#and please just be kind to each other that’s all I ask | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

goosewriting · 3 days ago

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Could I get a scenario for joaquin x reader: where the reader is an avenger (she was like a protege to clint and natasha) but her main job was designing the suits and gear for other superheroes that works better with their fighting styles. Sams nickname for her is Sketch.

Sam introduces her to joaquin at Isaiahs gym (she trains there but looks after him on sams behalf). She starts to study joaquin to better understand how to equip his suit. After one of their cases, joaquin wanted to make a note in their sketch book where their designs are but ends up finding a different notebook that are not suit/gear sketches, but sketches of everyday things and most of the sketches are of him. Reader walks in to see joaquin found their personal sketch book and freaks out and becomes a stuttering mess. They end up confessing to each other and please make it extra fluffy. Maybe throw in a kiss or two lol. Sorry if this is long, but I had some inspo and your work has been lovely 😊

Sketch

summary: Joaquín discovers that reader’s sketchbook features a lot of drawings of himself.

relationship: Joaquín Torres x gn!reader

warnings: none, fluff! kisses, maybe secondhand embarrassment lol

word count: 4.2k

A/N: i decided to use ‘sewist’ here as a gender neutral term instead of seamster/seamstress. i also changed it a lil bit so that Sam hasn’t seen the green suit yet. and i added a lil bit more at the end to lead up to the kiss, which i hope you’ll like!<3 tysm for requesting, this was such an adorable ask,, it took form in my mind almost immediately and i kept squealing at how tooth-rottingly fluffy this one would be 🙈🙈

[all masterlists] 🪶 [mcu masterlist] 🪶 [ao3]

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

For years, you’ve been in the Avengers’ orbit, helping out by designing their costumes and fighting at their side. After coming back from the blip and getting the news that many of your friends were gone, you decided to fully go into the designing side of helping out all heroes. You’ve made countless garments and weapons of all shapes, sizes and materials.

So while you still keep up with your training, these days you consider yourself more of a sewist and tinkerer than anything else. You mainly hang out with Sam, who introduced you to Isaiah Bradley, one of the few super soldiers still alive from back in the day. He’s let you claim one of the empty offices of his gym as your workspace. You like working there while there’s background noise, be it music or other people training in the ring or with the equipment.

In exchange for using the gym as your base of operation of sorts, you help Sam take care of Isaiah by taking walks with him and making sure he’s eating properly. He may not be physically frail for his age, given the serum, but he’s as stubborn as he’s strong. Since he’s gotten a bit of a soft spot for you over time, you try your best to keep him busy and content.

One day, Sam comes in with someone new. From where you sit in your office, which has a window to the main training area, you see your friend approach with someone you don’t know, so you get up and approach them. Immediately you come to the realisation that this new guy is extremely handsome and charming.

“This is Joaquín,” Sam introduces him.

“Joaquín Torres, Air Force Captain,” he says, stretching out his hand to you. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“And this is Sketch,” Sam continues, pointing to you.

“Sketch?” Joaquín asks with a slight tilt of his head. You chuckle and tell him your name, shaking his hand.

“That’s just what Sam calls me,” you explain with a smile.

“Yeah, well, you’re sketching in your book all the time,” he says and elbows your side playfully, then turns back to Joaquín to tell him how you’ve helped design most of the outfits everyone has worn over the years, including his new Captain America suit.

“That’s impressive,” Joaquín says with raised brows and looks at you. A slight heat erupts on your face at the earnest look in his eyes. “Sam was so kind to let me have his old Falcon suit. You think I could run some ideas by you?”

“Of course,” you offer, pointing to your office. “Come by any time.”

From that day on, Joaquín drops by the gym several times a week, with or without Sam. He mainly uses the time to train with Isaiah, but he also enjoys visiting you and watching you work, chatting about anything and everything while you sew away.

One morning he comes in to train, and from where you sit at your desk, you can see Joaquín at one of the treadmills. Despite your best efforts, your eyes keep drifting to his figure doing some cardio, with his back to you. At one point he changes to another machine, where he pulls a bar up and down, with the weights lifting and sinking behind him, sitting so that he’s facing your office. Again, you find your gaze drifting to the window instead of focusing on the work on your desk. Risking taking a proper look, you lift your eyes and look to the side. To your surprise and shock, you find him looking at you as well. Both of you are quick to avert your eyes, cheeks prickling with heat.

That afternoon, you come out of the office to take some measurements. Sam puts on a mock-up of his new suit you’ve made, and you diligently measure everything, taking notes in your sketchbook that you use for designing. Joaquín stands next to you, arms crossed over his chest, following your movements curiously. As you finish measuring Sam’s arm in different positions, you turn back to your book, using some piled up boxes as a table, and jot down the numbers.

“Do you have all designs in there?” Joaquín asks, pointing to your sketchbook. You pause momentarily, caught off-guard by the question, then you turn to him.

“I mean, not all of them,” you explain. “There’s probably at least forty more books, all with previous iterations and ideas for everyone’s suits and gear.”

“Wow,” he says, looking at Sam and giving an impressed nod. But then he turns back to you with a mischievous smile, and Sam rolls his eyes, knowing what he’s going to ask. “Do you also have sketches of Ant-Man’s suit?”

You narrow your eyes at him playfully, then look over to Sam. He merely shakes his head with a chuckle.

“Unfortunately no. It wasn’t me who designed his suit,” you say, and Joaquín looks a bit disappointed at that. Now it’s your turn to look at him with a glint in your eyes. “That’s oddly specific. Don’t tell me, you’re a fan?”

“Of course I am,” Joaquín retorts, and Sam laughs, giving him a pat on his shoulder.

“I’m still not introducing you,” he says, and Joaquín pouts.

You laugh as well, then clasp your hands together, giving your sketchbook one last look.

“Okay, Sam, you’re all done, now it’s your turn.” You turn to Joaquín, who’s looking at you expectantly. “Your suit is in my office, there’s a changing room, you can go put it on there.”

“Hell yeah,” he says, starting towards the office, turning to Sam as he walks backwards. “You’re gonna love this.”

Sam looks at you with confusion and suspicion.

“Just wait and see,” is all you give him.

A couple minutes later, Joaquín comes out of the office donning his Falcon suit. Sam looks him up and down, recognising the design.

“Is that…”

“Yep,” Joaquín says with outstretched arms to show off his new look, doing a twirl.

“The new colour was his idea,” you say, walking all around Joaquín to check if the suit sits properly. You come to a short stop when next to him, and lift your eyes to meet his. “And I think green really suits him.”

As you continue checking him over, you miss the knowing look that Joaquín and Sam exchange.

“Oh, this doesn’t look quite right,” you say, noticing how there seems to be extra fabric at his waist, instead of sitting flush. You grab your fabric marker, drawing some lines where you’ll need to take in the sides. Only when you’re done do you realise how close to Joaquín you’ve been standing, and how his gaze is cast to the side, a flustered look on his face. You’re quick to take a step back, thinking you might have made him uncomfortable.

“So, how does it feel? Any pinching? Can you move properly?” you ask him, perhaps a little too quickly in an attempt to change the subject, and he starts moving his limbs in all possible angles, trying out the suit. “If there’s anything at all, please let me know.”

You pick up your sketchbook to take some notes as he continues trying out the range of motion.

“Nope,” Joaquín finally says, coming to a halt, and his smile makes your heart hiccup. “It’s perfect, really.”

You look away, feeling the heat prickling at your cheeks, and the look Sam is giving you is certainly not helping.

“Well if there’s anything at all, or any ideas you might have later, feel free to add them to the sketchbook,” you say, showing him the page where the Falcon suit design is. “Even if I’m not around, there’s post-it notes in my office. Feel free to write down any ideas you might have.”

“Will do,” Joaquín says.

“Alright, we’re done then. Thanks to you both,” you say, turning to Sam and then to Joaquín. They both nod in acknowledgement, and you walk back to your office with Joaquín to drop off your sketchbook and materials, leaving it all on your already cluttered desk.

You walk out again so that Joaquín can change in peace, and you see Sam get his phone of his pocket. He reads a text and announces he has to go, so you accompany him outside for a moment to see him off.

When Joaquín comes back out from changing, he finds the two of you gone. Since he’s still holding the suit, he leaves it on the bench in your office, where there’s piles of fabric and other materials. He lets his eyes roam over the space, strangely endeared by how much it contrasts with the rest of the gym. This corner really feels lived in, he concludes. There’s hints of you everywhere.

He scans the desk next, seeing little figurines, varying from various animals to faceless wooden people, probably used to design the suits. There’s also several bobbins with coloured thread, post-it notes all over, and the sketchbook.

A thought occurrs to him of a change for his suit that he wanted to ask about earlier, but then promptly forgot when you ended up so close to him. Since you offered earlier for him to write down his ideas, he decides to do that before he forgets again. Without really looking, he grabs the sketchbook and opens it, his other hand going for the post-it notes and a pen. However his movements come to a sudden stop when his eyes land on the open book. He flips to the next page and realises that is is not your sketchbook. Well, it is, but not the one he meant.

Joaquín quickly shoots another look to the desk below, only now seeing the other sketchbook peeking out from underneath some other materials which you had used earlier when he was trying on the suit. He knows he shouldn’t snoop, but when his eyes land back on the drawings in his hands, he can’t look away.

This seems to be your personal sketchbook, full of ink and pencil sketches of different daily objects, landscapes, the gym. He recognises the ducks in a pond to be the park nearby, there’s a couple of sketches of Isaiah, Sam, and then him. Joaquín’s heart flutters as he flips another page. Him again. His mind is screaming that he’s very much intruding in your privacy right now by looking at all of these, but he just can’t stop himself, as he finds that the more pages he flips through, there’s fewer and fewer landscapes and animals and almost every sketch is of him. From the back, pulling weights, smiling, laughing, focused while reading something. The strokes around his face start out a little unsure, a bit squiggly even, like they were drawn in a rush. But with every new sketch, your hand seems to have grown more and more sure, flowing over the page until you knew the shapes by heart, his eyes, the curve of his nose, where each and every mole and freckle sat on his skin. He swallows thickly as he flips one more page, his eyes landing for merely a split second on an unfinished sketch of him from behind with no shirt on, the contours of his nape and shoulders marked over again repeatedly, the lower half only sketched out softly, like you hadn’t had a chance to–

Joaquín looks up at the sound that leaves your throat, something between a shriek and a horrified gasp. You’ve appeared in your office again, but he didn’t hear you approach at all. Your eyes dart between the book in his hands and his face, your own beyond flustered as you realise what he just saw. With quick steps, you shorten the distance and snatch the book from his hands, snapping it closed with a forceful thud. He opens his mouth to apoligise profusely, but you’re quicker.

“You weren’t supposed to see that!” Your voice is squeaky, and the embarrassment and shock on your face shift to something closer to anger. “What were you doing?”

“I swear I didn't mean to snoop!” Joaquín says, raising his hands in defence, then points to his suit still on the bench as he rambles. “Sam and you were gone and I wanted to check the notes on the suit again, but I guess I grabbed the wrong sketchbook, and I’m so sorry, I swear it was an accident.”

You groan, your anger dissipating and making room for the earlier emotions again, and you lift your closed sketchbook to cover your face, shoulders tense as you hide behind it.

“I hope you don’t think I’m a creep or something” you say in a small voice, and he chuckles. That’s not the reaction you expected, so you open your eyes and peek over the book to look at him. An adorable blush starts dusting his cheeks.

“Of course not,” he says softly, fidgeting with some clutter on your desk before bringing his eyes to meet yours. You hide behind the book again. “I’m flattered, truly. I get why Sam calls you Sketch, there’s a lot of them. They’re really good.”

There’s a pause, and your hands tighten around the book. Surely he’s just teasing you.

“You really think so?” you risk the question.

“I do,” he says. You’re still not looking at him, and you think you hear Joaquín take somewhat of a sharp breath. “You know, I’ve been stealing my own fair share of glances at you too, I just lack any artistic skill, otherwise I would–” He stops himself abruptly. You dare peek over the book again, and he looks just as flustered as you do, which you find reassuring, but doesn’t really help you calm down. He lifts his eyes to meet yours, and you hold his gaze this time.

“What I’m trying to say is that some of the sketches seemed a bit rushed. I wouldn't mind it if you… took your time.”

“Are you offering to model for me?” you say after a moment. His blush darkens a bit, and he nods sheepishly. You need to force yourself to breathe normally. “I’d like that,” you add in a small voice.

In that moment, Isaiah enters the gym and calls Joaquín over. He excuses himself and joins the older man while you sit down at your desk, finally letting go of your book, and find your hands trembling. Did that just happen?

After a moment of just sitting there and looking down at the book, now slightly bent from your grip, Joaquín comes back to your office, and you look up.

“Isaiah is going home, and Sam already left,” he announces, then seems to think something over. “Would you like to grab some dinner? Right now. With me, I mean. Or in a bit. Whenever you have time.”

“Let me just finish up quickly here and I’ll be right outside.” The words leave your mouth before you can even process his request.

“Okay,” he shoots you a smile so radiant that it knocks the breath out of your lungs, and you hold onto the edge of your chair out of his sight, fearing you might collapse to the floor right then and there.

Without wasting a second once he’s gone, you’re quick to put everything away and place Joaquin’s suit on your desk so that it would be the first thing you work on tomorrow. You put the sketchbook with the design notes in the top drawer, and the one with your personal sketches you pack into your bag. Another wave of heat prickles at your cheeks when you hold it, thinking back to how Joaquín had seen your many drawings of him.

After you join him outside, Joaquín and you walk to a nearby restaurant, it’s small and there aren’t many people there yet as it’s still pretty early in the evening. Sam and you come here all the time, the atmosphere is cosy and the menu is really good. You guide Joaquín to one of the booths at the end and order some food, a pleasant conversation taking place while you eat.

Once you’re done eating, you wipe your hands on the napkin and take out your sketchbook and mechanical pencil, clicking it a couple of times to get the lead out.

“Oh, right now? Okay,” he says, and leans back into his seat. “What should I do?”

You flip the pages as quickly and nonchalantly as you can magange until you land on the last sketch, and you clear your throat.

“M-maybe we’ll leave this one for another time,” you say in a small voice, flipping to the next blank page. Joaquín unsuccessfully tries to bite back a smile at the proposition. You scan the room around you. “Just, uhm, lean your head onto your hand and look to the side for now, at that picture with the flowers for example.” You point to the frame on the wall.

“Okay,” he breathes, leaning his head on a propped up elbow and lifting his gaze to it, but it flickers back to you. “Should I like, smile, or something?”

“Whichever you prefer,” you say, and start sketching on the paper. Your eyes dart up to him and then back to the page repeatedly.

After a moment, when you look up, you find him with his face still tilted like you indicated, but his eyes are on you. Your movements stop and you feel a shudder climb up your spine, but it’s not entirely unpleasant, it makes your skin tingle. You hold your pencil to the page, unable to look away from him.

“You’re supposed to look that way,” you say, gesturing to the side with your chin.

“I like this view better than the flowers, though,” he says, seemingly completely unfazed, while your face is set ablaze. You can’t think of any good comeback, so as you look back down to your sketchbook, you mumble, “Suit yourself.”

The next few minutes are spent in comfortable silence, save for the music and background chatter, where your flustered face shifts into focus, and you work diligently to translate his handsome features onto the page. All the while, he watches you work, enjoying the different expressions you make when you get something wrong and erase it, or when you finally figure it out and confidently place stroke after stroke onto the paper. As he comes to the conclusion that he could watch you forever and never get bored of the sight, another blush spreads on his cheeks, and he has to look away for a moment.

Once you’re done, you add final details here and there, then place down your pencil and hold up your book, checking the drawing over. He drops his hand onto the table, expectantly waiting to see the finished product.

“It’s done,” you say, suddenly feeling extremely self-conscious, and for a moment you consider not showing him. But after he sat so still for you, how could you not? So, gathering some more courage, you quickly turn the sketchbook around, placing it into his waiting hands, and you bring your gaze down to the table while he inspects it.

“Wow,” Joaquín breathes, and warmth spreads in your chest. “This is… This is incredible.”

“You like it?” you ask, daring to bring your eyes up to meet his.

“Of course!” He looks it over once more, pink still sprinkled on his cheeks, then gives you back the book. “You’re a fantastic artist. Thank you for drawing me.”

He looks like he wants to add something else, but then decides against it. Your brows furrow slightly.

“What? What is it?” Your mind immediately goes to negative comments, like he was about to follow up with a ‘but’, saying that it didn’t even look like him, or that you brought out all his worst features and insecurities.

“How do I put this,” he says more to himself than you, propping up his elbows on the edge of the table and bringing his closed hands to his chin. It takes him a second to find the right words, and when he looks up to meet your gaze, your heart skips a beat. A warm smile starts spreading on his lips as he talks. “Compared to the ducks in the pond, I feel like you put more care and attention to detail into drawing me. Seeing myself through the eyes of someone who… You know. Someone like you. I kinda feel invincible right now.”

You can’t help but laugh heartily, not in a mocking manner, but more so in relief, as you feel exactly the same.

“Well, I’m glad I could give you a glimpse, then,” you say, and for a moment, you’re so lost in each others’ eyes, you don’t see the waiter approach.

“I hope everything was to your taste,” the guy says in a practiced customer service voice, and you both jump slightly. He starts taking your empty plates that you pushed aside. “Would you like to ordersome dessert?”

Joaquín and you decide to share some ice cream, and once you’re done, he pays for the meal despite your protests, insisting that it was him who invited you to dinner after all, and you walk back to his car.

“I’ll make sure to have your suit done first thing tomorrow,” you promise when you arrive, and your hand reaches out to open the door, but he takes it in his instead, interlocking your fingers, and you turn toward him with big eyes.

“I may not be an artist,” he says seemingly out of nowhere, stepping closer while still giving you enough space to back off if you wanted to. “But I can give you a glimpse of how I see you in other ways.”

Your brain short circuits for a second, taken completely off-guard by his comment. His other hand comes up to your face, softly brushing his knuckles over your cheek, which surely feels much too hot to the touch. You’re now somewhat trapped between Joaquín and the car, while he’s still making sure you can step aside, but you have no intention of doing that. So your own hands come up, trembling a bit, and you place them on this chest. He takes that as a sign to get even closer, and you can feel his racing heart through his shirt, matching your own erratic heartbeat.

“For example?” you demand, but your voice is so weak, you're not entirely sure if he heard you.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, and his hand fully cups your cheek. “I’ll admit I've been wanting to for a while now.”

Unable to produce a single word, you merely nod, your eyes fluttering closed as he leans in. It’s still pretty early and there could be people walking by and see you, but you don’t care. Once his lips are on yours, the whole world around you disappears. You’re glad the car holds part of your weight and you can partially lean onto it, since your legs seem close to give out underneath you. The hand on your face cradles the back of your head while the other snakes around your waist. Joaquín kisses you slowly, tenderly. He gingerly takes your bottom lip between his teeth and gives it a slight tug, and he swallows the shaky breath that escapes you, his mouth on yours again.

The kiss lasts forever and not nearly long enough at the same time, and when he pulls back, you blink a couple of times, looking up him.

“Wow,” is all you manage to say, and he chuckles, backing off you so you can stand properly again. He opens the door for you and you take a seat, still unable to form a single coherent thought.

Joaquín walks around the front of the car and climbs in as well, turning on the navigation system.

“Where to?” he asks, and when he turns to look at you, waiting for you to tell him you address, you grab the collar of his bomber jacket, pulling him close to you once more to give him another kiss. But before he can fully melt into it, you let him go, and quickly sit back.

“Sorry, oh god.” You cover your face with your hands, and he chuckles again. He gently pries your fingers away so you look at him, and gives your hand a squeeze.

“Don’t be,” he says, bringing your hand to his face and placing a kiss on your knuckles.

The way his eyes glisten in the dark, only illuminated by the street light outside the car, sends an explosion of butterflies straight through your gut and you have to look away. To distract yourself from the erratic pace your heart is beating at, you bring your attention to the console and enter your address, starting the navigator. Joaquín starts the car and you take off.

“Will you come back by the gym again tomorrow?” you ask after a while.

“If it were up to me, I’d be there every day,” he says, and you feel even more heat spread on your face, if that’s even possible. “I’ll try my best to come by, I’ll let you know, okay?”

“Okay…”

“Maybe you can finish that one sketch of yours,” he says with a smug grin, and you playfully hit his shoulder with an embarrassed groan as you remember the drawing of his bare back you had started on a whim but couldn't bring yourself to finish.

As Joaquín drives you home and you sneak another looks at his side profile, you realise that at this rate you'll need a new sketchbook, dedicated entirely to him.

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

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#goose feathers #joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres x you #tfatws joaquin x reader #tfatws joaquin x you #brave new world joaquin x reader #the falcon x reader #marvel #mcu x reader #mcu

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ichigo-plasma · 2 days ago

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I LOVE HARUKA, he's so cute 🥺🥰 I like yandere subs. And can you write more about Haruka? Like if the fem reader is going to confess to Haruka and if the reader is more dominant? pushing Haruka further and further to the limit until he becomes a crying mess...

Can I be the anon"🌙"?

The Attention You Crave

Synopsis: Haruka is super obsessed with you. He started stalking you and memorizing your routine in Milgram, taking some of your belongings... he was pathetic for you really. But unbeknownst to him, you didn't mind, you were into it, you liked how pathetic he was for you. And tonight, you are going to make sure he knows.

On The Menu: you heard 🌙 anon, reader is more dominant, Haruka is a masochist so he is super into it (he is a canon masochist), suggestive, yandere Haruka, stalking, a slap based and choking based on Es's interrogation with Haruka in T1, Yuno, Muu, and Es mentioned!, Haruka lied about his age because he’s embarrassed about how old he is

A/N: Milgram T3 made me sad but while Haruka might be not doing well in Jackalope's Milgram, in the Ichigo-Plasma Milgram world, Haruka is doing just fine! I tend to make Haruka as more of a switch but I am down to try domming him. Let’s make him cry happy tears! Let’s all dom Haruka Sakurai! ^_^ <3 Please enjoy 🌙 anon if you have more requests send them my way!

Haruka had always been drawn to you. It started the moment you first spoke to him in Milgram, the way your voice held a warmth he had never known. You looked at him—really looked at him—without disgust, without fear. Your attention became his addiction, something he craved more than he could admit.

So he started following you. Not in an obvious way, but enough to learn your habits, enough to always be near when you needed something. It wasn’t creepy, he told himself. He just… wanted to be close to you. And maybe he stole some stuff from your cell in Milgram… he managed to snag some of your underwear before it made it to the prison laundry, he’d lick the extra scraps off your food tray that you didn’t finish—savoring licking each spike of your used fork… he knows it was not super normal but he truly just wanted to feel closer, that’s all! You hadn’t seemed to notice!

But the more time passed, the more he needed from you. Your praise. Your kindness. Your touch. He started sneaking into your cell when you were hanging with other prisoners—taking in your scent on your bed and running away before he knew you’d be making your way back (don’t ask how he knew when you’d come back). He will admit though, he was getting a bit bold and clumsy with his stalking and one day when he came to lick the extra food off your tray, you left a little message reading “I left some extra of the foods I know you like Mr. Stalker~<3”.

And when he realized you knew? That you had seen right through him? That was when his whole world completely shifted—because unbeknownst to him you were into it.

You liked how pathetic he was for you.

You liked how desperate he was.

And tonight, you were going to make sure he knew it.

Haruka barely had time to react before you shoved him against the wall. His breath hitched, his body jolting at the force of it, but he didn’t try to run. He liked this. The way you overpowered him, the way your hands gripped him like you owned him.

“W-Wait, y-you’re s-serious?” he stammered, wide-eyed.

You grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, his lips trembling as you traced your fingers over his throat, barely applying pressure—just enough to make him feel it.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” you murmured, watching as he swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing under your touch. “What, do you not want me, Haruka? I know you’re the reason some of my underwear are missing. I saw them in your cell covered in wet stains.”

His breath hitched, his hands twitching at his sides. “I-I… I d-d—” He shook his head frantically, but his body betrayed him—his lips parted slightly, his knees trembling.

You chuckled. “Liar.”

A soft whimper escaped him as you pressed closer, your hand slowly traveling down his arm before catching his wrist. His fingers twitched under your grip, his whole body shaking.

“I bet you love this,” you whispered, your lips barely brushing against his ear. “Being completely at my mercy… pinned against a wall with nowhere to run.”

He shuddered.

“I-I—” he started to whimper but he looked more starstruck than upset. Happy to finally have your attention one on one.

“You can’t even deny it, can you?” Your fingers ghosted down the side of his throat, tracing the rapid thrum of his pulse. “Such a cute little masochist… I wonder what else you’d let me do to you?”

His whole body tensed, a quiet gasp escaping his lips. “P-Please…” he whimpered, not even knowing what he was begging for.

You smiled. “Please what?”

He shivered violently. His hands, which had been clenched into fists inside his cutely oversized Milgram shirt sleeves, hesitantly moved—gripping your own sleeves, desperate, needy.

“A-Anything,” he whispered, voice barely above a breath. “Y-You can do a-anything to m-”

Oh, he had no idea what he had just agreed to.

*Slap.*

A sharp whimper nearing a moan tore from his lips as your palm met his cheek—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to shock him, to leave a lingering warmth on his skin. His breath hitched, and for a split second, his lashes fluttered as his whole body shuddered.

“You're funny, Haruka,” you mused, your fingers gripping his jaw, tilting his head up so he couldn’t look away. “I think you like this a little too much.”

A whimper escaped him, his hands now twitching at his sides. “I-I…”

Your other hand slid down his chest, slowly, teasingly, your fingers pressing into the fabric of his pants just enough to make him feel it. You could tell he was getting hard, a small bulge forming in his pants. His breath hitched, his knees wobbling as his whole body became hyper-aware of your every touch down where he needed it most.

“Then beg me,” you murmured.

Haruka whined, his face going impossibly red embarrassed that he was enjoying this so much, finally getting your attention. “P-Please… t-touch me, u-use me, I-I d-don’t care—j-just don’t s-giving me attention—”

God, he was adorable.

You pressed your knee between his thighs, just enough to make him gasp, feeling the now hard bulge begging for relief through his pants, his hands clutching at your clothes in pure desperation. “So needy,” you mused, tilting your head. “You really do love being controlled, don’t you?”

He nodded frantically, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. “I-I do—I-I w-want you t-to t-take c-control—”

You brought your hands to his neck and lightly squeezed his throat, just enough to cut off the next word, just the right amount you knew a masochist like him would like. (Yuno told you he’d probably like it when she told you what she heard about Haruka’s interrogation with Es, maybe Es even told you themself).

His breath stuttered, his lashes fluttering shut for a moment before he forced himself to look at you again, drunkenly grinning like you were giving him ultimate pleasure.

Your lips curled into a smirk. “Go on, beg for it.”

His whole body trembled but he couldn’t stop smiling drunkenly, his grip tightening on your sleeves. “P-Please… I-I w-want you t-to t-take control… u-use me, d-do whatever y-you want, j-just don’t stop paying attention to m-me—”

God, he was so cute and pathetic.

You chuckled, releasing his throat to let him to gasp for air. “You’re so cute… I bet you’d let me do anything to you.”

Haruka nodded frantically. His face was flushed and he was crying a bit to the point of whining, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. “A-Anything… I-I b-belong to y-you, I-I’ll d-do whatever you w-want—”

Your hand slid down his chest, manicured nails courtesy of Muu sliding up under his shirt tracing his skin. His breath hitched, his whole body tensing.

“Good boy, happy you accepted my confession” you whispered.

A shuddering whimper escaped him, his knees threatening to buckle.

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear. “You’re mine now, Haruka. I’ll give you all the attention and love you crave.”

A sob tore from his throat. His whole body trembled as he clung to you, his nails digging into your clothes, as if you’d disappear if he let go. He was a mess—whimpering, gasping, crying from sheer happiness, his voice cracking as he nuzzled desperately into you. Happy to finally be noticed by you, to be loved weakly.

“Th-Thank you… th-thank y-you… I-I l-love you, I-I l-love you s-so much, p-please d-don’t l-let me go, p-please…” he whined.

You smirked, petting his hair like he was a cute puppy as his tall stature practically melted in your touch. Hopeless. Completely, utterly hopeless for you.

#IchigoP Haruka Sakurai #IchigoP Milgram #milgram #milgram smut #haruka sakurai x reader #sakurai haruka x reader #haruka sakurai smut #milgram headcanons #milgram haruka #haruka sakurai #sakurai haruka #milgram haruka sakurai #milgram x reader #haruka smut #subby boys #sub yandere #subby male #yandere smut #yandere x reader

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maskedcrawford · 2 days ago

Text

Second Chances

G-Dragon x Reader

Summary: Years after breaking up and seeing each other at events you and Ji-yong reconnect and decide if you really want to be with him or if you're done with him for good.

Warnings: Angst with fluff at the end.

A/N: I had two extremely similar requests so I paired them together. I hope this is what you two Anon's were looking for in your requests. If not, let me know. Not proof read so please excuse mistakes! Also I plan to work on part 3 of Hidden Secrets tonight. Check out my masterlist to get caught up on the series <3

Requests are OPEN

Being apart of 2ne1 was a dream come true. Your group was at the top of the charts and so was your name along with a very famous rapper professionally named G Dragon, aka Kwon Jiyong. The two of you were Korea’s most infamous couple, everyone, including your own band members, swore you were endgame. They came up with ship names, there were constant edits of you guys, life was great.

Or at least until it wasn’t. Life does what it does and gets in the way, conflicting schedules meant not seeing each other nearly enough and personal affairs became a hindrance. Then there were rumors about both of you cheating on each other, which wasn’t true, but YG wasn’t a fan of the negative controversy so then they weighed in putting pressure on both of you and it all just became too much.

The day it happened you knew it was coming, but you still didn’t want to accept it. You and Ji had been sitting at the kitchen table, having the same old conversation. But that night it was different.

“I just don’t think we can do it anymore, y/n,” his voice was quiet. It was breaking both of you.

“With the pressure of the label, never seeing you,” he trails off as he feels the tears in his eyes.

“Tell me you don’t love me,” you stand up off your chair and walk over to him looking down and moving his face to where he has to look at yours.

“You know I can’t say that,” He says like he’s begging you to stop.

“Then we can do it, we have to. I don’t,” your voice cracks with tears blurring your vision.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you shut your eyes tight.

“I don’t want to lose you either,” he stands up and gives you a long warm hug as you soak his t shirt with your tears.

“This isn’t easy for me,” he sighs as he lets you go. It feels way too soon as he doesn’t spare you another glance as he walks out the door.

And now, every time you see him, it’s a reminder of that painful night. You see him around, both of you being idols and having performances in the same places will cause that. The first place you seen him was a runway show for Chanel, and that was only 3 days after your break up. You were sat on the opposite side of the runway with a direct line of sight to him as he sat in the front row. There were many stolen glances between you two but neither of you spoke. Then there were the Mama awards, where you both were supposed to perform. Again the same song and dance. Both of you glancing at the other, wanting to talk, to make up and yet neither of you did.

After a while you could see Jiyong and not feel the same kind of pull, the one that wanted closure. You had accepted what had been and gotten to a place where you could fully support him, quietly, but still.

It’s the opening night of your tour, having been part of 2ne1 meant you were also able to do solo projects. Of course, your girls were there with you to support you.

“This is going to be so amazing!” Sandra says as she claps her hands excitedly.

“You ready for this?” CL asks.

“As I’ll ever be.” You say feeling the nerves kick in, you excuse yourself to the bathroom and while you’re gone, CL brings the girls together.

“You’re never going to guess who’s here tonight,” she whispers.

“Who,” Minzy asks.

“Ji-yong,” she smiles big and the girls go silent for a moment.

“Does she know?” Bom asks nervously. CL just shakes her head. You back in the room seeing them huddled and you raise a brow.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” they say in unison; the way you know they’re hiding something from you but you can’t prove it.

“Mhm, well I go on in 2 minutes so,” you motion them to leave so you can grab your mic and race off to the side of the stage. The lights go down and you get into place hearing the roar of the crowd as your silhouette is shown behind a screen.

During the last song before the small break your band gets, you see him. There in the 3rd row from the stage. His hair brightly colored and hard to miss. He’s giving you a proud, satisfied smile. You freeze for a moment before getting back into the groove of the dance moves. You flit your glance to him throughout the rest of the song. When your band leaves the stage you address the audience.

“You guys having a good time?” they all cheer and you smile.

“Awesome, Awesome!” You begin to walk around.

“Can you sing, You’re the One?” You look in the direction of the voice you hear.

“What was that?”

“You’re the One, can you sing it? The song with G Dragon,” she smiles wide. Your eyes go wide for a half second before you compose yourself.

“Uh,” you half laugh, “Yeah I don’t, I don’t see why not,” your eye go to where he was sitting but he’s gone. You feel relief crash over you, until a stage hand comes over to pull you off stage for a second.

“Whats up,” you say as your eyes land on the familiar man from the crowd. You both stare at each other for a moment, really taking it in.

“You want to do it, together? Like old times?” he ask shyly. Your heart starts beat faster.

“If you’re up for it,” you give him a warm and inviting smile despite the current anxiety you’re in. You notice behind him that CL is standing there watching you and you realize that this was what they were hiding. You slightly frown at her and she gives you two thumbs up.

You walk out on stage, “Ok, well I have a surprise guest for everyone, including myself,” you laugh into the mic.

“Everyone, please help me welcome, the one, the only, infamous G-Dragon!” you shout into the mic as the crowd goes crazy. He steps out confident as ever and stands beside you.

“Let’s do it,” he says cooly. The song begins and you both move to the beat, you raise the mic to your lips to sing the lyrics and he’s staring at you intensely. That familiar pull he once had on you, the one you swore was gone, is back. You want to feel his hands around your waist, his lips back on yours and the way he smells, you never want the smell to leave you again. He beings singing his part and his mind is going crazy along with his heart.

He stares at you, the way the lights shine off your sparkly outfit, the way you move your hips to the beat of the song, how you walk with utter and complete confidence on stage. He missed you more than he ever wanted to admit, even after all this time. For the last chorus of the song you two come together, he holds you close to him as he sings looking directly into your eyes and you blush due to the proximity.

You both sing the last line and stare into each other’s eyes for a moment when the crowd erupts. Its all background noise, though, as you see what looks like longing and regret in his eyes. He lets you go, hesitantly staring at you for a beat more before raising the mic to his lips.

“Goodnight, Seoul,” he says, “and Goodnight, y/n,” he says before winking at you and walking off stage with nothing but confidence.

You watch him walk off and feel that familiar pit in your stomach. The concert goes on as usual and eventually comes to end, your girls crowding around you to hug you and celebrate. You give them an annoyed look though once you’re in the dressing room.

“I can not believe you kept that from me!” You say astonished.

“I didn’t know he was planning on getting on stage!” CL defends.

“But you knew he would be here, and you knew I hadn’t told him about the concert,” she interrupts you.

“Y/n, jagi, I’m sorry, I know I should’ve told you. But if you’re really over him, why are you so upset?” she gives you a knowing look. The girls knew you weren’t over him; you had convinced yourself but not them.

“Maybe you should talk to him,” Minzy suggests as she walks up.

“Nope, I’m not going to reopen that wound,” you say defiantly.

“Sounds like it’s all ready opened,” CL mumbles and you shoot daggers at her.

“Can we just celebrate please? I’d like to remember this as a good night,”

“Oh it’s definitely one you’ll remember,” Bom speaks up with a chuckle and another look is thrown her way now.

The next morning you wake up to your social media flooded as well as texts from CL.

“Dude, have you seen this?” She sends you a link to a tiktok that has a video from last night with you and Jiyong singing before more music starts playing with old photos and a short video of you two goofing off comes up. Fan edits were being made and you were being tagged in a ton of them.

“Holy crap,” you whisper.

“Are they actually back together?”

“It was just for the show.”

“So does this mean my parents are endgame again?”

More and more comments questioning you and Jiyong’s relationship flooded video after video, picture after picture and post after post across the web. As you get dressed for the day you get a call from an unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Seem’s we’re popular,” you hear his deep voice say as he chuckles.

“Ji,” you say, a little desperate than you meant for it to sound.

“Listen, I don’t know what you’re doing today, but if I remember correctly, you never did two shows back-to-back,” you listen intently.

“So, if you’re free tonight, come over. I want to talk to you.” His voice is hopeful. It’s not like you could lie to him, your schedule was posted all over social media by now so telling him you had a show was easily disproven. You sigh into the phone rubbing your forehead.

“What time?”

“7, and come in something comfortable, I’m making dinner.”

“Since when did you cook?” you tease.

“Since you taught me to make your favorite meal,” he teases back and you blush with a small smile creeping up on your lips.

“I’ll see you tonight,”

“See you then, jagiya.”

Your heart skips a beat at the pet name. Sure, others called you that as a term of endearment but from him, it meant something different. You stand in front of his door in sweatpants and a loose-fitting shirt. The man said casual wear so you went comfy, after all with all the discomfort that could come from tonight, you wanted to be as comfortable as possible. He opens the door, the smell of your favorite dish hitting your nostrils.

He smiles, he’s got his hair ruffled a bit and his glasses on, he steps aside to let you in and the memories from you years long relationship floods back to you. Most things were the same. A few new art pieces, a new sculpture even.

“Nice to see not much has changed,” you say as he walks a past you into the kitchen. You follow him and sit down at the bar. Princess Zoa hops onto the counter and greets you with soft purs and rubbing her head against your hand.

“And of course the princess herself,” you baby talk the cat and out the corner of your eye you can see Ji staring at you, a content smile on his face as he watches you with his cat-child.

He plates the food and you both eat, neither of you sure what to say.

“You really did do great, last night,” he comments after a moment of silence.

“Thank you, I’ll be honest I was surprised to see you.” You look up from your plate to find him all ready looking at you.

“CL invited me,” he admits.

“I wasn’t going to go at first, I wasn’t sure if you’d want me there.” You just look at your plate and he’s hoping you’ll say something.

“Ok, maybe you didn’t,” he mumbles pushing food around on his plate.

“What do you want me to say, Ji-yong?” Your fork clanks against the plate as you turn your whole body to look pointedly at him. He looks at you, shrinking a bit. He wasn’t sure how to do this, not really.

“Do you want me to say that I never moved on? That I still think about you, especially when I’m out and I see clothing I know you’d love. That I miss you being in bed next to me? That I miss sleeping over here and waking up to your cats gently making biscuits or laying loafed up on one of us? That I miss how you would always give me kiss on the forehead first thing when you woke up?” your eyes are frantic and he can see the panic and fear in them after you unload everything that needed to be said.

“Or how about that I miss the way your lips felt, the smell of your cologne, or the way you would always have a slight skip in your step when you had a really good day.” He looks at you stunned.

“What about how I miss the way you used to look at me, or how you could make me feel like I was the only girl in the world you’d ever look at. Or how,” he cuts you off with a passionate, deep slow kiss. You freeze for a moment before giving to the desire you’ve had since the day he left.

You both pull apart and he takes your hand leading you to the couch in the living room. He sits down and pulls you down beside him.

“Jagiya,” he whispers as he puts your foreheads together, “I’ve missed you so much.” You can feel tears pricking your eyes and you blink them back. His lips attach to yours again in another slow kiss, he cups your face with his hands and you hold onto his wrist.

“Ji-yong, you left me. I don’t understand,” you croak, emotion welling up in your throat.

“I know, and I’m sorry y/n,” he sighs as he pulls away from you to look at the ground.

“I let the label and what everyone else said get to me and I thought that letting you go was best for both of us, that we could find other people and be happy, but I’m not,” he looks deep into your eyes.

“I’m not happy at all, without you this means nothing to me. If you’re not in the crowd cheering me on I’m not the same G-Dragon. Without you here, without you home I’m not the same Ji-yong. I need you like I need air to breathe.” You feel a stray tear fall onto your cheek and he wipes it away with thumb.

“I’d like another chance, a chance to love you properly, to spoil you and show you just how much you mean to me,” he pleads.

“Oh, Ji,” you pull his face to you and kiss him again and you feel him smile against your lips.

“Is that a yes?” he quirks his brow and you smile.

If you enjoyed and would like to support me, buy me a coffee

“Yes,” you give him a hug and he pulls you into him, cuddling you on the couch.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 13 hours ago

Text

Pent Up 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, virginity loss, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you seek validation through online correspondence with incarcerated men, only for one to lock you down in turn.

Characters: convict/excon!Thor (silverfox)

Note: It's an addiction now.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

'I never thought I'd be writing to someone like you, but you've shown me a different side of things. I hope that my emails give you comfort and can help you through. Even on the other side, they get me through my day. I'm always excited to read when there's a ding in my inbox.

I hope you also enjoy the little bit I could put in your commissary. If I lived closer, maybe I could bring you something homemade. At the moment, bus fare is a bit too much for my pockets.

Anyway, signing off.

Yours,

Diamond'

You add a whole line of heart emojis to the email then hit send. You giggle and click on the next. You don't have the heart to copy and paste so you add a bit of variety to the next.

This one is... Thor? That's his name. He's a funny one. Considering he's in the pen, you're surprised by that. The others are so dire; pushy too.

You hit reply on his last email. Something about a fight and apologising for not replying earlier. He says he was in solitary for a whole week. That sounds miserable. The thought is enough to scare you straight. It's why you've never done anything wrong in your whole life. Until now.

It's not really wrong. It's allowed. It's legal. You're just sending messages. If anything, it's a community service. These men don't have much more contact than each other and that's a recipe for chaos.

You won't admit that other reason aloud. That tickly feeling in your stomach. When they compliment you, when they say they missed you. You can't help but smile, even giggle sometimes. It's nice to be appreciated, even if it's all a fantasy.

You'll never meet these men. That's the fun part. You don't have to worry about any of this. Maybe that helps. Maybe you think too much when you're face-to-face. That explains why every cute guy you talk to sees past you.

'I forgive you, sweetie. It must have been so hard in there. The important thing is you replied. I got so worried! I hope that after all that, my email can bring a bit of comfort. I have to be honest, I never thought I'd be chatting with someone like you. That I could find this type of connection. Please, take care and email soon.'

Another parade of emojis follows and you send it off happily. Now you just have to wait and see who gets back to you first. If it's Ernie, you're not sure you'll respond. He's been fixated on his cell mate and his emails are getting a bit scary. That's the other great part. You can always just delete and block.

The response comes an hour later. You're sleepy and ready to pass out. You read it anyway.

'You are so kind, my queen.' You giggle. Yeah, he calls you that sometimes. If only he knew you were sitting in bed with an ice cream sandwich wrapper and your cell phone. Definitely not queenly behaviour. 'I got through it by thinking of you, of dreaming of the day when we can talk face-to-face. Wouldn't that be lovely? For all my mistakes, I think they will mean something if you and me can be together.'

You make a face. He's so cheesy. You can't help but laugh again. You're not trying to be cruel, you do empathise with his situation, you can't imagine being in prison, but like anyone else, he earned his time. There's one last light.

'If it isn't too much trouble, would you kindly send a picture so I have a face to admire in my lonelier moments? I've attached my own. Forgive me as it dates a few years back.'

You're not smiling anymore. You haven't sent any of the men pictures. They haven't offered theirs but you can look up their mug shots easily. You hate to ruin the fantasy but curiosity has you tapping the attachment.

Oh. You're surprised. He's older than you in this picture and by his own confession, is more so now. But he isn't repugnant. Anything but. Tall, blond, thick! You don't know if you've ever seen a man that size.

Even in a suit, it's obvious that his arms are bulging and his chest is ripe to burst out as the jacket button clings for dear life. The photo is cropped so that whoever he took it with is out of frame. His blue eyes sparkle above a defined smile. Has prison worn down all that?

You squirm. Guilt needles in your chest. You could close out and worry about it in the morning. You shouldn't be that sympathetic. He's still a criminal. You can say no. Easily. What's he going to do about it?

What could it hurt? If he saw your face. It's not like anyone would know. That anyone would recognise you or that he could find you anywhere else. You keep your social media anonymous. You aren't like the influencers who get attention just for being pretty.

It's that that gives you pause. You aren't anything but average. It's easier to pretend you're some pretty thing as you message these faceless men. Well, maybe that's a good thing. Maybe once he sees you, you won't have to worry about all that other stuff. He'll cut you off at the pass.

The thrill of it overwhelms your reluctance. It's like gambling, it could go either way.

You start a new message. More meaningly rewording of previous sentiments. Nothing new. Then you scroll through your photo roll. You take a breath and press down on a photo you think isn't half bad. It's from market day you went to with your aunt. Not exactly cutting edge but fun. She snuck in the shot as you smiled down at your gooey cinnamon roll. The impromptu snap is better than most of your posed ones.

You send and quickly lock the phone. You shove it under your pillow and swipe up the wrapper beside you. You leave it on your night stand and sink down, your insides swimming with anxiety. You're going to regret this in the morning.

🎀

'Will you call me?'

The question makes you sweat. You don't know why you feel bad. You've said no before. To him. To all of them. You draw a thick line between your secret little hobby and your real life. You shouldn't have ever sent that photo.

Despite your regret, you smile. His response was more than you could expect. The praise! You don't know that anyone ever even called you cute but he as good as wrote you a poem about your beauty. You have to remind yourself, given his circumstance, he's starved. He'd probably think your nan is sexy.

Still, you're having a hard time typing those two letter; N-O. Thor is so nice. And he asked so sweetly. But you can't do that. What if someone found out?

This whole thing is starting to feel like a big mistake, but it's so much fun. When in your life will men ever be this into you? When have they ever?

'I could call' you type without thinking. What are you doing? 'Let me know how to do that and we can set a time maybe.'

Don't hit send. Don't hit send.

Email sent.

Shit. Oh gosh. Why did you do that?

You close your laptop and leave it on your desk. You need to get ready for work. You can't be worrying about a man you'll never meet. It's all virtual, it's not real. You'll be okay.

You get yourself together and brace yourself for work. You don't really like your job. You work the counter at a tech repair shop. Independent so it's small and slow. Your boss is a bit strange too.

The only benefit is it's close and it pays a few bucks more than the alternative. You're even allowed to work on your online courses at the service desk. Really, it's perfect. You guess you're just not happy with things being boring.

You blow over the lid of your Sailor Moon travel mug and knock on the door. Jensen lets you in with a grin and stifles a yawn in his elbow. You step past him with a sheepish smile.

"If it isn't the champion of justice," he greets smugly and locks the door. You won't open for another half hour.

"Huh?" You go to the counter and slide your bag onto the shelf underneath.

"Your cup," he crosses the shop. “I am Sailor Moon, the champion of justice. In the name of the moon, I will right wrong and triumph over evil… and that means you!”

"Oh, right," you snort at his cheesiness. "You have espresso or something?"

"Red bull," he admits guiltily.

"This early?"

"Early? I never went to sleep," he comes around and goes back to typing on his glowing gaming computer. "Couldn't let my crew down."

You could roll your eyes. All he does is play Fortnite or Halo. He looks like he does too. Yet, he's in here moping after every rare stunner that walks through the door. That's why you'er there. He gets all tongue-tied with women. Well, all of them but you.

"You should join the party," he suggests.

"Well, I don't really play anymore," you shrug. "It was only for fun. My siblings... like it."

"Oh yeah, how's the family?"

"Good, I guess. They don't really call."

Your mom's too busy rebuilding her life with your step-dad. Rather, building the perfect life she never had. You sigh and open up your laptop. You grab your coffee and sip. You're tired of being forgotten.

"Jake," you say, he winces at the use of his first name, "Jensen," you glance at him, "you're a dude."

"Yeah, I am" he answers uncertainly.

"Well, you might know more than I do. You know anyone in prison? Any guys?"

"What?" He exclaims. "Where did that come from?"

"Mm... I was watching a documentary last night," you lie. "About prison or whatever."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, and about you know," you sway and look at your laptop. You're terrible at lying. "The women who like write to them or whatever."

"Ew, like the Ted Bundy weirdos?" He scoffs.

"Not exactly. I mean, none of them were murderers. I think," you shrug. "But... like, if you were in prison, you'd need that, right? I mean, it's just to get you through."

"I don't know. It'd be lonely, yeah, but like... what about after?" He scratches his neck. "I got a buddy who was in for a while but he's a good dude. He was only selling... stuff."

"Really?" You perk up, "he went to prison?"

"Well, he doesn't like to talk about it," Jensen says. "Why are you talking about this?"

"Making conversation. I was just thinking about the show," you sign into your laptop. "Just thinking... I mean, how do you even end up there?"

"Bad things. I learned my lesson when I was sixteen. I broke into the high school on a dare and the cops put me in cuffs for two hours. They let me go once I cried... I mean, I was a kid so..."

You nod and try not to show any judgment. That sounds about right. A notification pops up in the corner as Jensen goes back to the fluttering over his keyboard. You click on the email.

'I've been granted call-time at noon. You can call the number below and request by my inmate number...'

You quickly minimize and hide behind your cup as you slurp. Shoot. You didn't think he'd be so fast. A call at noon? You can't say no. Not now that he got approved.

Well, this is the only time it's happening.

#thor #dark thor #dark!thor #thor x reader #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #au #marvel #mcu #avengers #pent up

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toiletclown · 2 days ago

Text

reciprocation.

spencer agnew x f!reader, enemies to lovers for anon.

mostly fluff, but there is angst (in my opinion)

summary: it started innocuous. a well-meaning question from your best friend. it all spiraled from there.

there are some things in life that are universally true and agreed upon. the sky is blue. the grass is green. and you and spencer agnew hate each other. when your closest friends grow tired of this nonsense, they hatch a plan. it's unlikely, silly, even. but it works.

word count: 13.6k (yes i'm posting this as a one-shot, not multi-chaptered, sorry lol)

────୨ৎ────

"does the whole 'hating spencer' schtick ever get tired to you?" angela asked one day, while the two of you were out to lunch.

it was a sunny day, as usual, and you started sweating through your tank top just a little harder. perhaps the sun came out from behind a stray cloud.

"i'm sorry?" was your response, followed by a forkful of pasta.

"y'know, this weird bit you guys have going on." ang stared at you, analyzing your face, looking for a reaction.

all she saw was confusion. "i'm not... sure what you mean? we don't have 'a bit'. we aren't friends. kind of hard to have an inside joke when you only spend time together on camera. and half the time i drown him out anyway," you shrugged. neither of you liked each other, and that was fine. you were used to it, and the familiarity was nice. smosh was a very busy and ever-changing job. being able to rely on that was kind of nice. you were never a fan of change, anyway.

"wait, so you and spencer actually dislike each other? like, for real?" your best friend looked genuinely taken aback. you weren't sure why, you had thought it was fairly obvious that the two of you didn't get along.

"yes, we actually dislike each other 'like, for real', angela. i thought that was clear, you've seen the way we interact." you were gathering up another forkful of pasta, and angela started laughing. "why the fuck are you laughing?"

"because it's comical? i thought it was a bit! i thought you two were friends and it was just, like, a long, drawn-out joke, honestly."

"why on earth would you think that it was a bit, ang? i'm a good comedian but i'm not that great of a liar. i wouldn't be able to keep up a conspiracy like that. i fear that’s too much work for me." you ate your forkful finally. angela was still looking at you in disbelief, a few small cackles escaping her now and then.

"yeah, that's fair. crazy bit to commit so hard to, i guess. wait, so why don't you like him?" the brunette had abandoned her pasta at this point, bowl pushed slightly out of the way so she can gesticulate with freedom. "and why doesn't he like you? are you secretly middle school rivals? rivals in some niche video game scene? did he outbid you on a guitar on ebay and now you've vowed to ruin his life?"

you rolled your eyes, lovingly. your favorite thing about angela was how far she could take a joke. picked it up and ran with it. you leaned in, your voice barely audible. "you want to know a secret?"

her eyes widened, leaning in and matching your whisper, "yes, please spill!"

you shifted your eyes from left to right, as though looking for someone who could overhear and ruin your life. you took a deep breath in, preparing to spill… the truth.

"i don't actually know why we hate each other," you whispered, shrugging before sitting back in your chair with an air of finality.

"what?!"

"shh, oh my god, shut the fuck up--"

"what do you mean you don't know?" angela was moving her arms wildly at this point, "why do you still hate him then? does he know? what the fuck?"

"babe, i need you to calm down, we are still very much in a public restaurant--"

"and? spill, bitch, or you're paying the full bill."

"fine! god. i genuinely cannot tell you why we hate each other. yes, we do really hate each other. yes, he knows i hate him, and yes, i know he hates me. that has been the only thing we have ever agreed upon in our entire time at smosh. no, we aren't secretly hate fucking. no, i don't have his number, we only talk at and about work so we use slack. no, i don't know why the hate is mutual, i just know that it is. no, i don't plan on trying to change that any time soon. happy?"

before she could respond with what was likely another barrage of questions, your server came to the table and sat the bill down in front of angela.

"they always assume that i'm paying, what the hell?"

you were glad for the distraction.

✰ .ᐟ

"hello and welcome to you posted that? you posted that is a show where we embarrass our guests with their old, cringy, insane social media posts!" the room filled with cheers as ian intro'd the show, and you were so excited to finally be on it. but you also were nervous to see what they dug from the depths of your twitter.

"joining us today..." ian faked a drumroll on the podium, "our first guest is trevor evarts!"

"please don't bring up any of my rhett and link tweets," he said with a wave.

ian drumrolled again, "second up, we have shayne topp!"

"glad to be here, steve."

"and last but not least, y/n!"

"i am terrified." you said, being sure to stare down the camera, a look of anxiety on your face. you were playing it up, but it was definitely real to a degree. you had said a lot of cringy shit in your younger years. not to mention the not-so-uncommon complaints about a certain coworker. ian wouldn’t do that to you, though. right?

"terrified?” ian scanned the contestant's faces. “is anyone else feeling terrified?"

"not really, steve. i'm proud of what i've done and said and i'll stand by it no matter what. if i don't stand up for myself, who will, you know?" shayne said, clearly doing a character. a slightly intoxicated, far too excited game show contestant. you kind of loved it.

"my name is ian, and i think you know that, shayne. why are you terrified, y/n?" ian turned to you, egging you on.

"i was a shit head as a kid, i don't know how far back you dug!"

"alright then, let's get into the first round." ian explained the rules of the round, and each of you listened intently despite knowing them well.

"trevor. you tweeted, 'my two [blank] need to [blank] before i [blank blank blank].’ and i will give you a hint, this was a tweet from about a year ago."

"why does he get a hint right away!" you called out.

"he's not very bright, y/n, i'm sure you understand." ian replied, prompting trevor to make a few noises.

"be nice to me?"

ian turned back to trevor, mischievous glint in his eye. "y/n's not very bright, trev, i'm sure you understand."

"be nice to me?" you all started laughing, and once it died down trevor made his guess.

"okay, i'll take 'my two coworkers need to fuck before i explode them both' for five points, alex!"

"i remain ian, but let's reveal that tweet!"

"holy fuck," you said under your breath, realizing he got it right on the money. "how did you manage to remember the exact wording? i don't remember what i had for breakfast yesterday. oh my god, i'm gonna lose so hard at this!" you weren’t even playing it up now, you were actually getting worried. you were going to lose, and by a lot. hopefully you can attribute your lack of skill to the now-infamous gas leak.

"because these two coworkers still haven't fucked and i still want to explode them, honestly," trevor breathed out, seemingly annoyed at the two coworkers in question.

ian giggled behind the podium, a strangely worrisome sound, and you and shayne glanced at each other in shared horror. "trevor,” ian paused, multiplying the level of suspense you were already feeling. “for an extra fifty points, do you want to tell us who the coworkers are? we'll bleep it."

"fifty points?!" shayne yelled, playfully incensed by this rule breaking.

"just take me out back like ol yeller, i beg." you set you head on the podium, which wasn't exactly a comfortable angle, but this wasn't going to be as fun as you thought if ian was going to play dirty the whole game.

the room erupted in laughter as trevor pondered his choice. "no, i won't. i don't want to start anything, fifty points is nothin' compared to my pals at smosh!"

you all booed him, lovingly, and ian giggled again. "shayne, for an extra fifty points, can you guess the coworkers trevor's tweet is about?"

"do you know who it's about?" shayne asked, confused.

"oh, i think everyone in this room does," ian's grin was devilish, relishing in the chaos he was causing. he's been watching too much game changer.

"okay, i'll guess for fifty points. is it angela and amanda?" the room erupted once more, angela's laugh heard loud and clear on every mic.

"incorrect! okay, let's see your post, shayne!"

"wait, i don't get to guess?" you cut in, feeling a little bit excluded from the joke.

"would you like to?" ian asked, earnest, though that devilish smile was still fixed to his mug.

you thought about it for a second. "actually, i'm good. i think my choices are too controversial. y'all aren't ready for my vision."

everyone laughed, and the game moved on.

"shayne. your tweet says: '[blank] is overrated. [blank] is cooler.'"

shayne's silence dragged on, and ian asked if he had a guess. after a beat, shayne stood stock straight up, ready to answer.

"steve, my answer is. 'steak is overrated. chicken is cooler.' for five points."

"let's see..."

ian revealed the next slide, and a slide whistle sound effect played. “oh, that’s too bad shayne. the correct answer was ‘penis is overrated. dick is cooler.’ so close, so close. alright, y/n, it’s your turn!”

you were feeling a little better now that shayne had gotten his wrong. maybe trevor would win, but it didn’t have to be a huge blowout, right?

“y/n, your tweet says ‘i need [blank] to [blank blank] or i will [blank] in [blank blank].’ this seems evil, y/n, if i’m being honest.” ian’s wicked smirk was still firmly planted; he was playing dirtier than you ever thought him capable of.

“what’s genuinely crazy is i’ve been so worried that i would not remember anything i’ve ever tweeted, but i actually do remember this one!” you laughed hard and loud, but then you remembered you did in fact have to tell everyone what it said. you could lie, but they’d just reveal it after anyway, and you had made a big stink about knowing it now… all you could do was fill in the damn blanks. “okay, it says ‘i need noomf–”

“you need what?” shayne asked, incredulous.

“noomf, it means ‘not one of my followers’ instead of oomf, which is ‘one of my followers’. anyway, ‘i need noomf to fuck off or i will piss in his kickstart’.” you covered your face with your hands, genuinely embarrassed. this would all be a good laugh after shooting wrapped, but in the moment you just wanted to scream a bit.

ian decided to go full little shit mode and not even make a comment, just click to the next slide showing that you were correct. every word. “five points for y/n!”

“oh, fuck, i forgot i was getting points for that. i’ll stop moping now!” you laughed, pushing yourself back into your camera persona, bright and light and happy. you could feel spencer’s daggers in the back of your skull all the same.

✰ .ᐟ

everyone broke for lunch after the finishing the shoot, and angela and courtney were the first to harass you.

“bro, you tweeted that you would piss in his kickstart?” courtney started.

“you guys don’t follow each other on socials?” angela then asked.

court took another turn next, “do you guys not talk outside of work at all?”

“no! they only talk about work so they always talk through slack!” angela was kind enough to explain your point from lunch the other day.

you stood there, tapping your foot. a bit comical, but a flair for the dramatic never hurt anybody, especially not in this industry. “are we done here? can i go get my food now?” you asked, no venom. “here, let’s just eat together and you can ask all your silly little questions. can’t promise i’ll have an answer for everything, but i’ll do what i can.”

you all lined up at the catering tables and grabbed some food, then found your way to an empty table to start this awful discussion.

you decided some rules needed to be put in place, because as much as you loved angela and courtney, you really didn’t want this to blow up into some ‘big thing’. coworker feuds happen in every office setting, it’s inevitable. it doesn’t need to be a whole situation, in your opinion.

“okay, before we start i’m going to lay some ground rules. you can ask whatever questions you want, but i’m allowed to not answer certain ones. whatever is said at this table, remains at this table, forever. and finally, i beg y’all to speak at a normal volume and not freak out for no reason. i do not need the whole company knowing my business. i’m sure you understand.”

they both nodded, and you decided to get courtney up to speed in case they had a question angela had asked you at lunch the other day, which was likely. now that you thought about it, angela was the only person you had really talked about it with. no one else you worked with seemed to mind, or care, so you didn’t think you’d ever need to answer any questions about it.

“court, before we start, angela actually ambushed me about this the other day so i do already have a few frequently asked questions answered. no, it isn’t a bit. we don’t have any friendship at all. we do not speak outside of work. i’ve never seen him outside of work. we do not have each other’s numbers. we do not follow each other on social media. we aren’t secretly dating. yes, we do hate each other, and, yes, it’s mutual. but… no, i don’t have a reason why.” you were fairly out of breath by the end of your rant, and courtney gave you a moment to catch back up.

“you don’t have a reason why? how can you both hate each other for no reason?” their voice was soft, caring. it burned.

a sigh escaped you. “as far as i know, neither me nor spencer have a ‘reason’ for hating each other. but it’s just a truth at this point. we hate each other, so we don’t interact outside of work. we play nice for the camera, but only because it wouldn’t really be entertaining if we didn’t. some truths are just truths. the sky is blue, the grass is green, and me and spencer hate each other.” you took a few bites of the salad you grabbed from the line, surprised at how good the dressing was. “holy shit, this dressing is fantastic,” you mumbled, hoping, in vain, to prompt a conversation change.

“like i said, i thought the bickering you guys did on camera was an inside joke. i didn’t know there was real anger behind it,” angela said, seeming a bit sad at this revelation.

you realized once again that you hadn’t actually had an honest conversation about this with anyone. you had never taken the time to flesh out this charade you were playing. “i’m not even sure the anger is real.” you said solemnly, quiet as a mouse. “i think it started as a bit. i’m not sure when it turned real, but it is. i guess.”

angela put her arm around you, sensing your mood drop. “hey, hey. it’s alright. you going to be okay, babe?”

courtney put their hand on yours, which you held. you felt like you were naked on a stage – feeling too vulnerable all too suddenly. after a second longer, you pulled yourself away from both of them. “i’m okay, it’s okay. can we change the topic, though? i… guess i’m not ready to talk about it, or something.”

you zoned out for the rest of the conversation.

✰ .ᐟ

when the day had finally ended, you felt the most immense relief you’ve felt in all your damn life.

finally. time to go home and dick around on your guitar. today provided a lot of feelings for a hopeful writing session.

everyone at smosh knew you played guitar, but no one knew you wrote original music too. it was the easiest way to process what you were feeling. and if it sounded bad, then it sounded bad. at least you felt better afterwards. you never recorded anything you wrote, because it was a form of therapy for you. you let it all out, you cry, you scream, whatever. then you worked on healing. this was your process, and you loved it.

you were planning out some verses mentally when shayne caught up to you on the way to your car. “hey, y/n! i have a strange question.”

you turned, surprised by his appearance. “sure, shayne. what’s up?”

“are you seeing anyone right now?”

“why, are you and courtney looking for a third?” you raised an eyebrow, which had shayne giggling. you continued, “no, i’m single. why?”

“no reason!” shayne yelled, and promptly sprinted away.

“okay, see you tomorrow, i guess!” you shouted after him, knowing he probably couldn’t hear you. for such a small man he had a seemingly large stride. he was already halfway across the parking lot when you finished your sentence. “what the hell is this job, anyway?” you muttered, trying to find the melody you had thought of earlier in the day as you drove home in blissful silence.

✰ .ᐟ

alex: yoooo

spencer: what’s up?

alex: kiana’s friend is so your type it’s criminal

spencer: ok?

alex: i’m serious dude she’s like your dream girl!!

spencer: ok?

alex: hi spencer this is your best friend kiana, you have a date with my friend tomorrow at 7pm at our fav chili’s, ok love you!

spencer: i’d rather not

alex: she said shut up and be there or she’s dumping your kickstart stash

spencer: you are both evil.

alex: <3

✰ .ᐟ

you slept like shit last night. again. the past few nights were just not kind to you, and you could tell it was obvious.

“whoa, y/n… do you need to borrow some concealer?” courtney asked upon seeing you in the kitchen this morning. “i’m sure someone has a shade match in the building.”

“gee, thanks, court.” you laughed weakly to yourself, knowing she had nothing but good intentions. “i’ve been having trouble sleeping lately, not sure what’s going on.” you turned around and sighed into your coffee mug, exhausted. “maybe my body is trying to tell me something.”

courtney smiled, then came to lean against the counter next to you.

“you’re single, right?” they questioned, eyes bright.

you sighed again. “yes, just like i told your husband yesterday, i am single.”

“do you have plans tonight?”

“other than sitting on my couch with my guitar, probably not. perhaps i’ll watch a movie. who’s to say? the world is my oyster.”

they rolled their eyes at you, but leaned in closer to whisper. “our favorite chili’s, tonight, 7pm. you’re going on a blind date with someone i know very personally, who is perfect for you.”

she was out of the kitchen before you could pick your jaw up off the floor to protest.

✰ .ᐟ

you stood in your bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. what the hell was going on. courtney had sent you a text fifteen minutes ago, a reminder of why you were standing in your bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. you had a blind date at chili’s in 45 minutes. what the hell was going on.

if you were in an alternate universe, perhaps all the dots you were connecting in your brain would turn out to be correct. you felt like that bit in buzzfeed unsolved.

i’ve connected the dots.

you haven’t connected shit!

in an alternate universe, your friends beating the truth out of you about your feud with spencer, then turning around and orchestrating a blind date for you would mean something. and it would mean they were setting you up with spencer. just for a moment, just a sliver of a second, you imagined that universe.

you imagine it all working out.

but then you pull yourself out of it, and start actually getting ready for your date.

he was probably just another improv actor with a nose ring. and he was probably nice. cute, even. but you couldn’t stop thinking about brown curly hair, piercing eyes, a hydroflask full of kickstart.

a green smosh hat. a carhartt jacket. stubble. glasses. you loved his glasses, and secretly cursed him when he would wear his contacts. spencer.

your phone vibrated against the counter, painfully reuniting you with reality. “shit.”

you fumbled to answer the call, still feeling lost in the syrupy haze of that alternate universe of yours. “hey, court.”

“are you on your way? find my friends says you’re still at your place!” they rushed out, and you pulled your phone away from your face to see you had less than 15 minutes to be ready and out the door.

“shit! sorry, i didn’t realize how late it got. i’m finishing up now, i’ll be on my way before you know it.” the silence on the other end was deafening. “i promise! but i have to get off the phone to get ready, okay?”

“fine. please send me a photo of your outfit before you leave. i love you! bye!” courtney ended the call, and you sighed.

“let’s get this over with.” you mumbled to your empty bathroom.

✰ .ᐟ

spencer was pissed. if his friends didn’t suddenly decide to meddle in his love life, he wouldn’t be on a random side street, a mere three miles from chili’s, replacing his flat fire. at 7:08 pm. he didn’t even want to go on this date, but he also didn’t want to be a dick and show up late. alex and kiana didn’t share any info about this mystery girl so he couldn’t text her to let her know. he decided to call alex as he was getting ready to hoist the spare tire out of his trunk.

“aren’t you on a date right now?!” alex shouted down the phone, no greeting. spencer rolled his eyes.

“chill, i got a flat tire. i’m down the road, like eight minutes max if traffic is kind to me. can you please let my date know i’m not standing her up, i just have to throw the donut on my car really quick.” he was fiddling with the tire iron while he spoke, suddenly nervous and upset at the prospect of hurting this mystery girl’s feelings. he shoved the emotion down and nestled the phone between his ear and shoulder, a smidge tighter than before. “please just let her know.”

“okay, okay.” alex took a breath in, and spencer could tell they’re relieved that the date isn’t a disaster, but only getting there kind of is. “i’ll let her know.”

they said goodbye, and spencer got back to work on the tire.

elsewhere, alex texted courtney.

alex: hey spencer got a flat tire. should be there in like 10-15

courtney: ok i’ll let y/n know!

alex: he called me and i nearly shat my pants

courtney: understandable lol if she called me 10 mins in i’d also be panicking

alex then texted kiana.

alex: spencer is late bc he got a flat tire i’m gonna bomb him

kiana: now, now!! it will work out in the end, grasshopper

alex: dont be weird

kiana: says u

✰ .ᐟ

you looked at your phone again. 7:20. you were on your second glass of water, munching on your chips and salsa and sighing. people were starting to stare at you. look at that poor girl, sipping her water, waiting for someone who isn’t showing up. surely she knows, they thought, surely she knows he’s isn’t coming.

unfortunately, you were still holding out hope. for some reason. you didn’t even want this, your friends just dropped it on you. but now that you were here, you felt hopeful.

most people who know you wouldn’t exactly call you a romantic, but somewhere buried deep inside you, you longed for companionship. everyone did, to some degree – it was human nature. so you decided that at 7:30, you’d leave.

even if tearing yourself from the booth would burn like wildfire.

you looked at your phone once more. 7:22. you’d been brooding in silence, alone at this table, and alone in this world. a vibration startled you out of it.

courtney: hey he’s almost there!!! he got a flat tire he should be there in about five mins, ok?? i’m so sorry and so is he!!

your heart rate picked up, that hope reigniting and spreading a warm fire throughout your body. you weren’t being stood up. good.

y/n: ok! thank you for updating me <3

courtney: of course bb i love you sm! have fun! text me all the deets!

as you smiled and steadied your fingers to type a reply, an all too familiar voice rang out. “are you being stood up at chili’s?” it asks.

you involuntarily rolled your eyes, all too easily sliding into this role you play. no one could say you weren’t a good actor. because here you were, slipping under that mask that fit so comfortably. playing a character. because an hour ago, you were hoping it would be him. you wanted it to be him. but now, he was here. which meant you had a role to play, and you would play it well. you’d give him an oscar award-winning performance.

“please explain how my activities outside of the office are any of your business, spencer.” you deadpanned. it didn’t hit like you wanted it to. “he’s late.”

“scoot. i’m hungry.” he says, and you stare at him.

“i’m sorry?” you admonished.

“scootch over. have you ordered yet?” he asks, casual as all get out. like this was normal, or reasonable.

you both know your roles. you know your lines. you’ve been off-book for years. what was he doing? he was going so far off script, ad-libbing, completely disregarding the words written for you, the ones you’d both studied and memorized. you were an improv comedian, and yes and-ing was never something you struggled with. but this wasn’t supposed to be improv. this was scripted. heavily. this was not reality tv, this was not whose line, this was a 40-minute sitcom with strict character archetypes, and you both knew your roles.

while you waited in vain for the non-existent director to yell ‘cut!’, you found yourself moving over and letting him slide into the booth. it didn’t occur to you to just tell him to sit on the opposite side, which was empty.

despite the warmth of the evening and the restaurant, you felt a shiver up and down your spine.

your server, carissa, came back to the table, and she looked relieved that your ‘date’ had finally arrived. she was probably about 20 years old, and her whole vibe said, “if he doesn’t show up, i’ll kill him for you.”

“took you long enough, dude,” was her greeting of choice. spencer looked surprised, which caused a laugh to escape you. “what would you like to drink?”

spencer seemed a bit lost for words, but managed to say “just a water, please,” after a not-entirely inaudible swallow.

carissa turned her attention back to you, “did you want to order now? or does mister late as fuck need some more time?” she gestured at spencer with her pen, her voice full of humor. it was entirely opposite of the darker voice she used on spencer.

you loved this girl. “easy on him, carissa. i’m sure he has a good reason.”

spencer looked at you, and you realized you probably should have specified that he actually wasn’t the person you were waiting on. your mind drifts back to that slice of an alternate universe, the one you wanted to slot yourself into for longer than just a fleeting moment. your heart quickened its pace once more, and you silently willed it to calm down.

he doesn’t like you, you thought, solemnly. he likes chili’s. he’s probably here to meet kiana or something. the thought of kiana joining you at dinner was a happy one, usually. you loved her. she was bright and bubbly and she was incredibly smart. you loved listening to her talk. but right now, it almost felt like that little alternate universe and the universe you’re currently stuck in were overlapping for a moment. you wanted to keep this feeling. hold it close.

you zoned back in when spencer started talking, both of you unsure how long you had been looking at each other for. it might have been the first time you both really looked at each other. the glancing and the glaring around the office was short lived. never more than a few seconds. this look felt like it stretched on for years, unending. this wasn’t just the first time you both looked at each other, it might also be the first time you really saw each other.

and, if you were just a bit more unhinged, you’d have said that it felt like home.

“i had a flat tire. i was right down the road but i had to put the spare on, so i’m much later than i wanted to be. i try to be early to dates, but it seems like the world was betting against me tonight.” spencer looked at his lap, sheepish, all of the sudden. it was cute. a soft expression you had no clue he was even capable of. it suited him, emotion. or, emotions other than anger.

“see? that’s a perfectly reasonable excuse,” you replied, which prompted a gasp from spencer.

you find the roles shifting, no longer are you and spencer coworkers trapped in an office, glaring at each other and attempting niceties on camera. now, you were stepping into the roles of love interests in a rom-com with 80s flair. the quiet, misunderstood girl, and the edgy yet likeable boy. fake dating for some reason or another, only to fall in love for real in the end. the it was always you trope.

you could play this character just as easily as you could play the hateful coworker. maybe this role would win you a sag award. you set it next to your academy award on your imaginary awards shelf.

“it’s not an excuse! it’s a reason. an explanation, if you will.” spencer said, faux-horror in his voice.

“and i will.” you shot back, playing into it. you could fit so comfortably here.

carissa faked a yawn, and you ask her for a triple dipper – mozzarella sticks, big mouth bites, and chicken tenders. spencer had no comment on this, which made you quite happy, oddly enough.

once carissa had walked away, spencer turned his body to face you a little more, and you felt closed in in the best way possible. he was suffocating you with his presence, but it felt good. safe, even.

you settled into the booth, a little taken aback by his sudden attention. honestly, you paid more attention to him around the office than you would ever admit to anyone. you both had desks in the same pod so you were in proximity at all times, and you looked. a lot. and maybe you pined. maybe… just maybe, you had been pining this whole time.

“what’s goin’ on up there?” spencer asked, nodding toward you.

“i don’t know,” you replied. it was the truth. you weren’t sure what was going on in your brain, just that you had no urge to stop it. more like an urge to give in.

carissa reappeared with a glass of ice water for spencer. he whispered a soft “thank you” in her direction, but his eyes never left yours. she walked away without a response.

“y’know, i was actually supposed to meet someone here tonight. i should probably tell alex what’s going on.”

your ears perked up at the mention of alex. “why would you tell alex?”

“they’re my best friend?” spencer said, eyes now on his phone. “also, it was a blind date. i don’t have her number,” he explained, frowning. “or her name.” his thumbs were flying across the keyboard, and you watched in silence. you were suddenly enraptured by his hands.

then, it clicked. “oh my fucking god!” you groaned, which caused spencer to turn his focus back on you.

“what? what’s wrong?” there was genuine concern in his voice, something you had never heard from him. it stoked the fire inside you, pulling it back up to a dangerous roar. this chili’s would erupt in flames if this continued on for much longer.

in lieu of a response, you simply grabbed your phone off the table, calling courtney and putting the call on speaker.

“hey! how’s it going?” courtney asked, speech stilted with nerves.

“what’s my blind date’s name, courtney?”

you heard spencer mutter something under his breath.

“you’ll know him when you see him! like i said, he had a flat tire. wait, it’s been, like, forty minutes, why isn’t he there yet?” their sentence got quieter as they moved through it, processing in real time.

spencer leaned in, clearly only getting closer to the mic so courtney could hear him, but you’d like to think he wanted to be closer to you, too.

“i’m here, courtney.” was all he said.

“neither of you sound happy…” they moped.

you rolled your eyes affectionately. they meant well, and you said as much. “i know you meant well, honey, but me and spencer have absolutely no chemistry.” there it was again. you switched back to your original role, the one you had spent far too much time in, the one that was closer to home. “this wasn’t a good idea and i think you know that.”

you dared to peek at spencer, who was looking right at you, forlorn. “yeah, court. i appreciate the team effort, but unfortunately me and y/n are just not compatible.” his voice was tight. angry. and just like that, spencer was also back in his original role. perhaps it felt like home to him too, and he also didn’t care for change. some things are just true. the sky is blue, the grass is green, and you and spencer agnew hate each other.

for once, you found yourself wishing it wasn't true.

✰ .ᐟ

once you and courtney hung up, you asked carissa for the triple dipper to be to-go, and you and spencer went your separate ways. the whole drive home, the car was silent and so was your brain. normally you’d be crafting melodies and writing bridges, ever the artist. but tonight your brain was turned off. you had to keep it that way, purposefully silencing the thoughts that threatened to burst through. you couldn’t think about the looks spencer gave you. you couldn’t think about the smell of his cologne when he leaned close to talk to courtney. you couldn’t think about the way he apologized.

i’m sorry about this, y/n. i know that we don’t like each other but i wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

this?

the whole, blind-date-with-my-enemy thing.

spencer, why are we enemies?

i don’t know, y/n. but i think we both know it needs to stay that way.

it seemed like he had been mentally policing his word choice. careful, stoic. there was emotion in his voice, but not in his face. his jaw was tight. spencer felt bad. despite it all, he didn’t want to hurt you. this was a rejection, plain and simple, but he was being merciful. though, it also felt forced. like this isn’t what he really wants, but it’s how things have to be. a law of the universe, at this point. an intrinsic truth. we can’t be anything other than coworkers and enemies. anything else would be disastrous.

you felt silly, catastrophizing like this.

as you turned your key in the lock of your front door, your guitar called to you from the corner of the living room.

let it out, it seemed to say, feel your feelings, so you can move on.

and so you did. you changed into some sweatpants and an old crewneck, sat yourself on the floor of your apartment, and got to writing.

perhaps you would one day add a grammy to your little imaginary awards shelf. an academy award for your coworker enemy character, the breakout role. the sag award for your little lovesick puppy character you got to play tonight, at chili’s. and a grammy. for you. no character, no facade, just you.

but you’d have to record yourself to achieve that. and now wasn't the time for bravery, now was the time for processing and moving on.

✰ .ᐟ

the next morning, you woke up to a small barrage of messages. mostly courtney apologizing. an apology from shayne as well. a text from ang asking if you were okay. alex, kiana, and amanda also messaged you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to keep scrolling. until your eyes caught on something new. an unsaved number, who had texted you a mere minute before you woke up.

unsaved: hey. sorry again about last night.

your heart leapt into your throat, and that fire under your skin was back. you put your phone face down on your nightstand and promptly took a shower.

upon your arrival at work, you were reminded of how fucking gossipy this damn office was. people were throwing you apologetic looks all day, clearly informed on the situation. thirty minutes before your first shoot, ian pulled you to the side.

“hey, y/n. um, is there anything you wanted to talk about? or let me know about?” ian asked, clearly uncomfortable.

you looked at him in confusion, head tilted to the side. “i… don’t think so?” you said it like a question, because it kind of was one. surely one blind date arranged by other coworkers that didn’t even result in a relationship wasn’t cause for concern, right?

“okay, i’ll just ask then. are you and spencer in a relationship? it’s okay, if so, but there’s a lot of paper–”

you cut him off, astounded he even thought to ask such an insane question. “whoa, whoa, whoa. me and spencer are not dating. why on earth gave you that idea?”

ian blushed, and it was quite cute. he clearly felt a little out of his depth, which is silly considering the amount of coworker relationships at smosh. he’s done this at least three times, you think he’d be better at it.

“well i've heard whisperings around the office that you two went on a date last night,” he said.

“and you thought that a date between us would end well?” you asked, a bit astounded. “i'm not even sure why court and them even set it up, it's fairly well known that we don't like each other in the slightest.” internally, you were thinking about the low tone spencer had when he was next to you. boxing you in, commanding your attention. maybe you had been pining this whole time. but that was not anyone else’s business, so you would continue to keep those feelings behind a quadruple-padlocked door, far in the back corner of your brain.

“y/n, can i talk to you as a friend and not as a boss or coworker?” ian dropped his voice, a soft smile on his face.

“of course, ian.”

“i think you know damn well that you and spencer are made for each other.”

“i–”

he cuts you off. “you might have everyone else fooled, and you might even have yourself fooled. but to a degree, i think there’s a part of you that wants that. and it’s okay to want that. to want spencer. it’s okay to want. but if you ask me–”

“i didn’t–”

“but if you ask me,” he bulldozes, committing to saying his piece. “i think it’s also okay to have. it’s right in front of you for the taking, and as much as you can deny it, i think you also know that.”

you were quietly stunned by this emotional, introspective, hopeless romantic version of ian. “i know i can want, ian. i know more than well enough what wanting feels like.” a sigh escapes you, suddenly exhausted. “but i can’t have. not this time, not this one. i can have something else, later down the road. but i can’t have this. i’m not allowed to have this.”

“why not?”

you stayed silent. you hadn’t thought about the why not of it all. it was another one of those things. spencer was an enemy. spencer was off limits. he was forbidden. prohibited. a thing you could want, but never, ever have.

“i just can’t, ian.” you sighed, resigned. you were getting tired of fighting this battle, but it wasn’t like you had a choice.

“okay, y/n.” his voice is soft, and he puts a hand on your shoulder. “well, when you can, i’m sure he’ll be waiting for you.”

“i’d never ask that of him.”

“you don’t have to.” ian wrapped you in a hug, and then walked back to whichever office he came from, leaving you in a pile of emotions at the end of the hall.

“what the fuck is happening,” you whispered to yourself. the world was turning upside down, and you were starting to get quite motion sick.

you sat down on a nearby sofa, checking the time. you had to get your mic pack set up in about five minutes, so you tried to use that time to regulate your breathing. in, two, three, four. out, two, three, four. you knew you were shooting a pit video, but you couldn’t remember what it was or who was going to be in it with you. was it a reddit stories today? no, that was thursday…

“y/n?” erin dougal called. your head snapped up, your thoughts finally simmering to a normal volume. a distraction was welcome, and erin was always up to something.

“yeah, what’s up?” you replied, hoping for some sort of insane tiktok pitch that tommy dreamt up, or some gossip about the caterer she had a thing for.

“ready for the shoot?” right, your job. guess those five minutes passed faster than you thought. at least you had calmed down substantially.

“oh. yeah, sorry. what are we shooting again?” you hoped she wouldn't rag on you too much for forgetting your shoot schedule. surely she was aware of your current goings-on.

she gaped at you in response. “seriously? we've only been gearing up for this shoot for, like, two months.”

fuck. today was courtney’s hide and seek shoot. fuck. you had been so wrapped up in the bullshit of this week you had forgotten to even plan a place to hide.

“oh! right, sorry. not sure how i forgot that.” you stood up, trying to collect yourself, embarrassed.

you followed erin into the small parking lot right outside the office, where everyone was waiting to be let inside. she debriefed you on the general rules, which have been the same since the first hide and seek video. you nodded along, and tried to figure out where the hell you were going to hide.

before you knew it, everyone was rushing inside. you decided to go up into the weird little attic space duran usually hides in, knowing he wasn't set to be in the video. it was a guaranteed easy find, and you didn't really want to be alone with your thoughts for very long. you had a history of being found extremely early on, and you weren’t planning to break that streak. especially not when you had so many other things to deal with right now.

but the universe was never on your side. you climbed up the slightly unstable ladder, using your phone’s flashlight to look for a spot, when you saw him. spencer was already up here, because of course he was.

“no.” was all he said.

“c’mon, this week has been shitty enough. i don't have any other ideas.” you whispered, knowing there wasn't much time left. “i can't find another spot, there's only, like, 20 seconds left.”

“no, y/n.” he was firm in his answer, but you were just as stubborn.

you gathered a bit of courage, and made your way over to him, ducking in the tight space. you sat down right next to him, a fraction of a fraction of a centimeter between you. “yes.”

he rolled his eyes and rested his head on the painted cinder block wall behind him, lids fluttered closed, too tired to fight. you understood that feeling all too well. “fine.”

✰ .ᐟ

turns out, courtney miller is exceptionally terrible at hide and seek. you’d both been waiting in silence to be found for over thirty minutes. if you had known how long you’d have to sit in such close proximity to spencer, you’d have made several different choices. starting with calling out of work today.

“jesus, court.” you whispered. then, turning to spencer, you spoke just a tad louder. “we’re supposed be recording confessionals, you know.”

“i'm aware,” spencer said. no malice in his voice, though you could tell he tried. his mask was slipping.

you pulled out your phone and clipped your little selfie light onto it. “hey guys, y/n and spencer here. it’s been over thirty minutes at this point, and i don't think courtney’s even entered the kitchen, let alone this fuckass room.”

“fuckass is crazy,” spencer says, in that giggly, drawn out way he always does. you always liked when he did that. it made your stomach do somersaults, for a reason you could never pinpoint.

“are we allowed to hide together? i know lisa and jeremy technically did in shayne’s hide and seek video.” you ask, purely for the content of it all. you couldn’t care less about any of the rules right now. you were next to spencer, and it felt right. fuck the rules.

“i'm not sur–” a noise erupted from the kitchen, and spencer paused. “they’re hereeee,” he singsonged. he was disgustingly cute.

“gotta go!” you said, quickly ending the recording and putting your phone away.

spencer looked at you, and you looked at him. faces mere inches apart. you both heard the door to the kitchen closing, signifying courtney’s exit. you were both safe, for now. no need to stay quiet. but neither of you spoke.

the silence carried on, seconds to minutes. you started to really look at spencer, dissecting his beauty.

the shine in his eyes, even in this dim, unflattering light. the ghost of a smile on his face. he's the first to turn away.

“y/n,” spencer near begged. “please.”

“what?” you asked, genuine.

he looked back at you. then he leaned in, so close you could feel his breath when he spoke again. “you're killing me, y/n. you know what you're doing.”

you angled your face, just so, closer than you've been to anyone in a long time. closer than you've ever been to spencer agnew. “oh? what am i doing, spencer?” you batted your eyelashes at him.

he inched closer, prompting your noses to touch. it sent a shooting pulse of sparks through your blood. “tell me to stop, y/n.” he whispered, borderline tremulous.

“why?” you didn’t retreat, and you certainly didn’t oblige him.

“please, tell me to stop.” he was still staring into you, through your eyes and deep into that corner of your mind. the quadruple-padlocked door. he held every key, and you could see it all play out: him unlocking every single one with ease. blatant disregard for the consequences of his reckless actions.

you let him. no, you encouraged him. “why can't you stop yourself, spencer?”

you knew full well courtney could burst in at any moment. you're acutely aware that you're both at work right now, in the middle of a shoot. you couldn’t seem to find the strength to give a fuck.

“because you're in charge, y/n. you always have been. i’ve been following your lead since day one. so tell me to stop.”

you moved your eyes to his lips, finally tearing away from that gaze. “go,” you whispered.

that was all he needed to crash his lips into yours.

it’s not a great kiss. it never is when you're both this pent up. it's either too aggressive or too soft, never exactly what you're expecting, or wanting. but it enveloped you in that now familiar fire, and you didn’t even care. this could be the worst kiss of your life and you would still think of it fondly years down the line. because it's spencer. and you wanted spencer. and he, seemingly, wanted you too. so you want. and you have. just for a moment.

your brain finally rebooted and you immediately started kissing back, forceful. spencer’s hands found your body, and they wandered. he set them on your hips, then moved one to your neck. then one in your hair and the other on your face. you only pulled back from lack of oxygen. out of pure necessity.

as you both sat there, foreheads pressed against each other, chests heaving, you started to think about what you've done. he didn't just unlock that door, he blew it off the hinges. you weren’t sure you could ever deny yourself the feeling of kissing spencer agnew. not anymore, not now. you've become addicted on the very first hit, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

a loud bang on the opposite side of the wall had both of you separating. only an inch or so between the two of you, knowing you're about to be caught. you willed your heart rate down. trying to breathe slow, deep breaths. “time to be found i guess,” you whispered.

spencer’s head finds its place on the back wall again. he seemed defeated. tired. but happy. “yeah.”

✰ .ᐟ

two months passed and neither you nor spencer spoke about what happened during courtney’s hide and seek shoot. there's still animosity all around, and you expect that your oscar will be stripped away due to your performance. it’s exhausting, keeping this fucking thing going. you had the one thing you always denied yourself, for just a moment, and that’s all you’ll ever have. you’re well aware of this, and were doing what you could to fully come to terms with it.

but spencer. he seemed so unbothered. like it was nothing to him, like you were nothing to him, like this was all just an elaborate prank. cut the fucking cameras.

tell me to stop, y/n. please.

christ. your alarm had been turned off five minutes ago, but you remained in bed, under the covers. showing up at work was never a thing you dreaded. you fucking loved your job. and all your coworkers, who were now your friends and your family. you even loved the fans, deranged as they are.

but these days, it was weighing on you. getting up, going in and pretending you don’t know the taste and rhythm of spencer agnew’s sinful fucking mouth. it was hell. you wanted more, and he wanted nothing to do with you. and maybe you should have expected that. maybe this was all on you, for getting your hopes up for even a moment.

you’re in charge, y/n. you always have been.

you pulled yourself out of bed and into the shower. you turned the water as hot as it could go, grateful to experience a different kind of pain for even a few minutes.

i’ve been following your lead since day one. so tell me to stop.

once your skin had been sufficiently burned, and your actual shower duties were complete, you decided to dress a little nicer today. even though you knew the only plan you had was answering emails, editing scripts, and some social media stuff.

the shower really helped. the day seemed different, brighter. you felt a little less trepidation about work. you weren’t sure what magic was doled out by your rinky dink shower head, but you were thankful for it all the same.

✰ .ᐟ

pretty much every cast member greeted you at the door. suddenly, that trepidation was back. “what’s going on?”

“did you not check your phone?” shayne asked, a laugh tumbling out of him.

you thought about it. you hadn’t, actually. you turned your alarm off, showered in silence for the first time in a long time, then drove to work in silence as well. “i guess not. why? is everything okay?”

angela let out a gleeful scream. “you and spencer have the fandom in a tizzy!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands with joy.

your brain went all fuzzy. “me and… spencer?” your mind drifted back to the kiss, and you felt the heat rising on your face. that was embarrassing. everyone was here, and they were all looking at you, and you knew that your blush was violently visible.

“from the hide and seek video!” chanse added, as though there were any other point of reference.

you started to get a bit light-headed, and you sat down. “i’m confused.”

“why?” courtney asks, coming to sit next to you. it seemed everyone could sense your discomfort, so they dissipated, leaving courtney to work their magic.

“why would anyone care about me and spencer?” you asked. in your defense, you hadn’t watched the video. you couldn’t. you didn’t even watch back the single confessional you recorded, just sent it over to andre. you didn’t delete it though. it sat in your camera roll, heavy on your mind, and taunting you every time you opened your photos app.

they laughed, a soft sound, reassuring. “babe, i need you to watch the video.”

you groaned in response, feeling like a petulant child. like you were going to stomp your feet and cry if you didn’t get your way. “i don’t want to, courtney. i don’t need to see how fucking red was my face was. i don’t need to see how pathetic i look.”

you hadn’t told a single soul what happened in that little attic crawl space. you didn’t want to – it was a blissful secret. it was easier to hold it in, the truth that you kissed him and it felt like flying and dying and living and breathing and everything all at the same exact time. because if you ever admitted that out loud, you think you’d pass away from the sheer amount of love in your voice when you say it. he was turning you into a hopeless romantic, and you’d barely said seven words to the man since he completely ruined your life.

because that’s what he had done, wasn’t it? you were ruined for anyone else. how could you move on, how could you kiss someone else when spencer agnew made alpha centauri appear behind your eyes. a star system, exploding to life. and you knew, somewhere inside, that that was the only time in your life you’d ever be able to feel something like that. you weren’t even sure you’d want to feel it again. it’s been nothing short of agonizing.

“y/n, can i ask you something?” they questioned, ever patient.

“yes.”

“why do you keep denying yourself good things?” her hand was on your thigh, a soft comfort to offset the sting of her question. “please, i'll show you the clip right here, and i’ll be next to you the whole time. if you want me to turn it off, i will. but will you try for me? please?”

you had never struggled with watching the videos you were in. granted, you usually could just focus on someone else in the shot. this was just you, and spencer. courtney would be there in the background, maybe brennan. but mostly it was you and spencer. and if you didn’t look at yourself, you’d look at him. you weren’t sure which was worse, but you agreed.

“rip the fucking band-aid off already, i beg of you.”

she let out a small squeal of excitement, opening her phone. you were only mildly surprised to see the clip was already pulled up.

courtney pressed play on the video, and they handed you the phone. you watched, captivated. you decided to look at yourself. your blush was evident, and once you noticed that, you couldn’t bear to look any longer, so you looked at spencer. he was staring at you, while you stared ahead, giggling at whatever courtney said. his eyes were fixed on your profile, a smile bursting at the seams of his mouth, threatening a chelsea grin. he was smiling. he begged you to stop him, to stop this. spencer begged you not to feed the fire, but you had thrown gasoline right into it.

the thought… excited you.

“oh, hey,” courtney chirped happily, causing you to tear your eyes away from the screen of her phone. she paused the video and slipped her phone back into her pocket. “i’ll leave you to it,” they stood from their chair, pushing it in and giving you a look of hopefulness. you smiled back, halfheartedly.

“hi, spencer.” you murmured, finally meeting his eyes.

“hi, y/n.” he parroted, walking slowly toward you. he seemed hesitant, but… hopeful? maybe you felt the same way. “can i talk to you for a moment?” he gestured to the recently vacated chair on your left, and you nodded. you couldn’t trust yourself to talk at the moment.

he sat down next to you, entirely too casual. he’s slouched in the chair, hands in the pockets of his jacket. “seems like we did a number on a few people, huh?” he started. still too casual. you braced yourself for impact: we still can’t do this, though. we’re not friends. let alone lovers.

what he actually said, though, hit you harder than 400 asteroids. “you certainly did a fucking number on me.”

“uh, what?” is all you could muster, confused, adrenaline pumping through your veins.

he sat back up, then leaned into your space. again. he likes to do that. normally, you’d feel too caged, too claustrophobic. but for some reason, it felt like a blessing. a near-familiar comfort in this whirlwind you were caught up in. “y/n, do you remember our first date?”

your defense mechanism, sarcasm, clicked on in your brain. “if you call that a date, i’m embarrassed for you, spencer.”

“so you do remember it.”

“yes, spencer. i remember when you accosted me at chili’s.”

he laughed, and you know that it’s such a beautiful sound, but it still hurt. “and do you remember what i told you at the end of the night?”

“you said you didn’t know why we were enemies, but that we both knew it needed to stay that way.”

“exactly. y/n, do you know why i refuse to sit next to you in videos? or why i very frequently cut you off when you’re talking? or why we’ve never been the guests on reddit stories together?”

“no,” you breathe out, honest. “no, i don’t know why.”

“it’s because of what happened in that godforsaken hide and seek video. because i knew, given the proximity, i’d do that. i’d stare at you, zoned out of whatever conversation was happening around me. smiling like a fucking idiot.”

you didn’t speak, feeling overwhelmed at his sudden confession.

“i have a cool guy persona that i try quite hard to keep up, and i didn’t want millions of people seeing me, fucking, splayed out like that. all my feelings on display in 4k. since the day you walked in that fucking door, i’ve been forcing myself to hate you, forcing myself to be your ‘enemy’, playing along with this stupid fucking charade we both seemingly crafted out of nowhere. being that close to you, it makes that whole game a lot harder to play.”

“spencer,” you said, attempting to alleviate some pressure. “you don’t have to–”

“i’m serious, y/n. i’m not mad, i’m not even upset. frankly, i’m relieved. it’s out there, people have seen it, and i’m happy about it. i’m tired of this stupid cat and mouse game, y/n. this shit makes me feel like sisyphus. i’m tired of pushing the stupid fake hatred boulder up the mountain. and i think you are, too. i’ve seen it. i’ve felt it.” he whispered the last part, like it was meant just for him. he was thinking about the kiss. reliving it, the tension, the heat, the closeness. his lips on yours, his hands in your hair. he was thinking about it, and he wasn’t thinking it was embarrassing or gross. he didn’t regret it. he didn’t regret you.

you leaned into him, bringing your nose right up to his, face closer than need be for a conversation between two people who claim to hate each other. “tell me to stop, spencer,” you tried.

he looked at you, eyes wide and shining again. his gaze flickered down to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “fuck it,” he stated, and then his lips were on you.

you were once again kissing spencer agnew, and you were once again doing it at the fucking office. but you didn’t care about that, couldn’t care about that, because he was kissing you, and this time it was different. it wasn’t nearly as clumsy, or aggressive. the angle was perfect, and his hand was resting on the back of your neck, a soft cradle. your brain didn’t need to time to load, or reboot, and for once it didn’t even blue screen. you immediately kissed spencer back, with more fervor than you thought you had in you.

a small moan slipped out of your mouth, and you didn’t care about that either. you knew your coworkers were probably watching you both from around the corner, phones out to record the momentous occasion, hushes being thrown at others who dared to speak.

but right now, the only thing you cared about was making sure spencer knew you weren’t going to play this fucking godawful game anymore. you kissed him like you were serious about it, because you were. you were serious about spencer agnew. as serious as a heart attack, which you felt like you were on the verge of.

you attempted to pull back for a moment, but spencer wouldn’t let you go. he’s starving, and you are a delicacy he intends to gorge himself on, gluttonous. you gave in, and continued to kiss him back. it’s the most blissful feeling, reciprocation.

no more games. no more lies. no more feuds.

no more enemies, or hatred.

some things in life are universal truths. the grass is green, the sky is blue, and you and spencer agnew loved each other. you always had, and both of you were equally tired of pretending otherwise. pushing back against the universe was always a losing game.

so you both gave in.

and it was heavenly.

“please, y/n,” spencer pined, pulling back but still staying close. “don’t make me wait another two months to do that again.”

a laugh surged out of you, loud and honest. “have you been thinking about doing it again?”

“constantly. it’s a problem.”

you bit your bottom lip, unsure of how you got here. “oh my god,” you put your head in your hands, remembering your first tweet from you posted that. “i’m sorry i threatened to piss in your kickstart.”

this time, spencer was the one who laughed. hard and loud, honest, just like you, a moment ago. like you were still doing, because hearing spencer laugh made you laugh. a contagious happiness pouring from his lips, filling your very atoms.

“it’s okay, i understand. i wanted to piss in your lattes.” he set his forehead against yours, a form of intimacy he seemed to love. just like two months ago, he was invading your space and you couldn’t get enough of it.

“i’m sorry it took so long to get my head out of my ass,” he spilled, remorse heavy in his voice. “to think we could have been doing this so long ago…” his sentence faded away, and you couldn’t help but smile even harder.

“hey, my head was also up my ass. it’s okay. we have time.”

“yeah, we do.”

✰ .ᐟ

the remainder of the week went off without incident. you told ian you would fill out any and all paperwork, but not until you and spencer were ready. not until he formally asked you to be his girlfriend. it was still the very early days, and while you were beyond happy, you didn’t want to jinx it. watching this love grow was a privilege, not a right, and you intended to keep it.

you both graced the infamous white reddit stories couch, the episode themed around coworker drama. it was nice to be able to laugh with him openly, and it was nice to hear his thoughts on the stories. spencer was incredibly well articulated when he wanted to be, and it was incredibly sexy to watch him be so emotionally mature and vulnerable. he was more understanding than you would have ever expected, and it only made you want him more.

you hadn’t had a real, formal date yet. that was tonight, once shooting wrapped. he refused to tell you anything about it, just insisted you dress comfortably.

and you were comfortable, here on this couch, with spencer. you both had to be reminded not to sit so close together, several times now. shayne and courtney ragged on you a bit, but they promised to give you tips on hiding the relationship if that was what you chose to do. that was a conversation for another time, but it was nice to know everyone at smosh would always be in your corner.

you pulled yourself out of your head to concentrate on shayne’s voice, and you even threw in a few comments mid-narration. you didn’t like doing that often, it felt rude to interrupt. but hearing spencer break out in a fit of giggles at a shitty joke you made only pushed you to be more confident.

✰ .ᐟ

“where the fuck are going, spencer?” you questioned for approximately the fifteenth time. once shooting had wrapped, everyone bid you and spencer farewell and good luck on your first official date. you went to the bathroom to change into your favorite sweatpants and an old hoodie, and when you reappeared spencer was holding a blindfold in his hand.

without thinking, you had popped the first joke that came into your head. “oh, we’re already getting freaky?”

he had laughed, and insisted it wasn’t anything like that. “but it can be, eventually.” he raised an eyebrow, suggestive and suave.

well, fuck.

as spencer directed you through the office – presumably to take you to one of the stages? – you let the lack of sight relax you. he wanted to surprise you, which means that he planned something. or set something up. you were rapidly falling in love with this man, and you weren’t sure if that was scary or exciting. probably both. you were free falling out of a fucking airplane, the cords on your parachute stuck, but it felt good.

“okay, you can remove your blindfold,” you heard his voice from behind you, as he finally brought you to a stop.

you slowly reached up to pull the blindfold off, and you couldn’t stop the tears that started to form.

spencer had set up a place for you to record music. he had moved a bunch of props and furniture around on the games stage, and set up a tiny little nook with pillows and blankets and bean bags. somehow, your guitar was there, propped next to an amp. there were several pedals splayed out, a wide array of effects for you to choose from. it was all hooked up to your macbook, which had fl studio pulled up on it.

“spencer…” you whined. the tears were silent, but they fell in waves.

he moved to stand in front of you, and you knew you would never get tired of being able to be this close to him whenever you wanted. he was yours to hold.

you tried to stop the tears, tried to speak, tried to thank him and apologize. all you could do was let the small, silent sobs wrack your body.

“y/n, please please tell me that these are happy tears,” spencer pleaded with you. his hand wiping a tear away from your cheek.

you nodded furiously, and found your voice again. “y-yes. yes. they are happy tears.” you took a deep breath in, stinging in the best way. “thank you so fucking much, spencer. i don’t know what to say other than thank you.”

“i know that you write music, but i know you never record it. i didn’t know if that was because you were worried about it not being good enough, or if it was simply the inability to record. either way, i can keep all of this set up here for you. whenever you want, as long as the stage isn’t needed, of course. i was hoping we could have a little jam sesh.” spencer laughed, light and airy.

you surged forward, wrapping your arms around him and hugging him tightly. “thank you,” you said again.

✰ .ᐟ

you and spencer spent three hours holed up on the games stage, playing around with different effects pedals and different fl studio presets. the time flew by, and you hadn’t even actually recorded anything, but you didn’t need to. you’d remember every second of this night for the rest of your life. you didn’t show spencer any of the songs you’d written these past few weeks, all of them about him. you would one day, when you were ready, but right now all you wanted was to be in this moment with him.

“it’s crazy how far we’ve come in such little time,” spencer said quietly, once the instruments had been retired and you were both stretched out on the extra large bean bag.

you smiled, agreeing. “yeah. it sucks that we lost out on so much time, but i’m grateful that i get to have you at all.” it was more vulnerable than you had meant to be, but spencer didn’t let it linger in the air too long.

“you have me for as long as you want, babe. i’m not leaving until you kick me out.”

a soft laugh, “i can’t imagine a world where i’d ever kick you out, spencer.”

“it’s like i told you. you’re the one in charge, y/n. i’ll follow your lead wherever it takes me.”

“even if it takes you off a cliff?” you japed, adding some levity to this conversation you weren’t quite ready for.

“yes,” spencer replied, no hesitation or thought. “wherever you go, i’d like to be with you. if you’d have me.”

you turned fully onto your side so you could look at him again. his hair had gotten so long, and you were hoping he wouldn’t cut it yet. you liked how wild and windswept it looked at this length. you also wanted to pull it.

“what are you saying, spencer?” you were egging him on.

“will you be my girlfriend, y/n? we can go as slow or as fast as you’d like, we can do it all at your pace. we have time,” he assured you. “i know this is only our first date, and normally this might seem like jumping the gun a little bit.” spencer sighed, but it was wistful, not sad. “but i’ve been sure about you for years now, and now that you’re finally giving me the chance, i don’t want to wait. i don’t want it to slip out of my hands.”

you let out a breath you didn’t notice you were holding. this side of spencer – no, just spencer – you were so unaware of him and everything he had the capacity to be and do and feel just a few months ago. sure, you’d been pining for awhile, and you’d been watching him for a bit. not in a creepy way, just observing him when he wasn’t putting up the goddamn shield he always forced up around you. seeing spencer for who he was, as he was. you had no idea that he could be so eloquent, so romantic, so fucking perfect.

“christ, you’re going to kill me, charles spencer agnew.”

“is that a yes, y/n? don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind already!” spencer laughed again, and you realized just how often you made him laugh. almost like your specific brand of comedy was tailor made for him. maybe it was.

“yes, spencer, i will be your girlfriend.” you smiled at him, a toothy. unabashed grin. “thank you for this.” you gestured around the nook. “seriously, this is so fucking sweet of you. i really, truly appreciate it.” most people didn’t put so much effort into the first date. this would, normally, be a fifth date kind of thing, probably. not that you had much practice. but it was your first real date, and spencer did all this work just to spend a few hours making shitty hyperpop mixes out of the silliest guitar sounds you could manage.

“don’t get used to it, this was a lot of work.”

your smile dropped instantly, a cold rush hitting you. fuck, was he making fun of you? you felt tears well up again, this time decidedly unhappy tears.

spencer shot up in an instant. “hey, hey. it’s okay, love. can i touch you?”

you cried harder, realizing that not only was spencer not making fun of you, but that he was listening. he always was, he always had been. because he knew not to touch you when you were crying, he knew to ask. and you had never told him that.

you had said it in a reddit stories video once. the story had to do with panic attacks, and you felt like you had to give your two cents, daring to be vulnerable on beyoncé’s internet.

“i actually hate being touched when i’m upset. people always jump straight to hugging me or patting my head or some shit. bro, i’m fucking freaking out, please do not touch me!”

courtney laughed, agreeing with your sentiment. “no, exactly! like, i’m crying all over myself and i’m snotty and gross. please get your hands off me. you can clearly see i’m overwhelmed, why is your first thought to add to that?”

it was refreshing to be understood by someone.

“i have never once seen someone in emotional distress and thought, ‘hmm, i should hug them super tight! that’ll help!’ like, what the fuck are we doing, guys? however, i do remember one time i started having a panic attack, and my friend looked at me and held her hands up, then asked ‘can i touch you?’ which, like, just broke me out of it. i was so thankful that she asked to touch me instead of just doing it that i was immediately calmed down. she’s great.”

the emotions were a sudden flood, and you shook your head no. spencer sat still in his spot, respecting your decision. for some reason, this only prompted you to cry harder.

basic respect had you sobbing. this was fucking embarrassing.

“i’m so sorry,” you said through tears, trying to explain yourself.

spencer was patient, and you knew he would wait for you to collect yourself. it was a small gesture but it really did mean the world to you. this meant not only did he listen to you when you were talking on set, but also that he watches the videos that you’re in. he wasn’t on that shoot, he had a con to go to. he wasn’t even in the state of california when you had said that. you had said that nearly a year ago, and he had watched the video when it came out. then committed that piece of you to memory.

“spencer?” you let out softly. “i have a question.”

your voice was small, almost upsettingly so. you didn’t mean to sound so timid, but projecting your voice when you’re feeling this many emotions was something you could only do in front of a camera or a live audience.

“yes?”

“how long have you known that you didn't… y’know. hate me?” you sighed, glad to have the weight of the question off of your shoulders, but worried about how heavy the answer might weigh on you.

“i never hated you. i never even disliked you, y/n. i thought you were smart enough to figure that out.”

“are you negging me, babe?” you asked him, trying out the pet name. it felt nice, especially because you meant it. and because this time, you knew he wasn't being mean. he was just being spencer.

once again, spencer’s laugh graced your eardrums, and you knew you’d never tire of the way it made you feel. unstoppable. like if you could make spencer agnew laugh like this, you could do anything in the world. maybe even be brave.

“can i show you something that i've been working on?” you asked, your eyes trailing up to meet his, which were already fixated on you. as always.

“of course.”

you grabbed your guitar, turning ever so slightly to the side. you didn't want to hide, but you also didn't want to be on full display. spencer understood your movement immediately; he looked down at his hands for a moment, silently reassuring you that it was okay, that you were safe.

it was refreshing to be understood by someone.

you plucked the chords you had burned into your brain at this point. you had written this song the evening of the hide and seek incident (trademark pending).

you let your eyes fall shut, playing from memory, as easy as 1-2-3. as you began the first verse, you dared to glance at spencer. he was looking at you, but through his periphery. still trying to give you that space, but unable to deny himself. it made you burn bright with pure, radiant joy.

you glided into the chorus, your eyes fully open at this point. spencer had long since abandoned his resolve, and he was watching you intently. instead of being scared, or nervous, or overwhelmed, you just felt seen.

in every sense, you felt seen. he was looking at you, into you, and not through you. he was seeing your heart on your sleeve, stitched permanently on every cardigan you owned. he was seeing all of your emotions, all the anger, all the sadness. and he understood your emotions, because he had felt them, too. he had gone through it all, too.

how lucky you were, to be loved by someone so observant. and maybe it wasn't love yet, but you knew the potential was there. you knew, as you finished up the bridge and moved on to the outro, that the seed had been planted. you would be sure to water it diligently.

“can i kiss you?” spencer blurted out, as soon as the final note finished ringing out in the otherwise silent stage.

“always.” you met spencer halfway, another crashing, aching kiss. his hands immediately found your hair, as they always did. your arms fell around his shoulders, a loose hold.

after a moment the kiss was less crashing and danger and speed, slowing naturally to a sensual pace. lightly pulling and pushing, his hands now gripping your hips. not angry, not painful. it was a tight grip, but it wasn't mean. it felt scared, almost, like if spencer didn't hold on to you, you’d be gone.

you think you liked that feeling. the feeling that your partner wanted you all the time.

you spent another hour lazily kissing, and ended up falling into a blissful sleep.

✰ .ᐟ

you woke up about an hour after you had crashed. you hadn't meant to, you were just so fucking relaxed and happy. with the way your sleep had been, you weren’t going to turn down a nap.

spencer mumbled something, and you were suddenly hyperaware of the fact you were still in the office. you groaned, unintentionally.

“you okay, y/n?” your boyfriend – you loved that – asked, his voice soft and scratchy from the nap.

you smiled down at him. “yeah, sorry. i just realized we've only ever kissed at the office.”

you watched in amusement as the cogs turned in his head. “oh, jeez. well, that’s just unacceptable. hey, apropos of nothing, i'm out of kickstart. do you want to run to the corner store with me?”

spencer held out a hand, as if to say ‘join me on this adventure?’ and you weren’t sure how you could decline his offer.

♡

#richie txt #richie writes #spencer agnew x reader #smosh x reader

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odileeclipse · 5 hours ago

Text

A Wager of Fate PT 8 Final part

The Silver Tree, once a pillar of luminous divinity, shuddered against its broken chains, its glow dimming with each passing moment. The air carried the scent of old magic, of something ancient unraveling. The Silver Knights stood at a distance, their figures rigid with hesitation, with sorrow. White Lily Cookie lingered among them, hands clasped tight around her staff, her fuchsia eyes dim with grief. And in the heart of it all Elder Faerie Cookie. His presence, once unwavering as the roots of the Silver Tree itself, was now weighed down by something heavier than time. He stood apart from the others, just as you had asked. Alone with you. Shadow Milk Cookie lingered just at the edges of your perception, watching, waiting. You could feel his gaze—expectant, patient in his own way, but still unwilling to slip too far from your side. He had already won, hadn’t he? What more was there for him to do but gloat? You turned slightly, gripping your arms. "Just… leave me alone with Elder Faerie for a bit." Your voice was barely above a whisper, but there was a tremor in it. There was a pause, a hum of amusement. "Alone?" Shadow Milk mused, tilting his head, unseen but there in the shifting light. "Ah, my dear, what a lonely request. After all we've been through?"

Your shoulders tensed. "Please." A beat of silence. Then, a chuckle lighter than it should have been, but not unkind. "As you wish, little Faerie." A playful lilt, but no deceit in his words this time. "But don't keep me waiting too long." And with that, the weight of his presence receded, though you knew better than to believe he was truly gone. Finally, Elder Faerie spoke. “I had thought,” he murmured, “that I would never feel this kind of pain.” Your breath hitched. Elder Faerie exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “It is not the seal,” he continued. “Not the kingdom. Not even the danger you have released upon Earthbread.” His gaze, though lined with exhaustion, did not waver from you. “It is you that pains me most.” Your hands curled into trembling fists. “Elder Faerie, I-” “I will not allow you to be remembered this way,” he interrupted softly. His voice did not carry the weight of anger, but of something far worse. “Your name will not be tied to destruction. Not if I can help it.” You swallowed the lump in your throat near unbearable. He stepped closer, his presence casting a long shadow beneath the waning glow of the Silver Tree. “Even now,” he continued, quieter, “I cannot bring myself to hate you.” Your breath came sharp. “I should.” His voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “I should rage at you. I should curse your name, demand that you answer for what you have done.” His fingers tightened around his staff, his composure threatening to crack. “But I cannot.” Your vision blurred with unshed tears. “Then…then hate him.” Elder Faerie’s expression darkened, his free hand curling into a fist at his side. “I do.” The admission was quiet, restrained. “I loathe him for what he has taken. For what he has twisted.” He closed his eyes for a brief moment, then let out a slow breath. “But my hatred means nothing now. The seal is broken.”

Your body trembled. “Then we can fix it-” “No.” Elder Faerie’s voice was steady, though his eyes betrayed the weight he carried. “I can no longer fix it.” A pause. Then, more softly, “I have grown weaker over eons. The tree is no longer what it was.” Your breath came uneven. “But there has to be” “Do not dwell on it,” he interrupted, his voice gentle yet firm. “That is no longer your burden.” Your chest ached, torn between desperation and guilt. “But I” Elder Faerie reached out. His hand, despite everything, came to rest lightly against the side of your face. It was warm, grounding. A gesture of comfort. Of forgiveness. “I know you,” he whispered. “Better than you know yourself.” His fingers curled slightly, not in force, but in something fragile. “Your heart, your instinct, it has always been what guided you. It led you astray, but…” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I do not believe it was ever meant to harm.” Your lips parted, but no words came. His gaze, softer than you deserved, held you captive. “Follow it, one last time.” The weight of his words settled deep in your chest. “Elder Faerie…” He gave the smallest of smiles, faint, tired. “Do not worry.” A pause. Then, quieter, “I will find a way.” The promise was as heavy as it was impossible. But even as he spoke it, you could see, could feel the pain beneath it. He blamed himself. For failing to guide you. For failing to save you. And even as he stood before you, speaking of hope, speaking of solutions his heart was breaking.

Tears blurred your vision, the fractured light of the Silver Tree casting a wavering glow over Elder Faerie’s grief-stricken face. His hand still rested against your cheek, warm despite the cold reality that had settled between you. You had broken the seal. You had shattered everything you had once vowed to protect. And yet, he stood there not condemning you, not striking you down, but aching for you. Your breath trembled as you whispered, “If I’m going to be remembered for this if they curse my name for what I’ve done then let them.” Your hands clenched at your sides. “You shouldn’t cover it up.” Elder Faerie’s expression flickered, but the sorrow in his eyes remained unmoving. “I chose this,” you continued, voice shaking but resolute. “Even if it’s wrong, even if I can’t take it back, I won’t let you erase it for me.” Your chest ached with every word. “I can own up to what I’ve done.” Elder Faerie exhaled slowly, his eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment. When he opened them again, his sadness had not lessened, but his resolve had hardened. “No,” he said softly. “I will not let you bear this weight.” A sharp inhale stung your throat. “Why—” “Because you are still my kin.” His voice, though quiet, carried the finality of a thousand years. “Even now.” His fingers curled slightly against your skin before he withdrew his hand. A silence stretched between you, heavy with the truth neither of you wanted to face. Elder Faerie turned slightly, his gaze shifting beyond the ruined seal, beyond the Silver Tree that now stood vulnerable, its light waning. The Silver Knights still lingered, hesitant, awaiting orders that could no longer undo what had already been done. White Lily Cookie stood among them, her fuchsia eyes dark with sorrow.

With a weary sigh, Elder Faerie straightened his posture, the weight of leadership settling over him once more. “We are leaving.” Your breath hitched. “What?” “There is nothing left for us here.” His voice carried the burden of his decision. “The seal is broken. There is no longer a cage to protect.” He turned to you once more, his gaze firm. “I must protect my people instead.” A lump formed in your throat. “But Shadow Milk he’s-” “He is sparing the kingdom for you.” Elder Faerie’s voice, though not unkind, left no room for denial. “And that is not something I can gamble with. His mercy is not our salvation, it is a fleeting kindness.” His jaw tightened. “I will not allow unnecessary danger to fall upon my people.” The words sent a chill through you. “You mean to run?” “I mean to survive.” Elder Faerie’s eyes burned with determination. “I will not let our people fall, not while I still have the strength to lead them away from this.” Your lips parted, searching for words, searching for anything that could convince him otherwise. But what could you say? You had already chosen your path. Elder Faerie let out a quiet breath, stepping past you, back toward his people, the silver knights as the kingdom’s fate was unknown. “Stay if you must,” he said, the slightest waver in his voice betraying the pain beneath his resolve. “But I will not allow them to suffer for your decision.” The finality of his words settled over you like a crushing weight. And as he walked away, leading the remnants of the Faerie Kingdom into the shadows, you could do nothing but watch.

Your fingers twitched at your side, aching to reach out, to hold onto just a moment longer before he was gone. But you didn't. Instead, you swallowed the lump in your throat and let your hand fall back to your side. Your wings trembled as you watched Elder Faerie retreat, his silhouette fading into the gathering darkness, his presence growing ever distant. Even now, he refused to hate you. Even now, he carried the weight of this loss as if it were his burden to bear instead of yours. Your chest ached. A whisper, barely above breath, slipped from your lips. “…Shadow Milk.” The wind curled around you, stirring the remnants of broken magic in the air, but you felt the shift almost instantly. A presence, cool and familiar, coiling around the edges of your senses. It seeped into the space beside you, unseen but undeniably there. “You called for me, little Faerie?” His voice was softer now, almost indulgent, as if savoring the way you sought him. Your eyes remained on the path where Elder Faerie had disappeared, but your fingers curled slightly as if grasping for something unseen. “Did I…” You swallowed, throat dry. “Did I do the right thing?”

A silence followed, but not an empty one. It was a silence considering, a silence that weighed your question like a game piece in hand. Then, Shadow Milk sighed, a sound both amused and something else you couldn’t decipher. “Ah, my dear, sweet thing… still seeking absolution?” His tone was almost fond. “Do you wish for me to ease your conscience?” You blinked hard, trying to clear the blur of your tears. “I don’t know what happens now.” Your voice was fragile, breaking at the edges. “What do I do?” A soft chuckle, curling with something unspoken. “Well,” Shadow Milk murmured, “you are free now.” That word free. It didn’t feel as weightless as it should have. You exhaled shakily. “Are the others…?” You hesitated, staring at the broken remnants of the seal. “Are they still dormant?” Shadow Milk’s response was slow, deliberate. “For now.” Your breath hitched. “When?” “When will I wake them?” His voice lilted, teasing, but you could feel the coil of something much sharper beneath it. You turned slightly, not quite facing him, but seeking him all the same. “Yes.” Shadow Milk hummed, considering. “Now, now… that would be spoiling the fun, wouldn’t it?” A chill curled around your spine. You could feel the amusement in his tone, but it was like a magician withholding the final reveal. A game he refused to lay bare. “Then… they’re still asleep?” you asked, almost hopeful. Shadow Milk laughed, a quiet, velvety sound. “Oh, little Faerie… you ask so many questions.” His voice lowered, curling at the edges of your mind. “Why not enjoy the moment? I am here, after all.” You let out a shaky breath. He wasn’t giving you answers. Not yet. Maybe not ever. “…Then what happens now?” Shadow Milk didn’t answer right away. Instead, you felt him shift, felt the weight of his presence settle closer, his words pressing against your ear like a secret. “Now?” He purred. “Now, we dance.”

You let out a short, breathless laugh, blinking up at the darkened sky. “You’re joking.” Shadow Milk only tilted his head or at least, you felt the shift of his presence, playful and indulgent. You shook your head, a wry smile ghosting over your lips despite everything. “Why dance?” He hummed, the sound rich and teasing, curling around you like silk. “Would you prefer I say something dreadfully serious?” His voice lilted with kindness, yet there was something almost intentional in his lightness, as if daring you to follow. “Or is it that you think a dance couldn’t possibly be fitting for the moment?” You crossed your arms, wings twitching. “Do you think that would cheer me up?” Your voice was softer than you meant it to be, not accusing just tired. “Or are you just trying to distract me from everything?” Shadow Milk chuckled. “Why, both, of course.” You sighed, shaking your head. “I own what I did,” you murmured. “I made my choice. I know that. But I’m not… happy about how I got here.” You hesitated, watching the remnants of the shattered seal glimmer faintly against the wind. “Shadow Milk… is this supposed to make it easier?”

Silence, for just a moment. Then, a whisper of a touch just the ghost of a presence brushing against your fingers, cold yet oddly inviting. “Dancing,” he mused, his voice dipping into something softer, “is not about forgetting.” A pause. “It’s about moving forward.” Your breath caught. “Would you rather stand still?” His voice was quieter now, more thoughtful. “Would you rather dwell in misery, in self-loathing, in regret?” His tone dipped into something almost mocking not cruel, just coaxing. “Or would you rather live?” You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching slightly. “And dancing is living?” Shadow Milk exhaled a sigh, as if you were terribly, terribly slow. “Oh, my dear.” There was a smile in his voice now. “Dancing is simply another form of freedom.” You weren’t sure what to say to that. He waited, patient, ever-present. “…Do I have a choice?” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. His chuckle curled against your ear like mist. “You always do.” The wind stirred. The air shifted. And then, like a hand extended into the dark, his presence curled around you once more. “Well?” Shadow Milk purred. “Shall we?”

The wind carried the last remnants of silver leaves across the ruined clearing, their shimmer dull beneath the weight of what had transpired. The once-sacred heart of the Faerie Kingdom lay fractured, the Silver Tree’s light all but extinguished. And yet, in the midst of the devastation, there he stood real, no longer just a voice in the dark. You had seen his real form before but you didn’t get a chance to take it all in. Maybe it was the way in the end, you and him had chosen each other. Shadow Milk Cookie was no longer a mere whisper in your mind, no longer a presence lurking just beyond reach. He was here, standing before you in full form, his tall, spindly frame draped in the harlequin darks of his bodysuit. His cyan and cerulean eyes glowed with something unreadable, flickering between amusement and something deeper. He extended a hand toward you, palm up, inviting. You hesitated. Now that you could truly see him, there was no excuse to hide behind the ambiguity of shadows. There was no veil of mystery, no plausible deniability. He was real, tangible, a force unshackled by the chains you had shattered with your own hands. And yet… he looked at you as if none of that mattered. "You hesitate," he mused, his voice dipping into a knowing lilt. “Shall I extend the invitation more sweetly? Should I bow? Kiss your hand? Or…” He leaned in slightly, a teasing glint in his mismatched eyes. “Perhaps you’d prefer I demand it? A grand decree, from your villain of choice.” You scoffed, shaking your head, forcing something close to amusement onto your face. “You really think this is going to fix everything?” Shadow Milk hummed, unbothered. “Oh, little Faerie, I never said that.” His fingers flexed slightly, a silent offer still waiting. “I simply said we should dance.”

You exhaled slowly, looking past him for just a moment. Beyond the clearing, hidden within the trees, a figure stood in the dim glow of the fractured remnants of the Silver Tree. Elder Faerie Cookie watched. His expression was unreadable, but his shoulders bore the weight of unspoken sorrow. He had sworn to erase you from the kingdom’s history, to protect you even as you had broken him. He would not allow you to be remembered as a villain but it didn’t change the truth. He had already lost you. Perhaps he had lost you long before this moment. Your fingers twitched at your side. The ache in your chest burned, sharp and unrelenting. You could not go back. Not after this. Not even if he forgave you. The Faerie Kingdom was no longer yours, no longer a place that would welcome you with open arms. Perhaps, it never truly had. You let out a breathy laugh, hollow but deceptively lighthearted. “You’re insufferable,” you muttered, lifting your gaze back to Shadow Milk. His smile stretched into something terribly pleased. “Mmm. Yet you always come back” You swallowed. Your hands trembled, just barely. Then, before you could stop yourself, you reached forward and placed your hand in his. His fingers curled around yours instantly, cold yet steady, grounding in a way that sent a shiver up your spine. He grinned, sharp and triumphant, but there was something else in his eyes, something that wasn’t quite mockery, wasn’t quite gloating. Something softer.

Shadow Milk did not rush you. He did not sweep you into some grand, theatrical motion. Instead, he took a single step closer, his free hand resting lightly against your waist, guiding you gently into place. And then, the dance began. The broken clearing became your stage. Shadow Milk moved with effortless grace, leading you through slow, deliberate steps, his body curling and twisting with the natural showmanship of an entertainer who knew his craft well. His coattails swirled like dark silk, the eyes within them blinking lazily in time with the movements. You followed, your feet lighter than you had expected, though your heart remained unbearably heavy. “So,” you said after a moment, feigning nonchalance, “what do I get for playing along with your little show?” Shadow Milk smirked. “Ah, so you do know how to play.” “Answer the question.” He hummed, pretending to think. “You get to forget, for a moment.” He twirled you with ease, letting you spiral before catching you again, his grip firm yet never forceful. “You get to pretend, just as I do. Isn’t that what you wanted?” You hated how easy it was to let yourself fall into the rhythm. Hated how the weight in your chest eased, if only slightly, as the world blurred around you in a slow waltz of shadow and silver light. Maybe you did want to pretend. Maybe deceit was all you had left. From the distance, Elder Faerie Cookie still watched, his expression unreadable, his grief buried beneath the stoicism of a ruler who had no choice but to move forward. But even as he turned away, retreating into the forest to gather what was left of his people, his heart ached with the bitter knowledge that, at the very least, You had chosen this.

The world outside your musicless dance had long since begun to fade. The broken clearing, the Silver Tree’s dying glow, the ghosts of the past that still lingered behind them it all blurred into irrelevance. The only thing left was the steady twirl of shadow and movement, the quiet rhythm that only the two of them could hear. But even as your feet moved in time with his, even as the air between you became lighter with each step, the weight in your chest never truly lifted. There was still something you needed to know. Your fingers curled slightly against his as you exhaled, steadying yourself. “Why me?” Shadow Milk tilted his head, mismatched eyes gleaming with amusement. “Ah, and here I thought you had already figured it out.” You shook your head, gaze steady despite the hesitance twisting in your gut. “Did you always feel this way? Or was it because I could free you?”

For the first time, Shadow Milk faltered. It was barely a flicker a momentary pause in his movement, a beat of silence too brief to be intentional. And then he laughed, soft and lilting, his grip on you tightening just slightly as he resumed his steps. “Would it truly matter?” he mused, spinning you once more before catching you again. “You were the only one who could hear me. The only one who listened.” His voice dipped, something unreadable in the way he regarded you now. “That was all it took.” Your throat felt tight. “That’s not an answer.” Shadow Milk only smiled. Your gaze searched his face, looking for something, some hint of truth, some crack in the performance. But he was as unreadable as ever, his expression locked in the same knowing amusement that had always defined him. Maybe he didn’t even know the answer himself. Maybe you didn’t want to hear it. You swallowed, forcing yourself to breathe through the weight in your chest. “Where are we going after all this?” He hummed, seemingly pleased by your acceptance of the change in subject. “The Spire of Knowledge.”

Your brow furrowed. “The Spire…?” You hesitated, something about the name tugging at old memories. “That was your domain.” Shadow Milk’s grin stretched wider. “Was being the key word.” He twirled you again, slower this time, deliberate. “It was once a place of truth. Of wisdom, enlightenment a monument to Knowledge itself.” He leaned in slightly, voice dipping to a whisper against your ear. “But truth is such a fragile thing, isn’t it?” You shivered, but not from fear. He pulled back, mismatched eyes glinting with something dangerously pleased. “It is only fitting that it becomes something new.” Your stomach twisted. “What do you mean?” “The Spire of Deceit.” His voice was soft, but the weight of the words made the air around you feel colder. “More befitting of who I am now than what I once was.” A chill ran through you, not from his words alone, but from the way he said them. There was no hesitation, no regret only a quiet certainty. Your gaze flickered downward. This is what I chose. There was no going back. Shadow Milk shifted slightly, his grip on your hand loosening just enough to give you an out—to let you step away, if you wanted. But you didn’t. Your fingers remained laced with his, your body still moving with his lead, even as doubt clawed at your ribs. From the distance, beyond the ruins of the Silver Tree, the Faerie Kingdom lay shrouded in the veil of deceit Shadow Milk had cast. You couldn’t see Elder Faerie anymore. You didn’t know if he had left or if he simply no longer watched. But it didn’t matter. Your world had already changed.

The realization settled in slowly, like ink bleeding into parchment.

If you had stayed, if you had remained the Silver Tree’s guardian, you would have never been free. Not truly. Even if you had fought off the whispers, resisted temptation, devoted yourself wholly to the kingdom… the chains of duty would have remained. You would have always been at war with the shadows. Always peering over your shoulder, waiting for the next deceit to creep in and sink its claws into you. But now? Now, there was nothing left to guard. The Silver Tree no longer bound you. Everything comes at a price. Perhaps this was yours. As the dance slowed, you finally allowed yourself to breathe. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the weight of duty no longer suffocated your ribs, no longer dictated every action, every thought. You were unshackled. And yet, even in this newfound freedom, you found yourself searching for something, some lingering trace of what had once been.

Your gaze flickered back to Shadow Milk. His expression was unreadable, though amusement still curled at the edges of his lips. He had won. He knew it. But there was no gloating, no smug declarations of victory. He simply watched you, waiting. You hesitated, then spoke. “What was it like?” His brow arched. “What was what like?” Your grip on his hand tightened slightly. “Being the Sage of Truth. Before… all of this.” For the first time since his freedom, Shadow Milk was silent. The air between you grew still, the weight of your question settling over the space like a thick mist. His grip did not falter, but something in his posture shifted just slightly. The ever-present playfulness in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something quieter, something distant. “…Ah,” he murmured, almost as if he hadn’t expected you to ask. He exhaled, gaze flickering skyward. “It was…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. Your heart twisted. It was rare to see him hesitate. Shadow Milk was never at a loss for words, always weaving truths and lies together so seamlessly that one could never tell where reality ended and illusion began. But now? Now he looked as though he were peering through a fogged window, trying to recall a reflection that had long since faded.Finally, he spoke. “It was lonely.”

Your breath caught. His grip tightened ever so slightly, as if anchoring himself to the present. “Truth is a bitter thing. Everyone claims to seek it, to crave knowledge, to desire understanding. But in the end…” He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “They only want the truths that comfort them. The rest?” His fingers brushed against yours, slow and deliberate. “They discard. They turn away. They call it cruel, monstrous even when it is simply reality.” His mismatched eyes met yours, glinting with something almost unreadable. “That is why they chose him over me.” You knew who he meant. Pure Vanilla Cookie. Your lips parted, but you found yourself at a loss. What could you even say? Shadow Milk smiled, but it was different this time. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just… tired. “I thought I could endure it. I thought I could bear the burden alone.” His voice softened. “But even the strongest of foundations can crumble beneath the weight of solitude.” The ache in your chest deepened. He had been a Sage. A beacon of truth. A pillar of wisdom. And yet, in the end, he had been left alone. The realization settled into your bones, heavy and undeniable. Even now, he does not regret it. He had embraced his role as Deceit wholeheartedly, had cast aside his past identity without hesitation. But deep down beneath the layers of illusion, beneath the theatrics and cunning smiles there was still something lingering. Something forgotten. You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself. “…Do you miss it?” Shadow Milk blinked.

Then, slowly, he tilted his head, as if pondering the question himself. “No,” he said at last. “Not in the way you think.” His thumb traced absent circles against your palm. “Truth may be a virtue, but deceit…?” A soft, amused hum left his lips. “Deceit is freedom.” Your breath hitched. He smiled, tilting your chin up slightly with a single finger. “And now, my dear… you are free too.” The words sent a shiver down your spine. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the ruins of the Silver Tree, the winds carried away the last remnants of what once was.

Shadow Milk Cookie let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he lifted a hand to your face. His touch was featherlight, fingertips brushing just beneath your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his own mismatched eyes one bright and knowing, the other dark and unreadable.

"Tsk, tsk. Don’t do that," he murmured, his tone somewhere between amused and admonishing. "I am no wounded creature, no broken thing in need of fixing." His smile curved, sharp yet indulgent, as if he found the very thought amusing. "You know better than that, don’t you?" You swallowed thickly, unsure of how to respond. He only chuckled again, as though your silence confirmed something. Then, without another word, he turned, leading you forward away from the ruins of what had been, toward something unknown.

The path to the Spire of Deceit was unlike any you had ever walked before. The air shimmered, thick with an otherworldly presence, as if the very fabric of reality had begun to unravel and weave itself anew. The sky overhead was deep, dark indigo, fractured with veins of silver light that pulsed like the slow, steady heartbeat of something ancient. The world around you twisted and bent, landmasses floating in impossible formations, staircases spiraling into the void only to reappear elsewhere. Then, you saw it. The Spire. It rose from the shifting landscape like an unshaken pillar amidst chaos, its towering, jagged peaks reaching toward infinity. The structure was built from dark stone that gleamed like polished onyx, lined with veins of cerulean light that pulsed and flickered in rhythm with the strange magic saturating the air. Bridges hung suspended in midair, leading to archways that seemed to vanish the moment you blinked, shifting as though alive. The very walls breathed, curling with elaborate carvings that reshaped themselves when you turned away. Despite its eerie, twisting nature, the Spire was… breathtaking. Shadow Milk turned slightly, watching you take it in, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "Ah, there it is," he mused. "That look of wonder—untainted, unburdened." He gestured broadly, the extravagant flourish of a performer unveiling his grand stage. "It was once the Spire of Knowledge, a haven for scholars and seekers of truth. But knowledge is a fickle thing, is it not?" His smirk deepened. "Now, it is something far more fitting." The Spire of Deceit.

A home for him. A home, now, for you. And before you even realized it, your feet had already found their way toward one place the library. Though you had a feeling he could control the spire’s illusions at will and was the guiding hand towards the library. The moment you stepped through its towering archway, the air shifted. A quiet hum filled the vast chamber, the sound of countless floating tomes drifting through open space, their pages fluttering despite the lack of wind. Shelves stretched impossibly high, their ends lost to shadow. Rivers of ink cascaded in midair, suspended in time, forming words that rewrote themselves before dissolving once more. The scent of parchment, old and new, mingled with something more something ancient, something lost.

Your fingers trailed instinctively along the spine of a floating tome, drawn by the same hunger that had always burned within you. Even now after everything your curiosity refused to wane. "You are predictable," Shadow Milk murmured, his voice a soft tease as he leaned lazily against the edge of a nearby desk. "Not even a moment to mourn the past, and already, you dive into what lies ahead." His mismatched gaze glinted with something akin to approval. You exhaled a quiet breath, scanning the text in your hands. "It was always about learning," you admitted. "Even when I was meant to inherit the role of Guardian… I think I cared more about the knowledge than the duty itself." Shadow Milk tilted his head, watching you with unreadable amusement. "Duty is an illusion an expectation forced upon you," he mused. "Knowledge, however… that is a choice. Your choice." His words curled around you, sinking into the quiet recesses of your mind. Yet, even as they settled, uncertainty still gnawed at you. And so, the question left your lips before you could stop it. "If there had been another heir… if someone else had been chosen to guard the Silver Tree…" Your voice faltered, but you pushed through. "Would it still have been me?"

Would he still have sought you out? Would he still be here, beside you? Would you still matter? Shadow Milk stilled. For a moment, the silence between you was thick, pressing. His expression gave nothing away, his mismatched eyes locked onto yours, searching. Then, he moved. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped forward, closing the space between you. His presence curled around you, dark and velvety, his voice a low murmur against the hush of the library. "You ask as though there was ever another choice." Your breath hitched. His fingers brushed beneath your chin once more, tilting your face up toward his. There was no trickery in his gaze, no jest in his tone only certainty. "Even if the stars had aligned differently, even if fate had woven another path… I would have found you." His voice dipped lower, the words sinking deep into your chest. "And I would have chosen you." Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. Truth or deception? You weren’t sure. But in that moment, as you stood in the vast, ever-shifting halls of the Spire of Deceit—beneath the glow of floating ink and the hum of knowledge long lost—none of it seemed to matter. Because, for the first time in what felt like forever, you had chosen this, too. And perhaps… that was enough.

The air in the Spire of Deceit was still, as if the very walls were waiting to hear your answer. The halls, lined with towering bookshelves and twisting staircases, seemed to stretch endlessly into the abyss, their winding paths mirroring the labyrinth of emotions inside you. The knowledge here was vast, unshackled, and tainted by neither truth nor lies just as he was. Shadow Milk Cookie stood before you, his presence inescapable. His mismatched eyes gleamed with something unreadable, watching as you struggled with words too heavy to speak. The quiet between you was suffocating, yet he seemed content to let you drown in it, his expression unreadable waiting. You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’ll stay,” you finally breathed, and the moment the words left your lips, something inside you shifted, solidified. “I already chose you.” His smirk faltered for the briefest second. Barely noticeable. But you caught it. His thumb grazed your cheek, an almost hesitant touch, before his fingers settled beneath your chin, tilting your head up. His touch was cold, yet it burned. “You choose me,” he mused, more to himself than to you. His voice was softer now, lacking its usual theatrical flourish, as if the weight of your words had settled somewhere deep within him.

“I do,” you whispered. His grip on you tightened just slightly. But then, you continued. “But I don’t want to be part of destruction.” Your voice trembled, but you forced yourself forward. “I won’t fight against what’s already happened. I chose this. I’ll bear it. But I won’t… I won’t let it go further. I can’t. I won’t break Elder Faerie’s heart any more than I already have.” Silence. Shadow Milk Cookie simply stared at you, unreadable. Then, he laughed. Softly, breathlessly almost disbelieving. His hand fell from your chin, but the air between you remained electric, thick with something unspoken. “You think,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement, “that you can stand beside me and remain untouched by what I do?” “I have to try,” you said, voice shaking. His smirk widened, but his expression and his eyes were darker now. “You are a fool,” he said, and there was no mockery in his tone. “Maybe.” His fingers ghosted over your wrist, lingering there, as if he was debating something. “Then answer me this,” he murmured, tilting his head. “If I were to refuse? If I told you that you must embrace the world I intend to create?” Your heart twisted painfully in your chest, but you stood firm. “Then I will go.” Something in his expression flickered. You didn’t know if it was amusement. Annoyance. Pain. Then, he exhaled slow and deliberate. The hand on your wrist slid towards your hand, his fingers curling loosely around your own. His grip was gentle, but firm, as if testing your resolve. “You would leave me,” he mused, voice soft, “after everything?” A lump formed in your throat. “If you make me,” you whispered. Another silence stretched between you. Then, unexpectedly his grip tightened. He didn’t let go. A low, knowing chuckle escaped him, but it wasn’t his usual laughter. No mockery. No theatrics. Instead, something deeper settled behind his mismatched eyes, something indulgent, something dangerously close to tenderness.

"You truly are something else," he murmured, his voice almost… fond. And then, he leaned in. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, his voice barely above a whisper. “Very well.” The tension in your chest loosened just slightly. His fingers dragged upwards on your arm before finally slipping away, giving you space. And yet, his presence coiled around you like an inescapable shadow. “I won’t force you to take part in my grand designs,” he continued. “Not yet, at least.” His smirk twitched at your sharp look. "But" His hand lifted in a careless flourish, his voice returning to its usual lilting amusement. "I will ask for something in return.” Your stomach twisted.“What?” He leaned back, watching you with knowing eyes. "Stay." One, simple request. No tricks. No riddles. Just that. Your heart ached at the simplicity of it. At the weight of it. You had thrown everything away for him. Your home. Your legacy. The love of the only father figure you had ever known. And yet here he was. The one thing in this world you could never predict. A monster draped in silk and illusions, deceit curled upon his tongue like honey. And yet he had never lied about what he was. The choice was yours. Your throat tightened. “I…” Your voice cracked. You exhaled. “…I will.” Shadow Milk Cookie only smiled. It was not triumphant. It was not victorious. It was satisfied. As if he had always known you would say yes. His fingers brushed against yours once more so fleetingly, so carefully, that for a moment, you wondered if you had imagined it. Then, his presence pulled away, and the air grew heavier once more.

"You do amuse me," he mused, the playfulness creeping back into his tone, though something else lingered beneath it. "But know this, dear, my path has already been paved. My plans, my pact, are not yours to break.” A cold shiver ran down your spine. He turned, walking toward the towering windows of the spire, where the fractured sky bled into the horizon. "You wished for kindness, and I have granted it," he continued. "For you, I have spared them…for now." He turned slightly, casting a glance over his shoulder, his grin sharp as a knife. "But do not mistake that for weakness, my dear. My destruction has already been written. You simply are not part of its ink."

Days in the spire were mainly mundane Shadow Milk was never too busy for you, however he was still scheming never letting you see his plans. Maybe it was for your own good. The halls of the Spire of Deceit wound like a labyrinth, towering shelves stacked with books whose truths had long since been twisted beyond recognition. It was neither day nor night here, just an eternal limbo where time bled into itself, much like the lines between truth and deception. The wind curled through the open halls of the Spire of Deceit, carrying with it the scent of aged parchment and something faintly sweet, like the last traces of a dream before waking. Shadow Milk Cookie stood before the grand window, his silhouette dark against the star-streaked sky. The view stretched endlessly, a world waiting to be rewritten. You lingered at the threshold, watching him, waiting. He was always so unreadable, so infuriatingly composed, yet today… today felt different. He turned his head slightly. “If you have something to say, little Faerie, say it.” You swallowed. “Why me?” you had always asked this, asked yourself, asked him. You wouldn’t stop not until you got a concrete answer. That question always made him pause. You pressed on, stepping closer, your voice steady despite the weight in your chest. “From the moment you saw me at the tree, why did it have to be me? Was it just because I could release you?” Shadow Milk did not answer immediately. He exhaled slowly, his fingers trailing along the glass of the window before he finally turned to face you fully. His heterochromatic eyes gleamed in the dim light, the ever-watching shadows in his hair blinking lazily. “When I first saw you,” he mused, “when I could finally see beyond that wretched bark I thought you naïve.” His gaze flickered with something unreadable. “Entertaining, yes. But hopelessly foolish.” A smirk curled at his lips, but there was no mockery in it. “Enough to make me want to keep watching.”

You blinked. “Watching?”

His gaze flickered, and he took a step forward, closer than before. “When the seal weakened, and I could see through the bark of that cursed tree, you were the first thing I laid eyes upon.” His voice dropped to something softer, something almost dangerous in its honesty. “And I could not look away.” Your breath caught in your throat. “And it didn’t take long before I found myself waiting,” he admitted, voice dipping into something almost vulnerable. “For your voice. For your questions. For your presence.” His mismatched eyes locked onto yours. “My patience has never been my strong suit, but for you? I endured.”

“I told myself it was strategy,” he continued, tilting his head as though studying you. “That it was only a matter of finding the right strings to pull, the right lies to whisper. But the more I watched, the more you became something else.” A hand reached out, brushing barely against your cheek before he pulled away, as if catching himself. “I don’t shackle easily,” he murmured. “And yet, somehow, you’ve bound me without a single chain.” His fingers grazed yours, barely touching, his voice dropping lower. “And when you did set me free… I realized that my shackles had never been made of wood or magic.” His lips twitched into something wry, something resigned. “They were made of you.” Your heart pounded. “Then… you would do as I ask?” Shadow Milk chuckled, the sound dark and rich. “Anything,” he said smoothly, “except abandon my purpose.” A chill settled over you. “The Beasts.” His smirk did not falter. “The pact I made with them was never yours to undo.”

Your throat tightened, a familiar ache clawing at your ribs. You had known—perhaps you had always known—that some things were beyond your reach. And yet, here he stood before you, offering everything but that. Your fingers curled into fists at your sides. “Then what am I to you?” Shadow Milk leaned in ever so slightly, his mismatched eyes sharp with something unreadable. “You,” he said, voice a whisper against your skin, “are the only thing I choose to keep.” The words settled deep in your bones. There was no deception in them, no half-truths. And perhaps that was what frightened you mostYour chest tightened at the weight of his words. But you had to ask. “And if I walk away?” His smirk was immediate. “Then I shall follow.” You frowned. “And if I run?” His eyes darkened with amusement. “Then I shall chase.” You let out a quiet, shaky laugh, shaking your head. “You speak of me as though I belong to you.” “Don’t you?” The question hung in the air between you, heavier than any spell, more binding than any seal. You thought of the Silver Tree, of Elder Faerie Cookie’s pained expression as he turned away from you for the last time. Of the home you had lost, of the kingdom that would pretend you never existed. You thought of how, despite it all, you did not regret it. Because the truth was, you had always been running. From duty. From expectation. From a life that had never truly been your own. And now, at last, there was no need to run. Not when you stood before the one who had always seen you. Swallowing, you met his gaze fully. “And what now?” Shadow Milk Cookie smiled, slow and knowing, taking your hand in his. “Now?” He leaned in, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Now, we rewrite the world.”

A/N I hope this ending was satisfactory I didn't want to rush to get to the ending. I really loved writing this and I took a little longer when tweaking it because I didn't like the ending I had written so I rewrote it please enjoy <3

#cr kingdom #crk #cookie run #cookie run kingdom #crk shadow milk cookie #shadow milk #shadow milk x reader #shadow milk crk #shadow milk cookie crk #shmilk #shadow milk cookie #crk fanfic #cookierun kingdom

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satoruness · 3 hours ago

Text

golden — s . gojo x reader

synopsis — satoru gojo is your bestfriend and you are his. but sometimes, lines between friendship and something more seem to blur.

pairing — bestfriend! satoru x reader

word count — 10.6 k

warnings — making out, somewhat heavy petting, they take off each other's shirts but that's about it LOL, angst (not a sad ending though), reader feels unwanted at times.

Satoru Gojo.

How long have you known him? Your whole life, probably.

Scratch that. Not your whole life, but definitely the majority of it.

It started in preschool.

You were the quiet kid—the one who clung to the edges of the classroom, never quite fitting into the messy, chaotic whirlwind of children who seemed to make friends like it was the easiest thing in the world. You didn’t know how they did it—how they found each other in the noise, how they paired up so effortlessly, how they just knew where they belonged.

You, on the other hand, spent most of your time alone, stacking blocks in the corner, drawing quietly, or waiting for the teacher to tell you what to do next.

And then there was him.

Satoru Gojo, the loudest, brightest, most obnoxiously happy kid you’d ever met. He was the kind of child who ran instead of walked, who laughed at things no one else found funny, who always had a scrape on his knee but never seemed to care. He was larger than life, in a way that made your stomach twist—not quite jealousy, not quite admiration, just… confusion.

So when he plopped down next to you one day, completely uninvited, you weren’t sure what to do.

“Whatcha doin’?” he asked, peering at the tiny house you were building out of wooden blocks.

You shrugged. “Building.”

“Cool,” he said, grinning. “Can I help?”

You hesitated. You didn’t want help. But before you could answer, he was already reaching for the blocks, stacking them in ways that made no sense.

“You’re ruining it,” you mumbled, frowning.

He blinked at you, then back at the house. “Oh.” And then, without missing a beat, he knocked it over entirely.

You gasped, horrified.

He just laughed. “Now we can build it again!”

You decided, in that exact moment, that you hated him.

But Satoru Gojo was persistent.

He started following you around—not in a creepy way, just in an annoying way. Every time you thought you’d shaken him off, he’d pop up again like a bad penny, grinning that ridiculous grin of his.

Eventually, you just… let him.

It was easier than trying to get rid of him.

And somewhere along the way, he became your first real friend.

Your moms met not long after.

It happened at pickup time, when Satoru ran straight past his usual waiting spot to grab your hand instead. “Can I go to their house?” he asked his mom, all wide eyes and uncontainable energy. “Please, please, please?”

Your mom looked vaguely alarmed, having not expected to suddenly be responsible for another child, but Satoru’s mom just laughed.

And that was that.

Your friendship expanded beyond the preschool walls, spilling into weekends and playdates. Satoru’s house became as familiar as your own, with its too-big windows and fancy furniture that he absolutely wasn’t supposed to jump on (but did anyway). In return, he practically lived at your place, showing up unannounced, eating snacks straight from your pantry, making himself at home in a way that should have been irritating but never really was.

By the time middle school rolled around, he was less of a friend and more of a permanent fixture in your life.

“Okay, but listen,” Satoru said one afternoon, sprawled across your bedroom floor, Switch in hand. “If you had to pick one Digimon partner, like one to be stuck with for the rest of your life, who would it be?”

You barely looked up from your homework. “I don’t know. Agumon?”

“Agumon?” he repeated, scandalized. “That’s so basic. It’s like saying your favorite Pokémon is Pikachu.”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s literally the main character’s Digimon.”

“Exactly!” He threw his hands up. “No originality. None. Zero. I expected better from you.”

“You asked me,” you pointed out, rolling your eyes.

“Yeah, but I thought you’d at least think about it.” He sighed, dramatically flopping onto his back. “I should’ve known. I’m best friends with a casual fan.”

“You should be grateful you have a best friend at all,” you shot back.

Satoru grinned, tilting his head toward you. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

At some point, he started wearing glasses. Not for fashion, not because he wanted to, but because years of staring at screens in the dark, playing Digimon and Pokémon and whatever else he was obsessed with at the time, had officially caught up to him.

“I’m blind,” he announced the day he got them, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely, totally blind.”

You snorted. “You’re, like, mildly nearsighted.”

“Same thing,” he said, already taking them off to examine them. “Do I look smarter with them?”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it. “Not really.”

“Rude.” He huffed, sliding them back on. “What about cooler?”

You threw a pillow at his face.

He laughed, catching it easily. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

—

Then came high school.

At first, nothing changed.

Satoru was still Satoru—loud, annoying, always in your space. He still showed up at your house unannounced, still texted you at odd hours about random nonsense, still sat next to you at lunch like it was a law of the universe. He was your best friend. Your person.

And for the first two years, you were inseparable.

There wasn’t a single moment where people saw one of you without the other. Satoru Gojo and you. You and Satoru Gojo. Always a pair. Whether it was cramming for exams together, getting kicked out of the arcade because he got too competitive, or spending Friday nights playing whatever old game he got obsessed with that month, he was your constant.

Until junior year.

It started small.

A casual comment in gym class about how fast he was. A joke from a teacher about how he should try out for the football team. A half-dare from some of the guys he barely knew.

And somehow, against all odds, Satoru Gojo became an athlete.

You didn’t think much of it at first. It was just another one of his phases, right? Like that time he swore he’d master speedrunning or decided he was going to learn five languages at once. But he was good—annoyingly good. Tall, fast, with ridiculous reflexes that made him impossible to catch on the field.

And people noticed.

By mid-season, he wasn’t just some new player—he was the star. The guy everyone knew, the guy who had a crowd around him in the hallways, the guy who got called out over the school speakers for game-winning plays.

The guy who no longer just belonged to you.

The first time you really felt it was when he showed up at your house one evening. That part was normal. He still did that, still made himself at home on your couch, still stole whatever snacks he wanted.

But something was different.

You were sprawled out on your bed, flipping through a book, when you glanced up and noticed.

“Where are your glasses?” you asked.

Satoru blinked, as if he had to think about it. “Oh. Right.” He shrugged, plopping down next to you. “They’re kind of a hazard in football, so I switched to contacts. Figured I’d just stick with them.”

You sat up, frowning. “But you hate contacts.”

He grinned, stretching lazily. “Not anymore.”

And just like that, something in your chest twisted.

It wasn’t just the glasses.

It was the way he stopped rambling about Digimon, the way he never asked if you wanted to rewatch old anime together anymore. It was the way his schedule started filling up with team hangouts and parties you weren’t invited to. It was the way people started looking at you differently when you were with him.

Because Satoru Gojo wasn’t just Satoru Gojo anymore.

He was Gojo.

Senior year was when it really started to hurt.

He still sat with you at lunch, still texted you silly memes at night, still acted like nothing had changed. But everything had.

He would often cancel on your invitations, his responses still typed in that absurd, unmistakable way of his—yet his excuses always seemed to follow a familiar pattern. It was always something urgent, something unavoidable: he had to rush off to practice, or there was a party he couldn’t miss, or someone needed his help and he simply couldn’t bring himself to say no. Each time, it felt like a rehearsed script, as though his priorities were perpetually elsewhere, leaving you to wonder if you’d ever truly make the cut.

Every time he plopped down next to you, people stared. Whispered.

“Why’s he sitting with her?”

“Shouldn't he sit with the rest of the team?”

“Is she, like, his childhood obligation or something?”

You weren’t an idiot. You heard it. You felt it.

And it made you snap.

“You don’t have to sit here, you know,” you muttered one day, keeping your eyes on your tray.

Satoru frowned. “What?”

“I said, you don’t have to sit here,” you repeated, sharper this time. “If you’d rather be with your actual friends—”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

You clenched your jaw, hating how defensive he sounded. “Nothing. Forget it.”

He didn’t forget it.

You fought about it. About how he didn’t get it, about how easy everything was for him, about how he could walk into any room and belong while you felt like you had to justify existing.

“You act like I abandoned you,” he snapped, voice low and frustrated. “But I’m right here. I’ve always been here.”

And you hated that he was somewhat right.

So you patched things up. Not because you fully understood each other, but because you both wanted to. And by the time graduation rolled around, you could almost pretend things had gone back to the way they were.

But then came college.

And somehow, Satoru Gojo managed to be even more himself than ever.

Bigger. Louder. More impossible to ignore.

If high school had turned him into a star, then college made him a supernova.

He was everywhere—at parties, in clubs, on the field. Everyone knew him. Everyone wanted to be around him.

And somehow, despite it all, he still tried to keep you close.

“Come with me tonight,” he’d say, sending you an invite to some massive party. “It’ll be fun.”

You always said no.

At first, he laughed it off. But after a while, he started looking at you differently—like he noticed the way you avoided him now, the way you barely answered his texts, the way you pulled away whenever he tried to meet your eyes.

And one night, when he showed up outside your dorm after another party, half-drunk and grinning, you saw the exact moment that grin faltered.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Why would I be mad at you?” you replied, your tone lighter than you felt, as if you could brush the question aside with a casual shrug.

Satoru studied you intently, his glasses nowhere to be found, his hair disheveled from running his hands through it one too many times. His gaze was sharp, unrelenting. “Because you’re avoiding me,” he said, his voice steady but laced with something you couldn’t quite place—frustration, maybe, or hurt.

You forced a laugh, the sound brittle and unconvincing. “I’m not—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he interrupted, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “Not you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and your throat tightened. You looked away, unable to hold his gaze. “It’s just—” you began, your voice faltering as you struggled to piece together the thoughts that had been swirling in your mind for weeks. “You don’t need me anymore, Satoru. You have them. All your cool—I don’t know, jock and cheerleader friends, everyone else who likes you. You don’t have time for me now.”

He blinked, his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice rising slightly, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. His hands gestured vaguely, as though trying to grasp the words you’d just thrown at him. “You think I’d just—replace you? Like it’s that easy? No, like seriously fucking explain to me what the absolute hell you mean?” He mutters out angrily, words slightly slurred.

The air between you felt heavy, charged with emotions neither of you had fully acknowledged until now. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat, leaving only silence hanging in the space between you.

You let out a bitter laugh. “It means I’m tired, Satoru. Tired of feeling like a ghost when I’m with you. Tired of pretending I’m okay with being the weird friend you keep around out of habit.”

Satoru opened his mouth, then closed it.

And for the first time in your life, you saw it—hurt. Real, genuine hurt in his stupidly bright eyes.

“You think that’s what this is?” he said, voice quieter now. “Habit?”

You didn’t answer.

Because if you did, you might have to admit that you missed him. That you missed the late-night anime marathons, the dumb inside jokes, the way he used to act like you were the only person in the world that mattered.

But you weren’t sure if that version of him still existed.

And you definitely weren’t sure if you had the courage to find out.

Satoru stared at you for a long time, the weight of your words settling between you like a stone. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, couldn’t decipher the way his lips pressed into a thin line, the way his fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach for something—but wasn’t sure if he should.

Then, after what felt like forever, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

“I don’t get it,” he admitted, voice lower now, quieter, like he was afraid too many words would push you further away. “You’re acting like I left you behind, but I’m right here.”

You bit your lip. “You don’t see it.”

“Then make me see it,” he shot back, suddenly frustrated. “Because all I know is that one day we were fine, and the next, you started treating me like a stranger.”

That stung.

Because wasn’t that what he did first?

He wasn’t the one being looked at differently in high school when he sat next to you at lunch. He wasn’t the one feeling like a burden when you tagged along with him to something you thought was just going to be the two of you. He wasn’t the one realizing, little by little, that your best friend was outgrowing you.

But how could you even say that? How could you explain it in a way he’d understand?

“It’s not just one thing, Satoru,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s… everything.”

Satoru exhaled sharply, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “That’s real specific.”

You rolled your eyes, the exhaustion settling deep into your bones. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Try me.”

You hesitated. He looked serious, standing there under the dim glow of the dorm hallway lights, arms crossed, gaze steady. But what would it change? Telling him wouldn’t undo the years of growing distance, wouldn’t erase the fact that you felt like you didn’t fit in his world anymore.

Maybe it was better to let it go.

So you shook your head, stepping back toward your door. “It’s late. You should go.”

Satoru let out a quiet, frustrated laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fine,” he said, jaw tightening. “Run away, then. You’re good at that.”

That hurt more than it should have.

But you didn’t argue. You just stepped inside, closed the door, and pretended the ache in your chest wasn’t real.

It got worse after that.

You thought maybe that argument would clear the air—that he’d finally see why you had been keeping your distance. But if anything, it only made things weirder.

Satoru still texted you, but not as much. He still invited you to things, but there was something almost hesitant in the way he asked, like he was bracing for rejection. And when you turned him down (because of course you did), his replies became shorter, more clipped.

Then, one night, he stopped asking altogether.

You didn’t realize how much you had come to expect it—his name popping up on your phone, his easy confidence that somehow, eventually, you’d say yes. But when Friday night came and went without a text, something inside you twisted.

Maybe this was what you wanted. Maybe it was easier this way.

So why did it feel so awful?

A week later, you ran into him by accident.

Literally.

You were coming out of the campus library, arms full of books, when someone rounded the corner too fast and nearly tackled you.

“Oh, shit—sorry—”

You looked up, heart dropping to your stomach.

Satoru.

Your hands clenched around the books, pulse stuttering. It had only been a week, but he already looked different—like he’d fully settled into his role as that guy. Loose hoodie, messy hair, the faint scent of cologne and something vaguely alcoholic clinging to him.

You swallowed hard. “Hey.”

His expression flickered—just for a second. “Hey.”

It was awkward. Awkward. When had things ever been awkward between you?

You shifted your grip on your books. “Uh—sorry. Didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah, no, my bad,” he cut in quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Silence stretched between you. Too long, too tense.

Then, suddenly, his eyes dropped to the stack in your arms. “Of course you’re carrying, like, ten books at once.”

It was such a Satoru thing to say that, for a second, you almost smiled.

Then his gaze flicked up to yours, something softer in his expression, and your breath hitched.

And then—

A voice called his name from across the quad. Some guy you didn’t know, waving him over. Satoru hesitated. Then, with a small exhale, he gave you a lopsided grin. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

He didn’t wait for a response before turning away.

And you stood there, watching him go, feeling like something important had just slipped through your fingers.

Days passed. Then a week. Then two.

And for the first time in years, Satoru Gojo wasn’t part of your life anymore.

No more texts. No more unannounced visits. No more standing at your dorm door at 2 AM, grinning like he belonged there.

You had wanted this, hadn’t you? You had wanted the space, the distance, the freedom to not be caught in his orbit.

But now, without him, everything just felt… quiet. You hated it.

You missed him.

—

It was months before you and Satoru spoke again.

At first, you kept waiting for him to text you, to pop up at your door with some stupid excuse, to send you a meme like nothing had happened. But days passed. Then weeks. Then months. And Satoru Gojo—your best friend since childhood—became just another person you saw in passing.

Sometimes, you spotted him across the quad, surrounded by his usual crowd. Sometimes, you caught glimpses of him at the library, laughing too loudly with friends who barely even acknowledged your existence.

And it hurt.

More than you wanted to admit, it hurt.

But you told yourself this was how things were meant to be. That he had moved on, and you needed to do the same. That whatever had existed between you belonged to another lifetime, one where you weren’t the quiet girl who spent her nights buried in books, and he wasn’t the golden boy who belonged to the whole damn world.

You thought you were doing fine. You thought you were getting used to it.

Until the professor announced lab partners.

The moment your name was called, a small, high-pitched voice cut through the classroom.

“Uh… who?”

Laughter rippled through the room. You felt your face go hot, every muscle in your body locking up as the girl—some blonde from Satoru’s usual group—looked around in exaggerated confusion.

It was humiliating.

Because she wasn’t just some random classmate. She was someone who had spent actual time with Satoru. Who had probably been to his dorm, who had probably sat next to him at parties, who had probably heard him talk about people in his life.

And she had no idea who you were.

You didn’t even dare look at Satoru. Didn’t want to see his reaction. Didn’t want to see whether he’d step in, whether he’d say anything—

But he didn’t.

He didn’t laugh, but he didn’t correct her either.

Didn’t turn to acknowledge you. Didn’t make some joke to brush past it. Didn’t do anything at all.

Just stared at the table like he was somewhere else entirely.

And that, somehow, was worse than anything.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral as you scribbled down the details of the assignment. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t a big deal. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

—

Working with Satoru again was… weird.

Not just because of everything that had happened between you, but because neither of you seemed to know how to be around each other anymore.

Gone were the days of effortless conversation, of teasing remarks and stolen fries and arguments about Digimon evolutions. Now, everything felt stilted, careful, like you were two strangers trying to relearn the language of each other.

Sometimes, it almost felt normal.

Like when you sat across from each other in the library, bent over research notes, and he’d randomly hum the Sailor Moon theme song under his breath. Or when he muttered something stupid under his breath about the professor’s handwriting, and you nearly choked on your water holding back a laugh.

But then, inevitably, the moment would pass.

Because girls from his usual group would come over, acting like you weren’t even there, their voices too sweet as they draped themselves over the back of his chair.

“Satoru, are you coming to the party on Friday?”

“Satoru, when are you free? We should all hang out.”

And he’d always answer them. Always give some noncommittal shrug or a lazy smirk. But you could tell—even if no one else seemed to notice—that he wasn’t really there. That when he looked at them, he wasn’t listening.

And yet, he never told them to leave. Never told them that you were working. Never acknowledged you at all when they were around. So, after a while, you just stopped expecting him to.

And then, one day, you got sick.

Not just a little sick. Not just a sore throat or a cough you could push through. No, you were the kind of sick that made your whole body ache, that sent shivers down your spine no matter how many blankets you curled under.

But it was a project day. And despite everything, you still had responsibilities. So, begrudgingly, you shot Satoru a text.

Come to my dorm. I can’t go out today.

He didn’t reply right away. But twenty minutes later, there was a knock at your door. You barely managed to drag yourself over, your vision swimming slightly as you opened it.

And there he was.

Looking the same as always—messy white hair, sharp blue eyes, hoodie slung over his frame like he’d just rolled out of bed.

The only difference? The way his expression immediately dropped the second he saw you.

“Shit,” he muttered. “You look awful.”

You groaned, stepping aside to let him in. “Thanks for the confidence boost.” He kicked off his shoes, setting his bag down before eyeing you carefully. “Have you been drinking water? Eating enough? D’you eat somethin’ you weren’t meant to eat?”

You rolled your eyes. “How am I supposed to know, I just woke up sick as hell.”

Instead of a snarky remark, Satoru just sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Then, before you could protest, he was guiding you toward the bed, nudging you to sit.

“You’re not working like this,” he said firmly. “Lie down.”

“I’m fine—”

“Lie down.”

You hesitated.

This wasn’t him. This wasn’t the version of Satoru you had gotten used to in the past year. The one who was always a little distant, a little out of reach. This was… him.

The Satoru you had known since childhood. The one who always knew when you were exhausted, even when you swore you weren’t. The one who used to push his fries onto your plate when you were too stressed to eat.

The one who, for the first time in months, was looking at you like you were still his best friend. So, slowly, you lay back down.

Satoru exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll get you some tea or something. You have any?” You nodded weakly. He moved toward your desk, rummaging through your stash of instant tea packets like he had done it a million times before.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was familiar.

Safe.

And even though you felt like death warmed over, for the first time in months, you didn’t feel so alone.

—

From that day on, something shifted.

It wasn’t immediate, and it wasn’t dramatic, but it was there—a quiet, almost imperceptible change in the way things were between you and Satoru. The library, once the default meeting spot for your project sessions, was suddenly off the table. He stopped suggesting it altogether, and at first, you didn’t think much of it. But then, one afternoon, he showed up at your dorm unannounced, arms loaded with snacks and a careless shrug when you stared at him, bewildered.

“Library’s too loud,” he said, brushing past you and stepping inside like he owned the place. “Figured we’d get more done here.”

You didn’t question it. Not then, and not a week later when you found yourself in his dorm instead, sitting cross-legged on his bed while he scrolled through research notes on his laptop.

“Library’s too crowded,” he explained that time, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

After that, it just became… routine. Your project meetings moved from the library to your dorms, back and forth, as if by some unspoken agreement. The shift was gradual, almost imperceptible, but it was there. You still weren’t quite friends again—not the way you used to be, back when everything was easy and uncomplicated. There was still a careful distance between you, an unspoken awareness of all the time that had been lost, all the moments that had slipped through your fingers. But things weren’t cold anymore. They weren’t distant.

Satoru filled the quiet moments with mindless chatter, the way he always had. He teased you about your typos, stole your pens when you weren’t looking, and groaned dramatically whenever you made him do too much reading. Slowly, bit by bit, the pieces of your friendship started falling back into place. Not completely. Not yet. But enough that sometimes, when the two of you were laughing over something stupid, it almost felt like the past year had never happened.

Then, one day, everything cracked open.

It was late—much later than usual—and the two of you were sitting in his dorm, textbooks and notebooks sprawled across his desk. You were both exhausted, the kind of tired that made your eyes burn and your thoughts sluggish. Satoru was absentmindedly flipping through one of your old notebooks when he suddenly snorted.

“Oh my God.”

You blinked up at him, too tired to muster more than a mumbled, “What?”

He turned the notebook toward you, pointing at a messy doodle in the margin. It was a Digimon—a rough, scribbled outline that barely resembled anything recognizable. But something about it made him grin, leaning back in his chair like he’d just uncovered a hidden treasure.

“Damn,” he said, shaking his head. “Feels like a whole different lifetime ago.”

And then, in a voice so casual, so familiar, he added—

“Remember when we made a whole ass PowerPoint ranking every Digimon evolution?”

That was it.

That was what broke you.

It was so stupid—just a random memory, an offhand remark. But the second he said it, something in your chest twisted violently. You clenched your jaw, swallowing hard, telling yourself not to be dramatic. But then your vision blurred, and suddenly, you were crying.

“Oh—oh shit.”

Satoru’s chair scraped against the floor as he shot up, eyes wide with panic. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

You barely managed to shake your head, your hands gripping your knees as you tried to steady yourself. But the tears kept coming, and then—through the hiccups, through the pathetic, trembling gasps—you broke.

You clenched your jaw, trying to hold it together, but the tears spilled over anyway. Your chest heaved as you choked out the words, “I miss you. I—God, Satoru, I miss you.”

His face went slack, his usual confidence faltering as he stared at you, stunned. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak, like he was trying to process what you’d just said. Then his voice came out quiet, almost fragile. “What are you talking about? I’m right here.”

You shook your head, your hands gripping your knees so tightly your knuckles turned white. “No, you’re not. Not really. You’ve been… gone. For so long. And I—” Your voice broke, and you hated how weak you sounded, how raw and exposed you felt. “I don’t want to be without you anymore. I don’t��I don’t want you to hate me.”

Satoru’s breath hitched, and for the first time, you saw his composure crack. His eyes glistened, and he blinked rapidly, like he was trying to fight it, but a single tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly, his voice trembling as he muttered, “You’re so fucking stupid. How could I ever hate you?”

You let out a shaky laugh, but it came out more like a sob. “I don’t know. You just—you stopped talking to me. You stopped needing me. And I thought… I thought you didn’t care anymore.”

He shook his head, his hands reaching out like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure if he should. “I care. I care so much it’s stupid. I just—” He paused, his voice cracking. “I didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t know how to come back after everything. It felt like you were pushing me away.”

“You could’ve just— I don’t even know what to say,” you hiccuped, your voice barely audible. “You could’ve just… stayed. I don’t know— like yell at me, tell me that you care for me or something. I wish I wasn’t so stubborn about not speaking to you either, but god, maybe I just wanted you to like— tell me how much you needed me. Because it never felt like you did anymore.”

Satoru’s face crumpled, and he let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping like the weight of everything had finally caught up to him. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice raw. “I’m so sorry for leaving you behind. I didn’t mean to. I just… I didn’t know how to be around you without feeling like I’d already ruined everything.”

You looked up at him, your vision blurred by tears. “You didn’t ruin anything. I just… I needed you. And you weren’t there. And really, it was my fault too, for not communicating—”

He cuts you off, his own tears falling freely now, though he didn’t seem to care. “I know. But I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you. I just… I didn’t know how to fix it. I— I should’ve been there for you more often because God, life without you is just so horrible, and I’ve been so horrible— ”

“You’re fixing it now,” you said, your voice trembling. “Just… don’t leave me again. Please.”

He let out a choked laugh, his hands finally reaching for you, pulling you into his chest. His arms wrapped around you tightly, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. “I won’t,” he murmured into your hair. “I won’t. I promise.”

You buried your face in his shirt, your hands clutching the fabric as you cried. His body shook against yours, and you realized he was crying too—quietly, almost like he was trying to hide it, but you could feel the way his breath hitched, the way his hands trembled as they held you.

“I missed you too,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Every fucking day. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

You didn’t respond, couldn’t respond, because the weight of everything—the months of silence, the distance, the ache of missing him—was finally crashing down on you. But for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t a bad kind of crash. It was relief. It was the feeling of something broken finally starting to heal.

Satoru’s hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he held you closer. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, his voice firm despite the tears. “Not again. Not ever.”

You nodded against his chest, your tears soaking into his shirt. “Okay,” you whispered. “Okay.”

It took a long time for the tears to stop, for the sobs to quiet into shaky breaths. But even when they did, neither of you moved. Satoru kept holding you, his arms tight around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt safe. You felt like you were home.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red and puffy, but he was smiling—a small, tentative smile that made your chest ache in the best way. “You’re stuck with me now, like y’know, the annoying kid who’d follow you around as kids,” he said, his voice soft. “Just so you know.”

You laughed, the sound watery but genuine. “Good. Because I miss that Satoru, and I’m not letting you go again either.”

He grinned, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Deal.”

And just like that, something shifted. The distance between you closed, the cracks in your friendship slowly mending. It wasn’t perfect—not yet—but it was a start. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like everything was going to be okay.

—

After that night, Satoru made it a point to talk to you during class.

It was weird at first—uncomfortable, even. Because now, whenever he sat beside you, people stared. People whispered. But Satoru didn’t care. And after a while, neither did you.

Then, one day, it happened.

You were in the middle of a conversation when one of the girls from his usual group strolled up, her friends lingering just behind her.

“Dude,” she drawled, arms crossed. “We’re waiting for you.”

Satoru didn’t acknowledge her.

She huffed, looking at you for the first time.

“Who even are you?” she said, wrinkling her nose.

Silence.

Then—calmly, lazily—Satoru turned to her.

“Fuck off.”

Her expression twisted. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, resting his chin in his hand. “We’re talking.”

You swore you saw steam coming out of her ears.

She spun on her heel, storming off in a flurry of designer fabric, and Satoru just turned back to you like nothing had happened.

You blinked at him, stunned. “That was… aggressive.”

He shrugged. “Don’t like her.”

You snorted. “You used to hang out with her all the time.”

“Yeah, well.” He gave you a pointed look. “I was an idiot.”

And maybe it was the way he said it. Maybe it was the certainty in his voice, the way he leaned in just a little closer like this—this—was what mattered.

But for the first time in a long time, you felt something settle inside you. Something warm. Something steady. Something that told you, without a doubt—

Satoru Gojo wasn’t leaving you behind again.

—

It happened slowly.

At first, it was just the way things had been before. You and Satoru were best friends again—finally, properly—and you were making up for lost time.

You sat together in lectures. You ate together between classes. You spent hours holed up in each other’s dorms, either working in silence or complaining about whatever god-awful assignment was due next.

And it was good. It was easy.

But then—then—things started to shift.

It was subtle at first.

A hand brushing against yours for just a little too long. The warmth of his body pressed against yours in a too-crowded study session, his breath fanning over your ear as he leaned in, muttering something you could barely focus on.

The way his eyes lingered when he thought you weren’t looking.

The way yours lingered, too.

—

It was a Friday night, and you were at Satoru’s dorm, lying on his bed while he sat at his desk, spinning lazily in his chair.

“I don’t wanna study,” he whined, stretching his arms over his head. “Let’s do something fun.”

You turned a page in your book, unimpressed. “And what exactly do you define as ‘fun’?”

“Dunno,” he mused. “Wanna go for a drive?”

You sighed. “Satoru, it’s almost midnight.”

“And?” He grinned, kicking his feet up onto his desk. “C’mon, live a little.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose. “You just don’t want to do your readings.”

“Obviously.” He snorted. “But also, I feel like getting snacks.”

You hesitated, torn.

Then, finally—

“Fine.”

His eyes lit up. “Knew you’d cave.”

You rolled your eyes, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go before I change my mind.”

—

It was raining by the time you got to the convenience store.

Not heavily—just a light drizzle, enough to make the streets shimmer under the streetlights.

Satoru grabbed half the store’s supply of junk food while you rolled your eyes, paying for your single bottle of tea. Outside, the air was cool, the pavement slick beneath your feet.

“I’m driving,” you said as he dug through his bag of snacks.

“Nah.” He grinned, tossing a chip into his mouth. “I got this.”

You gave him a look. “You almost crashed last time.”

He scoffed. “That was a red light, not a crash.”

“You ran the red light.”

“Meow.”

You cringe, snatching the keys from his pocket. “Oh my god. Absolutely not.”

Satoru laughed but let you.

And for some reason, that made your stomach flip.

—

Back at your dorm, Satoru made himself at home—because of course he did.

He sprawled across your bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other mindlessly tossing a snack in the air and catching it with his mouth.

“You should be paying me rent at this point,” you muttered, shutting the door behind you.

“I would,” he said, grinning, “but I’m broke.”

You huffed, settling onto the bed beside him. “What, your trust fund isn’t enough?”

He smirked. “Nah, gotta save that for important things.”

You rolled your eyes. “Right. Like overpriced sunglasses.”

“Exactly.”

You shook your head, reaching for the remote.

And then—a shift.

Satoru turned his head to look at you, and when you met his gaze, something in his expression softened.

“Hey,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “Hey.”

He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Your breath hitched.

His fingers lingered at your temple, just for a moment. His touch was warm, featherlight.

You exhaled, heartbeat stuttering.

And then—just as quickly—he pulled back, flopping onto his back with a dramatic groan.

“What should we watch?” he asked, stretching like nothing had happened.

You exhaled.

Your chest felt tight.

“Uh.” You cleared your throat. “Dunno.”

And just like that, the moment passed.

—

But the tension didn’t. If anything, it only got worse.

It was in the way his hand brushed your waist when he reached past you.

The way he sat just a little too close, his knee knocking against yours under the desk.

The way his fingers trailed across your wrist when he grabbed something from you, his touch slow, deliberate.

And—God—it was in the way he looked at you.

Like you were something he couldn’t quite figure out.

Like he was waiting for something.

Like he wanted something.

And maybe—just maybe—so did you.

—

By the time second year rolled around, you weren’t sure what you and Satoru were anymore. Still best friends, technically. Still Satoru and you. But there was something else, too.

Something unspoken.

Something fragile and complicated and new. And neither of you dared to acknowledge it.

—

The weather had started to change, the air cooler as autumn crept in. You could feel it in your bones—when the days shortened, and the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows. It made everything seem a little softer, like the world had gone quiet just to give you and Satoru a chance to breathe, to figure things out.

You were both sitting in the small, somewhat neglected corner of the university park, surrounded by towering trees with golden leaves fluttering to the ground. You were both on the grass, sitting close enough that your shoulders brushed whenever you shifted. It was the kind of quiet afternoon you could’ve stayed in forever, and maybe that was why you weren’t quite ready to let it end.

Satoru stretched, his arms reaching high above his head. “Ugh, my back’s killing me. Who knew studying could be so physically demanding?” He rolled his shoulders, groaning dramatically.

You shot him a sidelong glance, your lips curling into a smile despite yourself. “I think that’s just you, Satoru. You’re a professional at making everything harder than it is.”

He shot you a grin, a smug little thing, like he knew you couldn’t resist teasing him back. “Oh, please, I make things look easy. It's a gift.”

You rolled your eyes. ��Yeah, yeah, the great Satoru Gojo.”

He raised an eyebrow at that, catching the teasing tone in your voice. “That’s right. You should be honored to sit next to greatness.” He nudged your shoulder with his, the warmth of his body spilling into yours. The touch was light but undeniable. Familiar.

You chuckled, nudging him back. “I don’t know if I’d call you ‘great’ when you still lose to me in Mario Kart every time.”

Satoru gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like you’d just struck a mortal wound. “You—I’m just going easy on you because I don’t want you to feel bad. I’m a gentleman like that.”

You could hear the playful teasing in his voice, but the way he looked at you—his eyes crinkling at the corners with that boyish grin—felt like something deeper.

“I don’t need you to go easy on me,” you teased, leaning in just a bit too much, your voice soft. “I’m pretty good on my own, thanks.”

That was when you noticed it—the way his eyes flickered for a second, his lips curving down ever so slightly before he caught himself. His gaze held yours for a second longer than normal, and for the first time in a while, you both just stayed there. Not a word. No jokes or banter. Just the space between you thick with unspoken things.

Satoru was the first to look away, clearing his throat. “Anyway, want me to go grab us something from that little café over there? You could use some food if you’re gonna keep up with me.”

You hesitated. He’s back to that again. The Satoru who was always making sure you were fed, always thinking ahead for both of you, even when he had to act like nothing was different.

But you didn’t want to ruin the moment, not now. Not when everything felt right.

“No, I’m good,” you said softly, shaking your head. “But... thanks.”

Satoru studied you for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly, before he dropped his shoulders with a sigh. “I swear, you’re impossible.” But even as he said it, his hand reached out—just a quick pat of his large hand atop yours. The briefest of contact, and for a moment, the world paused around you.

The warmth of his hand lingered even after it was gone, and you could feel your chest tightening, your pulse picking up. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

And for the rest of the afternoon, you stayed like that. Silent. Comfortable in the space between you, letting the quiet be enough. But you both knew it wasn’t just the park that made the air heavy—it was everything unsaid that clung to it.

Eventually, the sun began to dip low on the horizon, casting long shadows that stretched across the grass. You sighed, looking up at Satoru. “We should probably get back soon. It’s getting late.”

He glanced at his phone, then at you, and nodded. “Yeah. You’re right.” He paused. “Hey, you want to walk with me to my dorm? I’m not ready to head back alone yet.”

It wasn’t even a question, not really. But you could feel his eyes on you, like he was waiting for your answer to matter just as much as the offer itself.

You nodded, and the tension between you both lifted just a little as you both stood, stretching out the stiffness in your legs. “Sure, let’s go.”

As you and Satoru walked side by side, the night air crisp and cool against your skin, the silence between you felt heavier than before. It wasn’t uncomfortable—quite the opposite. It was charged, like something waiting to tip over the edge. Every step you took together seemed to draw you closer, and you could feel the warmth of his body beside you, even in the chill of the evening.

You weren’t sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, his hand brushed against yours again. This time, neither of you pulled away. The tips of his fingers grazed your knuckles—light, tentative. Like he was testing the waters. Like he was waiting for you to stop him.

But you didn’t.

You swallowed, trying to focus on the rhythmic crunch of leaves beneath your feet rather than the way your skin tingled where he touched you. It was such a small thing, barely even a touch, but it sent your heart skittering against your ribs. And when you finally dared to glance up at him, Satoru was already looking at you, his lips curled into something between amusement and something softer, something unreadable.

“What?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

Satoru tilted his head, his silver-white hair catching in the glow of the streetlights. “Nothing.”

A lie.

Because there was something—so much something—wrapped up in the way his eyes flickered over you, lingering for just a second too long on your lips before he looked ahead again.

The air between you felt tight, humming with something unsaid.

You were nearing his dorm now, the pathway growing quieter, fewer students passing by. It was just the two of you, footsteps slowing, the night pressing in close.

Satoru exhaled a slow breath, and then—without thinking, or maybe because he had been thinking about it too much—he reached out again. This time, his fingers laced through yours, not just a brush, not just an accident. A deliberate touch, a quiet declaration.

Your breath caught, and you felt him squeeze—just slightly, just enough.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice low, like he wasn’t sure he should be asking.

You nodded, your mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah. You?”

His lips twitched, like he wanted to smirk, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Dunno,” he said, squeezing your fingers again. “You’re kind of distracting.”

Your stomach flipped, heat crawling up your neck. “Oh, I’m distracting? That’s rich, coming from you.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound warm, teasing. “No, I mean it.” He stopped walking, tugging you gently by the hand so you turned to face him. “You ever notice how quiet things get when it’s just us?”

You blinked, your throat tightening. “Satoru—”

His free hand lifted, his fingertips barely skimming your jaw. He wasn’t quite touching, just there, like he was still giving you room to pull away. Like he wasn’t sure if he should close the space between you.

And God, you wanted him to.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. It would be so easy. Just one step closer. Just one little push, and—

Satoru exhaled sharply through his nose, his hand falling away, his fingers untangling from yours. He took a step back, running a hand through his hair. “Never mind,” he muttered, laughing under his breath like he was scolding himself. “Forget I said anything.”

Your fingers twitched at your sides, the absence of his touch making your skin feel cold.

“No,” you said, firmer than you expected. “I don’t want to.”

His head snapped up, eyes wide, startled. “You don’t?”

You took a breath, steeling yourself. “No.”

Satoru stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a low chuckle, he shook his head. “You really are impossible.”

And then, before you could overthink it, before you could talk yourself out of it—you stepped forward, pressing your palm against his chest, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his hoodie. His breath hitched, his body going still under your touch.

The silence stretched again, thick and unyielding.

“Say it,” you whispered.

His hands hovered at your sides, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. “Say what?”

You looked up at him, unflinching. “Whatever it is you’re holding back.”

Satoru exhaled, a sharp, unsteady thing. His hands finally settled on your waist, hesitant at first—then firmer, more certain. His fingers pressed into your hips, grounding himself in the feel of you.

And then, his voice—low, raw, real.

“I don’t want to be just your best friend anymore.”

Your breath caught.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The words hung between you, heavy and dangerous and everything.

Then, Satoru leaned in, his nose just barely brushing yours, his lips hovering so close. His breath was warm, and when he spoke again, it was barely a whisper.

“I want more.”

And then, finally—finally—you closed the space between you.

The kiss wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t shy. It was hungry, desperate, like the both of you had been waiting too long to do this, like neither of you wanted to waste another second. His lips crashed against yours, and you gasped against his mouth as he backed you up against the door of his dorm, hands gripping your waist tighter like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

Your fingers curled into his hoodie, tugging him closer, feeling the heat of him seep into you. His body pressed against yours, and the air between you turned thick with something intoxicating, something impossible to stop now that it had started. The small, breathless noises you made against his mouth only seemed to push him further, his fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt, thumbs brushing over your bare skin, warm and firm and so much.

The door behind you dug into your back, and for a fleeting moment, a thought broke through the haze—what if someone sees us?

As if he could read your mind, Satoru groaned against your lips, impatient, and without breaking the kiss, he reached behind you, fumbling for the handle. The second the door swung open, he practically pulled you inside with him, kicking it shut before his lips were on yours again, urgent, demanding.

You barely had a second to catch your breath before he was guiding you backwards, hands never leaving your body, mouth never straying too far from yours. You stumbled together, his grip firm, his kisses growing deeper, hotter, more insistent as you moved through the dark room.

By the time you reached the bedroom, your pulse was a wild, unsteady thing, your skin burning under his touch.

His mouth was warm and soft against yours, kissing your lips like he was afraid you were gonna disappear. Using his strength to his advantage, he manhandled you into his lap on the bed, while he sat up against the headboard. His tongue prodded into your mouth experimentally, and when you obliged him entry, he swirled it around with yours before licking into the cavern of your mouth, tasting you as if you were one of those sickeningly sweet delicacies he enjoyed.

His hands roamed from your waist to your hips, to your thighs before stopping hesitantly over your ass, to which you dragged them down until he was squeezing and kneading the supple flesh with his hands, mouth slotted against yours.

You pulled back slightly, gasping for air, your chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. But Satoru didn’t let you go far. His hands were firm on your ass, keeping you anchored to him as his lips trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, and you tilted your head to give him better access, your fingers tangling in his hair.

His mouth moved lower, pressing hot, lingering kisses along the column of your neck. Each touch of his lips against your skin felt like fire, and you couldn’t suppress the soft moan that escaped your throat. His hands slid up your sides, his touch firm but gentle, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. One hand came to rest on the small of your back, pulling you closer, while the other cupped the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

“Satoru,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper, but he didn’t respond—not with words, anyway. Instead, he captured your lips again in a desperate, hungry kiss that left you dizzy. His tongue slid against yours, and you melted into him, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance as the world around you seemed to fade away.

His hands roamed your body with a kind of urgency, as if he couldn’t get enough of you. One moment they were in your hair, the next sliding down your back, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you. You could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of his shirt, and you tugged at it impatiently, wanting—needing—to feel his skin against yours.

He broke the kiss long enough to yank his shirt over his head, tossing it aside before his lips were on yours again, more insistent this time. His hands found the hem of your top, and you lifted your arms without hesitation, letting him pull it off and discard it somewhere on the floor. The cool air of the room hit your skin, but it did nothing to quell the heat building inside you.

Satoru’s hands were everywhere—tracing the curve of your waist, skimming over your ribs, brushing the underside of your breast under your bra. You arched into him, chasing the friction, desperate for more.

His mouth found yours again, urgent and unrelenting, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, deliberate stroke that left you breathless. He kissed you like he wanted to consume you, like he didn’t care about anything else but this—you.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, your breaths mingling, heavy and uneven. Every kiss, every touch, every press of his hands left you dizzy, lost in the haze of heat and want.

And when he pulled back, just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide and his lips swollen from kissing, you swore you’d never seen him look at anything the way he was looking at you now.

Like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

Both of your chests were heaving, your own shirt flung on the bed somewhere and Satoru’s completely off and forgotten somewhere on the floor. His hands were still settled on your waist, thumbs tracing slow circles over your heated skin. His head lolled back against the couch, a lazy, satisfied grin stretching across his lips.

“Damn,” he exhaled, voice slightly hoarse. “I think I saw the pearly gates for a second there.”

You scoffed, giving his shoulder a weak shove, while reaching for your shirt. “Dramatic.”

He only laughed, the sound bright and breathless. “I mean it, nerd. Who knew you had it in you?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, fingers curling against his shoulders. “Satoru.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

His grin widened, but he obeyed—for all of two seconds. Then, with a teasing glint in his eyes, he waggled his brows. “You know, we should really make this a regular thing. Like, for health purposes. I feel like I just did an entire cardio session.”

You smacked his arm. “Oh my god.”

He gasped in mock offense, pressing a hand to his bare chest. “See? That was uncalled for. Here I am, trying to improve my well-being, and you’re—”

“Satoru.” You fixed him with a look, but the corners of your lips twitched. He was impossible.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating under your fingertips. “Okay, okay, I’ll be good.” His grip on your waist tightened slightly, as if to ground himself—or maybe to keep you exactly where you were. “But… just so we’re clear, this isn’t, like, a one-time thing, right?”

You blinked, his sudden shift in tone catching you off guard. His usual playfulness was still there, but there was something else beneath it—something genuine, something careful.

You swallowed. “What do you mean?”

His gaze flickered over your face, searching. “I mean…” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck before looking at you again. “I was serious, you know. About liking you. More than a friend.”

Your breath hitched. “You were?”

Satoru scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Obviously. You think I just let anyone straddle me and—”

You smacked his chest. “Can you not ruin the moment?”

He caught your wrist before you could pull away, lacing his fingers through yours. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, quieter. “I was serious,” he repeated. “I am serious.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I like you, and I want to do this properly.”

Your heart thudded against your ribs. “Properly?”

He nodded, suddenly looking almost shy. “Like… an actual date. Multiple dates. Boyfriend privileges. All that cute shit.” His lips curled into a lopsided grin. “So, what do you say?”

Your stomach flipped, warmth spreading through your chest. “You’re actually asking me out?”

Satoru huffed a laugh. “Well, yeah. What, you thought I’d just kiss you senseless and leave you hanging?”

You bit your lip, pretending to think. “I dunno. You are kind of a menace.”

His brows shot up. “A menace?”

You giggled, and he groaned, tightening his grip on your waist. “Okay, that’s it, you’re legally required to say yes now.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile stretching across your lips. “Yes, Satoru. I’ll go out with you.”

His face lit up, and before you could say anything else, he was kissing you again, arms wrapping fully around your waist. He shifted, rolling you onto the bed so he was hovering over you, his weight pressed deliciously against yours.

“Guess that makes you my girlfriend now,” he murmured against your lips. “Which means—” His fingers trailed down your side, teasing. “—I get unlimited make-out privileges.”

You huffed a laugh. “You’re so weird.”

“Would you like it if I said sex privileges too?”

“I’m gonna seriously hurt you—“

Satoru only smirked before cutting you off with another kiss.

—

A few months into dating Satoru, you realised three things.

One, he had absolutely no concept of personal space. If he was near you, he was touching you—whether it was throwing an arm over your shoulder, draping himself across your lap, or trapping you against a wall just to say hi like a complete menace.

Two, he was shamelessly, overwhelmingly, ridiculously obsessed with you. If he wasn’t texting you, he was calling. If he wasn’t calling, he was physically finding you. And if he couldn’t find you, he’d send a stupidly dramatic voice memo about how he was “perishing” without you.

And three, he was always teasing. Always testing his limits, pushing your buttons, flashing that damn smug grin whenever you got flustered.

Like right now.

“I think you should stay over.”

You blinked up at him from where you were curled up on his bed, wearing one of his hoodies that was way too big for you. “I am staying over.”

Satoru huffed, rolling onto his side and propping himself up on his elbow. “No, I mean, like, actually stay over. Move in.”

You snorted. “Satoru.”

“What? I’m serious.” He nudged your knee with his own. “Just think about it. That trust fund has enough money— actually maybe more— for an apartment near college. We basically live together anyway.”

“Not even close.”

He scoffed. “Oh, please. You leave clothes here, you steal my hoodies—”

“They’re practically dresses on me.”

“—and you’re here more than you’re at your own place.”

“That’s a lie.”

Satoru gasped dramatically. “Oh, so I’m imagining you in my bed every night?”

Your face warmed, but you shot him a glare. “You’re exaggerating.”

He only grinned, scooting closer until your noses nearly brushed. “You love sleeping here,” he drawled. “You love my bed, you love my cuddles, you love this d—”

You smacked a hand over his mouth, but it barely muffled his muffled laughter.

“I swear to God, Satoru—”

Before you could finish, he grabbed your wrist and flipped you onto your back, caging you beneath him in one smooth motion. His weight was just enough to make your breath hitch, his silver lashes casting shadows over sharp blue eyes.

“You love me,” he finished, his voice dipping lower, teasing, smug.

Your stomach flipped.

“…Debatable,” you muttered.

Satoru barked out a laugh. “Debatable?” He leaned down, nuzzling into your neck as his hands slid under his hoodie, warm palms settling against your waist. “You’re literally in my bed wearing my clothes right now.”

Your breath stuttered as he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss just below your ear.

“Admit it,” he murmured. “You’re obsessed with me.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, your fingers gripping his bare shoulders. “Satoru—”

“I mean, I don’t blame you.” He grinned against your skin, pressing another kiss, this one lower. “I am insanely hot.”

You groaned. “You ruin everything.”

Satoru laughed, bright and breathless, before rolling over, pulling you fully on top of him with ease. His hands never left your waist, fingertips dancing over your skin in slow, lazy patterns.

Then he suddenly reached behind him, grabbed something off the nightstand, and slid his glasses onto his face.

You blinked. “I thought you preferred contacts now?”

Satoru hummed, adjusting them slightly as he gazed up at you. “Yeah, but I dunno…” His lips curled into a small, lopsided smile. “You always liked me better in these, didn’t you?”

Your breath hitched slightly. He wasn’t wrong—there was something about the way his glasses framed his face, how they softened him just a little, made him look more like the Satoru you’d known before he became everyone else’s.

“…You’re so full of yourself,” you muttered.

His grin widened. “And yet, you’re still staring.”

You scoffed, reaching up to pluck them off his face, but he caught your wrist, tugging you down until your noses brushed.

“Admit it,” he murmured. “You like me better like this.”

Your heart pounded against your ribs.

“I like you anyway,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Something flickered in his eyes—something soft, something warm—before his grin turned teasing again. “Good,” he said, rolling you onto your back in one smooth motion. “Because I was gonna keep you here all night either way.”

You barely managed to mutter, “You’re so weird,” before he cut you off with another kiss.

i don't like this work at ALL lol but tbh i wrote this because i want to be wanted UGH hdhjsdh

#jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu gojo #jujutsu satoru #jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x reader #satoru x reader #jjk satoru x reader #jjk satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader smut #gojo smut #satoru x reader smut #gojo x reader smut #satoru gojo #satoru x you #gojo x you

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leclerc-hs · 3 hours ago

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tides of us - ln4

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader summary: in which you and lando have phd's in getting underneath each other's skin. warnings: language, NOT PROOFREAD, smut under the cut!!!, bad writing? word count: 11.4k.... author's note: surprise shawtyyyy. MY FIRST EVER LANDO FIC (pls be kind to me). i really went a little crazy on this piece. PLEASE let me know what you think. hearing back is what keeps me writing for y'all xoxo

taglist: @f1fantasys @n3versatisfied @alishamai

Lando is pissed off.

The morning had been difficult since the moment he woke; late, with his phone on low battery, and four missed calls from Max.

He groaned as he rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of the day pressing on his shoulders before it had truly even begun. The chaotic rush to get out of bed, the frantic search for his charger, and the constant buzzing of his phone— everything, it seemed, was working against him.

“Max,” Lando snapped into the phone, voice low but clipped. “What time is it?”

On the other end, Max’s voice came through—slightly amused but with an underlying tone of urgency. “Mate, we need to talk. It’s important. Where are you?”

His feet barely made a sound as he strode through the hallway, phone pressed against his ear with a growing sense of irritation. His shirt was still half hanging off him as he stepped into the kitchen.

Lando’s gaze flickered over to you and Pietra, the laughter in the air making him feel more disconnected. He wasn’t in the mood for this. His gaze landed on you again, and for a brief moment, he just stood there, watching.

“Listen, I need to tell you about-“ Max began.

“What is she doing here?”

Lando didn’t know who he was asking. Whether it was you, Pietra, or Max, he wasn’t sure. Max’s voice became nothing but unheard chatter after the words ‘needs to stay with you’ were said into his ear as you finally turn around and met his gaze. And for a mere moment, everything seemed to stop. You didn’t look scared, or confused, but something in your eyes made Lando realize just how ridiculous this all was.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his face with one hand, then muttered, more to himself than anyone else, “Forget it.”

Lando moved with a cold, almost mechanical precision, his frustration hanging in the air like a thick fog. His hands were steady as he reached for a water bottle in the fridge, but his mind was racing, thoughts darting between everything that had gone wrong that morning, the calls, the uncertainty, and now you.

He took a long gulp from the bottle, the cool water doing little to settle the heat in his chest from your mere presence. When he finally lowered the bottle, he glanced back at you, but your gaze was already on him. It was quiet now, the chatter between you and Pietra paused.

“Look,” he muttered finally, turning towards you, his voice lower than before but still carrying a sharp edge, “I don’t even care to ask what you’re doing in my kitchen.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to defuse the tension he felt deep in his bones whenever you were around. “Just stay out of my way.”

He heard Pietra’s exasperated groan from beside you, but it barely registered. His focus was solely on you. The sound of your laugh, the way you smacked Pietra’s stomach and shot him that big sarcastic smile.

His gaze locked on you, and for a moment, the world seemed to blur around the edges, like he was seeing through a fogged window. The anger, the frustration, the lust — none of it mattered. You had this effect on him, like his emotions narrowed into a single, overwhelming force, and it was as if nothing else existed when you were in the room.

He hated it. He hated how you could make him feel so raw, so exposed, with just a look or a word. But in that instant, he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe he’d been wrong. That maybe he’d overreacted— again.

But pride kept his mouth shut.

You smacked Pietra’s stomach with the biggest smile you could muster on your face. “Of course, Your Highness.”

His jaw tightened at the edge in your voice. It was always like this with you— too many layers of sarcasm, too many walls that kept him at a distance. He hated it, but there was something about the way you challenged him, the way you never let him get away with being too much of an asshole, that both irritated and intrigued him.

And ninety nine percent of the time, he’ll meet you right in the middle. But today— today, he didn’t have the energy.

He couldn’t deal with you, not today.

It had always been this way— tension, banter, sharp words laced with sarcasm, and that constant push-pull between wanting to tear each other apart or tear each other’s clothes off. The first time you met, it was a disaster. Lando had been too cocky, too full of himself, and you? You’d been the perfect counter to his arrogance. Quick-witted, just as stubborn, not willing to back down even a little. It was like two forces colliding, neither willing to give an inch.

And somehow, that collision had set the stage for everything that came after.

There were moments—brief, fleeting moments— when you’d find yourselves actually getting along. Moments when you could talk without that edge, when you almost felt like you could understand each other. But those moments always felt like they were just around the corner from the next argument or snarky remark.

It was a dance. One he was growing exhausted by, but couldn’t quit. Quite like an addiction. Something that kept him coming back, even when every part of him screamed to walk away.

The sound of the front door slamming was enough to rattle you and Pietra as you leaned back in your stool and looked at her with a shrug.

“You guys fight like a married couple.”

“Don’t ever mention me and Lando with the word marriage in a sentence again.” You feigned vomiting.

Pietra let out a loud laugh, rolling her eyes at your dramatic reaction. “Okay, okay, point taken,” she said, holding her hands up in a mock surrender. “But seriously, I’ve never seen two people who clearly hate each other but also can’t seem to stay away from each other.”

You glanced towards the door where Lando had just stormed out, the sound of it slamming still echoing in the air. Your eyes narrowed, your annoyance with him still simmering beneath the surface. The last thing you wanted was to be compared to a married couple, especially not with him. But Pietra wasn’t wrong, at least not totally.

To say that you and Lando never got along was somewhat of a lie. Sure, most of the time there was an undercurrent of challenge between you two. But if you were being honest with yourself, there were always moments that managed to slip between the cracks of your usual arguments.

It was post-Max’s birthday bash, and the night had taken its toll—everyone was absolutely smashed. The music had faded into the background, the party winding down, and now it was just you and Lando in the kitchen, standing side by side as you both rummaged through the fridge for something to soak up the alcohol. The usual tension between you two felt different tonight, lighter, almost non-existent— probably because of the drinks coursing through your veins.

The fridge light bathed the kitchen in a soft, yellow glow as you both reached for the last slice of pizza at the same time. Your fingers brushed against his, the accidental contact sharp enough to send a jolt through you. You both froze, the moment stretching out between you like a beat of silence. You could feel the warmth of his hand against yours, the proximity suddenly making the air feel thick.

You pulled your hand back first, a playful smirk tugging at your lips as you leaned back slightly, trying to mask the awkwardness with your usual sharpness. “So, you were eyeing that, huh?” You said with feigned offense.

Lando wants to blame it on the alcohol. Wants to chalk up the rush of heat, the confusion clouding his thoughts, the throb he feels in his cock, to the drinks he’s had all night. It would be easier that way, wouldn’t it? Easier than admitting it was you— the way your laugh slipped under his skin, the way your nose crinkled after pretending to like a drink, the way your eyes were heavy with that loopy, contented look, like you were floating in your own little world.

His gaze flickers to yours, and there’s something in it—something that makes your pulse quicken against your will. He raises an eyebrow, pulling the pizza closer to him like he’s staking a claim on it. “I mean, it was there, wasn’t it?,” he says, his voice light, but there’s a trace of something else behind the teasing. His gaze lingers on you for a beat too long, and for the first time, the playful banter almost felt real. “I think I deserve it more, anyway.”

You cross your arms, the fridge light casting a harsh glow against you, trying to look unimpressed. “Yeah? And why is that?”

He grins, clearly enjoying the banter. Then he leans in just a little closer, that confident smirk never leaving his face. “Because, unlike you, I’m a growing athlete.” He winks, as if that settles everything.

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.

“Well, you know you love it.” He says with a grin, his usual cocky confidence softened by the easy humor currently wavering between the two of you.

Before you can respond, he takes a dramatic bite of the pizza, his eyes dancing with mischief. “What?” He says through a mouthful. “I'm just making sure it tastes as good as it looks.”

You roll your eyes, but the grin that pulls at your lips betrays you. Yeah, it was definitely the alcohol.

Without warning, Lando brings the partially-eaten slice to your lips, his eyes locking with yours. There’s a dare in them, an unspoken challenge. Like he’s testing you. As if you would ever place your lips had just been.

But you’re not about to let him off the hook that easily.

You meet his gaze, a smirk tugging at your lips, and you lean in deliberately, pressing your mouth to the exact spot where he’d just bitten. Slowly, you take a bite, never breaking eye contact.

You pull back, making the moment drag out a little longer than it should. Then, as you pull the pizza from your mouth, you exaggerate the motion, letting out a playful, dramatic moan.The taste of the pizza lingers as your eyes stay locked on his. A small dot of sauce is left at the corner of your lips, the perfect bait.

Lando’s breath catches at the sight, his chest tightening as his gaze drops to your lips. He doesn’t even seem to realize what he’s doing until his thumb is moving toward your mouth, gently swiping the sauce away. His touch is soft, almost hesitant, but it lingers— just a second too long. His fingers stay there, a slight heat emanating from the contact, as his eyes darken, drawn to your lips like he’s waiting for something.

You find yourself getting dizzy when he swipes it up, waiting patiently for you to make a move. But your brain is short-circuiting as you stand there frozen like a deer in headlights.

Lando tugs the tiniest smirk on the corner of his lips.

“Open,” he said, voice low, almost hushed, as if the words held more weight than the simple request.

You froze for a moment, uncertainty flickering in your chest. But that hesitation was fleeting. Your mouth parted almost instantly—partly out of shock, but also because, deep down, you knew you wanted this. You’d known it for a while, even if you’d been too stubborn to admit it before. But tonight, with the alcohol swirling through your veins and the tension between you two reaching a breaking a point, you couldn’t ignore it any longer.

His thumb, warm and steady, presses against the softness of your lower lip before sinking inside, brushing against your tongue. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine. “Suck.”

Oh my god.

It takes a moment to realize what is actually happening. That Lando’s thumb is really pressed against your tongue right now. That you’re innately curling your tongue around his knuckle without so much as a inkling of hesitation. What is going on?

The sauce is long gone by now, but you don’t want the way Lando is looking at your mouth to end. So you suck. Hard.

A deep guttural groan slips past Lando’s lips. Along with a soft “fuck”.

Lando pulls his finger from your mouth, smearing the saliva across your lips, before pushing it back in with a little more force than before, pressing your tongue down.

Its only when the unmistakable sound of a loud laugh echoes from the hallway, followed by the soft shuffle of feet, that the spell is broken. Pietra and Max appear in the doorway, wrapped in their own world, oblivious.

Lando’s thumb retreats suddenly, leaving a faint tingle where it had been. He takes a few steps back, his posture stiffening as he puts space between the two of you. The slice of pizza, once held so carefully, has fallen unnoticed to the floor.

“There you guys are,” Pietra giggles, her voice light and carefree, as Max leans heavily against her. He presses a soft kiss to the back of her neck, the PDA so natural between them that you and Lando have long since grown accustomed to it. “What are you doing?”

Your mind is still spinning, trying desperately to untangle fragments of the moment. It’s as if you’ve been pulled to an alternate dimension, struggling to regain your bearings.

Lando, a little too quickly, blurts out, “Pizza!” His voice louder than usual, almost too eager, and the sharp sound makes you flinch, jolting you into full awareness.

“Yeah, pizza,” you echo, your words clumsy, as you scramble to find a sense of normalcy in this moment.

You watch as Pietra’s gaze drops to the floor where the pizza slice rests, barely touched, and then back to you and Lando. Her eyes narrow slightly, but her smile remains in place.

The dinner party was in full swing, with guests chatting and laughing around the table, but at the far end of the room, Lando and you were locked in a standoff. The small, crowded space was a perfect breeding ground for irritation— just enough people to make it awkward, not enough to escape the tension between you two.

“You seriously had to make that comment in front of everyone?” Lando’s voice was low, dangerous, his jaw clenched tight as he stood rigid, his hands balled at his sides.

You didn’t flinch. You never did when it came to him. “What, didn’t think it was funny?” The words cut through the air like a knife, your tone dripping with its usual sarcasm.

Lando’s eyes narrow, his lips curling into a tight humorless sneer. “It wasn’t funny. It was humiliating. But of course, that’s what you do, isn’t it? Always try to make me look like the bad guy.”

You take a step closer, your heart hammering in your chest, but your voice steady, if not a little venomous. “Excuse me? I didn’t hear you complaining when you were bragging to the guys about your revolving door of women.”

Lando’s face twisted, the smirk now gone, replaced by a bitter glare. “Some of these guys are my co-workers.” His voice was a low growl, the frustration pouring from him. “You love making a scene, don’t you?”

You met his gaze, unflinching, your words with the kind of anger you’d been trying to suppress for hours. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that pointing out the obvious was such a crime. You are a joke, Lando.”

Lando’s nostrils flared, his posture stiffening as he takes a step forward. The anger between you two was palpable, raw, like a wound that had festered for too long. “I don’t know what your problem is, but you’re so good at pushing people away, it’s no wonder you struggle to keep anyone near.” He spat, the words hitting you like a harsh slap.

You could feel your own chest tightening, the urge to fight back stronger than ever. “Maybe I wouldn’t feel the need to push you away if you weren’t so fucking insufferable,” You shot back, your voice trembling with barely contained rage. “You think you’re so much better than everyone else—just because you’re the Lando Norris.” You say it with so much hatred in your voice, so much disgust.

Lando’s face turns red with anger, his fists tightening as if he is about to lash out. “You don’t know anything about me!” He hisses, stepping closer. “You don’t know anything. You’re too busy judging everyone, pretending like you understand.”

Liar.

“Maybe that’s because you’re impossible to understand!” You shot back, your voice cracking.

Liar.

Lando’s chest was burning, and for a second, you thought you saw something else in his expression— something deeper, darker. But before you could say another word, the sharp sound of Pietra’s voice cut through the tension, her words laced with frustration.

“You two are exhausting,” she muttered, her hands on her hips as she walks towards you, shaking her head. “Can’t you go five minutes without fighting?”

Max, standing beside her, gave you both a pointed, unimpressed look. “Seriously, take it outside or something.”

The room suddenly felt smaller, suffocating, as you and Lando stood there, completely unaware of how much attention you were drawing.

With a frustrated sigh, Lando turned his back to you, muttering something under his breath as he took a step away, the coldness in his voice unmistakable. “No need,” he said with a forced smile, his expression a perfect mask of calm.

But you could see right through it. You could see the anger still simmering just below the surface, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might break. He had turned it on— flipped the switch to happy, charming Lando that everyone adored—but you knew better. You knew this wasn’t over.

You stayed frozen in place, staring at his retreating form, your blood still boiling, your heart still racing. The party resumed around you, as if nothing had happened, but the cracks between you two had deepened, and the weight of everything unsaid felt unbearable.

It was an unsettling realization— almost an entire week has passed without so much as a glimpse of Lando. Not that you were actively looking for him. Still, you were staying at his place for the time being, yet it felt as though he had vanished entirely.

The dinner party had been a mess— more than just the awkward silence that had followed after Lando’s sudden retreat, more than the strained smiles and forced laughter. It had felt like a pressure cooker, each moment pressing closer to explosion.

You tried to tell yourself that you didn’t mind the distance, that you needed it too. After all, how could you process anything when the tension between you two was so thick it felt suffocating?

The apartment balcony door creaks as you slide it open, and the cool night air hits you like a breath of fresh tension. You pause for a moment, taking in the city’s quiet hum from the balcony, when the sound of footsteps from behind you pulls you back into the reality of where you stand. You freeze. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

Lando.

You hesitate before slowly turning, your pulse quickening just a little at the sight of him standing there, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking impossibly composed—as if he hadn’t been anything but a stranger to you for the last week. His hair is messy, as usual, falling over his forehead like it always does when he’s been running his hands through it, and his eyes lock onto yours, sharp and calculating. There’s no hint of the playful teasing that usually dances there— just a cold, clipped edge. A part of you feels the sting, but you refuse to let it show.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak right away. He just watches you, as if waiting for something to fall into place. His gaze flickers down to your outfit, the sharp cut of your dress, the way it hugs your frame. His eyes linger, just a moment too long. Theres something unreadable in his stare, but its gone before you can truly grasp it.

His chest feels tight, the burn simmering just beneath the surface. It’s an ache he’s learned to ignore. You’re impossible to ignore.

His thoughts scramble, trying to piece together something, anything, to get him back on steady ground. It shouldn’t bother him. He shouldn’t even care.

But God, it does.

You straighten your posture, trying to shake the weight of his gaze. “I’m just about to head out,” you say, the words feeling almost too light for how heavy everything suddenly feels. You keep your voice steady, refusing to let the knot in your stomach show. He knows you too well to let any cracks slip by.

“Right.” His voice low, casual, but the way he says it doesn’t match the steel edge behind it. He pushes himself off the doorframe, taking a slow step forward, and the space between you feels too small, too intimate.

He tilts his head, his eyes scanning you with that familiar coolness. “Big night?” He’s not asking about the plans. He already knows the answer, or at least he thinks he does.

“Just dinner,” you say, but the words come out too sharp, too dismissive, like you’re avoiding saying anything else. Avoiding the reality that you’re stepping out the door, and he’s still standing there— distant, closed off, and, for the first time, entirely unreadable to you.

His hands are tucked into his pockets, the tension in his jaw hard enough to snap if he moved the wrong way. The silence between you is loud, almost deafening, a total opposite of the usual banter that defines the strange rhythm you share. You can feel him trying to hold back, just as much as you are.

His gaze flickers down for a second, and then he looks back up, meeting your eyes, and for the briefest of moments, there’s something close to what looks like vulnerability, like he wants to say more but can’t. Like he’s trying to insert himself into your brain and figure out what’s going on in your head. He doesn’t reach for the words he’s dying to say, and you don’t either.

You shift on your feet as you feel your phone vibrate in your hand. The last thing you want to admit is just how much the silence between you has been eating at you.

“Have a good night,” he says, and his voice is tight, the words formal, distant—as if the slight tension in his shoulders is something he’s trying to hide.

You pause, staring at him for just a beat longer than is comfortable, and then you nod, your throat tight as you force out the words, “You too.”

And with that, you step past him, brushing so close that your shoulder grazes against his arm. You had almost convinced yourself that you’d made it past the worst of it, that you guys were back to normal. But then, just as you’re about to step out of his vicinity, you feel it.

His hand.

It’s quick, a sharp tug at your wrist that halts you in place. His grip is firm, but not aggressive— more like a desperate plea.

You freeze. Lando’s fingers wrap around your wrist with an intensity that almost makes you forget where you are. He doesn’t say anything at first. He doesn’t have to. His pulse is quick under your skin.

You turn to meet his gaze. His eyes are darker now, more intense, but there’s something softer too.

“There’s a spare key on entry table for you. Keep it.”

The sentence lands like a stone, cold and distant, when you’re hoping for something else. You were hoping for an argument, a confession, an apology— but not this.

An apology? From Lando? You laughed to yourself, but its bitter and dies in your throat. It’s almost laughable, the thought go him apologizing, like you could ever expect him to admit fault in anything. He’s always had a way of deflecting, of twisting words until they meant something else, until he was the charming asshole again and you were left wondering if you’d imagined everything.

Lando never apologizes. He never needs to. That’s part of the game, part of the push and pull that you two share. You fight, you argue, you tear each other down in the best and worst ways, but somehow, you always find your way back to the same place.

You nod, quick and sharp, a simple gesture to acknowledge the words, but it feels hollow.

“Don’t wait up,” You joke, the words coming out a little too forced, a way to reclaim some semblance of normalcy, erasing the awkward space with a quip.

Lando’s gaze softens just a fraction, a flicker of something familiar returning as his lips twitch into the faintest smirk. It’s not much—just the smallest shift— but it feels like a breath of air.

“Yeah, as if,” he replies, the sarcasm back in full force.

And with that, you step into the night, the door clicking shut behind you.

The restaurant buzzes with life, the clink of silverware and hum of voices filling the space as you sit at the round table with your friends. The sun is high, glittering through the windows and casting warm, golden patches across the wooden table. It’s the perfect lunch spot, lively and bright— but all you can focus on is Lando’s gaze burning your skin whenever you aren’t looking.

You try to focus on the conversation, on the joke that your friend just cracked, but every time you glance up, Lando’s eyes are already on you. His jaw clenches just a little when he takes a sip of his drink, and you can see the tension in his posture.

Another gaze at Lando, and it’s like you’ve been slapped back into reality. His gaze flickers quickly before he focuses on his phone again. His thumb taps the screen with purpose, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the furrow in his brow.

His fingers move quickly over the phone, but his mind is clearly elsewhere. Max chimes in then, pulling him deeper into a conversation.

Mia’s voice pulls you back, and you force yourself to focus on her.

“So, come on. Spill.” She urges, her eyes twinkling with curiosity. “how was your date last week? We’re dying for more details.”

Pietra chimes in, her voice light and teasing. “Yeah, seriously. He was so hot. I can’t even—“ She catches herself, looking over at Max as he side eyes her. “Oh, you know I love you. Now hush.” Pietra waves him off playfully, but her eyes are still on you, expectant, waiting for you to continue.

Lando’s still playing the part, pretending like he’s not listening, but he can feel the irritation stirring in his chest at the mere mention of your date.

“Well…” You swallow, trying to keep your tone light as you picked up your mimosa, taking a quick sip before placing it back on the table. “It was nice. We had dinner, talked a bit…” You trail off.

It’s not like it was a bad date—far from it— but the way Lando’s eyes keep flickering back to you, the way his jaw clenches just a little tighter, it’s like everything’s suddenly wrong.

“Nice? Just nice?” Mia’s voice pulls back, her expression teasing as she crosses her arms, clearly unimpressed with your vague answer. “Come on. We need more than that!”

Max’s gaze flicks to Lando, and you notice the way his eyes narrow slightly, that familiar edge to his expression that suggests he’s just as aware of the growing tension between the two of you. You can feel him pulling away from the conversation. His fingers tap once again on the rim of his glass, but it’s harder this time— almost angry.

He didn’t care. He told himself that a thousand times. He hated you, or at least he was supposed to.

He was supposed to laugh off the bickering, keep things casual. That’s what it was supposed to be with you. A dynamic filled with nothing but playful jabs, insults, the kind of messy, tangled friendship that made sense to no one but the two of you.

But now? Now, every glance from you, every word you said, twisted something inside of him. It was a slow burn, the kind that spread through him quietly but powerfully, a pressure building beneath his skin. He tried to ignore it, tried to turn his focus back to the conversation with Max, but all he could think about was the way your laugh echoed in the back of his mind as you chatted with the girls.

He doesn’t want to care, but he does. Why?

He’s supposed to hate you. He wants to hate you. So why does it feel like something else is gnawing at him instead?

“It’s not like it will last long,” Lando adds, the words like a bitter aftertaste. They sting in the way only a deliberate jab can, meant to sink into your skin and burn as they make their way under your ribs.

The moment they leave his mouth, a silence settles. He doesn’t want to see the hurt flicker across your face, doesn’t want to feel anything that might suggest he crossed a line. And yet, his pulse quickens, a tight knot of unease forming in the back of his throat.

“Seriously, Lando?” Mia’s voice cuts through the silence, her tone sharp and incredulous. She leans forward, clearly annoyed by the bite in his words. Pietra follows suit, her expression a mix of disbelief and concern.

Everyone knew that the two of you fought, but Lando was never a dick like this in front of everyone. Your fights were usually more playful, more teasing.

“It’s fine. Ignore him.” Your voice comes out a little too quick, a little too sharp, but you don’t care. You force a smile, though it feels brittle on your lips.

Just another stupid fight. The same back-and-forth you’ve been doing for forever.

But it’s not.

Mornings are routine. You both rise at your own pace, not a word exchanged. The sound of coffee brewing fills the kitchen as you both move in sync, neither of you needing to ask for the things you want— Lando’s mug always pulled from the top cupboard, your cereal bowl set in the same spot on the counter. You don’t look at each other, but the air between you feels…habitual.

Sometimes, Lando will pull the milk from the fridge and hand it to you with no words. You just move around each other, existing in the same space.

Evenings are a little different. Lando will crash onto the couch, usually with his headphones on, diving into whatever he’s binge-watching. You’ll be in the kitchen, making dinner, the clatter of utensils and the hum of the stove filling the air.

Occasionally, you’ll both look up, catch each other’s eyes for split second, and then quickly look away.

Dinner, if it happens at the same time, is pretty quiet. Lando eats his food quickly, never really talking about the day.

Tonight, was a little different.

You’re curled up on the couch, lost in your book, one leg tucked under as you read with a concentrated frown. Lando, on the other hand, is sprawled across the other end of the couch, remote in hand, eyes glued to the screen.

“So, what’s the book about this time?” Lando’s voice is playful. He’s not really looking at you, more like staring at the screen, but he knows you’ll respond. You always do.

You don’t look up, eyes scanning the page. “It’s about a woman who solves mysteries while also balancing her dysfunctional life. You wouldn’t understand.”

He scoffs, but there’s a smirk on his face. “What, like you solving mysteries? I can barely get you to figure out where I left the remote.”

You finally glance over the top of your book, narrowing your eyes at him.

He wants to kiss you in this moment. It’s like an itch under his skin.

“I can find the remote just fine, thank you very much. It’s just that you leave it in the most random places.”

He turns to face you now, his expression somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “Yeah, because the fridge is totally where I’d put it.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s not like you spend majority of the day looking for it only to find it buried under a pile of laundry.”

“Don’t even start with me about laundry, Lando,” you shoot back. “If you less time working out and binge-watching every season of whatever show you’re obsessed with this week, maybe the laundry wouldn’t look like a crime scene.”

His grin widens, clearly enjoying this. “Oh, so now I’m the problem? Maybe if you did laundry instead of curling up with your book every night, we wouldn’t have to live in a mountain of socks.”

You can’t help but laugh, lowering your book just enough to shoot him a playful glare. “Well, maybe if you didn’t leave half your wardrobe in the living room, I’d have a clean place to actually read.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot that this is your apartment too.” He says, raising a brow.

You roll your eyes, feeling your smile tug at your lips despite yourself. “I’ll be out of your hair in a week.”

A week. You’re leaving in a week. It’s so matter-of-fact, but in that moment, it lands like a punch to the gut.

Lando’s heart skips a beat at the thought. A week?

Did you get back together with your ex? Did you find a place so soon? A million questions ran through Lando’s brain.

“Wait, what?” His voice is quieter now, not his usual teasing tone.

You glance up at him, a raised eyebrow signaling curiosity. “What?”

“I—” Lando cuts himself off mid-sentence, the words faltering as he glances away, as if he's sorting through a million things in his mind, trying to make sense of it all. A quiet, nervous chuckle escapes him, but it’s strained, almost like he’s trying to laugh off something he doesn’t want to confront. “I mean… a week? Really?”

You pause for a moment, the question lingering in the air between you. You try to keep your expression neutral, but the unexpectedness of his reaction hits you harder than you want to admit. “Yeah. What’s the big deal?” you reply, tilting your head slightly, keeping your voice light, but the quiet edge of confusion still wraps around your words.

Lando hesitates again, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, clearly uncomfortable in a way you don’t often see. He seems to be weighing whether he should say more, but the words slip out before he can stop them. “I don’t know. Just… don’t rush it, alright? I mean, you don’t have to leave if you don’t want to.”

The room feels suddenly smaller. His words, unguarded, hang in the air like a challenge to everything you thought you knew about the dynamic between you two. You stare at him, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you see the vulnerability that always hides beneath his sarcasm and bravado. The surprise in your eyes is so clear, it almost hurts. What exactly is he saying right now?

Lando clears his throat, breaking the tension for a split second, but his gaze flickers anywhere but at you. He shifts awkwardly, his voice losing its usual edge as he continues, his words trailing off like he’s unsure how to finish the thought. “I mean, it’s not like you’re in my way here. It’s your choice, but…” His voice falters. His entire demeanor feels rawer than usual, like he's exposing something that wasn’t meant to see the light of day.

You bite your lip, trying to swallow the shock, trying to make sense of what he’s just said. Your mind is racing, caught between wanting to ask more, to make sure you didn’t misinterpret his words, but at the same time, something inside you is afraid of hearing too much.

Lando rubs the back of his neck, clearly frustrated by the silence that’s settled between you. His usual bravado is cracking, his carefully constructed walls slipping just a bit. “Look, forget it,” he mutters, quickly backpedaling, the familiar deflection creeping back into his voice. But there’s a tremor in it, a slight crack that betrays the vulnerability he’s trying so desperately to hide. “It’s nothing.”

The weight of the moment lingers between you, heavy and thick. You’re fighting to keep your composure, but his words are chipping away at the routine, at the easy distance you’ve always maintained. You can feel something shifting in him, and if you're being honest, it shifts in you too.

You can't help but tease him, just to deflect from the heaviness he’s left hanging in the air. “Is the Lando Norris telling me that he’s actually okay with me in his personal space?” you ask, feigning shock, raising your brows in exaggerated disbelief. “Well then, I must! Thank you, Your Highness,” you add with a smirk, trying to lighten the mood.

But it’s a moment too late—Lando's lips twitch, and that familiar smile finally breaks through. It’s small, but it’s real. The tension dissipates, but something else remains. He looks at you, and for just a heartbeat, he lets his guard down, dropping the sarcasm. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, half smiling. “But I guess I’ll survive you for a little while longer.”

You don’t know when it happened, but somewhere between the third and fourth drink, the bitterness in your chest had started to settle into something darker, something more dangerous. You glance back toward to reserved booth, just for a moment—just enough to catch the scene that you already knew was unfolding, but still had to see for yourself.

Lando’s laugh, that easy, carefree laugh, rang out over the pumping music of the bar. He was practically hanging all over her—his hand on her thigh, his body pressed against her’s. It should’ve been something you could brush off. Something you used to actually pay no mind to.

You turned away quickly, trying to focus on the glass in front of you. The guy next to you, some acquaintance from the group, grinned at you. “Another round?” His voice was too loud, but it didn’t matter.

You nodded, trying to shake off the discomfort eating at you. “Sure, why not?”

The bartender slid the next round across the counter, and you downed the glass almost immediately, the burn of the alcohol hitting your throat like it might do something— like it might fix something.

Nick’s hand is now on your back, guiding you through the mass of bodies as you both step onto the semi-crowded dance floor. His fingers are light against your skin, but there’s something about his touch that feels different. But tonight, you don’t care. It’s not about him; its about the fact you cant stop thinking about the way Lando looked at the girl in the booth. The way he ignored you, like you were scum on the bottom of his shoe almost.

You find yourself pressing closer to Nick as the beat drops, your body swaying with the music, the alcohol in your system making everything feel a little more intense. He grins, his hands sliding around your waist, pulling you in. His lips find yours before you even know what’s happening—fast, heated.

For a second, you find yourself getting lost in the moment, trying to silence the voice in the back of your head.

But then, a forceful shove breaks through the fog, and you stumble back, your breath catching in your throat as a hand reaches for you, steadying you. And you find yourself staring at the angry face of Lando.

“What the hell?” Nick mutters, his voice low but full of confusion.

Lando doesn’t even spare him a glance, his eyes fixed on you. He looks pissed—furious, even—and there’s something dangerous in the way his eyes bore into yours.

“What the fuck is this?” Lando’s voice is tight, barely controlled, as his eyes finally flick to Nick.

“We’re just having fun,” you say, your voice a little too sharp, too defensive.

Lando’s eyes narrow, his posture rigid, but he doesn’t say anything for a moment, his gaze lingers back to you like he’s trying to figure you out.

You can’t help but feel a little thrill in the way his attention is all on you.

“You don’t need to do this,” he mutters, his words a mix of frustration and something else—something you can’t decipher.

You know what he’s talking about. The drink in your hand, the kiss with Nick. It’s messy. It’s reckless. But Lando, of all people, should know that you’ve been drowning lately. That your recent break-up—hell everything—has been eating at you, pulling you under. And crashing at his place? It wasn’t just because you had nowhere else to go—it was because, your friends knew you needed someone around.

You try to look away, but you can’t. His eyes hold you captive, and for a moment, you swear you see something break behind them—longing? You’re not sure.

“I can do whatever I want,” you say, your tone more bitter than you intended, but you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince him or yourself.

Lando doesn��t respond immediately. Instead, he steps closer, his presence overwhelming. His breath is warm against your skin as he leans down towards you.

“Yeah, I guess you can,” he says softly, his voice almost dangerous. He looks down at you for a long, drawn-out second, his fingers flexing at his sights, like he’s fighting the urge to reach out and drag you out of here. But instead, he steps back, his gaze softening, his jaw relaxing ever so slightly.

He gives you one last, searing look, before he turns and walks off, leaving you standing there, your heart racing, your mind reeling.

Nick glances at you, clearly unsettled by the scene, but you barely notice.

The music continues to pulse around you, but all you can hear is the sound of your own breath and the quiet pounding of your heart.

The night air is cool against your skin, the streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement as you and Lando stumble back toward the apartment. You’re both slightly drunk, more than a little tipsy, still in that pleasantly buzzed state where everything feels lighter, more carefree.

You both move to the kitchen, in dire need of a snack to soak up the alcohol. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching as you rummage through the fridge.

“You going to see Nick again?” He asks, eyes still on you.

“Yeah, I might,” you reply trying to sound casual, but theres an edge to your voice that you can’t hide. “What’s it to you?”

He raises an eyebrow, a flicker of something passing though his eyes. None of which you see, you’re too focused on scanning the fridge. “Nothing. Just…” He begins, struggling to come up with a reason.

“I’m just having fun, Lando. I’m not yours to keep tabs on.” You turn to face him now, leaving the fridge wide open as you bask in its light.

The words are sharper than you intended, but they’re out before you can stop them.

Lando stands there, his expression unreadable, before he finally uncrosses his arms. He takes a slow step forward, his gaze flicking down for just a moment before he looks back up at you, his voice low. “I didn’t say you were.”

Lando swore he could’ve passed out right then and there. Not because of what you said, but because of the overwhelming sense of deja-vu that washed over him. He blinked, the scene in front of him shifting for a moment, and he was back there— a year ago, in the same kitchen, the same familiar silence between you two.

You stood there, just like now, same expression in your eyes, only this time there was no pizza sauce on the corner of your lips. But still, he remembered it.

He swallowed hard, trying to shake the image away, trying to clear his head, trying to prevent the hardening of his cock as he thought of your tongue wrapped around his fingers with an eagerness.

He dropped his head back, pinching his eyes shut, with a low groan.

He’s so fucked.

The sun was high in the sky, casting a golden glow over the sparkling sea as the yacht cut through the water effortlessly. The salty breeze whipped through your hair, making you laugh as you leaned over the railing, the fresh air filling your lungs. You’ve been needing this— a break. Just a few days to recharge with friends, laughter, and some much-needed distance from everything else.

You were surprised to see how well it was going. Sure, you’d been hesitant about this trip, especially with lando on board. But so far? Everything felt…easy. You caught Lando’s gaze from across the deck as he cracked open a cold drink, his usual smirk pulling at his lips as he noticed you watching. His swim shorts hung low on his hips, his tanned skin glowing seamlessly in the sun with unbuttoned white linen shirt slung over his shoulders.

It was days of nothing but sunbathing, dinners, and resting. It was probably the most carefree you have ever felt.

The music from the speakers drifted lazily across the deck, and you caught yourself moving to they rhythm of it, not caring if anyone was watching. The sun was working its magic, loosening every knot of tension in your body.

“We should definitely black out tonight,” Pietra laughs, bringing a shot of tequila to her lips and then carelessly throwing her hands in the air to the sound of the music.

Lando couldn’t help but stare at the way your eyes crinkled as you smiled, and his chest tightened.

“You in, Lando?” She teased, her grin mischievous as the rather large group of friends littered the boat in shouts and squeals.

Lando blinked, a little too lost in the way you tilted your head back, taking the tequila shot and laughing freely. He cleared his throat, “Yeah, sure, why not?” He muttered, his lips slowly curling into a small smile.

The night had stretched on longer than you’d anticipated, the laughter and music fading into the background as the alcohol worked its way through you. The yacht was quiet now, with only the sound of the waves gently lapping against the hull. The rest of the group had scattered, some slumped on the couches, others finding spots to crash under the stars. You, however, were a little too tipsy to be completely asleep.

The hallway was dimly lit as you made your way past the scattered rooms. You had intended to go to your own—at least, thats what you thought until you remembered someone had made themselves at home there, sprawled across your bed with no intention of moving.

You sighed, rolling your eyes, peeping your head into all the rooms until you finally found an empty one. Without so much though, you pushed it open, your movements uncoordinated, and stepped inside before throwing yourself happily onto the empty bed.

“I always knew you’d end up in my bed.”

You barely registered the sight before sitting up with a small shriek that was quickly cut off as Lando grasped your wrist pulling you towards him and covering your mouth. “God, can you ever just be quiet.”

The room was bathed in soft shadows, the low hum of the yacht's engine barely reaching your ears as the night stretched on, heavy with the weight of unspoken words. The alcohol buzz still lingered in your veins, but the proximity of Lando, the heat of his body near yours, made it hard to focus on anything else.

You blinked again, trying to shake off the fog, but his figure still stood out clearly in the dim light. His shirt carelessly thrown across the room and his shorts discarded at the foot of the bed only made him feel more real, more present in this moment. The way his body filled the space, the way his eyes burned into you—he was magnetic, and you couldn’t look away.

Lando caught your gaze, his expression lazy but full of something else, something you couldn’t quite name. A smirk played at the edges of his lips as he leaned back, watching you carefully, his posture casual but his eyes sharp.

“Someone’s in my room.”

Your heart was racing, and for a second, you couldn’t remember why you had come here in the first place. Not with the way he was looking at you. His voice, low and teasing, sent a shiver down your spine. But you couldn’t quite process it—everything in your head seemed clouded, tangled between confusion and something else that pulled at your chest.

You opened your mouth to speak again but the words were caught in your throat, your body reacting instead. You simply sat there, feeling the weight of his gaze, and the distance between you both seemed to collapse.

Lando raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying your moment of hesitation. “Right,” he murmured, pushing himself up onto his elbows, the light catching his bare chest as he leaned forward slightly. “And here I thought you just wanted in my bed.”

Your stomach flipped at his teasing tone, but you didn’t have the energy to argue or deflect. You were too caught in the pull of the moment. Too caught in the way his voice sent shivers through your body, the way his eyes held yours so intently.

“I didn’t…” you began, but your voice faltered, and instead of finishing the sentence, you just let out a long, unsteady breath. Without thinking, you collapsed next to him on the bed, your body sinking into the soft sheets. The coolness of the fabric did nothing to offset the heat that spread through you.

He didn’t say anything right away, but his gaze lingered on you, intense and searching.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you muttered, trying to steady your breath, the words coming out more like a half-baked excuse than a statement of fact.

Lando didn’t answer immediately. He stayed silent for a moment, his eyes studying you, weighing something in the space between you. Then, his lips parted into a slow, deliberate grin.

“It means nothing,” he agreed softly, his voice barely above a whisper. But the way he looked at you, the way his eyes darkened just the slightest bit, made it clear that he knew it meant something—even if neither of you were ready to admit it.

The thing about Lando is…his body has a mind of its own in the early hours of the morning. The sun has barely peeped over the horizon when he feels the throb of his cock against the band of his underwear. The pressure of something pressed against him that he involuntarily flexes his hips forward, a soft groan pushing past his lips.

You stirred slowly, on the verge of breaking a sweat from how warm it was. Why was it so warm?

You felt hot all over. Your nipples were hard, the pressure of a bulge grinding into your backside, and the warmth of a body brewed a seeping hot energy low in your tummy.

Your brain was foggy, barely aware of what was happening. All you knew is that you needed this.

A hand caressed your waist, slipping under your t-shirt, grazing along the softness of your skin until it reached the cusp of your breast, the pinching of one of your nipples had you pushing back into his groin with a soft moan.

It took a few moments for your body to fully understand what was happening. For your brain to catch up with your body as Lando slowly grinded his hips into you, his fingers toying with your nipples.

You both were too sleepy to care. Too horny to care.

“Wait,-“

“Shh.” Lando cuts you off, trailing his hand up to your neck, and squeezing it just enough to elicit a soft moan from you. “No thoughts. Just feel, yeah?”

Yes.

“This means nothing.” You moaned, your hand reaching behind your head, grasping the back of Lando’s neck to pull him closer, to cradle you closer.

His heavy breaths were hot in your ear, and only made you burn hotter.

He slipped his hand down further, his fingers trailing down and slipping past the band of your sleep shorts. It wasn’t until you felt his fingers press small circles to your lace covered core that it had you arching your backside even harder against his groin, your fingers tightening over the curls that fell on the back of his neck.

“This means nothing, yeah?” His voice was hot in your ear.

“My God, you’re fucking soaked.” He let out a guttural groan.

His fingers trail back and forth, spreading your slick, before he pushes a finger in. You’re a mess. Nothing but moans as he pulls his finger out, coating your clit, and pushing back in.

“Bet I could slip right into you,” His words are broken by heavy breaths, like he’s struggling to control himself. “Take m’cock so easily. Would stretch you nice and good, mm.”

You outright cried at his vulgar words, slipping your hand from the nape of his neck to the waistband of your sleep shorts and underwear, slipping them down enough to leave you bare. The cool air of the room did nothing for you as your skin burned against his touch. His fingers pushing in and out of your core with such a lazy pace, it had you pushing your hips onto his fingers to try to speed it up.

“Tsk, tsk.” He clicked his tongue. “So impatient.”

“Now look who needs to shut up,” You knit your eyebrows together in frustration.

“More.” You needed more.

He pulls his fingers from you, slipping his underwear low enough to finally free his cock from the tight fabric that was nearly suffocating him. “So demanding.”

Pumping himself a few times, you feel him slip his cock in between the folds of you, coating himself in you. Teasing you.

“Lando, I swear to-“

He pushes himself in a single thrust, bottoming out as you both exhaled sharply.

It started out with slow and lazy thrusts, both of you nothing but groans and sweaty bodies pressed together. The sun began peeping through the tiny window of the bedroom, casting a soft glow on both of you, tangled in the white sheets of his bed.

“That’s it…feel so good f’me,” His voice was like pure sex in your ear as he slowly thrust his hips into you.

Feeling your heat wrapped around him was something he never want to end. How your perfect cunt swallowed him up.

He hummed in your ear, pressing hot open mouth kisses to the crevice of your exposed neck for him as you laid on your side. So compliant.

It reached a point where neither of you could no longer take it. The force of Lando’s hips driving harder with each calculated thrust he could maneuver as he pushed your shoulder down into the mattress, hovering over your backside he fucked into you hard.

His hips were merciless, like he couldn’t slow down if he wanted to. You felt too good. You were too good.

His hand pressed into the back of your skull, pushing your face into the mattress as it muffled out your moans.

“You take it so nice,” He groans, his head lulled forward as he leans over your frame. Sweat begins to perspire on his skin, the veins in his neck more prominent as he works himself towards the edge.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train. Full speed with no warning as you spasm around his cock, sending him tumbling over the edge to his as he pulls out quickly, hot spurts of it landing onto your lower back.

“Christ,” He breathes through a small laugh.

You lay limply on the bed, your eyes following as Lando collapses next to you, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

You open your mouth to say something as it finally dawns on you what just occurred but Lando cuts you off.

“Don’t make it a bigger deal than it needs to be,” He stares at the ceiling as he mutters the words, his eyes half-lidded in contentment.

You close your mouth.

“No thoughts, just touch.” You repeat his previous words. Like it’s some silent agreement. Some inside joke.

“I feel like I’ve been hit by a fucking car,” Max groans as he flops down onto one of the cushioned seats at one of the yacht’s dining tables.

You glance around, scanning the whereabouts of everyone, and everyone looks like a complete train wreck, to say the least.

The sky was a perfect shade of blue, stretching out endlessly above you, and for a moment you just smiled to yourself.

Lando was sprawled out across from you, lounging on one of the nearby deck chairs. He had on his sunglasses, his legs stretched out and his shirt unbuttoned, looking as laid-back as ever. His usual smirk was there, though this time is was softened.

Pietra called out from across the deck, her voice awfully cheerful compared to everyone who was hungover. “Let’s have a fucking day!”

Max groaned, burying his head into the crevices of his folded arms. “It’s gonna be a long fucking day, innit?”

The heat of the afternoon sun and the gentle rocking of the yacht had you longing for a cool dip in the ocean. After hours of lounging on the deck, you and Lando exchanged glances, both of you clearly getting restless as most of the others napped or played card games at the table.

“You know,” Lando started, his voice playful, “the water’s looking pretty great right now.”

You raised an eyebrow, giving him a skeptical look but also nodding your head in agreement. You stood up, slipping your white cover up over your head with ease, before striding toward the edge of the deck, your feet already starting to get warm from the sun-kissed wood.

The skimpy black string bikini leaves little to the imagination as you wiggle out of the cover-up, and Lando swears he might just collapse at the sight of it.

Lando follows, a wide grin growing as he matches your pace, before reaches for the back of your legs and slips you over his shoulder with ease.

“Lando!” You shout. But it’s no use. You don’t even get to finish yelling his name before you are sent over the deck’s edge, plunging into the water with Lando glued to your body. “You’re insane!” You sputter, wiping salt water from your eyes, and though you’re furious, you can’t help the grin tugging at the corner of your lips.

“What? You weren’t gonna jump in?” He teases, his voice light, but theres a glint in his eye.

You both tread the water for a moment, floating side by side, as the sound of the ocean mutes the sound of your friends yelling over a deck of cards.

Lando smirks, tilting his head, his usual dark unruly curls, now slightly lightened from the days spent in the sun, is slicked back and dripping from the dive.

Your stomach flips as he draws a little closer, and for a moment you can’t help but think back to earlier this morning. The way he spread you out and filled you with his cock.

Lando reaches out, his fingers brushing your skin lightly, sending a shiver through you that you can’t quite shake off.

He notices the glaze in your eyes, the way the goosebumps form on your skin from his touch, and the way your nipples have pebbled through the thin material of your bikini. He leans in a little, just enough that his lips hover near your ear. His breath warm against your skin as he speaks, his tone almost a whisper, “Can’t stop thinking about earlier. Your cute little moans. Need to hear more of ‘em.”

Your breath hitches in your chest, and you feel a rush of heat spread through you.

“Come to my room tonight, yeah?”

You really don’t know what you were doing. The soft creak of the yacht’s deck is the only sound that accompanies you as you slip down the hallway, heart pounding faster than normal. The dim lighting in the hallway barely registers in your mind as you stop in front of Lando’s door, a quiet exhale leaving your lips. You’d convinced yourself you were just going to sneak in, just to talk for a little while, but now you’re here. Again.

Everyone left to go out on the land, while you and Lando decided to hang back. No one suspected a thing, not that it mattered if they did.

Lando shifts on the bed, his eyes still fixed on the TV screen, as you quietly close the door behind you. You take a few steps forward, just close enough to feel the warmth of his body radiating from where he’s lying.

Lando finally glances over, a lazy grin spread across his face as he watches you slip into his bed. “Wanna watch a movie?”

You nod, making yourself comfortable, leaning back onto the bed and propping yourself up on your elbow. Lando all but gives you one minute, before he’s pulling you closer, and tucking you under his arm. His body heat mingles with yours, but it doesn’t feel awkward. It just feels natural—like this is the way it was almost meant to be.

“You seriously think that was a good ending?” Lando’s voice is incredulous. “That was such a cop-out! It doesn’t make any sense. That’s just lazy!”

“Lazy?” You laugh. “It’s a story about life, Lando. About how not everything can be wrapped up in a nice little bow. Sometimes, you don’t get closure. Sometimes you don’t get any answers. That’s the point!”

Lando pushes himself up. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. Whats the point of it all if the story doesn’t actually go anywhere? It just—ends.”

Your heart is pounding now, you don’t even know how something as simple as a movie ending resulted in you two fighting. But it was no surprise. You guys loved to argue.

It was almost like your own version of….foreplay?

“You’re so stubborn,” You spit, releasing a sarcastic laugh. “You can’t just let something be, can you? You always have to control it, make it fit your idea of how things should go.”

Lando reaches towards you, his eyes never leaving yours, as he corners you up against the plush pillows of his bed. “And you think you’re any different?” His voice is low, dangerously calm now. “You think you have all the answers to who I am, hm?”

“Fine,” You snap. His chest is just centimeters from yours. “Maybe I don’t. But at least I’m not acting like the world owes me something. Maybe that’s why you’re always so angry.”

He leans forward, his breath hitting your face. “I’m angry?” Lando’s voice drops to a whisper. “Maybe I’m angry because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing when it comes to you.”

Your heart skips a beat. You blink, suddenly aware of just how close you are, how he’s looking at you with something completely different in his eyes now.

“Maybe I’m angry because the only time I’ve managed to get your slutty little mouth to shut up was by having my fingers in it. Or with my cock shoved up your cunt.”

And then, without warning, Lando moves. It’s fast, but not reckless. He reaches for you, one hand grasping the back of your neck as he leans in, just close enough to where your lips can brush against each others.

“Tell me you want this again.” His voice is low, rough.

Your breath catches in your throat. You try to speak, but the words come out as nothing but a shaky exhale. You want to tell him yes, to beg him to close the distance, but you’re paralyzed. Is this really happening…again?

Lando brushes his lips against the apples of your cheeks before bringing them to the crevice of your ear.

“C’mon, tell me you want this as badly as I do, yeah?”

You nod. “Please.”

And then, in a blur of movement, he’s there—his lips against yours, hard, desperate, and all-consuming.

It’s not a kiss; it’s a collision— a meeting of two forces that have been fighting against each other for far too long. His mouth is warm, and when it presses against yours, its with such an intensity that you feel the world shift. He’s taking, but he’s giving just as much. His hand slips down to the crevice of your waist, squeezing whatever he can get his hands on.

The kiss deepens, and its not soft anymore—its needy, frantic, each of you chasing something that’s been building for ages. The fingers of his other hand curl into your hair, tugging you even closer, until you feel like you might melt into him. You respond in kind, hands moving to his chest, fingers slipping beneath his shirt, your palms feeling the heat of his skin. You want more.

You’re not quite sure how it happened but one moment you’re pressed against the plush material of the mattress clothed, and the next your clothes are strewn across the room with Lando pressed between your legs.

Lando lowers his face, and you’re happy to find that the curls of his hair tickle at your face when his lips meet yours again.

He kisses you like he has all the time in the world; like he should be doing nothing else but kissing you for the rest of his life. His hands move to your hips as his tongue glides our from his mouth in-between your lips, to meet with yours.

You taste sweet against his tongue and your gasp is muffled by his tongue as he presses his hardened cock right into your warm center. You tighten your legs around his hips, and buck up against him with a small moan stuck in your throat.

He pulls apart from your lips, much to his dismay, but still hovers over you and trails his lips across your face, down to your neck.

“You argue too much with this mouth,” He mutters, raising his arm over his head to remove the black t-shirt that adorned his body.

You feel flustered and hot all over as you nod in agreement, pulling at the fabric of your lacy bra that was left on.

His thumb traces the pout of your lips, a dribble of saliva smearing over them from your recent make-out. “Should put it to other uses, yeah?”

Your eyes lock with his as you nod. Utterly speechless but the clench you feel in your stomach and the heat between your legs more than enough for you to realize just how turned on you are.

“Would you like that, baby?” Lando lets the pet name slip mindlessly, it stirs a swirl of butterflies in your tummy. “Just let me shove my cock in your mouth whenever I need you to shut up? Anything to fill your throat up, yeah?”

You audibly moaned at the thought. Yes.

The smirk that tugs on his mouth is almost lethal and you swear he might just be your undoing in this moment.

“No thoughts. Just touch?”

“No thoughts. Just touch.” You confirmed.

#lando norris x reader #lando norris smut #lando norris x you #lando norris angst #lando norris x y/n #lando norris #ln4 #ln4 x reader #ln4 imagine #ln4 fic #lando x reader #lando x you #lando x y/n

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madamspellmans-met-tet · 12 hours ago

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🔮 Time After Time 🔮

Lilia Calderu x fem!reader

summary: One night on the Witch's Road, the group shares stories about their "battle scars". You're not keen on your turn.

wc: ~ 2.7 k

tags: hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, mentions self harm & suicide, sfw

A/N: okay so this was actually one of the first fics I wanted to write ever for Lilia x Reader but just never got around to it until a sleepless night yesterday. Even had two requests about Lilia getting a vision of reader attempting and another for sh so this is kinda both. It doesn't go into great detail, but it is explicitly mentioned once or twice, so beware.

TRIGGER WARNING: If you're not in the headspace to consume this kind of content or feel unsafe, please leave this fic and reach out to someone. Reader discretion advised.

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At first glance, night on the Witch's Road seemed no different from an earthly one, but now that you sat with the group around a small, crackling fire, the eerie silence crept into everyone's bones. There was no wind, no insects crawling in the dirt, nothing live dwelling in this place. It was a rotting piece of void that digested every breathing thing within it bite by bite. Nobody said it, but you all felt it; the Road would chew you up if no one stayed up to hold wake.

The group had diverted their fear in idle banter, laughing the night away and sharing stories about the scars marking their bodies. Lilia, seated next to you on the rock you were sharing, pulled her clothes aside to reveal the marks of a vampire bite. "Right before I knocked out his other tooth," she added in that cheeky manner of hers and made you smile.

You could imagine her kicking vampire asses. She may be old, but she was a force to be reckoned with; that much you'd learnt during the short time you'd spent together on the Road. She was the one you stuck with, whose eyes you sought out when danger arose, well, and who you shared a rock with.

There, again!

Lilia did this thing. Checked out mid-sentence or babbled gibberish all of a sudden. Dementia, you'd heard Jen whisper, but she didn't strike you as senile at all. It was more like something ripped the soul out of her body, a displacement. And then she came back, disoriented and rattled.

"Lilia, where do you go?" Jen asked, and Lilia tensed. You gave her hand a subtle squeeze.

Luckily, Agatha's return drew the attention away from Lilia's slip-up and allowed her a moment to collect herself. You didn't notice at first how you hadn't let go of her hand yet and did so with an awkward, apologetic smile. Upon Jen's prompt, Agatha recounted the time a knitting needle had pierced her elbow.

"I've got a scar," Rio took over then, but Agatha was even quicker to say, "No, you don't."

You'd gathered during the last trial that the two somehow knew each other, but the interaction was still odd. Rio told her story anyway, which seemed to upset Agatha, and she left. When Rio followed her, Lilia gripped her wrist and gave her a warning. "Don't think for a second I've forgotten what you said in the sound booth."

Rio hissed at Lilia. You didn't like that she did. It wasn't the first time this happened, and sometimes you wanted to hiss back, but something told you not to mess with her. Before silence could overtake the round, Jen presented a scar around her ankle from a shackle to you and went on to lecture about what potions she used to minimise it and with what tincture she hoped to make it disappear entirely.

"It might work as a wrinkle cream too," she said to Lilia. "I'll let you know when I've perfected the recipe."

"How thoughtful," Lilia muttered under her breath and tossed a twig into the fire. You could've sworn you heard her add the word 'bitch'.

"What about you?" Alice asked, and it took a second before you realised she was talking to you.

"Yeah, show us your trophies," Jen agreed, gesturing in your direction.

You pulled your sleeves almost to your fingertips and turned away, shuddering under all their eyes on you. Jen crossed her arms and made a noise of disapproval. "Hey, this is a group activity. We have to rely on each other to survive out here. Do your part."

Lilia snapped around. "Watch your tongue."

"She's not wrong, though," Alice said, offering a warm smile instead. She'd only just shared one of her most vulnerable experiences with you; it would be unfair to withhold, but it was too risky. You shook your head and curled your fingers around your sleeves.

"Honey, you don't have to. Don't listen to them."

-> continue

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please leave a comment here or on Ao3, thank you <3

#Lilia Calderu #Lilia Calderu x reader #Lilia Calderu fanfiction #patti lupone #my fics

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jazzy96scorpio · 1 day ago

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Forty-Seven Minutes in Heaven

Stuck With My Professor

Description: A student and her professor get stuck in an elevator. Awkward, right? Not for long. Turns out, they've both got a bit of a crush on each other. Throw in some dark elevator anxiety, a little hand-holding, and a whole lot of flirting, and suddenly that elevator's feeling pretty cozy.....you know how it goes. 😉

Pairing: You / Reed Richards

Warnings ⚠️: Adult content, Minors do not interact, Romantic/suggestive content, student/professor relationship, anxiety attack (small space), kissing/touching.

Word count: 1,3 k

I wrote this for 47 minutes in Heaven challenge. By @toomanystoriessolittletime

His name was Reed Richards. Brown eyes, a tumble of brown curls, and a kindness that seemed to radiate from him – he was undeniably handsome. You'd noticed it from the back row of his quantum physics class, the way his gaze lingered, the soft curve of his smile when you offered an insightful answer. It was flattering, yes, but it also sent a flutter of nervous energy through you.

One day after class, he asked you to stay. "Just a moment," he said, his voice a low, resonant hum. "About your essay."

Your heart did a little dance. He praised your work, his eyes sparkling. "Excellent," he said, "truly remarkable insights."

"Thank you, Professor Richards," you replied.

"Reed," he corrected, his smile widening. "Please, call me Reed."

As your conversation ended, you found yourselves walking toward the elevator together.

"Going down?" he asked, and opened the door for you.

"Yes, thank you," you said, stepping inside.

The doors slid shut, and a comfortable silence settled between you. Then, a sudden lurch, and the elevator stopped. The lights flickered, dimmed, and died, plunging you into near darkness.

"Oh," you gasped, your hand instinctively reaching for the wall.

"Don't worry," Reed said, his voice calm and reassuring. "Probably just a temporary power outage."

He pressed the emergency button, but nothing happened. A faint hum of the emergency lights flickered on, casting long, distorted shadows.

"Looks like we're stuck for a bit," he said and looked at you.

Your heart pounded. "This is…unexpected," you managed, your voice a little shaky.

"Indeed," Reed said, his voice low. "But it gives us a chance to continue our conversation."

"About my essay?" you asked, trying to keep your voice even.

"It's not just your essay," he said, his voice softer. "I've been really impressed with you all semester. You understand things so well, and you're very mature for your age."

You smiled at him, "Thank you, Reed," you managed, the compliment making you both thrilled and even more nervous. "That's very kind of you to say."

"It's simply the truth," he said, his voice sincere. "You have a unique perspective, and a passion for learning that's truly inspiring."

He paused, and in the dim light you could see his eyes fixed on your face. "I find it…refreshing."

You swallowed, your heart pounding against your ribs. The air in the elevator felt thick with unspoken tension. "I…I enjoy your class," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "You make even the most difficult concepts understandable."

"I'm glad to hear that," he said, his voice softer now. "Because I enjoy having you in my class. You're a bright light."

He took a step closer, and you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "Actually, I'm glad we got stuck. I've been wanting to tell you this."

Just as you were about to respond, the emergency lights flickered violently, then died completely, leaving you in absolute darkness.

A wave of panic washed over you, cold and sharp. You gasped, your breath catching in your throat.

"Hey, it's alright," Reed's voice, a low, reassuring rumble, cut through the darkness. "I'm right here."

You felt his hand find yours, his touch warm and grounding. "I... I hate the dark," you stammered, your voice trembling. "And small spaces."

"I know," he said, his voice gentle. "Just breathe with me, okay? In...and out..."

He guided your breathing, his voice a soothing rhythm against the frantic pounding of your heart. You tried to focus on his words, on the warmth of his hand in yours, but the darkness was disorienting, amplifying your fear.

"I can't..." you whispered, your voice thick with panic.

"Yes, you can," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "Just trust me. I won't let anything happen to you."

Suddenly, his other arm wrapped around you, pulling you close. His embrace was firm, comforting. His warmth seeped into you, chasing away some of the chill that had gripped your body. You could feel his heart beating against your own.

"It's okay," he murmured, his voice close to your ear. "Just breathe. I'm here."

He held you tightly, his hand gently stroking your back. His scent, a blend of sandalwood and something uniquely about him, filled your senses. His touch was gentle, his hands so warm you could feel you will melt if he keeps holding you like that.

"Try to think of something else," he whispered. "Something happy. A memory, a place... anything."

You closed your eyes, trying to imagine peaceful image. The warmth of his embrace, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, began to calm the frantic beating of your own heart.

He continued to whisper soft words of comfort.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice low and reassuring. "You're doing great. Just breathe. I'm right here. And I'm not going anywhere."

The emergency lights flickered back to life, casting a soft, yellow glow across the elevator. Reed was still holding you, his arms tightly around you. You looked up at him, and he smiled, a warm, genuine smile that reached his eyes.

"See?" he said softly. "You're alright. You did great."

He held you for a moment longer, then slowly pulled back, his hands lingering on your arms. "You were very brave," he said, "It's perfectly normal to be afraid, especially in a situation like this."

A few minutes passed, the silence was between you, then as if to break the tension, he said, "Well, since it seems we might be here for a while, perhaps we should make ourselves comfortable."

He gestured to the floor, and you both sat down, leaning against the cool metal walls.

He started a casual conversation, asking about your studies, your interests, your dreams. He listened intently, his eyes fixed on you. He seemed genuinely interested in everything you had to say.

His kindness was palpable, his presence calming. You felt your nervousness fading, replaced by a sense of ease.

"So," he said, "are you…single?"

Your heart skipped a beat. "Yes," you replied, your voice barely a whisper.

A slow, warm smile spread across his face. "Good," he said softly. "Because I was thinking…maybe we should get some coffee after this. If we ever get out of here, that is."

"I'd like that," you said, your own smile mirroring his.

You could notice he blushed a little, "Really?" he asked, his voice a little breathless.

"Yes," you said, your courage growing. "I like you, Reed."

His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise and something undeniably like joy, in their depths. "You do?" he asked, his voice soft.

"Yes," you confirmed, your gaze locking with his.

"I do," you repeated, your voice a little stronger this time, meeting his gaze. "I've…I've admired you for a while now."

A soft laugh escaped his lips, a sound that was both surprised and delighted. "Admired me?" he asked, his eyes sparkling. "I thought I was the only one doing the admiring."

"You were admiring me?" you asked.

"From the moment you walked into my class," he confessed, his voice low. "Your intelligence, your passion... it's captivating." He paused, his gaze softening. "And, well, you're quite beautiful, too."

Your smiled and you met his gaze, a sense of daring emboldening you. "I've noticed you looking at me," you said, your voice a whisper. "And the way you smile…it always made me feel…seen."

He reached out, his fingers gently brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "I wanted you to feel seen," he said, his voice husky. "I wanted you to know that I saw you, really saw you."

The air crackled with unspoken emotions. The close confines of the elevator, the shared vulnerability of the past few minutes, had created an intimacy that felt both fragile and powerful.

"So, we are going on a little date?" he asked, his voice a little breathless. "After this…adventure?"

"Definitely," you replied, your smile widening. "As long as we promise to take the stairs next time."

He chuckled, a warm, genuine sound. "Deal," he said. "Though, I must admit, I'm rather enjoying this unexpected detour."

"Me too," you admitted, your heart fluttering. "Though, I'm also ready to get out of here."

"Of course," he said, "But I'm glad we had this time. To talk, to…connect."

"Me too," you whispered, your eyes locking with his.

A comfortable silence settled between you, but weariness crept in. Half hour already passed and you were really tired. You leaned your head against the wall, closing your eyes for a moment. The hum of the emergency lights was a low, soothing drone.

"You seem tired," he said, his voice soft, breaking the quiet.

"I am," you admitted, your voice a little raspy. "I haven't slept properly in nights."

"That's no good," he said, "What's been keeping you up?"

You hesitated for a moment, then decided to be honest. "Just…a lot of studying," you said, "and…things."

He nodded, understanding flickering in his eyes. "Well," he said, "maybe this unexpected break will give you a chance to rest a little."

He shifted slightly, and you felt his gaze on you, warm and comforting. "You know," he said, his voice low, "you don't have to push yourself so hard. You're already doing incredibly well."

You meet his gaze. "Thank you," you said, a soft smile playing on your lips. "That means a lot."

"You look uncomfortable like that," he said, his voice soft with concern. "Come here."

He shifted closer, and with a gentle motion, he patted his shoulder. "Put your head here," he said. "Rest if you're tired."

You smiled and you leaned against him, your head resting on his shoulder. His enveloped you again, making your senses swim. The warmth of his body was a comforting.

Suddenly, you felt his hand reach for yours, his touch light and gentle. He turned your hand over, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your palm. "I like your nails," he murmured, his voice low.

You looked down at your hands, then back up at him, a soft smile playing on your lips. "Thank you," you whispered.

He leaned closer, his eyes fixed on yours. "Can I kiss you?" he asked, his voice a low murmur.

Instead of answering, you leaned in and kissed him first. It was a soft, tentative kiss, a question asked and answered in the space between your lips.

His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb gently stroking your skin.

The kiss deepened, becoming more insistent, yet still gentle. You could feel his breath warm against your skin, his own breathing quickening. A low groan escaped his lips.

"I want you," he whispered against your mouth, his voice husky. "So bad."

"I want you too," you breathed, your own desire mirroring his.

His hands gripped you tighter, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The kiss intensified, becoming a hungry exploration, a silent expression of the longing that had been building between you.

He slowly guided you to your feet, his hands moving to your waist, pulling you against the cool metal of the elevator wall. The hard press of his body against yours sent a shiver down your spine, the unmistakable bulge in his pants a tangible reminder of his desire.

He trailed kisses down your jawline, his lips lingering on the sensitive skin of your neck.

"Your skin is so soft…I can't resist." he whispered to your ear.

A soft moan escaped your lips as his teeth grazed your skin. "And your touch…it's driving me wild, Professor."

His hands explored your body, his touch sending waves of heat through you. "I want to feel every inch of you." he murmured.

"Show me, Professor...show me how much bad you want me." you say pulling him closer.

His hands slid beneath your skirt, his touch sending shivers down your spine. "I crave your skin against mine...darling."

You let a low moan your heart pounding like crazy, "Don't stop. I need this...I need you."

He gently caressed your skin, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your waist. "I've imagined this for so long." he murmured.

"Me too." you say kissing him one more time.

Then, his touch moved lower, his hand lightly brushing against your tights, lingering on the damp fabric of your panties. He teased, gently rubbing, sending waves of heat through you.

Just as the tension reached its peak, a sudden noise echoed through the elevator shaft. The doors slid open, revealing a startled maintenance worker.

"Oh, my apologies," he stammered, his eyes widening slightly. "There was a brief electricity shutdown. Everything should be back to normal now."

You quickly straightened your clothes, your heart still pounding.

You gathered your belongings, trying to regain your composure.

"Looks like we're free," Reed said, a hint of amusement in his voice, though his eyes held a smoldering intensity.

As you stepped out of the elevator, he took your hand, his touch warm and reassuring. "So," he said, his voice low, "are we still on for that coffee?"

You smiled, a mix of nervousness and excitement swirling within you. "Of course," you replied. "Maybe…at your place?"

A slow, warm smile spread across his face. "I'd like that," he said, his voice husky. He squeezed your hand gently. "I'd like that very much."

Thanks for the reading 💜

I hope so you liked it, please like, reblog and comment. 💙

Send me your requests and reviews.

#47minutesinheaven #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #reed richards mr fantastic #reed richards fanfic #reed richards #reed richards x you #reed richards x reader #reed richards fic #writing challenge

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hhaechansmoless · 2 days ago

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LIGHTS OUT [TEASER]

pairing: f1driver!haechan x PRmanager!femreader

genre: fluff, angst, romance, slowburn

description: Haechan, bold, aggressive and unrelenting, is back after a narrowly missed opportunity to become the world champion in 2024. This time, he's set his sight on making it all the way to the top. You, as his newly appointed PR representative, are assigned with the task of keeping up with a world of high stakes, unpredictable twists and well, him.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, descriptions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, slowburn, honestly quite f1 heavy

teaser w/c: 700 approx. the total fic is around 33.6k (divided into 2 parts). Part 1 dropping on 4th March

glossary

AUSTRALIA, ALBERT PARK GRAND PRIX CIRCUIT

Thursday, Media day

March 13th

“Now, coming to you, Haechan. Last season was quite a close one, I mean, you managed to keep the fight up till the last 4 races. At a point I’m sure we all thought we’d see a new world champion in 2024. How do you suppose this season will turn out? Do you think that you have a car that can challenge for the drivers championship again? Where do you think the improvements have been made compared to last year?” The moderator asks.

“Well, improvements have been made everywhere… That’s the aim, is it not? Last year, towards the end it got a bit hard. We had issues with the floor and made a few strategic mistakes. But I think over the winter break, the team’s been working really hard and we’re confident that we can put up the fight this season too.”

“You have a new teammate this season, Lee Jeno. How will the team dynamics work out between you two? Do you think that, apart from other teams, your teammate could be your biggest opponent?”

“Yeah, Jeno’s done a great job at VCARB so it’s nice to see him here now. I mean, we’re both here to push the team forward. At the end of the day, we both want the same thing. If he’s my biggest opponent then that just means we’re doing something right.” Haechan laughs.

As the moderator moves on, Haechan zones out, fingers unconsciously tracing the outline of the two bulls on the can in his hand. He’s pulled back in when he's mentioned in one of Mark's questions.

“Towards mid season last year it was almost a three way championship fight. It was quite exciting to see Haechan and you pit against each other. After all, we've been seeing the two of you compete with each other in all the junior series too. How did it feel to reach that high rung with a friend?”

“We spoke about it during that time, actually.” Mark grins, “We've basically grown up competing with each other but to do it in F1 really felt like we were close to making it. I look forward to it this year too.”

“We should bet on it!” Haechan winks at Mark making the other drivers and the reporters chuckle, “It's about time one of us gets used to losing, you don't think?”

Walking out of the press room, Haechan is slightly surprised when you appear right beside him.

“How'd I do?”

“Not bad,” you answer absentmindedly, scrolling through your notes, “The question about Jeno, you handled very well. The one about Mark, though? I think it's a very easy opportunity for these journalists to twist your words.”

“I was just joking, he knows that.”

You hum, “He does, but really, these people are out for drama and you just gave them a nice headline.”

Haechan scoffs, “They should thank me then, don't you think? First media day of the year and it's probably the most interesting thing they've heard.”

He turns towards you when you laugh. “See! you do think that I'm funny.”

“I met your trainer this morning, by the way. Don't know why he suddenly came up to me. But you have some blind fold challenge to do for the F1 youtube channel and he's told me to tell you to be careful. Do not bump into anything, please. And try to be yourself there, I guess.”

“Woah, I've never had a PR person tell me that before. You're kind of nice, ____.”

“And you remember my name. We’re both making progress, I suppose.” You've come outside now and there are significantly more photographers than there were when you first came.

Haechan, slightly ahead of you, stops and turns around, walking backwards. “Hey! That was once and you didn't even introduce yourself to me.”

“Didn't have the time,” You shrug, “All the best. The challenge is being filmed near Alpine’s hospitality. You're doing it with Xiaojun. I have to head back to the hospitality for a second but I'll be there by the time you're done.”

#haechan x reader #lee haechan x reader #donghyuck x reader #nct x reader #kstrucknet #f1 au #haechan fluff #lee haechan #nct haechan #lee donghyuck #f1 fic #nct fics #slow burn #nct oneshot #nct long fic #tracks by calli 💿

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heylittleriotact · 2 days ago

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𝐢 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟖

𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐱 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐅𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐀𝐔

Emmrich works, Rook shops, dinner is imminent

Link to ao3 or read below the cut.

“Three times?”

“Yup.”

“And then this morning too?”

“Mhmm.”

“Damn. He must have been thirsting after you for ages.”

Rook tried not to look too pleased with herself as she regarded the shelf of dried pastas in front of her, purportedly deciding what shape she wanted, but in reality her mind was wandering down the enthralling path of recently forged memories from the night before.

The feeling of his lips on hers.

His scent.

The way he moaned while he was fucking her: not forced or put on. Instead, it was like he had never enjoyed anything in life quite so much as being entangled with her…

I’m in the grocery store with my best friend, picking up supplies for dinner - now is not the time.

Too late though: thoughts of Emmrich had already taken root, and sinful need slithered through her organs, twining around her guts and settling deep in her belly, impossible to ignore.

Later. Soon…

“Does he have Instagram? Facebook? I wanna see this silver-fox-fuck-machine for myself.”

“He doesn’t,” Rook said quietly, her lips curling at the absurdity of Emmrich having any kind of social media accounts. Most funeral professionals had nearly invisible online footprints - in an age where everyone you ever met was likely to look you up online, remaining largely unsearchable was the only sure way to guarantee your privacy.

“LinkedIn?”

Rook wrinkled her nose and pulled a box of linguine off the shelf, tossing it in the basket Leon held. “What? Cuz he’s old?”

“I mean… yeah?” Leon shrugged, his soft, dark brown eyes widening innocently.

“Shut up, Leon,” Rook squeezed past him, bumping her shoulder against his pointedly despite the abundance of space in the empty aisle.

“What?” He giggled, falling into step behind her, shaking his luxurious mane of thick black hair. “Nothing to be ashamed of - you were the one that couldn’t shut up about him at the Mussels Absinthe show a few weeks ago. You bagged yourself a sugar daddy - good for you! Wish I had that pull.”

Her cheeks heated as they wandered towards the produce section, “Can you maybe try not using your fucking radio voice while we’re discussing my sex life in the grocery store on a Thursday afternoon?”

“Just sex then?” Leon forged on, not bothering to lower his warm, booming voice at all. “Or have the seeds of romance been planted and fertilized?”

“Leon.” Rook ground out, looking around to make sure no one else was being subjected to this.

“Oh yeah,” he remarked observantly, “You fucking like him, don’t you?”

“What’s not to like?” Rook retorted, manhandling a practical, sound-minded bit of dignity into the conversation as she selected a basket of mushrooms. “He’s stable, supports himself, has a functioning vehicle that’s not filled to the windows with garbage, doesn’t bitch when I tell him to wear a condom, and knows how to get a girl off.” She dropped a mesh bag of garlic bulbs into the basket with unwarranted spite. “Bet he won’t ask me to buy weed for him and his band buddies, or go running to Mummy for rent money each month either.”

“I love it.” Leon said, rubber voice adopting a whimsical tone, as he switched the basket to his other hand and squeezed a grapefruit because Rook knew he’d eyed it and felt like he needed to. “The complete about-face rebound from pie-in-the-sky wannabe rockstar burnout to sophisticated man-about-town is truly inspiring. Tommy is gonna shit himself.”

“It’s not a rebound, and Tommy’s not gonna know a damn thing about it,” Rook snapped, sounding just as harsh as she intended to. “That fucking dickhead doesn’t deserve a window into whatever happens to be going on in my life. He lost that privilege when he fucked that stupid waitress at The Hanged Man… and that was after the shithead already fucked around once and got caught.” She shoved a few shallots into a bag, pretending she was shoving them down Tommy’s throat. “I know he asks around about me - I’m not stupid - and you’d better not be fucking telling him anything about me: I don’t want him knowing where I work, what I’m up to, who I’m fucking, or even what I’m doing with my fucking hair these days. He’s a piece of shit and I hope he chokes on his fucking tongue.”

“Point taken,” Leon raised his eyebrows. “And just so you know: I haven’t said a word to him - and I never would. I haven’t even seen him around at shows or anything for the past month at least.”

“Good,” Rook quipped, calm entering her voice. “Maybe he’s finally made himself useful and gotten a fucking job. Or better yet: done us all a favour and dropped dead.”

It was always one thing to make arrangements with a family that clearly didn’t know much about their loved one in life, but it was quite another thing altogether to sit in an arrangement office with the overwhelmed family trying to guide them towards decisions while simultaneously steering them away from ones that their loved one was blatantly disagreeing with in real time.

“Next! I really don’t care for gerber daisies and I haven’t a clue as to why they think I have some sort of attachment to them.”

Emmrich subtly glanced up from the pages of the binder of floral arrangements into the ghostly visage of the recently deceased octogenarian hovering around it with the rest of her family.

Over the years he had mastered the art of subtly urging the living towards the decisions of the dead, but it wasn’t always easy: it was a balancing act on both fronts that to his knowledge, no other funeral professionals but himself had to manage: the rest only had to worry about satisfying the living. Emmrich had to make sure everyone was pleased.

Try explaining that to the dead, though: the average person rarely considered it in life, but the reality was that funerals were - and always had been - just as much for the living as they were for the dead. Of course celebrating the life and legacy of the departed was of utmost importance, but the communal event itself: the ritual of a funeral, be it Andrastian, Qunari, non denominational, or anything in between was arguably more for the people left behind than the ones who did the leaving: an opportunity for the bereaved to come together and support each other through the heaviest days of their grief. To weep, and laugh, and share stories and regrets. But the world was changing, and fewer and fewer people saw the value in said rituals. Thought them trite and old-fashioned and impractical.

It was a shame, really. But as it stood, society seemed to prefer to grieve privately… or not at all, preferring to bury their sorrows in busy things like work, and commitments; happy to deny that they felt anything at all in favour of letting that vacuous wound inside of them fester and scar rather than accepting the laborious journey of grief and the healing that came with it. No one liked saying goodbye. No one enjoyed losing a loved one. But… that was life, wasn’t it?

And of course, what came after death was a mystery to everyone. Even Emmrich, who had been able to commune with the metaphysical imprints of the recently deceased since childhood was unable to say for certain what followed that final breath: not everyone became a ghost, it seemed, and those that did tended not to linger overlong - less out of choice, he knew: the echo of a soul could seemingly only sustain itself in this realm for a finite time, becoming progressively less substantial before eventually fading away forever. Where it went after that, he couldn’t say.

That was what kept him awake at night. Not the awful music someone might choose, or the fear that his funeral would be poorly attended. No - it was the creeping, uncaring entropy of death itself. The utterly dispassionate way it claimed everybody and everything. The way it would eventually claim him too.

“While we were working on your Mother’s obituary, I recall that you indicated she kept a garden at your childhood home in Cumberland. Are you able to remember if there were any flowers that she particularly enjoyed growing there?”

Of course he was asking her surviving son and daughter, but he was most certainly asking the ghost of Maude Laviolette as well. Something to go off of from any of them would be helpful at this point - they had been in arrangements for nearly two hours by then, and it was clear that everyone was growing tired.

“Delphiniums. Stock. Snapdragons.” Mrs. Laviolette ticked off garden flowers on her ghostly fingers, her voice an echoing melody composed of emotion and memory.

As the Laviolette siblings looked at each other over the table, trying to work out exactly what flowers their mother might have grown all those years ago, Emmrich flipped a few laminated pages of the binder, allowing himself to idly wonder what sort of flowers Rook liked - or if she even cared for them at all. It was so difficult to tell with her - assumptions almost always turned out to be wrong in her case, but she clearly had an affection for things that grew, so surely she appreciated the beauty of flowers?

“Perhaps an arrangement similar to this one here? The ‘Garden Stroll’ casket spray?” He tapped a ringed finger over the picture of a stunning arrangement of delphiniums, spray roses, mums, and iris that ranged from a delicate, powdery blue, to deep violet, to white.

“Oooooh you clever man!” The echo of the elderly woman clasped her hands under her chin and joy crept into her voice. “This is lovely! Could we swap out the mums for stocks and add in some snapdragons?”

“Oh yeah! Some of these look a lot like what Mum grew. The blue ones especially!” Eve Laviolette looked at her brother and pointed at the delphiniums in the photo. “Remember these ones, Aiden?”

Aiden Laviolette scratched at his dark brown beard and squinted at the binder.“I do. I do remember those. But there were others too that were kind of similar…”

“Snapdragons?” Emmrich prompted, for all intents and purposes, a senior mortician who was very well acquainted with flowers after so many years of doing this.

“That’s it!” Aiden exclaimed, “Snapdragons!”

“May I suggest if you’re adding the snapdragons, for the overall shape and spirit of the arrangement, you might consider switching out the chrysanthemums for some nice, gentle stocks? I’ve seen a similar arrangement where it was done to great effect.”

It wasn’t lying. Not really. Just… massaging the truth such that everyone - whether they had a pulse or not - was happy… or as happy as they could be given the circumstances…

He flipped to another page to show them an arrangement that featured some stocks.

“Eve, don’t you think that maybe Mum grew these too?”

Eve leaned over the page to take a closer look and gasped. “She did! What are the odds?” She looked up at Emmrich, her thin lips curving into a generous smile. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think she was giving you instructions from beyond the grave!”

Emmrich returned the smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling warmly as his face took on the oft-used expression that imparted comfort and peace to those living through dark days.

“A happy coincidence only, I’m afraid, but one that Mrs. Laviolette would be pleased with, I hope.”

His eyes strayed ever so slightly over Eve’s shoulder to see the phantom of Maude Laviolette, looking chuffed as anything as she looked over her daughter at the picture of the chosen floral arrangement.

“Thank you, young man,” she said, rubbing her daughter’s upper arm with the tender familiarity that only a mother could impart. Eve’s expression changed to one of surprise as she looked up at the touch, looking over her shoulder and seeing nothing. “You really are a credit to your profession. Thank you for taking such good care of my kids - Maker knows they need it right now.”

Emmrich entered the customizations for the casket spray into the file, went over the remaining details that needed to be decided that day, and printed the contracts to the administration office.

Taking the navy blue garment bag containing the clothing that Mrs. Laviolette’s family had brought for her to wear, he excused himself, stepping into the hallway and closing the door behind him. He would see to the contracts and give Eve and Adrien a few minutes to chat openly amongst themselves and have some space without the pressure of a near-stranger sharing the room with them.

Rebecca (‘Becks’ as she was known to most) handed him the itemized clothing intake form he’d gone over with the family and printed out, and he folded it in half and placed it inside the garment bag before writing Mrs. Laviollete’s name on a manila tag and attaching it to the clothing hanger with a rubber band.

“Thank you, Rebecca,” he handed the permanent marker he’d used to sign the tag back to Becks and took the contracts from her next. “Oh, could I trouble you for a jewelry envelope? They also brought her glasses, her wedding rings, and a pair of earrings if memory serves.”

The relief admin reached into a drawer under the desk and surfaced with a self-sealing, manila envelope, adding it to Emmrich’s growing pile of paperwork.

It was always strange seeing someone else sitting at Rook’s desk. He’d gotten so used to seeing her there over the past months. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Rebecca - quite the contrary: she was very good at her job, and a lovely person, but she wasn’t Rook.

“Did you get permission to post the obit on the website?”

“Ah! I thought I may have forgotten something… my apologies, Rebecca - I’ll be sure to ask before they leave.” He treated her to an apologetic smile and scrawled a few x’s on the contract to better indicate where the family needed to sign.

“Forgetting things, Emmrich?” Remarked Joan, the other permanent chapel administrator from her own desk. She was in her forties and had tightly curled hair the exact colour of nutmeg. She twirled her pen in her hand and smirked at Emmrich - this sort of harmless teasing was not unusual from Joan. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with the fight you clearly lost with an octopus last night, would it?”

Oh dear - his collar must have slipped down, revealing the deep mauve love bites Rook had left on his neck.

“That’s hardly any of your business, dear Joan,” he retorted curtly, adjusting his collar with dignity as he continued to review the funeral contracts.

“You gonna bring them to the Wintersend dinner?” She demanded, and Emmrich threw a cautionary glance at Becks as she failed to subtly lean over her desk to try and catch a glimpse at his neck.

“Perhaps,” he flipped the page, circled the price of the casket upgrade that they had discussed. His phone vibrated in his breast pocket, heralding the arrival of a text message - he already knew who it was from, and his stomach fluttered pleasantly. “We shall see.”

“You haven’t brought a date in years,” Joan said. “Was just talking about it with Wayne-“ ah yes, Wayne: Joan’s husband who worked at the nearby cemetery - somewhat rough around the edges, but a lovely fellow all the same. “- last one was that uh… what was she an art appraiser or something?”

“An art dealer,” Emmrich sighed, focusing intently on the contract hoping that Joan would take the hint: he saw little reason to stand around discussing a former flame with colleagues. Not with a family next door.

“That’s right!” Joan pointed her pen at him. “Any idea what she’s up to these days?”

Emmrich bit back his annoyance and forced his expression to remain stoic. “I haven’t any reason to, so no.”

He preferred not to think about Philomena. Preferred not to think about how the avant-gardé and eclectic Orlesian patron of the arts was initially swept off her feet by his charm and eccentricity; his passionate need to understand death and all of its facets, and his almost poetic talent for finding splendour and hope amongst decay and putrefaction.

He felt terrible about himself whenever he thought too hard about her, and he was reminded by his subconscious that she’d gone back to Orlais about a year into their relationship and stopped calling him, texting him, and emailing him without a word of warning.

He never really understood why - never got a tidy explanation - but he had a few guesses: likely a culmination of many things - one too many cocktail or dinner parties amongst the elite creatives of Nevarra where he misread the room. One too many anecdotes about death or decomposition delivered with the casual ease of someone describing the process of preparing an omelette: “It’s a commonly held misconception that rigor mortis is a permanent affliction, however, the stiffening of joints and muscles after you pass on only lasts for a few short hours. Admittedly it can make it challenging for one to manipulate the extremities during that time, but simply massaging the affected areas causes rigor to subside in short order, restoring flaccidity and range of movement so the limbs can be moved freely once more.”

“… Ohhh!” Someone would say with feigned enthusiasm after too many moments had passed without anyone saying anything. “How… interesting!”

The slightly agape mouths and raised eyebrows told a different story.

Add to that one too many declarations of love and romantic intent: words trotted out in flowery verse; expensive gifts lavished with the unspoken hope that they could make him enough in her eyes: I can provide, see? You will never want for anything. I am safe. I am kind. I love you, I love you, I love you - will you love me?

He knew he got too attached too quickly and too easily. He always had, and when he was inevitably left to clean up the aftermath of another lover’s hasty departure from his life, his old friend and colleague, Johanna was always quick to point out that of course he had managed to frighten yet another one away with his saccharine yearning - as if he needed reminding.

Not that he cared what Johanna thought, but he could practically hear her calling him a cradle-robbing pervert upon learning about Rook.

And would she be wrong?

Sighing again, he marked up one more place on the contract before heading back to the arrangement office.

As he vanished around the corner, he heard Joan say to Becks too loudly for it to be accidental, “Seems pretty miserable for a dude that just got laid.”

I really should have taken her out for dinner first. How thoughtless of me…

The guilt hadn’t subsided by the time he arrived home to shower, change, feed Manfred, and return to Rook’s apartment.

She’d messaged him twice throughout the day. Once in the morning to say she’d had a nice night, and once in the afternoon to say she was looking forward to seeing him again shortly - that one had been accompanied by a picture of her wearing nothing but a towel, the curves of her perfect breasts just barely concealed by the grey terry; drenched hair dripping tantalizingly over her skin.

He was grateful he’d waited to look at that one until after the Laviolette family left, because within minutes of opening it, the utterly gorgeous still frame of her had him rock hard, and he found himself shamefully jerking off in a stall in the staff bathroom, desperate to finish so he could refocus himself and concentrate on his final arrangement meeting of the day like he wasn’t some sort of lurid sex obsessed deviant who had successfully reduced a woman like Rook down to a vapid sex object.

He was grateful for a change that the family he was assisting wanted a direct cremation with no service, no viewing, and no obituary. The sole executor brought the will, and was the only person attending the meeting. Everything had been prepaid in advance by the deceased, so there were no changes nor any new decisions to be made: simple, quick, and to the point.

Despite this, Emmrich still managed to spell the word ‘preparation’ incorrectly three times in a row, and almost gave the son making the arrangements Rook’s business card instead of his own.

There was nothing for it: he was a mess.

A besotted, smitten, horny mess, and at this rate it wouldn’t be long before he frightened her away too. What was he thinking? That this young, beautiful creature with a lifetime of promise and possibilities before her would be in a hurry to tie herself down to a man old enough to be her father?

That she would happily embrace the strange looks they would almost certainly get in public as people drew conclusions they had no business drawing?

That she would quickly come to know the worst of him that dwelled beneath the thin veneer that was the ‘best’? The insecurity and loneliness and self-loathing; the irrational fears and anxieties that kept him awake at night and overwhelmed his mind at times, leaving him little more than a quivering, hyperventilating wreck, curled up under the blankets and praying for the Ativan to kick in soon.

She would figure out that he was too much. Too different. Too weird - even by the very broad definition applied by morticians.

He would have to tell her that he could see and speak with the dead.

He would have to tell her that more than anything in life, he was afraid of dying - a wildly contradictory fear for one in this profession.

She was going to know before long that the carefully crafted facade of Emmrich Volkarin was a lie - brazenly thrust into the world, and effective only because of the sheer amount of time he’d been insisting upon it.

She doesn’t deserve this.

She deserves a future full of joy and potential and dreams that are entirely attainable, should she only dare to wish for them.

I didn’t even ask her to dinner before I slept with her…

It seemed stupid to get hung up on that, but he was: mutual feelings or not, it fell to him to take the lead, and rather than controlling himself and treating Rook with the respect she was due, he took her to bed and didn’t even have the decency to spend the entire night.

She deserves respect, and here I’m treating her like a fantasy…

Tuning out Manfred as he twined around and through his ankles, coating the hem of his pant legs with white fur, Emmrich sighed and pulled out his phone, preparing to call Rook and tell her he couldn’t do it - he wasn’t coming over.

But before he could place the call, a banner appeared at the top of his screen.

Another message from Rook.

‘Are you on your way yet?’

A reasonable and fair question - that wasn’t the part of the message that made his eyes prickle unexpectedly. It was the words that followed.

‘I miss you.’

‘I just made it home - I’ll be over soon - close to 7:00. I miss you too, Rook. I missed you all day.’

Just as he said he would, Emmrich arrived right at 7:00. Rook had spent the last twenty minutes stationed at the window again, staring down the length of her street, her stomach leaping whenever she saw headlights turn off the main road.

When she finally saw the recognizable shape of Emmrich’s lights, her stomach flip-flopped even harder, and she pushed away from the window, taking a moment to check herself over one last time in the mirrored closet doors to make sure she had dressed herself properly: her hair was nicely pinned up in a bun with stray wisps pulled loose to frame her face, and she turned her back to the mirror, looking over her shoulder to check for the twentieth time that she hadn’t accidentally tucked the hem of her stretchy burgundy velvet mini dress into her thong. Her stockings were free of runs, and she hadn’t managed to soak sweat stains under her arms yet - though she suspected that was about to change. Her makeup still looked pristine, and the softly tinted gloss she’d chosen over her traditional matte red lipstick still looked good.

Satisfied, she slipped out of her apartment and down the stairs where she waited at the front door for Emmrich to appear, emerging from the dark to stride up the walkway, as elegant and refined as ever.

Her breath caught in her throat at the sight she’d been waiting all day to see: him - with his perfectly styled silver hair and his angular, distinguished face. He wore the same black pea coat from the night before, and had switched out the brown chinos for charcoal grey tweed trousers that bore the same impeccable tailoring. With his expensive looking Antivan wingtips and his cream coloured scarf he looked like a bougie fashion journalist or something.

He looked fucking hot.

“Fuck me…” she murmured under her breath before flinging the door open and grinning at him. “Hey.”

“Hello, Rook,” he beamed, stepping inside and taking the weight of the door from Rook, letting it close shut gently behind him.

He was holding a white paper shopping bag, and his glasses fogged up again the same way they had before, and for a moment she was at a loss for what to do with herself as they occupied the small vestibule.

Making a decision for both of them, he swept her against him with his unburdened arm and brushed his lips over her left cheek, then her right, before releasing her.

“I’m sorry it took me so long - traffic and Manfred, you see.”

Hoping he couldn’t see her sway in place as the elation of being touched by him again negated her ability to balance properly, she unlocked the main door and he followed her inside and up the stairs.

“Oh no… no problem at all. I know it’s a long drive. How was Manfred?”

“Oh he managed to break into the pantry today and ate an entire loaf of bread. I think he’s rather upset that I was absent last night for far longer than I usually am.”

Guilt wrung Rook’s gut then. “Sorry,” she glanced over her shoulder at him, offering a sympathetic grimace as they continued their ascent. “I’d say you could bring him with you next time, but there’s a ‘no pets’ policy and my landlord is a real prick about it - last year the old man in 204 got a hermit crab to keep him company after his wife died and the prick made him get rid of the little guy.”

“How sad,” Emmrich frowned, looking genuinely sorrowful at this.

“I brought him a house plant - a cutting of Perry, actually - and I try to visit him once a week for coffee. He’s grateful, but I think he’d be happier with his hermit crab… or his wife for that matter.”

Emmrich’s mouth curved in a soft smile, though the melancholy didn’t leave his eyes. “That’s very sweet of you, Rook.”

“It’s not,” she argued placidly. “It’s just the right thing to do: people should look out for each other, but for some reason they just… don’t and it annoys the fuck out of me.”

“That makes two of us,” Emmrich agreed, wincing slightly as they made it to the landing of Rook’s floor.

“Shit, sorry - are you okay?”

“Oh yes, just the ever-present protestations of knees that I should have cared for better in my youth.”

Rook didn’t know what to say to that. She certainly couldn’t render solidarity in the form of a believable ‘Ugh! Me too! Fucking achy joints amirite?’

She didn’t have achy joints: she was 25.

So instead she just nodded and opened the door to her apartment, ushering Emmrich inside with the same elevated politeness that she ushered families into visitation rooms with.

“What have you got there?” She asked, pointing at the bag that he had set down in the entryway so he could undo his scarf and slip out of his coat.

“Give me a moment to sort myself out and I’ll show you,” he retorted with the tempered ease she’d come to know. He hung his coat and the scarf on a hanger and put them in the closet before removing his shoes. “You look lovely, by the way.”

Damn right I do - I don’t dress up in my own house for just anybody.

“Thank you.”

Emmrich straightened and pushed his shoes to the side of the mat with his foot. He was wearing dark green dress socks with a beige diamond pattern on them, and a black turtleneck that made for a decidedly Warhol-esque look.

They regarded each other silently for moments that lasted far longer than they had any right to, clearly both at a loss as to how best to proceed.

“I uh… haven’t started dinner yet, but if you want some wine, I—“

Something seemed to snap into place in Emmrich’s brain and his eyes widened at her words. “Wine. Right!” He scooped the white paper bag up from the floor and reached inside, withdrawing a visibly dusty bottle and handing it to Rook. “You must forgive me - I didn’t think to ask what was on the menu tonight, so it might be a poor pairing - foolish of me - but the… the wine I brought you last night is… well it’s…“ he sighed wearily, “This will be far more palatable, trust me.”

Rook looked at the bottle in her hands, swaths of dust cleared away to reveal dark, shining glass where her fingers and his had touched it.

She was far from a connoisseur of wines, generally opting to drink anything that had a price tag of $10 or less - or came in a box - and would surely get her drunk faster than beer.

“This is… this is… really nice wine, isn’t it?”

Emmrich made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat, “Hardly the nicest, but a definitive improvement on anything with a screw-top.”

Rook swallowed, feeling out of her depth: poor… stupid… uncultured.

Seeming to pick up on her discomfort, he plucked the bottle from her hands and wiped the remaining dust from the label. “It’s from my personal collection: one of a few that I have left from a good year. I think I purchased a case of these for eighteen dollars per bottle, so it’s less that I broke the bank, and more that I stumbled upon something good and decided I wanted to hold onto it.”

“I don’t even know if I have a corkscrew,” she admitted, still feeling sheepish.

“Well we’ll sort that out if we need to,” he treated her to that easy, nonjudgmental smile again and picked up the bag again, handing it to her. “For you.”

Rook’s eyebrow raised when she accepted the bag. She peered into it, then back to Emmrich, then she abandoned the entryway, placing the bag on the kitchen counter and reaching inside.

Her fingers closed around a hard ceramic pot, swaddled in cardboard and plastic. Carefully lifting it, she set the pot on the counter and pried the plastic away, revealing a plant with deep green leaves and a woody stem. Its delicate limbs curled prettily upwards, and small white buds were nestled in the fragrant greenery.

She gently rubbed a leaf between her thumb and forefinger, saying hello to her new friend.

“You brought me a plant?” She asked, staring at the fledgling creature, her heart filling. “What florist is even open at this hour?”

“Odella’s, of course,” Emmrich answered, naming the florist that McDermott & Rafferty had contracted out for funeral flowers for years.

She felt his presence drawing close to her, heard him place the wine bottle on the counter gently, then felt his hand on the narrow curve of her waist - almost tentatively at first until it became obvious that she was not going to flinch away… only then did it settle. With his other hand he brushed a sprig of leaves and stooped slightly behind her, placing his face alongside hers.

“I thought to bring you flowers at first, but this seemed a more fitting offering than an impermanent and fleeting bouquet, given your passion for growing things.”

She didn’t understand why at the time, but the fact that he remembered - or even cared - about her affinity for houseplants made something tighten in her chest.

Tommy hated them. He thought they were a waste of time. Told her if she was gonna bother putting so much energy into growing something, it might as well be smokable.

“Do you… like it?”

Rook realized that she hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t said anything. Not so much as a ‘thank you’.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, though she hadn’t any clue what it was. “It’s… it’s a…?”

“A jasmine plant,” Emmrich assisted. “It will bloom for you in time, so the flowers are forthcoming.”

Rook pulled her gaze from the small potted plant and turned against the edge of the counter so she was facing Emmrich.

“Something to look forward to, then,” she smiled, looking up at his kind face. She curled her fingers into the front of his shirt and pulled him closer. “Thank you. For the plant, and the wine… you didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted to,” he entreated, his sweet, spearmint scented breath washing over her cheeks as she fixated on the enticing shape of his lips.

She still needed to start dinner. She hadn’t even put music on. She promised him a meal, and here she was, wasting time…

“You been tested recently?”

The amorous look in Emmrich’s eyes vanished, replaced with confusion. “Tested? I—?”

“STI panel.”

“Oh!” The faintest blush crept over the bridge of his nose and he looked at the cupboards over her shoulder. “Every year, or after a new partner, whichever comes first, but… I haven’t had a new partner in some time and-“

“You’re clean?”

The flush deepened, diffusing over his cheeks. “W-well yes, of course, but-"

Satisfied, Rook pushed away from the counter enough to drop to a crouch, one knee brushing the floor as she undid Emmrich’s belt buckle and slipped the button of his trousers loose.

Catching on, he managed to babble, “Rook, darling, y-you don’t have to-“ before she dropped his zipper and pulled his dick out of his underwear, casting one cheeky look up at the stammering man in front of her before taking him in her hand and dragging her tongue up the underside of his cock.

“Ah!” He moaned unbidden at the sudden wet warmth when she took him into her mouth, buckling slightly against the counter behind her. “R-Rook!”

Her other hand found the back of his thigh and she locked him in place, filling her mouth with his semi-hard length, hollowing her cheeks and sucking him in, her pussy immediately responding to the high pitchy breaths - little half groans and whimpers - that poured from his lips.

He was surprised by this sudden turn of events, yes, but he didn’t pull away; didn’t tell her to stop. Instead, his gasps gave way to deep elated sighs as she worked him with her mouth and her hand, taking her time and worshipping his long, thin cock, tracing every handsome vein; revelling in the salty tang of his skin and the slickness of his precum on her tongue as she knelt in front of him.

“S-so good…” he whispered, carding the fingers of one hand through her hair, his head tipping back, “Oh… that feels so, so good…”

I know it does, handsome…

Rook hummed approvingly around him, feeling him throb against the roof of her mouth. She let go of his cock, wrapping her wet fingers around the back of his other thigh before slackening her jaw, opening her throat, then taking him deep, deep, and deeper still until she felt him butt against the space just beyond her tonsils. He squirmed in her hands, biceps femoris fluttering coyly under her fingertips. His hand tightened in her hair, but not enough to hurt.

She inhaled deeply through her nose, filling her lungs and belly, lost in the cathartic victory of the bliss she was subjecting him to; the smell of him; the dainty sweetness of the viscous, anticipatory fluid that continued to seep from his sensitive slit...

He moaned her name quietly again when she eased him further down her throat, exhaling slowly… so slowly through her nose as she went, bobbing her head slightly and going further with each stroke until he was fully seated and her nose brushed skin beneath the coarse thatch of hair on his lower belly.

He positively vibrated in her hands - ass clenching, thighs spasming, hips jerking, the nails of his free hand scrabbling over the smooth surface of the counter as Rook swallowed around him and fucked him with her throat, each lewd wet thrust punctuated by the unseemly sound her vocal cords made as they were repetitively prodded by his intrusive length.

“Darling…” he whined, a man toeing the chasm of abandon. “D-darling please… I can’t… oh - I’m going to— ohhh!”

His words were cut short and he went rigid as a corpse before uttering a strangled yelp and collapsing against the counter with a thud, propped on an elbow as his hips jerked gracelessly against Rook’s face and she felt his hot, thick cum spill down her throat - one satisfying, relieving pulse after another.

She moaned as she swallowed him, cunt aching as she drank him deep, his warmth spreading through her, her name falling raggedly from his mouth over and over and over, each repetition more reverent than the last.

When he was done, she twitched her jaw, let him slip wetly from her, traced her lips with her tongue, and smiled up at his fucked-out face.

“I was looking forward to an appetizer, and it was delicious…” she rose, tucking his cock back into his pants and doing them up. “So… how about that glass of wine, handsome?”

It was actually pretty funny, the way that Emmrich was gaping at her with his unusually clumsy fingers absently trying to configure his belt buckle, his face flushed and shiny with post-orgasmic bliss.

“Wine,” he swallowed, throat bobbing, hazel eyes blown out behind the lenses of his glasses. “Yes, yes… allow me.”

He seemed to grasp onto some scant flotsam of rational thought amongst the pitching sea of post-nut clarity and finished with his belt, sliding his sleeves up his forearms and clearing his throat before saying (roughly), “If you did happen to have a corkscrew, where might it be?”

#emmrook #emmrich x rook #modern funeral home au #emmrich #emmrich volkarin #dragon age emmrich #this is an emmrich thirst post #emmrich romance #emmrich smut #rook is a grimy mall goth #dragon age #datv #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age fan fiction #dragon age fan fic #this old man needs to have his mind and dick blown frequently okay

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