I know,” you relented with a roll of your eyes, his brows raising, daring you to be a brat in this moment. “For the record, it was better than what I wanted.”

You smiled and he kissed you again, silencing any further rebellion. When you shivered against him, he pulled back and cleaned you up before ordering you to throw on a shirt.

“Yes, sir,” you replied cheekily, adding a playful salute for good measure.

“I will spank your ass if you don’t get it in the shower in ten seconds,” he said, pulling his own pants up. Would that be so bad? You bit your lip to keep from grinning and headed into the bathroom, while he cleaned the table.

By the time you switched places, you felt refreshed, fucked out just right as every muscle in your body ached with a sweet kind of soreness. You heated up his dinner while making yourself a quick sandwich. Just as you set his plate down, he walked out of the bathroom. You grabbed your sandwich and set down, with Dexter soon joining you.

When you finished your meals, the two of you migrated to the couch. He rested his head on your stomach, while you draped your legs over his shoulders.

Your fingers played with the freshly washed hair, soft and silky from the shampoo. You twirled the strands around your fingers lazily, and his quiet purrs filled the room as you trailed your fingertips along the curve of his ears, scraping gently at the sensitive spots behind them. That sound, half sigh, half growl, might’ve been your favorite thing in the world.

You bent down, the movement uncomfortable and your muscles protesting as you pressed a soft kiss to the tip of his nose. But the way it scrunched affectionately under your touch made the discomfort worth it.

[persicipen-archive]

𑑛 “ARMOUR-CLAD HEART” ﾉ MYDEI. HONKAI STAR RAIL

gn reader ﾉ words 0.9k ᯽ mydei teaches you some self-defence. reader is not made for fighting and rather weak. an awkward display of affection from mydei’s side lol ﾉ no proofreading, we die like kremnoans ᯽ FLUFF ﾉ GENERAL CONTENT ᯽

You hear a displeased click of his tongue — nothing surprising given your stance and previous pathetic tries at blocking his fist — and take a step back with your face embarrassingly hot. His fake hit was nowhere near fast nor strong, just a mere presentation of where such an attack would come from and land at the end.

“You’d be dead within a second on the Strife’s battlefield. Or perhaps should I even say that a mere thug would get through your defence with little to no preparation?” Mydei’s gaze moves all over you in a judging way, and it takes your every strength not to look away.

“I’m not made for battle! You wouldn’t see me anywhere near it. It’s just way too hot today to focus.”

Another loud “tch” escapes his lips, now much more annoyed and agitated than before, as if he has already completely given up on any hope for you. A blazing sun over the terrace is no excuse to stop the lesson, or perhaps it’s precisely because of its presence.

“Surely someone with an ill intent would wait for you to be comfortable and well prepared for their arrival, am I correct?” He snickers in a sarcastic tone, leaving a short pause to give you another opportunity to oppose him.

But again, this time not only is his attitude towards you harsh and insulting, but his words make complete sense, and they burn with embarrassment even more than the scorching heat that surrounds both of you.

Maybe you’re simply spineless and will forever be even under his tutoring. You bite your lip, trying not to appear weaker than you already are, knowing very well that there will be absolutely no use in defending yourself anymore. But it doesn’t matter now. What does he plan to do next?

Your body tenses up out of reflex only seconds before his warm palm wraps around your arm, turning you around effortlessly while pressing your back against his own chest. An uncontrolled gasp leaves your mouth as you are left immobilised in an instant and the forced proximity feels even hotter than midday, yet the one behind you pays no mind to it, completely focused on keeping you in place.

“Most people would assume you cannot get out of this hold unless you’re physically stronger than the aggressor.”

You feel every slight breath he makes pressing harder on you. Not to mention how his voice sends pleasant shivers down your spine by being so close to your ear. All the discomfort disappears the second a faint memory reappears in the most unexpected of places. The way he holds you reminds you of something entirely different from sparring.

Curse your mind, it doesn’t help to focus at all and it’s especially shameful when Mydei’s not affected; calm and composed, with a fiery spark running along the red marks on his body.

“You’ll most likely always have a free hand or two. Instead of wriggling them mindlessly, use one to press on the bottom of your opponent’s nose or even punch them. The nose is always sensitive, even under the slightest pressure.” He eases the grip around your body and demonstrates what he just said and although he doesn’t apply force at all when bringing his knuckle above your cupid’s bow, you squirm involuntarily in an attempt to escape.

But since he never lets go of your other arm, there’s nowhere to run.

“Now, try it yourself.” Yet instead of waiting for your move, his hand — armoured in golden claws, a trap for your smaller palm — grabs yours and brings it behind towards his face. You peek over your shoulder, a little afraid.

To add on top of everything, he is as serious about this sparring lesson as ever, not paying attention to the closeness between your bodies. The red lines decorating his chest seem brighter than usual, with sweat glistening along his collarbones and hair dishevelled by the breeze.

Your heart skips a beat in anticipation when you are almost certain he’s about to kiss your fingers instead, but in the last second, he inches away and brushes them against the underside of his nose. “Here. Remember this.”

“I’m sure that my enemy won’t navigate my hand towards their weak spot.” A shaky sigh of disappointment escapes your lips.

He chuckles lowly at your comment, raising the corner of his mouth in a sardonic smile.

“You’d rather aim blindly than focus on where and what to attack? You’ve just earned the disapproval of the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos.” He moves in front of you, abruptly pausing all physical contact. “Be thankful that I’m not only willing to teach you how to defend yourself but also for that I will protect you with my own strength as long as you’re near.”

He pushes a damp strand of hair out of your face, the lightest touch of his bare finger causing more tingles to travel down your spine. At the same time, he flinches when realising what he has done and lets his hand drop to his side; the victorious glint in his golden eyes changes to bewilderment. His armour rattles at the subtle gesture of humanity and betrayal of his emotionless posture.

“We’ll practice again until you gain the approval from me. Do not expect me to be lenient.” The heat spreading on your cheeks becomes a problem only after Mydei finishes the sentence and moves away with haste, surely caused by his discomfort.

A gentle breeze runs through the illuminated terrace and cools your skin. You watch him walk away without turning around (you wish he would). This feeling of shame mixes with admiration and unadulterated curiosity to stir up something completely bizarre in your heart.

A pomegranate-sweet infatuation with the prince.

[skzdelf]

Something More | Lee know

✶ PARING: Lee Minho x f!reader

✶ SYNOPSIS: A friendship born under the spring sun transforms into something deeper as two souls share quiet afternoons and passionate nights. Between everyday moments and glances full of meaning, the relationship between you and Minho evolves from complicity to undeniable desire.

✶ WARNING: Sloppy kisses; neck grabbing; jealous Minho; hot dancing

✶ WORDCOUNT: 2,2k (2209)

The silence in the living room, previously filled with the attention directed at the movie, was interrupted by constant meowing.

Sonnie, one of Minho’s cats, was lying lazily on his lap at the other end of the couch.

Dori was busy sharpening his claws on the expensive scratching post your best friend had bought a few months ago.

The one who wouldn’t stop meowing was Doongie, comfortably perched on the windowsill, gazing outside Minho’s apartment. His tail swayed slowly from side to side, as if caught between curiosity and the lazy vibe of the afternoon.

You had met Minho two years ago. It was thanks to a stray cat that your paths crossed—if credit could be given to a small feline.

It was a sunny spring day. You were strolling through the park, enjoying the warm breeze, when you spotted a kitten sleeping peacefully on a bench. Its fur was a messy mix of colors, and its calm breathing made you smile. Without hesitation, you approached to take a picture. You crouched carefully, trying not to wake it, but just as you were about to press the shutter, a smooth, deep voice broke the silence.

“Are you here to greet him too?” asked the boy with burgundy hair, leaning over the other side of the bench to pet the cat.

You were surprised by his presence, but even more so by the natural way he shared that moment. You gave him a shy smile as you tucked your camera away.

“It’s hard not to when he’s this adorable” you replied, looking at the little feline now purring under the stranger’s touch.

Minho, as you later learned his name, had a peculiar calmness about him, as though he and cats shared a special understanding. From that day on, casual encounters in the park became more frequent until, without realizing it, he became one of the most important people in your life.

“Tell him to stop, Min! I can’t hear the movie” you told Minho, tugging slightly on the blanket you both shared to get his attention.

He turned his head, looking at you lazily and relaxed, his half-lidded eyes exuding calm. A few burgundy strands fell across his forehead, nearly grazing his eyelids.

“Were you sleeping?!” you exclaimed, half-scolding. He had chosen the movie, and now he was falling asleep? You were ready to kill him.

“I was trying to rest so I could feel good tonight” he replied in his raspy, just-woken-up voice, sending a shiver through your stomach.

In a few hours, you’d be heading out to a party with your group of friends. You had brought everything you needed to get ready and planned to stay over at Minho’s place like you often did.

“Actually, you should get ready. You always take forever” he teased, letting out a sigh as his ring-adorned hands reached out to stroke Sonnie’s head.

You stood up from the plush couch and grabbed your backpack from the floor beside it. As you passed Minho, you ruffled your hand back and forth through his soft hair, messing it up.

Walking down the narrow hallway toward the bathroom, you noticed it was warmly lit by ceiling lamps.

The bathroom was spacious for an apartment, with a wide sink that could hold plenty of things—your makeup in this case. The mirror stretched across the entire length of the sink, backlit with white LED lights, perfect for selfies.

You decided to change there, pulling out your outfit for the night from your bag: a short black dress with a corset-like design on the upper part, fitted and strapless, accentuating your waist. The skirt was pleated, and you completed the look with a black belt adorned with metallic details, including a heart-shaped centerpiece.

Minho knocked on the door, and you cracked it open to peek out. You noticed he was already dressed. He wore a leather vest over a black tank top that showed off his arms and neck. A silver chain rested around his neck, giving the final touch to his look. He looked absolutely stunning, though you couldn’t admit it out loud.

He was holding Dori, who was purring contentedly in his arms. The constant hum of Dori’s purring filled the space, giving it a warm, homely vibe.

You let Minho in. He sat on the toilet lid, watching you as you moved back and forth across the bathroom counter, grabbing different makeup products.

A slight smile played on his lips. It was clear he enjoyed watching you work with such focus. You picked up a small brush and began blending the eyeshadow on your lids, carefully attending to every detail.

“I’m going to fall asleep again if you keep taking so long” Minho joked, leaning forward slightly.

You glanced at him through the mirror, amused by his comment.

“Perfection takes time. Or do you not like how it’s coming along?” you teased as you applied red lipstick to your smooth lips.

Minho shook his head, chuckling softly. In his arms, Dori continued to bask in his strokes, purring with contagious tranquility.

When you finished, you spun around to face him directly. Minho looked at you with a mix of admiration and pride.

“What do you think?” you asked, showing him the final result.

He took a moment before responding, tilting his head slightly with a broad smile.

“I think you look gorgeous, but…” He suddenly stood up, gently placing Dori on the floor. Once upright, he extended his hand toward your face, his thumb brushing lightly against the corner of your lips, as though he were handling the most delicate flower. He softly wiped away a small smudge of lipstick.

“Now you look better,” he said with a proud smile. Your poor brain couldn’t process what had just happened. While you were close friends, you’d never shared such an intimate moment.

Your heart raced in your chest. You couldn’t help but wonder if he felt the same.

“Now let’s go. The others are waiting for us” Minho added, giving you one last glance as he ruffled your hair—just as you had done to him earlier—before stepping through the doorway and disappearing down the hall.

The club was massive. The space was lit only by colorful lights—mostly red—and the music pounded in every corner, making it nearly impossible to hold a conversation. People danced pressed against each other, bodies moving in sync with the beat of the songs.

You and your friends were sitting in a booth, laughing as you finished the third round of drinks you’d ordered at the bar. For some of you, yourself included, the alcohol was beginning to take effect, drawing you further into the electrifying atmosphere.

“Let’s go dancing, Min” you said loud enough for Minho to hear over the music, tugging lightly on the edge of his vest to get his attention.

“Not now” Minho replied curtly, not even sparing you a glance as he continued chatting with one of his friends.

How interesting could that conversation possibly be? Why come to a club just to talk instead of dance?

Some of your friends were already on the dance floor, but you hesitated to join them. Each one seemed to have company, whether it was a boyfriend or some random guy who’d approached them with less-than-pure intentions.

Downing the rest of your drink in one go, you stood up from your seat, deciding you’d dance and enjoy yourself, even if it meant doing so alone.

Or so you thought.

Your body blended into the crowd as you moved to the rhythm of the music, swaying and bouncing effortlessly. Your hands ran through your hair, tousling it in sensual motions.

For a moment, you closed your eyes, letting the colored lights and the vibrations of the sound system envelop you completely. The dance floor was packed, yet it felt like, in that moment, only you and the music existed.

Suddenly, you felt someone behind you, a presence close enough for their warmth to pierce through the crowd. Turning slightly, you saw a tall, blonde stranger smiling mischievously at you.

Before you could react, his hands found their way to your hips in a firm but confident motion. You turned to face him, your eyes meeting his playful gaze, and began moving again. He followed your lead, syncing perfectly with your rhythm.

An intimate atmosphere quickly formed between you two, growing even more intense when your hands traveled up his toned arms, eliciting a barely audible groan from him.

His dark eyes locked onto you as your movements remained enticingly provocative, sending shivers down your spine. Your bodies were so close, lips barely apart—the tension between you tangible.

“Kiss me already,” the stranger murmured breathlessly, one hand sliding from your hip to cradle your cheek as he leaned in closer to your lips.

But before that kiss could happen, a sudden hand gripped the back of your neck—not harshly, but with enough force to pull you back abruptly.

The stranger’s presence was gone in an instant, and before you could identify the owner of the hand, a pair of possessive lips crashed against yours.

The grip on your neck shifted to the side, brushing your skin gently while the other hand firmly settled on your waist, ensuring you couldn’t pull away.

Soft yet commanding lips moved against yours, desperate and hungry, drawing you into a kiss you had no intention of breaking.

The kiss deepened as tongues intertwined in a seductive dance, leaving you breathless as small gasps escaped your mouth.

Then, suddenly, the person pulled back, but only to bring their lips to your ear. Resting them against your skin, they whispered in a low, gravelly voice.

“Was this your plan all along? To make me jealous? Well, you fucking succeeded.”

Minho’s raspy voice reverberated in your head, leaving you stunned.

Pulling back slightly, you looked up at him, your eyes locking onto his. His dark gaze flitted between your face and your swollen lips, and you hadn’t expected, not even in your wildest dreams, for Minho—your best friend, the most easygoing and effortlessly attractive guy you knew—to react like this.

You certainly weren’t complaining. You were exhilarated.

“This isn’t over,” he murmured again into your ear, the hand on your waist now gently stroking up and down. “Let’s go home. What do you say, pretty?”

Minho’s apartment was dimly lit, just as you had left it. You assumed the cats were either asleep by now or had been stirred awake by the noise you two were making.

You stumbled inside, wrapped in each other’s arms, exchanging fervent kisses. Somehow, you both managed to kick off your shoes without breaking apart for even a second.

Minho shrugged off his leather vest and tossed it somewhere in the living room. His hands roamed over your body with a possessiveness that sent shivers down your spine.

You walked backward, bumping lightly into furniture scattered inconveniently in your path. Your arms encircled his neck, fingers tangling in his soft, reddish hair.

The room was filled with nothing but the sound of gasps and groans, growing louder with every touch you exchanged.

As Minho’s hands gripped your waist firmly, guiding you backward, you suddenly felt your back press against the cool surface of the wall. The contrast between the chill of the wall and the warmth of his lips now trailing down your neck made you gasp softly. His hands slid up your sides, brushing against the curve of your chest, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

The darkness of the apartment only heightened your senses, amplifying every touch, every sound. Minho tilted his head to meet your gaze, his pupils blown wide with desire. In that moment, it felt as if his eyes were searching for something deeper, something words could never express.

Your breaths mingled, quick and uneven, as he cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks. He leaned in, capturing your lips again—this time slower, more deliberate, pouring emotions into the kiss that left you breathless.

“This isn’t a game for me” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and laced with sincerity. His thumb traced a soft line along your cheek. “I need you to know that.”

You didn’t reply with words. Instead, your fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt tighter, as if anchoring yourself to him in the moment.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes briefly as though committing this moment to memory. His hands slid back down to your waist, holding you close, his touch no longer hurried but tender and grounding.

“Come here” he whispered, his tone soft and coaxing as he guided you toward the sofa. The warmth of his touch remained constant as he pulled you down beside him, keeping the intimacy alive between you.

In the quiet of the room, with only the faint hum of the city beyond the windows, words seemed unnecessary. His presence spoke volumes, the connection between you now more profound than it had ever been.

The world outside could wait; for now, there was only the two of you, no longer just friends, but something more.

✶ A/N: le dedico este fic a Kih que hace rato me había pedido un fic de Minho!! Espero te guste hermosa ;)

[diamonddaze01]

invisible string

pairing: ferrari driver!yoon jeonghan x journalist!reader  chapter wc: 2K  genre: fluff | au: f1 au | rating: pg-13 | warnings: none! a/n: dedicated to @ylangelegy, who has listened to me plan this for over a month now // based on invisible string by taylor swift // thank you @gotta-winwin for the beta! more notes at the bottom! takes place after full throttle and bad for business

FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS AZERBAIJAN GRAND PRIX Track: Baku City Circuit

The race had been his to win. Jeonghan had been leading the pack, smooth as ever, navigating Baku’s winding streets with a precision that seemed almost effortless. Lap after lap, he held the gap, the roar of the crowd swelling every time the scarlet Ferrari streaked past. But a mistimed pit stop—just a few seconds too long—had changed everything.

The radio crackled with updates as he rejoined the track, now behind the Red Bull and the Mercedes, a podium still possible but victory slipping further and further from his grasp. You’d watched from the media pen, clutching your mic in one hand and the delicate necklace he’d given you in the other. The charms—a tiny microphone and his initial—sat warm against your skin, as if absorbing the frantic beat of your heart.

It was painful to see him try to claw his way back, pushing his car to its limits, his lap times faster than anyone else’s, but the distance was too great. By the time the checkered flag waved, he’d finished fourth—a position that might’ve pleased anyone else but felt like a dagger to Jeonghan, especially here.

The cameras in the paddock caught every second: the way he climbed out of the car, the polite smile he gave his engineers, the exhausted slump of his shoulders as he trudged toward the team garage. You knew that expression too well—it was the same one he wore every time he felt like he’d let himself down.

The media pen had been merciless. You’d stood just off to the side, watching Jeonghan answer the barrage of questions with his usual charm, but you knew the weight he carried beneath that smooth exterior. A loss in Baku—his best circuit—was a bitter pill to swallow. You’d prepared yourself for the aftermath: the quiet ride back to the hotel, the sigh he’d let out as he peeled off his racing gloves, maybe the silent way he’d disappear into the shower.

You had even prepared your own words, something soothing to tell him when the hurt inevitably surfaced. When his PR manager leading him to the Sky Sports booth, you straightened your posture, determined to keep things professional. But your hand still found the charm at your neck, your fingers brushing over its edges as if it could somehow anchor you.

He looked like every bit the media darling he was known to be, that familiar, sly smile fixed firmly in place. But you noticed the tightness around his eyes, the slight strain in his voice as he greeted the host. He spared you a glance as you stood to the side, notebook in hand, and something in his gaze softened—brief, fleeting, but unmistakable.

When your turn came to ask him a question, you kept it light, knowing better than to press him when the wound was still fresh. “You had incredible pace today, especially toward the end. What’s your takeaway from this race?”

He tilted his head at you, his smile curling into something teasing, even playful. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said, just loud enough for the nearby microphones to catch it. “Don’t go easy on me. You never do.”

Your cheeks burned at the nickname, but you ignored it, clearing your throat and shifting to a more pointed question. “Alright, then. How do you feel about the timing of that pit stop? Do you think it cost you the win?”

For a second, you expected his smile to falter, for the frustration to slip through the cracks. But instead, he laughed softly, shrugging one shoulder. “Sometimes things don’t go your way. That’s racing. You win some, you lose some. I’ve had my fair share of wins, haven’t I? Maybe it was someone else’s turn today.”

His calm surprised you, even as you jotted down his answer. Jeonghan had always been gracious in front of the cameras, but there was something different about him now—a lightness, a resilience that you didn’t expect. And when he finished the interview and turned back toward you, his smile lingering, you wondered if he’d been preparing for this moment long before the race ever began.

You didn’t have much time to think about it. By the time the interviews wrapped up and the paddock started to clear, Jeonghan was already pulling you toward the exit, his hand firm around yours.

“Let’s go celebrate,” he said, his voice light and easy, as if he hadn’t just endured one of the most grueling races of the season.

“Celebrate?” you repeated, your brow furrowing in confusion. “Jeonghan, you didn’t even—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he cut in, his smile growing. “Baku’s too beautiful to waste on sulking. Trust me, I’ve got something better in mind.”

He led you through the paddock, ignoring your protests and questions as he tugged you toward the waiting taxi. His hand was warm around yours, his grip sure and steady, and despite your confusion, you let yourself follow him. He always had that effect on you—a pull you couldn’t resist, like gravity.

The streets of Baku’s Old City glowed in the golden light of the setting sun. Cobblestones stretched out in every direction, and the sandstone buildings caught the last rays of daylight, painting the world in hues of amber and honey. The scent of saffron and roasted chestnuts filled the air, mingling with the hum of distant voices and the faint strains of music from a nearby café.

It all felt familiar. Too familiar. Your heart skipped as the taxi pulled to a stop, and Jeonghan led you toward the same path you’d walked on your first date. He pointed out the Maiden Tower again, his voice lilting with amusement as he repeated the same joke he’d made back then.

“Are you seriously taking me on a nostalgia tour right now?” you teased, though your chest ached with something too warm, too overwhelming to name.

“Maybe I am,” he replied, his eyes glinting with that mischievous light you loved so much. “Good memories deserve a second run.”

The sun was slipping lower by the time you reached the vendor’s cart tucked into a quiet corner of the square. It hadn’t changed, not really—the same colorful trinkets spilled across the table, the same aroma of aged wood lingering in the air. Your breath caught in your throat as Jeonghan reached for a small wooden box, almost identical to the one he’d bought you on your first date. You still had it, tucked safely in the corner of your nightstand, its corners worn from the times you’d traced them absentmindedly, as though trying to hold onto the memory of that day.

“You don’t need to get me another one,” you said quickly, a laugh escaping your lips. “I still have the first one.”

“Humor me,” he said, handing the vendor a few bills. He turned to you, holding the box out in his palm, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “Go on. Open it.”

Your fingers trembled as you lifted the lid.

Inside was a ring—gold, inlaid with a stunning citrine gem and diamonds, catching the last rays of sunlight and scattering them like a thousand tiny stars. It was exquisite, timeless in a way that stole the air from your lungs.

You looked up at him, the question forming on your lips, but Jeonghan was already moving. He was on one knee before you, his dark eyes fixed on yours with a tenderness that left you utterly undone.

“Marry me,” he said, his voice low but steady, every word laced with certainty. “Not because it’s the perfect moment or because I have the perfect speech prepared—because God knows I don’t. But because I love you. I’ve loved you since the first moment I saw you, and I know, without a doubt, that I’ll love you for the rest of my life.”

Your heart felt like it was being tugged by that invisible thread, the one that had always tied you to him, no matter where the world spun you both. You could feel the weight of every shared laugh, every argument, every stolen moment between races and chaos and life. It all led here—to him, kneeling in the heart of the city where it all began, looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

“Jeonghan…” You barely managed to get his name out before your voice broke.

“I’ve always believed in fate, you know,” he continued, his lips twitching into that familiar smirk even as his eyes shone. “Call me romantic, but I think there was a thread pulling me to you, even before I knew you existed. And now? I don’t ever want to let go of it.”

Your vision blurred as tears filled your eyes, the weight of his words sinking into your chest like a stone. He wasn’t smiling anymore—not his usual mischievous grin or his media-trained smirk. This was something raw, something real, and it made your heart feel like it might burst.

“You’re my invisible string,” he continued, his voice softening. “The one that’s tied me to you through every twist, every turn, every high and low. And I don’t want to spend another day without you at the other end of it.”

The tears spilled over before you could stop them, a shaky laugh breaking from your lips as you nodded, the world spinning and stilling all at once. “Yes,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Yes, Jeonghan. Of course, yes.”

A cheer erupted around you, startling you both. You hadn’t even realized a crowd had gathered in the square, tourists and locals alike drawn in by the sight of the golden boy of Ferrari on one knee. His grin spread wide as he slid the ring onto your finger, the metal cool against your skin, his own eyes suspiciously shiny.

When he stood and pulled you into his arms, the applause only grew louder. And when his lips met yours, the world seemed to fade entirely, leaving only the warmth of his hands, the press of his mouth, and the steady, unshakable beat of his heart against yours.

The kiss was long, deep, and full of promises you didn’t need to hear to understand. When you finally broke apart, your cheeks flushed and your breath short, Jeonghan pressed his forehead to yours, his smile dazzling.

“I love you,” he murmured, just for you.

“I love you, too,” you replied, your voice steadier now.

And as you stood there in the golden haze of the old city, the ring heavy on your finger and Jeonghan’s arms tight around you, you couldn’t help but think of that invisible string. Of the way it had wound through time and space, pulling you both through every twist and turn, every high and low, until it finally tied you here—together. Forever.

The next morning, the headlines were splashed across every sports outlet and beyond:

Ferrari’s Golden Boy Pops the Question in Baku’s Old City—And Gets a Yes!

a/n: if anyone is curious about the ring:

a/n (pt. it's the remix): i'm ngl - idk if there's anymore full throttle left to write. BUT! jeonghan and his journalist lover fiance will definitely be popping up in the other fics in the pedal to the metal series, so keep an eye out for your favorite ferrari golden boy <333

truly, thank you for all the love on full throttle. it blows me away how many people have reached out and told me that this fic got them into f1, and that's such an honor to hear (carat f1 enjoyers RISEEEE).

does this mean i'll never write ferrari!jeonghan again? no ofc not, he's one of my favorite characters of all time and if an idea pops up i will def write it. but for now... kisses, ferrari boy, onwards to pr disaster ferrari!soonyoung!

[strawbeelemonade]

ROMANTIC IMAGINE: Miguel O'hara visits you when you call in sick

i know how to write things other then headcannons i swear. theyre just so EASY. you can request actual fics lmao. promise! This was intended as romantic btw, but you can interperate this however you want!

WARNING: descripion of wounds/blood, description of burns, overprotectiveness,

Miguel lands on your balcony with a heavy thump, his landing was a little awkward from trying to swing with only one hand, but he managed well enough. The Tupperware in his hand looked a little worse for wear, though.

Almost every fibre of him wanted to turn around and forget about this, but he knew he couldn’t bring himself to, he needed to know you were ok.

You had called off sick from work yesterday, and you didn't show up today either. In all the time you were working at Alchemex you’ve never done that before. The secretary had told him you sounded like you were in a lot of pain over the phone, so it was obvious you were unwell in some way or another. He’s been worried ever since.

This felt stupid. Over dramatic, even. But he’d gone to his brother for advice, and this is what he had given him: Their moms classic Pozole recipe, The same recipe him and his brother ate while growing up. Obviously Miguel protested, adamantly. he hadn’t cooked for anyone in a very long time. He wasn’t even sure if he’d still be able to… His brothers response?

“Do you want my help or not?”

So Miguel scrounged around the kitchen for what he needed. He squinted to read his mothers old chicken scratch from all those years ago. He put in the work, as uncomfortable as he felt, And He packaged it and come all the way here.

And now he didn’t know how to go forward.

He had never felt more out of his element in his life. As he Stood outside your window with the soup in his freakish claws he realised he didn’t know where to go from there. He hadn’t thought further than this point. What would he say when he gave it to you? What would he even do after that?

He had to awkwardly shimmy through the window with the Tupperware in one hand, almost stepping on a cable stretching across the floor. “Fuck—“

the hinges creaking offensively as he pushed down your open window and he cursed, shutting it as delicately as possible. When he heard your voice ring out from behind him he tensed.

“Uh, Hey Miguel!” You call from the bathroom. He breathed out the puff of air he was holding in. No turning back now.

“…Hey,” he called, not knowing where to begin. “…I brought you a little something.”

He makes his way to where he heard your voice coming from, and pauses briefly by your kitchen counter. He looks down at the soup in his hands.

…He could just leave it here, that would be less humiliating for everyone, wouldn’t it? He knew you were ok, now. He heard your voice, so you were alive. He did what he came here to do. He could turn around right now and escape while you were still in the bathroom.

But something stops him. A little smell wafted by his nose briefly. It was brief. It was faint. But it was there and it made him pause.

So he sits the soup on the counter quietly, but he doesn’t turn around. He walks further down the hall and takes a deep breathe. The smell is clearer now. Miguel gets a bad feeling.

He picks up the pace and pulls off his mask to get a better whiff, and suddenly he’s hit with the all too familiar stifling stench of blood.

No.

NO!

“Y/n!” He runs up to your bathroom door and starts rattling the handle, but the door is locked. He pauses when he hears your voice on the other side, clearer and more effective at preventing him from tearing the door off its hinges—.

“D-Don’t come in!” You yell. “I’m... ngh- I’m a bit busy in here!”

“Y/n, what do I smell?!” He doesn’t need you to tell him, He already knows the answer. It’s pungency rings clear from his side of the door. The tanginess was so prominent that even someone with normal senses could pick up on it.

“N-nothing!” You stutter. You always stutter when you’re nervous. And when you're lying.

“Are you bleeding? Where’s it coming from? Open up!” He starts banging on the door again, his fist unintentionally rattling the frame.

“You don’t smell anything- stop that!” You snapped, annoyance ringing clear. But there was a certain strain to your voice, a painful whine that made his heart drop. “I-I’m just, uh- changing! will you give me a minute? Please, Miguel.”

“Don’t lie to me! What’s wrong, can you not get to the door?” He starts backing up to gauge the frame of the door and… Yeah, he could kick that in, easily.

sensing what he was getting ready to do, you spring up from your spot hunched over on the side of the bath tub and amble to the bathroom door. “No no no!” You lean against the door, heaving. “Don’t do anything drastic, I’m right here!”

He paused and waited for you to open it, but your hesitation makes him start losing his patience. “Y/n-“

“I’m ok, Miguel. S-seriously. I just took a little tumble on the way home.” You swallow back a painful grunt as you lean on the door frame for more support. “Look…” you started. “Now’s really not a good time—“

“Y/n.”

You shut your mouth. ‘Oh, shit.’

the tone of his voice hid a warning. Miguel knew what you were going to suggest even before you said it, and he refused to let you finish. The fact that you were bleeding as much as you were for him to smell you across the house, And you were trying to hide it from him? It must be bad, there was no doubt about that. His brain began racing for answers, for explanations, for names. He didn’t know where you were hurt, god what if it was somewhere vital? Who did this to you and where? Why were you trying to hide it? Did they threaten you? Something must of happened. there was no way he would leave you here, No. There was no getting rid of him now.

“Open this door.” He says one final time. And you can tell it’s the final time from the tone of his words. His voice quaked with fury at even the mere insinuation that he’d ever leave you when you were wounded. That you were even wounded In the first place.

“Now.”

...

There’s a beat of silence where neither of you say anything. And for a second he thinks he’s going to have to break the door open inwards just to avoid plowing over you to get it open. But then he hears you apprehensively turn the lock and he almost breaks the handle from how fast he rips it open.

You stumble a bit, reeling at his strength. and then youre taking a tumble from being thrown off balance, but before you can even yelp out a cry he swoops in to catch you in his arms before your body can even comes close to hitting the floor. “Lo si—! Sorry! Y/N, I’m so sorry.”

from being so close he could tell immedietely that you were running warm, did you really have a fever too? He perches you on to the toilet seat and you wince at the ache washing through your body. God, your back was killing you... and Miguel's hands were all over you. you tried pulling your arms out of his grip, but he wasn't budging. he scoured your front for bruises, cuts, anything.

"what happened, where does it hurt, Y/N, please." he lifted your arms, checking your sides. nothing there... You couldn't bring yourself to answer, all the jostling around was making you go really dizzy... so much so that his words seemed to bounce off your ears. you squint at him. were there two of him before?

"Oi, mami/papi. focus for me. tell me where your hurt." he pats your cheek, snapping you a little out of your stupor. you blinked. his faced was pulled taught with worry, lines creased his skin in places that looked almost painful. and his eyes...

"Miguel... hhhave... your eyessschanged?" you weren't sure if it was the delirium from the pain finally setting in, or if your bathroom light just highlighted the underlying hues, but his tired brown eyes had shifted to a shade of... dare you say red.

they flicked back to your face, they had this wild look in them, like he was angry. but his voice wobbled like he was scared. "tell me where the pain is."

"... M' back.." you mumbled. he tugs on your shoulder to twist you around, making you whine. he apologizes quietly, before turning back to the red stains that were crawling up the back of your shirt.

you both descended into a tense silence. Miguel looked cramped, hovering over you in your tiny bathroom. he had to draw in his arms to not knock into your shower. not the most ideal place to play nurse... but he would manage. Miguel unshealthes his talons and cuts open the fabric like its warm butter. all you feel is a cold draft hit your back, and you shudder.

when he gets a good look at the state of your back his heart drops, what he finds isn't what he was expecting. your lower back is marred with an explosion like mass of burned skin. the center of the wound is deeper and more bloody then the rest, like something fast, blunt and burning hot struck you there.

God.

"Y/N, what the hell happened?" he glances at your bathroom bin and spots your old, scorched shirt lying inside. so you really were changing... that explained why the shirt you were wearing didn't have a massive gaping hole in it.

"Lyla. whats the aetiology for this." she flickers into view next to him, screening your back, and she winces.

"the lascerations have been caused by 1st and 2nd degree burns, the wound has become infected and needs to be treated immediately. the depth of the wound is telling me that the collision was hard and fast, likely a projectile."

"they were shot?."

"most likely. not by any normal weapon though, obviously." she confirmed, "it... doesn't look like the infection has interfered with the spinal collum." she optimistically added.

"will it scar?" he tilted his head towards her, but didn't take his eyes off the wound.

the Ai assistant didn't respond, calculating the most nerve settling response to his question. her silence told him everything he needed to know. "yeah, don't answer that." a snarl was building in his throat, fighting its way to the top.

he spots the first aid bag and its contents sprawled across your counter. most of it was over the counter painkillers, light ointments and bandaids. nothing in there that would help you.

"ok." he drags his hand down his face looking around the room. "Hijo de puta-!" his fist banged against the wall in a burst of anger, the pathetic thin walls rattled underneath the force. "Y/N, what the hell were you thinking?!"

you were stuck in this apartment by yourself, barely able to move or, jesus, even think. the fact that he could have never come… No, that he had come but couldve left here without knowing you were going through this on your own... the thought made him sick. why did you let it get this bad? what had happened?

you don't answer his question, your breathing has started to grow heavier, fevered. the sheen of sweat on the back of your neck had grown thicker as well. miguel reaches out to hold you steady. his mind racing. you can't stay here.

he knows he has to make a call. literally. he lifts his watch to his face.

"Jess, get someone on the medical team to prepare for my arrival." he picks you up carefully and fights to keep his voice from rising, he wasn't thinking clearly. all he could think about was getting you somewhere safe.

it wasn't common for miguel to ask for medical assistance, even at times when he probably should. he didn't like calling for help, he prefered to do things on his own, even to his own detriment. the idea that something could shake miguel up like this, making him ask for assistance, was new. Jessica could hear the tension in his throat as clear as day.

"whats your condition." she responded, concern shining through in her voice.

"no, no. i'm fine." he answered. "i've got an injured with me, they've been shot and need first aid immedietely. its a second degree burn that been left for over 24 hours, its infected."

"...done." she answers. "are they a new recruit?"

"they're a friend."

Pozole: a traditional soup or stew that is made from hominy with meat, you can put in things like shredded lettuce/cabbage, chilli peppers, onions, garlic, radishes, avocado, salsa or limes. (this sounds scrummy ngl i'm so hungry bro)

"Lo siento": i'm sorry (this is when he goes "Lo si-" but cuts himself off)

"Oi, mami": hey, Mama (i learned that mami or mamita can be used in a lot of different ways. native spanish speakers can use it to adress parentel figures, friends that give motherly energy, or it can even be used as a funny nickname for kids. i've seen a lot of people use it sexually in fics, but apparently thats not always the case!)

aetiology: kind of like a diagnosis, but different. its the cause of a desease or condition. idk if it's applicable to wounds, though.

"Hijo de puta-!": son of a bitch-!

I put these here so if anyone has any corrections i could make to the terms I’ve used to be more accurate then I can change them accordingly. I used online translators and articles… if anyone has any good websites for translating languages let me know! i'd be really interested.

[capuccinodoll]

Honey love, dark eyes

♡ Chapter nine ♡

Summary: You confront Travis, and with each passing day, you begin to feel more like yourself. The company of your favorite girls fills your days with warmth and laughter. Someone knocks on your door. WC: 12.0k A/N: OKAY. I had planned to post this over the weekend, but I just couldn’t waittt lol and since I didn’t post for two weeks, here’s part 9 as a little gift for you <3 Don't forget to follow me on capuccinodollupdates for updates!

Monday. Your knuckles throbbed as you hammered on the door, the echo reverberating through the hallway. Three times, then another six—or was it seven? You weren’t sure. All you knew was the sharp sting in your hand as you finally dropped it to your side. Your breath remained steady, but you could feel emotion clawing its way through your calm exterior. Your foot betrayed you, shifting restlessly against the wooden floor.

Something had shifted, something you couldn’t quite place. You’d spent the entire night staring at the ceiling, your mind racing while the hours stretched endlessly. By the time your alarm screamed to life in the morning, you felt more wired than exhausted, like your restlessness had seeped into your bones. At work, nothing held your focus. The papers on your desk blurred together, the words losing their meaning as your thoughts wandered elsewhere. You checked the clock obsessively, willing the minutes to pass, but even when the day finally crawled to an end, the unease clung to you.  

What the hell was going on with Joel? His behavior had been erratic, disjointed—like he was holding something back. Every glance, every word from him felt layered, deliberate, but never enough to give you clarity. It was maddening, the sense that there was a piece of the puzzle you hadn’t been given, something vital he wasn’t saying. 

“Ask him,” he had said yesterday, brushing you off with a cryptic shrug. But you weren’t someone who could just let things go.

Now, the door creaked open, and there stood Travis, his expression a mix of curiosity and something softer, almost tentative. His damp hair clung to his forehead, droplets still glistening at the edges. He looked freshly showered, the scent of soap faintly wafting in the cool air between you. His gray T-shirt was inside out, the seams and tag clearly visible, as if he’d thrown it on without much thought. He wore dark blue sweatpants that hung loose around his hips and no socks or shoes, his bare feet planted firmly on the hardwood floor.

He blinked at you, his eyebrows knitting together when he caught sight of your face.

“Hey,” he said, your name falling from his lips with a question mark at the end. “Are you okay?” His voice held genuine concern as his eyes flickered over your face, trying to decode your expression.

Your mouth felt dry, your throat tight. You couldn’t bring yourself to smile or reassure him. Instead, you stood frozen, your arms wrapped around yourself as if bracing against an invisible wind.

“Did something happen?” he asked again, stepping slightly closer. He tilted his head, his gaze searching. “Come inside. It’s freezing out here.”

But you didn’t move. Your feet were rooted to the ground, defying his invitation.

“What happened between you and Joel?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt inside. 

He paused, the question clearly taking him off guard. “What?”

“You talked to Joel, didn’t you?” You tightened your arms around yourself, your tone low and deliberate, trying to keep your emotions in check. “I know you did. He told me.”

That wasn’t entirely true. Joel hadn’t told you much of anything, just enough to leave you spinning. Blurry fragments of his words had lodged themselves in your mind, their edges sharp enough to cut. Still, you had pieced together enough to confront Travis now.

Travis’s eyes narrowed slightly, his body shifting against the doorway.

“What exactly did he tell you?” he asked, his voice cautious but far from confused. He wasn’t lost—he knew exactly what you were referring to.

“Enough,” you replied, your voice hardening despite yourself. The anger that had been simmering beneath the surface was beginning to bubble over. “Don’t play dumb, Travis. What did you say to him?”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. His lips pressed together, his jaw tight. Then he exhaled through his nose, glancing briefly at the floor before meeting your gaze again.

“Look, I… I talked to him, okay? He... we had a conversation.”

“What kind of conversation?” you pressed, taking a small step forward. “Why would he tell me to ask you if nothing happened? What did you say to him?”

Travis leaned against the doorframe, rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to work through the tension there.

"He showed up late Saturday night,” he admitted, his voice softer now, carryin’ a hint of regret. “While you were sleepin’, I answered the door. Didn’t wanna wake you."

Your stomach twisted at his words. You could picture it too vividly—Joel standing on the other side of the door, his face shadowed by some unspoken emotion. You swallowed hard, pushing the image away.

“What did he want?”

“He wanted to talk to you,” Travis said simply, though the hesitation in his voice suggested there was more to the story.

“And?” You tilted your head, your eyes narrowing. “What did you tell him, Travis?”

"I told him you needed some space,” he said, the words spillin’ out in a hurry. “That you didn’t wanna see him.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening. “That’s it? You expect me to believe that’s all you said?”

Travis’s gaze faltered for a fraction of a second. He straightened slightly, squaring his shoulders.

“I might have… implied some things,” he admitted reluctantly. 

“Implied what?” Your voice was sharper now, your frustration cracking through. “What the hell did you say to him, Travis?”

His jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“I told him you were movin’ on,” he said at last, his tone a bit defensive. “That you and me… that we spent the night... you know, uh—”

A sharp laugh escaped you, though there was nothing humorous about it.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head. “So you lied to him? Why? To hurt him? To make yourself feel better?”

“’Cause he deserves it!” Travis snapped, his voice risin’. “After the way he’s treated you, the way he’s acted… He don’t get to just waltz back into your life like nothin’ happened. Someone needed to put him in his place.”

You took a step back, your arms dropping to your sides.

“And you thought that someone should be you?” you asked, your voice cold. “Do you even realize what you’ve done? This isn’t your fight, Travis. It never was.”

“Why do you care so much about what that prick thinks?” Travis’s voice was tight, each word laced with frustration. “Why does it matter if he thinks somethin' happened between us? We’ve been dating for weeks, haven’t we?”

“Because even if something had happened, it would be nobody else’s business,” you shot back, your voice trembling, though whether from anger or disbelief, you weren’t sure. “You had no right to talk about us behind my back, Travis, to talk about me that way. That’s a line you don’t cross. If there’s anything between us—anything at all—it stays between us. That’s how respect works. But you… you just threw it out there like it was some weapon to hurt him.”

“Respect?” Travis repeated, his eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. “Joel don’t respect me, so why should I give it to him?”  

"I know, you’re right," you said, your voice steady but firm. "I know Joel’s been awful to you from the start, but that's not the point!” you snapped, takin’ a step closer. “Why’d you even say it, Travis? To piss him up? To win some kind of imaginary contest? What exactly did you think you’d accomplish?”

His face darkened, the accusation hitting a nerve. “You’re really asking me that?” he said, his voice rising slightly. “Why the fuck did you agree to go out with me, anyway? I think we both know it’s not me you want to be with.”

The words hung in the air like a sudden drop in temperature. You felt your breath catch, your pulse roaring in your ears.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you demanded, but your voice lacked the sharpness you’d intended.

“It means you never stopped wantin' him,” Travis said bluntly, his jaw set. “You say you like me—liked me—but let’s be honest. That’s not enough, is it? You’re still hung up on Joel, no matter how much you try to pretend otherwise.”

“I liked you because I thought you were decent,” you countered, your voice quieter now but no less firm. “Because I thought you wouldn’t pull shit like this.”

“Decent,” he repeated bitterly, the word dripping with sarcasm. “That’s what you look for in someone? Decency?” He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Guess that explains why Joel’s still got a hold on you.”

“Don’t turn this around on me, Travis,” you warned, your tone icy. “This isn’t about Joel. This is about you, and the fact that you dragged me into your petty grudge match with him. You told him we slept together to hurt him, didn’t you? That’s all this was to you. Some sick way of proving a point.”

“Maybe I did,” he admitted after a long pause, his voice defiant, though his eyes gave away the guilt behind his words. “Maybe I wanted to see him squirm for once. God knows he deserved it. And truth be told, I sure did enjoy watchin’ him die a little inside.”

“Deserved it?” You laughed sharply, shaking your head in disbelief. “At my expense? You really enjoyed pissing him off, didn’t you? You thought it was worth it to drag me into the middle of your shit, just so you could watch him lose it.”

“I wasn’t trying to drag you into anything,” Travis argued, though his tone lacked conviction. “I was protecting you. Standing up for you. Again, Joel doesn’t get to just walk back into your life after everything he’s done and act like nothing happened.”

“Protecting me?” you repeated, incredulous. “You think lying to him about us is protecting me? If you wanted to protect me, you would have stayed out of it completely.”

“I didn’t lie,” he shot back, his voice rising again. “Not really.”

“Oh, give me a break,” you said, throwing your hands up. “Don’t try to split hairs with me, Travis. You knew exactly what you were doing, and it had nothing to do with me. This was all about you and your bullshit rivalry with Joel. What’s next? Are you going to pull out a ruler and measure dicks with him? Honestly, If you’d just punched him square in the face, it would’ve been far more decent.”

Travis’s face fell, the anger draining from his expression in an instant. Guilt settled in its place, heavy and unmistakable. He opened his mouth to respond but then closed it again, the silence between you thick and suffocating.

You took a step back, your arms crossing over your chest again. “I don’t even know what to say to you right now,” you said quietly. “I thought I could trust you. I thought you were better than this.”

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “I screwed up. I was angry, and I let it get the best of me. I didn’t mean to—”

You let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of his words press against the knot already forming in your stomach. You shook your head, trying to hold onto the edges of your resolve.

“You had no right to meddle in my business with Joel,” you said, your gaze fixed on the floor. The words felt sharp, final, as though speaking them aloud might make them easier to believe.

When you looked up, his eyes were on you, calmer now but no less intense. The familiar shade of blue in them seemed darker, clouded with something unspoken. He stood there, silent, watching you like he was waiting for something—permission, maybe, or understanding.

“I know everything with him is… difficult,” you continued, your voice quieter now, tinged with something softer. “And I know it’s been unfair. But it’s between him and me. It always has been.”

Travis sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He pushed himself off the doorframe and took a step forward, then stopped, his hands hovering awkwardly by his sides. His lips curved into a faint, bitter smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I just don’t get it,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t get why you even agreed to go out with me in the first place. Why drag me into all this? You could’ve just spared me the trouble, saved me from wastin’ my time, from wastin’ energy on somethin’ I was never gonna win.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, cutting through your carefully constructed armor. You forced yourself to meet his gaze, your voice softer now, though still firm.

“Why would you need to win anything, Travis? This isn’t a competition. It never was.”

“Really?” he asked, his voice cold, though the hurt behind it was unmistakable. He laughed quietly, shaking his head. “Doesn’t feel that way.”

You took a step closer, trying to close the gap—not just the physical space between you, but something deeper.

“I liked you, Travis,” you said, your words deliberate, each one carefully chosen. “I’ve always liked you. Don’t doubt that for a second. And don’t think I used you. That’s not what this was.”

He looked at you for a long moment, his lips pressed tightly together, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he nodded, his jaw tightening.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice softer now. The words carried something heavier than before, as though he’d just realized how little they could do to fix this.

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening.

“Me too,” you admitted. The weight of the moment hung heavy in the air between you, thick and oppressive. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like you didn’t matter. Or like you were… caught in the middle of something you never signed up for. That was never my intention.”

“But?” he prompted, his voice quiet but firm, like he already knew what was coming.

You smiled faintly, though there was no humor in it. Only sadness.

“But this is as far as it goes,” you said, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “And it needs to stop here. For both of us.”

Travis nodded slowly, his lips pulling into a thin, resigned line.

“You’re right,” he said, his voice barely audible. He looked at you, his eyes heavy with something you couldn’t quite name—regret, maybe, or acceptance.

You didn’t say anything else. There was nothing left to say. Instead, you turned and walked away, your footsteps soft but deliberate. You felt his gaze linger on you as you left, heard him murmur another apology under his breath, though it did little to dull the raw discomfort still settling over you.

The walk home felt interminable. Each step dragged, your feet moved mechanically while your mind spun, heavy with the weight of what had just happened. The crisp air bit at your cheeks, and the faint hum of distant traffic filled the silence you carried. When you finally reached your home, you shut the door behind you with a soft click, leaning against it longer than you should have. The quiet of your home surrounded you, thick and expectant, as if it had been waiting for you to process everything.

You shrugged off your coat and kicked off your shoes, leaving them in a messy pile near the door. Your fingers paused on the hem of your sweater as you headed to the bathroom. The mirror caught your reflection, and you froze. You were startled by how tired you looked—your hair tousled from the wind, shadows ringing your eyes. You didn’t feel like yourself, and seeing that weariness staring back at you was jarring.

The shower’s hot spray offered a small reprieve. You stood under it longer than you probably should have, letting the water drum against your skin and the steam fill the room until it was hard to breathe. You tried to think, to pin your feelings down, but everything slipped away, as if you were trying to hold water in your hands. Anger at Travis still simmered under your skin, but there was something else, quieter and harder to name—a gnawing mix of pain and confusion.

When you finally stepped out, your skin was pink from the heat, your hair damp and sticking to your neck. You wrapped yourself in your thickest robe and walked barefoot into the kitchen. The house felt colder now, the chill seeping through the floor and nipping at your ankles. You filled the kettle and set it to boil. The small ritual of making tea steadied you. The soft whistle of steam was oddly soothing, a thread of normalcy in the chaos of your thoughts.

Back in your bedroom, you sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping your hands around the mug as if its warmth could sink into your chest. You sipped slowly, your eyes locked on a spot on the wall you weren’t really seeing. Travis’s words played on repeat in your head, each one sharp and heavy, making your chest ache. But then your thoughts drifted to Joel—his voice, his face, the way he lingered in your mind even when he wasn’t there. You tried to untangle your feelings, to make sense of them, but everything was a mess. You felt stuck, suspended between anger, regret, and an ache you didn’t want to name.

By the time your tea had cooled, you set the mug on the nightstand and crawled under the covers. You curled into yourself, as if trying to protect your body from the storm inside your mind. Sleep came in fits and starts, your dreams restless and fragmented.

When you woke, pale winter light filtered through the curtains, and the clock on your phone read 5:00 p.m. The realization sat heavy in your stomach, though you weren’t entirely sure why.

You lay there, staring at the ceiling, as a decision started to take shape. You needed to talk to Joel. You needed answers—clarity—something to cut through the fog that had settled over you. The thought filled you with both dread and determination, but you knew it was the only way forward. Avoiding this had only left you feeling more tangled.

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you headed into the kitchen. The quiet of the house felt like both a comfort and a weight pressing down on you. You grabbed a glass of water, leaning against the counter as you tried to gather the resolve for the conversation you had been putting off. After a few seconds, you forced yourself to stop thinking about it.

Then, after pacing your home for what felt like hours, the walls pressing in closer with every loop around the living room, you decided you needed air. Staying inside had begun to feel suffocating.

You didn’t have a plan when you left, not really. The streetlights buzzed faintly in the cool dusk, casting a yellow haze on the cracked pavement. The air had that sharp, metallic chill of autumn, biting at your cheeks and pinching your nose. You pulled your scarf tighter as you walked, hands buried deep in your pockets, letting your feet lead without much thought.  

Eventually, you found yourself standing in front of the small, unassuming cinema tucked between a bookstore and a closed bakery. The marquee flickered with a mix of indie titles and old classics. You chose something without paying too much attention, just handed over your card and took the ticket without caring about the plot or reviews. It wasn’t about the movie, really—it was about the act of sitting in the dark, of letting someone else’s story take up the space in your head that Joel’s had been occupying for too long. 

The air inside was warm and thick with the scent of buttered popcorn, wrapping around you like a familiar embrace. With your snacks in hand—popcorn and chocolate, the perfect blend of sweet and salty—you found a seat near the back, where the dim glow of the screen felt like a shield from the outside world.

The movie began: 16 Candles. Molly Ringwald appeared, her face falling as her family forgot her birthday. You watched, though your focus wavered, the story blurring into the film’s grainy texture. For long stretches, you weren’t even sure what was happening, your mind slipping in and out of the narrative.

But none of that mattered. For those few moments, tucked away in the darkness, you weren’t thinking about him. And that was enough.

When the credits rolled, you stayed seated for a moment longer, watching the names scroll by in white letters against the black screen. There was something soothing about the rhythm of it, the anonymity of all those people who had come together to create something for strangers to sit and lose themselves in. Finally, you stood, stretching your legs as you shuffled out into the night.

Your stomach growled as you stepped onto the street, and you realized you hadn’t eaten since lunch. Without much deliberation, you turned toward your favorite restaurant, the one you always went to when you craved a little indulgence or comfort. It wasn’t far—just a few blocks away—and the walk, though cold, felt like a balm. The restaurant’s warm light spilled onto the sidewalk, a beacon against the deepening dark.  

Inside, you slid into a familiar booth by the window, the worn leather cushioning a kind of second skin to your movements. The server greeted you by name, smiling as they handed you a menu, though you barely glanced at it before ordering your usual. The predictability of it felt steadying, a ritual that didn’t demand any extra thought.  

As you waited, you let your eyes wander. The restaurant was only half-full, a quiet hum of conversation blending with the clink of silverware against plates. You imagined snippets of lives that weren’t yours—a couple arguing softly over shared appetizers, a man engrossed in his phone, a table of friends laughing too loudly. You didn’t envy or resent any of it.  

When your food arrived, the first bite was a revelation, reminding you just how hungry you were. You ate slowly, savoring every forkful, letting the warmth spread through you like a kind of healing. You didn’t check your phone once, didn’t let your thoughts circle back to Joel or any of the messy, unresolved tangles waiting for you at home. Instead, you let yourself exist in this small, fleeting moment of peace.  

By the time you left, your body felt heavy with contentment, your mind quieter than it had been in days. The streets were quieter now, too, the city winding down into its nighttime lull. You took the long way home, the cold air stinging your cheeks but waking you up in a way that felt good. And for the first time in what felt like ages, you felt good.

That night, you slept like a baby.

*

Tuesday. The afternoon found you typing away at your laptop, the steady rhythm of keys filling the otherwise quiet living room. The soft knock at the door startled you out of your focus. You paused, turning your head toward the sound, squinting as if that might help you see through walls.

Resting your palms on the table, you pushed yourself up and walked to the door, curiosity flickering. Who could it be? You weren’t expecting anyone. When you opened it, a warm smile tugged at your lips before you even realized it.

“Hi,” Sarah greeted, her usual brightness dimmed slightly by a rare shyness. She stood there, clutching a paper bag against her chest, the faint rustling hinting at its contents. “I was home alone and thought… I don’t know, maybe I could come over? Hang out for a bit? They just put 13 Going on 30 back on Netflix, and I thought we could watch it. I brought snacks.” She lifted the bag slightly, a hopeful grin spreading across her face. "Just if you can, obviously."

You tilted your head, stepping aside to let her in. “Of course. That sounds perfect.”

She walked in, brushing past you with an air of quiet confidence, though her smile betrayed how pleased she was.

As she made her way to the kitchen, you asked, “Does your dad know you’re here?”

“He’s working,” Sarah replied casually, already unloading her treasures onto the counter. “I left him a note. He won’t mind.”

You followed her, leaning against the counter as she spread out an array of treats: chocolates, chips, two popcorn bags, Doritos, and a generous stash of her favorite sour gummies. She seemed so at ease in your space, like it was as much hers as it was yours.

“Wow,” you remarked, surveying the haul with mock astonishment. “This is a feast.”

Sarah grinned, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I wasn’t sure what you’d be in the mood for, so I brought everything.” She paused, holding up a bag of popcorn. “You can’t watch 13 Going on 30 without chocolate, right?”

“Absolutely not,” you agreed, reaching for the bag to help her. As you moved around the kitchen together, the air between you felt light, easy. She chattered about her day, slipping seamlessly between topics, while you found yourself laughing at her sharp, funny observations.

By the time the snacks were ready, the living room was glowing softly in the dim light of the TV. Sarah settled onto the couch, pulling a blanket over her legs, and patted the spot next to her. You joined her, the warmth of her presence a quiet comfort.

As the opening credits rolled, she glanced at you, her expression serious for a moment. “Thanks for letting me come over. I just… I didn’t feel like being alone today.”

A sharp pang settled in your chest at her words. You realized just how much you’d missed her these past few weeks. The two of you hadn’t spent much time together lately, and the thought of Sarah passing her afternoons alone tugged at you in a way you couldn’t ignore. 

You remembered how it used to be. How she’d spend hours with you while Joel was at work, her chatter filling the silences in the house, her presence a comfort you’d come to treasure. You loved those afternoons—the way she’d casually sprawl on your couch, teasing you about your tea obsession or insisting on picking the music. But then, gradually, the visits stopped. She probably sensed something was wrong between you and her dad. Sarah was perceptive like that. Too perceptive.

It killed you to think she felt caught in the middle of something she didn’t fully understand. And because of that, you hadn’t pushed her to come back. You didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable or burdened.

You met her gaze, offering her a small, reassuring smile. “You’re always welcome here, honey. Always. I've missed you a lot.”

Sarah’s expression softened, but she hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the candy bar in her hand. “I missed you too,” she admitted quietly, her voice almost tentative, as if she were afraid of saying it out loud. “I wasn’t sure if… you know, if things were okay.”

“Of course they are,” you said quickly, stepping closer and resting a gentle hand on her arm. “With me and you? They’re always okay. I hope you know that.”

She looked up at you, her lips curving into a faint smile, though a flicker of uncertainty lingered in her eyes. “It’s just… I didn’t want to bother you, especially with everything going on. Dad doesn’t say much, but I can tell something’s been… weird.”

Your heart squeezed at her honesty, and you took a steadying breath.

“Things have been complicated,” you admitted, choosing your words carefully. “But none of it changes how much I care about you. You mean so much to me, and I’m glad you’re here, really.”

Her smile grew a little wider, the vulnerability giving way to a familiar brightness. “Okay,” she said softly. Then, almost teasingly, she added, “You’re stuck with me tonight, by the way. I brought enough snacks for a sleepover, just sayin'.”

You chuckled, the sound light and easy, as if a weight had lifted from the room. “Good. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

The movie played on, its quick-witted humor keeping the two of you entertained. You couldn't count the number of times you'd seen it, though you'd guess it was well into double digits. One of your favorite comedies, it had been an instant hit with Sarah when you'd introduced her to it on a lazy Saturday morning. Since then, she'd occasionally tug at your sleeve, asking for another watch, usually with the promise of snacks you both knew you'd overdo.

As the credits rolled, you noticed the remnants of your indulgence: a half-eaten chocolate bar in your hand and Sarah carefully organizing the bag of sour gummies on the coffee table. She tucked the gummies away with an air of exaggerated responsibility, declaring it a strategic move to ensure there were enough left for another movie night soon.

Feeling the sugar settle uncomfortably in your stomach, you pushed off the couch, announcing, “I need water. Want some?”

Sarah stretched, her arms flopping dramatically onto the cushions. “Yeah, please. But a small glass. I don’t want to explode.”

The kitchen light felt sharp after the dim glow of the TV. You grabbed two glasses, filling one as Sarah called your name from the other room. Her tone was curious, a little tentative. Before you could answer, you heard her feet padding toward you. She appeared in the doorway, her hands fluttering slightly as though brushing off invisible crumbs from her shirt.

“Can I really sleep over?” she asked, stepping closer.

You handed her the glass of water. She accepted it but didn’t drink, her bright, questioning gaze fixed on you.

“Of course,” you said, leaning back against the counter. “But your dad has to be okay with it. Don’t you have school tomorrow?”

She shrugged one shoulder, sipping the water. “Yeah, but I’ve done it before. He won’t care.”

“Well,” you said, tilting your head, “you should still ask him.”

She tilted her head right back at you, mirroring your expression. “Why don’t you ask him? You’re the adult.”

You almost laughed at her logic. “If he’s at work, I doubt he’ll answer a call. Just text him.”

Sarah shook her head decisively, the same way she did when you suggested vegetables for dinner. “He hates texts. Besides, I don’t have my phone with me. And anyway,” she added, spinning on her heel toward the bathroom, “you’re the one who’ll need to explain it if he says no.”

Her retreat left you holding your glass of water, staring at the space where she'd stood. You glanced at the clock on the wall: just after six. Joel would probably be home soon. You could wait and let her handle it, or maybe save yourself the hassle and send him a quick text yourself.

From the bathroom, Sarah's voice floated out. “Hey! Don’t forget to ask, okay? But, like, be convincing. Say we’ve had so much fun.”

“Oh my God,” you muttered, half-laughing, Sarah’s earlier comment still replaying in your mind.

The kitchen was dim, and your eyes rested on a blank patch of wall, thoughts moving like syrup. Dinner. You needed to decide. Pasta sounded good—something carb-heavy, comforting. Maybe that spaghetti recipe you loved but hadn’t made in ages.

The refrigerator door creaked open, releasing a blast of cool air that brushed your face as you leaned in. You scanned the cluttered shelves, the faint hum of the appliance the only sound filling the quiet kitchen. Your fingers absently scratched your cheek as your eyes drifted over jars, old takeout containers, and a tangle of half-used bags of ingredients. 

A bottle of soy sauce caught your attention, slumped in the door shelf, its label peeling at the edges. You stared at it for a moment, trying to recall when you’d last used it. Christmas before last? Maybe even earlier. It looked so out of place now, like a forgotten relic from some half-hearted attempt at cooking you'd long since moved on from. Had it really lasted this long? You wondered if it was still good.

You were still debating dinner options when Sarah returned, her footsteps soft against the tile. She was drying damp hands on her jeans, smearing faint water trails on the dark fabric. Sliding onto the stool at the kitchen island, she leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands.

“So?” she asked, her tone equal parts casual and sharp. “What did he say?”

“Huh?” You straightened, caught off guard.

“You called him, right?”

“I... no, I didn’t.”

Her brows lifted slightly, the edges of a smirk tugging at her lips. But when you didn’t follow up, her amusement faded. A shadow of something more serious crossed her face.

“I knew it,” she said flatly, her voice quieter now.

“Wh—”

“I knew something was wrong with you,” she interrupted, her words deliberate. “But no one ever tells me anything.” Her face scrunched into a frown, the kind that tugged at your chest because it was so distinctly hers—and so distinctly Miller.

“No, honey,” you said softly, stepping closer and leaning your elbows on the counter. Now at her eye level, you tried to hold her gaze. “It’s not that simple. What’s been going on between your dad and me... it’s just complicated.”

Her frown deepened, her lips pressing into a hard line. “It’s always complicated. That’s what you grown-ups say when you don’t want to explain anythin'.”

You sighed, your nerves making your voice tight. “It’s something between adults.”

She leaned back slightly, crossing her arms in a way that made her look older than twelve. “Yeah, but you got involved, didn’t you? And now it’s all weird.”

The directness of her words landed like a jab, though there wasn’t anger in her tone—just sharp observation. She had that way of cutting through pretenses, seeing things for what they were, or at least how they felt to her.

“I heard you guys the other day,” Sarah said, her voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.  

Her words sent a cold rush up your spine, landing squarely at the nape of your neck. You froze, unsure of how to react.  

“Sunday,” she clarified, her tone even but pointed. “When you came to my house. I heard you. I was on the stairs, and my dad didn’t notice. Neither did you.”  

Your mouth felt dry. “What... what did you hear?” The question came out faster than you intended, betraying your nerves.  

Her eyes, sharp and unblinking, stayed fixed on you.

“I heard my dad,” she began, carefully measuring each word. “He was saying a lot of... angry stuff. About Travis. About you. Accusing you of—of going off with him.” She paused, hesitating before adding, “And he said you told him you didn’t want to be friends with him anymore. He sounded hurt.”  

The mention of it made your stomach twist, and your eyebrows gave away your unease before you could school your expression.  

“Did you?” she asked, her face an uneasy mix of curiosity and sadness.  

You took a breath, looking at her and realizing there was no point in lying.

“Yeah,” you admitted quietly.  

“Why?” Her voice wasn’t accusatory, just earnest, like she truly wanted to understand. “What did he do to you?”  

You bit the inside of your cheek, unsure how to condense the mess of emotions into something a twelve-year-old could grasp without oversharing. The words churned in your head, bumping into each other, refusing to settle.  

“We argued,” you said eventually, each word feeling like a step on unstable ground. “And your dad said some things. Mean things. And... I said some things too. We hurt each other.” You paused, swallowing hard. “But it hurt me a lot. Too much. And I told him that.”

Sarah studied your face for a long moment, her expression softening into something thoughtful.

In a quieter voice, she asked, “Was it because you guys like each other?”  

The question caught you off guard, and a laugh bubbled up despite yourself—a small, surprised sound that you tried to stifle.  

“Something like that,” you said, glancing at her with a faint smile.  

She mirrored it, her lips curving up in a way that felt both hopeful and uncertain.  

You exhaled, your gaze dropping to the counter.

“We’ve been friends for so long, and... it’s complicated when something else happens. Or even when you think something else might happen.” You paused, trying to find the right words. “There’s a lot to figure out. A lot to fix, I think.”  

Sarah nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful, as if she were piecing together a puzzle. Then she scratched the back of her neck in a way that was both casual and deliberate, like she was working up to something.

“He’s been downright unbearable lately,” she said, her tone more matter-of-fact than annoyed. “In a bad mood most the time. And when he’s in a good mood, it’s like... I dunno, feels kinda fake or somethin’. Not real convincing.” She shot you a glance, her face lit up with that mix of mischief and sincerity. “Usually, I like teasin’ him—it’s fun. But lately, I just... I dunno, I can’t bring myself to do it. He looks so bad. I feel sorry for him.”

Your eyebrows lifted, and you tried to hide your amusement at how bluntly she was painting Joel’s misery. Poor guy didn’t stand a chance under her scrutiny.

“Well, that’s probably for the best,” you said, smiling as you reached out to rest a hand over hers. “Don’t bother him too much. Go easy on him, okay?”

“Yeah, I guess,” she muttered, her fingers tapping lightly against the counter. Then her gaze lifted to yours, her bright eyes sharp and curious. “But it all kind of makes sense now.”

You tilted your head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I knew something was wrong right after his birthday,” she explained, her voice gaining momentum. “He wouldn’t tell me anything when I asked, though. So I tried Tommy. But he wouldn’t tell me anything either. He said Dad wouldn’t want him to.” She paused, looking almost shy now. “And I didn’t want to ask you. I thought you might get mad.”

“That could never happen,” you assured her gently.

She nodded, but there was still a flicker of hesitation on her face. “It’s just... it was obvious something was up. I dunno, you guys never fight. At least not like that. So I figured it had to be something big. Something... weirder.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment before she continued, her voice lighter now, like she was sharing a secret.

“Then I went to Irina’s house and told her about it. She said it was obvious—it had to be because you were in love, like in Love, Rosie.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. The thought of Sarah sitting with her friend, dissecting your tangled mess of emotions, was almost too much to process. The tenderness you felt was quickly overtaken by guilt for dragging her into something so complicated.

“I hadn’t seen the movie, though,” Sarah added quickly, shrugging like that detail was crucial to the story. “So we watched it that afternoon. Dude, I think she’s right.”

Her tone shifted, turning serious but hopeful, her eyes sparkling with a kind of naive certainty. “You have to leave Travis.”

Her sudden declaration caught you completely off guard, and a laugh burst out of you before you could stop it.

“Sarah!” you said, still laughing, covering your mouth as you tried to collect yourself.

She grinned, looking more pleased than embarrassed. “What? I’m just saying what everyone else is probably thinking.”

You shook your head, still laughing, and reached over to ruffle her hair. “You’re too smart for your own good, you know that?”

Sarah ducked away from your hand, smoothing her hair with exaggerated care, as if the ruffle had ruined her carefully curated look.  

“Yeah, I know,” she said with a little shrug, her tone light but pointed. Then she glanced up at you, her eyes sharp. “So, are you gonna leave him? I mean, I’m pretty sure Dad would be thrilled.”  

“Oh my God,” you gasped, caught between surprise and laughter. 

She didn’t miss a beat. “He’s the obstacle, isn’t he?” she said, gesturing broadly with one hand, as if the answer were painfully obvious. “And you love my dad. It’s simple.”  

“Uh—I... I think this is a bit too much to unpack,” you stammered, feeling the heat creep up your neck.  

“Why?” she asked, her face falling slightly into an expression of disappointment. “What’s wrong with it? I already know everythin'. I’m not stupid. I’m not a baby.”  

“It’s not that,” you said quickly, softening your tone. “It’s just... there’s a lot of stuff you don’t know, and it’s complicated.” You shifted uncomfortably, trying to find the right words. “Look, I’m not dating Travis. Not anymore. But even so, I thought your dad was dating Sienna.”  

“Sienna?” Sarah repeated, tilting her head in confusion. “You mean the one from the bank?”  

“Yeah,” you said, nodding.  

Sarah snorted, like the idea itself was absurd. “Dad’s not dating Sienna. I overheard him and Tommy talkin' about it, like, a month ago.”  

“You love spying on your dad, don’t you?” you teased, glancing at her with raised eyebrows.  

“I wouldn’t have to spy if everyone didn’t keep secrets from me,” she shot back, mimicking your tone with a smirk. Then she added, “Forget about Sienna. He stopped seein' her right after his birthday.”  

“Oh, really?” you said, arching an eyebrow.  

“Yup,” she said, leaning forward, her expression turning mischievous. “Oh, what a coincidence, right? Right after your fight.” She reached out to poke your hand, a playful glint in her eye.  

You froze for a second, smiling faintly, but your mind was racing. Joel had stopped seeing Sienna? Over a month ago? Why hadn’t he said anything? He’d had plenty of chances to mention it, plenty of openings to set things straight. But he hadn’t.  

“Well,” you said finally, straightening up and brushing the thought aside. “It’s his life. And you,” you added, pointing an accusatory finger at her, “have nothing to do with this. Got it? You and me, we're okay. Always.”  

“Okay, okay,” Sarah said, holding up her hands in mock surrender. She raised her glass to her lips, pausing before she added, “But you have to let him know I’m staying over. Now.”  

“Fine,” you said with a sigh. “But I’m texting him, not calling him.”  

Sarah rolled her eyes dramatically, like you’d just suggested the most tedious thing imaginable.

“Okay,” she said, drawing the word out. “Apparently, we’re doing this one step at a time.”  

You smiled despite yourself, turning to open one of the wooden cabinets on the wall.

“One step at a time sounds about right,” you said, more to yourself than to her.

“What do you wanna eat?” you asked, your voice carrying lightly across the kitchen as you moved to open the fridge.

Sarah leaned against the counter, considering. “Anything but those frozen pizzas. You always burn the edges.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “That happened one time.”

“More than once,” she corrected, raising an eyebrow.

“Fine,” you conceded. “How about spaghetti?”

Her face brightened instantly, a flicker of excitement breaking through her otherwise composed demeanor.

“Yes! And I’ll help, right? You look like you might need it.”  

You gasped in mock offense, reaching for a pot. “Excuse me, what’s that supposed to mean?”  

She shrugged, a playful grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

It was settled. You gathered ingredients while Sarah volunteered herself as sous-chef, which meant chopping the vegetables in the most chaotic but enthusiastic way possible. You handed her a knife with explicit instructions to please be careful.

“You sound like my dad,” she teased, carefully slicing a bell pepper.

You turned to the speaker on the counter, deciding that cooking deserved a soundtrack. Soon, music filled the small space, bright and upbeat, shifting the energy in the room. Sarah hummed along while you stirred the pot.

When she seemed distracted, her focus entirely on the bell pepper, you slipped out of the kitchen and grabbed your phone from the coffee table in the living room. Unlocking it, you scrolled through your messages until you found Joel’s name.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, the words forming and dissolving in your mind. You didn’t want it to sound too formal or hesitant. Just normal. Neutral.

Finally, you typed:

Hi Joel. Sarah’s here, spending the afternoon. She wants to know if it’s okay with you if she stays over. Let me know.

Short. Concise. Clear.

You hit send and placed the phone back on the counter when you returned to the kitchen.

“All done,” you said, gesturing toward your phone with a tilt of your head.

Sarah glanced up, a satisfied smile spreading across her face. She gave a small nod before turning back to her chopping.

Minutes passed, filled with the clatter of knives and the soft simmering of the sauce. You reached for your phone to change the song—Sarah had requested something from her playlist, Just like heaven by The Cure—and just as you did, it vibrated in your hand.

A message popped up at the top of the screen:

Joel. Tell her I said yes, but I want her home early. She’s got school tomorrow.

You turned the phone toward Sarah so she could read it. She gave a mock salute, grinning. “Thumbs up for Dad,” she said, returning to her vegetables.

“Baby steps,” she added after a moment, a little quieter, her back turned to you.

The words hung in the air. You watched her for a beat, the ease of her movements, the way she navigated the kitchen like she belonged there. Something about the moment felt fleeting and important, though you couldn’t quite pin down why.

*

Wednesday. You glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall as you took your first sip of coffee, the warmth of the mug seeping into your cold fingers. 6:32 a.m. The early light was still soft, casting a pale glow through the window where you’d cracked it open just a few centimeters. The cool morning air was refreshing, carrying with it the earthy scent of dew and dawn. It was one of those little rituals you cherished—the quiet, the crispness of the day unfolding just for you.

Sarah was sitting on the stool at the kitchen island, her eyes still half-closed in that sleepy haze. She rubbed them with her left hand, the fingers of her right curled around a steaming cup of tea. The warmth of the tea contrasted with the chill in the room, and she looked small and vulnerable in that quiet moment, as if she hadn’t quite yet fully woken.

You moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, still wearing your pajamas under a soft, worn robe. You set a plate in front of her, the familiar breakfast she loved—toast, scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and strawberries, their juicy red flesh cut into generous chunks. She didn’t even need to ask; you knew she’d devour them, just like when she was little. Joel had always been the one to pile up bowls of fruit for her, and she’d always gobbled them down, leaving a trail of sticky fingers and bits of fruit on the house’s surfaces. He used to scold her lightly, but it was always with that soft tone of affection, as if he couldn’t help but love the chaos she brought. Her favorites had always been strawberries and grapes—nothing else really compared.

Sarah took a bite of bacon, chewing contentedly, and looked up at you, her expression curious despite her full mouth.

“When do we watch another movie?” she asked, the question spilling out before she’d even swallowed.

“What movie do you wanna see?” you asked, keeping the conversation light.

“I dunno, one I haven’t seen,” she replied with a shrug, her eyes flickering to her fork. “A love one, or a horror one.”

You chuckled and nodded. It seemed like Sarah’s movie preferences had always swung between the extremes—either something heart-wrenchingly romantic or something terrifying enough to make her jump. You could see the appeal in both, honestly.

You’d gone to bed early last night, after a quiet dinner. Sarah had somehow managed to wriggle her way into your bed before you even realized it, and when you’d turned off the light and whispered goodnight, she hadn’t been quiet for long. She’d started in, talking about everything on her mind. The dramas at school. The boy Irina liked. A teacher she hated, mostly because she was rude and had bad breath. Her upcoming science project, which she was convinced was going to be her masterpiece. And then came the questions—questions you knew had been lingering in her mind all evening.

“Since when do you like my dad?” was one of the first ones, and you froze, unsure of how to respond. If you were being honest, the answer was probably “since forever,” but that didn’t seem like something you could just say to a twelve-year-old.

“How do you know if you like a friend?” she had asked next. “Do you wanna get married, anyway?” and “Does anyone else know about this?” The questions had kept coming, innocent yet sharp, until your tired eyes could barely stay open. You had asked her, gently, to go to sleep. She’d needed to get up early too, after all.

Now, Sarah was hugging you tightly at the door as she left, her face still warm with sleepiness. School started in an hour, and you knew Joel was waiting for her next door, probably with a mug of coffee in hand, ready to help her get through the morning rush.

After she left, you went back upstairs to your room and found yourself standing in front of your closet longer than usual, picking out what to wear. You couldn't really explain it, but something about spending time with Sarah had recharged you. The normalcy of it—her chatter, the comfort of your shared space—it gave you a sense of balance.

Then, as you stood there with your clothes half-chosen, a thought popped into your head, and a smile tugged at your lips. It was perfect—next movie night, you’d introduce Sarah to Twilight. The whole saga. You were sure she’d love it. She adored stories like that, all angsty romance and supernatural drama.

With that thought, you finished getting ready and went off to work, feeling lighter, more cheerful. It was one of those mornings that made the whole day seem a little bit brighter. You were sure it would fly by.

*

Thursday. It was quiet, one of those days that seemed to pass without making much noise but still felt like it had been worthwhile. The morning was calm, and there was something almost comforting about the gentle rhythm of the hours.

At work, you moved through the usual tasks, keeping busy without feeling overwhelmed. You found yourself drifting in and out of conversations, but one particular subject caught your attention: the interns gossiping in the break room. They were whispering about one of the assistants, the one who’d caused a scene in the kitchen last time with a very public meltdown over a misdelivered order. You overheard snippets of their conversation as you nibbled on your sandwich, hearing that the assistant was apparently having an affair with her boss’s husband. You couldn’t help but listen, half-amused, half-worried for her and her boss. The way they spoke about them, with such casual cruelty, made you feel bad for the two women, but at the same time, it was hard to not be intrigued.

You chuckled to yourself as you returned to your desk, but that quiet moment of levity was soon overshadowed by something worse. Later in the afternoon, you saw the same assistant leave the office in tears, her eyes red-rimmed as she hurried past your cubicle. You heard the boss, loud enough for the entire office to hear, scream in her wake, "How ungrateful some people are!" It hung in the air long after she had gone, an uncomfortable silence settling in as everyone pretended to be busy.

When you finally got home, you decided to go for a run. The cool air outside felt refreshing as you laced up your shoes and hit the pavement. It wasn’t a long run, just enough to stretch your legs and clear your head. By the time you returned, sweat on your brow, you felt more awake than you had all day. You took a hot shower, the steam washing away the weariness from your muscles, and for a moment, you felt light.

It was around mid-afternoon when Sarah knocked on your door, her face slightly flushed from the brisk walk over. She held a notebook under her arm, her usual look of determination replacing the exhaustion from earlier in the week.

"Hey, can you help me with my lit homework?" she asked, a bit sheepish but trying to hide it with her usual confidence.

"Of course," you said, gesturing for her to come inside.

As she set up at the kitchen table, she launched into a detailed account of the latest school drama. It was the same pattern—some new gossip or rumor, something about a classmate or a teacher that she found funny or ridiculous.

"Guess what?" she asked, leaning in conspiratorially. "Irina and Julian almost kissed in the hallway today."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Irina and Justin? No way."

"Yeah, I saw them, but then they just... didn’t." Sarah smirked. "I think Julian got scared. You know, like how he does when he talks to girls."

You couldn’t help but smile at her observations. She was so sharp, so aware of everything around her. You had no idea how she’d gotten so good at reading people, but it was impressive. Once you helped her finish her homework, she packed up her things, her expression shifting from casual to slightly more serious.

“I gotta go home,” she said, glancing at the clock. “I still need to work on my project. I’m not done yet.”

“Alright, I’ll text you later,” you replied, smiling at her as she grabbed her bag. “Good luck, love you.”

“Thanks, love ya too,” she called over her shoulder as she left. "I’ll let you know if I need anything else. Bye!”

With Sarah gone, you spent the rest of the afternoon in quiet solitude. You curled up on the couch with a bowl of snacks and started watching Bridget Jones’s Diary. The jokes felt like old friends, and by the time you’d gone through half of the movie, you were feeling light and at ease, the stresses of the day melting away.

For dinner, you opted for the ease of take-out. The thought of cooking felt like too much effort after such a peaceful afternoon. You ordered your usual—Chinese food, always comforting. After the long workweek, it was exactly what you needed. You ate in silence, savoring each bite, the day’s quiet moments stretching into the evening as you let your mind wander.

*

Friday. “No way!” you shouted, your voice coming out louder than you’d meant, and your eyes went wide as saucers. You stepped through the doorway, disbelieving for a moment, before you saw her standing there, grinning like she hadn’t a care in the world.

Without thinking, you wrapped your arms around her neck, pulling her into a tight hug. The warmth of her body against yours felt so familiar, and the sudden surge of emotion made your chest tighten in the best way. You squeezed her just a little harder, like you were trying to absorb her energy, like she could somehow make everything else feel lighter again.

“What are you doing here?” you finally breathed, pulling back just enough to look at her face. You searched her eyes, needing some explanation, still a little stunned.

Cassie’s smile spread wider, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with that same irrepressible energy you remembered. She still had that look—like she was always on the verge of something exciting, something unexpected.

“I ran away from home!” she declared with an enthusiasm that made her words feel even bigger. She placed her hands on your shoulders, bouncing on her heels like she couldn’t contain the rush of whatever had made her do this. “I just left. I needed to come back. I can't even begin to explain how much I've missed you!”

Her words hit you in a way that made your heart swell, the kind of feeling that caught you off guard, leaving you without a response at first. You just stared at her, as if trying to piece together what she was saying, still not quite believing it.

Without hesitation, you stepped aside and ushered her in, the familiar comfort of her presence filling the space in a way only she could. You watched her, feeling that strange mix of happiness and disbelief, as if she were an apparition you hadn’t expected to see again. It was like time hadn’t passed at all, and you were suddenly back in a world that had felt a little emptier without her.

As she settled her things around the room, Cassie started talking, filling in the blanks of her sudden arrival. She told you everything.

Bruno, her boyfriend, had been cheating on her with a coworker. Cassie had suspected it for weeks—finding a couple of odd messages on his phone was the first hint. But two days ago, she'd gotten the proof she needed when she came across a receipt for an underwear purchase. The whole thing felt so cliché, like something out of a bad rom-com, but the more she thought about it, the more she couldn’t ignore it. That’s when she started searching through his things. She rifled through his office, checking drawers, until she found a stack of small, folded notes hidden in the back. One of them had a kiss—bright pastel pink lipstick, the kind she hated. That color felt like an insult, like it was mocking her. So, in her frustration, she waited for him to come home, gathered everything up, and laid it out on the bed—evidence, neatly arranged like a cruel puzzle. Bruno denied everything at first, of course. He always did. But after a while, he cracked. She didn’t need to say much. The lies tumbled out of his mouth, and she just listened, her blood boiling. In the end, she destroyed every suit he owned—ripping them to shreds before kicking him out of the apartment they’d shared.

That night, in a mix of fury and disbelief, she impulsively booked a plane ticket, packed her things in a hurried mess, and left. Twenty hours of travel later, and now she was lying in your bed, talking a mile a minute. She had no concept of jetlag, or maybe she just didn’t care. The adrenaline was still running through her veins, and the weight of everything that had happened was only starting to sink in.

You both lay there for a while, and then, out of nowhere, Cassie asked about Joel. The question caught you off guard, and for a long moment, you didn’t answer. You tried to collect your thoughts, but when you finally spoke, your voice came out softer than you expected, almost muffled by the weight of it all. You told her about Sarah’s news, about Joel and Sienna. 

Cassie’s expression didn’t shift much at first. She seemed unsurprised, but a little relieved.

“Told you she wasn’t a real threat,” she said, nodding as though confirming a private thought.

But then you mentioned Travis. His name hung in the air, and Cassie’s reaction was immediate. Her eyes widened, her lips parted slightly. She sat up in bed, her posture tense, like she hadn’t expected that at all.

“That son of a bitch,” Cassie muttered, her voice muffled by the pillow as she shook her head. “Who does he think he is, running around talking about you like that?”

You sighed, frustration bubbling up again. “I don’t know. I really don’t. It caught me off guard. I never thought he’d be that kind of person.”

Cassie sat up slightly, propping herself up on her elbow, eyes narrowing in a way that was both intense and oddly endearing.

“And why the hell didn’t Joel ask you about it? Why the hell did he believe some man he loathes?” She made a sharp gesture with her hands, as if dismissing the very idea. “Lately, his brain’s working like a mashed potato.”

You couldn’t help the short laugh that escaped your lips, but it was more out of frustration than amusement.

“That’s exactly what I thought! Why didn’t he just ask me? I asked him a million times, ‘What the fuck are you talking about, Joel?’ and he wouldn’t tell me a thing. Nothing!”

Cassie closed her eyes for a moment, a deep sigh leaving her, as if trying to pull herself together before speaking. When she opened her eyes again, her expression softened, but there was a sharpness in her gaze.

“Because he was hurt. And angry. And he clearly didn’t feel like working things out with you at that moment. The best he could come up with was to blow up at you and make you feel as bad as he felt.”

You stared at her, the weight of her words sinking in slowly, and the room seemed quieter, somehow, as if everything was still in that moment.

“But why? Why did he go that far?” you asked, almost to yourself. The silence lingered.

Cassie shrugged, a look of genuine sympathy in her eyes.

“People are dumb when they’re hurting. But that doesn’t make it any easier.”

You leaned back, exhaling slowly, your thoughts swirling in frustration and confusion. Then, as if a weight had settled in your chest, you found yourself asking, “Why didn’t you come sooner? It would’ve been so much easier to figure this out if I had you here with me.”

She looked at you, her smile softening before she hugged you tighter, her voice quiet.

“Stop, you’re gonna make me cry,” she teased, but there was a genuine warmth in the way she held you. “I was going to come for Christmas anyway, as a surprise. I didn’t plan on running away from Bruno first.”

You laughed, shaking your head, the tension easing just a little.

“I’m glad you came early, though. I missed you so much.”

Cassie grinned, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Are you telling me it’s a good thing Bruno cheated on me? That’s why I came early?”

You playfully swatted her leg, laughing again.

“No, I’m not saying that. But I’m glad you dumped him. You deserve someone who actually knows how to treat you.”

Her grin widened, and for a moment, everything felt right again. But then she leaned in, her expression turning serious.

“And you need to patch things up with Joel,” she said bluntly, her voice just a little too firm. “Or I’m going to lock you two in a room and force you to talk. Honestly. And stop acting like kids.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, but not at you—more like she was holding herself back from giving you a motherly lecture.

“I know,” you confessed, sitting up straight and running a hand through your hair. You knew this conversation wasn’t over. “I’ll talk to him. I promise.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur of endless conversation, the kind that felt both exhausting and comforting in equal measure. Cassie had so much to tell you, her words tumbling out one after the other like she couldn’t stop once she’d started. She spoke about her life in Italy—how she’d adapted to everything, how much she missed the simplicity of being back here, with you, in the same bed, talking about everything and nothing, like when you were younger. Her laugh was the same, a little higher pitched when she was genuinely happy, and it made you feel like time hadn’t passed at all.

As the hours drifted by, the conversation shifted seamlessly into memories. You both laughed and sighed as you reminisced about the time you first met, when you were both eleven, so awkward and unsure of yourselves, and how you’d ended up in Austin, drawn by your own separate pulls, yet still somehow close enough to see each other almost every day. Cassie had lived in a small downtown apartment back then. You had found a place nearby, just far enough to need a car to see each other, but close enough to drop by without any effort. You spent hours together in those days—sometimes talking, sometimes just existing in the same space. You never lived together, though. 

Cassie was too social, too often hosting friends and acquaintances, always surrounded by people. You, on the other hand, had always been quieter. You preferred solitude, the peaceful comfort of being by yourself in your own space. It wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy Cassie’s company—quite the opposite. But you liked the balance of your lives: hers filled with chatter and life, and yours with quiet and space.

Now, with her sitting across from you, it felt like nothing had changed. You were still as close as you’d always been, still managing to keep the balance between her vibrant energy and your calmer, quieter presence. You felt a warmth spreading in your chest, the kind that came from having the best of friends beside you when you needed them the most. The fact that you didn’t know how long she would be staying only made you happier. It was a gift, this unexpected visit. 

Cassie’s voice broke through your thoughts. She’d stopped talking for a moment, her gaze softening, eyes closing briefly as she leaned back on the couch, a contented smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. 

“I feel better here,” she said, her voice quiet, as if the weight of her words was grounding her.

You didn’t respond right away. Instead, you smiled, letting the moment linger. You picked up your glass of wine and took a sip, letting the music fill the space between you before returning to the thread of your conversation. You started talking about old friends—those people you used to see all the time but had drifted away from. Faces and names from a past life, now reduced to half-remembered moments.

After a while, Cassie went to the bathroom, and for the first time in hours, you were left alone with your thoughts. The soft hum of the music seemed louder now, the words settling into your mind like an unspoken invitation. 

You needed to talk to Joel. You had to. 

The thought was like a knot in your stomach, tight and anxious. How could you even approach him? How could you talk to him again without feeling humiliated? 

This was it. The last chance. If he treated you badly again, if he shut you out again, you wouldn’t try anymore. If he didn’t want to listen to you, then fine. You weren’t going to beg. You weren’t going to chase after someone who didn’t care enough to meet you halfway. You could feel your resolve hardening, the idea of giving up no longer feeling like a loss, but a relief. You had done everything you could. The rest was out of your hands.

If he didn’t want to listen to you... well, that was his problem. Fuck him, then.

*

Saturday. “I’ll get it!” Cassie shouted from downstairs, her voice carrying easily through the house. 

You were in your room, towel drying your hair after the shower. Cassie had spent half the afternoon thrusting bottles of creams, serums, shampoos, and hair treatments at you, insisting with dramatic conviction that they were, and you quoted, “the best thing in the fucking world.” Reluctantly, you’d agreed to try them, and now your entire being smelled like vainilla and coco.

Downstairs, the door creaked open.

“Joel,” Cassie said, surprised but not unpleasantly so, a smile spreading across her face as she took in the figure on your doorstep. 

Joel blinked, visibly startled. His brows furrowed before relaxing, his expression softening into something almost amused. A soft smile.

“Cassie? What are you doing here? When did you get back?” 

She stepped aside slightly to greet him with a quick, casual hug that he received.

“Yesterday,” she said with a shrug, her eyes narrowing just enough to hint she was already gathering pieces of a puzzle Joel didn’t know existed. “Last-minute decision, you know. Want to come in?”

Joel hesitated, shifting his weight awkwardly. “No, I—uh, is she—” 

“She’s here,” Cassie interrupted, her tone smooth, deliberate. She tilted her head toward the stairs and called your name in a shout. Then, turning back to Joel, she grinned. “She’ll be down in a second. How’s Sarah? She must be huge by now!” 

Joel’s face lit up at the mention of his daughter, the tension in his shoulders loosening.

“She’s great. Yeah, she’s huge—almost taller than you,” he teased, lifting a hand to indicate Cassie’s height. 

Cassie rolled her eyes but laughed. “I want to see her. We should steal her for a girls’ night soon.” 

“Anytime,” Joel replied with a small smile, genuine now. “She’d love that.” 

Cassie zipped her coat with theatrical precision.

“Perfect. Let’s plan it.” She reached for her beret and adjusted it snugly, her gaze flicking briefly toward the stairs. 

You appeared at the landing, one foot on the top step, dressed in black pajama pants and an oversized sweater that hung loose on your frame. Your hair was dry, neat, and slightly glossy—courtesy of Cassie’s insistence. 

“Who is it?” you asked, taking another step before freezing halfway down. 

Your eyes landed on Joel. He stood stiffly, his posture uncertain. The smile he’d worn moments ago dissolved into something more unreadable, almost guarded. You felt a small knot tighten in your stomach.

“I’m going for a walk,” Cassie declared suddenly, breezing past Joel with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Nice seeing ya, Joel.” 

He nodded, but his attention stayed fixed on you. 

In less than a moment, Cassie was gone. The silence she left behind felt sharp, almost heavy. You forced yourself to move, descending the final steps slowly, deliberately, until you were close enough to meet Joel’s gaze without leaning forward. 

He looked different somehow. The dark jeans and heavy green flannel shirt he wore felt familiar, but his expression didn’t. His face was etched with something hard to place—nervousness, maybe, or regret. 

His eyes - oh my God, his eyes. 

You crossed your arms, leaning slightly against the doorframe, forcing yourself to sound steadier than you felt. “Joel, what happened?” you asked, your voice almost a whisper, though the question felt louder than anything you could have said. "Need somethin'?"

He exhaled, a sharp, controlled breath, his gaze flicking briefly to the floor, as if searching for something to say, then back to you. His brows flickered with indecision before he spoke, his voice low and careful, like each word was a step he wasn’t sure he could take.

“I... I know you probably don’t wanna see me,” he said, his voice low, almost strained, his eyes dark and heavy with something blue. “But I... I... can we talk? Please?”

[steddiehyperfixation]

don't you forget about me (part two)

(part one)

Steve doesn’t know how long they sit there in silence, waiting. It’s making him insane. The seconds pass too slow; the seconds pass too fast. His mind is a storm; his mind is empty. He’s feeling too much; he’s not feeling at all. He paces the room; he sits catatonically against a wall. He needs to get out of here; he needs to stay. 

He’s been here before, just barely over a week ago, tense and anxious and despairing and waiting for news. But waiting to hear if Eddie will ever remember him again really should not feel this much worse than waiting to hear if Eddie will ever fucking breathe again. Steve thinks there must be something wrong with him. He’s being selfish and stupid. His pathological fucking need to be loved is not what’s important right now. Eddie is alive and awake and okay and that’s the only thing that really matters. That’s the only thing he should really care about.

Steve’s pacing again now, yanking his hands through his hair as he does laps around the room until Eddie finally appears in the doorway. 

Eddie must’ve just cracked a joke or something because the nurse is laughing as she pushes his bed into the room and he’s got this adorable grin on his face. Steve’s heart twists in his chest and he nearly bursts into tears all over again because god does he want nothing more than to press a kiss to those dimpled cheeks. 

“Good news, boys,” Eddie announces. “My brain is fully intact.”

“There’s no physical permanent damage to his brain,” the nurse elaborates. “His amnesia is likely a result of psychological trauma and the temporary disruption of brain function from blood loss and lack of oxygen that occurred at the time of his injury. But there is no obvious reason why he shouldn’t regain his full memory, given time.” 

So there’s hope. Steve breathes a sigh of relief. 

“That is good news,” Wayne agrees. 

Steve asks, “How much time?” 

The nurse gives an unhelpful shrug. “Impossible to say. It could be anywhere from days to months, or even years. I’m sorry, there’s no way for us to know.” 

Years. “Okay.” Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. He can keep it together. He can. “Thanks,” he tells the nurse. “I, uh-” He makes the mistake of looking at Eddie who looks right through him, and Steve can’t keep it together anymore actually. “I gotta update the kids,” he mutters, backing his way towards the door. Wayne nods in acknowledgment; no protests this time at Steve’s excuse to leave.

“See ya, Harrington,” Eddie calls after him, casual, impersonal, like they're nothing more than acquaintances passing by each other in a high school hallway.  

Steve can’t get out of that hospital fast enough. 

He makes it to his car in record time, slamming the door shut and sinking heavily into the driver’s seat. A ragged sob tries to claw its way up his throat now that he’s finally alone, but he forces it back, staving off his breakdown for just a little bit longer. As much as it was an excuse, he really does have to update the kids. 

Steve fishes his walkie out of the glove box. “Code - whatever, I don’t know. Code Eddie,” he says. He doesn’t remember the kids’ system of codes, nor would he be sure which one this news falls under even if he did. 

“Is he okay? Is he awake?” comes an immediate, eager response from Dustin. “Over.” 

“Yeah, he’s awake, and he’s fine, except he’s got pretty bad amnesia. The doctors say it should be temporary, but right now he doesn’t remember anything since May of ‘85,” Steve explains, trying his best to keep his voice even.

“Steve, come pick me up and take me to see him,” Dustin demands, “right now. Over.” 

“Me too. Over,” Mike chimes in before Steve can respond. 

“And us,” Erica adds as well. 

Steve pauses for a second, both to steady his own breath and to make sure no one else wants to jump in on this too, before he reminds them, “He won’t know you, any of you.” 

“I don’t care,” Dustin says, bossy as ever. “Just come get me. Over.” 

“Jesus Christ, kid,” Steve mutters to himself. He sucks in another breath; it wobbles dangerously. He’s just about reached his limit on how long he can keep himself from falling apart. “I- I need a minute, alright?” he manages through the walkie. “Can you just give me, like, an hour? And then I’ll take you guys to visit Eddie.” 

Steve doesn’t wait for a response before he slams the antenna closed, tosses the walkie aside, and finally, finally lets himself shatter. That sob rips free from his throat, followed by another and another and another. Tears flood from his eyes; his nose runs. It’s an ugly, gross, visceral cry that leaves him exhausted and raw and aching to be held by the time the last sob shudders out of him. Drained and hollow, he craves the embrace of someone who knows him, someone who loves him. 

He sweeps up his broken pieces, wipes the mess of tears and snot off his face, and drives to Robin’s house.

“Steve, oh my god.” Robin pulls him into a hug the second she opens the door and sees the look on his face. Steve clings to her. “What happened?” 

“Eddie’s awake,” he mutters dismally. 

“Oh! Not the tone I’d expect you to deliver that news in, but okay.” Robin pulls back, looking at him with narrow-eyed concern and confusion as she analyzes his puffy eyes and red nose and swollen lips. “And you look like you’ve just been crying because…?”

“Because he doesn’t remember me, Rob,” Steve sighs. “He doesn’t remember anything from the past 11 months.” 

Robin’s eyes go wide now. “Shit,” she says, so plainly it startles a short laugh out of Steve. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Shit.” 

She asks him more questions as she walks down the hallway so they can talk in her room. Steve once again reiterates what was said at the hospital. 

“So you didn’t tell him you two were a thing?” Robin asks, closing her door behind them. 

“Of course I didn’t.” Steve flops back onto her bed. “I didn’t want to spook him.” 

She sits beside him. “You didn’t want to spook him,” she repeats, looking down at him with raised eyebrows, “but you told him about Vecna.” 

“Well, yeah. I just-” He lifts his arms to gesture vaguely into the air as he tries to explain himself. “I mean, imagine how you would feel if you woke up in a hospital and some random guy you’ve spoken to maybe twice was by your bedside telling you you’ve been in a relationship with him for the past 9 months.” 

“Uh, I don’t know, dingus, probably about the same as I’d feel if said guy told me I’d nearly died fighting some evil twisted creature from a hell dimension,” Robin retorts.

Steve drops his hands onto his chest with a huff, shaking his head. “No, trust me. He seemed far less surprised by that than he did to hear that we were even just friends,” he says, a bit bitterly. Tears are pricking at his eyes again as he looks up at his best friend. “You didn’t see the way he looked at me, Robin. All he saw was King Steve.”

Robin softens, snark replaced with sympathy. “That sucks, Steve. I’m so sorry.” 

Steve sighs in agreement that yes this really fucking sucks. He sits up and scoots back so that he’s slumped against the wall, hitting the back of his head against it. “I think I’m a horrible person,” he admits, just venting now, “because of course I’m glad Eddie’s alive and all I really want is for him to be okay, and I know the nurse said he should remember eventually, but there’s still some sick part of me that thinks maybe it would’ve hurt less if he had just died.”

“I don’t think that makes you a horrible person,” Robin assures him as she settles next to him, shoulder to shoulder. “I think you’re just grieving, and grief is weird sometimes.”

“It was one of the worst things I’ve ever felt,” he mutters, “when he looked at me without recognition. To see it on his face, just the- the absence of everything that we’d built. I’ve never felt so- so- I don’t know, it was like I couldn’t breathe. He just- he doesn’t know that I love him. He…he doesn’t know that he loved me...” 

Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? It’s not that he’s lost someone that he loves, it’s that he’s lost someone who loves him. Because Eddie’s not gone, just his love for Steve is, and that’s what’s tearing him apart. It’s the fact that there’s one less person in the world who loves him. It’s the fact that Steve’s got this big gaping hole inside of him that’s always made him so desperate to be loved, liked, wanted, needed; and his biggest fucking fear is becoming obsolete. He could probably trace it back to his parents, the first to forget him, the first to stop loving him, but the fact remains that now Eddie has fulfilled that fear too. Now Eddie has carved that pit a little deeper, a little darker, validating the voice that whispers within it and tells Steve that he is forgettable, unlovable, so easy to abandon and erase. 

“Well, I love you,” Robin tells him, like she can read his mind (which, at this point, she probably can). She slides an arm around his shoulders, hugs him close. “And I’m not going anywhere.” 

Fragile as he is right now, Steve falls apart again in her arms, and she holds him together. Because she knows him, because she loves him.

It’s a quieter cry this time, soft and sniffly. Whereas the last one wracked through his body and left him fatigued, this one flows from him almost gently, and when his tears finally subside and he lifts his head from where it had been buried in his friend’s shoulder, Steve actually feels a little bit better, a little bit stronger. Which is good, because he’s gonna have to face Eddie again soon. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly as he pulls away from Robin, wiping at his eyes and glancing at the clock on her nightstand. It’s definitely been an hour by now, probably more. He stands. “I have to go, I promised the kids I’d take them to see Eddie.” 

“Then I’m coming too.” Robin stands with him. “For moral support.” 

Steve gives her a grateful smile. “I love you so fucking much, you know that?” 

“Yeah.” She grins at him. “I know.” 

~ 

The nurses have changed his bandages and upped his morphine, so Eddie’s considerably hazy now but at least he can raise his headrest and prop himself up a bit without nearly blacking out from pain. He’s boredly flicking through channels on the shitty TV in front of him, alone since Wayne had to leave for work, when Harrington returns followed by a very unexpected group consisting of Robin Buckley and four strange children. 

“Sorry,” Harrington announces their presence with an apologetic shrug, “I know you don’t know them anymore, but they insisted.” 

“Eddie!” a pudgy, curly-haired kid shouts before Eddie can even react, coming barrelling towards him and trying to hug him. 

“Ow!” Eddie yelps, pain flaring even through the extra morphine. “Fucking Christ, kid! Be careful!” 

The kid jumps back immediately, eyes wide. “Shit. Sorry.” 

“S’fine,” Eddie grumbles.

The kid looks at him expectantly for a moment before seeming to realize, “Oh, right, you don’t remember me. I’m Dustin.” 

“Ah, so you’re the guy I sacrificed myself for,” Eddie mutters, and Dustin looks a little sheepish. That means these must be ‘the kids’ Harrington had been talking about earlier. He surveys the group for a second. “Actually, I think we have met before,” he tells Dustin. “And you too.” He glances at a pale, dark-haired kid. The other two - a Black boy with a flat-top and a younger Black girl - look less familiar, though. “There was this, uh, open day thing at the high school for next year’s incoming freshmen; I talked to you about Hellfire.”

“Yeah!” Dustin’s whole face lights up, so bright and infectious it makes Eddie grin too. “Yeah, you did!” 

“So you guys joined the club, then?” 

This sparks a very animated conversation about D&D, the rest of the kids (Mike, Lucas, and Erica, as they soon reintroduce themselves) gathering around his bed now too to join in. It makes him feel a bit more like himself again, familiar, normal. Except, of course, for the fact that they’re not only talking about how they defeated Vecna in Eddie’s “totally epic” and “sadistic” campaign (adjectives courtesy of Dustin and Mike respectively), but also filling in more pieces of the story of how they defeated him in real life too. Still, it’s nice, fun. He totally understands how he could’ve gotten attached to these kids.

At some point, Eddie glances over to find Harrington hanging back and just watching them talk, fondly, wistfully. Robin whispers something to him and he sort of smiles, just a trace, and whispers something back. They seem close, intimate. Eddie wonders if they’re dating, and then he wonders why that thought makes him feel a bit sick. He waves them over. Harrington looks like he’s about to protest, but Robin gives him a Look and he allows her to grab his hand and drag him to join the crowd around Eddie’s bed. 

“So, what’s your deal, Buckley?” Eddie asks her. He doesn’t know her very well, they’ve only crossed paths a few times in the bandroom, but right now that makes her the most familiar person in the room to him. “Are you and Harrington a thing now? Is that how you’re involved in all this?” 

Robin wrinkles her nose and drops Harrington’s hand. “Ew, no. Definitely not.” 

“She’s my best friend,” Harrington says. 

Eddie snorts, doesn’t know why he finds that so comical. (He’s starting to get tired and it’s making him loopy. Or maybe it’s just the morphine.) “You've got a funny choice of friends nowadays, don’t you? Me and band geek Buckley and a bunch of nerdy freshmen.” He looks at Harrington with incredulous amusement. “Who would've thought, huh? Steve Harrington, collector of geeks and freaks.” 

Harrington doesn’t seem to find it as funny. He shrugs. “Yeah, well, it’s better than King Steve, collector of asshole bullies and shallow one-night stands.” 

“Yeah, ‘course it is,” Eddie agrees through another huff of laughter that breaks off into a yawn. “Didn’t mean it as a bad thing, Stevie. Was a compliment.” 

“Alright.” The barest hint of a smile flickers across Harrington’s face now, but then he’s looking away and corralling the kids and saying, “We should head out, let you get some rest.” 

And Eddie kind of wishes he’d stay.

(part three!)

taglist: @romanticdestruction @daydreamsandcrashingwaves @paintsplatteredandimperfect @hallucinatedjosten @mugloversonly @estrellami-1 @alongcomesaspider @thatonebadideapanda @tell-me-a-secret-a-nice-one @dragonmama76 @wxrmland @nuggies4life @sirsnacksalot @myguiltyartpleasure @marklee-blackmore @vinteraltus @sebastiansstanswhore @0happyeverafter0 @scarlet-malfoy (only tagged people who explicitly asked to be tagged; if you would like to be added or removed from this list please lmk!)

[selineram3421]

*a lot of readers loving this fic* Daaaang.

Hissy Kitty

Part 5

Part 4

Alastor X Reader

Warnings ⚠

⚠ deer man still trying to stay in denial, blood/gore, Italics= thoughts, partial nudity mention, Bold= time shifts, gif is reader's shadow form. ⚠

Alastor felt like he was at the end of a shotgun barrel.

He froze, his hands shaking slightly and his undead heart thumping rapidly.

Quite a daring thing to say...

Husk stared at him in slight shock and something else. Something that the deer demon couldn't decipher. The two stood still, not moving an inch, just watching who would make the first move. Almost like an old west duel.

Finally, after a long silence, one of them spoke up.

"Leave them alone."

In all honesty, the cat demon had no idea what to do about this...situation, but he knew the Radio Demon. His boss was nothing but a cruel, insane, egotistical man who wanted power and control.

"I don't give a shit about what you do to me, but I know if you hurt me, they'll hate you.", Husk said before turning to leave the radio tower. "Whatever thing you've got? It's best to get rid of it now."

And with that, the feline left.

Now Alastor was alone, just like he wanted but he couldn't get rid of the thought of what the ex Overlord had said.

He couldn't deny it any longer.

Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair before making his way over to his chair.

I'll avoid them like the plague... He decided.

He stayed away for two weeks.

Leaving a room whenever they stepped foot inside, staying in his room, office, or radio tower when he didn't know where they were in the hotel.

And then something snapped.

The thought was screeching in his mind, clawing at his chest, a never ending cycle of want.

He had to-

No.

Needed to tell them.

Maybe confessing would help stop that feeling.

With the last of his sanity, Alastor stepped out of his radio tower and went to search for them with the help of his shadows.

.

You were confused at first by the absence of the red dressed demon but thought nothing of it since your brother seemed happier.

Charlie had given you the new job of welcoming new guests at the front desk but well...its been very boring.

No one checks in.

Like at all. The demons that do come in ask for directions and then there's Cherri Bomb, Angel's friend who stops by for a second or two. So, you spent most of your days talking to your brother at the bar, leaving a "ring the bell for assistance" sign at the check-in counter.

You held a glass of very diluted iced catnip tea, your brother made sure to make it that way so you don't run around the hotel like last time.

"Ugh.", you hid your face in embarrassment.

I can't believe Husk planned that. That jerk! You sighed. I did enjoy the nap after though..

Then your thoughts continued until it wound up to the last conversation you had with your brother about the red dressed demon.

After telling him what happened, Husk stood up real quick and said he'd be right back. Then he came back with snacks and his poker face.

What your brother doesn't know is that you can actually read his poker face. It's very, very faint, but his ears give him away. Depending on the way that it flicks, you can tell how bad a situation is.

And his ear flicked back twice.

Which means he doesn't like the current cards in his hand.

What did he get? You wonder and sip your drink.

Some more time passes and the next time you see Alastor in the same room as you is when the King comes to visit the hotel.

Keekee is in your arms and hops out once Lucifer stops hugging Charlie.

Things take a turn after some random flapper shows up and then there are shark sinners.

"MY WINDOWS!", Nifty screeches in horror.

It goes to shit really quickly, everything is too loud, everyone is running around and trying to stay out of the shooting range of the flaming boulders, and you were overstimulated with all of the things happening at once.

"GET BEHIND THE COUNTER KIT!", Husk grabs you by the shoulders and pushes you towards the bar.

You make a face once seeing the flapper, the reason loan sharks are attacking the hotel, is hiding behind the counter.

"Oh fuck this.", you sigh and walk away.

No wonder your brother said not to come here.

Its too loud..

The banging on the door didn't stop until the Radio Demon stepped out and the screams took over.

Too loud.

"I will devour each and every one of you!"

You covered your ears in pain, wishing you brought your headset.

"ITS TOO FUCKING LOUD!", you yell out.

.

Alastor reminisces when these feelings solidified.

It was when Lucifer and Mimzy showed up at the hotel. He had his fun messing around with the King, making the short blonde feel jealous.

Then Mimzy barged in, which is not a surprise, and started chatting up with the others.

What annoyed him was when Husk mentioned the deal that he, the Radio Demon, had made. Reminding him that he too needed to stay within range so his collar didn't choke his neck.

Then after taking care of Husk, he made his way downstairs to take care of Mimzy's mess.

And that's when it happened.

As he was ripping apart some of the loan sharks, he heard screaming from inside the hotel. Turning to deal with the ones that managed to slip past him, he finds a shadow creature with multiple eyes dragging the left over sharks into the darkness.

"NO! No, no, no, no, no! AH-!", a shark screamed before the shadow tore open his stomach and ripped out his intestines.

"Kit! You gotta calm down!", Husk yelled out.

"That's your little sibling!?", Angel screeched. "What the fuck happened!?"

"It was too damn loud, that's what happened!"

The two continued to bicker as they tried to move the shadow out of the hotel.

A piece of rubble fell and Mimzy side stepped away from it. "Oops. Sorry about the mess. I'm sure the little bug can handle it."

"Mimzy.", Alastor went back to his normal size and made his way towards the hotel. "I believe it's time for you to leave. Now."

"What-? Come on, you don't mean that~", the flapper laughs. "This dump doesn't mean anything to ya! And you love taking care of me!"

"I can't have you making a mess here.", he replied. "You can stay if you want to be redeemed.", he turned to look back at the short woman. "But we both know that's not your style."

"Fine! I don't need you! Have fun at this ritzy dump and-!"

Alastor ignored the rest and walked into the hotel lobby. Husk was the only one taking care of the shadow beast, while Angel was watching whatever was going on between the two royals with the others.

"It's ok now, calm down.", the cat demon said to the shadow in the corner.

"What or who is this?", the deer demon asks and points to the shadow creature.

"Pretty sure you ain't deaf, you heard Angel yell it out.", Husk said and started..purring?

"My! I didn't know you could make such an adorable sound!", he grinned.

"Shut up!", the cat hissed quietly. "They need to calm down, loud noises only make it worse!"

"Well, why didn't you say that sooner?"

With a snap of his fingers, he teleported the three of them into his room in the greenery area.

"The only sounds in here are nature, will this do?", Alastor asked.

"Yes, this is fine.", Husk nodded before getting focused, and pulled the shadow closer. "Kit? Listen. You're ok now.", he said and started purring again.

Their shadow figure was still too large, so the radio demon decided to add in some of his white noise static, earning a look from Husker.

"It helps.", was all he said.

Slowly but surely, the shadow got smaller and smaller before going back into a familiar figure. The darkness on their form began to fade away, starting from the tips of their feet/paws.

Before the shadow fully receded, Husk held out his hand.

"Give me a blanket or somethin'."

"Whatever for?", he asked with a raised brow.

"You wanna see them naked?"

Alastor quickly took off his coat and handed it over.

In a quick motion, the cat demon covered his sibling in the red fabric and wrapped an arm around their shoulders, holding them securely as they passed out.

A few moments passed before the demon in red decided to ask his question.

"What exactly happened?"

Husk was quiet for a bit and then sighed.

"I'll let them tell you."

Now, Alastor stood in front of your hotel room.

He felt like it was as if it was his first broadcast all over again. His nerves were all over the place and his hands felt tingly.

Clearing his throat, he prepared himself and knocked on their door.

"Dear? Are you there? There is something I wish to discuss with you."

A few heartbeats later, the door opens.

"Come in."

*flops over* I'm done for now. Stay tuned.

~Seline, the person.

Part 6

Taglist@

*In comments because there are SO many*

ML I for Alastor🎙️ | HK ChL😾

[melrodrigo]

friends? p.2

Cairo Sweet x Fem Reader

Summary: A rivalry between you and Cairo has been going on for several months…what does it take for her to finally break?

Warnings: there r literally none they bicker like an old couple and cairos mean

Word Count: 2k+

A/n: helloooo i’m not sure abt this chapter but lmk what u thought, i cranked this out in its entirety last night, enjoy!

part 1

Friendship was not Cairo Sweet's strong suit. Ask her about Dickinson or Austen or Shakespeare—these were all things she could answer. But the ultimate question of friendship was not something hot on Cairo's mind.

She didn't need it, that was her take. And why would she waste time on something she didn't need?

Friends, much less a partner, was something she never saw for herself. The thought of being a housewife, living in a picture-perfect picket fence house, appalled her. The only things that mattered were her, her writing, and Yale.

So when a certain girl had entered her life, she hated it.

You.

You with your stupid face, and pretty hair, she hated you. A burning passion so intense it heated up her heart and made it race. So intense that she wanted to punch you in the face whenever you passed, only to bandage it up with feather light touches so she could punch you again harder.

At first it was nothing; she didn't have a thing to worry about. A blushing face while you stammered and fumbled around trying to give Mr. Miller an answer, she disregarded you as someone she could respect immediately.

But obviously she had caught you on a bad day, because after those first few weeks, you managed to present yourself in a less idiotic way.

You were, surprisingly smart.

Almost too smart, she pondered. It was getting in the way of her own studies. How could it be, that someone was on bar (never better) than her?

Often she found herself seething at you, arguing at every chance she had with your answers; but, you had given her the same treatment as well.

It wasn't strange for your classes to end in heated debate, both sides failing to yield. It bothered her greatly. She went back home and read more than she'd ever read before, studied just a few minutes longer because she could feel you taunting her.

"Sweet." You nodded, as she pushed open the doors to Millers class. You'd made it a habit to arrive early, leaving only you and her for a good thirty minutes before everyone else arrived.

It was infuriating. To have you so close, open, ready to harm, yet she could do nothing. She'd been having a particularly grueling week. Her parents had just come back from Brazil; and, always seemed to be ready to go at her throat. Gone were her lonely but comforting nights on her bed, candle-lit. Now it was just fights and condescending jabs.

"What did you get on the paper?" Your voice piped up, breaking her from her train of thought. You were referring to the paper Mr.Miller had given back last week, one that counted for forty percent of the grade.

She felt a swell of pride. Scores were something she could argue about. This would take off the stress she'd been building.

"99." She smirked, cocking her head to the side.

You whistled approval, nodding adamantly. Even though there was nothing to suggest so, she could swear she felt condescension in your tone.

She was good at picking out stuff like that. The roll of someone's tongue, the way they smack their lips—it all meant something to her.

She pursed her lips, narrowing her eyes. "What did you get?" She asked, brows furrowed.

You didn't say anything, simply holding up a finger and mouthing 'one hundo' and watched as disbelief took over her features.

"You're fucking lying." She seethed. Her good mood had suddenly disappeared just as fast as it had appeared.

You spun around in your seat, stupid smile on your face. God, she wanted to jump at you and claw it off.

"Hey, hey, it's okay to be mad. You can't be the best at everything." You told her, hands behind your head.She gripped the desk harder, knuckles turning a faint white.

She stood up, walking over to your desk."You little shi-"

"Good morning, the both of you!" Mr.Miller interrupted, cheery smile. His enthusiasm radiated off his body like rays radiated from the sun. He stopped short when he saw Cairo stalking close to you, a clear pout on her face.

"What are you doing?" He asked, question directed towards her, voice sickly sweet. He had grown fond of Cairo since the beginning of the term; she was his favorite student.

"I'd like her to be removed from the class. Can't you do that Mr.Miller?" She avoided his question, tilting her face at an angle where her chocolate colored eyes shone bright.

His white brows furrowed, not quite comprehending. "You mean," He started, "right now...?"

Bless him, he had no clue how manipulative Cairo was.

She doesn't let up, doesn't let her disappointment show. You notice it in the slight clench of her jaw--she's annoyed.

"I meant for the rest of the term, I can't stand being in the same class as her." She emphasized her words with a glare in your direction. You send her a sweet smile back.

"Please, flattery will get you nowhere." You winked, smile turning into a real one when you see her get visibly agitated.

"Please, girls. Let's be civil here all right?" Mr.Miller pipes up, trying to stand in between Cairo and you. It does nothing to lessen the tension in the air.

He turns slightly to Cairo, voice firm. "And no...I won't kick Y/N out."

The childish part of you desperately wants to fist pump the air; but, the more serious side of you decides maybe you shouldn't do that in the company of your arch nemesis.

Class turns weird fast. Cairo—normally quick and adamant—stays quiet, seemingly distracted by the simplest of things: a bird singing softly from a window, the great big forests where her house stood, the sound of your feet continuing to scrape against the carpet.

It irks you a little. It has you not listening in class, wanting to focus on the girl in front of you.

You almost don't hear it when Miller announces that you'll be working in pairs for the midterm project, preoccupied with her bobbling head, moving as if she were listening to some imaginary music.

"You will not be able to pick your own partner, that's already been done for...by me." He adds, after hearing the onslaught of voices from the students. It's clear he's not changing his mind.

"Alright. When I call your names, go sit with your pair and discuss how you'll do the assignment. Olivia, Taylor." He calls out the first pair, going down (what seems like) an endless list of names, never quite getting to yours.

You watch as countless people move around, silently looking out for who hasn't been called yet. You needed to get a good grade on this, and a lazy partner was going to be a nightmare.

You strain your ears to hear Mr.Miller over the commotion of students moving, but when you turn to squint at him you're surprised to see he's already looking at you.

A sinking feeling eats your entire being whole as you watch his mouth move. He points his finger at you, then someone in front of you.

Cairo Sweet.

Fuck.

Even though you loved to tease her, you did not need to have Cairo Sweet as your partner. She was likely to ruin you before you even got to starting the thing.

You don't make the first move to get up, instead you sit dumbly in your chair, bracing yourself.

Your peace is disrupted by a huff from above you. There she is.

"Move over. I need a seat." She says, something in her voice making you oblige. She pulls over an extra chair and sits by the other end of the table.

"You can come closer ya know." You say, unsure of how friendly to be. You'd only ever really spoke with her from a distance, a comfortable distance. Now that she's up in your personal space you feel ike you're going to suffocate.

She ignores you, pursing her lips as she listens to Miller explain the project.

You inch your chair closer, prepared to make a sly jab at the way she's being a teachers pet, but her stare—which has now been redirected on you—stops you in your tracks. She looks scary.

Lips downturned, nostrils flaring, you're a bit taken aback.

"Okay jeez. You don't have to be such an ass about it." You mumble, distancing yourself a great deal further than you already were. The mood, if it weren't enough already, turns more sour.

She ignores your suggestions and remarks on how to do the project, scribbling something down on to her notepad every now and then.

"Earth to you, Sweet. Are you listening to me?" You press, starting to feel those tendrils of annoyance grabbing you. It was one thing to be an ass, but to put her own feelings above doing good work was low, even for her.

Especially for her, you think.

"Do you ever shut up?" She growls, biting her cheeks so hard you could see the indent it was making on the outside.

"Okayyy...someone's obviously going through something, but can we just-" You gesture to the sheet of paper on the table, you haven't even been allowed to look at what she's written yet.

"I am NOT going through something." She says again, voice cracking. The sound brings forth a peculiar reaction in you, your mouth hanging open. Her eyes look...watery.

Before you can utter a word she's getting up and storming out the classroom, making heads turn left and right at the loud noise.

"Um...I'll be right back too." You say, sending Mr.Miller a cheeky smile and a wink, hoping that'll lessen his curiousity enough to not come out after the two of you.

You push open the doors, call Cairos' name a couple times.

You eventually find her outside, back pressed against the brick wall. She's lighting up a cigarette.

Her body language looks more calm now, but you're not sure what to do. You shuffle on your feet, twiddling your thumbs.

"Sorry I did that." She speaks, not turning to look at you. It startles you a bit, you hadn't realized she saw you.

"Cairo Sweet saying sorry? I must be dreaming." You try, although you're not smiling and she doesn't laugh. Humor seems to be sucked away in this little bubble belonging to only the two of you.

You move a little closer, then even closer when Cairo doesn't object. Even though you did hate her to the bone, you wanted to make sure she was okay.

"Are you...alright?" You ask softly, watching her face for an answer. She seems to be deep in thought.

She takes a swing from her cigarette and blows. "I don't like you." Is what she says.

The ice breaks. You no longer feel like you're supposed to pity her. This was Cairo Sweet, her heart was made of coal.

"Yeah I think we established that. Anything else?" You sigh, leaning back so you're also pressed up against the wall.

She turns to you, and for the first time, she doesn't seem very mad.

"I don't like you." She says again, moving closer. It's in your natural instinct to step back, why was she being so weird? Was she going to hurt you?

She grips your shoulder lightly, enough for you to get the message to stay still.

"I don't  like you." Cairo mutters for the third time, eyes piercing into yours. She seems to be speaking a little lower, a little raspier than normal. Cogs seem to be turning in her head, debating and debating and debating.

Debating on what you can't be certain.

"I get it, you don't like me. So what?" You mummur, voice lower than normal. The proximity is making your mind feel a little clouded.

You try not to let your gaze drift down to her lips, but when there's nothing around to distract yourself with, they do.

Her freckles, the ones that litter her face. You get the disgusting urge to touch them.

"So...don't get the wrong idea." She says before taking your lips in a kiss.

It takes you a second to comprehend what's really happening. You stand frigid, mouth parting to gasp. You're gasp is swallowed by her own lips, soft and supple.

Once Cairo feels that you aren't responding, she pulls away, frightened look on her face. Pink lips downturned, her cheeks a rosy red. You don't have time to process what the right move is. For now, you don't need Cairo thinking you didn't like whatever that was.

You reach for her neck, pull her in for a second kiss. It's somehow better than the first. She responds quick, hands wandering to cup your face, then down to circle your waist, then up to tangle in your hair—like she's changing her own mind too quick.

You let her take the lead, pressing you into the wall with a strength you didn't know she possessed.

You're too lost in it all, the smell of her shampoo, the feeling of her teeth scraping your lips, biting down only the slightest, her fingers burning traces wherever they go.

"Sweet." You breathe, coming out more like a soft moan than you would've liked.

She breaks apart from you, a wild mess. You think she's never looked prettier, hair everywhere, lips torn from your heated kisses.

Her eyes are soft until they flash and something else takes over. It's as if your voice had brought her back to life.

"I don't like you." She snarls, and promptly turns on her heels, just a slight increase in speed than her normal strut.

You're left breathless, staring out into the green plains. Mind and heart racing, you're not sure which organ you should listen to.

The implication of what you did hits you like a freight train. You groan and press your hands to your head, willing and willing and willing for a solution to come out of it.

Not to anyones surprise, nothing comes. A magic fairy doesn't tell you what to do, and you're still standing behind school panting.

"Oh god."

[s0fter-sin]

one of my favourite aspects of supernatural that you very rarely see in paranormal shows is that sam and dean are already versed in the world they live in. there’s no sudden discovery of ghosts and demons and now they have to learn about them along with the audience; they are born into it and already know all about it. it allows the audience to follow their personal story instead of also trying to figure out this new world and its rules

the first season is full of knowledge we never see them learn; “w*ndigoes are in the minnesota woods or- or northern michigan. i’ve never even heard of one this far west.” […] “great. well then this [his gun] is useless.” (1x02), “you don’t break a curse. you get the hell out of its way.” (1x08), d: “it’s a god. a pagan god, anyway.” […] “the annual cycle of its killings? and the fact that the victims are always a man and a woman. like some kind of fertility right.” […] s: “the last meal. given to sacrificial victims. d: “yeah, i’m thinking a ritual sacrifice to appease some pagan god.” (1x11)

almost every episode in the first season is a monster they’ve faced before that they then explain to the audience in a way that should feel patronising; like it’s the same speech given over and over again but instead, the audience almost feels included in the knowledge. it’s stated with such an innate confidence and comfort in said knowledge that it feels like we already knew it too; “spirits and demons don't have to unlock doors. if they want inside, they just go through the walls.” […] “the claws, the speed that it moves; could be a skinwalker, maybe a black dog.” (1x02), “it's biblical numerology. you know noah's ark, it rained for forty days. the number means death.” (1x04), “no no no, not the reaper, a reaper. there's reaper lore in pretty much every culture on earth, it goes by 100 different names.” […] “you said it yourself that the clock stopped, right? reapers stop time. and you can only see 'em when they're coming at you which is why i could see it and you couldn't.” (1x12)

they already know and, at least in the first season, already have what they need to kill whatever they’re hunting; already know to salt and burn bones for spirits, fire for a w*ndigo, exorcisms for demons, a silver bullet to the heart for shapeshifters. there’s only three times in the entire first season that they run into something new to them; 1x14 when sam gets his first vision that leads him to another psychic, 1x16 when dean calls caleb for help on the sigil he put together and he tells him about daevas, and 1x20 when they find out vampires are real- and they only don’t know that bc john thought they were hunted to extinction and not worth mentioning

(there’s also technically two half instances if you count one of them knowing something the other doesn’t - sam figuring out the tulpa in 1x17 and dean already knowing about the shtriga in 1x18 - but those still rely on sam and dean having prior knowledge)

even when they’re uncertain about facing something, it’s not bc they don’t know what it is; it’s precisely bc they know what it is and acknowledge that it’ll be a difficult hunt (“i don't know, man. this isn't our normal gig. i mean, demons, they don't want anything, just death and destruction for its own sake. this is big. and i wish dad was here.” 1x04)

so much of the tension in paranormal shows typically comes from the main character(s) not knowing what is happening to them/the people around them and having to find out how to resolve it. supernatural is unique in that it operates more like a police procedural. the tension comes from solving the clues and identifying patterns to figure out who (what) the killer is and intercepting before they can take another victim

it’s such a different tone to go for when compared to other shows that came both before, during, and after its run. it sets sam and dean on even footing with each other since they both have the same knowledge going in, and it puts them in a place of authority usually reserved for an outside character

the shows i compare spn to most is charmed, buffy and teen wolf; every main character in those shows are brought into the paranormal world knowing nothing, putting them on the same level as the audience, and they have their mc interact with others already knowledgeable about that world in order to overcome their problem/monster of the week. the audience organically learns about this new world as the characters learn about it. it’s a sound writing strategy that prevents “as we already know”-style exposition but something that complicates it is if your world building isn’t unique or intriguing enough, this slow introduction can become boring

we’ve seen shows like these before; sitting through the same tropes of characters learning to use their powers, struggling with no longer feeling normal/relating to the regular world around them, and not knowing how much they can trust the people already involved in this new world gets repetitive. all three shows eventually reach the same level of comfort with their new world that spn starts with but if the characters aren’t enough to draw you in, you can end up dropping it before they reach that point (and often, before the overarching plot can really kick in and evolve the show beyond the villain of the week format)

it’s the superhero origin movie in tv format; dragged out and overplayed. dropping the audience into an established world of course comes with its own problems but you also have the benefit of pre-existing established character dynamics that let the audience slot in like they’ve always been there instead of just getting to know all the characters while the characters also get to know each other

sam and dean already knowing about the supernatural lets the audience immediately get to the core of the story; the conflict between sam and dean, the search for their father, and the mystery of what killed their mother

[girl-in-the-chairs-void]

Hold me, Console me

Pairing; Logan x reader

C/w; hurt/comfort, fluff, Logan having nightmares

A/N; LOGAN HAS BEEN ON MY MINDDDD. Here’s a little mind dump for ya. Listen to “no one noticed” by the Marias because it’s literally the inspo for it!!!!

Tags; @pedroscurls

part 2 heheh

You and Logan were…different. He felt different with you, having all his walls broken down within weeks of meeting you; he never thought he’d feel so open again.

But there was something that always tugged at you. He leaves, during the night when you’ve dozed off into a deep sleep. He dozes off on the couch.

His groans and grunts when he has his nightmares was not unfamiliar to you and you wish you could help him through it but just won’t open up, won’t take down that last wall that you’ve been trying so hard to climb or break or just paw at.

He was having another one of those dreams- no nightmares, his past, dead faces everywhere. Flashes of the people he’s loved and lost; his mind mocking him with the fast forwarded slide show of all the horrible things that he’s endured. He doesn’t hear you at first. Your muffled pleas, calling his name.

Then he hears a desperate “Logan, please, wake up.”

And suddenly everything goes white. He takes deep breath through his mouth, sitting up on the leather couch suddenly. His claws come out in an instant as you jump back to avoid getting impaled, eyes wide.

His breathing is heavy- ragged, you were too close.

“Logan,” you crawl towards him, slow. A prey approaching its predator willingly.

He sheaths his claws in a blink, heels of his palms squeezing his eyes shut. A sharp, “no” is uttered before he’s reaching for his shirt and making a beeline for your door.

You run after him, blocking the door before he can reach the it.

“No, Logan! Not today,” your eyes are puffy, and pleading for him to stay. Just this once. “Please, stay”.

So fucking polite. He thinks. He could melt into you right then and there but he can’t. He can’t because he almost killed you. Almost hurt you.

You hurt her, like you hurt them. You hurt- you almost killed her. You killed them. You killed them. You killed her.

His face hardens at your plea but with one hand on his chest and a push, he can’t help but follow your orders.

“Baby…” He starts, choking back words, thinking in the fear of saying the wrong thing.

“Talk to me, Lo. You’ve been hiding here every night, in pain. I don’t like seeing you that way.” You sit him down on the plush yet worn out leather, sitting next to him. It groans under the weight of him and you as you let him sink further in.

He has half the mind and a full urge to pull you to your rightful seat on his lap, but he knows he can’t. Not right now.

“I can’t” his voice comes out shakier than he wanted it to. He doesn’t know what he can or can’t tell you. The horrors of his past have led him here, to you. Something he feels is permanent.

“You’ve endured a lot, life has given you too many hardships and I know it hasn’t been easy for you.” You say, reaching out your palm to wipe a stray tear away from his cheek, his beard tickling at your skin.

“But I want you to open up, please. Don’t like seeing you in pain, Lo.” You can feel your own tears running down your own cheeks.

He pulls you onto his lap, making you straddle him as he wipes your tears away silently. Pressing his lips to your forehead, he apologises in silent whispers; “I’m sorry” a kiss on your temple, “I’m so” his lips move down to your left cheek, “so sorry” then to your right before landing onto your own lips. It’s tender, filled with a thousand apologies and a million ‘I am here for you’s. He loves you, he really does.

“It’ll take time, bub.” He pulls away, hands still caging your face, calloused thumb brushing against your bottom lip as you up at him.

“It’s okay, take your time,” you cup his palm into your own, bringing it to your lips, peppering sweet kisses in the inside of it. So sweet.

“I’ll wait forever, but not too long, yeah?”

If only. If only that forever was actually as long as the word implied.

Because the next morning, you don’t wake up in the arms of the love of your life. There is no trace of him besides the lingering scent of his cigar.

He left without a trace.

[tortillamastersblog]

✐ Drained | Kara Danvers ✎

Pairing: Kara Danvers x spider!reader

Warnings: angst, cursing, fighting, mentions injuries, and violence

Summary: Kara solar flaring and putting herself in danger over and over again puts a strain on your already fragile relationship. . .

_______________________________________________

“Y/N?” Alex’s voice in my ear makes me flinch and if it weren’t for the fact that I can literally stick to ceilings and walls I would have slipped off the edge of the roof I’m currently standing on. “You good?”

I sigh and lift my hand to my ear. “Yes, I’m okay. Just stopped a bank robbery.”

It was a fairly easy job, considering the robbers immediately surrendered when they saw me.

“Yeah, I saw it on the news, so. . .”

“So?” I play with the mask in my hands and close my eyes, enjoying the night breeze on my face.

“Are you coming back to the tower, or are you planning on spending the rest of the night on a rooftop?” she asks, her voice full of concern. She can see where I am because of the giant digital map back at the tower. What she doesn’t know though is why I’m here. Judging by the looks she’s given me lately, she knows that something is up, but she has yet to figure out what it is.

I scoff bitterly and slip my mask back on. “It’s not like it would matter anyway.”

“What?”

I take a deep breath and swallow the hurt clawing its way up my throat. “Nothing. Forget I said anything. I’m heading back now.”

There’s a short pause on the other end of the line before Alex says, “Okay. See you in a bit then. Swing safe, little one.”

“We’re the same age, Alex, and I’m literally taller than you.” I deadpan, leaping off the building.

My stomach flutters at the feeling of the wind rushing by and for a moment I forget all about why I was brooding in the first place.

“I’m four days older than you” Alex corrects with a chuckle and I can’t help but smile under my mask as I swing through the city.

“Pff. . . tomayto, tomahto.” I swing from building to building, keeping my eyes and ears open for anything suspicious while I make my way back to the tower.

Alex laughs again, trying to convince me that four days are a significant amount of time only to stop mid sentence when an explosion across the city captures both our attention.

“What was that?” I pivot and start swinging in the direction of the explosion, my spider-senses tingling ominously. Alex ignores me, cursing under her breath and typing furiously on a computer. “Alex!”

“Y/N?” J’onn’s calm voice does nothing to assuage my worry, especially not when I can hear Alex shouting something unintelligible in the background.

“What’s happening, J’onn? What’s going on?” I shout over the noise of traffic as I swing across a bridge.

“It’s Supergirl,” he says. “She got caught in an ambush. We’ve already sent out some backup.”

Kara. . .

My heart clenches at the thought of anything happening to her and I force myself to go faster. My arms burn and I’m panting in no time, but the only thought on my mind is that I have to get to Kara before anything else happens.

“They’re never going to get there in time, J’onn! Do we know who’s responsible for this?” Caught up in my own worry, I miscalculate on of my swings, coming dangerously close to swinging into oncoming traffic.

“We don’t know any details yet, but Lena and Brainy are working on it.”

I clench my jaw and force myself to go even faster when another explosion goes off. “Any word from Kara?”

The short silence that follows gives me the answer I’m dreading before J’onn even admits that communication with Kara has been cut off.

“Fuck!” I ignore whatever else J’onn says after that and perform two powerful swing before finally getting to the docks by the river. Sweat is running down my body below the suit and my lungs are burning.

I land on top of a crane and let my eyes dart all over the place until I spot what I’m looking for.

Below me, standing in a circle around Kara in her super suit are four goons, dressed in black combat gear. They have have strange looking guns pointed at her and I realize that every time Kara uses her heat vision, the guns absorb it before shooting it back at her.

Why isn’t she flying away?!

“Nala, what’s going on down there? Why isn’t she fighting back properly?” I ask the AI in my suit, trying to figure out how best to approach this situation without putting Kara in any more danger.

Nala scans the surrounding area before reporting her findings. “I have detected traces of Kryptonite in the air.”

“Shit. . . And how many hostiles are there?” I ask, only now noticing the way the veins in Kara’s face and hands glow a faint green.

“There are four hostiles at the moment but I have detected three more incoming human heat signatures in a lead-lined truck half a mile from here. ETA forty seconds.”

I jump off the crane and swing to a nearby container closer to the ground. “Fuck! They’re going to take her!”

My heart is pounding in my ears and I know that if I don’t act right now, it’s going to be too late, but I can’t think of a plan when all I can focus on are the yelps that escape Kara every time she takes a hit.

“Thirty seconds.” Nala’s says, her robotic voice as calm and rational as ever. “If you don’t do something within the next five seconds the chances of Supergirl being taken increase from 43% to 97%”

“I know, Nala! Shut up, I’m trying to think!”

A particularly strong blow hits Kara’s side and she drops to one knee with a whimper while one of the goons pulls a pair of bulky handcuffs from his pockets.

They wouldn’t normally be able to restrain Kara, but because she’s weakened and on the brink of solar flaring right now they’ll work on her just like they do on any other human being.

“Twenty seven seconds.” Nala reminds me.

“Argh, fuck!” I’m shaking uncontrollably, not knowing what to do.

“Your time to act is running out in three—“

My eyes dart around frantically, trying to spot something that could help me distract them.

“Two—“

There’s nothing. No pipe, no crate, or anything I could fling at them.

“One—“

Before Nala can finish, I leap off the container and swing right at the group below me.

I can’t fight those goons because they’d outnumber me, so a quick getaway is my only plan of action.

“Heads up!” I shout which makes all of them look up in surprise.

At the sight of me, Kara lets out a broken sob of relief and lifts her arms like we’ve practiced a hundred times before.

She does it just in time because not even a second later I slam into her, wrapping one arm around her waist and picking her up mid swing.

“Gotcha!” I readjust my grip on her and focus on swinging us away as her arms tighten around my shoulders. “Hold on, I’m getting us out of here!”

Kara doesn’t answer. She only sobs against my neck and wraps her legs around my hips.

Well, that was easier than I thought it would—

A blow to the back of my left leg makes me howl in pain and I almost miss my next swing. I look over my shoulder and see the goons below chasing us with their guns raised and firing.

“Nala! A little help here!” I screech as I see the lead-lined truck the AI detected earlier barreling towards us.

“Calculating alternative routes. . .”

Another blast from below grazes my shoulder, making me grit my teeth. “Oh my God?! What are you? My car’s GPS?! Tell me where to go!”

I take a sharp right turn and head for the city, now finally out of range of the goon’s on foot. The lead-lined truck however has turned down the same way we did and is now hot on our tail.

I can’t get higher because all I can swing off of are these containers and I can’t go any faster because I have Kara in my arms.

That reminds me, since picking her up she hasn’t said a single thing and her grip around me has also loosened considerably.

“Nala, what’s wrong with Supergirl?” I ask, doing my best to dodge the bullets that are being fired at us from below.

“It seems the Kryptonian has passed out.”

Great, she’s solar flared. . .

I grunt and readjust her in my arm. “Is she injured?”

“Yes, but she should make a full recovery as soon as her powers have returned.”

The gunfire from below suddenly stops and when I look down I see that the truck has come to a stop in front of a superficial police barricade.

Officers are swarming the place, ducking behind car doors and aiming their guns at the truck, screaming at the goons to step out with their hands behind their head.

“J’onn.” I breathe in relief when I realize that this is the backup he mentioned earlier.

I try to get my comms device working again, having no idea when it stopped working in the first place, but it doesn’t turn back on, so I just continue making my way into the city toward the tower.

Now that the imminent threat of being shot has been eliminated though, I slow down considerably and focus on keeping my swings as smooth as possible in case Kara wakes up.

Someone squeezing my hand makes me stir in my chair. I groan and open my eyes, feeling a dull ache on my shoulder and the back of my leg where I was hit by the goons.

“Baby. . .” Kara’s soft voice makes me shoot up in my chair and when I look down at her on the bed I find her blue eyes already on me. She smiles softly and squeezes my hand again. “Hey.”

“Hi, how are you feeling?” I ask quietly. I reach forward and push the sun lamps up enough for her to sit up carefully.

“Like shit,” she admits with a small chuckle.

I scoff and let go of her hand, burying it in my lap. If she’d said that three months ago, I would have laughed and kissed the back of her hand playfully, but since then, things have changed.

Three months ago, sitting in the med bay next to Kara was a very rare occurrence. Nowadays though, it’s almost a daily occurrence.

She’s constantly taking unnecessary risks and on the off-chance that she’s not out superheroing, she stays up late at the office to finish an article, or write a news segment.

I can’t remember the last time we slept in the same bed, much less when we shared a meal together. Our relationship is barely even a relationship anymore, and tonight has honestly been my last straw.

Frowning at the way I pulled my hand out of her grasp, Kara sits up straighter. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Tears prick my eyes and I dig my fingernails into my palms. “What’s wrong?! Are you kidding me, Kara? This is the third time you’ve solar flared this week! You were almost kidnapped and I was shot twice saving you!”

“Y-You’re hurt?” She squints, presumably to use her x-ray vision on me, but then she realizes her powers have yet to return. “Are you—“

“This isn’t about me!” I cut in, my voice getting louder. “You keep putting yourself in these situations and I can’t for the life of me understand why. What’s going on with you? Why are you doing this?”

Kara gapes at me, her frown deepening. “Y/N. . .My Love . .”

I shake my head and get up, pacing at the foot of her bed. “No, Kara. I want answers. What’s going on with you? Does it have anything to do with me?” I ask, my voice shaking. “Did I do something wrong? Is that why you’re never home? Are you being reckless to prove something, or—“

“No, you didn’t do anything,” she insists. “I promise. This has nothing to do with you.”

I stop and turn to look at her. Her blue eyes are shining with tears and her chin is quivering.

“Then what is it?” I use the sleeve of the hoodie Alex gave me earlier after cleaning my wounds to wipe away my tears.

Kara clenches and unclenches her jaw as if she’s struggling to admit something. “Y/N, it’s not— I mean, you didn’t— I know things have been a lot lately, but-“ she runs a hand through her hair and sighs. “I don’t know what’s going on with me.”

If that isn’t the biggest lie she’s ever told then I don’t know what is. She’s a horrible liar and even if I didn’t hear the telltale sound of her heart stuttering just now, I’d still know she was lying just by seeing the guilty look on her face.

I stare at her for a moment, wondering when everything started to go this wrong between us before hanging my head low and turning to leave. “Well, I guess you better start figuring it out then because I can’t do this anymore, Kara.”

“W-What?” she stutters. I hear her trying to get up to follow me before groaning and falling back into bed. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.” I reach for the door handle without looking back.

“Wait!” Her voice falters and when she sniffles I have to force myself not to turn back and comfort her. “Are you. . . Are you breaking up with me?”

I swallow harshly and open the door. “No, not yet anyway.”

I leave before she can say anything else and make my way to the tower’s main room where J’onn, Alex, and Nia are sitting around the coffee table.

“Hey, are you okay?” Nia asks when she sees the distress on my face.

I just shake my head and make my way to the elevator. “No. Alex?”

The older Danvers who’s also watching me with concern gets to her feet. “Yeah?”

“Tell your sister to pull herself together,” I say before stepping onto the elevator.

I see J’onn raise an eyebrow at the interaction and share a glance with Nia before the doors slide closed.

Kara might be the one who solar flared, but I could bet a hundred bucks I’m more drained than she is right now.

This has been quite some time in the making now, and I know it’s no longer up to me how things will turn out from here on out.

It’s in Kara’s hands now and if our relationship is as important to her as it is to me, she will have to prove it.

_______________________________________________

Uh oh. . .