#and he went on his ‘you’re an adult and it’s your choice in the end but i wouldn’t recommend it’ spiel | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aleksatia · 14 days ago

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❄️Zayne - Seven Years Later

The fourth in a series of stories exploring MC’s return after five years of silence. Others are coming soon — links will be added as they’re published.

⚠️ Important

This story is different. It’s for adults — not just because it contains an intimate scene, but because it deals in gray morality, layers, and choices that aren’t clean or easy. There are no clear heroes here, no black-and-white answers, no simple characters to love or hate. It hits hard. I’m more than aware this won’t be for everyone — and it’s definitely not a light bedtime read. Please take a moment to read the CW/TW carefully before diving in. Proceed at your own risk. The structure might feel a little odd at the beginning — I may have gone overboard, and Tumblr wouldn't let me post it with that many paragraphs, so I had to compress things a bit.

Original ask that sparked this continuation.

Sylus | Rafayel | Caleb | Xavier (coming soon)

CW/TW: emotional trauma, unresolved grief, morally gray relationships, abandonment, guilt, forgiveness, explicit sexual content (consensual, emotionally intense), medical trauma, physical injury, parental estrangement, bio-child created without consent through stored genetic material, complex mother-daughter dynamics, identity crisis, ambiguous morality.

Pairing: Zayne x ex-lover!you Genre: Cold-burn angst, medical intimacy, slow unthawing, grief-forged love, second chances carved from ruin. Summary: Seven years ago, you left without a word. Now, in a snowbound mountain town, fate hands you a child with your eyes, a man with your pulse, and a wound that never really healed. What begins with a lost glove and an impossible resemblance ends in a cabin, a scar, and the kind of truth that doesn’t ask for forgiveness — only a place to stay. Word Count: 16K

Snowcrest

You hadn’t meant to stay this long.

The wind is starting to pick up, curling around your ankles, stealing the warmth from your coat sleeves. The sun has dipped just behind the ridge, casting a deep, bruised blue across the snowbanks. Below, the valley falls away into a soft blur of pine and frost. Somewhere down there is the road you took seven years ago. Somewhere down there is the part of yourself you buried like contraband.

You cradle the paper cup tighter in your hands, now lukewarm. A snowflake melts against your knuckle.

Behind you, the wooden rail of the overlook creaks gently, just once. You don’t turn. Not at first.

“Your eyes,” a small voice says beside you, bright and matter-of-fact, “look like my mommy’s.”

You glance down. A girl — maybe five, maybe six — stands a few feet away, all pink puff and wool layers. Her beanie is lopsided, a ridiculous pompom tilting to one side. Her cheeks are wind-bitten, her boots dusted white.

“Do they?” you say.

She nods seriously, then frowns a little. “But you’re not her. Mommy’s not here. I came with my dad.”

“Where is your dad?”

“He went to get hot chocolate. I wanted to see the mountains first.” She says this like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Her mittens are too big. One slips halfway off as she points toward the café.

You smile, soft and automatic. “You shouldn’t wander off. He might get worried.”

She considers this. Then, very formally, she reaches out and takes your hand.

“Okay. Let’s go find him.”

The café’s windows glow faintly, gold against the evening blue. The inside is all timber and condensation, the kind of place that always smells like cinnamon and wet gloves. You push open the door with your shoulder, usher her in.

He’s there.

You see him before he sees you. A tall figure in a charcoal coat, leaning casually near the counter, one gloved hand curled around a paper cup. His posture is the same. That impossible stillness, like he’s already factored every variable in the room. Like he’s never been caught off guard in his life.

And then he turns.

The girl drops your hand without hesitation and runs to him, shouting, “Daddy! I found a friend! She has eyes like Mommy’s!”

He bends to meet her. His hand cups the back of her head automatically, instinctively. Not roughly, not tenderly either — just with a kind of understated precision, the way he does everything.

You stand frozen. Your lungs forget what to do. Your spine loses temperature.

Zayne looks at you. The moment lingers exactly three seconds too long.

Then he nods, once, like a man seeing a stranger on the street who looks faintly familiar.

“Thank you for helping her,” he says. His voice hasn’t changed. Smooth. Controlled. Every syllable clipped clean.

You open your mouth. Only a whisper makes it out.

“She was alone. I thought — her parents might be worried.”

He inclines his head. “I wasn’t. She doesn’t wander far.”

He reaches for the girl’s hand. She looks between you and him, confused but not frightened. Her chocolate sloshes slightly in his free hand.

You stand there, a full seven years collapsing in on themselves. Every hour, every unanswered question, every night you thought about him without letting yourself say his name. All of it rushes into the hollow space behind your ribs.

Zayne doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch.

“Come on,” he tells the girl. “Let’s go watch the lights come in.”

And just like that, he walks past you. No hesitation. No second glance.

The door opens, and the wind catches it. Then it shuts behind them, clean as a scalpel stroke.

And you are left inside the warmth, holding nothing.

You don’t remember walking to the hotel bar. Only the sound of your boots on packed snow. The burn in your calves from the climb. The hum of your own name, suddenly useless, echoing somewhere deep inside you.

Now you sit at the far end of the counter, coat still on, fingers red from the cold. The bartender, young and quiet, gives you a look like he’s seen people run from more than just the wind.

You nod at your glass. He refills it without a word.

It’s your fourth. Maybe third. You’ve lost count, and the fact that you’ve lost count is the first real mercy of the night.

You lift it again. Swallow it in one breath.

The heat climbs slow, low. No sting. No flinch. It settles into your chest like a bruise, not a balm.

And still — your hands don’t shake. You keep seeing her face. The girl. Her eyes. Her eyes. Your eyes.

No, that’s impossible. That’s sentimental. That’s the kind of thing people like to believe when they’ve been drinking and when the sky outside is layered in violet and black and stars. That’s not Zayne.

But then again, you saw him.

And there was something about the way he touched her head, about how precisely he measured the moment, how quietly he acknowledged you with nothing but the edge of a nod — as if you were just another polite inconvenience to be managed.

You could’ve handled anger. Recrimination. Accusation.

But that? That… undid something.

You drink again.

The math won’t leave you alone. You’re not even trying to calculate, but your mind does it anyway. That same brutal, automatic clarity you once hated in him — now taking over you like second skin.

She’s almost six. Nearly. Maybe five and a half.

You do the subtraction. You try not to think about it. You fail.

He hadn’t hesitated — as if he’d been waiting for you to leave all along. That’s the thought that lands first. Loud. Stupid. Petty. But there.

You picture her mother. Not a fantasy — a memory. The woman you once saw with him. She looked like she belonged beside him. Like she understood him without needing to try. Smarter. Softer. Prettier than you ever were.

You’ve never been beautiful the way he liked beautiful things. His apartment always looked like a magazine. His meals — artful. His shelves — symmetrical. You always felt like a crooked painting on a perfect wall.

Maybe you never belonged there. Maybe he figured that out too.

You press your fingers to the side of your glass and drum lightly. The bartender glances over. You don’t even have to speak. When he brings the next pour, you cradle it a little longer. Let it rest in your palm like something you’re trying to keep alive.

You told yourself, back then, that leaving was the right thing. That it would give him freedom, space, a life not tethered to your mess.

You left so he could be happy.

And now, with the living proof of that happiness having just skipped across the room into his arms —

Why does it feel like your ribs are folding in on themselves? Why does it feel like punishment?

You tip the glass back again. The burn now feels right. Like penance.

Somewhere behind you, a group of tourists laughs. Glasses clink. The sound’s muffled by the snow-pressed windows, the heavy wood beams, the distant wind howling like something ancient just outside the walls.

You close your eyes. You’re supposed to feel numb. Instead, it feels like your chest is thawing too fast. Like something inside is waking up with a roar.

And the only thing you want is to drown it back into silence.

You were supposed to be up hours ago.

There had been a list. Alarms, laid out meticulously the night before. Layers folded on the chair by the radiator, boots lined up like loyal soldiers. You were going to be efficient. Controlled. Someone with purpose. Someone who didn’t dissolve into whisky and memory and the sharp sting of her own mistakes.

Instead, you wake sometime after eleven, swimming through a haze that isn’t quite sleep and not quite regret. The world tilts gently beneath you, and your mouth tastes of copper and last night.

You don’t take the painkillers. It feels important not to.

The sky outside is blank again, a hard white you’ve only seen in northern places — something between erasure and threat. You dress by instinct: thick jeans, a fleece-lined shirt, the coat with the broken zipper pull. Uggs still damp. You tie your hair back with cold fingers and don’t check the mirror before leaving.

The air outside is heavier today. Crisper. Snow crunches beneath your soles in that particular way it only does in subzero silence. You pass two hikers on the ridge trail — layers too new, faces too red. They nod, friendly. You don’t respond.

Dr. Noah’s house sits on the upper slope, just beyond the last bend, framed by black pines and the wide white hush of the valley. It’s larger than you remembered, but quieter too. A chalet-style lodge, all dark-stained timber and angled glass — broad eaves sagging gently under the weight of accumulated snow. The windows reflect the pale noon light like sheets of ice.

You approach from the side path. The one that wraps behind the slope of the porch and leads up past the kitchen garden, now skeletal and brittle with frost, to the private entrance: a cedarwood door, flush with the planks, unmarked save for a brass pull and the faint ghost of boot scuffs on the stone step.

You hesitate.

The reasons not to knock assemble themselves quickly, efficiently. He may not be here. Or he is, and he brought his family. Or worse: he’s here alone, and still as closed off and surgical and devastatingly calm as he was last night.

You raise your hand anyway. The door opens before your knuckles touch wood. He must’ve been just behind it.

The light hits him square — white coat, wire-frame glasses, the same posture that always made him seem even taller than he was. For a moment, he says nothing. Just looks at you. That stillness hasn’t faded with the years. If anything, it’s calcified.

You see it then — a flicker across his face, something so quick it’s probably nothing. Annoyance, maybe. Or exhaustion. Or some emotion too fast to name.

And then he speaks, voice even, expression impassive. "Not the best time. You should leave."

It’s a clean incision. No edges to hold onto.

You blink, caught between offense and disbelief, and say, “I’m here to see Dr. Noah. Not you.”

A pause. His gaze doesn’t move.

“He’s ill,” he replies, with that mechanical precision you’d nearly forgotten. “I’m covering his patients until he’s discharged.”

Your voice softens, almost without permission. “Is it serious?”

He shrugs. Not dismissively — just finally. The kind of gesture that says this is what it is, and nothing more.

You understand. You always understood him best in these silences.

There’s nothing you can say to that. Not about Noah. Not about age, or time, or inevitability. The snow shifts under your feet. You glance behind him into the house.

Pine beams. Slate flooring. A wide, open room stretching toward a set of panoramic windows that look out over the ridge. The light inside is softer than expected — muted amber, filtered through linen drapes and the faint movement of steam from something on the stove. The air smells like pine and black tea. The kind of house that invites you to sit down and fall apart.

He turns slightly, hand on the doorframe. “You can visit him at the hospital,” he says. “But I’m expecting someone now.”

You exhale, more sound than breath. “Miss Deveraux, I assume,” you murmur, before you can decide not to.

His head tilts. A beat of calculation.

“You changed your name.”

You lift one shoulder. A shrug, a defense. He doesn’t get an answer. He already took all the ones that mattered.

You’re turning to go when something shifts. Not in his face, but in the air between you. Maybe professionalism. Maybe instinct. Maybe something older.

He steps aside. No invitation. Just an opening. You hesitate only a second. Then you walk through it.

Inside, the warmth hits hard. Your skin prickles. The space is wide but not cold — wood, stone, soft textiles in winter hues. A sheepskin throw over the back of a bench. Open shelving with hand-thrown mugs. A pile of well-worn paperbacks in the corner near a slate fireplace, still glowing faintly from a morning fire.

The heat is the kind that seeps under your skin and makes you remember things. Long nights. Herbal tea. The low sound of Miles Davis from the speakers in his kitchen. The kind of quiet that had nothing to do with peace.

Your boots leave wet prints on the floor.

“This way,” he says, and turns.

You follow him down the hall — wide-planked floors beneath your feet, the faint scent of cedar and lemon oil in the air.

The walls here are quiet. Not sterile, like the clinics you grew up in. But not quite lived-in either. Books in every alcove. Some dog-eared. Some untouched. A long-handled snowshoe mounted like art.

You pass a narrow window where wind-scattered shadows move across the snow. And you don’t ask where he’s taking you. You never did. Zayne walks ahead, and you follow.

Then he stops. Opens a door.

It’s the kind of room you’d expect in a place like this — clinical, but softened by the architecture. The walls are a shade too warm to be white. A reclaimed wood desk sits at an angle to a wide window with a view down the valley. There’s a folded wool blanket on the back of the armchair. A stethoscope rests near a mug gone cold.

And under the desk, a pair of small boots peeks out. Purple. Fur-trimmed. Familiar.

A moment later, a girl’s voice — muffled, stubborn — says, “I don’t want to read. Reading is boring.”

She’s curled beneath the desk, arms folded, cheeks flushed. Next to her, crouched on the floor in a cashmere sweater and soft leggings, is a woman — young, luminous, the kind of composed beauty you’ve only ever seen in galleries or dreams. Her hair is tucked into a braid, her voice calm as riverglass.

“Just one story,” she says gently. “Then we can go back to drawing. Promise.”

The child burrows deeper into the corner.

You stand frozen, caught somewhere between the clinical sterility of the room and the scene that could only be described as... domestic. They’re easy with each other, practiced. The woman places a hand gently on the girl’s shoulder, and the girl leans into it, just enough.

You feel something sink in your chest. That’s her, you think. The wife. The mother.

Zayne steps forward. His hand brushes the woman’s back — a touch so natural it’s almost intimate, but not indulgent. More... familiar. Trusted.

“She’s had enough for now,” he says, his voice soft but decisive. “Sweetheart, come on out.”

The girl peeks up at him. “Are you done working?”

He smiles — barely. “Almost. I need to finish this consultation. Then we can go look for rabbits.”

She considers this. Then, without a word, crawls out from under the desk and stands, brushing off imaginary dust. Her braid is loose over one shoulder, a little frayed at the end.

And then she sees you. Recognition flashes across her face — not quite shock, more like a slow realization. A dream remembered mid-afternoon.

“Hi,” she says brightly. “You’re the lady with Mommy’s eyes.”

You smile. “And you’re the girl who looks at mountains instead of drinking hot chocolate.”

She giggles. Then pauses. Tilts her head.

“What’s your favorite story?”

You blink, caught off guard. "East of the Sun and West of the Moon."

She wrinkles her nose, curious. “What’s it about?”

But before you can answer, Zayne cuts in, voice crisp. “A girl trades herself to a bear to save her family. She disobeys one rule, ruins everything, and spends the rest of the story chasing what she lost.”

The girl blinks. “Oh.”

“She finds him again,” you say quietly, stepping closer. “That part matters.”

Zayne doesn’t look at you. “Barely. And only after walking the ends of the earth.”

“Sometimes that’s what it takes,” you say.

There’s a pause. Something drifts in that space between interpretation and indictment.

The girl looks between you both, then smiles. “I want to read it.”

Zayne nods once, briskly. “We’ll find a copy.”

He looks to the young woman — the one whose name you still don’t know — and gives the barest nod. She stands, smooth and silent, and extends a hand. The girl takes it without hesitation, eyes still flicking back toward you.

“She has a thousand questions,” the woman says with a small smile. Her voice is lower than you expected. Kind.

“I imagine she does,” you murmur.

Then they’re gone. The door clicks shut with a soft finality.

You turn back. Zayne’s already pulling the chair into position. His face resets — back into the familiar neutrality of a doctor preparing to deliver something precise.

He gestures toward the patient’s stool.

“Sit,” he says, already reaching for the chart. “Let’s get this over with.”

And just like that, you’re no one again. Just a file. A diagnosis. Another thing to manage.

You sit.

The paper on the examination table crackles beneath you, loud in the hush of the room. Zayne doesn't look at you as he flips open the chart. His fingers move with the same exacting grace they always had — sharp, sure, impersonal.

There is no sign he knows you beyond your name. No flicker of recognition in the line of his jaw, no hesitation in the tone. Just one more consultation on a day too full.

He adjusts the light above you, then gestures. “Shirt.”

You pause.

The heater ticks somewhere behind you. The window throws pale afternoon across the floor — all snow and silence. Your hands rise, slow. The fabric sticks a little at your wrists.

When you unbutton the top three buttons, his eyes stay trained somewhere just over your shoulder. Not out of politeness. Control.

But his hand falters for half a second — just a twitch — when your collar falls open and the scar shows, clean and linear and unmistakable, running diagonally across your chest.

He doesn't comment. Instead, his voice shifts into that lower octave he used with unstable cases. “How long ago?”

You hesitate, eyes still fixed on the wall behind him. “Seven months.”

His gaze flicks up. Direct. Not curious. Clinical. “Cause?”

“Wanderer,” you say, too quickly.

You feel him still. Then the sound of the pen clicks sharply against the clipboard.

“You’re still in the field.”

It’s not a question.

You nod, barely. “I consult with Dr. Noah every month. He monitors me remotely.”

Zayne sets the chart aside with too much precision. “You took a core-impact injury to the thoracic cavity,” he says flatly. “That doesn’t require monitoring. That requires full diagnostic protocol. You should be in a central hospital. Not here. Not with a retired man in a chalet and a teapot.”

You bristle. “Noah’s been treating me years. He knows my profile.”

“His machines are ten years older than that.”

You flinch at his tone — not cruel, but surgical. The truth without kindness.

“I’ll refer you to the Linkon Diagnostic Center,” he continues, already reaching for the console. “They’ll run a complete bio-map and core sync within twenty-four hours. Dr. Reza is —”

You cut in, voice sharp. “You’re not offering?”

That stops him. Just for a moment. He meets your gaze. Something ancient flickers there, then shutters.

“I’m not your doctor,” he says.

He’s still listening to your heart, diaphragm pressed too close to skin, and suddenly you’re too bare. Too known. Too held open under his breath.

You pull back. Fast.

The stethoscope slips. You cover your chest with trembling hands and fumble for the buttons. “I’m not going back to Linkon,” you say tightly. “I’m fine.”

Your fingers shake. The top button won’t catch.

His voice doesn’t lift. “You’re not fine. You’re compensating.”

“I’ve been compensating since I was nine,” you snap.

That lands. You don’t know why you said it. Maybe because it’s the only way to hurt him — to remind him that you were already a scar before he ever touched you.

He steps back. Withdraws. The room feels wider again. Colder. Silence pools between you.

Then you speak, too soft to matter.

“She’s beautiful,” you say. “Your daughter.”

You force a small smile. “She looks like you.”

Zayne’s brow lifts, just a little. “You might want to get your vision checked. She looks exactly like her mother.”

You blink. The words hit like an off-key note.

“I didn’t notice,” you murmur, thinking — of the girl crouched beside her, warm and glowing and precisely the kind of woman you always assumed he’d marry. The kind who makes soup. The kind who waits. The kind who stays.

“She’s sweet,” you add. “And calm. I always thought you’d end up with someone like that. Someone who makes a home feel like tea and cinnamon and a blanket in the storm.”

His face tightens, just enough for you to see it before he hides it again. Then, sharply: “Are you done?”

You nod once. “Yeah.”

He turns, moves toward the desk. The professional mask slips back into place like it never cracked. “Come back tomorrow morning. I want your blood work. When you’re not hungover.”

Your face heats. A slow, miserable bloom. “I’m not —”

“You are,” he says simply. “I can smell it.”

You swallow, hard.

“It’s fine,” you lie. “The injury doesn’t bother me. I’m cleared for fieldwork. I just need you to sign the release.”

He doesn’t look up. “What release?”

You reach into your coat pocket and pull out the crumpled envelope. You place it on the edge of the desk.

He picks it up. Reads.

Then — without a word — he walks to the cabinet and slides it into a drawer sealed with a biometric lock. You hear the soft click as it closes.

“I won’t sign it,” he says. “Not until I’m sure.”

You stare at the drawer. Then at him.

There’s a pulse behind your ribs — not physical, not medical. Just heat. Something dangerously close to humiliation. You hadn’t expected softness, of course. But still, the stark refusal… It lands harder than you meant it to.

Your voice comes out quieter than planned. “You’re not serious.”

Zayne doesn’t look up from the chart. “I am.”

“I don’t need diagnostics,” you press. “I just need a signature.”

He flips to the next page, casually. “Then go ask someone who doesn’t know what they’re looking at.”

That stings. You laugh, a breathless, brittle sound. “So this is how it’s going to be.”

He meets your gaze then. Steady. Cold. "I treat what’s in front of me. And what I see is a patient with an unstable cardiac implant, signs of recent trauma, poor sleep, an irregular heartbeat, and a tendency toward self-endangerment."

You flinch. “Don’t analyze me.”

“I’m not,” he says, tone flat. “I’m reading you.”

The silence sharpens. You push off the exam table, standing fast enough that the paper beneath you rips.

“You don’t get to pretend you still have some claim to how I live.”

He blinks once. That’s it. “I never did.”

Your throat burns. “Then why won’t you sign the fucking form?”

“Because I don’t trust you,” he says, finally. The words are quiet, but they cut with such clean detachment, it almost feels surgical.

And just like that — the guilt in your chest shifts. You’d come here expecting control. Containment. What you weren’t ready for was this: being the villain in your own story.

Your voice cracks, more bitter than angry. “I didn’t ask you to care.”

“I know,” Zayne says. “You made that very clear. Seven years ago.”

That lands differently. Deeper. You close your eyes for a moment. The inside of your eyelids glow red.

“I thought leaving was the right thing,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t move. “For who?”

You look at him. He’s not angry. Not really. His voice is calm, clinical. The same voice he used with parents trying to argue with the numbers on a monitor.

And somehow that hurts worse.

You breathe in through your nose. The air smells like antiseptic and cedarwood and the past.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” you say, voice low. “I wouldn’t.”

He sets the chart down. Calmly. No slam, no emphasis. It might as well be a napkin.

“You think this is about forgiveness?” he says. “This is about liability. You walked in here with a barely stabilized core and a goddamn hero complex. Forgiveness isn’t part of the chart.”

You laugh again — short, scorched. “God, you haven’t changed at all.”

Zayne’s expression doesn't shift. “And you have?”

You take a step forward. It feels dangerous — not because you think he’ll hurt you, but because of how much space you’ve already lost.

“You think I wanted to disappear?” you bite. “You think it was easy? You think I didn’t —”

He cuts in, voice colder than glass. “You didn’t.”

A pause.

“That’s the only part I believe.”

Your breath catches. You feel it in your spine, the way you used to feel a storm breaking inside your chest.

“You act like I broke you,” you snap.

“No,” he says, and his voice now is quieter. Worse. “You broke yourself. I just happened to be holding the pieces.”

You stand there, trembling. There are a thousand things you could say. But none of them are clean. None of them come without blood. So instead —

“Go to hell,” you spit, and you’re already at the door.

Zayne doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you the way a surgeon watches a flatline. And as your hand hits the latch, shaking —

“You should’ve stayed gone,” he says.

That does it. You don’t even feel the cold this time as you step out into the white. You don’t zip your coat. You don’t look back. You’re burning from the inside out. And the snow, for once, can’t touch it.

You visit Noah in the hospital that afternoon.

He looks better than he should. Alert. Hydrated. Too pleased to see you. He tries for a weak smile, a raspy breath, a trembling hand — all performative. You’ve known him too long to fall for it.

“Don’t do that,” you tell him flatly, settling beside the bed. “You’re not dying.”

He shrugs, pleased with himself. “Still worked.”

You narrow your eyes. “You invited him the moment you found out I was coming.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just adjusts his pillow like a man deeply proud of a long game finally paying off.

You don’t press further. What would be the point? You're here now. And Zayne — he's no longer a memory. He has breath. Mass. Velocity.

You walk back slowly as the sky folds in on itself, streaked with the shimmer of the aurora. It lights the town in green and violet smears, as though the heavens have been bruised.

At one point, you pause by a square, where someone proposes in the snow. There’s clapping. Flash photography. Squealing. A heart traced in frost by a stranger's boot.

You feel nothing. No. That’s not true. You feel everything.

You don’t sleep that night. You lie awake staring at the ceiling, counting the creaks of the old radiator like heartbeats. You get up at four. Shower. Wash your hair. You wear the least-wrinkled shirt you have and a coat that still smells like smoke from a bar you don’t remember leaving.

You’re not trying to look good. You just refuse to look ruined.

Still — no amount of water or concealer covers the circles under your eyes. You look exactly like what you are: someone who hasn’t let herself feel in seven years and is now bleeding out in quiet, ungraceful increments.

By the time you reach Noah’s house again, the sun has barely crested the horizon. The snow is high and dry, powder that cuts like sand.

And then impact. A snowball straight to your cheek. Hard.

You don’t have time to dodge. It lands just below your eye, wet and sharp and entirely undeserved.

You freeze, lips parted. A bloom of cold shock spreads across your face. A giggle follows. Small, delighted. Merciless.

Your hand rises to your cheek. Already hot, already red. You squint toward the source of your humiliation, ready to unleash something unkind —

Then you stop. It’s her. The girl. Pom-pom hat, mittens half-falling off. Grinning. Victorious.

And behind her, Zayne’s voice. Measured, mildly irritated: “Princess. I told you — not before breakfast.”

You turn, still rubbing your cheek.

He’s in the doorway, hair still damp, shirt sleeves pushed to the elbows. His expression hardens slightly when he sees the welt blooming on your face.

The girl looks up at him, wilting a little. He kneels, says something too low for you to catch. She nods solemnly and disappears inside.

You murmur, “It’s fine.”

He doesn’t answer. Just jerks his head toward the hall. “In the office. Wait there.”

You move past him. Your face still stings. Your pride more.

You sit. The room feels colder than yesterday. The chair, harder. You catch your reflection in the dark glass of the cabinet — the mark on your cheek already darkening. You lean in, touch it with one finger. There's a faint scratch beneath it. You blink. A tear hangs on your lower lash.

Zayne enters just as you wipe it away. You turn your face quickly, offer your arm like it’s a business transaction.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t comment.

The needle pricks deeper than necessary. It’s probably your fault — the tension in your muscles, the way your jaw locks when he touches you.

The vial fills in silence. The kind that makes you want to scream or laugh or break something clean in two. You choose the last.

A shaky breath escapes. A strange, quiet laugh follows. Zayne raises an eyebrow.

You don’t explain. Why would you?

It’s not every morning that both a man and his six-year-old daughter manage to draw blood from you before coffee.

He withdraws the needle, tapes you up with clinical speed. “You’ll have the results this evening. Depending on Noah’s system.”

You nod, preparing to leave. Then he moves — slower now — and steps close again. You see the cotton ball and antiseptic in his hand before you feel it.

You pull back instinctively. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t argue. But he looks at you in that way he used to. Like every word is a waste of time, and still, he waits for you to finish.

Finally, he says, low: “Don’t be angry with her. She was trying to play.”

“I’m not angry,” you reply, eyes steady. “I just wasn’t expecting to be used for target practice before dawn.”

You’re almost out the door when there’s a knock. Then — she’s there again.

Only now, she’s different. Composed. Hair neatly brushed, her steps careful. No smugness, no bounce. She walks in with both hands wrapped around a large ceramic mug, steam curling from the surface.

“I made you something,” she says, with determined seriousness. “It’s hot chocolate. And I’m sorry for your face.”

Her voice is precise. That same gravity Zayne carries — but undercut by something lighter. A flicker. A spark.

You take the mug. The chocolate is cloyingly thick. Too much sugar. Not enough milk. Like a child’s attempt at comfort.

You drink it anyway. Because no one’s made you something in a long, long time.

And her eyes — when she looks at you like that — they remind you of someone. Not her mother. Not that woman from yesterday. Someone else. Someone in the mirror.

And something you’d buried starts to surface. Not yet. But soon. Very soon.

Behind you, there’s a soft shuffle of feet. The girl steps back, glancing up at Zayne.

“I said I was sorry,” she murmurs.

Zayne raises an eyebrow. "Princess. Did you finish your breakfast?"

She folds her arms, expression thoughtful. Too thoughtful.

“I filled up on guilt,” she says brightly. “It’s very heavy.”

Zayne exhales, but there’s a flicker at the edge of his mouth. Something caught between annoyance and affection.

She leans slightly toward him, lowering her voice. “But if the lady stays for breakfast… I might be able to eat more. For company.”

It’s the kind of manipulation only a child can pull off — just enough honesty to disarm you, just enough calculation to know it’ll work. You glance at Zayne, caught between reluctance and something else — a crack, too thin to be a real opening, but present nonetheless.

“She’s persistent,” you murmur.

“She’s six,” Zayne replies dryly. “That’s their job.”

He doesn’t exactly invite you — but he doesn’t stop his daughter from taking your hand and leading you to the kitchen either.

The kitchen is warm. Simple, but elegant. Dark stone counters, exposed beams. A kettle hisses quietly on the stove. There’s a bowl of half-eaten oatmeal on the table, a spoon leaning precariously against its edge like a forgotten decision.

You sit, because she wants you to, because it’s easier than saying no.

Zayne stands by the counter, pouring coffee. He doesn’t look at you, but the silence between you feels more like thread than ice.

“Do you have a job?” the girl asks suddenly, crawling into her seat.

You nod. “I’m a Hunter.”

Her eyes go wide. “Of monsters?”

You smile. “Of all kinds.”

She leans forward, elbows on the table, chin in her hands. “Do you know my dad?”

The question lands a little off-balance, but you manage, “A long time. Since we were kids. I know Dr. Noah, too.”

She accepts this like a scholar collecting facts. Then, eyes sharper now:

“Do you have Evol?”

Zayne stiffens slightly across the room — not visibly. But you feel it.

“I do,” you say carefully.

“What kind?”

You hesitate. “It’s… not specific. Not like most. Mine adapts. It changes. Depending on the environment. Or the people around me.”

“Like resonance?”

You blink. “Yes. Exactly.”

She lights up, bouncing slightly. “Me too! Papa says it’s rare. He showed me how to make cold. Like little pockets. And seals.”

“Seals?”

She nods furiously, then jumps down from her chair. “Wait here!”

Before you can stop her, she’s gone — the soft thud of her feet disappearing down the hall. You sit in the quiet that follows. Your hands wrapped too tightly around your mug. Zayne still hasn’t spoken. Still hasn’t looked at you.

When she returns, she’s holding something in both palms like it’s sacred.

A small, rounded snow seal — compact and carefully shaped, like a snowball someone almost didn’t want to sculpt. Its body is smooth but imperfect, eyes made of something dark and glossy. It glitters faintly in her palms, but doesn’t melt.

“I made this yesterday,” she says shyly. “You can have it.”

You reach for it. And your hands tremble.

It’s identical. Not just similar — identical. To the one tucked away in a drawer you haven’t opened in years. A smooth, delicate snow seal. The first thing Zayne ever made for you, after that accidental dinner — back when things between you were still uncertain. Still unspoken. And you were trying, very hard, not to fall in love with him.

You stare at her. Then at the seal. Then at him. He’s watching you now. Not guarded. Not indifferent. Guilty.

The thought doesn’t land — it detonates. You can’t breathe.

You stand suddenly. The chair scrapes too loud against the floor. The seal trembles in your hand.

“I have to go,” you say, voice too tight.

“Wait —” Zayne takes a half-step forward, almost like he wants to explain something. But he doesn’t. He never does.

His face falters, just once — an expression you’ve never seen on him. Unspoken. Unnamed. But unmistakably wrong.

You shake your head. “Don’t.”

You don’t know what he was going to say, but you know you wouldn’t survive hearing it. You pull on your coat. Your hands don’t quite work. The zipper catches. You don’t look at him. Or her.

You leave. You leave fast.

The seal stays in your pocket, burning cold against your thigh. And the thought won’t leave you alone — she has your eyes. Not just the color. The shape. The center. The way they narrow when something doesn’t make sense.

You breathe until your chest aches — deeper, faster, like you’re trying to outrun something curling under your ribs. But the thought stays: What if she isn’t like you? What if she is you?

You don’t remember deciding to leave the house.

At some point, your body just moved. One boot. Then the other. Coat half-zipped. Hat forgotten. Gloves in your pocket but not on your hands.

The door behind you closed with a soft latch, and no one stopped you. Maybe they didn’t see. Maybe they didn’t want to.

It’s noon when you start walking.

The streets are half-cleared. Locals move like shadows between wood-framed cafés and ski rentals, their faces red, layered, laughing. You hate the sound. You hate how it makes you feel like you’re the only person in the whole damn town who’s bleeding internally and pretending it’s just the weather.

You drift from block to block without direction. Your breath fogs like smoke. You pass a group of tourists taking photos of the northern lights that have lingered since morning — low, green ribbons against a dim sky. They’re beautiful. You want to scream.

The seal is still in your coat pocket. You touched it once. Didn’t look. Didn’t dare.

You’ve been unraveling since morning. No, before that.

Since the girl smiled at you like she knew you. Since Zayne’s eyes refused to meet yours when your hands shook. Since you saw her eyes — your eyes — looking out from someone else’s face.

You want to scream again. You want to sleep for a year. You want to claw your way out of this body and this life and these feelings you tried so goddamn hard not to keep.

By afternoon, the clouds thicken. The wind picks up. You realize — vaguely, distantly — that you haven’t eaten. Your fingers are numb when you finally reach the base of the lift. It’s closed for the day. The town has shut down early. Weather advisory.

A bored attendant is locking the gate. “Slopes are off-limits,” he says. “Storm’s rolling in.”

You nod, smile thinly, and turn back like a good citizen. But you don’t leave. You wait.

You wait until he disappears back into the office. Until no one’s watching. Then — like it’s nothing — you climb over the fence and start walking up the service trail. Skis abandoned at the side rack. Rental. Yours now.

You don’t know what you’re doing. You just know you need to get higher.

Need to outrun the noise in your head — the thudding, rising, tightening thought that something isn’t adding up. That maybe it already added up and you’re just too afraid to see the sum.

That child. That seal. Those eyes. That look on Zayne’s face like he owed you something and didn’t know how to pay.

You reach the crest of the slope as the sky turns the color of a fresh bruise — deep violet, heavy with snow.

The wind howls. And still — you don’t turn back. You clip into the skis with fingers stiff and shaking. The trail beneath you is untouched. No tracks. No sound.

Just you. And the storm. You push off.

Zayne waits until the girl arrives — Noah’s niece, the one with calm hands and a patient voice, the one you mistook for something she wasn’t. She greets him with a warm smile and a quick update: oatmeal was eaten, hot chocolate spilled, the child is brushing her teeth. He nods, hands her a list with quiet instructions, then pulls on his coat without a word.

He tries your hotel first. The front desk confirms what he feared — no sign of you since morning. Your room untouched. Key not returned.

Something in his chest shifts.

He checks the ridge path. Nothing. The café. The overlook. Still nothing. His movements are methodical — too calm. It’s not control. It’s containment. If he slows down, even for a second, something in him will crack.

And then — near the rental stand — he finds it.

A glove. Dropped. Half-buried in snow, already stiff. He picks it up, turns it over. Recognizes the tear at the seam. Yours.

He asks the attendant without raising his voice.

Did anyone come through this afternoon? Alone? Female. Dark coat. Grey hat.

The man squints. "Yeah. Kinda reckless. Took off before I could stop her. Trail’s closed. She climb the ridge?”

Zayne doesn’t answer. His eyes have already locked on the faint trail of ski tracks, just visible past the fence. The wind’s been at them, but not enough to hide them completely.

He doesn’t ask to borrow the gear.

He takes the skis, the poles. The boots he forces on with too much pressure, and when the attendant stammers something about policy, Zayne pulls out his wallet and empties it. A week’s wages in a handful of bills.

“Keep it,” he says flatly. “If I don’t come back, file a report.”

Then he moves.

The snow is heavier now. The light fractured and thick. The trail beneath him vanishes in places, reappearing in erratic, uncertain intervals.

Zayne cuts across the slope with practiced economy — no hesitation, no excess motion. Just angles, just speed. His breath steady, heart loud in his throat.

He tells himself he isn’t afraid. He doesn’t allow that.

But every time the wind screams through the trees, he hears your name in it.

You shouldn’t be out here. Not alone. Not after what your body’s already been through. The last time he saw your vitals, they told him you were compensating — tightly, dangerously. He knows how you move. How far you can push. And how far you go past that, every time.

You’ve always mistaken endurance for strength. Always carried pain like it was proof of something noble.

He hated you for that once. He thinks, maybe, he still does. But it doesn’t stop him.

Then he sees it.

Two skis. Sticking upright from a drift.

And his body stops moving before his mind does. He’s off his own skis in seconds. Ripping off gloves. Digging.

He calls your name once. Quietly. Pointlessly.

The snow is deep. Heavy. He can’t move fast enough.

His fingers spark, and he lets his Evol loose — concentrated cold that carves through the snow in clean, precise arcs, exposing the shape beneath. A coat. A shoulder. A hand.

You’re there. Unconscious.

Face pale. Skin far too cold. But breathing. Your mouth parts in slow, shallow rhythm. The line of your pulse is barely visible in your throat.

He checks your pupils. Taps your cheek. You don’t stir.

Zayne exhales — not relief. Not yet. Just... air.

He pulls off his coat. Wraps it around you. Scarf next. Then his gloves. He doesn’t think. Just works. Every layer he has, onto you. Your pulse is slow, but consistent. Fingers pinkening. No slurring at the mouth, no skin rupture. Early-stage exposure. You’ll feel it later — pain like fire. But you’ll live.

You’ll live. You’ll live.

He cradles you upright, gathering your limbs in careful precision.

Turning back isn’t an option. The trail’s too steep, visibility falling. Wind rising.

But he remembers.

Three miles east. Maybe a little more. Tree line drops. Cabin near the base. Old ranger post. No electricity, but shelter. Wood. He’d seen it once, riding out on the snowmobile. Just a marker in the cold. Never thought he’d need it for real.

He adjusts your weight. Lifts you fully.

You don’t stir.

The snow stings his face like glass. He takes one step forward.

Then another. And another. And another…

Every muscle is screaming. But he doesn't stop.

Not even when the storm closes around you like a fist. Not even when his legs buckle slightly under the weight of you. Not even when he has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stay upright.

Because this — this is the only direction that exists.

This is the cost of silence. This is the body he still remembers carrying once before. This is everything he couldn’t say compressed into the weight of you against his chest.

You open your eyes when the spoon touches your lips.

It’s not a dream, though your vision is still clouded. There’s something herbal and scalding and sharp on your tongue, and the taste cuts through the fog like citrus through smoke. You swallow reflexively.

The light around you is amber and low. Firelight.

There’s a crackle to your left — the sound of wood shifting in a stone hearth. You realize you’re lying on something soft, uneven. Furs. Blankets. The floor is warm beneath your back, too warm for snow.

Everything aches.

But it’s the hands you feel first. One bracing the back of your head, the other steadying the cup.

Zayne.

He’s kneeling beside you, his face cast in that flickering glow, brow furrowed but calm. He always looks calm. Even when he's breaking.

“Easy,” he murmurs, the same tone he uses with terrified patients. “One more sip.”

Your throat is raw when you speak. “Zayne…”

It comes out as a croak. Foreign. Barely yours.

His hand shifts, adjusting your weight. “You're okay,” he says. “You're safe. Just drink.”

You blink again, harder now. The room begins to resolve.

Rough-hewn walls. Low beams. A wooden table covered in old gear and folded wool. Two chairs. A rack of kindling. The window rattles in its frame, wind clawing at the glass.

You’re in a cabin.

The middle of nowhere. Snow hammering against the dark.

“I found you on the south slope,” he says. “Passed out. Cold to the core.” His voice stays even. “You should’ve been dead.”

You don’t respond. Not with words.

Your body is still catching up to the idea that it hasn’t been left behind.

“I need to get you warmer,” he says. “You’re not shivering anymore. That’s bad.”

You start to sit up. He stops you with a touch. His fingers are cold too — not numb, but close. You can feel the tremor under his restraint.

“You need to strip,” he says. “Your clothes are soaked. You won’t retain heat like this.”

You want to argue. Your brain wants to rebel. But your body betrays you — you’re shaking now, from the inside, from the marrow.

“I’ll help,” he says, already undoing the clasps at your coat.

You let him.

There’s no shame in the gesture. Only efficiency. Only silence.

He peels your clothes back layer by layer — coat, sweater, base layer — each one discarded near the fire. He’s methodical, but his fingers stumble once at the side of your ribs. You don’t flinch. Neither does he.

When he’s done, he does the same to himself. His hands are slower now. He’s soaked too. You see it in the way his shirt clings, the way his skin is flushed in patches, raw in others.

He says nothing. Neither do you.

The wind screams outside.

Then he lifts the furs. Slides in beside you.

Everything feels... detached. Like you’re still behind glass, still half-buried in snow. His body is there — you know that — but your skin won’t admit it yet. Cold lives in the marrow. It doesn’t release easily.

He doesn’t ask when he pulls you closer. Doesn’t explain as he hooks one leg over yours, his thigh anchoring you with clinical precision. Contact — pure and total. Every inch of skin aligned.

It’s about warmth. Nothing more.

You believe that. For now.

Your foot finds his under the covers. Slides along the ridge of his shin, searching. You lay your hands on his chest. Flat, tentative. He takes them in his — large, too cold — and brings them to his mouth. Breathes. Warms them with both palms, slowly rubbing life back into your fingers.

And then — you begin to shake.

Violently. But not only from the cold.

He starts to rub your back. Brisk. Practical. Hands flat, pressure deliberate. Not tender. Not yet. Just enough to pull you back into your body.

You respond without meaning to. You press against him — again, just for heat. That’s all. Your hands move instinctively, over his shoulders, his throat, lower. You start to trace the vertebrae at the center of his back.

Just to ground yourself. Just to hold on.

Your breasts are against his chest. Your nipples — hard to the point of pain — brush bone and breath.

He shudders.

From the cold? You don’t ask.

Because you’re no longer cold. Not really. But you’re not warm either. There’s only this flicker — a kindling at the base of your spine.

Not desire. Not yet. But something trying to become it.

His hand moves to your hair, finds the elastic, slides it free. Fingers comb through the strands, rough, reverent. His palm cups the back of your skull. Massages gently. The tension spills from your scalp like something breaking.

You make a sound — quiet, involuntary.

Your breath lands against his throat, hot, uneven.

He stills.

Then he shifts your face upward, thumb beneath your jaw. Not rough. Not asking. Just guiding. Until your eyes lock.

His gaze — green, always green — reflects the firelight in flickers. Cold forest. Flickering coals.

You can’t look away. You let him all the way in. Because he remembers the way. Because your walls were never walls with him — only doors you forgot how to close.

His voice is low, at your mouth: “You have no sense of self-preservation.”

You whisper back, “I forgot how to feel anything.”

Your throat tightens. “My heart’s been a shard of ice for years.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t soften.

“You didn’t even leave me that,” he murmurs. “Only the empty space where it used to be.”

“Zayne, I —”

But he hushes you, barely a breath. “Don’t speak. Not now. If we don’t warm up, we won’t make it to morning.”

“Then warm me,” you breathe.

Something in him breaks then — quietly.

His arms tighten around you. No hesitation. His fingers dig into your skin with bruising honesty. You feel it — the pressure, the edge, the claim — and it’s the first time pain feels like presence.

You welcome it.

“Harder,” you whisper. “Don’t hold anything back. Just… not now.”

He doesn’t.

In one breathless motion, he flips you onto your back — his body covering yours entirely, anchoring you to the furs and the warmth and the terrible, steady thud of his pulse.

He hovers over you, braced on his elbows, the lines of his frame drawn taut above yours. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch. Just studies your face like a map he’s not sure he has the right to read.

It’s not hesitation. It’s a final warning.

But your body has remembered how to feel again. Heat has bloomed across your skin — from your neck to your cheeks, now flushed and electric — then lower, spiraling into your belly, blooming with a weight that has nothing to do with cold.

He leans in, and his lips graze the pulse at your throat. Light. Measured. Then lower — the slope of your collarbone, the hollow of your shoulder — his breath leaving heat where ice had lived.

When he speaks, it’s soft. Directive. “Hold me tighter.”

Not a plea. Not an invitation. An order. The doctor, still.

You obey.

Your legs curl around his waist, locking him in place. Your arms wrap across his back, palms flattening against tense muscle, nails dragging instinctively down the blades of his shoulder, then lower — to his waist, the arc of his hips.

Your skin sings where he touches you.

His body over yours is no longer just weight — it’s voltage. It cracks through the ache and the shame and the frost, down to the deepest, most feral part of you that only ever belonged to him.

You dig your fingers into the curve of him — familiar, lost, found again too fast. Too desperately.

And still, he doesn’t kiss you.

You want him to. God, you want him to. You want the taste of his mouth. You want to remember what it felt like when kissing him made the world disappear.

But he doesn’t give you that. Because that would make this real.

Too real.

And you’re both still pretending this is about the cold. About survival. About anything but what it is.

So instead, he moves lower — mouth against your throat, fingers tightening at your waist, and your whole body arches up to meet him, wanting more, needing more, aching toward the inevitable.

And still — no lips on yours. Still that one small distance held like a line neither of you dares to cross.

His hand slides lower. Fingers between your thighs, slow and certain — finding you already wet, already aching. His touch is careful at first. A question. A warning.

Then he moves — stroking, circling, teasing — and you arch, sharp and sudden, breath caught on the edge of a moan.

Your hands clutch at his back, your hips rising to meet him, the last of your resistance dissolved into heat and want and memory.

“Zayne,” you whisper, voice broken and close to prayer. “Please. I need you now.”

Your lips brush his ear. The words land soft, but strike hard.

He doesn’t answer. Just shifts — deliberate, sure — as his knee presses yours open wider, as his body finally, finally finds yours.

The first moment of him inside you is too much and not enough. A slow, deliberate stretch. He’s holding back — you feel it. Every inch a battle between restraint and collapse.

When you are completely joined, your eyes fly open. So do his.

You both stop.

Breathless. Still. Time folds in on itself.

It feels like the first time. Like a dream pulled too close to waking. Like you’ve spent years underwater and have just now broken the surface.

He begins to move. Barely. Slow. Torturous. Deep.

And you watch him. Because this is the moment you see it — his detachment cracking, his control unraveling. Each movement chips away another piece.

Then his hands seize your hips harder, pulling you closer, holding you down as he thrusts deeper, faster — no longer gentle. His mouth finds your shoulder, your throat. His teeth graze your skin, just shy of pain.

You match him.

Your legs wrap around his back. Your hips rise to meet every stroke, faster, harder. Sweat beads at his temple. A low sound slips from his throat — one you’ve never heard before, and never want to forget.

You’re not cold anymore.

There’s heat building in your belly, pulsing, tightening. Each movement pushes you closer to something unbearable.

You can’t stay quiet. You don’t want to.

Your moans rise with the rhythm, faster, sharper, and when he angles just right, when his name leaves your mouth like a gasp turned to flame —

“Zayne — !”

The world shatters.

Pleasure crashes through you in waves — violent, relentless. You bite down on his shoulder, legs trembling, body clenching tight around him.

He groans — low and guttural — and flips you both, pulling you on top of him, still joined, still inside you.

You collapse against his chest, panting, ruined.

Your thighs still locked around his hips. Your pulse frantic. His heartbeat thunderous beneath your cheek.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

And in that stillness, something settles. Not comfort. Not safety.

But the truth of it: he’s not indifferent. Not detached. Not after all this time.

He still holds you like he remembers how you once broke apart beneath his hands — and how you came back, not even realizing it was for him.

The sound of his heartbeat, and the low, steady howl of the wind outside, lulled you eventually. Your body relaxed — finally — into sleep. But it wasn’t rest. Just disjointed images: whiteness, blurred edges, something aching and incomplete. A dream without a shape, just cold and distance and something you couldn’t reach.

When you woke, he was gone.

You were still wrapped in the weight of layered furs, tucked with clinical precision, your body cocooned like something fragile. You could still feel him on your skin — the imprint of his hands, the echo of his breath.

“Zayne?” you rasped, your throat dry and raw.

His voice came from somewhere behind the fire. “I’m here.”

A second later he emerged, bare-chested beneath a heavy wool throw slung over one shoulder like a makeshift toga. He held a steaming mug in both hands.

“How do you feel?” he asked. “Headache? Nausea?”

“I’m fine.” You sat up, pulling the blanket to your chest. He handed you the tea. You took it without meeting his eyes.

That ridiculous throw was the only thing he’d bothered with — aside from the wool socks. And now that you noticed, the matching pair was on your feet too.

Your clothes hung near the fire, dripping onto the wooden floor in slow, defeated rhythms.

It was still dark outside. The blizzard had dulled to a whisper, snow tapping now instead of screaming. The only other sound was the slow collapse of wood in the hearth.

“Everything should be dry by midday,” he said evenly, eyes fixed on yours — calm, too calm. Doctor-Zayne calm. “Once it is, I’ll hike to the base. Should only take a few hours. I’ll bring back a snowmobile.”

“I can walk,” you muttered, wrapping the furs tighter.

“No,” he said flatly. “You’re one sneeze away from pneumonia.”

You sneezed.

Took a sip to hide it. The tea was bitter and hot and exactly what your throat needed. It didn’t help your pride.

He watched you for a long beat. Then, carefully:

“Tell me what possessed you to take the slope in a storm. Especially considering you’ve never been a particularly good skier.”

There was no judgment in his voice. That’s what made it worse.

You turned your head, eyes fixed on the fire. You didn’t want to talk about his daughter. You didn’t want to ask. Not while your body still remembered his breath on your neck. Not while your thighs still ached from being wrapped around him.

“You could’ve died,” he said. Softer now. There was a tremble, just barely.

“It’s not the first time,” you replied. Dry. Flat. “I didn’t ask you to follow me.”

His silence was sharp.

Then: “What does that mean?”

You shrugged. Shrugging was easier than explaining. Shrugging let you pretend this wasn’t tearing you open in layers.

His spine straightened. You knew that posture. You’d seen it in surgery. In argument. In loss.

“You think I wouldn’t care?”

“Do you?”

Still silence.

“Do you think it wouldn’t matter to me if you didn’t come back?” His voice was harder now — not loud, but precise. Measured like a scalpel.

You met his eyes, finally. “Do you care as my doctor? Or as Zayne?”

He stepped forward, just enough to catch the light on his face.

“Both.”

The word dropped between you like a stone.

“I deserve answers,” he said, tone cooling. “You’ve had seven years of silence. You don’t get to keep hiding.”

You flinched. “I’m not a puzzle for you to solve.”

“You’re not a stranger either.”

Your jaw clenched. “I have the right not to explain myself.”

“And I have the right to ask,” he said, his voice suddenly sharper — controlled, but frayed at the edges.

You looked at him then. Really looked.

He wasn’t the man you left behind. He wasn’t even the man you remembered.

His face was sharper now. Carved from something colder. His beauty had always been precise, but now it was almost inhuman — every emotion hidden behind faultless structure. The lines of him harder. His silence heavier.

He looked like someone who had survived something quietly. Someone who had burned and chosen to freeze instead.

And suddenly you wondered if he was asking because he was angry — or because he was afraid the answer would ruin him.

You set the cup down and rubbed your forehead — the gesture unconscious, familiar. The kind of motion you only made when faced with something unpleasant that required a decision.

You didn’t want to do this sitting. It made you feel small, like the version of yourself you’d spent the last seven years trying to grow out of.

So you rose, pulling the furs around you tightly, dragging their weight like a second skin, and stepped closer to the fire. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You stared at the flames instead — at the way the heat licked the logs and flared in quiet, devouring patterns.

Your palm stretched toward the warmth. The skin was hot, but inside you still felt the cold — like your bones had absorbed it, like it had settled somewhere marrow-deep.

A tremor passed through you.

“I’m not eager to dig up the past,” you said softly, the words barely louder than the crackle of the fire. “But I imagine you’re owed some kind of answer. Maybe I’ll even admit now that leaving the way I did was reckless. But at the time, I wasn’t thinking. I was reacting. Instinct, not intention.”

He said nothing. You kept your eyes on the fire.

“I’m actually surprised you didn’t put it together yourself,” you added. “But if you want me to say it out loud, then fine. I left because you fell in love with someone else. Because you cheated on me.”

Silence. And then —

“Excuse me?”

Zayne’s voice snapped across the space like the crack of a snapped branch. Not loud — but edged with something so sharp and disbelieving that it startled you into turning.

His face was a picture of stunned clarity. Not guilt. Not evasion.

Shock.

You’d seen Zayne process grief. Rage. Even loss. But not this.

“I can assure you,” he said with that same cold precision, “neither of those things ever happened. But by all means, continue. I’d love to know what led you to such an absurd conclusion.”

Your breath caught. He wasn’t lying.

He never had been good at lying — not even white lies, not even to protect someone. If you’d asked him then, directly, all those years ago… He would’ve told you the truth.

No matter what it was.

But you hadn’t asked.

“Do you remember Caroline?” you said, voice thinner now. “Dr. Sharp, I think. She came to town for the fellowship project. You spent over a month working side-by-side. You were gone every night, back after midnight, gone before I woke. We barely saw each other.”

“That project was critical,” he said quietly. “And yes. I’ve often wondered if that’s what it was. That I didn’t make enough space for you.”

You laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“I wouldn’t have left over time or distance,” you said. “That’s not me. Worst case, I would’ve had a meltdown. I would’ve yelled. Slammed doors. But what got under my skin… what stayed…”

You swallowed.

“We had dinner. All of us. One night. I watched the way she looked at you. The way she touched your hand like it was second nature. And the way you didn’t flinch. You were relaxed. Easy. Like she belonged next to you.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Then, lower: “She was my closest friend. For years.”

Was.

You didn’t miss the tense. Something final in it.

“I spiraled,” you admitted, voice cracking. “I started imagining things. Inventing whole conversations you never had. And then —” you drew in a breath, “— you were in the shower. And your phone lit up. I shouldn’t have looked. I know that. But I did.”

His face didn’t move.

“She texted you. Something about… a kiss. I couldn’t unlock it, couldn’t read the rest. But I didn’t need to. That was enough.”

Your words hung between you like ash.

When you finally met his eyes, what you saw there wasn’t the same fire as before. It was rage now. Cold. Controlled. Ancient.

He didn’t speak. But his hands were clenched at his sides, the tendons tight. Not shaking. Just contained.

And that, more than anything, frightened you.

Finally, Zayne found his voice again. When he spoke, it was quieter — colder. Like he was holding himself together with wire.

“She kissed me,” he said. “I didn’t kiss her back. I asked her to leave. I never saw her again. End of story.”

You opened your mouth, but —

He raised a hand. “No. Don’t.”

You froze.

“Let’s summarize, shall we?” he said, and his tone was so steady it hurt. “You accepted my proposal. We were making plans. Booking venues. Looking at rings.”

He took a step toward you.

You stepped back. The fire was too close now — too hot. Your skin prickled.

“And then,” he continued, “you disappeared. No warning. No explanation. No note. Nothing. Just… gone.”

His eyes were locked on yours. And you’d never seen him like this — not in battle, not in chaos, not even in the quiet moments when he looked like he might finally break.

“You vanished because of a kiss that never happened. Because you saw something you didn’t understand. Because you didn’t ask.”

The silence that followed was thunderous.

“I searched for you,” he said. “Do you know that?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“I looked in every city I thought you might go. Called hospitals. Asked colleagues. Filed missing persons reports in seven countries. I didn’t sleep for weeks. I had to be pulled off rotation because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.”

Your breath hitched.

His voice was breaking now — not loud, not emotional. Just… broken. Controlled devastation.

“I thought you were dead.”

He let that hang there.

“I imagined you in rivers. In morgues. I dreamed it. Night after night. And every time the phone rang, I hoped it was you. I hoped you’d changed your mind. That it was all just a mistake, or a test, or a nightmare.”

Another step closer. His face was inches from yours now.

“And then at some point,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper, “I had to stop hoping. Because hoping was killing me.”

Your knees almost gave out.

“And now you stand here,” he went on, “telling me you left because you were jealous of a woman who meant nothing. Because you couldn’t bear to ask me a question I would’ve answered in one breath.”

His mouth twisted, just slightly — a flicker of something savage behind the calm.

“That’s not heartbreak. That’s cowardice.”

You said nothing. There was nothing to say.

His eyes didn’t soften. “I would’ve forgiven almost anything. A betrayal. A lie. Hell, even if you had loved someone else.”

A beat.

“But I don’t know how to forgive being erased.”

The final word landed like a gavel.

You looked at him — the man you loved, the man who once memorized the rhythm of your breath in sleep — and you didn’t see a stranger.

You saw someone who had carried your absence like a scar he didn’t let heal.

And now he was bleeding in front of you. But the blood wasn’t red. It was ice.

It came slowly. Too slowly.

Like thaw in the deepest part of winter — not warmth, but the ache that comes with returning sensation.

You’d spent so long clinging to the version of events you built inside your own head — a brittle, pathetic mythology — that you hadn’t once thought to challenge it.

You’d believed he betrayed you. And carried that lie like a wound for seven years. You let it harden inside you, let it dictate the terms of your survival.

You cried for him. Night after night, in rooms that never felt like home. Until you convinced yourself he had moved on. Married. Loved again. Raised someone else’s child in the light of a future that was supposed to be yours.

You tried to fill the space he left. But nothing fit.

And now that you knew the truth —

There was no relief. Only horror.

It crashed over you all at once — a cold so deep it numbed thought. Your throat tightened. You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

It was like being buried again — not under snow this time, but under the weight of your own choices. The grief of what you did, of what you undid.

“Zayne…” you managed. “I— I made a mistake.”

He laughed.

Not loud. Not cruel. But sharp. Icy. Surgical.

“A mistake,” he repeated, voice dry as ash. “Of course.”

He took a slow step toward you, his expression unreadable, his tone too calm to be safe.

“Just a minor lapse in judgment. Nothing serious. Nothing irreversible.”

You flinched.

“Just —” he continued, tilting his head slightly, as if mocking even his own patience, “— disappearing without a trace. Letting me believe you were dead. Watching me lose everything. My sleep. My mind. My future.”

His gaze pinned you. “But hey. Who hasn’t made that kind of mistake?”

“Don’t say it like that —”

“What? Like it’s nothing?” His smile was thin, brittle. “Like it’s not the single most devastating thing anyone’s ever done to me?”

Your breath caught.

“You want me to be kind, is that it? After seven years of silence, you want — what? Mercy? Grace?” He gave a small, mirthless laugh. “I’m sorry. I seem to have misplaced those somewhere around year two.”

You closed your eyes, shaking. “Please, Zayne…”

He didn’t move.

“You want me to say I understand?” he asked. “That I forgive you?”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, just slightly.

“You didn’t just leave,” he said. “You rewrote me. You made me the villain in a story I didn’t even know I was in.”

That was when something inside you cracked.

Your fists clenched at your sides, breath coming short. Rage rising not at him — not fully — but at yourself, and at him, and at everything you didn’t understand and didn’t ask and didn’t say.

And then you said it. Low, sharp, shaking.

“Oh, and what about you, Zayne?”

His brows lifted, almost imperceptibly.

“Let’s talk about you and your daughter.”

A flicker. Barely visible. A shift in the air.

You stepped closer. Voice rising.

“Let’s talk about why the hell she looks exactly like me.”

“Don’t you dare drag my daughter into this,” he said — clipped, sharp.

But his voice had shifted. You knew that tone. The one he used when he was cornered. When the truth was already rising in his throat, demanding release.

And that gave you strength.

You stepped forward, jabbing a finger into his chest.

“Oh, no. Not this time.” Your voice was shaking. Not from fear. From fury. “You don’t get to bury this under silence.”

He didn’t move.

“Why does she have my eyes, Zayne?” Your voice rose. “Why does she and I share the same Evol signature? Why do I look at her and feel —” You choked, breath catching. “— nothing, when I should’ve felt everything?”

He met your gaze without flinching.

“She has nothing to do with you.”

That was the lie that broke you.

“Zayne!”

You almost screamed it. And finally — finally — he answered.

“I created her,” he said.

Each word landed like a fracture.

“I created her from the only part of you I had left. I broke every protocol, every ethical law, every barrier between grief and madness. I did it knowing exactly what it was. A moment of desperation. Of agony. Of self-destruction. Call it what you want.”

His voice trembled once, barely. Then steeled again.

“But once she existed — she was alive. And I was responsible.”

You couldn’t breathe.

It all clicked into place, hideously fast.

There had been a time — after a fight, after a wound — a battle that had torn more than just your skin. The damage to your abdomen had been bad. Serious enough that your fertility came into question. And so, in a haze of pain and fear and future-thinking, you and Zayne had made a decision.

You’d frozen your eggs. Just in case. Just in case there was ever time for life.

And then you vanished. And he —

Your knees gave out.

Because it wasn’t just theory now. It wasn’t data in a file. It wasn’t a long-ago clinic visit or a box ticked on a form.

It was her.

Your daughter.

A child you hadn’t known you’d had. Who’d taken her first breath, first steps, spoken her first word — all without you. A child whose face you’d looked into and seen nothing but unfamiliarity.

Because the thread between you was never tied.

Your vision blurred. Your hands clenched. And then, with a clarity that burned through the haze, you lifted your arm and slapped him.

Hard.

His head turned with the force of it.

But he didn’t step back. Didn’t retaliate. Just stood there, breathing. Something behind his eyes shifted — regret, maybe. Or something darker. Disappointment.

You didn’t care.

“You had no right,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, just as quietly. “But we can’t unmake what we did.”

Your legs were shaking. Your body had stopped regulating heat again — not from trauma, but from exhaustion. The flu or something close to it now tightening your throat, buzzing behind your eyes.

You didn’t speak again.

You just turned. Pulled the furs around your body. Curled up on the floor, facing away.

Everything inside you was vibrating. Screaming. And still — you didn’t make a sound.

Behind you, you heard him move. A step, maybe two. The start of a word, maybe a breath.

But then — silence.

The kind that didn’t soothe. The kind that hollowed.

You drifted in and out of a fevered half-sleep, somewhere between dreaming and remembering, while the sun crept higher in the sky.

You weren’t fully conscious, but you knew he was there.

You felt his hand on your forehead now and then — clinical, measuring. You remembered being lifted just enough to drink something warm, bitter. His arm braced behind your shoulders. His voice low, instructing, coaxing.

You remembered his arms around you when the shivering got worse.

Not tender. Not romantic. Just practical.

Because you were freezing. And he wasn’t going to let you freeze alone.

He didn’t crawl beneath the furs again. But he lay beside you, fully dressed, silent, a barrier against the cold.

Even now — after all the damage, all the wounds neither of you could cauterize — he still gave what little warmth he had left.

When your eyes opened again, the room had changed. The light was golden, brighter. Fire still burned in the hearth, lower now. The air felt clearer.

You tried to sit up too fast. A hand pressed gently against your shoulder, stopping you.

Zayne.

His face above yours — alert, shadowed by worry, but composed.

You looked at him, and what surprised you most was the stillness inside yourself. Not peace. Not comfort. Just… an absence of fight. A numb kind of calm.

It wasn’t forgiveness. And it wasn’t closure. It was the breath after the collapse.

“How long was I asleep?” you asked, or tried to — the sound barely made it out.

Your voice cracked, nearly gone. You reached for your throat.

He shook his head once. “Don’t talk.”

No gentleness. Just clarity.

“About six hours,” he said. “It’s nearly noon. The fever’s dropped. Your clothes are dry.”

You noticed now — he was fully dressed. Jacket zipped, gloves on, boots laced tight. Efficient. Ready.

“I need to hike out,” he said, crouching beside you. “Snowmobile station’s a few miles. I’ll be back within two hours.”

You didn’t answer. Just watched him — the way his brows stayed furrowed, the way his jaw kept clenching and unclenching like there was something in his mouth he didn’t trust himself to say.

Then he reached for your hand. His palm was warm. Solid.

“Listen to me,” he said. “We’ll talk. Properly. We’ll get to all of it. But right now — I need to know that you’re not going to do something reckless while I’m gone.”

You didn’t grip his hand. But you didn’t pull away either. Your fingers just rested in his — a neutral stillness that said not yet, but also not no.

“I promise,” you whispered.

Zayne lingered for half a second more. Then he did something you didn’t expect. He brought your hand to his mouth. Touched his lips to the tips of your fingers. Barely there.

And then he stood. Crossed the room and walked out into the snow.

The door closed behind him with a clean, final click. And you were alone.

But this time, not entirely lost.

Four hours later, Zayne was carrying you back through the doorway of Dr. Noah’s house.

The fever had returned somewhere on the snowmobile ride down. Your skin burned, and the world had begun to tilt. By the time he stepped through the threshold, your voice was gone again.

He didn’t speak. Just moved with quiet certainty.

Helped you out of your damp clothes. Pulled a fleece pajama set from the linen closet — a pale blue thing that smelled faintly of cedar — and dressed you with swift efficiency. You didn’t protest. Couldn’t.

He laid you down in one of the guest beds, layered with thick quilts, and disappeared only for a moment. When he returned, it was with a bag of supplies already slung over his shoulder, a prepped IV in one hand and a throat spray in the other.

Every motion was muscle memory. Smooth. Intentional. Engraved in his bones.

At one point, as he propped your head up to give you a sip of raspberry tea, your hand slipped forward, fingers closing weakly around his wrist.

“Zayne…” you rasped. “You have a fever too.”

He didn’t look at you. Just adjusted the angle of the mug.

“I’m fine,” he said.

He gathered your hair gently — fingers threading through the strands with ease — and twisted it into a loose knot, securing it with a black elastic he must’ve pulled from his pocket.

You stared at him, eyes glassy with heat and a kind of wounded awe.

He remembered.

You never liked sleeping with your hair down. He hadn’t forgotten.

He met your gaze briefly. Something flickered — not tenderness, but something heavier, older.

“I took something earlier,” he said. “But you, on the other hand, have pneumonia. So rest. You’ll feel better after the fluids.”

The next few days blurred.

You slept. Mostly.

Woke only for medicine, for slow sips of broth, for Zayne’s quiet instructions. You tried to get to the bathroom alone. Failed. Tried again. He never mocked you for it. Just kept close enough to catch you if you fell.

Sometimes he sat in the armchair across the room, reading. When you were lucid enough to focus, you asked — weakly, half-asleep:

“Read it out loud?”

He didn’t ask why. He just turned the page. Cleared his throat.

And began.

East of the Sun and West of the Moon.

His voice — calm, measured — filled the room like something remembered, not new. You watched him as he read. The cadence. The precision. The way he breathed between sentences like it mattered.

He read the whole thing. And when it ended, neither of you spoke for a long time.

It was you who finally broke the quiet.

“She breaks the rule,” you whispered. “Lights the candle. Looks at him when she wasn’t supposed to.”

Zayne rested the book on his knee, fingers still hooked between the pages.

“She ruins everything,” he said. Not accusing. Just observing.

You didn’t flinch. “And still goes after him.”

“She wouldn’t have had to, if she’d just listened.”

“She wanted to know him,” you said. “Not just love a shadow.”

He looked at you then. Something unreadable in his expression.

You swallowed, voice barely audible. “She made a mistake. A big one. And she didn’t wait for forgiveness. She fought to make it right.”

Zayne’s gaze dropped. “It was still selfish.”

“So is love,” you murmured.

The fire cracked between you — a sharp snap that echoed through the stillness.

“It’s a strange story,” you added. “The girl disobeys. The prince stays silent. They both fail. And then they both change.”

“And still find each other,” he said, finally. Quiet. Measured.

“But not the same way,” you whispered.

“No,” he agreed. “They come back different. Burned. But still… together.”

Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.

A week later, you felt strong enough to make it down the stairs.

The house still smelled like cedar and lemon soap, the way it always had. Dr. Noah’s niece — the woman you had once mistaken for Zayne’s wife — introduced herself properly over herbal tea and folded laundry. Her name was Marianne. She was kind. Warm in that easy, effortless way you’d never mastered.

She adored his daughter.

Your daughter.

They spent hours together �� drawing, baking, building tiny snow forts that collapsed within minutes. And every time you watched them, a strange hollowness twisted in your chest.

You studied the girl constantly.

The resemblance, now that you knew, was undeniable. Your eyes. Your cheekbones. Your ridiculous inability to sit still for more than five seconds. But her hair — that inky black — was Zayne’s. And her quiet concentration when she built things from ice with pinched fingers? That was his too.

She was loud. Expressive. Curious. Always moving, always knocking something over. She danced through the house like a falling star — burning too fast, leaving marks.

And she wouldn’t leave you alone.

Every morning, she burst into your room like it was hers. Climbed up beside you. Chattered about everything — school, snow, cartoon cats, some child named Max who was apparently insufferable. And home.

God. Home.

That word stabbed deeper than anything else.

You let her talk. You smiled when you could. But you never reached for her. Never called her by name unless you had to.

You didn’t know how to feel.

Curiosity? Yes. Recognition? Slowly. Love? No. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

And wasn’t that its own kind of crime?

You moved around her like glass. Like she might break. Or worse — you might.

Then one morning, she stopped mid-sentence. Sat very still beside you, swinging her legs.

“Are you my mommy?”

It hit like a blow.

You froze. Words caught in your throat, the reflex to deny already gathering in your chest.

But you didn’t have to say it.

Zayne appeared in the doorway. One look — that infamous stillness — and the girl backed out of the room, cheeks red, eyes wide. She closed the door softly behind her.

But not before looking at you one last time.

And you knew you’d remember that look for the rest of your life.

You couldn’t breathe.

“I’ll talk to her,” Zayne said, not looking at you. “Make sure she doesn’t bother you again.”

Then — practical, brisk, clinical: “Your labs are stable. Lungs are clear. I scheduled a follow-up ultrasound downtown. As for your heart —”

“Stop.” Your voice cracked. “Just stop.”

You pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapped your arms around them, and began to rock. A motion you didn’t recognize in yourself. Uncontrolled. Unmoored.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered. “I can’t.”

Zayne dropped to his haunches beside you. His hand settled on your knee.

“What was I supposed to say to her?” Your voice was rising now, frantic. “What am I even supposed to feel? I didn’t carry her. I didn’t raise her. I didn’t know she existed. She’s mine but not mine.”

You were trembling now.

“She has my DNA, but I’m not her mother. I’m a stranger. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Zayne didn’t speak. Just stayed there. Then — slowly — his hand slid away from your leg, and he bowed his head, pressing his palms to his face.

He stayed like that for a long time.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, uneven.

“Every day,” he said, “I live knowing I did something beautiful and unforgivable at the same time.”

You didn’t move.

“I carry the guilt in every breath,” he said. “But I’d do it again. I wouldn’t trade her for anything in the world. Not my career. Not my name. Not even forgiveness.”

He looked up at you then.

“If you want to file a complaint,” he said, voice steadying, “if you want to take my license, ruin me — do it. I won’t fight. I’ll take it.”

“But I won’t ever be sorry she exists.”

Your mouth opened. But no words came.

Because something inside you had begun to thaw — not into love, not yet — but into something uglier.

Jealousy.

Jealousy of your own child.

Of how easily she clung to him. Of how naturally he held her. Of the years they’d had.

Without you.

The thought disgusted you. You wanted to slap yourself for even thinking it. You wanted to vanish again, just to avoid what that meant.

But it was there. And it was real.

“What kind of monster do you think I am, Zayne?” you asked, your voice raw, barely more than breath. “You think I came here to file reports? Tear your life apart on principle?”

He didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch.

“You already did that once,” he said, flatly.

You closed your eyes.

“Let’s not start listing sins,” you whispered. “We’ll be here until spring.”

Silence.

You exhaled slowly. “Yes. I left. And not just your life — I detonated my own. There’s no version of this where I walk away clean.”

You glanced toward the door, where her laughter had echoed just minutes ago.

“And if there’s a tiny version of me running through this house, it’s not just your doing. I lit the first match. I made the first cut. Maybe this is the price. The life that formed in the crater we made.”

Zayne turned, finally. Met your eyes.

There were no tears on your face. There hadn’t been for days. But in your chest, you were drowning. He knew it. He saw it.

“I don’t have an answer,” you said. “I don’t know how to stay. And I don’t feel like I have the right to leave. This —” your voice caught, “— this little family of yours… I’m not part of it. I’m just the fracture everything grew around.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t reach for you.

He just studied your face for a long time, then said, “I can’t choose for you.”

A pause. And then —

“But if you decide to stay… even just to be near her, or me, or neither — on your own terms — then I won’t stop you.”

His voice was steady, but something caught in his throat at the end. Like he almost said more. Like he almost crossed a line that neither of you were ready to touch.

You nodded. You understood.

The door had opened.

Just a little.

And it would’ve been easier, if it were only him. If all you had to do was unlearn the years of distance, relearn the way he breathed, the way he touched, the shape of his voice when he said your name.

If it were only Zayne, you could try. You would try.

But there was her.

The girl who looked like you. Who trusted too easily. Who ran through the house with joy you hadn’t earned.

And she changed everything.

Because love with him had once been fire and failure and rebuilding.

But love with her… It required something else.

Patience. Forgiveness. Humility.

A different kind of bravery.

And if you failed again — you wouldn’t be the only one who paid for it.

So you sat there, still, the weight of the choice pressing against your chest, and thought:

What if I break her? What if I can’t be enough?

Another week passed. Your strength returned. So did the calls.

Work wouldn’t stop. Messages stacked in your inbox like pressure building behind a dam. You extended your leave. Zayne signed the clearance form. You knew he didn’t agree. But he didn’t protest. He just handed it over with that same stillness — the kind that told you: this is your decision now.

Physically, you were fit for the field. Emotionally, you were splinters.

He never said it, but you felt the way he watched you — not with judgment, but with expectation. Waiting. Hoping, maybe, that you'd stop wandering the halls like a ghost with a packed suitcase in her chest.

But the noise in your head never stopped. Not during the day. Not when you slept.

Especially not when you didn’t.

That night, you came down the stairs barefoot, the house asleep around you. Poured yourself a glass of wine. Stared at it. Sipped once.

No.

That wasn’t what you needed.

You left the glass untouched on the counter.

Walked the familiar hallway. Opened his door without knocking.

He was asleep on his back, face turned slightly toward the window. The moonlight cut through the blinds in silver bars, catching in the strands of his hair, casting lines across his throat.

You reached down. Brushed the edge of a curl from his forehead.

His hand caught your wrist before you could blink.

His eyes opened.

He didn’t speak. Your face said everything.

He pulled you down into him without hesitation. No questions. No ceremony.

His hands slid across your skin like he'd never forgotten its topography. His mouth moved from your neck to your shoulder, to the curve of your breast, the lines of your ribs, the hollow of your hip, and lower still.

But not your lips. Still not your lips.

And that — that was the answer.

At dawn, you dressed quietly. Zipped your bag. Didn’t wake him.

Your presence here had been a rupture. But now the world would settle again.

Zayne had his life — built carefully from grief and duty and love. You were an earthquake. He’d survived you once. He didn’t need to do it again.

At the door, your hand on the knob, a small voice stopped you.

“Are you going somewhere?”

You turned slowly.

She stood barefoot in her pajamas, hair a mess, eyes too wide. Her voice held no accusation. Only fact.

You swallowed. “Yes. I… I have to go back.”

“To the hotel?” she asked, stepping closer.

You crouched, tried to smile, tried to hold your own ribs together.

“No. I have a home. A job. Somewhere else.”

She nodded, thinking hard, then: “Then I’ll come with you.”

You blinked. “What?”

She didn’t hesitate. “I’ll come too.”

“No, sweetheart. You can’t. Your dad would be really worried —”

“But you’re my mommy,” she said.

Soft. Certain.

Her small hand came up to your face. Her palm on your cheek burned hotter than the fever ever had.

“I heard you. You and Papa. I saw your picture.”

She reached into her pajama pocket, pulled out something worn and folded.

A photograph.

You and Zayne. Seven years younger. Arms around each other, faces pressed close, eyes alight. You didn’t even remember the moment it was taken.

But she had carried it. Hidden it. Believed it.

You stared at her. At the picture. At those impossible, familiar eyes.

And something inside you cracked.

“Baby,” you said, your voice breaking. “I’m not — I can’t be the mom you think I am. I want to. I do. But I didn’t raise you. I wasn’t there. And I don’t know how to do this right.”

Her lower lip trembled. But she nodded. Like she understood, in the way only children do — by feeling it.

You reached out. Brushed a tear from her cheek.

“Be happy, little one,” you whispered. “That’s all I want for you.”

Then you stood. Opened the door. And walked into the snowlight, where the car already waited.

Zayne couldn’t remember the last time he drove this fast. Especially not with his daughter in the back seat.

She’d been there before he was even fully dressed. Still in socks, wide-eyed, breathless.

“She left,” she said. “Mommy left.”

She’d been crying.

And her tears — that — he would never forgive you for.

He didn’t know what he expected to do when he got there. Look into your eyes? See if your soul was still inside them? Drop to his knees and beg?

A few hours ago, you had still been in his arms. He’d almost believed. Almost let himself be happy again.

He parked illegally, didn’t even glance at the signs. Checked his daughter’s jacket, zipped it tighter, then scooped her into his arms and ran.

The platform was already half-empty.

The train was gone. Five minutes too late.

And something inside him gave way — not with noise, but with silence. A collapsing lung. A skipped heartbeat. A life rerouted.

This was what it would be, then.

A life with a hollow in it. Until the universe finally had the decency to take him.

He heard a soft sound, like water breaking on glass.

At first he thought it was her — his daughter — but she was quiet now. Blinking up at him.

He followed her gaze.

And saw you.

Sitting on your suitcase. Face in your hands. Sobbing like something inside you had torn loose. The tiny snow seal rests on your knees — absurdly delicate against the wreckage of you.

For a heartbeat, he wanted to strangle you. The next — he only wanted to hold you and never let go again.

But he wasn’t alone anymore.

“Go,” he said gently, lowering her to the ground. “She needs you.”

She ran without hesitation.

You didn’t hesitate either — just opened your arms and pulled her in, holding her like you could fold the whole world into that embrace.

He couldn’t hear what you said. It was yours. It was between you.

He waited. Waited until the tears began to fade from your cheeks.

Then stepped closer.

“You chickened out?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” you half-laughed, half-hiccuped. “I got scared you’d never kiss me again.”

He arched a brow, and his look said everything: What, exactly, do you think I spent all of last night doing?

You licked your lips. His shoulders trembled with silent laughter.

“All that?” he said. “A full-scale emotional catastrophe for one unfinished kiss?”

“It’s worse,” you muttered, deadpan. “It’s agony.”

Zayne looked at your daughter, who still clung to your coat. Her eyes darted between you — between home and hope.

He bent down, pressed a folded note of cash into her palm.

“Two hot chocolates,” he whispered. “Get them inside. Mama loves hers with cinnamon.”

She bolted. No questions.

And then his hands were on your face, warm and certain.

“I don’t make a habit of kissing strangers,” he said.

“Zayne —”

“I only kiss one woman.” His voice caught, barely — but it did. “Mine.”

Then he stepped in — deliberate, steady — and kissed you. Not like a doctor. Not like a ghost from your past.

But like a man who remembered every breath you'd ever stolen from him. Like someone claiming what he'd mourned for too long.

His hand slid to your jaw, fingers anchoring just enough to say: You’re not leaving again.

His mouth was warm and certain and slow, like the end of winter breaking. And when you kissed him back — really kissed him — something locked into place.

Not resolution. But return.

He drew back just enough to speak, thumb brushing the wet beneath your eyes.

“Remember this,” he whispered. “These lips aren’t just for kissing. They’re for questions. Even the scary ones.”

You nodded. Then, just barely —

“Then let me ask one.”

Your hand rose to his jaw, your fingers brushing that impossible edge.

“Is there any chance,” you whispered, “that you could… ever love me again?”

Zayne looked at you.

Then shook his head — not in denial, but disbelief. At the question. At you.

“I never stopped.”

He took your suitcase. Slipped his arm around your waist.

Together, you walked back to your daughter. To cocoa. To warmth. To the beginning.

447 notes · View notes

meowzfordayz · 1 year ago

Text

revealing outfit prank — hashira men

Author’s Note: borderline 18+NSFW, but ~mostly just suggestive. 😉

revealing outfit prank — hashira men

Himejima Gyomei x Reader, Iguro Obanai x Reader, Rengoku Kyojuro x Reader, Shinazugawa Sanemi x Reader, Tomioka Giyuu x Reader, Uzui Tengen x Reader

Word Count: ~2,000

CW: explicit language, Fem!Reader, mild sexual content

Suggestion Fulfilled: You know those girlfriend pranks on YouTube where the girl wears a sexy/revealing outfit to out in? Can I have HCs of our Hashira with a S/O who tries to walk out in such an outfit? Of course, they respect her choice in wearing whatever she wants, but that outfit is too tempting...

~faqs~

“Hey babe, guess what I’m wearing!”

“Clothes…”

—I mean, he’s not wrong 🙃

You huff, “Guess again.”

Gyomei pauses, wracking his brain for whatever else you could have on

“... not, clothes?” 🤨

“Well I’m not going out to dinner naked!”

“A cardboard box?” 😅

You can see his brow furrowing

He’s trying his best! 🥺

“So remember that slip dress I was describing for you a while ago?” 😏

His face warms as he recalls how you’d painted quite the picture of dainty ribbon details, an open back, and a satin hem that would barely brush past your thighs

He clears his throat, voice lower than before, “I remember that I encouraged you to buy it.”

He freezes, eyes widening, gaze focusing in the direction of your soft breaths, “You’re wearing it?!!!”

You giggle, he gulps

You can hear his inward groan 😩

“Isn’t it exciting?!” you squeal, stepping toward him, playful palms splaying across his chest as you grin up at his restrained expression, “I feel so pretty!” 😌

“You are so pretty,” he nearly growls, large hands settling promptly on your hips, “Maybe we shouldn’t go out after all.”

“Oh?” 👀

He chuckles as his fingers caress the silky, smooth fabric hugging your body, sensing the heat emanating from your bare, warm skin, eager to feel the curve and seduction of your spine, your shoulder blades, the tenderness of your nape

“I beg your pardon,” he rasps, an unfamiliar darkness in his tone as his fingers move upward to tug at your carefully tied spaghetti straps, tiny bows squished beneath the intensity of his touch, “I’m an adult, you know. I can have dessert for dinner.”

😳🥵🫠

—

“Gyomeeeiii!”

“My love?” ☺️

“I CAN’T POST THIS!” 😭😭😭

“And why not? Is my rizz too much for YouTube?”

“YES.” 😐

“You’re going out in that?” 🧐

You glare back, arms crossing over your chest

A not so subtle attempt to emphasize your tits 😌

Obanai not so subtly glances downward

“I repeat, in that?”

“The hell is wrong with what I’m wearing?” you scowl haughtily, “I thought you’d like it!” 😞

Blinking in disbelief, Obanai rolls his eyes, amusement softening his judgmental expression 🙄

“I’m not a fucking idiot,” he grumbles, “Of course I love it,” glare returning as he points an accusing finger at you, “But the last time you went out in something like that you ended up stealing all of my layers because you got cold!”

“Well then wear more layers!” you quip cheekily

“That’s my line!” 😐

*sigh*

“Do you want me to change?” 😕

“Absolutely not!” he snaps, ears reddening even as he makes a disgruntled gesture, “But, please, grab a coat.”

“Are you fed up with me?” 🤗

You inch closer to him

His breath hitches

“No.”

“Are you suuure?”

You can hear his heartbeat now, can see the restraint in his hands as he keeps them firmly by his sides

“If we don’t leave soon, then I’ll show you how not fed up with you I am.” 🙃

You grin easily, lips grazing his earlobe as you murmur

“Obanai, I don’t think that was nearly as threatening as you hoped it was.”

He inhales sharply, stepping away from your sweet, sultry scent, feigning sullenness when he mutters

“Your tits are staring at me.” 😃

You laugh, bouncing on the balls of your feet just enough for them to jiggle slightly

“Or are you staring at my tits?” 😉

He audibly groans, head tilting backward as he averts his gaze

“I hate this.” 😒

—

Rest assured, you never make it to your reservation 🤫

The video never makes it to YouTube either

PornHub, however…

Jk, jk

And Obanai does not hate this 😏

“You are breathtaking!” Kyojuro declares, beaming with pride as you twirl for him

He’s doing his best to ignore the fact that he can see your lacey panties when you spin

“Thank you!” you smile, striking a pose for him, “I feel so amazing in this dress.”

“You are amazing in any dress!” 😁

He’s earnest with the perfect dash of seriousness — like he needs to know that you know you’re beautiful

A gentleman as always 🥺

You hesitate, feeling almost guilty as you ask slowly

“Am I only amazing?” 🤭

You hope you’re coming off coy and alluring 😅

For all of his awkwardness, Kyojuro is nothing if not straightforward

“You are also sexy! Most definitely sexy!” 😍

Your expression cracks, your giggling filling the hallway as endeared laughter accompanies you

“How sexy?” you wink, an exaggerated, playful flirtation

Fortunately, Kyojuro loves improv 😏

—Yes, and!

“The sexiest woman I have known, I know, and I will know.”

There he goes again

Earnest, serious, and almost unbearingly sweet 😭💘

“Kyo,” you persist, “I’m trying to seduce you.”

He grins at that, eyes narrowing so quickly you nearly miss the tantalizing glint that flashes through them

“Oh I am aware, sweetheart,” he purrs, gesturing with his index finger for you to twirl again

You do, oblivious to the way his jaw clenches, gaze thickens, your pretty, dainty panties on display for him once more

“Look at me,” he commands softly, relishing the dazed, dizzy, glowing color of your face, “Look at me, and tell me whether you have succeeded.”

You look

It’s impossible to miss his erection, straining against his pants, bulge teasing and beckoning you to come closer

—

You post the video, minus a sizeable chunk 😶

“So people are allowed to thirst over you, but not me?” ☹️

You snort as Kyojuro pouts, patting his arm consolingly, “You can’t really see anything when I’m spinning, but your dick is a little too obvious.”

He perks up at that, kissing your cheek with reassured confidence, “It is quite large.”

—Whatever makes him feel better, y’know 😆

—That being said, it is quite large 🫣

P.S. Kyojuro begs to differ; he can see plenty when you’re spinning 😃

Help this man 😵‍💫

He is TIRED 😮‍💨

—Don’t get me wrong!

Sanemi does his best to be a good sport 🥺

And he’s 1,000% watched your videos in “secret”, numerous times over; you are entertaining ☺️

On nights when you’re apart, he falls asleep to his Favorites list (which consists solely of you) on auto-play

But there’re just one (thousand) too many trends for him to keep up with, and he never knows when he’s going to be your ~victim again 🙃

“Is this another prank?” he sighs, only slightly exasperated as his eyes stray from your pretty mouth to your tits practically spilling from your top 🫣

“Oh, so now I can’t look nice without it being a prank?” you retort, scowling playfully, “Rude.” Raising his hands in mock defense, Sanemi smiles softly as you step closer to him

“You can touch me, y’know,” you murmur gently, “I’m not gonna break.”

Swallowing thickly, he lowers his arms, forearms hooking around your hips as he pulls you in

“Yeah,” he croaks, scanning the bedroom for wherever you might’ve hid your phone, desperation and desire bubbling in his throat, “But I’m not so sure about your outfit, it’s got so many strings and… and, holes.” 😃

You laugh cheerfully, squeezing his waist as you inform him, “They’re cutouts. They’re supposed to be sexy.” 😌

“They are,” he replies bluntly, stifling a long inhale as he willingly gives into his fate, “You are so fucking sexy.”

He’s already plucking at your shoulder straps, somehow boxing you in with his broad, chiseled body, even though it’s his back against the wall

“You’re not gonna ask me how I manage to avoid getting tangled?” you tease, your breasts pressed firm and warm into his chest as his heartbeat quickens

The question had occurred to him, but-

“Why the hell would I ask that when I could be untangling you instead?”

—

“Send me the video.” 😐

“Excuse me?”

You’re grinning

“Please.” 😞

He’s begging

You acquiesce, the thought of Sanemi jerking off to it later inspiring you to reach down again 😉

(Now imagine his faintly pained moan as you slowly caress him, valiantly hardening in your careful grip as he mentally prepares himself, this time intending to punish you; you can’t keep missing your reservations! 😤)

#the pranks are getting out of hand 😬

#but Sanemi can’t really find it in himself to be bothered 😶

#at least not when he’s already in something else 😏

“Why are you going out in that?” 🤨

“What are you implying?” you frown

“I asked first.”

You huff, “And your question offended me.” 😒

Grimacing, Giyuu glances downward, “I didn’t mean-”

“Do I look horrible?” ☹️

You almost feel badly, giggles brimming in your chest 🤭

“No.”

“Do I look too good?” 😌

You can practically see the gears turning in his head

“Yes? No. Yes. Wait. I’m confused.” 🫠

“How does my outfit make you feel?” 😉

He pauses at that, swallowing nervously as you run teasing hands up your sides, accentuating your hips and bust

“I look good, right?” 🥺

“Of course.”

“Do I look too good?” 😏

*Giyuu Panic 2.0 activated*

“What does that mean?” 😭

He’s hushed, in awe of your luscious form, inhaling roughly when you step into his immediate proximity, the hem of your dress nearly brushing against his shins as you twirl for him

“Giyuu, am I turning you on?”

When in doubt, go for frankness

*Giyuu Panic 2.0 deactivated*

Ohhh 😳🙄😎 <— he gets it now

“Not at all,” he says smoothly, “You look quite comfortable.”

You pout, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt as you nudge his feet apart, slipping your leg between his thighs as you close the distance, your body pressing clumsy and hot against his

He sighs, a quiet, enraptured sound, delicately brushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders before he rasps, “I am turned on. Delightfully so.”

Your dress crumples sheer and light to the floor, Giyuu’s jaw ticking with desire as he realizes just how easily it slipped off

“And you,” he murmurs, delicious warning in his tone as he thumbs the undersides of your tits, “Are such a pretty slut.”

—

“Why is it that every time I try and prank you, you end up fucking me instead?” 🥲

“Hm,” Giyuu hums, voice thick with amusement, “Seems premeditated to me.” 🥴

“Giyuu-!” you sputter 🫣

“GiYuU!” he smirks 🙃

“Are you mocking me?” 😠

“And?” he grins 😎

“See if I ever prank you again!” 😤

“Oh you will,” he remarks, nonchalant and cool, “Judging by how many times we changed the sheets yesterday, I’m not even worried.” 😃

Ngl, Tengen’s a lil desensitized 😆

He’s got four wives

He knows you’re all hot af 😉

He knows he’s hot af 😎

There’s not much you can do to faze him

Except like, get injured or something, but that’s kinda the opposite of what you’re aiming for 🥴

“Does this mean we’re fucking after dinner?”

✨He has a way with words✨

“Tengen,” Hina scolds

“So vulgar!” Suma exclaims

“Don’t act so innocent when you’ve ambushed me looking like that,” Tengen mutters, pants already tightening as he takes in the silken fabric draped delicate and precarious over your breasts, “Who’s idea was this?”

“Whose do you think?” Makio snorts

“Tengen,” you say breezily, reaching out to grasp his hand, stroking a coy, tender thumb across his knuckles, “Let’s go, we’re going to be late.”

“Obviously,” he grunts, eyes shining with appreciation—a welcomed promise—as he raises your palm to his lips, kissing your fingertips one by one, “We’re not leaving.”

—

“Hold up, you made two reservations?” Tengen shrieks

Your eyes roll as if to say Duh, already rummaging for a new dress while Suma helps pat Makio’s back dry, steam from the attached bathroom wafting into the bedroom

“She’s always prepared,” Hina chirps proudly, kissing your jaw with a fond smile

“That, and Tengen’s always horny,” you smirk

You don’t really have a video suitable for YouTube 😅, but you do post Before/After photos of the ~prank on Instagram with a cheeky Unfortunately, the “During” photos are NSFW 😏🫢🍑🍆 caption

#hashira x reader #headcanons #modern au #demon slayer smut #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #himejima gyomei #gyomei x reader #iguro obanai #obanai x reader #rengoku kyojuro #kyojuro x reader #shinazugawa sanemi #sanemi x reader #tomioka giyuu #giyuu x reader #uzui tengen #tengen x reader

3K notes · View notes

cuckoo-on-a-string · 3 months ago

Text

Neighborly (Part 3/Ending)

mdni

Masterlist

Soap x reader x Ghost

Summary: You didn't know hate until Johnny MacTavish. (Or a really big build-up to cuddles and smut).

Warnings: SMUT, vaguely dom Ghost, unrealistic recovery time from near death experience/hypothermia, cuddling for medical reasons, implied medically-related stripping, implied anxiety disorder/depressive disorder, self-isolation, language, incredibly shitty communication and social competence.

The next day, Ghost had you write a list of things you needed from home. He assured you Johnny wouldn’t be stepping foot in your place, but that did leave you on your own with the Scotsman while the giant lumbered through the snow to pack an overnight bag on your behalf.

Your extremities still had fits of unpleasant tingles, but when Ghost examined your hands and feet, he assured you there shouldn’t be permanent damage. First degree frost bite at worst. He praised your choice in winter boots, thick socks, and heavy mittens.

You’d asked how he knew.

“Had some experience. Nothing to worry about. Trust me.”

Instantly flustered, you’d looked down at the huge socks over your hands, fighting away the question of which man they belonged to, and assured him you did. Stupid, since you barely knew him, but you did, and much more than you should.

It didn’t matter if the man was handsome under that mask or ugly as sin. His voice did things to you. It made you want to sin so much he looked like an angel. And the way he handled you in bed, if only platonically, woke your libido from hibernation. Which was un-fucking-fortunate, all things considered. You’d be a horrible lay at the moment with your chapped skin and lingering exhaustion.

Besides, your neighbors were definitely in a relationship.

As you dozed after a cup of sugary tea, Ghost stepped away to speak with Johnny. You could see through the open door when the big man seized his partner by the back of the neck, leaning forehead-to-forehead as he rumbled something in that intoxicating voice. The mask didn’t come off, but you’d definitely spied a tongue stretching the knit to stab into Johnny’s mouth. Hands went to waists, drifted to asses, displayed affection they probably didn’t realize was so public.

You tried very hard to actually go to sleep after that. It wasn’t like you’d meant to creep on them. And they were the ones who chose to make out in front the invalid’s open damn door.

But it put your thoughts in a tailspin, and everything overwhelmed you. A near death experience preceded by robbery and car problems made for a long day. Waking up in your neighbor’s boyfriend’s arms and realizing they’d seen you naked took the knot of emotions and twisted. Then there was the fact that Ghost was likely elbow deep in your underwear drawer – again for platonic reasons – and it wound you up in the worst way. You were a fucking mess. A wad of feelings without an outlet.

You needed to get off and have a good cry. Either or both. And you weren’t in a position to have either.

When you’d suggested going home, Ghost shut you down before you even finished the thought.

“We’ll take care of you. Owe you, yeah? Besides, you’re still recovering.”

So, you wrote the damn list, asking for your comfy clothes, your toothbrush, phone charger, and other necessities. You resisted asking for your favorite throw blanket or the heavy, knitted monstrosity you tried knitting a few years back that was almost a sweater. Nothing you loved was safe around Johnny, and you didn’t want to be a burden, anyway.

Fuck.

Right.

You were a burden.

When you felt a bit better, you’d handle the empty mugs on the nightstand. What else could you clean? Efficient as Ghost was, he was babysitting for two adults. There must be a mess to clean, laundry to fold, something.

You’d make it right. When you’d put some distance between your waking thoughts and death’s shadow.

Trying to think your way out of the lingering pain with your thighs clenched and your glare drilling into the far wall, you almost managed to dissociate for a beat.

Until he knocked.

“Hey.”

Fucking Johnny.

You rolled over, glowering with the blankets up to your nose. Ghost should hurry and come back.

“’M so sorry, hen.” Failing to take the hint, Johnny inched into the room. His folded arms and heavy frown left him looking severe. The boyish illusion was missing. He was all bulging muscles, faint scars, and dog tags.

You’d wondered more than once if he was military. If he was, you’d bet anything Ghost was, too.

“I almost died,” you mumbled, speaking through the blankets. “I would’ve helped with whatever you needed if you’d fucking asked.”

His eyes snapped shut. His head dropped. Deep breaths lifted his shoulders, and he looked like he was in genuine pain.

Good. That made two of you.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Aye.”

“You’re a jerk.”

“Aye.”

“You almost got me killed.”

“Aye.” Eyes wide, hands pressed to the foot of the bed, he towered over you, bubbling over. “I’ll make it up to you. Whatever it takes.”

He was practically panting, trying to escape his guilt. Just one more thing he wanted from you: absolution. A knight seeking a quest of atonement.

If he could take away the memories of betrayal and isolation as you felt your mind break and your body fail, that would work. You almost found enough spite in your heart to say it.

“I thought we were friends.” Half confession, half accusation.

“We are, bonnie, I swear –”

“No, we’re not.”

He clenched the blankets, white-knuckled with wet eyes that promised rain.

“Bonnie –”

“Stand down, Soap.”

You both turned to find Ghost peering in from the hall. He held a duffel bag, lightly dusted in snow that hadn’t quite stopped falling. Doordash had arrived with your order.

He set the bag on the end of the bed, nudging Johnny aside and nodding towards the open door. Johnny got the message, slinking out with his tail between his legs.

“Brought your things. Feel up to a shower? It would probably help at this stage. I’ll set out some towels for you.”

“Thanks.” You ignored Johnny, grateful for the escape Ghost offered from both the conversation and the room. “That sounds great.”

“I’ll get things sorted, then.”

He left you to choose your things from the bag, disappearing into the ensuite you had yet to explore. You got what you needed. Toiletries. Robe. Toothbrush. Just the basics. You’d address your hair later. And… everything else, really. You weren’t ready to see your clothes sitting folded in a tidy pile on your neighbors’ bathroom counter, even less so on their bed.

Ghost reappeared, and he pointed out the towels he’d prepared. “Assume your shower’s like ours.”

“Probably. Thanks.” Again. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“Take your time.”

A nice sentiment, but you really couldn’t. You practically jumped out of your borrowed clothes as the water heated, and you got in when it was just north of tepid. You would not use all their hot water. By now, they had to be running on generator power. The power always went out for a day or two when the big one hit. All it took was one tree.

Still, once the sweat and stress-stink washed off, your hand lingered over your chest, an echo of your host’s. He hadn’t gotten frisky. He’d been entirely respectful. But if his hand had strayed even a little…

Or a lot.

Shit. Fuck. No.

You could not get off in your neighbors’ shower. That was out of the question. Even if they didn’t hear you, it was… rude.

Your core ached, stirred from passive aggression to full on fit by the water and your overactive imagination.

Enough. You were clean. You needed to stop.

So you finished your shower (and nothing else) in record time. You wrapped yourself in your robe, wondering if Ghost had packed any sports bras comfortable enough to sleep in.

Both men were waiting for you when you emerged.

“Uh…” Were you supposed to get dressed in the bathroom? Shit. You should’ve…

“Thought it was about time you got that apology,” Ghost said. He stepped closer. His fingertips brushed over the back of your hand, conjuring goosebumps like magic. “You’re cold again.”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh, aye.” Johnny winked. Caught himself. Cleared his throat. “Really am sorry. Wanna prove it. First step towards reparations, aye?”

He inched closer as he spoke, and Ghost stepped back to give him space. You held your ground, but only out of confusion. You technically had more skin covered than you had since they rescued you, but you were hyper aware of the loose knot holding the robe closed.

“What did you have in mind?”

Tea? A year’s subscription to a meal delivery service? A note?

His eyes flicked to your lips. “Thought I could warm you up.”

Your brain sputtered. It even made a sound like your engine had when it ran out of gas.

“I don’t think I understand.”

“I think you do.”

He wasn’t touching you. Yet. But his breath fanned over your lips. His body heat reached through your robe.

His partner was in the fucking room. “You’re in a relationship.”

“Already discussed it.”

You turned to Ghost, shocked, but he was relaxed. Almost casual about his boyfriend seducing the neighbor in his bedroom.

“We both like ya, bonnie,” Johnny whispered in your ear.

You shivered.

It sounded like such a bad idea.

But you wanted it. You wanted a real apology, and a reason to forget it all ever happened.

“How about it?” Johnny was hovering. Waiting for the green light. “Let us make you feel good?”

One more time, you looked to Ghost. You had to be sure. You wanted his permission. His confirmation. He nodded. So did you.

With one hand on your cheek, drawing your attention back to him, and one on the back of your neck, your neighbor pressed you into a kiss. There was no demure pecking. No sweet warm-up. Lips, tongue, and teeth leapt into the fray at the first trumpet blast.

A gasp gave him a window of opportunity, and soon you were eagerly kissing him back, yanking on his stupid mohawk for vengeance and a pitiful attempt at control.

Johnny licked a moan out of your mouth. He scoured your whimpers clean, gulping them down with a happy rumble.

“The best apologies are given on your knees, don’t you think Johnny?”

A silent exchange passed between the men, and Johnny was all smiles.

“Couldn’t agree more. Here, sit down, pretty girl.” He arranged you on the edge of the bed, dropping to his knees to keep the kisses coming. He plucked the robe’s knot free and tugged it open. His lips stayed on yours as fabric fell away from your shoulders, legs, and chest, pooling around your wrists. There was no time for the usual, momentary panic of finding yourself naked for the first time with a new romantic partner.

One more peck, and a whispered, “Lie back, bonnie.” And he was working down your sternum, pushing your knees apart. “Gonnae give you an apology you never forget.”

The apology came letter by letter, spelled through your folds. The S snaked around your entrance, looping over your clit. The O stayed there, spinning around your bud. The Rs wandered, following the O’s path before tracing each side of your entrance. The Y started at your base and swept up, teasing either side of your clit in turns.

He said it over and over again. The clever rhythm had him smiling against you as you tugged at his mohawk, trying to chase each sensation. But his hands were strong, and he kept you spread and stationary. At the mercy of his repentance.

The Os never circled long enough, and his tongue dipped inside just enough to remind you how much you ached for more on every Y.

It was driving you crazy, and tears of frustration gathered, blurring his self-satisfied gaze. You’d had it with him. Even when he went down on you, he took his own pleasure first, playing games you had no spoons left to enjoy. You wanted him to take care of you like he’d promised. You wanted to lose yourself. Wanted to feel desired. Wanted to feel good.

Your whining plea didn’t sound at all sexy to your own ears, but the way the tongue shook with suppressed laughter between your legs proved someone was having a good time.

Solid heat you’d learned to recognize in your sleep slipped up behind you. Long, thick fingers petted back your sweaty hair, and a hand pulled you back, urging you to relax into a solid chest. Ghost, once again coming your rescue.

“Be good, Johnny,” he rumbled. “Stop teasing.”

Eyes glinting, your tormentor’s face appeared. He licked his lips with a wolf’s fervor, eyes flashing from yours to Ghost’s.

“Yes, sir.” His voice had gone rough. Deep. You shuddered, and he squeezed your thighs. “Mind givin’ me a hand, LT?”

Ghost huffed, almost a dry laugh, and his hands left you. You had a mind to complain again, but then his grip appeared under your knees, lifting and spreading even farther than Johnny wheedled earlier. You were obscene. You were desperate.

“You doing alright? Let us make you feel better. Give Johnny the chance to start paying you back for all the trouble he’s caused, yeah?”

One hand clamped onto his arm, unsure whether you planned to push it away or simply cling on. As you vacillated, Johnny craned forward, blew on you, and you spasmed. Your free hand jumped back to Ghost’s balaclava, and you knew what you wanted.

“Yeah. I’m alright. Please.”

“You heard the woman.”

“Happy to serve.” Johnny grinned, nearly feral, and lunged forward with fresh determination.

Now free, his fingers pulled you open, giving him better access to the mess he’d made with all his teasing. His tongue pressed hard, spearing deep as it could reach. It worked relentlessly, trying to scoop out every last drop, but the slick only grew, and he returned to your clit.

Ghost held you at an angle that defied your attempts to ride Johnny’s face, and you turned into a twitching, writhing mass in his lap. When his partner started suckling your bud, you shrieked, and Ghost crooned. His thumbs worked circles in your flesh, soothing the edge of delirium rising with your pleasure.

“Good girl. There you go. Finally letting us take care of you.”

A finger pressed inside, petting and curling as it hunted for the right spot. Every muscle rolled, trying to participate, to join the dance, and then Johnny found what he was looking for, and you screamed.

He’d tormented you so long. You didn’t have a chance to give a warning or brace for the snap. Your orgasm practically exploded, and for a minute you couldn’t even breathe. Everything froze, trying to catch and keep the high as your vision went white and your ears rang. Your thoughts ran slow and thick, like honey in winter, just soft enough for Ghost’s words to penetrate.

“How you feelin’? Rung out or ready for more?”

What a stupid question. Appreciated, but stupid. You’d ask for more until your voice gave out.

You consciously, carefully unclenched your fingers from his mask, from his sleeve. He still held you open, shivering and bare apart from Johnny’s face, still pressing slow kisses with tongue and teeth anywhere he was tempted to taste. Glimmers of firelight caught in the arousal smeared over his cheeks.

“More.”

Johnny muttered something very Scottish you couldn’t quite make out through the fading white noise in your head. But your eyes worked perfectly well, and he put on a show, yanking off his shirt, showing off like he used to when he shoveled the drive.

“Tell her, Johnny,” Ghost prompted. “Give her everything you’ve been thinking since you moved in here.”

“Fuck.” The Scotsman worked his belt free as talked, staring at you. His eyes roved, chasing the paths his tongue had traveled, rising to your heaving chest, to your face, so close to his LT’s commanding gaze. “Heard the neighbor was a hermit. Expected – doesnae matter. Prettiest hermit I’d ever fuckin’ seen. Showin’ up with biscuits and makin’ friendly.” The belt swished free from its loops and clattered to the ground. “Had me graspin’ after my manners with one look. An' after I tried catchin’ your eye in the snow, you took care of me an all.” He popped his button free. The zipper went down. “Wanted to bring ya inside and make things cozy. Had to wait for Ghost. Had to let ‘im see ya. Let him understand.” His hand slipped under his clothes, bringing a swollen red tip peeking over the elastic of his underwear.

“Should’a heard him on the phone,” Ghost murmured in your ear as Johnny pushed down his remaining clothes, already hard and weeping for you. “Thought he was gonna come to just the thought of you some nights. Started giving me ideas before I even had a chance to thank you for minding him.”

Naked, practically glowing in the fire, Johnny swooped down for a kiss. He squeezed a breast, thumbing the nipple relentlessly until you broke for air. Everything about him hummed with energy. A livewire sparking over the street. “Wanna fuck you. Please? Please let me fuck you, bonnie. Sweetest little cunt I’ve ever had. Please?”

Standing where he was, and held as you were, his dick rubbed against you as he spoke.

You were going to combust, and you’d enjoy every fucking second of it. All thoughts of snow and ice had melted. Everything had turned to steam.

“Yes.” He’d dived to work a hickey into your neck during your brief hesitation, and you fought to even whisper your answer. “Please.”

He lined up, rocking shallowly once, twice, and pushing home in a long, burning stroke. You yelped, and he moaned, both going still until the sting had passed. By the time you nodded your permission, he had his hands on your hips, trembling with need.

He fucked you like he was dying. Like you were his last meal and the only lifeline thrown in a storm. It was months of yearning, months of confusion and false starts and greedy hunger that spilled over and burned you like hot wax. There was no shelter – not that you wanted any – and you once again seized Ghost’s arms because they were the only fucking thing he’d let you reach. They would take care of you. You weren’t allowed to do any of the work. Not in that bed. Not that night.

Johnny keened, huffing and growling and whimpering as he went faster and faster. He brought you so far. So close. Just a little more.

But not enough.

His hips stuttered, his head bowed, and his warm release splashed out.

“Fuck.” Blushing from exertion – and probably something else – he looked up from where he was still balls-deep to sheepishly meet your eyes. “I swear, never finished so fast in my life. Didn’t get you there in time, did I?”

He pulled out, and you dropped your head back on Ghost’s shoulder with a wail of frustration. You were too close to stop now. You reached down to touch yourself, but before you could rub one out, Ghost shifted. He moved closer to the edge of the bed, dropping one of your legs to swat your hand away from your clit.

When you didn’t fight him, he reached behind you, and you both heard and felt him work his cock free.

“May I?”

Too horny and too frustrated, you nodded wildly. “I said I trusted you.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He didn’t pick up where Johnny left off. Thick fingers that had really only held you up to this point reached down, groping over breast and belly to reach your center. Long strokes kept the spark in your belly alive as he ran his hand over you, lubing his fingers in the mixed spend.

One dipped in. He paused, considering. Then a second joined.

“Minute I saw you at the door, knew you were a carer,” he said. “Knew it’d been so long since someone took care of you that you’d forgotten how a good neighbor should act.” The fingers curled, scissored, working you with clear and vulgar intent. “Wanted to be more than neighbors. Had to close that door quick. Every filthy thing Johnny said hit me, and I wasn’t fit company.” The full implications of that didn’t quite hit you in the moment, but a hazy vision of him watching you through the windows, palming an erection sent your cunt fluttering.

A third finger. All together, they were wider than Johnny’s cock. A deep breath helped. The thumb flicking over your clit like a moth drawn to a porchlight did more. “Had to figure out how to fix all the fuck ups then. So many delays. Took too damn long.” He pulled his hand free, denying you release.

“You said you’d take care of me.”

“We will, sweatheeart. Easy now.” His hand hovered in front of you, fingers spread so he could watch his good work cling and drip like a liquid spiderweb between his digits. “Fuck. You’re perfect.”

He spread his knees, pushing yours wider, and he lifted you up until his dick rubbed over your entrance. Even without looking, you could tell he was massive. You’d need to relax. You’d need to trust him.

Unlike Johnny, he took things slow. He read every flutter and clench, every gasp and hiss like he was fluent in your personal language of carnality. The stretch constantly rode the edge of too much, but it touched places no one else had reached, stuffed your senses full of bliss. And he was so careful. Tactical.

When he’d sheathed himself, his hands slid to your thighs, positioning you in a similar way as before.

“Think you’ve got more apologizing to do, Johnny.”

“Yes, sir.”

You’d closed your eyes at some point, overwhelmed by everything Ghost had to give, but you snapped to attention when a tongue ran over your clit. Johnny smiled up at you, pleased as punch. Devious fucker.

Ghost thrust, and the sound he pushed out of your mouth was pure filth. Helpless, you made it again with the second push. It happened again and again until it became an unbroken string of praise and pleas. Johnny made a game of keeping his tongue on you, pulling back, going still so Ghost would bounce you along it as he drove into you.

A hand pressed over your lower belly, and you moaned in tandem with Johnny.

“Fuck, Simon. Can feel you moving in her.”

After Johnny’s performance, Ghost clearly had something to prove. The first time you came, you clenched so hard on his dick it actually slowed him down. You thought that would be it, that he’d ride high to the end having achieved his goal. Instead, he kept going, fucking you brainless as Johnny actually giggled below. A second climax left you boneless, and by the third you’d entered a fugue state. Ghost slowed down until you could respond (I’m okay.) and then he drove you over the edge until you forgot how to count. Johnny offered kitten licks and praise throughout. When Ghost finally finished - pulling you flush to his chest and panting in your ear (Good fucking woman.) it was Johnny’s attention to your clit that broke you. He sucked and worked his tongue under your clitoral hood like he was sucking nectar from a honeysuckle blossom.

But you were tapped.

“Can’t. Too much.”

Johnny disengaged immediately, and two pairs of hands lifted you from where you sat impaled. Soft words and warm washcloths bathed you in the afterglow. Gentle suggestions guided you under the covers, and a familiar touch turned you to rest with your back to a heated chest. Warmth crowded in from the front, too, murmured joy and praise leaking through the haze to find you.

You didn’t even realize as you slept that you’d found something far better than a good neighbor. But that understanding would come with the dawn, a cup of tea, and a suggestion to go thrifting when the weather broke so you could find a matching set of truly hideous mugs.

#fic: neighborly #ghoap x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader #simon riley x reader #cod x reader #141 x reader

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saerins · 1 year ago

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[ ೀ pucker up, buttercup | itoshi sae ]

ೀ content: female reader, fluff, sae and reader are adults, pet names (sae’s choice of words are stupid/idiot, calls reader ‘my girl’), alcohol, slightly suggestive at the end. | wc 1.5k | notes: okay did a very quick drabble for sae for christmas !! merry christmas to you guys <3

ೀ summary: being sae’s girlfriend is tough. there’s a lot of things he can’t make time for, and unfortunately this time, it’s you. but somehow, he always pulls through.

it’s christmas eve and you’re at your company function, looking at the fruits of your hard labour.

the event hall is decked with christmas decorations; stockings lining the walls and corresponding to different names for everyone’s secret santa to gift accordingly, christmas lights surrounding every table, everyone getting their fair share of the catering you’d arranged.

“this is amazing,” your boss gushes as she excitedly throws her arms around you. she’s only a few years older than you, so it’s not all too surprising that she’s always super friendly with you.

“relax on the alcohol, okay?” you joke with her, smelling the liquor already.

she pouts at you, batting her eyelashes. “oh c’mon, are you still upset that your boyfriend couldn’t make it for christmas?”

you sigh, though you keep a strong front, smiling through it. being the private girlfriend of an international soccer superstar is tough; he has to miss holidays and special occasions and more often than not you can’t even get your calls through because he’s just that busy. you’d been excited for this year’s christmas though, because he had said he’d be able to fly back home this time.

but as it turns out, his manager—who so happens to love overworking him—has other plans. so all of that excitement just went down the drain. still, what else can you say to him other than good luck with it? you knew being his girlfriend was going to be tough, but it’s starting to take a toll after feeling like you barely exist in his world.

still, you stare at the message he last sent you.

i love you.

and you go soft. soft, because you know he means it. soft, because despite everything, you believe in the man you fell in love with. the one who gave you your first kiss back in high school, the one who’s so awkward that even initiating to hold hands last time had his entire face beet red. the one who never fails to assure you that in spite of the distance, he’s always still thinking of you.

you fiddle with your necklace, the promise ring sae gave you when you were back in high school sitting around your neck like it always has.

in between all the long distance arguments and the time differences and the i miss you, wish you were here with me, you still find yourself hopelessly in love with itoshi sae. even when your friends say they can’t imagine being in your shoes, even when numerous tabloids love to put models or athletes as your competition, you know there’s still no one else you’d rather be with than him.

“i’m fine, really,” you assure your boss, prying her off of you and then adjusting her so her arm is around your shoulder as you lead her to her stocking. “here, why don’t you busy yourself and see what your secret santa got you?”

you really just want to distract your boss so she wouldn’t accidentally end up throwing you a pity party. all you want to do today is to make it through it, spend the first hour of christmas day rounding up the party and then get home and sleep your day away. it’ll distract you from the absence of your boyfriend anyway.

as you watch your boss happily open up whatever’s in her stocking, you wonder if your secret santa got you anything. (of course, some secret santas are dicks and end up not getting their person anything.) so count yourself lucky when you open up your stocking to find both a gift and a card.

amused, you rip the card out of its envelope, your heart skipping a beat when you see that inside of it, there’s a picture of you and sae as high school kids, beside each other, his face deadpan while you’re grinning from ear to ear, resting your head against his shoulder. the message reads: i love you so much it’s stupid.

you’re still in shock but you open up the little gift box, maroon with a green bow on it. when you see what’s inside, you can’t help but chuckle.

holding it above you, under the light, you can see the words hey, stupid engraved on the side of the fake mistletoe before feeling a warm pair of arms wrapping around your waist from behind, cold lips catching you off guard as they press themselves against yours.

it fills you up inside, takes all the weight off your shoulders. you’ll recognise him anywhere, without having to look or hear, the way his lips feel against yours, how he holds you gently against him, laughing softly against your lips as you pull him closer to you by the collar.

never in your wildest dreams did you expect to see your boyfriend in japan, let alone at your work party of all places, and now here you both are, kissing under the mistletoe.

“woah relax there,” he teases you, pulling away but still holding you close.

he’s here, he’s actually here. his hair’s in a mess, and there are circles under his eyes, but he’s smiling. he’s smiling at you and he’s here with you and you don’t even feel the tears forming in your eyes because you’re too busy relishing in the moment.

“itoshi sae,” you call out to him, your hands patting on his body, his black coat and his scarf are real and he’s here—he’s really here. “i thought you were too busy to come back…”

how long has it been now since you’d last seen him? a year? perhaps longer? he’s been so busy nowadays that you wondered at one point if he would even come back to you at all.

sae sighs, holding your cheeks in his hands as he presses his forehead against yours. “i’m sorry,” he says tensely, shaking his head slightly. “i was away for so long, and i just…” his teal eyes stare into yours, both your eyelashes dancing against one another. “i missed you, and i just wanted to see you.”

you’re laughing in disbelief, still holding him close because you’re just that afraid that this’ll all be an illusion that might soon slip away. “and they just let you off like that? that simple?”

he presses his lips into a firm line, averting his gaze. “let’s just say that they weren’t happy about it but i’m the important one, so…” he smiles, genuinely, putting an arm around. “they don’t have a choice but to let me come home to see my girl.”

turns out, he’d called in a favour to your boss, asked her about christmas plans because he knew from your texts that you were in charge of putting it all together. and then he asked her to put the gifts in your stocking. and you laugh hearing about it, because you’re thinking of how your life could’ve gone a totally different way. you could’ve gotten into a relationship with someone else who wouldn’t do this much for you, wouldn’t make time for you, wouldn’t travel across the world and put their own things down all in the name of meeting you.

“what’re you thinking about, stupid?”

you look into his eyes, shaking your head. “nothing, it’s nothing, i just- i love you, itoshi sae.” you smile, and sae smiles too because he loves how your smile reaches your eyes. and he loves being the reason you smile so he’s going to keep being that—and he makes a promise to himself to make you happy for life. but maybe that’s a gesture for next time. right now, he just wants to spend the rest of the holidays with you.

the clock strikes twelve, and he steals the mistletoe from you, holding it up between the two of you again, wincing from how cheesy it is after he does it, earning a chuckle from you.

“merry christmas, idiot.” and he kisses you again, long and slow and completely oblivious to everyone else that’s there who are staring and clapping—half of them still in awe that the itoshi sae is here and half of them in shock after putting two and two together that he’s your special guy.

“so, you’re gonna be here till new years’?” you ask in between kisses.

sae nods, “at least, why?”

you grin, pulling him by the belt as you lead him out of the event hall. “think it’s time we get home and just spend it between the two of us, yeah?”

sae laughs, letting you drag him along, wondering whether by this time next year, will he be lucky enough to call you his wife?

but when he sees that promise ring he gifted you still nestling snug around your neck, he has no doubt. you’re each other’s for life. and you’re worth every single risk he has to take.

#bllk x reader #itoshi sae x reader #sae x reader #blue lock x reader #bllk x you #bllk x y/n #sae x you #sae fluff #sae x y/n #itoshi sae #itoshi sae x you #itoshi sae x y/n #itoshi sae fluff #itoshi sae imagines #sae imagines #bllk fluff #blue lock fluff #૪ aeri’s fics !

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rainydayathogwarts · 2 months ago

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Never ending song - Sirius Black

summary: rockstar!reader - when your parents divorce, you decide to move to london to finish your last year of school, and take your music career there with you. what happens when you meet another pureblood rebel named sirius black. wc: 7.3k+ a/n: funnily enough this whole concept was inspired by The Ballad of the Witches Road from agatha all along being a protection spell.

WITCHES WEEKLY

In a twisting turn of events, rockstar y/n l/n ditches her parents amongst their divorce to move to London with her aunt.

A new light has been shed on rockstar y/n l/n since the beginning of her parents’ divorce. The singer songwriter, famously known for her most recent album “Heart of Chaos” was seen in court this week, finally showing her vulnerable side to the public, contrary to the heartthrob persona she usually puts on.

Her parents, two world renowned aurors have reportedly called it quits after more than twenty years together, and this week in another court hearing, a shocking event took place. When young adult y/n was asked by the court which of her guardians she would like to live with, the two parents broke out into an argument, causing the rockstar to have an astounding outburst. “Shut up! Shut up! I don’t want to live with either of you — I mean just look at you. One of you has a drinking problem so bad you shouldn’t be allowed to work and the other works so much and is so controlling and insensitive that living alone would be better than living with you!” The unfolding truth about her father’s drinking problem has opened a new case which could potentially cost him his license as an auror.

L/n’s aunt, her godmother, lives in a remote area in London, and owns a very successful boutique in Diagon Alley, one of the most popular magical villages in the UK. The guardian was brought into court this Friday, and the judge confirmed that y/n would be living with her aunt until she becomes a legal adult, in which case the choice of her living situation will be up to her.

This means that for her last year of school, the popular singer-songwriter will be quitting her studies at the Ilvermorny Institute of Magic to begin a new journey after the Christmas holidays at the hight ranked school of magic in the world: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The real question is: what will this mean for her musical career? Will she change record labels, or go independent?

Sirius’s jaw went slack, the tea he had previously sipped dribbling out of his open mouth and onto the newspaper in front of him. He frantically wiped away at the liquid, muttering a “No way” under his breath. “Padfoot that was absolutely disgusting” Remus commented, throwing a napkin at Sirius’s face. James laughed, rearranging the glasses balancing on his nose, but Sirius quickly interrupted him. “No, no, look at this!” He exclaimed, shoving the paper into James’s unprepared hands. Lily and Remus, sat on either side of the quidditch player, leaned closer to James, reading the paper over each shoulder.

“Oh hey, isn’t she the girl whose music you’re obsessed with?” Lily pointed out, finger resting on the moving image of you in court, shaking your head disappointedly at your parents. Sirius nodded frantically, snatching the paper back from his friends. “The popular singer-songwriter will be quitting her studies at the Ilvermorny Institute of Magic to begin a new journey after the Christmas holidays at the highest ranked school of magic in the world: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” Sirius read out, a look of excitement on his face. “This is great!”

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎˎˊ˗

“This is terrible.” You muttered two weeks later, arranging the tie adorning your neck. “I feel like I should have thought things out a little more before deciding to move halfway through my last year of school, right?” Your aunt laughed, shaking her head from where she sat on your bed across from you. “Hogwarts is great, and I’m sure you’ll be a lot happier here than you were before.” You got off your bed, kneeling down to finally close your suitcase. “I hope so. I just wish they have something about spells in song. It’s my favourite thing to learn about.” Your aunt hummed, helping you up from the floor and rearranging the tie on your chest. “Well, the student can always become the teacher.” She mumbled with a smile. “Now don’t forget your jumper, you’re on the brink of missing your train.” You jumped up, grabbing said jumper alongside your suitcase and guitar case, ready to apparate to the station.

The station, bustling with magical activity, screamed of students excited to return to Hogwarts, with magical firecrackers flying across the platform and chocolate frogs escaping their packaging. Parents cuddled up nostalgically, remembering the first time they’d dropped their children off here.

Platform 9 ¾.

You sighed, turning towards your godmother for the last time before you’d leave her until the summer. Wordlessly, she wrapped her arms around you in a tight hug. Shutting your eyes tightly to savour the quick moment with her, you were interrupted by a bright flashing light in your direction. All too familiar to the feeling, your eyes snapped open, exposing the reporter and her cameraman in front of you. You glared at the pair of them, letting go of your aunt’s hug to flash her one last smile and a loving “Bye bye” before rushing onto the train, where you know the journalist wouldn’t dare follow you.

"Rockstar y/n l/n shares tearful goodbyes with her godmother before hopping on the Hogwarts Express to mark the beginning of her witchcraft journey in the UK. Will she receive the same praise in the land of the Brits as in the United States, or will her career fall short? It’s difficult to tell if the new audience will boost her sales due to its new exposure to her music, or if the teenagers of the UK will find l/n unrelatable. Only time will tell…"

The whistle of the train had you jolting awake in your seat, looking around the empty compartment to make sense of your surroundings. Sighing, you blinked the fatigue away, observing the figures crowding the hallway of the train. You followed the pack’s movements, gathering your suitcase just in time for the train to come to a halt, wheels screeching on the tracks as it settled on the platform, the door to the compartment slamming open. “Newbie, I’m guessing?” You spun on your heels, eyeing the boy in front of you wearing green robes. “What gave it away?” He chuckled, nodding towards your suitcase. “Leave your stuff on the train.” You eyed him wearily, gaze wandering down the hallway to see if he was trying to fool you. Alas, none of the other students carried their luggage with them. Cautiously, you lifted your suitcase onto the seats next to you, deciding to trust the stranger.

The boy stuck his hand out in front of him, a strand of blonde hair falling in front of his eyes. “Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy.” You shook his hand with a thankful smile, introducing yourself to the pureblood. It didn’t take long for you to notice the newspaper Malfoy carried under his armpit, making the carriage ride up to the castle uncomfortable, realisation of his previous knowledge of you dawning on you. At the glimpse of your smiling face in the paper, you wondered how they represented you today.

Were you the snobby pureblooded princess who threw away everything her parents did for her, or the poor, vulnerable teenager whose parents abandoned in the midst of their hatred for the other?

The castle was impressive, more so than Ilvermorny had been, you noted as you stepped foot in the entrance hall. You weren’t surprised that Malfoy immediately left your side, catching a snippet of the remark he made to his friend who met him in the hall, beginning with “Mate, you’ll never guess who…” Instead, you allowed yourself to be whisked away by a tall, intimidating woman who suddenly appeared in front of you, summoning you with an ominous call of your name. You followed the nameless woman down the halls of Hogwarts until you stopped in front of two open double doors, tall enough to reach the high ceilings of the castle. The Great Hall was full of students, some of which were still taking their seats at their designated tables. You felt as though every single pair of eyes in the hall turned to look at you as you stood in the entryway. The view was somewhat more intimidating than your largest selling concert, despite the decrease in number of people.

Gulping, you let your gaze wander to the man sat at the centre of the teacher’s table, returning his steady stare. Albus Dumbledore. You’d read books about him; his problematic backstory and the people’s tendencies to forgive and forget. Here he stood now, in charge of the next generation of wizards. You watched as he stood up, booming voice echoing in the hall as he gathered the students’ attention.

From the Gryffindor table, Sirius elbowed James, innocently sat next to him, desperately waiting for dinner after a rigorous snow fight with the other marauders. James hissed, turning towards Sirius, who redirected his gaze towards the doors of the Great Hall, where you stood.

“Mate she looks scary.” James muttered, eyes glued to your fixated glare, your overconfident posture, your perfectly manicured nails. “Yeah.” Sirius sighed in amazement.

Ironically enough, your composure communicated the exact opposite of what you were feeling. You had to consciously keep the muscles in your legs flexed otherwise you were sure they’d be seen shaking from the other end of the hall. You kept your hands flat against the sides of your thighs to ensure you didn’t nervously fiddle with anything, only moving your hand to flick your hair over your shoulder because it was itching the side of your neck uncomfortably. “Oh she thinks she’s so much better than us.” Sirius heard a girl mumble further down the table, watching as your beautiful hair was swept behind your shoulder.

“Students of Hogwarts!” Dumbledore began, silencing everyone in the hall. “Welcome back! I hope you’ve had a wonderful winter holiday. As I’m sure many of you have heard, we are starting the new year with a new student to join our community of witches and wizards. To welcome her, she needs to go through the rite of passage that every student here at Hogwarts has gone through. Miss L/N, would you please step up to be sorted into your Hogwarts house?”

“You’re joking.”

The hall erupted in laughter at your comment, which had come out much louder than you’d intended, and Sirius heard the girl who’d previously made a comment on you now say “Never mind, she’s so right about that.” Your head snapped to the tall Professor next to you, eyes desperately looking for her to tell you that Dumbledore was, in fact, just joking. However, she only smiled sympathetically at you, putting a hand on your shoulder to softly nudge you down the hall. In an attempt to ignore the eyes following each step you took, you observed the different tables around you. Blue, red, green and yellow. God, you didn’t care where you were put as long as it wasn’t the yellow one. That colour didn’t go with any of your clothes.

Your heels echoed on the stairs, and you almost rolled your eyes at the sight of the stool placed in the centre of the platform. It was too cliché. You sat down, folding one leg over the other before the same old Professor approached you, this time carrying an old, filthy hat. You returned your gaze to the rest of the hall, watching each pair of eyes scan your body before your vision was stolen, and you welcomed the darkness. The sorting hat was heavy on your head, and a few sizes too big, you realised, feeling the tickle of the hat’s rim against your nose.

“Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, I know just where you should go.” What the fuck? “Oh give me a break, I’m just trying to make this a little fun.” Fun? The hat’s raspy voice echoed in your mind, and you almost fell into a trance as it scanned through all your memories. Like a movie, a certain memory displayed itself in your brain, your very own voice echoing in your head. “Shut up! Shut up! I don’t want to live with either of you!” “Mhm, confrontational, rebellious.” The hat murmured in your mind before ultimately yelling out:

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Sirius was the first one on his feet, cheering you on as you made your way down the steps and towards the table. He tried hiding his disappointment when you were whisked away by a group of girls in his year group towards the front of the table, greeting you with welcoming smiles. Halfway through dinner, Lily had to scold him for how often he glanced your way.

On the way back to the common room, Sirius sped up, trying to catch up with you while dragging James and Remus with him by the wrists. The crowded hallways were the cause of Sirius's lack of success, and he huffed loudly when he couldn’t manage to slip past someone, the gap between you and him increasing as people pushed past him. When he finally made his way through the Fat Lady’s portrait, he grinned widely, eyes scanning the cozy common room, only for the smile to fall from his face when he couldn’t spot you in any of the seventh year students’ usual spots.

He was too late; you’d already been whisked away to your dorm.

It was only a week later that he’d managed to finally speak to you, despite sharing most classes with you. Mary and Marlene had clearly become close to you, and you’d even gotten to meet Lily, but Sirius? Well, you had no idea who he was.

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎˎˊ˗

Sirius, Remus and James were late to class. They had been doing so well with being on time and avoiding useless detentions, a resolution they had made together for the new year. They rounded the corner of the hallway, panting loudly as they ran, trying to catch the stairs before they shifted again, which would inevitably make them even later.

You sat on the stairs with a bored expression, leaning your chin on your hand, your bag on the floor next to you. You had gotten here a few minutes ago, and just like the three marauders, had missed the stairs. Loud groans pulled you out of your train of thoughts, looking up to see where the voice had come from to find three boys your age — the marauders. They were all panting: Remus had his hands on his hips, head thrown back to catch his breath, and James had crouched down, leaning his head on the stair’s railing. “You alright?” The mysterious boy caught your attention. He stood nearly directly behind you and had long curly hair and a sweet smile, though his eyebrows were pulled together in concern at the sight of you sat alone on the stairs. Just like his other two friends, his chest was heaving as he tried to catch his breath, cheeks slightly rosy. You nodded softly “Yeah, gave up trying to find my way to class ten minutes ago.” Sirius chuckled, moving to sit down next to you. You could hear his heavy breathing, but he still asked “What class do you have next?”

Sirius knew what class you had next.

You had transfigurations, same as him. But you hadn’t noticed that you shared the class with the boy, unlike him, who had internally cheered when you first walked into the transfigurations classroom. “Transfigurations. Marlene gave me a tour of this whole place like a week ago but I still can’t get my head wrapped around it.”

“You let Marlene give you a tour?” Remus’s voice suddenly sprung up, causing you to look at Sirius in confusion. He felt his heart surge as he realised you were looking at him to clarify. You had instantly chosen to trust him. “Was I not supposed to?” Sirius shrugged with a smile, “She’s just not the most… knowledgeable person of the castle. She still gets lost getting from the common room to the Great Hall sometimes.” Your laugh surprised him, and you reached a hand out to him, saying “I’m y/n, by the way.” Sirius’s grin widened impossibly as he shook your hand, introducing himself and the marauders behind him.

“Well, we’ll walk you to class. We’ve got McGonagall too.” You shook your head at Sirius’s offer, pushing yourself off the ground to stand up. “No way I’m going class 15 minutes late. I’m not waiting to be humiliated in front of a full class of people who probably already know who I am.”

“Fair enough.” Sirius stated, mimicking your movements. You shot him a look from the corner of your eye. “I take it you know who I am then?” Sirius’s cheeks darkened, but he didn’t let the exposure humiliate him. You’d think he was pathetic. He puffed his chest out confidently. “You could say I’m an avid enjoyer of your music. But that doesn’t make you any different to the next guy.” With the smile that blossomed on your face, someone would have thought that Sirius gave you the most flattering compliment. “Okay, good to know, Mr. Sirius.”

“Black.” He added, “Sirius Black.” Your eyes widened slightly at the name. Pureblood, you noted. One of the sacred 28. You both looked at each other with acknowledgment. He knew who you were, and you knew who he was. You took the silent moment to take in his features: striking silver jewellery on his fingers and around his neck, you spotted tattoos creeping up the collar of his uniform. A rebel. As his eyes bore into yours, you instantly knew there was a mutual understanding between you. And without another word, you were turning the corner to the next hallway and disappearing from Sirius’s sight until the evening came.

You lingered at the bottom of the stairwell to the girls’ dormitories, debating on making an approach or not. You liked Sirius. He obviously related to the parental pressure, and didn’t care too much about you no matter how much he liked your music. And he had style. Realistically, it was also about time to make friends other than your dorm-mates and their one friend. You imagined that no matter what happened, it wouldn’t be worse than your interaction with Malfoy. “Sorry.” You muttered, moving away from the staircase to let some girls make their way up to their dorms.

Feeling the girls look back at you, you mustered the courage you had to stroll across the common room towards where Sirius sat with his intimidating group of friends. The group turned their attention to you as you approached them, and you ignored the nerves building up in your gut, instead saying “Hey”, though it was mainly pointed towards Sirius. The boy was already making space for you to sit down next to him before you had the chance to ask. You were grateful when the others around you carried on with their conversations, turning towards Sirius. “Hey Sirius, do you know if there’s an extracurricular or something about spells in song?” The boy in front of you furrowed his eyebrows as though he had never heard of the concept before, and you knew that was a bad sign.

“You know, like when protection or love spells are, like, weaved into music?” Sirius straightened up in front of you, whisper yelling “What? Wait, do you do that with your songs?” You felt your face heat up and leaned back into the cushiony couch. “Kind of. I’m trying — learning.”

Unfortunately, Sirius had let you know that he hadn’t heard of such thing in the castle. In fact, he didn’t think that spells in song was a concept known between wizard and witches in the UK. That would be something you’d have to change. However, he was kind enough to lead you to the library, where he insisted on staying with you to find all your books on the subject so that you’d have someone to guide you back to the common room. It was so that you wouldn’t get lost again, obviously.

The library didn’t seem to have much on the topic, despite its grand size. You sighed, putting the books you’d found on the table in front of you. Your aunt seemed to stand correct, the student was becoming the teacher. Sirius sat patiently at the table, watching you ponder silently for a moment. You opened the first book, scanning its table of contents, before shutting it closed again. “This isn’t going to work.” You mumbled, putting both hands on your hips. You chose one of the textbooks at random, shoving it in your bag and gesturing for Sirius to follow you. You trotted out of the library, ignoring Sirius’s claim that you had to sign the book out. “I’m just borrowing it!” You exclaimed, taking the first flight of stairs up. Sirius had trouble catching up with you, and was quickly lured into a hallway he didn’t recognise. A hallway on the fifth floor.

“What are we doing up here?” He asked, breathing heavily. You ignored his question, instead whispering under your breath “Where is it?” Sirius matched your pace as you came to a slow walk, pacing in circles around the same pillar. “I swear it was here.” “What was here?” Sirius asked, watching you. But his question was quickly answered for him when a big wooden door appeared on the empty wall in front of you both. Matching gasps left your lips, and Sirius cautiously watched as you walked up to the door, placing a hand on its peeling paint. “The music room.” You mumbled, finally pushing the door open.

Sirius followed you through the wooden door, jumping slightly when it slammed close behind him. His breath had been taken away. The room was enormous. It had a stage with a grand piano and several percussion and string instruments littered around the room. There were even muggle microphones, which he knew you often used in concerts, contrary to the normal amplification spell.

In all seven years at Hogwarts, Sirius and the marauders had restlessly tried looking for this room: the room of Come and Go. They had read about it, doubting its existence after years of failure. And here you were, not even three weeks into your time at Hogwarts, and you had found it. “This isn’t a music room,” Sirius started, looking around. Your footsteps came to a halt, and you spun around to face him with your eyebrows raised. “This is the room of requirements. I never thought I'd live to see it.” Sirius returned his attention to you, a glint in his eyes like he was eleven, seeing Honeydukes for the first time. He’d have to take you there one day.

“It gives you a room you want the most. And you… You really want somewhere to play your music.” He guessed, eyes filled with empathy. You hummed. “Not just play. Write, compose. Sing too loud sometimes and embarrass myself.” Sirius laughed, and you joined in until a comfortable silence fell between the two of you. You spun on your feet and ran towards the stage, putting your hands on the floor of the stage and jumping so you could roll onto the elevated surface. Sirius followed you, equal ecstasy in his movements. Sirius sighed, staying laid down on the ground.

You grinned down at Sirius, a microphone now in your hand, and asked “Do you play any instruments, Mr. Black?” Sirius’s cheeks bloomed with a bright blush, and he sat up straight, shyly muttered “I play the piano.” You laughed, nodding at his words “Okay, I see. Pureblood parents force you to play? Let me guess, you have a sibling and they play the violin.” Sirius scoffed, muttering “Shut up” as he stood up, though his bold smile didn’t budge.

“I have skills. I’ll show you.” You hummed, unconvinced, watching as Sirius sat down in front of the grand piano, fingers skillfully resting on the keys. His fingers danced across the keys, and despite the years it’s been since he’s touched the instrument, he didn’t make a single mistake, shutting his eyes as he let the music flow through his veins. Sirius opened his eyes to glance up at you, and when he spotted the mesmerised smile on your face, he felt his fingers press all the wrong keys, causing an unpleasant sound to fill the room. “Sorry!” You both cried out, and Sirius furrowed his eyebrows at you. “I distracted you, I didn’t mean to.” Sirius shook his head, gesturing a hand towards you. “It’s your turn now.”

You and Sirius spent all night in the room of requirements, playing music and trying to teach him how to play the guitar. He took a particular interest in the electric one, which you immediately thought suited him. He was more than just a piano player. Sirius was a rockstar, whether he knew it yet or not.

“So tell me about this spell in song thing.” Sirius brought up after a long break from music. You had just returned from the kitchens, thankfully not too far from this hidden room, and had only narrowly missed some Professor who was doing their rounds. “Well, from what I’ve learned, you can either make the music to a song a spell, so that when the instruments are played together, a spell is cast. Or it could be the lyrics that are the spell. The difference between that and a normal spell is that the lyrics are real words, but our spells that we cast as witches and wizards are mostly latin. Never the spoken language that we use. But then it gets complicated, because if someone wants to replicate the spell, everything has to be the same. Each note, each harmony. Otherwise, the spell risks being a curse.”

Sirius was silent. He didn’t even have any questions. “Have you heard of the Ballad of the Witches’ Road?” You asked, and the boy nodded “You recorded your own version of it.” You grinned, nodding eagerly. “Well, the song was written centuries ago — no one knows by who or where it was written, but it became crazy popular. The original song wasn’t a spell, but then each version of it that was created afterwards had its own different spell. The sacred chant version uses the chant itself as the spell, but in the version that is most popular now, the guitar solo is a protection spell. I don’t know how it works, I really don’t.” Sirius’s mouth was gaped open, a silent question lingering in the air, but you refused to answer it if he didn't explicitly ask you. “And in your version?”

You cleared your throat, looking down at the guitar in front of you. “In my version, my voice is a love spell. I played it to my parents in hopes that they would fall back in love. Clearly, it didn’t work.”

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎˎˊ˗

Over the next couple of weeks, you’d decided that you’d asked Sirius to come up with you to your music room too often. You were being a burden. If he wanted to come with you, he could always ask. You’d grown fond of the boy, and even his friends, though you never asked to sit with them. At breakfast, Sirius would wave you over, and you’d happily sit next to him, smiling and nodding along to the conversation, only ever speaking if a question was directed towards you.

In lessons, you’d sit and write song lyrics in a note book you took with you everywhere, and Professors loved to target you with bombardments of questions. You’d shut your book, tilt your head to the side and flawlessly answer every question thrown at you. They hated it, but it made Sirius smile. He was lucky that while people admired you in the hallways, he could call out your name, jog up next to you and hold enjoyable conversations with you. He even ditched his friends to go to Hogsmeade with you. When he’d asked you to come with the group, you stared at your hands, declining his offer respectfully.

“How about just us, then?”

“Sirius, you don’t have to ditch your friends for me.”

“But you are my friend.”

It hadn’t been a very successful outing, despite you and Sirius having a wonderful time. He took you to Honeydukes and smiled at the amazed expression on your face when you gasped. You dragged him over to the music store and signed a record of your album a young girl was buying. But when you both finally decided it was time to cozy up with a butterbeer, arms linked together, you met unpleasant company at the door of the three broomsticks.

Years of experience allowed you to spot reporters and journalists from a mile away. You stopped in your tracks, pulling Sirius back by the arm you had hooked with yours. “Hey, what’s wrong?” He had asked, following your line of sight. “Sirius, those are-” But it was too late, because they had finally seen you. The lady immediately sped towards you with a list of questions she was ready to ask whilst the man next to her pulled out an expensive camera and immediately started taking photos, the flash blinding you each time it went off. Sirius instantly tried shielding you from the pair, his hand slipping into yours so you wouldn’t lose him. Sirius dragged you into the popular pub, and by magic, Madame Rosemerta appeared and locked the door before the reporters could enter.

Sirius had immediately asked you if you were okay, but his question was drowned out by laughs coming from the other side of the pub. It was the same blond boy who had met you on the train, with his insolent group of friends who were joking about the encounter. Well, now you knew exactly who had ratted you out to the reporters. “Here, sweetheart.” Had said Sirius as he offered you a fresh butterbeer, but your mood had already been spoiled, and all you wanted to do was return to the castle.

“Look, Sirius, you’re wonderful, and I’ve had so much fun but-” your consistent glances towards the door had given what you wanted to say away, and Sirius nodded again. “Hey, I’ll walk back with you, okay?” Thankfully, the reporters were already gone by the time you left the pub, and you dug around in your pocket to pay Sirius for the butterbeer. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He had said, rejecting your two silver sickles.

Once in the castle once more, you hid in your dorm for the rest of the day, dreading the headline that would be on the papers tomorrow. Maybe they would scare Sirius away and he’ll stop spending time with you. Fuck, that would be the worst thing to ever happen to you, you thought, digging your head into your pillow.

You were very aware of your blooming feelings towards the curly-headed boy. In fact, every time you sat alone, or even in a lesson, and picked up a pencil, the only song lyrics you could thing about writing were about him. He invaded your mind, and usually, you wouldn’t complain about having some inspiration, but now? Well, you liked him so much you wanted him to collaborate on your music with you, to sing and to play with you. But you couldn’t do that if every single song you wrote was about falling head over heels for him.

Downstairs in the common room, Sirius was clenching his fists over the incident with the reporter. He went on about how you’d had so much fun together, all for it to be ruined by a two-minute encounter. “That shouldn’t happen to anyone! Fuck, I swear I’ll beat Malfoy up.” He said to his friends, letting his head fall back on the couch. James looked at him empathetically, but after a moment of silence, he shot a look to the other marauder who sat across from them, an idea suddenly popping up in his mind. Remus was already holding a quill in hand, parchment laid out in front of him.

“Hey, instead of beating that blond bitch up, how about we do something worse?”

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎˎˊ˗

THE DAILY PROPHET

Heart of Chaos? More like heart of romance!

The young rockstar y/n l/n was seen cozying up with pureblood rebel Sirius Black at Hogsmeade on Sunday. As seen in the image, the couple was very physically close to each other, making fans wonder what is going on behind closed doors. Though we only have limited information on the topic, an anonymous source at Hogwarts has revealed to us this piece of information:

“Sirius Black is the only person she’ll speak to. Everyone is so welcoming to her, but she either spends time alone writing things, or she spends time with him. He’s probably the inspiration for her new album. I mean, you know how it is, the girl’s last album was literally called ‘Heart of Chaos’! All she does is probably write about boys!”

Everyone’s eyes were on you on Monday during breakfast, watching as you read the article about your so called love life. The worst part of the article wasn’t the assumption that you and Sirius were together, or that you were having sex ‘behind closed doors’. No, it was the assumption that your last album had been about boys when it had truly been about broken trust and personal healing. Hence, the Heart of Chaos.

Sirius noticed you hadn’t had anything to eat for breakfast, so when he saw you abruptly stand up, he pocketed an apple to bring to you later. He just hoped that Malfoy came down for breakfast before you left.

And indeed, an unrecognisable Lucius Malfoy ran down to the Great Hall just as you turned to face the entrance. Loud gasps and laughter was heard instantly at the sight of the disheveled teenager. Lucius had been transformed into your number one fan. His face had been made up for him to resemble a rock fan. A big, glittery, red star was painted around his eye, the other one sporting bold eyeshadow and liner. He wore heavy lashes that he couldn't tear off, and the best bit? Every single piece of clothing in the boy’s closet had been turned into merchandise you recently launched to promote your tour beginning this summer. In a desperate attempt to appear anywhere near normal, Lucius had begged Evan to lend him clothes, but the second he pulled the uniform on, it had also been transfigured into more merch.

“What have you done to me!?” He screamed over the laughter, marching over to the Gryffindor table, his gaze fixed on the marauders. You took confident strides towards Lucius until you stood right in front of him, blocking his route towards the three boys. The hall went silent when you put your hands on your hips, everyone listening closely to what you had to say. “And for the record, Malfoy, my last album wasn’t about boys, which I thought you might know considering you have been so far up my ass recently, you could practically see what I had for dinner last night.” You walked away from Malfoy as he stood in the middle of the Great Hall, an embarrassed flush on his face.

“Don’t worry,” Announced Sirius, standing up and beginning to follow you. “It wears off after 72 hours… I think.”

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎˎˊ˗

Sirius was only able to find you a few hours later in the room of requirements, separated by clashing schedules. Sirius pulled the apple out of his pocket, offering it to you when he finally reached you. “Didn’t see you eat this morning.” You jumped at the sound of Sirius’s voice, a wide smile on our face as you shut your book, pushing it aside and making space for Sirius next to you. When Sirius sat, he wasn’t expecting you to throw your arms around him, engulfing him in a tight hug. “Thank you.” You mumbled into the crook of his neck. “Hey, why should you be embarrassed for something he did? Also, I’ve got to say your comment was beautiful.” “What, about him seeing my dinner?” Sirius laughed as you let go of him, throwing an arm around you and tugging you in closer to him.

“So, it doesn’t change anything for you?” You whispered to him, afraid of his response. “Why would a little gossipy article change anything for me? Whatever this is, it doesn’t need a reporter to put labels on it. So, tell me what you’re working on.” “I- just a song.” Sirius heard the wobble in your voice, but decided not to ask about it, watching as you wiped at your eyes. “Um, a song I actually wanted you to sing.” Sirius made a sound of surprise in his throat. “Love, you know I don’t sing.” Your laugh surprised him. “Yes you do, you just don’t know it yet.”

Sirius watched as you jumped up from your place on the couch “This song is a little different to what I usually write and perform.” You told him, pulling out your wand and grabbing the sheets of music from the table. You muttered a spell, enchanting each instrument to play its own part before you finally grabbed your electric guitar and lyric sheet.

The second your fingers strummed the guitar, all the instruments came to life in a melody that Sirius instantly knew would change the world as you knew it. Then, you began singing the lyrics, your voice as light as an angel for a tune that didn’t match it.

“I wanted to be with you alone

And talk about the weather,”

And Sirius was instantly in love. Not that he hadn’t been before, no. Sirius had realised that meeting his heroes wasn’t always a bad thing since he sat down with you in the middle of a staircase. You’d looked at him with angel eyes, looking to him for comfort when speaking to his other friends. Sirius was lost in a trance as you observed him now as you sang, watching for each and every reaction. You cleared your throat nervously when you got to the chorus.

“Something happens and I'm head over heels

I never find out until I'm head over heels

Something happens and I'm head over heels

Ah, don't take my heart, don't break my heart

Don't, don't, don't throw it away”

Sirius’s mouth was agape. He pieced the song together, you figured. He stood up from his spot, walking over to you and putting his hands on your guitar. The second you stopped playing, the rest of the instruments died down too, putting an end to your never ending song. You let Sirius take your guitar from you, passing the thick strap over your head so he could put it to the side. “You want me to sing it?” Sirius whispered, his face mere inches away from yours. You nodded “Can only imagine it in your voice.”

“You know, it's fitting, because I really am head over heels for you.” You gasped at Sirius’s words, moving your gaze down to your feet but his hand was already at your chin, gently pushing your chin up so you could meet his eyes again. “I really wanted to kiss you in the great hall today.” You muttered, and Sirius grinned. “So did I. I love myself a woman who will stand up for herself.” “So you’ll sing the song?”

“How about you let me get that kiss first?” You felt your cheeks get hot as Sirius leaned down to press his lips against yours. Your hands immediately gripped his crinkled uniform shirt, pulling his chest flat against yours. He moved a hand to the back of your head, deepening the kiss as he slid his tongue in your mouth. You pressed yourself onto your tippy toes, but just as you wrapped your arms around Sirius’s shoulders, he broke the kiss, saying with a wide grin “How about you teach me this song, yeah?”

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎˎˊ˗

WIZARDS WEEKLY

Y/N L/N has begun her ‘Heart of Chaos: World Tour’, and fans were not surprised to see who she brought on stage.

Rumours of the singer-songwriter’s romance with Sirius Black started when she first moved to England to live with her aunt. The couple were spotted in Scotland’s very own Hogsmeade village, near the Hogwarts castle. Those rumours started around February 1978, and it is now September. The rockstar’s first show of the year-long tour was last night on June 10th, and fans went absolutely crazy. To open her second set l/n brought Sirius Black, her rumoured boyfriend, on stage with her, and they sang their newest collaborative song ‘Head over Heels’.

In a recent interview, l/n shared that her tour would be the start of something big, and it seems as though ‘Head over Heels’ is the beginning of that. The singer said that whilst she wrote and produced the entire song and its music, she felt as though the song would be perfect for someone else — that someone whom we now know is Sirius Black. However, when the pair of wizards sang ‘Head over Heels’ together, a strange phenomenon occurred. It seemed as though people in the audience became calmer, and there was more than one instance of people kissing during the audience. Whilst this isn’t exactly odd during concerts, our reporters noticed that this only occurred during the one song, and nowhere else in the show.

Experts are theorising that y/n l/n isn’t only one of the most talented artists of this new generation, but one of the most powerful witches too, embedding spells in songs, for instance, a love spell in 'Head over Heels'. This is often seen in music in North America, however l/n is introducing it to the rest of the world for the first time.

Sirius Black stayed with her on stage for the rest of the show, singing background vocals and playing the electric guitar to create the most magical duet people have witnessed in a long time. At the end of the show, they confirmed the old rumours started by an anonymous source, sharing a passionate kiss on stage in front of thousands upon thousands of fans. l/n revealed what the tour was starting — or rather ending, during the final moments of her first show of the ‘Heart of Chaos: World Tour’.

This tour would be her last as a solo artist.

At the end of the tour, she will be joining a group called ‘Marauders of Mischief’, in which her boyfriend Sirius Black will be the lead guitarist. l/n and Black revealed to us that the other three members of the band would be Remus Lupin, James Potter and Marlene McKinnon, all of whom l/n met whilst she studied at Hogwarts for less than a year. When asked in an interview about how this band was formed, l/n opened up about a lot of details.

Y/N L/N: Truly, I didn’t speak to Remus, James or Marls much when I was at Hogwarts. But towards the end of the year, I opened up more, and when they discovered that Sirius and I were writing music together, they showed an interest. We spent a day in the music room together, and we instantly knew that we were forming a band. And James’s lovely fiancé, one of my best friends, Lily Evans is our manager, and you know, it’s the six of us against the world. I don’t want to spoil too much, but since I’ve become an independent artist, they’ve been helping me — and Sirius — out with this tour. So they’re on tour with us right now as our sort of ‘backstage team’ which means that we get to spend every day together. And that means we’ve spent a lot of time writing and producing music. So, stay tuned for what we release.

Coming circa 1979.

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @amatoanima, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @superlegend216, @treefairy-28, @superlegend216, @kitkatkl, @rory-cakes, @friedfreyfries, @azure-drag0ness

divider by @v6que

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tonyboneysblog · 10 months ago

Text

curiosity kills the cat: one shot!

parings: Touya x reader

word count: 1.3k

notes: this was originally gonna be a part in a fanfic I was cooking but i genuinely could not figure out how to write childhood friends with Dabi’s crisped ass.

warnings: none!

summary: Touya always sees kissing in movies, all dramatic and lovey dovey, is it really his fault that he wants to try it on you? just to see how it feels of course!

“this movie fucking sucks.”

“language Touya.”

currently, you were at the treacherous Todoroki household.

Why? You may be asking.

Because you wanted to watch a movie, 27 dresses specifically.

Unfortunately for Touya Todoroki, he’s your only friend to watch the movie with.

now the two of you have been friends since pre-school, kids bullied you- Touya saved you.

you stuck around him after that, much to his dismay.

“Why would you make me watch this garbage.” Touya says harshly.

You huff loudly, “to see if your cold, dark heart had anything in it.”

Touya giggles at your little comment, you liked his laugh.

you wanted to watch this movie for a week, practically begged Touya on your knees for him to even watch it with you.

Touya doesn’t enjoy cheesy rom-coms.

He’s made that quite clear throughout this whole movie.

when the two main characters tried on the dresses he complained.

when they went to the bar together, he complained.

when the characters sang at the bar, he complained then too.

yet when they kissed, Touya didn’t even open his mouth.

“yuck- want me to skip?” You say for Touya’s sake.

He’s quiet for a moment before speaking, “nah, it’s just a kiss.”

“What- you’re suddenly cool with lovey dovey stuff now?” your face is set perplexed.

Touya shrugs, “I see it in TV all the time, why should I care?”

You hum softly, “adults kiss too much.”

Touya hums in agreement, his foot starting to steadily tap.

the movie continues, you catch Touya scoff at one of the movies jokes, he seems to be…actually interested.

but that damn tapping won’t stop.

Doesn’t his leg get tired when he does that?

Finally, at the end of the movie the two main lead get married, and the main actress has her 27 bridesmaids.

cute movie.

“Did you like it Touy?” you ask with excitement bubbling inside your chest.

He responds bluntly, “No- terrible movie.”

“Liar- that was the most I’ve ever seen you pay attention to something!” You point an accusing finger towards him.

Touya swatted your finger away, “I was waiting for the guy to murder the girl.”

“What?!” You retract your finger quickly.

Touya shakes his head as if it were obvious, “He had serial killer vibes..”

You sit there on the couch utterly silent from the words that just came out of Touya’s mouth.

His brows furrow slightly, “What?”

“Nothing, weirdo..”

Touya melts into the couch, picking up the remote and scrolling through the streaming apps choices.

“Any thing else you’d like to watch?”

“Being a gentleman I see?” You hum.

Touya chuckles softly, never responding.

The room is on a comfortable silence for the moment, aside from Touya tapping his foot against the glass table his feet are propped on.

Touya’s foot staggers, “Why do you think adults kiss?”

“Because they like it.” You answer quickly.

Touya shakes his head softly, “yeah but why, why do they like it?”

“Why would I know the answer to that.”

Touya glares at your for a moment, “oh please- your parents basically make out all the time when I’m over.”

“So that means I should know why they like it?” You pick at the fur blanket that was thrown over you prior to starting the movie.

Touya hums a small, “yep” before his foot starts to tap again.

“Didn’t think you were so affected by the kissing scene…” you say under your breath, Touya heard anyway.

“I-I wasn’t affected, I’m just curious on what’s so good about it.” He says quickly, the tapping increasing.

You seriously doubt Touya’s even looking at the tittles on the screen by how fast he’s tapping the remote button.

“Well I wouldn’t know…”

Touya stays quiet for a moment, thinking.

probably about something stupid.

“We could know.”

yep, something stupid.

“What you implying Touya?” You elbow his ribs, making him yelp.

“Ow- I’m saying that…nevermind.” Touya rubs his ribs softly, dropping the remote next to you.

“I mean…you’re just curious right?”

Touya looks up at you, the tapping gets faster.

“Yeah- Why…?”

You pick up the remote, looking it over to act like your doing anything else other that what your about to do.

“We could- do it..” you say quiet and soft.

Touya doesn’t respond, the tapping stopped at least.

suddenly, Touya grabs the remote from your hand- setting it aside.

“We could.”

Great, now you’re forced to look at your best friend.

“Yeah?” You say barely loud enough for Touya to pick up.

Touya nods, his foot starting to steadily tap again.

You cup Touya’s face with your hands- oh gosh are you really doing this?

Touya places his hands on your lap, truthfully he has no clue where to put them.

the taps get faster.

You and Touya look at each-other for a moment, just to make sure you don’t absolutely ruin your friendship.

More like a “you really wanna do this?” stare.

but hey, you were curious.

so was Touya.

1 + 1 = 2.

Two kissing more specifically.

“Jus’ do it already..” Touya says quietly, his face growing red.

You press your lips to Touya’s, it was..nice? soft? kinda gross.

Touya’s lips were quite soft actually, he’d wear chap stick like he’d wear clothes though- he hated dry lips.

Touya’s hand steadily went to your cheeks as well, only difference was his were a lot warmer.

At some point, Touya’s tapping stopped.

you a Touya didn’t though, it’s normal for friends to experience things together- how is a kiss any different?

Your cheeks felt so warm.

wait no- that’s Touya’s quirk.

You starting patting Touya’s thigh as a signal to chill out.

And he got the memo, only after a minute.

You and Touya were only slightly out of breath- you might have 1st degree burns on your cheeks though.

“M’sorry…?” Touya says with his dumb cracky voice.

“you burned my cheeks.” You say curtly.

Touya groans, “I didn’t know I activated my quirk!”

“I’m never kissing you again.” Your tone gets slightly aggressive.

Touy burned your precious face though- so he deserves it.

“I said I didn’t-“

A sudden laughter breaks through Touya’s speak, one that didn’t belong to him.

You whip your head to the door way only to see Touya’s siblings, Natsuo and Fuyumi.

Natsuo is holding onto his stomach, dying with laughter while Fuyumi looks mildly disappointed- more like embarrassed.

“Touya-nii…” Fuyumi says softly.

Touya’s face goes completely red, even reaching his ears.

“You didn’t see a thing.” Touya says sternly.

Natsuo laughs more as he grabs Fuyumi, “dude we saw everything!”

Fuyumi covers her face and Natsuo starts to re-create the scene.

“Oh-la-la! Y/N please kiss me I’m so desperate!” Natsuo says through his giggles.

You can see steam coming from Touya as he jumps over the couch to get to Natsuo.

Natsuo sees this and starts to book it.

So now you have a wild Touya and a trouble making Natsuo in the house.

Fuyumi looks at you, then runs to her room- poor girl doesn’t even wanna face you.

how are family dinners your invited to supposed to go now?

curiosity kills the cat you suppose.

and you are the cat in this situation.

EP:

“Mrs. Rei, this is absolutely delicious!” You say while crunching down on whatever Touya’s mother made for the night.

Touya hums in agreement, basically halfway through his second plate.

Natsuo chuckles before speaking, “maybe you should ask her for some cooking lessons Y/N- mom’s experienced.”

Rei smiles softly, “thank you, Natsuo.”

Natsuo immediately gains the most devious smile you’ve ever seen in your entire life.

“Maybe some kissing lessons as well, since you and Touya like that too.”

Immediately silence hits the table.

Touya immediately slams his blow onto the table.

Natsuo runs for his life down the hallway as Touya almost jumps over the table to catch him.

As soon as the boys leave the room your met with a stone faced Rei.

you clear your throat.

“Fuyumi can vouch for me, me and Touya would never do something so sinful!”

Rei chuckles softly, “Fuyumi told me when I came home…”

You whip your head to Fuyumi as she takes her leave, doesn’t wanna face your wrath.

you look towards rei again, sweating bullets as you hear Natsuo screaming bloody murder from two rooms over.

“w-we we’re just curious!”

AN: yall need smth after whatever the hell that episode was😭

#anime #fanfics #mha #touya todoroki #touya x reader #mha touya #touya x y/n #touya x you #mha dabi #bnha dabi #dabi todoroki #dabi #dabi x reader #dabi my hero academia #dabi x you

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writingfics-passingtime · 5 months ago

Note

hi, can you please write about the reader overthinking decorating a pumpkin and loki threatens to tickle them if they don't start it 🤗🤗

I can still post pumpkin content cause it's still November, right?

Here's a sassy, stoic reader, an absolute teasing menace Loki, and a tender, emotional ending (because I can't help myself).

Exactly Like That

word count: ~4300

pairing: Loki x female reader

content / warnings: sexual tension, suggestive banter, flirting and touching, tickling, swearing

minors dni: this work does not contain smut, but does contain a suggestive relationship between the reader and an adult-aged character. I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. Thank you for your understanding and respect.

note: thank you anon ~ I wasn't going to respond yet because my prompts aren't open, but I've seen a few other writers receive and fulfil this ask, and I've liked seeing what other have done with it. My imagination went a little wild. Thanks for your message x

The room was alive with voices, clinking bottles, and the occasional scrape of a knife against pumpkin flesh. The compound’s main dining hall had been transformed into an unlikely tableau of domesticity. Avengers, gods, and spies bent over their assigned gourds with varying levels of skill and enthusiasm. Stark’s pumpkin already looked like a disaster of glitter and questionable wiring, while Natasha’s had been carved into a clean, menacing grin, a masterpiece of precision.

And then there was you.

Your pumpkin sat pristine and untouched in front of you, its smooth surface mocking your indecision. Brushes, carving tools, and paints were scattered around your space, all conspicuously unused. You held a small knife in your hand, twirling it absently as you stared at the blank canvas.

“Do mortals often find themselves defeated by vegetables, or is this particular weakness unique to you?”

Loki's voice slid over you like velvet, dark and rich, tinged with mockery.

You didn’t look up. “It’s a fruit, actually.”

“Ah,” he drawled, moving closer. “Semantics. How very like you.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him lean against the edge of the table, his long, lean frame clothed in casual, dark fabrics that clung just enough to remind you that he wasn’t of your world. His sharp blue eyes sparkled with amusement as he surveyed your untouched pumpkin.

“You’ve been staring at it for nearly an hour,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “Surely even you can’t find this much to overthink.”

You exhaled sharply, finally meeting his gaze. “Maybe I’m waiting for inspiration.”

“Or perhaps you’re simply afraid to begin.” His lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk, the kind that made your pulse stumble. “One wrong cut, one poorly chosen stroke, and the whole thing could be ruined. What a tragic metaphor for your careful, overthought life.”

“Thanks for the analysis, Freud,” you said dryly, turning your attention back to the pumpkin. “Now, if you’re done, I have work to do.”

“Work?” His laugh was quiet, mocking. He moved closer, the faint rustle of his clothing brushing against your senses like a whisper. “Sitting frozen with indecision isn’t work, darling. It’s fear.”

You bristled but kept your voice calm. “If you’re so invested in this pumpkin, why don’t you decorate it yourself?”

“Because I find your quandary far more entertaining.”

He stepped around behind you then, his tall frame casting a shadow over your seat. His presence loomed, a magnetic pull you both resented and couldn’t entirely resist.

“I’ll give you a choice,” he said softly, his voice close now, the faintest trace of his breath against your ear. “Either you begin decorating this ridiculous fruit, or I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

You turned slightly, meeting his eyes over your shoulder. They gleamed with dark amusement, his smirk widening as he caught the way your lips parted involuntarily. “Oh? And how exactly would you do that?”

Loki’s smirk deepened, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. “I could start with this.”

Before you could react, his fingers brushed against your sides, featherlight but enough to send a jolt through you. You stiffened, gripping the edge of the table as his touch lingered, just shy of maddening.

You twisted in your chair to glare at him. “That’s your plan? Tickle me into submission? How original.”

His chuckle was low, dark, a sound that sent a shiver up your spine. “Oh, I think it would be quite effective. And besides,” he murmured, leaning closer, “I suspect you’d secretly enjoy it.”

Your breath caught at the sheer audacity of him, the way his voice dipped into something so sultry, so intimate, that your stomach twisted. “Sounds like you're desperate for an excuse to touch me,” you shot back, your tone sharp despite the heat rising in your cheeks.

He tilted his head, his smirk softening into something more dangerous, more deliberate. “Desperate? No, darling. Just curious.”

His gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, as if he could see straight through you to the rapid beat of your heart.

The air between you seemed to thicken, the tension coiling taut as his words hung there, daring you to respond.

Your grip on the table tightened as you forced yourself to meet his eyes, even as heat coiled low in your stomach.

It felt like gripping the steering wheel of a car spinning out, but you snapped the moment.

“You’re not as intimidating as you think you are."

Loki laughed, soft and wicked. “Of course not. And you're the picture of composure, as always."

His hand brushed against yours then, the faintest graze of his fingertips, and you swore the room tilted.

“Go on,” he urged, his voice a low murmur, his eyes locked on yours. “Prove me wrong. Pick up the brush. Start decorating. Show me you're not afraid of a little fun.”

You hesitated, your heart pounding so loudly you were certain he could hear it. The weight of his gaze, the dark amusement in his smirk, the sheer magnetic pull of him it was... intoxicating.

Finally, with a sharp exhale, you grabbed the brush. “Fine,” you said, your voice tight as you dipped it into the paint.

Loki straightened, his smirk triumphant but his eyes still glinting with wicked intent. “There’s a good girl,” he said softly, the words like a caress against your ear.

It left you burning long after he’d stepped away.

As you focused on the paint in front of you, doing your best to ignore the heat coursing through your veins, you felt the thrill of his words linger.

The brush hovered over the pumpkin, the orange, unsullied skin glaring up at you like a taunt. Loki had retreated to the far end of the room, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the edge of the table as he spoke with Thor. You knew it was only a matter of time before his attention flickered back to you, the heat of a flame too close for comfort.

You had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm under his gaze any longer.

Sliding the brush down as quietly as possible, you rose from your seat. The soft scrape of your chair legs across the floor was muffled beneath the ambient chatter of the room, and Loki didn’t so much as glance your way. Your pulse quickened as you edged toward the door, heart hammering with every step.

He didn’t follow.

Once you’d slipped into the quiet of the hall, the tension in your chest eased, and you let out a breath you were very aware you'd been holding.

You made your way toward the compound’s library, the solitude of it a welcome balm. The others would still be occupied for at least another hour - enough time for you to lose yourself in the pages of your book and avoid whatever game Loki had been playing that almost made you crack.

The library greeted you with its familiar quiet, the scent of leather sofas and paper a comforting presence. You found your usual spot tucked away in a far corner, a large bay window cushioned with soft pillows overlooking the courtyard. Settling in with a contented sigh, you pulled your book from where you'd wedged it between the seat cushion and the wooden frame.

The story drew you in almost immediately, the tension of moments ago dissolving into the words on the page. The sunlight filtering through the window began softening into twilight, painting the room in hues of amber and shadow.

The quiet here was sacred, untouched by the chaos of the compound. As you turned the last few pages, your chest loosened, the illusion of safety creeping in.

Surely, he hadn’t followed you. Surely, Loki had other things to occupy himself-

Surely not.

“I expected better from you.”

The voice slithered into your ears, so low and sudden that your breath caught in your throat. With all your years of training, you managed to stay frozen. Futile, though. You knew he could see right through it.

You looked up, and there he stood, shadowed and immaculate, his silhouette framed by the dim glow of a single, golden lamp. His icy blue eyes glinted with cruel amusement, his lips curling into a smirk that made your stomach twist.

“How... predictable,” he continued, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. “You flee like a rabbit, thinking you can burrow away from the wolf.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, but you forced yourself turn back your book. “I don’t recall fleeing,” you started, turning a page. “I walked out, actually. Perhaps you’ve forgotten the difference in your old age.”

He chuckled, the sound low and dangerous, like distant thunder rolling over jagged peaks. “Ah, there it is. That fire you wear like armour. Does it soothe you to pretend you’re unshakeable?”

You scoffed, even as your pulse betrayed you. “You’re awfully sure of yourself for someone whose only hobby seems to be tormenting me.”

“Torment?” he echoed, his voice silken as he closed more distance between you. “My dear, if I were tormenting you, you’d know it. Shall I demonstrate?”

You didn’t dignify that with a response, instead turning another page of your book. The words blurred before your eyes, but you kept your expression neutral. “If you think I’m going to feed your ego by reacting, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

"Why did you refuse to take part?" There was something unnervingly earnest in his voice that pulled at your heart. "Why did you leave?"

You looked up, wearing a mask of indifference and sarcasm. “I didn’t realise decorating pumpkins was a matter of state importance.”

The smirk tugging at his lips was slow and predatory, dark amusement glinting in his eyes. “Such sharp words, little rabbit. Always so quick with your tongue when your heart’s trying to claw its way out of your chest.”

Your pulse spiked, but you refused to let him see it. Instead, you tilted your head, letting a slow, sardonic smirk curve your lips. “You said you weren't desperate, Loki. But you seem to have taken to taunting me for sport."

The laugh that slipped from him was low and sinuous, curling like smoke through the still air. “Oh, I don’t need sport to occupy me. But you…” He leaned forward, the space between you vanishing in an instant. “You’re far too entertaining to resist. Especially when you’re trembling behind that mask of yours.”

“I’m not trembling.”

“No?” His voice was a purr now, his breath brushing your ear as he lowered himself just enough to meet you at eye level. “I suppose you weren’t squirming earlier, either. Like prey in my hands.”

Your cheeks flared with heat, but you kept your expression neutral. “You sound obsessed.”

“And you sound very ticklish.”

The way he said it - smooth, dark, laced with that damned smirk -sent a ripple of mortification through you. It was all the confirmation you needed of his intentions to follow through on his earlier threat.

It was inevitable.

So you leaned back, lifting your book as if to shield yourself from the weight of his gaze. If you were going down, you were going down swinging. Well, verbally, at least.

“You’re overplaying your hand.”

“Oh, am I?” He stood to his full height, towering over you now, his shadow eclipsing the faint light. “Because the ones who act so tough, so stoic, so unbothered... they’re always the most fun. It’s so very delicious to watch them fall apart.”

“Is that what you tell yourself at night?” You forced your tone into something light, dismissive, though your grip on the book tightened. “That you’ve got me figured out?”

His smirk deepened, his head tilting as he studied you like a puzzle he already knew how to solve. “I don’t need to tell myself anything. You do all the work for me.”

Your lips parted for a retort, but his eyes flickered down to the slight tremor in your fingers, the way your knees shifted restlessly against the cushions.

And you saw how his smile widened, satisfied and predatory, when he saw all the hallmarks of someone about to flee.

“Go ahead,” he murmured, voice dropping to a velvet whisper. “Run. It’ll be more fun for me.”

For a split second, you froze, torn between logic and instinct. Then you bolted, your book tumbling to the seat as you darted for the nearest gap.

But Loki was faster.

You didn't make it two full steps before he caught you with a preternatural ease, his ensnaring hands dragging you back against him in one smooth motion. His low chuckle brushed your ear as he manoeuvred you down onto the window seat, half-pinning you on your side with his arms wrapped firmly around your waist.

“Pitiful,” he drawled, his tone rich with mockery. “And here I thought you’d make it a challenge.”

You shoved at him, scowling. “Let me go, you overgrown-”

Whatever venom you’d prepared was shattered as his fingers pressed into your ribs, curling with precision against the fabric of your sweater. Laughter burst from you, loud and uncontrollable, and you immediately clamped your lips shut, mortified by the sound.

“Ah,” Loki purred, his grin widening. “There it is. That lovely sound you try so hard to keep from the world. Go on, darling. Let me hear it again.”

“Loki, wait- no!” you gasped, but his hands had already found the curve of your waist, his fingers pinching with precision that felt criminal.

“No?” he echoed, mockingly incredulous. “You were so calm a moment ago. What happened?”

He didn’t give you a chance to answer. His hands slipped beneath the hem of your sweater, squeezing tighter, his nails grazing the bare skin of your sides. You quaked at the contact, laughter spilling out uncontrollably as he found every sensitive spot with uncanny accuracy. Your hands clutched at his forearms, his chuckle hot and tempting against your neck as your head fell back in mirth.

“Tell me the truth,” he said, his voice low and commanding, the words a dark melody against your ear. “Why did you run?”

“I- I...” you wheezed, twisting in his hold, going nowhere. With a ferocious, defiant growl, you yelled, "I... walked!"

Loki paused, his lips curling in that knowing smirk, and then he tickled harder, digging in with precision. You crumpled back against him, laughing helplessly, unable to catch your breath. Every sound that left your mouth was a mix of laughter and helpless gasps, each one a surrender to him, to the unrelenting tickling.

“Let's try again,” Loki commanded, his voice low, his breath warm against your ear. “Tell me why you fled.”

You struggled to pull yourself together, trying to come up with another witty retort, but before you could speak, Loki found an especially sensitive spot, just under your ribs, and his fingers locked in with a brutal efficiency. You shrieked, squirming beneath him, but he held you there with the effortless force of a god, his smile widening against the shell of your ear.

You thrashed harder, your laughter raw and breaking, tears welling in your eyes. “I’ll- kill you-”

“You’ll what?” He laughed, low and dark, his fingers picking up speed again, pressing and kneading with wicked precision. Every stroke of his hands felt like it was designed to unravel you, to push you past your limits and then some.

The realisation hit like a blow: he could read you. Every shudder, every hitch in your breath, every twitch of your body. And worse, he was enjoying it, adjusting his touch with the kind of skill that only centuries of mischief could hone. His hands didn’t just tickle; they teased, tormented, mastered you.

"You- oh my g-" you gasped, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "You absolute fucking-"

“Such language,” he chided, his tone a tease of disapproval. “And after I’ve been so gentle.”

His fingers danced lower, teasing the curve of your hips, and the laugh that escaped you was so deep, so raw, it left your chest aching. Loki stilled for half a heartbeat, his grin sharp as he took in the sound, before redoubling his efforts. He pressed his thumbs into the tender space just above your hipbones, his fingers curling to squeeze in a way that had you screaming, your body writhing in his iron grip.

“Okay! Okay!” you gasped, tears of mirth welling in your eyes.

“Speak, then,” he commanded in low and silken voice, his fingers unrelenting. “And don’t lie to me. You won’t like the consequences.”

“I—” You hesitated, your breath hitching, but he gave you no mercy. His nails dragged lightly over your ribs, and the sound that tore from you was half a laugh, half a desperate gasp.

“Speak."

“I didn’t want to embarrass myself!” you finally choked out, your body trembling beneath his. “I didn’t want to make something stupid and have everyone see how bad it is!”

Immediately, his hands stilled, and you gulped in a shuddering breath. He unwrapped his arms from around you and leaned back, his smirk softening into something almost... fond. You shoved at him weakly, as if not quite believing he was retreating.

“Well,” he said, standing and staring down at you, admiring his handiwork, “you’ve certainly made a spectacle of yourself now.”

You glared at him, flushed and breathless. “You... are insufferable.”

“And you,” he countered, his grin returning, “are utterly fascinating. Shall we?”

Before you could protest, he hooked his arms under your knees and around your back, sweeping you up effortlessly, carrying you toward the door. You squirmed in his grasp.

“What the hell are you doing now?”

“Delivering you back to the battlefield,” he said, his smirk a knife’s edge. “You’re not escaping that easily. You’ve still got a pumpkin to ruin, and I, for one, am thoroughly invested in the spectacle.”

You groaned, your head falling back in defeat. "I hate you."

The smirk in his voice was undeniable. "No, you don't."

The dining hall was no longer the lively scene it had been earlier.

Now, it was deserted, shadows stretching long and dark across the room, flickering with the faint light of a few dying candles. The scent of melted wax and pumpkin guts permeated in the air, and the silence was nearly oppressive.

Loki carried you inside, his grip firm but not unkind, and though you didn’t resist, you couldn’t help but feel a smouldering irritation at the way he seemed to enjoy this small victory. When he set you down, his hands lingered at your waist, steadying you, as though daring you to bolt again.

You stepped forward, stopping just shy of your untouched pumpkin. Its smooth, orange surface gleamed in the low light, mocking you. The tools remained where you’d left them, and the weight of your earlier frustration pressed at the edges of your mind.

“I... don’t know what to do with it,” you said finally, turning back to Loki. You hated how the admission sounded - small, almost defeated - but there was no taking it back now.

Loki’s sharp gaze softened imperceptibly. His lips twitched, but the smirk didn’t fully form. “Then I shall help you,” he said, his voice low and smooth, offering no room for argument.

Before you could respond, he sat in your chair with that infuriating ease, his presence commanding even in the simplest of movements. His eyes met yours, glittering with a mixture of challenge and amusement, and he reached out a hand, curling his fingers in a silent demand.

“What are you-” The words barely left your mouth before you realised he was beckoning you to sit on his lap. Heat flushed through you, unbidden, and you scoffed, trying to mask it. “You do realise chairs are meant for one person, don’t you?”

Yet, unwilling to have him see how he was sliding under your skin, you turned and settled yourself against him. His muscled chest brushed against your back, his legs firm and solid as your seat.

“And yet, here we are,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear as he spoke. His hand settled at your waist - an anchor, not a cage. “Now, let’s see if we can salvage your poor, neglected pumpkin.”

You scoffed, grabbing the carving tool. “Fine. Show me your masterful technique, Your Highness.”

The title came out sharper than intended, but Loki only chuckled, low and indulgent. He leaned closer, his shadow engulfing yours, and reached around your shoulder to guide your hand. His fingers slid over yours, his grip firm but not harsh. “Relax,” he murmured. His voice sent a delicious shiver down your spine. “You grip it like a weapon. This is art, not war.”

You bit back a retort and let him guide you. His body was close enough that his every movement brushed against yours, his breath warm against your cheek. Together, you began to carve into the pumpkin, slow and deliberate. His free hand flexed against your waist, your free hand steadying the canvas.

As the shapes emerged, you realised they weren’t ordinary designs. They were runes.

Norse runes. Delicate, intricate, and entirely unreadable to you.

Loki worked with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, his hand steady as he traced the lines with your hand.

“What does it say?” you asked eventually, breaking the silence.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned closer, his breath warm against your neck as he murmured, “You’ll see. Keep holding it steady."

The tension between you grew with every passing second. His touch lingered long, his presence close. Every shift of his body beneath yours was impossible to ignore, every brush of his breath against your skin a reminder of just how thin the line between teasing and something real had become.

When the carving was done, you slipped off his lap, feeling the need for a the brief moment of distance for your sanity, and retrieved a candle from the sideboard.

But the room felt colder without him holding you.

You lit the wick and placed the candle inside the pumpkin, watching as the light filled the carved runes, casting jagged shadows across the table.

You turned back to Loki. His expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed on you as though he could see straight through to your very thoughts.

Carefully, you sat back down on his lap, unable to ignore the magnetic pull he seemed to have on you. This time, you sat side-on. His hands settled instinctively, one on your back, one on your knee, holding you steady. With his height, your faces were almost level, but you still had to look ever so slightly up.

“What does it say?” you asked again, your voice quieter now, as if speaking too loudly might shatter whatever fragile thing had formed between you.

“The name of a great warrior,” he said, his tone mockingly reverent. “Renowned for wit, skill, and unmatched beauty.”

You arched a brow, your lips twitching. “Let me guess. Your name?”

His grin widened, and the silence was answer enough for you.

You rolled your eyes, but a genuine smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yet undeniably fascinating,” he countered, his voice a low purr. His gaze dropped to your lips, and his smirk faltered, replaced with something quieter, more tender. Relieved. "There it is." His words were almost a sigh.

You tilted your head, raising a brow in question.

“I was beginning to fear you didn’t know how to smile.”

The intimacy of his words rendered you speechless for several, long seconds. Your mind faltered, your fingers fidgeting in your lap.

“What? You don't remember what happened like... twenty minutes ago? I recall laughing to the point of tears, thanks to you.”

“That was different,” he said simply, his tone quieter, earnest.

The air between you thickened, heavy with unspoken things. His hand moved in slow, deliberate patterns against your back. “It must be exhausting,” he said after a moment, his voice gentle and laced with something that sounded dangerously close to sympathy. “Always bracing for the next crisis.”

His sudden sincerity caught you off-guard. You fidgeted with your hands, stained with pumpkin pulp, your gaze dropping to your lap. “It’s not like that,” you muttered, though the words felt hollow.

“Isn’t it?” His hand stilled on your back for a moment before continuing its slow, soothing movements. “You are allowed moments of meaningless joy. To partake in frivolity. It doesn’t make you weak.”

A bitter laugh escaped you, soft and humourless. “I take it you didn’t buy that I was embarrassed about the pumpkin?”

He tilted his head, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “Not for a second.”

You looked up, straight into him. "But you let me go."

His gaze fell to your lips, as if he were already missing your smile. Mourning it. Plotting a witty remark or flirtatious comment that might see its return.

He then looked back to your eyes, swallowing harder than usual, his voice now gentle. “I thought you were due for some mercy. You... seem to have very little for yourself.”

The words settled over you like a weight, heavy and undeniable.

And for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

"It feels wrong," you admitted in little over a whisper. "To... do things like this when so many people-" The breath caught in your throat and you had to look back at your hands, sniffing to buy some time. "It's selfish. Carving pumpkins. Decorating. Laughing at stupid things. People are out there suffering, and I’m here playing holiday games. Safe.”

Loki was quiet for a long moment, his hand resuming its slow, deliberate movements along your back. It brought you far more comfort than you'd ever admit out loud. Not yet, at least.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, the usual sharp edges dulled. “You cannot bear the weight of your world every hour of every day. Even the strongest flame falters if it is not tended.”

The rawness of his words cut through your defences. You couldn’t meet his eyes, but your lips twitched as you tried to deflect. “You know,” you muttered, half-laughing as your head dipped, “getting tickled to death felt a lot less exposing than this conversation.”

His chest vibrated with a low chuckle, and when you glanced up, his smirk had returned, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “I’m happy to oblige,” he drawled, his fingers curling against you as if preparing to pounce.

You shot him a warning look, though you couldn’t quite keep the corner of your mouth from twitching. “You wouldn't.”

“Oh, wouldn't I?” he teased, his hands still hovering ominously close.

"No," you shook your head, that twitch turning into a smirk. "I sat with you of my own free will. Trusting you. You won't jeopardise that."

The playful glint in his gaze softened slightly as he settled back, studying you with a quiet intensity. "The little rabbit may just be a fox after all," he mused, ceding his advantage.

He studied you for a good, long while, you both sitting in a comfortable silence as he traced idle patterns against your back, his thumb brushing your knee.

Finally, you swallowed your nerves, and broke the silence. "Thank you. For your help.”

You looked back to the table, eyes roaming over what he'd carved with your hand;

The name of a great warrior. He'd said. Renowned for wit, skill, and unmatched beauty.

"Runes are... actually quite beautiful."

He hummed softly in agreement.

You turned your head slightly, eyes still on the sharp lines. "What would my name look like?"

Then, you looked up at his face, and your breath caught.

His eyes were alight, faintly glittering from the flickering candle inside the artwork. Something between a smile and something far more satisfied curled onto his lips as he nodded at the runes.

"Exactly like that."

#loki x reader #no y/n #ticklish!reader #loki x you #marvel fanfiction #marvel tickle fluff #loki tickle fic #answered #thanks anon!#halloween fic #fall fic

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memoiresofaneternaldreamer · 2 months ago

Text

Midnight Bloom

Pairing: The Hermit! Seungmin x Dancer! Reader

Themes: Smut | Strangers to ? | Crime Syndicate AU

Wordcount: 5.8K

Playlist: 'Chimera' - HANA

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Mutual masturbation - Thigh riding - Use of pet names - Slight degradation - Slight Dom!Seungmin

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

Previous chapter: Celestial Sin - The Lovers

The city was supposed to be your golden ticket, a place where dreams were spun into reality. You had arrived with a guitar strapped to your back, a suitcase filled with more hope than money, and the conviction that you would make it. But dreams, you learned, were expensive, and conviction didn’t pay the bills.

For months, you juggled odd jobs—barista, cashier, hostess at a seedy little diner—anything to keep you afloat while chasing auditions and open mic nights. But one by one, those gigs slipped through your fingers. The barista job went when a corporate chain opened next door. The cashier job cut your hours until you couldn’t afford to stay. And the diner? Well, that one ended last night, when your manager decided he could get handsy, and you decided to throw a pot of scalding coffee in his lap.

Your rent was overdue three weeks, and your landlord’s final notice lay on your tiny bedside table like a death sentence. Your phone buzzed beside it, a call from Mina lighting up the screen.

“Tell me you’re not still in bed.”

You groaned, rubbing your eyes. “Mina, it’s barely noon.”

“Exactly. Which means you should be up looking for a job.”

“I am looking for a job,” you lied, staring at the ceiling. “Manifesting one right now.”

Mina snorted. “You manifest a job the way I manifest a boyfriend—poorly.” She hesitated, and you could hear the shift in her tone. “Listen, I might have something for you. It’s… unconventional.”

You sat up, wary. “If you’re about to suggest OnlyFans—”

“Oh, please. You’re too much of a control freak. No, I was thinking something a little different.”

You frowned. “Mina.”

She hesitated. “You know where I work.”

You did. Vaguely. Mina never flaunted it, never dragged you into conversations about it, but you knew she was comfortable, lived well, and never seemed to regret her choices. “The club?”

“The Garden,” she corrected. “And before you say no, just listen. It’s not some sleazy backroom joint. It’s exclusive. Private. Everyone wears masks, even the girls, and no one touches you without permission. The money is insane. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Just dance.”

You ran a hand through your hair, exhausted. “Mina, I don’t even know how to work a pole.”

“You don’t need to. You already dance. You already perform. You’ll pick it up fast.” There was a pause. “Look, I wouldn’t suggest this if I thought it was a bad idea. I know you. You have standards. This place does, too.”

Your stomach twisted. You had always prided yourself on finding another way. On holding onto your pride. But pride didn’t pay rent. Pride didn’t fill your fridge. And you were tired—tired of fighting, tired of struggling, tired of clawing your way through a city that didn’t seem to want you.

“I don’t know…”

“Come on, just meet with the manager. If you hate it, walk away. No pressure.”

Your bank account balance flashed in your mind—$34.76. Your landlord’s final notice wouldn’t manifest itself into rent money. You exhaled sharply.

“Fine. I’ll meet her.”

Mina whooped. “That’s my girl! I’ll text you the details. Wear something cute.”

The Garden wasn’t what you expected. Tucked away in the heart of the city, it looked more like a high-end lounge than a strip club. The entrance was discreet, a sleek black door with a brass plaque etched with the name The Garden in elegant cursive. Inside, the air smelled like vanilla and something darker—something decadent.

A woman met you at the bar. She was dressed in all black, her sharp features unreadable.

“Mina speaks highly of you,” she said, eyes assessing. “You have experience performing?”

You nodded. “I dance. I sing. I’ve done stage work.”

“Pole?”

You hesitated. “Not yet.”

The woman smiled slightly. “You’ll learn.” She motioned for you to follow her further into the club. “The rules are simple. No real names, no personal details. You’ll choose a nymph name—Persephone’s court. We protect our dancers, and you control your performances. You strip as much as you’re comfortable with. No one touches you unless you allow it. If you ever feel unsafe, you walk away.”

It sounded… surreal. You expected something grimier, something desperate. But this? This was control. This was money. This was a way out.

“What’s my name?” you asked, pulse thrumming as the manager handed you a purple mask.

The woman smiled. “Ianthe.”

And just like that, you became someone new.

The first official night was a blur of nerves and adrenaline. You weren’t the best, not yet, but you knew how to move, how to hold an audience’s attention. The pole was foreign, but the music was not. You kept your boundaries, stripping only as far as you were comfortable, and to your surprise, no one pushed. The customers were eager but controlled, appreciative rather than entitled. When the night ended, you had more money than you had seen in months.

It was supposed to be just one night.

But one night turned into another.

And another.

You never expected to enjoy it. But in a way, you did. The thrill of performance, the anonymity of the mask, the way the world blurred into a haze of music and movement. The money was good—more than good. For the first time in a long time, you weren’t drowning.

You fell into the rhythm of The Garden quicker than you had expected.

What had begun as a desperate solution had become something familiar, something steady. Your schedule was set, your performances fluid, your movements more confident with each passing night. You moved through its velvet-lined corridors like you belonged, like you had always belonged. The dancers—Callisto, Thalia, Eurydice—had welcomed you in their own ways, offering tips and knowing glances. Customers came and went—some lingering longer than others—but all of them knew the rules. The Garden wasn’t a place for sloppy, drunken hands or crude demands. It was a playground for the wealthy, a sanctuary for indulgence and restraint intertwined.

And they watched you.

Some were expected—the older men in tailored suits, businessmen looking for a distraction with wallets fat enough to demand attention, lonely men with too much time and not enough warmth, younger ones pretending to be older, and older ones pretending to be young.

But one customer stood out.

You noticed him the first time by accident. You had been performing, body swaying to the slow, sultry beat of the music, when you felt it—the weight of an unwavering gaze. It was nothing new; you were used to being observed, scrutinized even. But this was different. His stare wasn’t leering, nor was it detached like those who watched simply because you were there. His focus was precise, deliberate. It sent a shiver down your spine.

But when you finished and made your usual rounds through the club, he was nowhere to be found.

You lingered longer than necessary, greeting patrons, and taking your time with the regulars who had learned to appreciate your boundaries. There was the IT mogul, a silver-haired gentleman who tipped generously and never asked for more than conversation. Then there was the Parisian, a man in his fifties who liked to pretend he was much younger, always eager for a private dance but respectful enough never to push. You indulged them, letting their hands rest on yours, laughing at their harmless flirtations, all while keeping an eye out for the man who had been watching you.

But he was gone.

Mina caught on quickly. She always did.

“You’ve got yourself a mystery man,” Mina’s voice cut through your thoughts as you lounged backstage, sipping water between sets. She perched beside you, looking effortlessly radiant in her barely-there ensemble, her mask pushed up to rest on her forehead for a moment.

You rolled your eyes. “He’s just another customer.”

“Oh, please,” Mina smirked, eyes glinting with amusement. “I’ve been here long enough to know the difference between a casual customer and whatever the hell he is.”

You rolled your eyes, but her words stuck with you.

She leaned in closer. “You know the manager knows him, right?”

That made you pause. “What?”

“They never talk much, but she acknowledges him. Which means he’s important. Rich, maybe. Maybe he owns the whole damn place.” Mina nudged you playfully. “Wouldn’t that be something? Our little Ianthe catching the eye of The Garden’s owner.”

You laughed softly at the idea, shaking your head. “You’ve been watching too many dramas.”

Mina winked before slipping off her stool and grinning. “Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that, Ianthe.”

The rhythm of the club became routine. Nights blurred together in a swirl of music, silk, and whispered propositions. The money flowed easily, and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t have to worry about rent, food, surviving. You weren’t just keeping your head above water—you were swimming.

And then, one night, everything changed.

You had just finished a set, the heat of the stage lights still clinging to your skin, when the manager approached you. Her gaze was unreadable, her posture relaxed but firm.

“A guest has requested a private room,” she said. “He specifically asked for you.”

You barely blinked. You had been requested before—it was nothing new. Some men preferred to watch, others preferred more direct entertainment. It was part of the job.

Still, something prickled at your skin, a whisper of anticipation curling in your stomach. “Which guest?”

She didn’t answer; she just tilted her head toward the hallway that led to the private rooms.

You took a breath and followed.

As you made your way through the dimly lit hallway, the hush of the main floor faded behind you. The private rooms were different—smaller, more intimate. A single platform with a pole for dancers stood in the centre, plush seating arranged around it in a way that made it feel personal rather than transactional.

You stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind you.

And then, you saw him.

The stranger from the shadows, now sitting comfortably on one of the benches surrounding the lone pole at the center of the room. His suit was dark, his posture relaxed, but his eyes—those same intense eyes that had watched you for weeks—followed your every move.

You hesitated, just for a moment, before stepping forward, keeping your mask securely in place.

“I suppose I should be flattered,” you said lightly, letting your fingers skim along the length of your torso. “I was wondering if you’d ever request me.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he watched you, his gaze never faltering. Then, finally—

“I wanted to see you up close.”

It was an expected answer, but something about the way he said it made your breath catch. Not crude. Not demanding. Just... certain. His voice was smooth, low but not imposing. A beat of silence stretched between you. He made no move to touch you, no move to beckon you closer, and yet his presence was magnetic. His aura wasn’t suffocating or lecherous like some of the others—it was controlled, powerful in a way you couldn’t quite place.

You stepped onto the platform, the cool metal of the pole grounding you. The music started, slow and rhythmic, and you let yourself move—not just to entice, but to feel. You had grown used to how men watched you, but this was different. He wasn’t just watching your body—he was watching you.

Between movements, you dared to meet his gaze. “What should I call you?”

His lips curled into the ghost of a smirk. “I think the better question is—what should I call you?”

“Ianthe.” Even though you were used to it by now, uttering it out loud still felt foreign all the same—a persona that wasn’t quite you but close enough.

He nodded slowly. “Ianthe.”

Your pulse quickened. It was how he said your stage name, slowly, like he was savouring it, rolling it over his tongue to see how it felt. Your mask shielded you, but somehow, you felt exposed under his stare.

The dance continued, the space between you thick with something unspoken.

By the time the music slowed to a stop, you were breathless—not just from the performance, but from the weight of his attention. You met his gaze again, trying to decipher the quiet storm behind his eyes.

“I suppose I’ll be seeing more of you,” you mused as you stepped down from the platform.

His smirk deepened just slightly. “Perhaps.”

And just like that, you knew—this was only the beginning.

Something shifts after that first private performance.

The stranger still keeps his distance on the public floor. He remains in the shadows, watching you with that same quiet intensity, and he still disappears the moment your performances end. But now, he calls for you—again and again.

Private room. Your name. No substitutions.

At first, you try to ignore the way your stomach twists when the request comes in and try to treat him like any other customer. But he isn’t like the others. His attention is too sharp, too measured. He doesn’t gawk, doesn’t leer. He watches as if he’s learning something about you with every movement, every note in your voice.

And despite your best efforts, your walls begin to crack.

The first few private dances are much like the first. He stays seated, his posture always composed, his eyes always on you. He doesn’t touch, doesn’t speak unless you do first. But when he does, it’s with that low, steady voice that makes the air between you feel heavier than it should.

“You’re different when you dance.”

You circle the pole, dragging your fingers along the cool metal, letting the tension coil in your body as you sway. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” There’s no amusement in his voice, just curiosity, like he genuinely wants to know. “Are you pretending?”

You pause mid-turn, catching his gaze through your mask. “Aren’t we all?”

Something flickers in his expression, something you can’t quite name. You don’t wait for him to respond—you move again, rolling your hips to the slow beat, letting the music wrap around you.

But the more time you spend in these private rooms with him, the more you find yourself slipping. You reveal more—not just with your body when you finally bare your breasts to him, but with your words. He asks small, precise questions, and somehow, you answer them.

“How long have you been in the city?”

“Two years.”

“Why stay?”

“Because I have to.”

He never asks for more than you’re willing to give. But still, you give.

And then, one night, you finally learn his name.

There was something about the way he watched you, something that made you feel like you weren’t just another performer. Like he saw something more than just a body swaying to the music.

“What should I call you?” you asked one night, mid-performance, emboldened by how he had begun to lean forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

His lips quirked into a barely-there smile. “You tell me, Ianthe.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He exhaled, a quiet amusement threading through his expression. “Seungmin.”

The name settles between you like a secret. You repeat it, soft but deliberate. “Seungmin.”

For the first time, his lips curve—just barely. But it’s there.

Mina notices the shift before you do.

She corners you in the dressing room one night, her arms crossed, an unreadable expression on her face.

“You’re different.”

You scoff, adjusting the ties on your lingerie. “I’m making good money. Maybe I’m just happier.”

“It’s not that.” Mina steps closer, her voice dropping. “It’s him.”

You roll your eyes. “Mina—”

“I’m serious.” She softens, reaching out to lace her fingers through yours. “I know you, babe. I know how you keep your distance. But you’re letting him in.”

You glance at her, searching for the right words. She isn’t wrong. You just don’t know what to do about it.

“I know what I’m doing,” you say finally, squeezing her hand before pulling away. “It’s just business.”

Mina doesn’t look convinced. But she doesn’t push. Not yet.

She does push a few nights later.

Mina is heading out of a private room when she passes by yours. You’re not inside yet; still due on stage in a few minutes. But the door is slightly ajar, and she hears voices.

She stops, just for a moment, and listens.

“…profits are steady.” The voice is female—your manager.

“Good. I want the reports by the end of the week.” Seungmin.

Mina’s brows furrow, but she stays still.

“Vendors have been settled, but the new shipment is delayed. It should arrive soon.” your manager continues. “Mostly thanks to certain… interventions from The Hermit.”

There’s a pause before Seungmin replies. “Good.”

Mina strains to hear more as she tenses, but the noise outside drowns out their conversation. Still, she’s heard enough. The Syndicate owns the Garden. She had always known this place was backed by powerful figures, but hearing it confirmed like this sent a shiver down her spine. Not only that, but now she knows that Seungmin isn’t just another customer. He’s connected somehow.

And she doesn’t like it.

She keeps this information to herself for the next few days, watching you closely from the shadows. You seem lighter, more at ease when Seungmin is around, but she sees the way he affects you, the way you hesitate when his name comes up, the way you search for him in the crowd. And she doesn’t like that either.

So when another request comes in—another private dance, another night in that secluded room—Mina pulls you into a darkened corner right before you can go in.

“Listen,” she whispers, urgency laced in her voice. “I need to tell you something.”

You sigh, adjusting your mask. “Mina, I—”

“It’s about him.” She grips your arm, eyes glancing at the door before forcing your gaze to meet hers. “He’s not just some guy, okay? I heard him talking to the manager a couple of days ago. He knows things—things about the club. About the business. About The Syndicate.”

You blink, thrown off by the seriousness in her tone. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t know yet. But I don’t trust it.” She exhales sharply. “And I don’t think you should either.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the call comes—your name over the speakers, signalling your time is up.

You hesitate, just for a second. Then, you pull away from Mina’s grip and shake your head. “I have to go.”

She looks like she wants to stop you, to say more, but she doesn’t.

And so you go—to him.

To Seungmin.

But you should have known the shadows don't keep secrets for long.

The moment you step into the private room, your eyes land on him immediately.

Seungmin.

He greets you with nothing but a look—intense, unreadable, but something about it is different tonight. There’s a tension rolling over his shoulders, something tight coiled beneath his usual composed demeanour. To anyone else, he might look the same as always: relaxed, leaning into the plush seating, his posture giving nothing away. But you’ve learned to read him, to decipher the smallest changes. The slight shift of his fingers as they drum against the seat cushion. The way his jaw clenches, just briefly, before smoothing over again.

Something is off.

You try to ground yourself, to ignore the sudden weight pressing into your chest, the whisper of danger suddenly stifling the air.

The music starts, a slow, intoxicating melody that seeps into your skin, pulling you back to the performance. This is where you excel, where you thrive. The weight of the outside world, of unspoken words and lingering questions, fades as you let your body take over.

Seungmin watches you like he always does, but tonight, his gaze is heavier, sharper. It burns against your skin, branding you in ways that make your breath hitch. You twirl around the pole, your hands gliding along your own body, teasing both yourself and him.

“You’re distracted.” His voice cuts through the haze, the deep timbre curling around you.

You blink, not missing a beat in your movements, though for a fraction of a second, your balance wavers. “Am I?”

He tilts his head slightly, his dark eyes unwavering. “You are.”

You don’t know how he does it—how he always manages to read you so easily when you can barely read him at all. You force a soft smile, letting your fingers trail down your thighs as you move, shaking Mina’s words from your head. “I’m just tired.”

His lips curve just a little, but it isn’t in amusement. “You expect me to believe that?”

You meet his gaze then, something defiant sparking in your chest. “Does it matter?”

A quiet pause. Then, “No.” But the way he says it—low, almost thoughtful—tells you that’s a lie.

You exhale shakily as the moment stretches between you, thick and heavy. You let yourself sink into the music again, forcing everything else to the back of your mind. If Seungmin is tied to The Garden, if he is something more than just a customer, then what does it really matter? You don’t have answers yet and won’t ask for them either. Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned, it’s that Seungmin will only reveal what he wants to, when he wants to.

And right now, it seems he wants something else entirely.

As your fingers tease the clasp of your bra, letting the delicate fabric slip from your shoulders, you catch it. The hard bulge pressing against the front of his pants.

Heat floods through you.

You’re not naïve—You’ve always known he finds you attractive—he wouldn’t be here otherwise—but Seungmin is a man of control, a master at hiding his impulses. Yet tonight, something is different.

He isn’t hiding it.

Or maybe, he doesn’t want to.

Something in you shifts. The power you feel at this discovery is intoxicating. Your own desire has never been in question—you’ve left this room more than once with damp panties and restless frustration. But this? This feels different. It feels like an opportunity.

So you test it.

Your movements become slower, more deliberate. You let your hands ghost over your breasts, your fingers grazing your sensitive nipples as your hips roll with precision. You take your time, watching his every reaction, every flicker of his expression. And there it is again—the tightening of his jaw, the faintest twitch of his fingers resting on his thigh.

Not enough.

You want more.

And so, emboldened by your own rising desire, you do something you’ve never done before. Not for anyone.

Turning your back to him, you hook your thumbs under the thin straps of your panties and, with an agonizing slowness, you slide them down your legs. You bend, giving him an unobstructed view of your bare, glistening core, knowing precisely what he’s seeing.

The hitch in his breath is unrestrained. Uncontrolled.

Got him.

A slow, victorious smile curves your lips as you straighten, turning to face him. He’s still composed—just barely—but the shift is undeniable. His control is slipping. His hand has moved, no longer resting idly on his leg. Now, it’s in his lap, palming his hardened cock over his tailored slacks.

His eyes are darker, pupils blown wide, fixed on you like you’re something dangerous. Like you’re something he wants.

The space between you is charged, buzzing with an unspoken challenge. You step off the platform, moving towards him, completely bare now, feeling more powerful than ever before.

His fingers twitch as he squeezes again, and you almost expect him to stop you. But he doesn’t.

So you push further.

Straddling his lap, you settle yourself over him, close enough that you can feel the heat from his crotch against your bare skin.

You lean in, your lips close to his ear. “What do you want from me, Seungmin?”

His fingers grab hold of your hips in response. He doesn’t answer immediately, his breath warm against your naked shoulder. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower than before, rougher, laced with something dangerous and wanting all at once.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

The words send a thrill through you, igniting something deep in your core. There’s no doubt now—no second-guessing. Whatever has been building between you both has reached a point of no return.

Your breathless “Yes” barely leaves your lips before Seungmin is on you.

His mouth crashes against yours in a kiss so deep, so consuming, it knocks every lingering thought from your head. It’s bruising, raw, his lips parting yours with ease as his tongue sweeps against yours, pulling you deeper into him. His hands grip your hips tightly, fingers digging in as he drags you closer, pressing your bare body against his fully clothed frame. The contrast is dizzying—the warmth of his body seeping through the fabric, the friction setting every inch of your skin ablaze.

You fist his hair, tugging just enough to earn a low groan from him, the sound vibrating against your lips. Your other hand clutches his shoulder, feeling the flex of muscle beneath his suit, the sheer power coiled beneath his perfect composure.

Your hips move instinctively, grinding against him, desperate for friction. You don’t even realize how lost you are in the moment until Seungmin suddenly shifts, adjusting your position with ease. A moment later, you’re no longer straddling his lap, but perched on just one of his thighs instead.

The new position sends a shock of heat through you, and you gasp against his lips at the sudden pressure of his tight muscle against your aching clit. Seungmin pulls back from the kiss slightly, his breath hot against your mouth as he murmurs, “Ride my thigh, doll.”

Your stomach tightens at the command, the heat pooling within your core. You swallow hard, but something keeps you still—a hesitation that isn’t like you. Seungmin notices immediately. Of course, he does.

His fingers flex against your waist, firm but coaxing. “Don’t make me repeat it.” There’s a teasing lilt in his tone, but beneath it, something darker—a threat.

Your breath hitches. Slowly, hesitantly, you start to move.

The first slow drag of your slick folds against his pants makes your breath catch in your throat. The friction against your clit is sharp, teasing, just enough to make you whimper softly. Seungmin exhales sharply, his grip tightening.

“That’s it, doll.” His voice is low, almost reverent. “Look at you. Already making a mess of me.”

You shudder, but you don’t stop.

Your movements become bolder, each grind more desperate, chasing the pleasure coiling tighter inside you. The fabric of his trousers beneath your pussy is damp now, soaked with your arousal, and when you roll your hips particularly hard, Seungmin lets out a quiet, satisfied hum.

“Fuck,” he groans, his hands squeezing your hips as he watches you move. “So fucking wet, doll. You feel that?”

You nod, biting your lip. You feel everything—the heat of his thigh between your legs, the way his pants are now sticking to his skin from your slick, the way every grind makes your clit throb harder.

You’re unravelling. And the worst part is that he knows it.

His voice drops lower, rough and teasing. “You’re soaked. Desperate little thing, aren’t you?”

You let out a choked moan, your thighs clenching around him. Seungmin smirks, his fingers guiding your movements, making you grind down harder. But it’s not enough.

You slow your pace, meeting his gaze through heavy lashes. “Take it out. Please.”

His jaw flexes at your request, something dark flickering in his eyes, but then he moves. His hands leave your hips, undoing his belt, his fingers working with practised ease. The sound of his zipper lowering fills the thick silence before he finally reaches in, pulling himself free.

Your breath hitches in your throat at the view.

Seungmin’s cock is thick, flushed, the tip already glistening with the first drops of precum. He wraps his hand around himself and strokes once, twice, his breath growing uneven as his gaze stays locked on yours.

“Keep going,” he murmurs. “I want to see you come like this.”

You obey.

Rolling your hips, you find your rhythm again, your slick folds dragging against his thigh as he watches you with hooded eyes. The sight of him stroking himself, matching your movements, sends another rush of arousal through you. His hand tightens around his cock, and he groans low in his throat.

The pace builds. You move faster, rocking against him, gasping as pleasure sparks through every nerve. Seungmin grips your waist again with his free hand, his fingers pressing bruises into your skin. “That’s it, doll. Fuck yourself on me.”

Your whimper is near desperate now. Every grind drags you closer, the pressure unbearable. And then, his voice, dark and commanding— “Touch yourself.”

A shiver runs down your spine, but you obey again, slipping a hand between your legs. The second your fingers find your clit, you cry out, pleasure slamming into you like a tidal wave.

“Fuck—”

Seungmin’s groan is wrecked, his strokes turning rougher as he watches you fall apart. “That’s my girl.”

You’re spiralling now, grinding against him with reckless desperation, your fingers circling your clit, the pleasure cresting higher, higher—until finally, it snaps.

A strangled moan rips from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. Your body trembles, thighs shaking as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you. Seungmin watches every second of it, his gaze dark and hungry as you come apart on top of him.

Through the haze, you hear him curse, his grip on his cock tightening. His strokes turn erratic, his breathing ragged. Then, with a sharp inhale, his jaw clenches, and his body goes rigid.

“Fuck,” he groans, his head tipping back as his release spills over his fingers.

Your body is still humming, the remnants of pleasure leaving you heavy-limbed and breathless. Seungmin exhales deeply, his head tilted back against the couch, his fingers still curled loosely around his softening length, streaked with his own release. Then, with practised ease, he tucks himself back into his pants, the quiet sound of his zipper breaking the silence between you.

You blink slowly, reality creeping back in as you shift, your legs weak as you carefully move off his lap. His warmth leaves you too quickly, making you feel bare, vulnerable. You settle beside him on the couch, wrapping your arms around yourself, watching him as he adjusts his clothes.

Now. Now would be the time to ask.

You hesitate before speaking, your voice softer than you mean it to be. “Seungmin.”

He doesn’t immediately respond, straightening his cuffs, his expression unreadable. But you see it—the small flicker in his eyes that tells you he knows what’s coming.

You tread carefully. “Can I ask you something?”

This time, his gaze finally meets yours. It’s softer now, the sharpness from before mellowed, but there’s something distant in the way he looks at you. “You can ask.”

You chew on your bottom lip for a moment before speaking again. “What do you do outside of this?” Your tone is light, casual, but intentional. “I don’t see you with the other dancers. You don’t act like other clients. You don’t even look at anyone but me.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely together. “You’re not asking what I do,” he muses, voice low. “You’re asking who I am.”

A beat of silence. Then—“Maybe.”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to smirk, but it doesn’t quite happen. “And if I told you I’m just a man who enjoys watching you?”

You exhale, rolling your eyes slightly. “I’d say that’s bullshit.”

He chuckles, but it’s quiet, brief. “Would you?”

“Yes.” You shift slightly, watching him. “I know when someone is lying to me.”

Seungmin hums, tilting his head as he finally looks at you again. The air between you is charged, but not as it was before. There’s something unspoken hanging there, something he’s waiting for you to let go of.

You hesitate, then try again. “Mina told me something today.”

At that, his jaw tightens—so subtly you almost miss it.

Bingo.

“She’s worried about me,” you continue, watching him closely. “She thinks you might be someone I should be careful around.”

Seungmin doesn’t react at first. He breathes, slow and steady, as if weighing his words carefully. Then, finally, he straightens, standing from the couch.

The shift in his demeanour is subtle but noticeable. Where there was warmth, there is now a cool distance. Not cold—not regretful—but something else entirely. Something like a retreat.

You watch as he adjusts his jacket, his expression calm, unruffled. The same Seungmin you always see. The one who never gives away more than he wants to. The one you can never quite pin down. The enigma.

“You should listen to her,” he says finally, his voice quieter now. “Mina is a good friend.”

Your stomach tightens. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’m giving.”

There it is. The wall. The carefully constructed barrier he’s so skilled at building between himself and the rest of the world.

You don’t push. You could—you could demand, press further, chase the truth he so obviously doesn’t want to give. But something tells you that if you do, he’ll disappear entirely.

So you let it go. For now.

Seungmin watches you for a moment longer before stepping closer. You don’t move as he leans in, his lips pressing softly against your forehead. It’s gentle, intimate in a way that somehow holds more weight than the heat you shared moments ago.

When he pulls back, his gaze is unreadable again, but his voice is warm. “I’ll see you again soon, doll.”

And just like that, he turns, heading for the door. You watch him leave, something twisting deep in your chest as the door clicks shut behind him.

The silence is deafening.

You exhale, running a hand through your hair as you finally move to your feet. The events of the last hour settle over you like a weight, leaving you dizzy, uncertain. You should be getting dressed, but your mind is elsewhere, your thoughts too tangled to focus.

Then—something catches your eye.

Something small, matte black, tucked into the crease of the couch where Seungmin had been sitting.

Frowning, you reach for it, fingers brushing against the sleek surface. When you turn it over, your breath catches.

A tarot card.

The gold lettering gleams under the dim lighting, the illustration strikingly familiar.

The Hermit.

Realization slams into you like a forceful wave, knocking the breath from your lungs.

You stare at the card, your heart pounding, your grip tightening around it as everything clicks into place.

Seungmin hadn’t dodged your questions.

He had answered them.

A/N: Soooooo, chapter 5 of The Syndicate is officially finished. What did y'all think of it? I tried to emulate Seungmin as The Hermit as well as I could, and hope some questions have been answered. 💟

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

taglist: @hanjisungs-bitch66 - @smartie-pants - @inniesfanblog - @skzittomebabyuhhuhx3 - @skzthelomlhehe - @tirena1 - @sp4ceboo - @hanniebunch

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

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gh0stsp1d3r · 10 months ago

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ℋ𝒾𝒹ℯ 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈ℯℯ𝓀

req: for dad!cowboy!jj, I can imagine a day where he plays hide and seek with his daughter but can't find her. at first he refuses to call reader but ends up having no choice. while they are having an argument, they realize that their daughter just fell asleep in the corner (I don't know, I find it so cute 😭😭)

Req by @nemesyaaa ❤️

After a long day of rounding up horses, cleaning, grooming, and feeding them, Jj wanted nothing more than to just lay down and relax.

Of course, his daughter had other plans.

He sat down on the patio with a cigarette in his hands, when she came outside.

“Daddy, pleaseeeeeeeeee!” She whined, gripping onto his large fingers with her tiny hands. Just when he began to relax she came outside, wanting to play.

He sighed, finally caving and standing up, muttering a “fine.” And opening the door for her, both of them going inside.

“Okay, you seek, and I hide.” She pointed to him, he just gave her a small nod and put his hands over his eyes, starting to count out loud as she squealed and ran around the house.

You were sleeping while they played, finally getting a much needed break.

As JJ finished up counting, he glanced around the living room, but he saw no traces of her there. He pulled back curtains, opened and closed doors, looked underneath tables.

He had been practically tearing the house apart trying to find her, he silently panicked right next to your sleeping form, pulling at the roots of his hair and running a hand down his face.

He looked for 30 minutes, thinking he doesn’t need you, and she’s probably somewhere crazy. Hopefully. He thought, he didn’t need your help. This is a child. He’s an adult.

His worry grew even more as time passed, and he had no choice but to ask you for help, he soon realized, even if it shattered his ego a little.’

“Jesus- y/n, y/n.” He repeated, gently shaking your shoulder. You moaned, turning to him and grumbling out a “what?”

“Don’t get mad. I was playing hide and seek wit’ her, and I swear, I looked everywhere, I can’t find her. It’s been 30 minutes.”

You were wide awake now, looking at him with wide eyes and standing up quickly.

“What the fuck do you mean you don’t know where she is? Did you lose our daughter?”

“I didn’t- I didn’t lose her. She’s just… really good at this damn game!” He defended with a huff.

“How the hell do you even lose her?!” You asked, already going outside the room and tearing apart the place.

“I didn’t lose her!”

“Yeah, you did!”

“How the hell was I supposed to know she’s a hide and seek God?”

“Or maybe her father just sucks at hide and seek.” You shrugged, continuing to tear apart the place until you saw something in the corner of your eyes by the kitchen.

You sighed in relief, stopping your movements, he followed your gaze and also sighed in relief, mumbling a thank god.

“What? I swear I looked there.” He said when you gave him a pointed look, you rolled your eyes and both went over to where she laid down.

He picked her up in one scoop, carrying her back to her room and tucking her in, pressing a little kiss on her forehead.

“Guess she must’ve gotten tired after a little.” He shrugged, shutting the door to her room quietly.

You shake your head at him. “You’re cleaning this place up.” You told him with a smile, pointing to the living room.

“Oh, come on!” He whisper yelled. “I’ll do anything, pleaseeee don’t make m- and she shut the door.” He sighed, looking at the messy living room.

“Maybe I really am pussy whipped.” He muttered under his breath as he started to clean the living room.

#cowboy!jj #cowboy!au #jj maybank fic #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank x you #jj maybank x reader #dad!jj maybank #dad!jj #jj maybank fluff #jj maybank drabble #obx #jj obx

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weeeeeekly · 24 days ago

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the world ended when it happened to me – jake sim x chubby fem!reader

blurb You’ve been in love with Jake Sim since you first met him in elementary school, and he’s been your best friend ever since. Your little duo turned into a trio, and you couldn’t be happier, but you can’t help but feel conflicted after your most recent spring break trip.

info afab/fem mention, reader is depicted as being chubby/plus size, use of y/n, so much angst, friends to ???, one sided feelings, morally gray!reader, non-idol au, college au, college student!jake, college student!reader. ft jay and sunghoon. everyone in this fic is 21.

WARNINGS!!! NSFW but reader isn’t the one getting fucked, negative self-image, reader has a shitty relationship with her parents swearing, mention of a family member having cancer, mentions of sex, mention of alcohol, lots swearing, not proofread just pure free flowing thought – can you tell i wrote this in a state of anger

word count 2.1k

author’s note !! This is FICTION!!!!! Everything is made up by me. The stuff written out is not meant to be a representation of the people, places, or ideas mentioned. Also, prob not accurate to real life counterparts.

“i have a feeling you got everything you wanted and you’re not wasting time stuck here like me / you’re just thinking it’s a small thing that happened the world ended when it happened to me” we hug now - sydney rose

"i despise my jealous eyes and how hard they fell for you" lacy - olivia rodrigo

This was the 12th spring break you’ve spent with Jake and 9th with Cassie. It’s come a long way from switching between traveling with one of your parents as kids to travelling alone as adults with new friends as Jake added Jay and Sunghoon months earlier after becoming roommates.

The five of you had spent a (somewhat) wonderful time in the mountains upstate as Jake’s uncle allowed free use of his cabin. It wasn’t your first choice for vacation, but who were you to pass up free lodging. You hate to admit it, but the mountain air did feel comforting during the dreaded hike you were forced to take part in.

It was on the last night of the trip when the 5 of you were sitting in the hot tub, having fun playing a drinking game when Cassie shared with everyone that her mom had gotten diagnosed with breast cancer. You felt defeated as she sobbed into your arms, looking at the guys to help comfort her. The night quickly ended after that, you went off to your own room, Cassie went to the bedroom next door, and Jay, Jake, and Sunghoon went upstairs.

Waking the day after, you were hit with the aches and pains of sitting in a car for hours on end. Your phone lights up as a video call from Jake comes in.

After accepting it, you listen to Jake talk about staying up until 5 AM – spending more time in the hot tub, finishing the last bit of alcohol, and how cold it was. You’re listening intenetly until his tone shifts, “Can I ask you a question?”

Your heart feels light for a second as you feel your hopes rise up but part of you already knows the answer. And the answer will crush you.

“Is this a threat?” You lightly joke but hide your FaceTime screen, so your camera is off.

Jake sighs, “Y/n.”

“I’m kidding! Just say it.”

“How would you feel if something happened between Cassie and I?”

You love Cassie, you really do. She’s been a wonderful friend to you and it makes you happy to share girlhood together. But she’s different from you in almost every way – you just were hoping that this conversation was never going to happen.

“I wouldn’t care if anything happened.” Lie. “I just hope you would tell me immediately.” Half lie. You would want to know right away, but it would ruin you if you were told after it happened or months down the road.

“I had sex with Cassie the last night of the trip.”

Your heart isn’t so much crushed as it is violently ripped from your chest, sent into outer space, and pulverized.

A deep breath is needed for you to continue this call without shedding tears. “I knew it.”

It was bound to happen. Jake had made a few off-hand comments to you about how he wouldn’t mind sleeping with Cassie, that one wet dream about her, or his thoughts during truth or drink.

Deep down you knew it was never going to be you. You could just see it in his eyes when you asked him “what am I stubborn about that’s making my life miserable?” Frantically searching his mind for answer that wasn’t along the lines of “being more than friends”. His final cop out answer was you not “putting yourself out to into the world” which is true as well.

“Y/n?”

You hum in response as you continue scrolling through Pinterest.

“Do you want a debrief of it?”

“Um, actually, it’s almost 11 PM and we need to go to sleep.”

Jake lets out a groan as he realizes that he has to get up in 6 hours for work. And you turn your head up to the ceiling to find your inner strength to not sound bitchy.

“Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Ending the call, you roll over to the side of your bed to charge your phone and smush your face between your pillows to scream.

You could barely keep your eyes open as you stare at your email inbox every sentence having be reread multiple times to make sense. 2 hours of sleep was all that you were able to get last night as every time you closed your eyes all you can think about is Jake and Cassie fucking.

It started off with you dreaming of getting married – you were walking down the aisle in your dream dress with Jake standing at the end of the aisle with the biggest smile on his face. You felt your cheeks starting to hurt from how hard you were smiling. You don’t know how you got there or how it happened, but you were going to enjoy your dream.

Looking around, it’s exactly how you want it – from your favorite flowers lining the aisle and in a small bouquet in your hands to the rows of everyone you’ve ever cared about watching you with tearful smiles, the lack of your parents, and your bridesmaids wearing your favorite color in different styles of dress. It was perfect. You reach the altar as Jake’s hand extended towards you, you take it and turn to look at the officiant who was your favorite teacher from school.

As you went to squeeze Jake’s hand, you felt nothing and turn back to see that the place where he once stood was empty and the crowd began cheering. Your head turns back to the aisle to see Jake furiously making out with someone. The bouquet dropped from your hand as the person leaned back to show their face – Cassie. Tears began streaming down your face as they go back to shove their tongues down each other’s throats.

Jolting awake, you felt the real tears on your face. The nightmares that followed consisted of the same formula, you being happy to see Jake in a romantic scenario and ends with him in some capacity making out with Cassie, him always choosing her.

It’s healthy to feel negative emotions like jealousy, but probably not in the capacity you feel right now.

It’s not Jake’s fault that he isn’t interested in you. You just… wish he wouldn’t string you along sometimes, that he would just flat out say “it’s not going to happen ever” or just kiss you once to shut you up. He did share a few times over group calls during “horny hours” (which are every hour) that he was an ass guy. You didn’t really have an ass – you had tits. If you had to use a letter to describe your body type it would be a B, tits and stomach, rather than just a P. But you also don’t think he’s shallow and would only be attracted based on body type, but you just know.

Maybe it’s other factors like your personality.

You would like to think that you’re a not a bad person – that everyone has a few traits that are undesirable, but you don’t think you’re a good person either. You hate it when your roommates use your favorite cup, like that’s your favorite cup that you use every day, why would you do that. Or that you would rather stick your hand down an active garbage disposal than visit your parents so they can criticize every aspect of your life – which they had already been doing your entire life.

But Jake has known your complicated relationship with your parents. He’s witnessed his fair share of arguments when they were responsible of hosting spring break. You’ve confided in him your feelings. You’re just not sure if it caused you to push him away.

jake <3 are you mad at me? you no jake <3 can you call? you sorry, super busy at work right now

jay! did jake tell u you about what jay! that during the trip you him & cassie fucked jay! are u upset about it

“What the fuck?” You mumble to yourself. You and Jay weren’t that close. Jake has brought him and Sunghoon out a few times to hangout after they moved in together. They both were attractive and seemed nice enough, but you haven’t spent enough time with either of them without Jake. You didn’t even remember their majors.

you ??? jay! i see the way u look at jake jay! u like him you no i don't jay! so u are upset jay! if u wanna talk about it jay! my lunch break is in an hour jay! my treat you i'm not upset, but i'll get lunch with you so we can be better friends

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You put your fork down, “What is there to talk about? They had sex, so what?”

He smirks as he leans back in his chair. “Stage One. Denial.”

Scoffing, “Are you my therapist now?”

“That’s the goal. How about you start with an ‘I feel’ statement.”

“I feel you’re trying too hard.”

Jay shrugs as he takes a bite of his sandwich. After chewing he says, “I just want you to know that if you want a neutral, third party to talk to about it that I’m here for you. I do consider us friends, you know.”

“That’s sweet of you, but if I did want to talk about my feelings, I wouldn’t want to burden you.”

“It wouldn’t be.”

“Okay.” You’ll allow yourself to crack a little in the empty restaurant hidden in one of the collection of stores behind your shared college. “Hypothetically, let’s say that I like Jake. That I’ve liked him for a while. That when Cassie came into my life, I wanted her to be just my friend. And that I was a little jealous when Jake and Cassie became friends but got over that when we became a trio. But maybe the jealous never died, that it just buried itself in my heart and resurfaced years later. And maybe it hurt every time either one of them said a flirty remark to the other or when they told me secretly how hot they found the other. And so what if dying a million times over would hurt less than hearing that they fucked.”

Jay stares at you with a concerned look as you cross your arms. “That’s just a hypothetical situation.”

“Oh, Y/N...”

Cutting him off, “It’s fine. I’ll get over it.”

“What if you told Jake how you feel.”

The (mostly) quiet restaurant atmosphere is broken from your laughing as you look at him in disbelief. “You think that would change anything? I already know how it will go, he’ll say he doesn’t feel that way, that he only sees me as a friend, and then I’ll be embarrassed and slowly distance myself from him until our years of friendship is lost to time.”

“Seriously, Y/N? You would rather close yourself off from your feelings than express them? What if Jake feels the same way for you? That the friendship was just a start for your relationship?”

“What if!? And maybe it’s just meant to be a ‘what if’.”

“You’re scared of relationships because something happened to you previously and you think you’re protecting yourself from future harm, but it’s damaging you instead.”

You glare at Jay as you abruptly stand up. Your bag is turned upside down as your wallet falls out. Enough cash to cover your portion of lunch is slammed onto the table as you walk out of the place.

Yes, Jay did read you to filth, but you will admit that one of the worst traits of both of your parents was stubbornness and you were hardheaded.

Maybe you are afraid of ending up in a dysfunctional relationship for the rest of your life so you would rather not be in any romantic relationship at all. And you were jealous of Cassie. And that you wanted Jake to see you in the same light as Cassie. And maybe you have a crush on both of them.

Who fucking knows. You had a lot to deal with right now like how you’ll get yourself to get proper sleep again.

masterlist

author’s note thank you for reading this. might write a part two who fucking knows anymore. this semester is kicking my ass, but i needed to get this out of my head.

#enhypen x reader #jake sim x reader #enhypen x you #jake sim x you #enhypen angst #enhypen oneshot #please enjoy whatever the fuck this was #reblog if you would be in love with jake if he was your best friend for years #but don’t steal this to publish this as your own here or another website because that’s plagiarism & i would be upset #been battling writer’s block & did genuinely try to write my current wips but life said nvm!

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joelswritingmistress · 8 months ago

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Neighbors with Benefits: Part 7 (Joel Miller x f!reader)

Part of the #hotdilfsummerchallenge @hellishjoel

Pairing: Joel x f!reader

Words: 3500

Triggers: Smut

You’re my girl. The word went off like an echo in your mind all day long. You’re my girl. You’re my girl. You’re my girl.

Did that make you Joel’s girlfriend? You weren’t sure; but it was good enough for now. More than good enough. You went from low to high in the matter of a few softly spoken words.

You sat at the kitchen table, typing away at your laptop as you filled out job applications that matched your career choice in the immediate area. As you submitted several over the course of an hour or so, your mind began to wander and you thought about how your adult life could unfold.

Get a job. Turn it into your career. Continue to see Joel. Things get more serious. Both of you are making decent money. You move into the house next to your parents with him - after your parents finally approve. You get married, have babies and your parents can see their grandchildren whenever they want because they’re one-hundred feet away. Everyone lives happily ever after. The end.

You tried not to get ahead of yourself, but that day you allowed yourself to indulge in the fantasy. Joel had eased your mind just enough when said those words to you; and you knew he meant them. From what you could honestly tell, Joel was just as wrapped up in everything as you were.

As you were about to hit the submit button for a job in the next town over, you suddenly paused upon reading one crucial detail that hadn’t been a part of previous applications: You will be staying overnight at the academy for a four month period.

Staying overnight, hmm. You thought about it for a moment and then closed out the browser. That just won’t work.

Mentally, you were all in. A short time ago you couldn’t wait to start your career, find an apartment and get on with adulting. Now, things had changed; but you knew that was part of life. You had two things in mind, and both of them could be achieved, you knew. Still, you acknowledged there were some obstacles to be cleared before the happily ever after could happen. One, Joel’s divorce needed to be finalized. Two, you had to eventually tell your parents you were seeing your older, still-married neighbor.

Those can wait. You smiled, not letting your inner monologue bring you down. I need to decide what I’m wearing to dinner.

Joel sipped on a glass of wine and stared across the way. You were dressed in a classy black dress and your best jewelry. "You’re too good for me," he said with a grin, making you laugh.

You shook your head. “I’m way out of my league with you.”

Joel shook his head again and grinned wider. “Maybe we’ve both met our match then.”

“Maybe.” You raised your eyebrows and smirked at him, tapping your glass against his and leaned closer to him as you rested your foot on top of his under the table.

"Here are your salads," a waiter whipped in, laying plates down in front of each of you and refilling the empty glasses of water beside your wine. "Your meals will be out shortly."

"Thank you.” You politely nodded and the man nodded back before wandering to another table.

"Thanks," Joel echoed, and then quickly regained your gaze.

You took a sip from your wine and gently smacked your lips. His eyebrows raised and he looked down at his plate with a smile when he felt your foot travel up the inside of his pant leg along his calf.

Joel chuckled to himself and then looked back up at you, promptly throwing his napkin down over his lap. “You're going to get us kicked out of here,” he teased.

You forked a small bite from your salad and stopped rubbing your foot against him. A smile formed on your face. “We wouldn't want that.”

"Don't tempt me.”

You laughed lightly and teased him back, whispering. "The things I want to do can wait until we get home."

Joel had to keep himself from laughing out loud as he sported a big grin. He leaned forward and spoke quietly. "You could always tell me about it."

“I thought we were supposed to have a serious talk,” you whispered, still grinning.

“Oh, is that why you keep rubbing your foot against my calf?”

You laughed a little louder and then looked around the immediate area, seeing that no one was paying attention. You then returned your attention to Joel.

"I could live with getting kicked out of here," Joel added with a wink as he rounded up another bite of lettuce. "Just sayin'..."

"You bring out my worst," you joked with a smile, never breaking eye contact.

"And you bring out my best, honey." He smiled back. "That's why I think this is going to work.”

You wanted to lean across the table and give him a kiss but rather you reached for his hand on top of the table and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I want to be with you.” There… you said it. You said the words out loud that you had been wanting to say; and to say you were pleased by Joel’s immediate response would be an understatement.

“I want this, too.” He nodded, never breaking eye contact, “I think about you just about every second I’m not with you; and I don’t know if that’s ever happened to me quite like this.”

“Me either.”

“You’re young-”

“So what.” You stared more directly at him. “I want this. I’ve never wanted a man the way I want you. Does my age bother you?”

“No.” Joel still smiled, keeping the mood light. He squeezed your hand back and you smiled wide at him.

“Good.”

He brought your knuckles to his lips. “Your parents,” Joel began, “They're-”

“Let me worry about that,” you cut him off again. “We don't have to sort everything out right this second.”

“Fair enough.” Joel kept your hand in his and you smiled simultaneously when you felt his foot run up the inside of your calf now. When you bit your lip he grinned more mischievously and lowered his voice, "Weren't you going to share details about what you wanted to do to me?”

Your eyes remained on his as his thumb began to trace circles over the back of your hand. "We should have ordered a booth so we could've sat together on the same side," you told him.

He tipped the corner of his mouth up in a half-smirk. "Well, normally I hate it when couples do that shit so you'd have to give me a good reason to consider it.”

"I'd give you plenty of reasons to consider."

"Tell me."

You knew by now that Joel could do some serious dirty talking to get you all hot and bothered but you weren't as confident in your own ability to do so. You had things running through your mind but you started giggling when you thought of yourself actually saying them out loud.

"More water?" The waiter returned with a pitcher.

"I'm fine, thank you,” you told him, leaning back to sip your wine instead. Joel put a hand up as he declined.

"Just another minute until your food comes out."

Joel didn't miss a beat, looking back to you as the waiter stepped away. "I'll take the lead on this one," he told you with a smile. "You see, if you were seated right next to me I'd slowly run my hand up the inside of your thigh..." Joel took another bite from his salad. "And I'd use these two fingers to slip your underwear to the side…”

"What if I'm not wearing any?"

He raised his eyebrows in the slightest bit of intrigued shock and then let his eyes drop toward your waist. His tongue reactively danced across his lips and then he grinned more devilishly than before. Joel looked over his shoulder, down at his lap and then back to you. "My God, woman.”

You were so enamored by Joel that you couldn't help but shamelessly let out what you were feeling; whether it be through the subtle intimate touches or quiet flirtation. It amped up your heart rate because the territory was so unfamiliar.

“I think it's best we didn't land ourselves a booth then." You grinned, "Because…”

Joel had both of his elbows on the table with his hands folded beneath his chin as he leaned almost halfway across the table now. "Because what?"

You motioned with your eyes to the waiter, who was holding a tray by his shoulder. "Guess the rest will have to wait."

He turned, wanting to slip a one hundred dollar bill into the guy's shirt and tell him to get lost, but he slowly leaned back in his chair with a painful smile on his face.

You felt pleased with yourself seeing him just a bit flustered. You never felt completely in control of him, and you hoped you could make it last.

"Steak dinner for you sir." The waiter placed Joel's food down, "And baked Tilapia for you ma'am." He looked back and forth between the two of you. "What else can I do for you?"

"Nothing," you said at the same time, and then you added. "Thank you so much."

The man nodded again and walked away.

"You know... you should dress up more often," you told him.

He chuckled to himself and began cutting the steak in front of him. "If it'll bring this side out of you-"

"No really." You smiled at him. "You look nice."

Joel shrugged and took a bite. You could see an uncomfortable shift in his posture because of the compliment. Despite you finding his fleeting moment of coyness to be adorable, you decided to get back to being flirty and a little silly to keep the vibe of the night going. "Why don't we get these meals to go and, uh..."

He glanced up to you and stopped chewing on the bite in his mouth, seeming to be eager to agree despite just getting the overly expensive meals. When he realized you were kidding he shook his head. "You're enjoying this huh?" he finally asked with a smile.

"Enjoying what?"

"You know what."

You laughed and decided to focus on your dinner. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"Don't say sorry to me, say sorry to, uh…." Joel subtly motioned to his lap with his fork and then as if he was speaking to a dog he said, "Down boy," making you laugh a little louder.

Joel chuckled and looked around to a few other diners that looked in your direction. He then looked back at you with a laugh of his own and lowered his voice again. "We're doing dessert at home."

You continued to laugh with him as you forked a bite of fish into your mouth. “Deal.”

By the time dinner was done, you felt like you were in a notch deeper. Joel slipped an arm around your waist as you exited the restaurant and the two of you made your way up the quaint, little street toward where he'd parked his truck.

"You do look beautiful," he told you as you went.

“Thank you.”

He opened the passenger door and helped you up into the truck, careful not to let you slip in your heels. You thanked him again and watched as he crossed around the vehicle to enter through his side. Joel closed the door and walked around, joining you in the car before resting a hand on your left leg. "I'm curious to see if you were being serious about the no panties thing."

"Still thinking about that huh?" You teased and glanced down as the muscles in his fingers twitched against your thigh in anticipation. "Only one way to find out."

He leaned across the way and kissed you while sliding his hand further up your leg. You massaged his tongue with your own, pressing your eyes shut hard. When his lips parted from yours, Joel took a long, deep breath out his nose. He slid his hand away and leaned back in the driver’s seat."We've got a forty minute ride home.” He looked over at you, biting his bottom lip for just a second and said. "I think I’m going to draw this one out."

You shook your head at him, noting he was making it obvious that he was taking back control of the situation. "You're going to be wondering the whole ride," you told him.

"I may just have to surrender to you before then," he admitted, beginning to pull the truck out of the parking space as he headed down the road.

"So, is this our first real date?" you asked him.

Joel grinned and gave a nod, “I suppose it is.” He linked his fingers through yours and took the steering wheel in his left hand.

You turned to him with a smile and knew he could tell you were purposely staring when he grinned to himself.

"I love that you wrote your number on a post-it,” you said to him honestly, smiling so wide that it began to make your jaw ache.

Joel laughed out loud, “The perks you get of dating an older man.”

“One of the many.”

“You know I thought about you the entire night after we first met on your back step.”

“Really?” You knew you must’ve sounded like a giddy teenager.

“Mmm…” Joel swallowed hard but a closed-mouth smile remained on his face, “I couldn’t believe you showed up at the bar that night.”

“I couldn’t believe you were there. Holly asked if I knew you and when I looked, I almost didn’t know what to do.”

Joel glanced over at you, “I’m glad you picked there of all places.”

“Me, too.” You added, “I, uh… I’ve never just done something like that before. I never wanted to. I don’t do one-night stands, or even just hook up to hook up. Not that I care if people do.” You were rambling, “My friends do all the time, it’s just not me.” You took a breath, trying to reel in your thoughts and were relieved when Joel began to chuckle.

“I know,” Joel said to you, “And you don’t have to explain.”

“I haven’t had sex with anyone since October of last year.”

He glanced at you now.

“Before you,” you added.

Joel grinned and brought the back of your hand to his lips. “Whatever happened in your relationships before me is your business. All I care about is today… and tomorrow… and the day after that.”

You smiled and leaned across the way, glancing at the open road in front of you. You planted a single kiss on his lips, vowing to take on his mindset and to stop worrying about his soon-to-be ex wife. Joel was right. The past was the past. The future was yours for the taking.

He kissed you back, glancing at the road quickly before kissing you again. "I got an idea."

You grinned, willing to follow anything he said at that moment. "What?"

Joel smiled and then floored the pedal a little harder, weaving in and out of traffic before taking an exit halfway between the restaurant and his house. He pulled the truck down a series of backroads before coming to a clearing on top of a cliff that overlooked a large body of water that stretched on for miles.

"Where are we?" You asked him, staring outward at the darkened sky.

"Nice ain't it?"

You smirked. "Something tells me you've been here before."

"Can't we let the past be the past?" Joel laughed, reiterating his previous statements.

"How many women have you taken here before me?" You raised your eyebrows at him in a playful accusation.

"A couple," he admitted, "As a younger man." And then added, leaning across the way to kiss you again. "But I just couldn't wait the forty minute ride."

You kissed him back and closed your eyes. "As long as I'm the last woman you take here..." They were a bold choice of words, but you said them anyway.

"I can agree to that," Joel told you, feeling your tongue eagerly slide back in his mouth. Your hands reached for his belt and Joel moaned into your mouth when he felt it unlatch. He pulled back for a moment, reaching for the handle that launched his seat back away from the steering wheel and then pulled you onto his lap upon shoving his pants down past his knees.

Joel moved his hand between your legs and a smile formed on his face as he fingered your underwear to the side.

“I was just teasing about the panties,” you whispered against his lips, watching his eyes close. A smile twisted back onto his face

"Save that one for our tenth date,” he choked out, leaning his head back against the headrest when you lowered yourself down onto him. Joel let out a satisfied sigh when your bodies finally connected after the prolonged sexual banter at dinner that left him yearning to touch you.

You began to move on top of him, making every part of his body twitch with pleasure. You grabbed him by his tie and kissed him hard. Immediately, you could tell he enjoyed your moment of aggression because he let out an extended moan into your mouth.

You abruptly pulled your face away. "People don't come up here, do they?" you breathed against him, not stopping as you rode him.

Joel didn't seem to care as he helped to move you with his hands; his eyes were still closed and mouth partway opened.

"Joel." You smiled and he let his eyes flicker open with a groan and a lopsided grin.

"Why, are you imagining the paper headlines?" he asked. "Local construction worker arrested for lascivious acts in a public place with his hot, young girlfriend?" He pulled your face to his and kissed you again, urging you to continue.

Girlfriend. That was all you needed to hear. Everything he had just said ignited a fire inside you as he penetrated your lips with his tongue with force. Your hand wrapped around his tie again and Joel groaned.

You didn't stop this time, breathing heavily against his mouth as he thrusted up from beneath you. When you parted your lips from his to moan, Joel grabbed your face again, guiding your mouth back to his. You could tell he was having a hard time controlling himself as he tried stopping you several times from then on out, but you didn't let him.

"You're not going to get yours," he warned, almost unable to get the words out, while keeping his eyes closed tightly as his eyebrows pressed together. His hands gripped your hips hard and you grinded on him forcefully, moaning his name out into his ear.

The muscles in Joel’s abdomen tightened and he held you against him harder as his bare thighs tensed. “Fuuuuck…” he bucked his hips up, letting out a series of moans and curse words all the while pushing your hips down forcefully against his as he began to come. Joel’s eyes were pressed shut and through gritted teeth he hissed your name.

You loved the few times when you got him so worked up that he couldn't control himself. Watching his face in that moment of pure ecstasy made your entire body feel hot and satisfied.

Joel's head finally fell back against the top of the seat again and he breathed heavily in and out with his eyes closed. You remained on top of him and touched your lips gently to his, releasing his tie from your hand before climbing off of him to get back in the passenger seat.

He didn't move for a few seconds and then finally glanced over. "Okay..." Joel took a deep breath. "Now I'm ready to fuckin' go to sleep."

You snickered and readjusted yourself next to him.

"Told you you weren't going to-" he began, but you leaned back across the center console and kissed him again. It was a hot, passionate kiss despite the intimacy that had just come to a close in the cab of his truck. "We have a long ride home," You reminded him, "So, don't get too sleepy because you owe me one once we get there."

Joel smiled and looked down before pulling his pants back up. He looked at you with a lazy grin. "You got it, honey.”

CLICK HERE FOR PART 8

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