#and when she thanked him for reading and liking it he said the writing was beautiful | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rowdydevs · 2 days ago

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Can we get dilf!rafe and milf!reader? Max lets it slip to rafe that his buddies ogle and find milf!reader so hot when they saw her pick up Max and Winnie from school a few times? You can choose how it goes afterwards!! I love your writing of their fam saurrrrr much

awe thank you bb 💕 I'm so glad you like it 🤭🤭🤭 sorry this one got a little long—but I hope you enjoy 😋💕 This story is meant to be read either alone or with the rest of the au.

+18 -> smut

𝓭𝓲𝓵𝓯!𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓸𝓷 𝔁 𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓯!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

c/w: teenage boys being gross, jealous rafe, swearing, ownership kink, possessive rafe, pet names, multiple orgasms, overstim., squirting, fingering, unprotected p in v, mirror sex, dirty talk, spanking, lots of cum, female oral (post-shared climax)

cameron kids= Max (18), Winnie (17), Rory + Poppy (4)

You lean into the counter, absentmindedly squeezing lemon after lemon into the glass pitcher. Cold juices run down your fingers, sticky as it slips into the creases of your palms and drips to your wrists. The whole kitchen smells like sugar and citrus, with that warm, buttery hint of cookies still cooling behind you.

The plate’s already half gone, devoured by teenage boys lounging in the common space: tall, tan, loud, sprawled across your furniture like they own the place.

“Sugar, please?” You ask, gesturing toward Kelce’s son, perched in front of the one cabinet you need.

“Yes, ma’am,” he hums, flashing you a grin as he hops down to grab it.

His hand brushes yours as he passes it off. You smile, polite and sweet as ever, returning to stir the mix.

“Fuck, she wants me,” he mutters to Max—just out of earshot.

Your son groans, tipping his head back against the cabinet. “Fuck off, Tripp.”

“Why else would she be in here squeezin’ her lemons?” Tripp groans, dragging the sentence out like it’s a double entendre.

“You’re still goin’, huh? Not scared?”

“M’not scared of shit—”

Before Max can answer, the door opens with a thud.

“Hi, Mom!” Winnie calls, sandals slapping the marble as she breezes in. Her boyfriend Jackson’s behind her, arms full, carrying the twins, still damp from the sprinkler, dressed like they’re headed out.

“Is it cool if we take the twins out for ice cream?” Winnie asks. Her tone’s breezy, but she looks sharply toward one of Max’s friends eyeing her up.

That same boy yelps when Max nails him in the arm. “M’gonna fuckin’ kill you,” he mutters, while the kid doubles down, clearly unbothered, shooting his shot at your daughter like it’s all just part of the game.

“Of course, sweetheart,” you say, crossing the counter for your purse.

“Mrs. Cameron, really—I’ve got it,” Jackson says, voice firm.

“That’s very sweet. But not necessary… Thanks for taking them off my hands.” You kneel in front of the twins gently brushing back your daughter’s curls; cupping your son’s cheek lovingly. “You two be good for your sister and Jackson, okay?”

You lean in to kiss their cheeks, and without realizing it, your sundress shifts. The neckline dips, your breasts press softly together, the hem lifts just enough to tease. You linger, whispering something about sprinkles and chocolate.

Behind you, the room goes silent.

One boy swallows hard. Another just stares—slack-jawed—like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“Max… Dude. This is your life?”

“Didn’t I tell you to shut the fuck up?” Max mutters, jaw clenched.

“I’d move in tomorrow,” Tripp grins. “Be your stepdad today.”

“Bet she tastes like sugar—”

“I said shut up,” Max snaps, louder this time.

Just then, another boy walks in from the hallway, Trevor. He catches sight of you, still bent low in front of the twins, and freezes. Smiling like the goddamn Cheshire Cat, he lifts both hands like he’s gripping your hips and starts thrusting the air behind you in slow-motion silence.

The other boys lose it—coughing, choking on laughter, trying and failing to keep it together.

You straighten up, sundress swaying back into place as you smooth it down with both hands, blissfully unaware.

“All right, go have fun,” you sing out, waving them toward the door.

You turn back to the pitcher, lift it to the sink, and flip the tap without thinking.

Water churns—lemon juice and sugar swirling, rising to the rim—as your gaze drifts out the kitchen window. And then you see him. Rafe…

His white t-shirt’s soaked through, hose in hand as he rinses down the G-Wagon. Sunlight turns the spray to glitter. Water drips down his arms, soaking the cotton clinging to every curve and cut of his chest and abs.

He turns, flipping his hat backward with one hand, jaw flexing as he wipes his brow.

Your thighs press together. Grip tightening on the pitcher just as the lemonade spills over, cold and sticky down your wrist. You fumble the tap, blinking fast, but your eyes don’t leave him.

His shirt clings to his back, practically painted on, while his blue swim trunks ride low on his hips and high on his thighs.

One hand coils the hose, and the other grabs the wash bucket. His chest flexes with every move, muscles rolling under wet cotton like sin in motion.

“Have fun, boys,” you call out, pouring lemonade into a glass, still watching him.

The front door clicks shut as you step outside barefoot. The grass is crisp beneath your feet; sun shining hot on your shoulders.

Rafe looks up the second he hears you. His mouth curves into a slow, knowing smile. “Oh shit, pretty,” he drawls, eyes dragging down your body. “That for me?”

“Mhmm,” you hum, offering him the glass—but he doesn’t take it. He steps closer, warm, wet arm curling around your waist, pulling you flush to him like he can’t help it. His mouth finds yours instantly—hot and slow. Your fingers hook behind his neck, greedy for more.

You giggle into the kiss, breathless. “How much longer?”

Rafe pulls back just enough to smirk, water dripping down his temple “What? You want somethin’, baby?”

ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴ 15 minutes earlier…

The garage is quiet at first—just the clatter of golf clubs and the squeak of a sponge as Rafe scrubs the green off his chipping wedge. The radio hums softly from the corner, low and easy. But that peace doesn’t last.

Beer bottles clink inside the fridge; ice rattles in the machine. And just around the corner from where Rafe sits, the boys start talking their shit like they don’t have a care in the world.

“I’m done,” your son mutters—tone flat and fed up like he’s been saying all day.

“Not my fault your mom’s hot as fuck, Maxi.” One of the boys fires back, voice deep and smug. “M’just waitin’ for the day she gets stuck in the washer. I’ll pound her shit right there—”

“Fuck you,” Max hisses. There’s a sharp thud and a groan; Max hits his friend hard enough to give him a moment's peace from him, but it doesn’t stop the rest of them.

“Did you see her in that swimsuit the other day? Playing with the twins? That bikini? She’s still got an ass on her. Those tits too?” Trevor chimes in, practically drooling. “I wanna play with her twins. Slide my dick right between ‘em—”

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you,” Max growls.

“Hey, you fucked my sister, Max. Both of ‘em. Think I get to tug one to your mom… every night—”

“She’s so hot, bro. Like stupid hot,” another pipes up. “Your dad doesn’t deserve that. He can’t keep up. Can’t handle all that. His stamina’s gotta be shot.”

“She made me cookies like it was foreplay,” one of them says, breathy and laughing. “You think she ever looks at us and wonders…”

“She made cookies for my dad,” Max mutters.

“Yeah. That’s what I said—”

And then Rafe clears his throat, loud and measured. The sound slices through the room like a blade. So quiet you could hear the soft clink of a stolen beer cap hitting the concrete.

The boys scatter like mice out the side door and back into the house. Their smug laughter from moments before dies on their lips, replaced by frantic whispers of “do you think he heard” and the squeak of boat shoes skidding across the floor.

“Come here,” Rafe says, low and calm.

Max exhales hard, stuffing his hands in his front pockets. His shoulders drawn up to his ears as he drags himself across the garage floor.

“You wanna explain what that was?” Rafe asks without looking at him, voice steady as he cleans his club.

Max shrugs, sullen. “I mean, you heard it.”

“Yeah… I heard everything—”

“Every fuckin’ day,” Max mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Anytime we’re at the house. I try shutting it down—it’s impossible.”

“They were talking about your mother,” Rafe says. “You just gonna let that fly?”

“They’re fuckin’ idiots,” Max scoffs. “Just givin’ me shit. They’re not gonna do anything. And what am I supposed to do, huh? Beat the shit out of every guy who opens his mouth about mom?”

“Nah,” Rafe says, smiling without humor. “They’ll get the hint some way or another.”

“Well that’s not horrifying,” Max mumbles, giving him a side-eye—because he knows damn well Rafe might handle this himself.

“She’s not just your mom, you know. She’s my wife,” Rafe says, nodding toward the garage door. “So yeah. I know exactly how hot she is.”

“Ew.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Rafe grins. “I just had to listen to that perverted pissin’ contest over your mother. And Trevor’s sister? Really?”

“…Sisters,” Max murmurs, not meeting Rafe’s eye.

He cringes, face twisting in the exact same way his son’s had moments earlier. “Aren’t you dating Top’s daughter?”

“They’re Trevor’s sisters,” Max repeats. “Doesn’t count.”

Rafe stares at him. “And what’s the math on that? It doesn’t count? You serious?”

Max shrugs, then deflects. “Hey—remember who the enemy is here, alright? He was talkin’ about Mom.”

That earns a dry laugh. Rafe crosses his arms, leaning back against the wall, still giving Max a look like this conversation’s not over.

“I like that excuse better,” he breathes. “Y’all headin’ out?”

“Mhmm,” Max hums, already inching toward the door like he’s trying to disappear. “Just gonna grab some snacks.”

“Yacht Club?”

“Mhmm,” he confirms, eyes on the exit.

“Be safe,” Rafe says, a little quieter now.

Max mumbles something back as he pushes into the house, and the door shuts behind him with a soft thud.

Rafe doesn’t move. He just stands there for a second, staring at nothing, letting the quiet settle. He knows what he feels. Always has. He just doesn’t always want to name it.

He used to love the attention. The looks. The envy. Part of him still does. When you were younger, his friends couldn’t keep their eyes off you. Couldn’t help the comments, the sideways glances. And he loved it—loved knowing that no matter how many mouths whispered your name, it was his bed you came home to.

You were his. All his. Always. But this? This was different. Hearing that kind of shit from teenagers—his son’s idiot friends, their mouths full of his food, beers stolen from his fridge, spending long, lazy days on his boat—no. It didn’t feel flattering. It felt like a fucking insult.

The way they talked about you was like you were some option. Like if given half a chance, they’d step right into his role. As if they could touch you. As if they could handle a woman like you. His wife. It pissed him off. And he knew it shouldn’t—not like this.

It wasn’t new. It wasn’t shocking. But today? It got under his skin in a different way. Raw and hot and fucking personal.

He let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand through his hair. This is what happens when your wife is you. People want you. They always have.

He laughs under his breath—half at himself, half at the absurdity of it all—and reaches for the sponge and bucket again. He wasn’t gonna fight them. He didn’t need to. There were better ways to remind them where they stood.

They wanted to act grown? Act like they could love you, care for you, fuck you like a man? Fine. Let them watch. Let them see what a real man does.

Rafe lets the door swing shut behind him and strolls across the drive, relaxed, deliberate. His gaze lifts straight to the window above the sink—and there you are, stepping into frame like you were waiting for your cue.

Rafe squeezes the hose handle, blasting water against the side of the G-Wagon. He shifts a little closer, just enough to let the spray bounce back misting his skin, ricocheting off the glossy paint.

The sun is hot, but the water is cool against his skin. The soaked fabric clings to the muscles of his chest and abs. He tugs his shorts a little higher on his thighs, watching the droplets slide down his body.

Then he smiles again—cocky and quiet—as he pulls the oldest trick in the book: flipping his cap from front to back like he’s not thinking about it at all.

Next, his shirt. He peels it off slowly and casually and tosses it aside, revealing his tan, chiseled frame. The gold chain with your initial catches the light.

“Five… four… three…” Bang. The door claps shut. He chuckles to himself, smug, reading you like a favorite book. He doesn’t even have to look to know it’s you. But he does.

Rafe glances over his shoulder as he hears your bare feet brushing through the grass; sundress swaying in the summer breeze. And then he sees you, glass of lemonade in hand, eyes already locked on him like he’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted.

“Look at you,” he mutters, watching you float closer. You took the bait. You always do. And he lives for it.

He spots movement through the glass, Max’s friends still inside, lingering, pretending not to watch.

Rafe praises you as he always does, a breathy “mhmm” buzzing past your lips is the only thing passing before he’s kissing you deep, hot, and possessive—right there in the driveway, letting them see. Letting them know who you belong to. How good you fit in his arms. How easily he could take you wherever and whenever he wanted.

He pulls back just enough to breathe you in; Rafe brushing his lips across yours like he can’t stop touching you. His big hand drifts lower, sliding over the slight curve of your back before grabbing a handful of ass—firm, slow, and so intentional it makes your breath catch.

Heat rushes to your cheeks. You laugh quietly, barely holding it in. His shirt’s been tossed somewhere behind him, skin warm and bare against yours, that heavy gold chain glinting faintly against his chest.

The teenage boys barrel out of the house, faster than usual. Lugging the cooler through the grass as they look anywhere but at you.

“Where are you headed?” Rafe calls out, still holding your waist.

“Told you—yacht club,” Max grits, like a chore.

“Yacht club, huh?” Rafe echoes. “Sounds real productive. Why don’t y’all finish cleanin’ the car before you go burnin’ my gas?”

“Dad, seriously?” Max groans, letting the cooler drop to the grass with a thud.

“You’re about to torch another five hundred dollars of fuel,” Rafe says, grinning as he jams the sponge into one of the boys’ chests hard. “Don’t even get me started on yesterday. Three-fifty in food, six bottles of cheap-ass liquor—none of which I’d let past my lips or hers… It’s the least you can do.”

“Pretty sure that was all Winnie—”

“Spare me the bullshit,” Rafe drawls, his Southern accent soaked in judgment, cutting like his smirk.

“Since when are you washin’ cars anyway?” Max mutters, dunking a sponge into the soapy bucket. You try not to giggle but you can’t help it. Rafe’s flair for the dramatics is so visible in Max it’s like looking in a mirror.

Rafe laughs as well, already turning back to you. He reaches up, wiping a drop of water from your cheek with his thumb, pressing a kiss to your lips—gentler this time, like he’s taking back the moment before their arrival.

“Now what did you need, baby?” Rafe murmurs as the boys start scrubbing the truck. You glance up at him, feeling nothing but butterflies. Rafe bites his lip slightly, head tilted slightly, making your brain short-circuit. “Name it, princess,” he mumbles, thumb tracing slow, possessive circles on the small of your back.

“You.”

That one word has him grinning, dark and knowing. “You want me, huh?” He mutters, voice dropping an octave. “Alright. Do somethin’ for me.”

“Anything…”

“Go on back inside. Head to the guest room. Get on the bed, just like this. Don’t take a single thing off,” he adds. “I wanna take it off you. You think you can do that for me?”

“Yeah… yeah, baby,” you murmur, lifting up just enough to press your mouth to his.

He leans in, lips lingering like he’s already counting down the seconds. “Beautiful,” he mutters, voice low, that crooked grin spreading as his hand lands on your ass with a lazy smack. “I’ll be right behind you— ”

“Love you, Max! Have fun, boys. Be safe,” you call out, voice bright and sweet as you disappear toward the house.

The driveway shifts the second the door closes, all the sunshine snuffed out the second you’re gone. The boys go silent, scrubbing like their lives depend on it.

Rafe’s shadow stretches long across the driveway. He folds his arms over his broad chest as he surveys the group, his gaze unreadable—far colder than anger.

“Yacht club, huh?” He says, nodding toward the cooler. “Gonna load up the boat? Burn my gas, drink my liquor, make some memories? I hope y’all have fun,” Rafe adds, and if they didn’t know any better, they might think he means it.

“Thanks, Mr. Camer—”

“Maybe you’ll even get lucky,” Rafe cuts in, clean and easy. “Pick up a few country club girls: pearls, spray tans; the kind who won’t notice your hands shakin’ while you fumble with their bras.”

A nervous chuckle slips out, quickly catching Rafe’s glare, his lips curling into a fake smile.

“You’ve seen my wife, yeah?” He asks casually. “Beautiful. Fuckin’ stunning actually. Prettiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

He looks back at the house giving the boys a moment to breathe before shifting his sights to them again.

“I’ve been working since I was eighteen. Built this house. That boat. Everything you boys use like it’s yours.” He leans in slightly, voice tightening. “And even after all that—I don’t deserve her.”

That hits. You can see it land—all of them blinking like they’ve just been slapped across the face.

“So what makes you think you do?”

“We were just joking, Mr. Cameron. I swear—”

“That’s my wife,” Rafe snaps. The words hit like thunder in their chests. “Mine. Always has been. Always will be. And I don’t give a shit if you go home and jerk off thinkin’ about her—hell, that fantasy’s older than any of you.”

His smile returns, slow and razor-sharp. “But if you say another word—if you breathe another comment about something you’ll never fuckin’ touch…”

He steps forward, and they shrink; stepping toward Max is self-preservation. His eyes zero in on Trevor. The kid nods before Rafe says another word, like he’s praying it’s enough to stay alive. “I’ll make sure the only thing you’re sliding into is a fuckin’ ditch. We clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Trevor stammers.

Rafe claps a hand on his back hard. The slap echoed through the grounds, making the boy stumble forward with a wheezing gasp.

Then, just like that, Rafe turns and walks away. Calm and steady, like it didn’t happen. He passes Max on the way back to the house, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Love you, kid.”

“L-Love you too,” Max mutters, the lot of them holding their breath until he’s gone for good.

ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴

You shift on the bed the second he walks in, soft and shy, biting your lip as your eyes meet his. His gaze darkens instantly, heat rolling off him like a wave.

“I know I changed…” You murmur, voice gentle as a pout tugs at your lips.

The robe’s already falling off your shoulders. Just hanging there. Lace underneath—barely visible, but that’s the point. One leg crossed, stockings tight on your thighs, garters showing just enough to make him stop breathing.

Rafe’s tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip as his eyes roam over you like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again.

He’s already hard, straining against the front of his swim trunks, jaw tight as his fists curl at his sides—like it’s taking everything in him not to rip that robe off you.

“Baby… Don’t apologize. Not when you look that fuckin’ good for me.”

Rafe steps closer, making your thighs part without thinking, giving him room, inviting him in. His hands slide up your legs—rough palms dragging higher—his thumbs hooking under the garter straps, snapping them against your skin.

“You bought this for me, didn’t you? Knew I’d lose my mind over this. Fuck, you know me too well…”

Your pussy clenches at the raw need in his tone. You toy with the satin belt at your waist, slowly teasingly letting the knot fall loose. The robe slips open completely as you lean back, arching your back, tits round in the pretty lingerie.

“Fuck... You don’t even realize what you do to me. The way you picked this out thinkin’ of me? Wantin’ me to see you like this?”

He kisses you, soft and slow, then starts to trail lower—his mouth brushing along your jaw, every touch unhurried, deliberate. His hand glides up your thigh and grips tight, spreading you open. His eyes are sharp, blue, and hungry—fixed on yours.

“Rafe…” You whine, already feeling your thoughts blur.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you for them,” he groans, hardly holding himself together. “Make sure they never look at you the same. Make sure they know it’s me in your head when you close your eyes. You know what they’ll never have?” He whispers, breath fanning across your lips.

“This. This soft little mouth. These legs wrapped around them. This sweet pussy drippin’ for them.” His voice drops even lower. “All mine.”

You blink up at him, a little crease forming between your brows like you’re trying to figure him out

He lets out this low breath, almost a laugh, but not really. “Fuck, you’re perfect… You don’t even see anyone else, do you?”

“Who, baby?” You whisper.

He scoffs, low and humorless as he tugs down his trunks, tossing them to the floor. “You should’ve heard what they were sayin’ about you.”

“Rafe…” You blink. “Is everything okay?”

Your words tip up into a gasp as he pushes you back suddenly, one knee sinking into the bed, his body climbing over yours. “Those boys,” he mumbles. “They want you.”

“Max’s friends?” You gasp as your face twists in disgust; eyes flicking toward the door.

Rafe grabs your cheeks, forcing your focus back to him. His fingers slip under the lace and he groans—low and guttural—when he feels how wet you are.

“Already soaked,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’ve been sittin’ here all sweet and innocent, like nothin’s goin’ on—when your pussy’s this fuckin’ desperate for me. Say you're mine… Who do you belong to?”

You whimper, breath hitching as he slips your panties to the side and drags two fingers through your slick slowly, savoring every second.

“Say it,” he demands, his forehead pressing to yours; hand working you open.

“You,” you whisper. “I belong to you—”

“That’s right… Mine to spoil. Mine to love. Mine to fuck.”

You go to touch him, but he grabs your wrists before you get the chance. Forces them up over your head, holding you there. His body presses into yours and when his hand slides down your thigh, it pulls a shiver straight out of you. “Uh-uh, angel. Not yet.”

His fingers curl just right, pressing into that spot that makes your hips jolt off the sheets. He keeps it slow, steady—watching your face with quiet adoration. He’s memorized every flutter of your lashes, every soft gasp that slips from your swollen lips. He knows what it takes… what you crave. And he knows you’re close.

“You’re gonna come for me, pretty,” he murmurs. “Just like this—”

You nod rapidly, falling apart not a moment later. “Fuck, Rafe,” you cry out, trembling as your pussy clenches around his fingers.

But he doesn’t stop. He keeps working you through it, fucking you with his fingers until you’re gasping into his mouth, thighs twitching, hips jerking away from the overstimulation. You reach for his wrist, gripping tight, trying to slow him down—but he groans against your lips, loving how little it takes for him to unravel you.

He catches the lace of your panties and rips them clean off, the tear sharp and sudden. The sound snaps through the room, and your legs twitch from the jolt.

Rafe pulls you off the bed, guiding you right where he wants you, not wasting a moment. “Hands on the glass,” he says, voice rough as he unhooks your bra with one practiced flick. His other hand clamps around your waist, steadying you.

You press your palms to the glass, cool beneath you. Your reflection stares back: hair a mess, lips wet, chest rising fast—tits bare as you beg for more, fighting to keep your eyes open already as they flutter shut.

“Eyes on me,” Rafe whispers roughly, his chest pressed to your back now; hips flush against your ass.

He pushes into you slowly, giving you every delicious inch, your greedy pussy pulling him in. “Shit, baby… You’re tight.” Rafe grinds in deeper, hand splayed across your stomach as he holds you there, impaled on his thick cock. “This,” he pants, dragging back and slamming in again. “This is my pussy. My house. My fuckin’ wife.”

Rafe sets a brutal rhythm, hips snapping against your ass with each thrust. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, lewd and filthy. He spanks your ass, hard enough to make you jolt forward into the glass.

“Let ‘em hear it,” he growls. “Let those little bastards outside hear what I do to you.”

Your body trembles with every ruthless thrust; the mirror rattles under your grip, the sharp slaps of skin echoing round the room.

“Gonna cum for me, baby?” Rafe grits out, voice rough and hoarse.

“I’m gonna cum,” you gasp, voice breaking as the knot in your belly coils tight, ready to snap.

“Yeah?” He growls, dragging you closer, rough hands holding you right where he wants you. “Then fuckin’ give it to me.”

One arm binds around your waist while the other slips down, fingers working your clit in rough, relentless circles that make your legs shake. “Show me what I do to you.”

Your mouth drops open in a silent scream as your body jerks—cunt clamping down around him. You peel your eyes open, desperate to see him. And there he is in the mirror behind you: jaw tight, lip caught between his teeth as his hips slam into you again and again.

“Good girl,” he snarls, not letting up for a second. “You ain’t done yet.”

Rafe yanks you upright, chest to back, one big hand wrapping gently around your throat, thumb stroking just under your jaw as he fucks you deep and hard—so deep it’s almost too much.

You break with a choked sob, another orgasm tearing through you so hard your vision blurs. You go limp in his arms, legs shaking, body spent. He doesn’t let go. Just grunts out a rough “Fuck, baby,” right against your neck as his hips pump forward. One last thrust and he’s coming, cock throbbing inside you, breath hot on your skin.

You feel every pulse of it, thick and messy, spilling deep as he holds you there, buried and shaking, not ready to move.

Rafe nuzzles into your cheek, soft kisses dusting your jaw as your breath comes out in shattered little gasps. He listens to every sound. “You still with me, baby?” He murmurs, peeking over your shoulder with a teasing smirk.

“Barely,” you whisper, still catching your breath as you slump into his chest.

He lets out a soft laugh, mouth skimming the edge of your lips. “That smile,” he mutters, voice thick. “Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

You let your eyes fall shut, head resting against him.

He slips out of you slow, gentle to the last second, then gathers you up without a word. Carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing, sets you down easy, and smooths your hair from your face with the back of his hand. Just stands there for a beat, staring like he can’t believe you’re real.

“Rafe…” you breathe, voice soft and pathetic, so sweet it nearly breaks him. He smiles, crawling between your thighs. “You gonna tell me you can’t take another?” He whispers, hands sliding under your knees, pushing your thighs open wide. “Yes, you can… You always do.”

Rafe kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other, mouth warm against your sex. His stubble drags across your skin, rough enough to make your lip tremble.

Your hands shoot to his hair the second he dives between your thighs. His tongue works you over, lips locking around your clit as he sucks hard. You cry out, fingers gripping his hair, and he groans into you, the sound vibrating so deep it makes your legs shake.

Rafe’s fingers slide inside without warning, drilling his cum back into you until your back bows and your eyes blur with tears.

You sob, thighs quivering as your heels dig into the mattress, your body barely able to take it anymore; your brain not able to think of a single coherent thought.

“Give it to me. Let ‘em know who owns this fuckin’ bed, aight. You and me… You. And. Me.” A scream rips from your throat, so cock-drunk you cum without warning, soaking his hand, his face, the sheets beneath you, everything drenched in the proof of your pleasure.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” Rafe sighs in relief, licking and kissing through the mess, savoring every drop. He slaps your pussy once, firm and wet, just to hear the sound of it. “Atta baby. That’s what I fuckin’ needed… So damn good to me.”

He drags his mouth up your body. Every touch lingers, every breath shared. He settles over you, wrapping you up in him.

You reach for his face, thumb stroking along his slick jaw. He leans into your touch, his mouth just a breath from yours.

“I love you,” you murmur, voice barely there.

Rafe’s leans in, resting his forehead against yours. A quiet smile breaks across his face.

“I love you more, sweetheart,” he says, low and steady. “Always have. Always will.”

ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴ the next morning

“I warned you,” Max mutters.

Tripp doesn’t reply—just stares into the void like something sacred was taken from him last night. Trevor’s slumped next to him, hoodie up, eyes hollow, chewing his thumbnail.

“Warned us?” Tripp breathes, voice shot. “About the wet bed? The screaming? The headboard hitting the wall like a metronome set to ‘destroy pussy’ all night long?”

Knock. Knock. Knock. Bauer adds, thumping his fist against the kitchen table. “All damn night.”

Max shrugs, calm as ever. “I told you not to talk about my mom.”

“…She was crying about it,” Bauer mutters. “Crying about dick—”

“Enough,” Max snaps.

Tripp rubs both hands over his face. “I’ve got PTSD. Did you sleep?”

“You think I slept?” Trevor huffs.

“You could’ve knocked,” Max says casually, sipping his orange juice.

All heads turn to him fast. “Knocked?” They spat in unison.

Max shrugs again, scrolling aimlessly on his phone. “Could’ve asked to crash in my room. I slept great.”

You walk in like it’s any other morning—light on your feet, humming under your breath, dressed in a tiny pajama set that has no business existing in a house full of teenage boys. Your tank’s stretched snug across your chest, love bites just barely visible where your robe slips open at the collar.

You pull the cinnamon rolls out, set them on the counter, steam rising fast. Without thinking, you grab the icing, swipe some with your finger, and lick it clean. You smile, small and sleepy, still feeling kind of floaty from the night before.

And for the first time in god knows how long they sat there in silence.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” Tripp whispers as heavy footsteps echo down the hall.

And then—Rafe.

No shirt, just his signature gold chain catching the light as it rested against his chest. His skin was tanned, muscles cut sharp, and those sweats hung low on his hips like he’d just rolled out of bed—or hadn’t bothered to pull them up all the way.

“Mornin’, baby,” He murmurs, already reaching for your waist.

“Good morning,” you hum, letting him pull you into him—cinnamon roll tray still in your hands—as he kisses your skin; fingers curling around the handle of the fresh cup of coffee you poured him, steam rolling over the rim of the handmade Daddy mug from a Father’s Day past.

“For me?” He asks softly, like the entire house isn’t holding its breath.

You giggle, warm and syrupy. “Made your favorite.”

“Already had my favorite last night.” It’s a whisper meant just for you, but every boy hears it.

Rafe grabs a roll, swipes his thumb through the icing, and licks it clean like he’s still tasting you. He sips his coffee slowly, his focus unwavering.

“Breakfast on the porch, baby?”

“Yeah,” you smile like he asked you on a date.

Then finally, with one last glance at his house, his wife, and the group of broken boys who will never forget last night, he mumbles, smug as ever…

“Ya’ll have a great day. ”

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#rafe one shot 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹#my library ᝰ.ᐟ #dilf!rafe ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ #older!rafe ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ #rafe cameron #rafe #outer banks #rafe smut #rafe x reader #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #⋆.°🧸๋ྀི࣭⭑ daddy #dad!rafe

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skelesnakesposts · 18 hours ago

Text

Ok so I ended up writing 12k words, I'll put the first chapter in here and link the ao3 bellow because I'm not gonna make people read all of that.

Chapter 1:

After what felt like an eternity, the bell finally rang, signalling the end of class. Lily had just survived the most boring math lesson of her life, and she was beyond relieved to be free. She packed her books as fast as she could while the teacher reminded everyone about the test on Friday.

She filed out with the rest of her classmates and made a beeline for her locker across the hall. As she was packing up to go home, Eve approached.

“Hey, Lily. I’m really sorry—I have to cancel again. My mom wants me home. Some family stuff came up.”

“Okay… Do you know when you’ll actually be able to work on the project? It’s due next week, and Ms. Maken will kill us if we don’t get it done. It’s like fifty percent of our final grade.”

“I know, I’m really sorry. I’m not sure when I’ll have time, but I’ll let you know as soon as I can, okay?”

“Fine. I’m going to start on my section—it’ll take a while anyway. Just send me your part whenever you get the chance. I’ll handle the formatting,” Lily said, obviously annoyed.

“Thank you so much, Lily. You’re a lifesaver,” Eve replied with forced gratitude—her tone made it obvious she wasn’t planning to contribute much.

“I’d better go. See you Monday, Eve. Hopefully, everything’s okay with your family.”

“Thanks. See you Monday.” Eve turned and walked away.

Not long after, Lily headed home. She had a mountain of work waiting for her and couldn’t afford to waste time. Wanting to beat the early evening darkness, she decided to take a shortcut.

The alley between the vape shop and one of the dozen nearly identical phone stores shaved several minutes off her walk. It let out just a block or two from her house—close enough to feel convenient, not far enough to feel dangerous.

At least, not usually.

Halfway down the alley, she spotted a couple of shadowy figures. She paused. Should she really walk toward them?

“Whatever,” she muttered. “It’s fine.”

It was not fine. Walking toward strangers in a sketchy alley was objectively a terrible decision.

As she got closer, the figures began arguing—loudly.

“What do you mean you lost it? You had one job!”

Lily stopped cold. She knew that voice. “Uncle David?”

He didn’t turn, too caught up in yelling at the stranger.

“You think I meant to? I worked my ass off to get that! You seriously think I’d just hand it over?”

Lily opened her mouth to call out again—but then she saw something that made her freeze.

Plants—real plants—were snaking up around the stranger’s neck.

She blinked.

She had to be imagining this. Where would plants even come from in the middle of a concrete alley?

Then the man collapsed.

David turned—and saw her.

His face changed instantly. Panic. Regret. Guilt.

Lily’s heart was hammering. That wasn’t just anyone. That was her uncle. And she had just watched him kill someone?

She took a step back.

“Wait! Lily, it’s not what it looks like!” David called.

“Oh really?” she snapped, eyes wide. “Because it looked like you just murdered someone.”

David raised his hands, staying where he was. “Okay, it was—kind of. But you can’t tell anyone. It’s not like they’ll believe you anyway. You’ll end up in a mental hospital, they’ll think you’re insane.”

Lily stared at him. “You’re my uncle, David. How am I supposed to process the fact that you just choked a guy with plants? What even is that?”

“I didn’t want you to find out this way,” he muttered.

“You think that makes it better?” she said, her voice high and shaky. “How the hell am I supposed to act normal after this? I could still call the police and say you strangled him with a rope or something. That’d be enough to get you arrested.”

David let out a slow, tired sigh.

“Okay, but… are you really going to do all that?”

The way he said it—so calm, so certain—made her stomach twist. And, frustratingly, he wasn’t wrong. Her brain was still catching up.

The alley was silent now, thick with tension.

After a long pause, David spoke again.

“Look, I know this is a lot. But what you saw wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”

“You mean the part where vines came out of nowhere and strangled a man?” she said, arms crossed. “Yeah. Not exactly the family reunion I expected.”

David nodded wearily. “Right. So, let’s start over. I’ll explain. But I have so many questions.”

“Shoot”

She narrowed her eyes. “So that thing with the vines… that was magic, wasn’t it?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It was.”

Lily exhaled, trying to centre herself. “Okay. So magic is real. Cool. Just what I needed to round out my week.”

David gave a tired smile. “You’re handling this better than I thought.”

“Well, I haven’t passed out yet, so that’s something.”

“Yeah that’s a good sign. You said you had a lot of questions, you may as well keep going.”

“Yeah ok. How did you even know you could do magic? And what about me? Is there a chance I could do it too?”

“There’s a test for that.”

“Seriously? It’s that simple?”

“Pretty much. All we need is a piece of paper, a drop of your blood, and a basic spell.”

“That’s it?”

“You sound disappointed. We’ve got better tools these days. No full ritual required.”

She rolled her eyes. “So… when and where are we doing this? Because I want to know but I need to be home before my parents start asking questions.”

“I know a guy. He’s about ten minutes from here, and the test only takes five. I can bring you in and get the test done, but if you don’t test positive you have to forget that all of this ever happened. I’ll have you home right after. Deal?”

“Fine. Let’s go.”

and here's the link for the rest if you want to read more:

Wait, are you saying that magic is real?" "Yes." "And you can test if I have magical potential?" "Yes. It's simple: a piece of paper, a drop of your blood, and a simple spell."

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gf2bellamy · 2 days ago

Note

Hello!!! First I wanted to say I absolutely adoreeee your fics I literally read them like bedtime stories honestly😭🙏

I also wanted to request perhaps reader and spencer at jj's wedding (reader also being a part of the bau) and they've both been best friends for years. They dance together and as it's getting late, spencer offers reader to stay at his place for the night because it's closer. Then they go back to his apartment and nervously end up admitting feelings for eachother!!! Like it comes up in conversation while they're just hanging out and watching TV or whatnot and maybe they also get super emotional and teary because of how much they both mean to eachother. Hope this is coherent enough or not too elaborate 😭 thank you so much anyhow though - you are a brilliant writer!

wedding — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader wears a dress , lots of dancing , mention of a case a/n: hi hi ! i hope you like this <3 i loved writing this

“You know you’re staring, right?”

Penelope Garcia’s voice snapped you out of your trance. She nudged your shoulder with hers, her dress catching the light as she tilted her head toward you.

You blinked, pulled from your thoughts as your gaze reluctantly drifted away from where Spencer stood beneath the garden lights.

He was crouched down, completely absorbed in showing Henry a card trick, his voice soft. The child’s eyes were wide with wonder.

Yours weren’t much different.

You were at JJ's wedding, waiting out in the garden while the she got ready. The evening air was cool but pleasant, and strings of fairy lights twinkled like stars overhead.

“What?” you asked, trying to sound casual, though your tone betrayed you.

Garcia turned to face you fully, her expression smug in the most Garcia way possible.

“You.” She pointed a finger at you . “Were staring.” Then she swiveled her finger dramatically toward Spencer. “At Dr. Adorable over there.”

Your face warmed, and you blinked at her, still half-lost in the haze of watching Spencer—the way his hair fell just slightly into his eyes when he leaned forward, the joy in his expression as he entertained Henry.

Your mouth opened to protest, but no words came out. You glanced back toward Spencer before you could stop yourself—he was laughing now, Henry giggling with him, and the sight made your heart twist in the gentlest way.

Garcia raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the flustered look on your face. “I mean, if you're gonna pine, at least do it with a little less intensity. People are gonna start thinking you're plotting his murder or planning your wedding. There is no in-between with that look.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. “Stop,” you said weakly, pointing a finger at her in mock warning.

“Mhmm,” she hummed, the grin never leaving her face as she slowly backed away. “I’ll leave you to your lovesick sighing. But just so you know, you’re not nearly as subtle as you think you are.”

You watched her disappear into the reception with a sigh, your eyes inevitably drawn back to Spencer. His head tilted up slightly, and for a moment, it almost felt like he was about to look right at you. You froze. But instead, he ruffled Henry’s hair and stood up with that soft smile still lingering on his lips.

Some time later, you were standing quietly beside Garcia, watching as JJ's mother walked her down the aisle.

The moment was beautiful—soft music playing, petals lining the path, the kind of memory that felt like it would live in everyone’s mind forever.

You glanced across the aisle.

Spencer was standing directly opposite you, looking striking in his dark suit. His hair was just slightly tousled in that effortlessly handsome way he never seemed to realize he had.

You tried not to stare—but that resolve didn’t last long. Your eyes kept finding their way back to him.

What you didn’t know was that he was doing the exact same thing.

It turned into a quiet game of glances and near-catches. Every time you looked over, he had just looked away. Every time his eyes landed on you, yours had already shifted elsewhere.

A dance of almosts.

Later, as the reception began and you found your seat at one of the round tables lit with candles and scattered rose petals, you found yourself sitting between Emily and Rossi. The chair across from you remained empty for only a moment—until Spencer took it, still sneaking those glances when he thought you weren’t looking.

Rossi stood, glass in hand, and the room hushed as he began his toast. His voice was warm and full of love, weaving a beautiful speech to JJ and Will.

While the rest of the room listened with full attention, Spencer found himself watching you instead.

You were smiling—softly, sincerely—as you listened to Rossi speak, and it knocked the air right out of him. Your dress, elegant but simple, shimmered slightly in the candlelight.

He’d nearly lost his footing when he saw you walk in earlier. Morgan had caught him gaping and slapped his shoulder with a laugh, saying, “Try to be subtle, pretty boy,” before shooting a look to Garcia. She, in turn, had already noticed the exact same look on your face when Spencer entered the venue.

“Cheers!” Rossi’s voice rang out, snapping Spencer back to the moment.

Everyone raised their glasses, laughter and the clinking of glass echoing softly around the room. You tapped your glass gently against Emily’s and then Rossi’s, then your eyes found Spencer’s—finally, directly.

You held his gaze and raised your glass slightly toward him. The gesture was small but intimate. Intentional.

He blinked, as if surprised you were really looking at him this time, and then he smiled—soft, warm, and a little shy. He raised his glass in return, eyes never leaving yours.

About twenty minutes later, the music softened, and couples slowly began to gather on the dance floor.

You laughed, breathless, as Morgan suddenly took your hand and pulled you onto the dance floor with dramatic flair.

“Morgan!” you protested through your giggles, but he just grinned, spinning you lightly before placing one hand at your waist and the other in yours.

“Come on, don’t pretend you’re not having fun,” he teased as the two of you began to sway to the rhythm.

You rolled your eyes fondly, your smile not faltering for a second. The two of you moved easily together, playful, but Morgan’s attention wasn’t entirely on the dance. He glanced over your shoulder, eyes locking with Spencer’s across the room.

Spencer stood by the edge of the dance floor, fidgeting with the cuff of his suit jacket. He hadn’t stopped watching you all night. You looked radiant—happy, glowing. And that look on your face... he wanted so badly to be the one putting it there.

But nerves had kept him frozen.

You and Spencer had been best friends for years. Through tough cases, long nights, and vulnerable confessions whispered in quiet hotel rooms, you’d been there.

Always. And yet tonight, seeing you in that dress, with your hair framing your face just so, had knocked him completely off balance.

Morgan had noticed, of course.

Before dragging you to the dance floor, he’d spent the last ten minutes nudging Spencer with not-so-subtle comments, even outright pushing him toward the dance floor once. “You’re really gonna let me dance with her all night when you’re clearly dying to?”

Spencer had brushed him off, flustered and full of excuses—until now.

Morgan raised an eyebrow meaningfully as he danced with you, silently daring Spencer to make a move.

Spencer swallowed hard, his eyes locked with Morgan’s. Then they slid to you. You were smiling, your cheeks flushed with laughter, your hand resting lightly on Morgan’s shoulder.

That was it.

He bit his lip, straightened his jacket, and finally—finally—stepped forward.

As Morgan saw him approaching, he leaned in and whispered to you, “Looks like my job here is done.”

You gave him a puzzled look just as the song transitioned into a slower, sweeter melody.

And then Morgan stepped back.

You turned—and there he was. Spencer. Hands slightly fidgety, but eyes soft and full of something that made your breath catch.

“May I?” he asked, his voice a little quiet, a little shy.

You smiled, your heart skipping a beat. “Took you long enough.”

You slipped your hand into his, and as he pulled you gently into the dance, everything else seemed to fade away.

You were nervous—your heart beating a little faster than it should—but when your eyes met his, something in you relaxed. You smiled, even brighter than before.

“The wedding is beautiful,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper as you glanced over at JJ and Will, dancing just a few feet away, completely wrapped up in each other.

“It really is,” Spencer replied, his gaze drifting to the newlyweds for a moment before returning to you. His hand at your waist tightened ever so slightly. “She looks really happy.”

You nodded, your smile turning softer, more thoughtful. “She does.”

Neither of you noticed the way the rest of the team was sneaking glances your way—Emily nudging Garcia with a knowing smirk, Morgan grinning to himself, Hotch watching with quiet approval. Even JJ, in the middle of her own dance, looked over and caught the moment, her expression glowing with fondness.

Spencer smiled, eyes half-lidded as he took a steadying breath, his lips just inches from your temple now. The scent of your perfume was soft and familiar, and he could feel your warmth as you instinctively scooted just a little closer.

That tiny movement sent a ripple through him.

You were here—in his arms.

“You didn’t tell me you were such a great dancer,” you said with a teasing lilt, leaning back just enough to look up at him, your brows raised playfully.

Spencer glanced down at you, and for a second, you saw the faintest flicker of smugness in his expression—but it vanished quickly, replaced with that familiar bashful smile. His eyes darted away as if the compliment had short-circuited his brain.

“Didn’t know that myself,” he admitted, chuckling softly. “Pretty sure I’m only doing okay because you’re leading.”

You grinned, heart fluttering. “Guess we make a good team, then.”

At that, his eyes met yours again—and this time, they stayed. Warm, searching, a little bit braver than before.

“I always thought we did,” he said softly.

The honesty in his voice made your chest tighten in the best way. You swallowed, your heart thudding just a little louder as your fingers gently brushed the hair at the nape of his neck.

You felt him shiver slightly under your touch.

Without thinking, you scooted closer again, closing what little space remained between you. His hand tightened slightly at your waist in response—subtle, but unmistakable.

Neither of you said anything more for the rest of the dance.

Eventually, the song faded into another. And though you didn’t want it to end, you both stepped back—reluctantly—hands falling away slower than necessary, eyes lingering.

The rest of the evening carried on like a dream.

Over the next hour, you ended up being passed around the dance floor like the unofficial guest of honor. Morgan was the first to swoop in again, spinning you dramatically as you laughed. Then came Rossi, smooth as ever, insisting it was tradition to dance with the most radiant woman at the wedding. Even Hotch surprised you with a short, polite dance.

Each one of them had something to say.

“So... you and Reid, huh?” Morgan grinned, eyebrow raised.

“You two looked like a scene straight out of a Nora Ephron movie,” Emily teased as she dipped you mid-dance, clearly enjoying herself.

“I’d say it’s about time,” Rossi murmured with a smirk, before twirling you gently. “We were starting to think we’d have to lock you both in a room until someone confessed.”

Garcia all but squealed when she finally stole you away for a spin. “Okay, do not lie to me. Was that the moment? Because I swear, there were literal stars in the air.”

You laughed so hard your cheeks hurt. It was all good-natured, wrapped in love and genuine happiness for you. But through every dance, every tease, your eyes kept finding Spencer across the room.

And every time, he was already looking at you.

By the end of the night, you found yourself lingering near the exit, wrapped in the warmth of a goodbye hug with JJ. You’d already said “Congratulations” at least ten times, and you still felt like it wasn’t enough.

“I’m just so happy for you guys,” you said again, your voice full of sincerity as you held her tight.

JJ smiled against your shoulder. “Thank you. I mean it. And… I saw the dance,” she added teasingly, pulling back with a knowing look in her eyes.

You opened your mouth to respond, but Spencer appeared beside you just in time, offering his own congratulations to JJ and Will with that soft, sweet tone. You couldn’t help but glance at him, your heart tugging a little tighter in your chest.

Once you stepped outside, the night air was cooler as you stood in the parking lot, scanning the rows of cars.

“I was supposed to go with Garcia,” you said, eyes narrowing as you spotted her leaning against Morgan’s car, deep in conversation. She was laughing and wiping what looked like the remnants of happy tears from her cheeks while Morgan nodded along.

You sighed, a half-smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, this is going to take ages.”

Spencer followed your gaze, and before he could stop himself—before his brain had even caught up with his mouth—he blurted, “You can stay at my place.”

You turned your head to look at him, brows raised, mildly surprised—but not in a bad way. You studied him, the way his eyes flicked nervously to yours, his hands suddenly unsure of what to do.

“If it’s no bother,” you said after a second, your voice quiet, cautious.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, then smiled softly. “Wouldn’t have asked if it was.”

“Okay,” you said, the single word sounding warmer than it should’ve, like you’d just agreed to something far bigger than a ride or a place to sleep.

He led you toward his car, once you said goodbye to Garcia.

When he opened the passenger door for you, you chuckled under your breath and murmured, “Thanks,” as you carefully lifted your dress to settle into the seat.

He closed the door gently, walked around to his side, and slid into the driver’s seat.

As the car pulled out of the lot , you glanced at him. “Please tell me you finally organized your books.”

Spencer’s fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel, a small, guilty smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You raised an eyebrow. “Spencer…”

The last time you’d been at his place—two weeks ago, for a movie night that never quite turned into watching the movie—you had spent half the time side-eyeing the precarious towers of books that had taken over the corners of his living room. Some were stacked by topic, others by spine color, some in what he’d dramatically called “priority order,” whatever that meant.

It had visually hurt you to look at.

You’d tried to ignore it, truly, curling up on his couch with a bowl of popcorn while he enthusiastically explained the plot of the old sci-fi movie you were watching. But eventually, your resolve had crumbled. You’d stood up mid-movie and started reorganizing by author name before he practically dragged you back to the couch.

“They have a purpose there!” he’d insisted back then, exasperated but laughing.

Now, as he turned the steering wheel with that exact same half-smile, he stayed silent just a little too long.

“Oh no. Spencer,” you dragged out his name dramatically, narrowing your eyes.

“What?” he asked, biting back a laugh.

“You didn’t organize them, did you?”

“I thought about it,” he offered carefully, glancing sideways at you.

You let your head fall back against the seat with a groan. “You had days.”

“I made peace with the system,” he said defensively, but his eyes were sparkling. “Besides… you seemed so passionate about it last time, I figured I’d leave it. Just in case you wanted to come back and finish the job.”

You turned to him slowly, giving him the most unimpressed look you could muster. “So this is your evil plan. Lure me in with tea and nerdy trivia and force me to organize your chaos.”

“It’s not chaos,” he replied, almost too quickly. “It’s a carefully designed non-linear categorization system.”

“That sounds like chaos with extra steps.”

Spencer chuckled softly, shaking his head as he turned onto his street. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Not when it comes to books stacked in a way that defies gravity, no.”

As Spencer pulled into his usual spot and parked the car, he was already unbuckling before you’d even touched the door handle. You opened your mouth to protest, but sure enough, he was already walking around to your side.

“Spencer,” you said, exasperated but smiling. “I do know how to get out of a car.”

He shrugged, a small grin tugging at his lips as he offered his hand to you anyway. “I know. But I like helping.”

You rolled your eyes playfully but took his hand. His fingers wrapped around yours—soft, warm.

The two of you walked up to his apartment, still chitchatting, your voices quiet as you relived little moments from the wedding—the way Rossi had gotten uncharacteristically sentimental in his toast, Garcia’s happy tears, how Morgan tried to dip everyone he danced with, including Strauss.

Spencer took your jacket like he always did, carefully hanging it near the door. You smiled to yourself, slipping out of your heels and placing them neatly beside his.

You remembered the first time you’d noticed it—how, without ever saying a word, he’d straighten your shoes after you entered his apartment. It was such a small thing, but it stuck with you. You never forgot it. Since then, you just… did it yourself. Because you knew he appreciated it, even if he never asked.

“I can’t feel my feet,” you mumbled, flexing your toes as you stepped onto the soft rug.

“I mean, you did dance with almost everyone,” Spencer said, heading toward the living room.

You followed him, chuckling under your breath. “Yeah. You’re right.”

The two of you dropped onto the couch like you’d been holding yourselves up all night. You let out a breath as you pulled your legs up, curling them under you, relieved to not be standing anymore. The soft cushions beneath you felt like heaven after a long night in heels.

A comfortable silence settled between you.

You yawned quietly, blinking slow, then tilted your head toward him. He was sitting on the other end of the couch, bow loosened, jacket gone, his posture a little slouched now that he could finally relax.

“But you know?” you murmured.

He turned his head to you, eyes soft in the low light of the room.

“You were my favorite dance partner,” you said, a sleepy smile curling at your lips.

He blinked, and for a second, you swore he forgot how to breathe. His mouth parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to say it. Instead, he just… smiled. That quiet, lopsided smile that he only ever gave you.

“I’m glad,” he said after a moment. “You were mine too.”

You let your head lean back against the cushion, the warmth of his words lingering in your chest. And for a few minutes, you just sat like that.

That’s when the books suddenly sprang back into your mind.

Spencer had his eyes closed, head tilted slightly against the couch cushion, looking far too peaceful for someone with three towers of books leaning at precarious angles in his living room. You shifted just slightly, straightening up with purpose.

Without opening his eyes, Spencer spoke, his voice low and drowsy. “Do it tomorrow.”

You paused, caught red-handed by someone who hadn’t even been looking at you.

“I didn’t even say anything yet,” you said with a small laugh.

“You didn’t have to. I could feel your brain making a plan.”

You turned your head toward him, raising an eyebrow. “So… you’re officially letting me do it?”

He peeked one eye open to meet your gaze, then gave you a small, resigned smile. “Sure.”

You grinned, and Spencer swore—for just a second—that if he could see you smile like that one more time, he’d even let you organize his meticulously alphabetized first-edition classics in any way you wanted. And that was saying something.

There was a brief silence.

You stared at each other for a moment—too long, probably—but neither of you looked away.

Then his eyes flicked downward, catching on the folds of your dress. And before he could think better of it, before his brain could slow his mouth down, he spoke.

“You looked beautiful tonight.”

The words fell out like a confession.

His eyes went wide the moment he realized he’d said them, and color shot up his neck so fast a cheetah would've had a hard time catching it.

You blinked, startled—but the surprise quickly melted into something softer. Warmer.

“Thank you, Spencer,” you said, smiling at him in that slow, full way that made his heart feel like it was folding in on itself. “You didn’t look so bad yourself.”

He let out a small, nervous laugh, his fingers fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve. “I, uh… tried. Morgan said I clean up okay.”

“Well, Morgan’s right,” you said, tilting your head slightly, still watching him with that smile that made it hard for Spencer to remember what breathing was supposed to feel like.

Spencer smiled softly at the compliment, his fingers still absently tracing the edge of his sleeve.

“You know,” he began, voice low, almost hesitant, “I spent most of the night trying to figure out how to ask you to dance.”

The admission slipped out before he could stop it, and his eyes flickered up to yours, wide with surprise at his own honesty.

You blinked, your breath catching just a little. “You didn’t have to figure it out,” you murmured, leaning ever so slightly closer. “You could’ve just asked.”

“I wanted it to be perfect.” He laughed, a quiet, self-conscious sound. “Which is ridiculous, because it’s me. Perfect isn’t really in my skill set.”

“Spencer.” You reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing against his wrist, stilling his fidgeting. “It was perfect.”

His pulse jumped under your touch.

For a moment, he just stared at you, lips parted, as if he was trying to memorize the way you looked right then—soft and glowing in the dim light of his apartment, your dress rumpled from dancing, your smile so fond it made his chest ache.

Then, in a rush of breath, the words tumbled out:

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

His brain screeched to a halt. Oh god. Oh no. That wasn’t—he hadn’t meant to say it like that. Not here, not now, not—

But you weren’t pulling away. You weren’t even breathing.

Your fingers tightened around his wrist, just barely, and your voice came out whisper-soft. “You… think?”

Spencer swallowed hard. There was no taking it back now.

“No,” he corrected, voice rough. “I know. I’ve known for a while.”

The confession hung between you, fragile and terrifying and real.

"You have?" you asked, practically breathless.

Spencer looked at you before his gaze dropped to his hands, suddenly nervous. His fingers twitched against yours like he wanted to pull away but couldn't bring himself to break contact.

"Yeah," he whispered. Then, with a shaky exhale: "It was... it was that night after the Harris case. When you stayed."

Your breath hitched. You remembered.

Three months ago. Spencer's apartment, 2 AM. Both of you still in crinkled shirts, too wired to sleep. You'd made terrible coffee in his tiny kitchen, hands trembling around the mugs, and when you'd finally sat beside him on the couch—when he'd started talking about the case in that broken voice—you hadn't thought. You'd just reached for him. Held him while his shoulders shook. And when he'd finally gone still, forehead pressed against your collarbone, neither of you had moved for hours.

"You let me fall apart," Spencer continued, voice cracking. "And then you put me back together like it was nothing."

Tears pricked at your eyes. "Spencer—"

"And before that," he rushed on, "when you memorized my coffee order after one try. Even when you keep trying to rearrange my books. When you defended my 'weird facts' to Morgan. When you—" His laugh was wet, uneven. "When you started leaving your favorite books annotated on my desk so I'd have to read them. As if I wouldn't have read anything you handed me."

A tear slipped down your cheek. You didn't wipe it away.

"You noticed that?"

"I notice everything about you." His thumb brushed your knuckles, feather-light. "The way you hum when you're concentrating. How you always steal my pens but never the blue ones because you know I prefer those. That little frown you get when—"

You kissed him.

It wasn't graceful. Your nose bumped his, your lashes still wet, your hands clutching his shirt like you were afraid he might disappear. He made a soft, broken noise against your lips when his fingers curled into your hair. His thumbs brushed the corners of your mouth as he kissed you back.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, "I love you too."

Spencer's breath shuddered out. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut like he was trying not to cry. "Say it again?"

You laughed through your tears. "I love you, Spencer Reid. Every brilliant, ridiculous, beautiful part of you."

His arms wrapped around you, tight enough to bruise, and when he buried his face in your neck, you felt the damp warmth of his tears against your skin.

"Took you long enough," you teased weakly, running your fingers through his hair.

He huffed a laugh against your shoulder. "Says the woman who reorganized my bookshelves instead of just telling me."

"That was a declaration and you know it."

Spencer pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes red-rimmed but brighter than you'd ever seen them. "Well," he murmured, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb, "this is better."

And when he kissed you this time, there were no almosts. No maybes.

Just this—his hands in your hair, your laughter against his lips, and a lifetime of quiet, perfect moments waiting to unfold.

#criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x you #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic

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tongue-like-a-razor · 3 days ago

Text

Less Talk | Part X

Jake Seresin x F!Reader

A/N: We're finally here! For a minute there, I didn't think this day would come XD I hope you've enjoyed reading this series as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Thank you so much for all the love and support, I honestly probably would not have otherwise finished it!

Summary: Jake can't stand Bradley's best friend. What's more, he's probably in love with her, which really pisses him off.

CW: Swearing, angst, fluff

WR: ~4900

Masterlist | Part I

Jake leaves his mug on the counter and slowly approaches the kitchen table. He watches Bradley incredulously as the news sinks in. “Where is she going?” he finally says.

“Back to her mom’s.”

Jake’s eyebrows flit up momentarily. “That’s halfway across the country.”

Bradley nods, although he looks somewhat uncomfortable under Jake’s persistent scrutiny.

“Why?”

Bradley sighs. “I got a call from her mom a couple weeks ago.”

“I remember,” Jake says, recalling the party and your unwillingness to speak with your best friend, despite his obvious distress.

“Said she was kicked out of her program,” Bradley continues.

“What?” Jake lowers himself into the seat across from Bradley. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Bradley shrugs. “I didn’t know if she was sharing. Anyway, apparently her boyfriend called her mom and delivered the news.”

Jake’s jaw muscles contract. “I could kill him, I swear.”

“She submitted a plagiarized paper, Jake.”

Jake glances up at his friend fiercely. “Bullshit,” he says immediately.

Bradley nods. “I agree.”

Jake shakes his head. “She wouldn’t. Of all people, she wouldn’t.”

“I tried talking to her about it but, as you know, she’s been avoiding me like the plague.”

“She didn’t dispute it?”

Bradley shakes his head solemnly. “She came by yesterday to tell me that the engagement is off and that she’s leaving. For good.”

Jake glances up at Bradley abruptly, as if roused from a reverie. “The engagement is off? Since when?”

“She didn’t tell you that part either?” Bradley grimaces. “What the fuck did you two even talk about?”

Jake blinks at Bradley a couple of times and then leaps out of his seat. “Let’s go,” he says urgently, grabbing his jacket off the back of a chair. “We can’t let her leave.”

Bradley stands and takes one final gulp of beer before following Jake out of the kitchen. He takes his car keys off the hook by the front door while Jake unplugs the fan and turns off the living room lights. “Shut up,” he mutters on his way out the door when Bradley gives him a knowing smirk.

Jake skips down the porch steps and marches to his truck. “Want me to drive?” Bradley calls after him, holding up the keys to his Bronco.

Jake pulls open the door to his truck. For some reason, he feels like driving might bring him a sense of comfort. “No, I’ll drive,” he says as Bradley approaches the truck. Then, as an afterthought, he adds, looking up at his friend over the cab. “Rooster.”

Bradley glances up at him, his hand over the doorhandle. “Yeah?”

Jake sighs irritably. “I’m in love with her.”

Bradley gives him a look and pulls open the passenger door. “I know,” he replies wryly and gets into the truck.

…

“Still not picking up?” Jake asks, looking over at Bradley who solemnly shakes his head. He sets his phone down over Jake’s, having tried you from both numbers.

Jake pulls up right behind the white mustang in your driveway. Bradley winces as Jake finally yanks on the handbrake about two inches from the pristine car’s sleek bumper. Before Bradley could comment on Jake’s parking job, however, the latter shoots out of the truck and jogs up to your front door.

Bradley, somewhat hesitantly, follows suit. He stops a few feet short of the porch, though, probably deciding that Jake is threatening enough all on his own.

Mustang opens the door a crack and Jake immediately steps forward, like a dog that hasn’t quite mastered the art of impulse control. “Where is she?” he growls, sticking his face between the frame and the door that’s still latched by a chain.

“Go fuck yourself,” Mustang spits out and tries to squeeze Jake out before slamming the door.

Mistake, of course. Because Jake isn’t afraid of getting his paint chipped. He pushes his weight into the door and reaches in through the opening to grab a hold of Mustang’s collar. Then he yanks on him sharply, causing Mustang’s temple to crash into the doorframe. Jake gives Mustang another tug until his wide jaw is wedged into the open space like a door jam.

Bradley clears his throat in the background uncomfortably, but keeps his hands in his pockets for the time being.

Jake holds onto Mustang’s collar tightly while the latter pants in alarm.

“Where is she?” Jake repeats, more quietly and more dangerously than before.

“She left already,” Mustang chokes out.

“Then why are you still here?” Jake hisses.

“I’m just getting my stuff.”

“Hangman,” Bradley says in an appeasing sort of tone. “We’re wasting time.”

Jake still glares at your ex with hatred, his grip tightening around Mustang’s shirt despite his eyes bulging nearly out of their sockets. “What’s her flight number?”

Mustang shakes his head with difficulty and croaks, “Fuck if I know.”

Jake gives him a rough jolt and Bradley, again, says, “Jake, we should go.”

“What time does she take off?” Jake asks. “What airline?”

Mustang’s eyes begin to water. “Fuck that bitch,” he sputters. “She got what she deserved.”

Jake, enraged beyond words, could have probably taken the whole door off its frame in his fury, if not for Bradley coming to haul him off the porch. “We have to go!” Bradley shouts while Jake, still fuming, flares out his chest.

“Come out and fight like a man!” Jake bellows, combatting Bradley’s attempts to restrain him.

“He’s not worth it,” Bradley urges, continuing to push him down the path back to the driveway.

“What’s the matter, Mustang?” Jake jeers. “Scared I’ll put a dent in that fancy mug of yours?” He jerks away from Bradley and heads straight for the white mustang in the driveway. “What’s the point” – he yells, push-kicking the door of the car – “of all that muscle –”

“Jake! Fuck!” Bradley yelps, dragging Jake back, away from the white car, less immaculate now that it’s got a depression in its frame about the size of Jake’s heel.

Jake chuckles and a moment later, Mustang appears in the driveway, gasping in horror when he sees the state of his car. “You piece of fucking –”

“Jake, go, go, go!” Bradley shouts, shoving his friend in the direction of the truck. They hop in before Mustang can orientate himself in his distress and Jake floors the pedal in reverse the moment his engine roars to life. “Ha!” Bradley exclaims, drumming enthusiastically on the dashboard as Jake pulls out of the driveway.

Jake smirks, adrenaline coursing deliciously through his body as he accelerates toward the freeway.

…

“What is this bullshit?” Jake grumbles, smacking his steering wheel in frustration.

Bradley grimaces at the string of red lights ahead of them on the ramp. “There’s another lot farther out,” he suggests.

Jake shakes his head. “I’m not turning around.”

“Okay,” Bradley responds patiently. “I’m sure this’ll be quick,” he adds, although he doesn’t sound very convinced, himself.

Jake lets out a sharp exhale, inching forward slowly. About fifteen minutes later, they finally pull up to the parking garage. Jake peeks up at the clearance bar with a grimace. “Think we’ll make it?”

Bradley glances at the marker and then at Jake. “How big are your tires?” he deadpans.

Jake looks at Bradley with a scowl. “What makes you think they’re big?”

Bradley returns Jake’s scowl twofold. “You got a roof rack on this thing?”

“Of course I’ve got a roof rack. What kind of man doesn’t have a roof rack on his car?” Jake scoffs offendedly. A horn blares from behind them and Bradley sighs, closing his eyes. Jake ignores the sound and leans forward over his steering wheel, staring up at the bar contemptuously.

“Well, we’ll have to risk it. We can’t park here,” Bradley reasons.

Jake nods but doesn’t move. Several more horns interrupt their conversation and Jake rolls down his window to yell at the car in behind, “Have some patience, asshole!”

Bradley drags a hand over his face wearily. “We really don’t have time for another conflict,” he remarks.

Jake groans grudgingly and slowly releases the brake. They both wince as the truck rolls precariously under the clearance bar and, when it makes it through unscathed, Jake howls excitedly while Bradley lets out an audible sigh of relief.

…

Finding an available spot takes about twenty minutes and about ten years off Jake’s life. Cursing, Jake clambers out of the truck and slams his door aggressively. Bradley extracts his phone from his pocket and takes a photo of their vehicle’s location.

Jake waits for him impatiently to which Bradley replies, “You’ll thank me later.”

“Yeah,” Jake agrees, but walks briskly ahead to look around in search of signs that might point the way to the terminal.

“This way,” Bradley says, pointing to the elevators at the far end of the lot.

“This place is a fucking maze,” Jake grumbles.

“What, you never been to a commercial airport before?” Bradley jokes. Jake gives him a flat look and Bradley snorts and claps Jake on the back. “Relax, man. We’ll find her.”

Jake tries not to show just how anxious he is by giving Bradley a nod and a tight smile. He blazes into the stairwell, ignoring the slowly opening elevator doors, and Bradley follows behind him, jogging up the stairs.

In the terminal, they stop to look up at the flight information board listing all the departures taking place that night.

“Two possible flights she could be on,” Bradley says.

“Two different gates,” Jake comments solemnly.

“The first one is leaving in twenty minutes. She’ll already be on the plane,” Bradley says, “if that’s her flight.”

“Maybe she’ll be on the other one,” Jake says hopefully, starting in the direction of the second gate.

Bradley hurries to catch up with him through the crowded airport.

“Where are all these people going?” Jake mutters under his breath, pushing his way past slower moving, luggage towing individuals.

Bradley eyes him with a small grin. “They have just as much a right to be here as you do, Jake.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jake says, pushing his way through an excited group of travellers wearing parkas and winter hats. “That’s her gate up there!” He starts for it at a run despite the dense crowd around them.

Bradley follows, albeit less obnoxiously. Then, about ten feet from the gate, Jake stops short and Bradley crashes right into him. “Dude!” he exclaims, rubbing his chest.

“It’s her,” Jake breathes.

Bradley turns his head and it takes him several moments to locate you because you’re already going through security.

“Y/N!” Jake hollers, cupping his hands around his mouth.

You don’t hear him, though, because there’s a glass wall separating you from the checkpoint queue. Bradley, in an effort to help Jake get your attention, also starts calling your name. Meanwhile, Jake starts for the security checkpoint at a run, which sort of worries Bradley. “You need a boarding pass to get through –”

But Jake, completely ignoring Bradley’s warning, hops right over the stanchion behind the security officer’s back.

“Fuck,” Bradley mutters under his breath as the officer turns around in alarm and brings a walkie to his face. Other security personnel rush over in a panic and Bradley, approaching as casually as possible, says, with a wave of his hand, “It’s cool.” He leans nonchalantly on one of the glass panels near the checkpoint, adding, “He’s a pilot.”

Several of the officers look over at him like he’s nuts.

…

Jake makes it all the way to the glass doors before somebody apprehends him, and then he shouts your name again. You turn around just as that somebody throws him to the ground. Jake groans, not too pleased about having to taste this particular carpet.

“What are you doing?” he hears you screech, and he glances up with just his eyes because his face is still being pressed into the ground.

“Hey, how are ya?” he manages to say.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you repeat, more aggressively this time.

Jake winces as someone’s knee digs into his spine. “Baking a cake. What’s it look like I’m doing?” He grunts as he’s finally lifted to his feet.

You are staring at him wildly when he meets your gaze.

“Hey,” he says again, rotating his shoulders to alleviate the cramp in his back.

Behind you, security personnel have started to block off the entire area.

“Sir, we’re going to need you to come with us,” the officer still holding onto Jake says firmly.

“What? Where are you taking him?” you ask.

“You need to come with us too, ma’am,” another officer says.

“No,” Jake groans. “She didn’t do anything.”

“This is a misunderstanding,” you say. “He’s a Navy Lieutenant. Jake, tell them!”

“No, don’t tell them that.” Jake cringes. He would prefer not to be reprimanded for this incident by his superior officers.

You stare at him as the two of you are led to a holding area near the checkpoint. Meanwhile, Jake can see Bradley scrambling past passersby to keep the two of you in sight as he holds his phone to his ear.

“Didn’t know you were planning on taking a vacation,” Jake says as the officer in charge of detaining him nods for his colleague to open the door. “Going somewhere nice?”

You give him a dirty look as you are walked into the holding room.

“Please wait here until law enforcement arrives.”

You look up at the man in alarm. “Law enforcement? He’s in the military!” you shout.

“Shh,” Jake shushes you. “Don’t yell at the nice officer,” he warns you. “We can wait,” he assures the security team.

The door closes and you look over at Jake furiously. “I’m going to miss my flight!” you scream at him. “Because of you!”

Jake sets his jaw. “Good.”

You glare at him incredulously. “How are you so goddamn selfish?”

“I’m selfish?” he retorts. “I spent all morning with you. We had sex” – Jake takes note that you cringe at the word – “and yet you failed to mention that you’ve moving clear across the fucking country!”

“What do you care? You hate me, remember?” you yell back.

“Oh, I remember,” he snaps. “I also remember your diatribe on the avocado, and how much you loathe everything I stand for. I remember your outrageous appraisal of my truck, and the ridiculous way you hold a pool cue. Your annoying inability to shut the fuck up about the stupidest shit and your equally annoying refusal to tell me about the things that actually matter.”

You blink at him with a scowl and fold your arms over your chest. “This is the worst love confession I’ve ever heard,” you grumble.

Jake exhales forcefully. “I haven’t confessed anything yet.”

You suck in your cheeks and look up at the ceiling impatiently. “I’ll wait.”

Jake releases another irritated sigh. “There isn’t a single thing about you that I’ve been able to successfully forget. Despite my best efforts.”

You meet his gaze half-heartedly but say nothing.

“You just showed up one day, out of nowhere, and I’ve been messed up ever since. Do you get that?” He stares at you wildly, realizing that he’s getting something off his chest that he hadn’t even really known was weighing on him. “You walk around like you don’t owe anybody a goddamn thing. You’re out here pretending like your actions – your decisions – don’t affect people. Well, they do, alright? You affect people! You affect me.”

You lower your gaze mutely, as though you’re lost for words for the first time ever. The very idea is preposterous, however, and Jake is sure that you’re just waiting for the most opportune moment to counter. He decides not to give you the opportunity.

“What do you want out of life?” he says with an edge to his tone because he’s anxious to get to his point.

You glance back up at him curiously.

“Ask me again,” he says. “Ask me the whole thing. Disregarding the fact that we are meaningless or whatever nonsense you spewed. Ask me.”

You gulp and clear your throat. “What do you want, Jake?”

He releases a sharp sigh, deliberately maintaining eye contact. “You,” he responds firmly. “You, you, you.” He takes a step toward you, his eyes searching yours urgently because he’s desperate to be honest for once. To lay it all out so you have the facts before you run. “Whatever the damn question is, okay?” He takes up your hands and holds them to his chest. “My answer is always you.”

You watch him with that same unreadable gaze, the one that Jake has spent months trying to decipher. But he knows that he’s gotten under your skin just as much as you’ve gotten under his. Because he knows you. So, he waits; allows you a moment to gauge his sincerity. As if tracking you down at a civilian airport and getting detained isn’t evidence enough. Your eyes well up suddenly and, unexpectedly, you move away from him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m sorry for affecting you.”

Jake lets his hands fall when you withdraw. “I just want you to tell me the truth,” he says. “I want you to stop acting like nothing ever gets to you.”

You glance up at him fiercely and cry, “You get to me, okay? Is that what you want to hear? That I am also affected?” You draw in a sob and lean your back against the wall, hiding your face in your hand.

Jake, both distraught and relieved that you’re finally emoting, approaches you slowly. He puts an arm around your shoulders and brings you into his chest. All he wants is to express just how much you mean to him – just how far he’d go to make you happy – but all that comes out is, “I don’t want you to go,” which is partly muffled anyway because he says it with his mouth on your head.

You sniffle miserably against his shoulder and shift your weight to lean into him. “I can’t stay,” you respond.

Jake, whose entire body is both vibrating and paralyzed at the same time, says quietly. “Tell me why.”

“I got kicked out,” you whimper, as if this is the ‘why’ Jake is after.

“Not that,” he says, taking a step back so that he can look you in the eye. “Tell me why you got engaged. The morning after I – after we… Were you already engaged when you came to the party? When I kissed you?”

“No,” you say. “He proposed that night.”

Jake watches you patiently. “And you said yes?”

“Because he promised he’d confess.”

Jake stares at you. “Confess?”

“He submitted a plagiarized paper on my behalf. Right after we broke up.”

Jake grimaces. “What a fucking nutcase.”

“He was angry. But obviously he didn’t think I’d get kicked out for it.”

“Why didn’t he just come clean when shit hit the fan?”

“And get kicked out himself? He wouldn’t take that chance; his defense is coming up in less than six months.”

“So…you decided to marry him?”

“He told me he was sorry and promised he’d talk to the board as soon as he passed. I figured I’d just agree to the engagement and call it off once he came clean.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this? That day, when he announced the engagement. Why didn’t you just tell me?”

You sigh. “What would you have done?”

“Kicked his ass,” Jake responds without a moment’s thought.

“Exactly,” you say. “You’re about one offense from getting kicked out, yourself.”

Jake has no rebuttal to this because you’re sort of right on the money in this case. His last altercation nearly cost him his wings and he’s not at all looking forward to explaining this airport fiasco to his superiors. “When did you call off the engagement?” he asks.

“This morning,” you say. “Before I came to see you.”

Jake plants his hands on his hips. “So why are you leaving?”

“Well, he’s never going to admit what he did. So, I’m out of the program for good. Why would I stay?”

Jake stares at you. “Are you for real?”

You shrug. “He’s never going to leave me alone.”

“Oh, he’ll leave you alone,” Jake says firmly. “Or I’ll break his legs.”

You give him a reproachful look. “And get arrested? Lose your job?”

“Fine, I’ll break his car.”

You roll your eyes.

“I’m not letting you run,” he says, taking a confident step toward you.

“It’s not up to you.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t care.” He takes your face in his hands.

“Don’t be an ass,” you say, lisping slightly because your cheeks are squished between his palms.

Jake smirks. “But I’m good at it.”

“It’s my decision,” you say, trying to sound firm despite the aforementioned speech impediment.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jake continues. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Jake!”

Jake lets his forehead rest against yours. “You missed your flight anyway,” he mutters. “And I love you,” he adds, casually enough for it to perhaps blend into the conversation unnoticed.

But you notice it. You lift your face to meet his gaze. “You do?” you ask quietly.

“Don’t act all surprised.”

You smile mildly. “Surprised that you can admit it.”

“One of us had to.”

You gaze at him mutely.

And just as Jake is about to spiral in response to your lack of a response, the door opens and someone steps inside.

“C’mon,” Bradley urges, waving his arm impatiently. “I’m busting you out.”

“How –” you begin.

But Jake cuts you off, “Shh, don’t ask questions.” He leads you through the open door after Bradley as he surveys the immediate vicinity in all directions.

“You’re both pieces of work,” you mutter under your breath and Jake, who’s got an arm around your shoulders, squeezes you affectionately.

There is a large crowd just outside of the holding room, and a commotion near the gate. Clearly, Bradley had managed to create some sort of diversion. A subtle craning of his neck allows Jake to see exactly who it is that’s causing a scene.

“Keep you head down!” Bradley whispers hoarsely from behind, smacking Jake’s crown with annoyance.

Jake ducks slightly and looks over his shoulder at Bradley, “Was that Bob?”

“Yep,” Bradley responds. “Apparently, he owed you?”

Jake scrunches up his eyebrows as Bradley continues to jostle the two of you toward the exit. “Owed me?”

“Said he cockblocked you at your party two weeks ago?” Bradley says. “Sorry, ‘my’ party,” he adds, with quotation marks around the ‘my’.

You glance between Bradley and Jake with a smirk as the latter raises his eyebrows. “He remembers that night?”

Bradley nods, finally walking out into the sunlight. “He’s felt bad about it ever since.”

Jake glances down at you, wondering if things would have been different had Bob not shown up that fated night, blasted out of his mind. Would you have spent the night? Not gotten engaged to Mustang? Would you have told him the big secret you were keeping, thereby avoiding the whole debacle entirely? Perhaps Bob does owe him.

“Anyway, I called up the cavalry and Bob immediately volunteered,” Bradley continues, making his way to the parking garage.

Suddenly, you stop, and Bradley and Jake come to a halt and look back at you in confusion.

“Here’s the thing about a quick getaway, princess,” says Jake, approaching you to take your hand. “You have to get away quickly.”

You pull your hand out of his. “When did I agree to staying?”

“Lord, give me strength,” Jake mutters, throwing his head back to look up at the sky with a sigh.

“Maybe you can decide this at a safer distance away from where you nearly just got arrested,” Bradley suggests.

“I don’t understand the issue here,” Jake says. “I beat Mustang to a pulp until he confesses. Problem solved.”

Bradley grimaces. “I can see why she might not be on board.”

“Guys, my luggage has already been checked.”

Jake places his hands on his hips and stares you down. “What goes up must come down.”

You roll your eyes. “My mom is expecting me,” you continue.

Jake takes a phone out of his pocket and holds it out. “Simple enough to fix.”

You exhale sharply. “This has to be my decision,” you declare.

Jake shifts his jaw, his face forming a frown without his consent. He locks eyes with you and nods. “Make it, then.”

You swallow uncomfortably without breaking eye contact and Bradley retreats a few steps in the background.

“I don’t know if you know this,” you begin quietly, and Jake dares not move lest he miss a single syllable of your speech. Who knew that a day would come when he’d pretty much give anything just to keep you talking? “But I liked you probably before I even started to hate you.”

Jake gives you a cautious smile. “Probably?”

“Don’t push it,” you retort.

“Sorry, I’ll shut up,” he responds, fighting to keep a straight face. “Go on, tell me how much I mean to you.”

You sigh. “Can you refrain from being an ass for at least a minute?”

Jake makes a face. “Doubtful.”

“Uh, I can attest to that,” Bradley chimes in from behind.

“Rooster, we’re having a moment here,” Jake calls over his shoulder.

“Are you sure about that?” Bradley counters, in response to which Jake just shakes his head.

“Continue,” Jake says to you. “Please.”

You let out an irritable sigh, “I can’t tell you why I liked you, I’m still trying to figure that one out.”

Jake plants his hands on his hips. “Liar.”

You stare at him rather uncomfortably. “I had a boyfriend, remember? I had no business liking you.”

Jake narrows his eyes but stays silent.

“I think it’s because…” you voice trails off and you let out a grudging sigh.

“It’s the truck, isn’t it?” Jake asks pompously. “One ride was all it took.”

You snort out a chuckle and shake your head. “No,” you say. “It’s that.” You gesture at him and he knits his eyebrows together, intrigued. “That ‘sharp sense of humor’,” you say, mockingly repeating the first ever compliment he made you all those moons ago. “No matter how mad you make me, or how pissed I am at the world, you somehow can always make me laugh.”

Jake watches you soberly now, touched that you were finally able to express your feelings. “Don’t tell the truck that,” he mutters.

“Why?” You grin, taking a step toward him. “Does the truck have an ego problem?”

Jake’s lips form a tight, guilt-ridden smirk as you approach. “The truck might have an ego problem.”

You’re standing so close to him now that you have to lift your chin to maintain eye contact. “I might have another confession to make,” you say softly, so that your voice nearly gets swept away in the small breeze filtering through the tunnel.

Jake gulps, not sure he could handle standing at this proximity without getting a little stupid. He’ll have to keep his mouth shut because his brain isn’t the organ being prioritized at the moment.

“I think about the truck a lot,” you whisper, your eyes flitting slowly between his.

“You do?” Jake croaks, and then, clearing his throat, repeats, “You do?”

You nod. “I like how it handles the bumps in the road.”

“Well, yeah, it’s got some heavy-duty shocks, plus the ground clearance –”

“Jake,” you cut him off, unimpressed.

Jake grins. “It’s pretty well-equipped for off-roading, was what I meant to say.”

You gaze at him in amusement. “Perhaps we could try to navigate away from the uneven terrain.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

You lower your gaze with a small chuckle but, despite the smile, you look uneasy. “I need to know that you’re not going to do anything reckless.”

Jake considers your words for a moment. “Define reckless.”

You glance up at him impatiently. “Check the dictionary.”

He grins. “Fine,” he agrees. “But I can’t vouch for the truck.”

You chuckle again, rolling your eyes. “Shut up and take me home, Jake.”

“Does that mean you’re staying?”

You smile at him and start walking.

“Finally,” Bradley exclaims as the two of you catch up to him. “You guys talk way too much. We’re still fugitives, you know?”

“Sorry, I just needed Jake to know how much I love his truck,” you say with a giggle.

Bradley gives you a confused look while Jake does a double take. “You love my truck?”

You stare at him. “I thought that was obvious.”

“No.” He furiously shakes his head. “No, that was not at all obvious.” Jake steps around Bradley and stops you in your tracks.

Bradley groans in frustration, throwing up his hands. “Guys!”

“You love…” Jake say, “my truck. You love my truck. You love my truck?”

You blink at him innocently and nod. “Uh-huh,” you acknowledge and then walk around him to continue on your merry way.

Jake takes your wrist and you turn back to look at him. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “Just to clarify – so that I know we’re on the same page – I’m the truck, right?”

You press your lips together to keep your growing grin at bay and lower your gaze. “You’re the truck, Jake,” you respond coyly.

“I’m the truck,” Jake repeats stupidly. Hadn’t he earlier meant to stay quiet?

You catch his gaze and smile more freely now. “Right,” you say. “And I could really go for another ride.”

Jake stares at you for a moment, lost for words. Then he slides his arms under your butt and scoops you up so that you’re looking down at him, your feet dangling a foot off the ground.

“Way to remain inconspicuous, you two,” Bradley remarks in the background.

But Jake ignores his best friend and cranes his neck as you lower your lips to his. And he lets you cradle his face in your delicate hands and kiss him. Because, damnit, it’s high time for some action.

A/N: THE END!!! Thank you guys so much for reading! xoxo

Tag List:

I'll try my best to put the rest of the tag list in the comments but it's gotten a little messy over the years so I might not get everyone.

@atarmychick007

@callsign-sunshine

@shanimallina87

@wkndwlff

@thefandomimagines

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lnracer · 2 days ago

Note

I have a requesttttt lately I’ve been thinking about Lando and I kinda think it would be so fun if he was with someone totally opposite to him SO my vision is:

Badass girlboss Reader (I personally imagine an Elle Woods-esque corporate trial lawyer or something) and Lando have been sneaking around but out in public they look like just friends and they’re kind of dating around but they end up getting jealous bc Reader thinks Lando wants the influencer/models he’s surrounded by and Lando thinks Reader wants a serious academic type. How it ends is up to you — maybe they work it out or maybe they just belong in different worlds :’)

Pairing: Lando Norris x Corporate Lawyer! Female Reader.

Warnings: Mild miscommunication, mild angst with a (very) happy ending and jealousy (mutual, a little petty).

Word Count: 3.601k.

a/n: Ahh, I just loved your vision so much! It was really easy to write and play with this dynamic (I don't think I've ever had so much creativity to write something so fast, but I ended up staying up all night writing this because I was genuinely so entertained 😅) but anyway, thank you for the request and I hope it meets your vision in the best way possible and that you like it! ☺️🧡

By day, she was the powerhouse trial attorney — the kind who walked into courtrooms in heels that could kill and left with verdicts that made headlines. The fashion magazines loved her almost as much as Forbes did. She was the youngest partner in her firm, a Harvard Law alumni with a Chanel addiction and a sharp tongue. Men underestimated her. Judges respected her. And juries? They adored her.

By night — well, lately, her nights often involved sneaking out of an apartment in Monaco, wearing one of Lando’s hoodies over her silk blouse.

Lando knew what the world thought. That they were “just friends.” That maybe she was his lawyer or his PR advisor or some business connection. The paddock shots of her standing beside him, sunglasses on, whispering something that made him smirk? Oh, the fan theories were relentless.

But behind closed doors? Their situationship was toeing the line of something real. No labels. No pressure. But a lot of stolen glances, late-night phone calls, and moments that felt too intimate for friends.

The problem? She was the type to keep her heart padlocked. Lando was used to people chasing him — but she didn’t chase. She leaned against his car in the McLaren garage and made fun of his post-race hair. She kissed him like he was hers, then told him she had court in the morning and disappeared in a plane.

Still, she wore his hoodie in her post-run selfies. And he kept saving seats for her in the paddock.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

They met at a charity gala in London — her firm was sponsoring, McLaren was donating, and neither of them wanted to be there. She was bored out of her mind, cornered by a finance bro pitching her crypto nonsense, when Lando swooped in like a cheeky, curly-haired lifeline.

“Sorry, mate,” Lando had said, slipping an arm around her waist with perfect ease. “I promised her the next dance.”

She had raised an eyebrow, amused and intrigued. He was only a year older than her, maybe a little cocky, but charming in that boyish, slightly-messy way. She didn’t dance, of course. Not at galas. But she let him lead her away anyway.

“You don’t look like a lawyer,” he’d said under his breath once they were out of earshot.

“And you don’t look like someone who reads contracts,” she fired back, her smile sharp.

That was the start of it. Flirty texts turned into late-night calls. Then came dinners in quiet places where no one recognized them. Then weekends in cities where she happened to be trying a case, and he happened to have a break in the calendar.

There was no official talk. No defining the relationship. But every time she passed through the paddock, Lando’s eyes would find her like muscle memory. And every time he showed up at her apartment with coffee after a red-eye flight, she didn’t send him home.

They didn’t owe each other explanations. Not when she was knee-deep in legal warfare Monday through Friday. Not when he was crossing continents chasing trophies. But there was something magnetic about them. Something they didn’t touch too closely for fear of setting off fireworks they couldn’t control.

He brought chaos into her perfectly curated life. She brought calm into his whirlwind. They weren’t each other’s type, and yet — they were exactly what the other kept coming back for.

Addictive in the best way. Dangerous if it ever tipped too far.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

It had been a week since the last time they’d spent time together. She was in New York for a deposition, Lando was in Italy for the race. Their texts had been sparse — just the typical “miss you” and “good luck” messages, but nothing too personal. It was their thing, keeping things light when the world was heavy.

But tonight, something felt off. She had just wrapped up a ten-hour workday and was about to dive into a pile of case files when she got a text from him:

Lan:

Can we talk?

She frowned at the screen. It wasn’t unusual for him to reach out like this, but there was a seriousness in the tone that made her stomach churn.

She stared at her phone for a few moments before typing back:

Y/N:

Of course, what’s up?

Seconds later, the phone buzzed again, this time with a FaceTime request. She hesitated, then answered, putting on the usual mask — cool, composed, business-like.

Lando’s face filled the screen, but it wasn’t the warm, mischievous grin she was used to. His brow was furrowed, eyes heavy, like he hadn’t slept well in days. She sat up straighter, her lawyer instincts kicking in, trying to gauge the situation.

“Hey,” she greeted, her voice carefully neutral.

“Hey,” he said, his voice tight. “I’ve been thinking.”

Her heart rate spiked. Thinking wasn’t good. When Lando thought, things got complicated. And she didn’t need anything complicated.

“About what?” she asked, her tone even but laced with caution.

“About us.”

There it was. The words she had known were coming, but hearing them still felt like a slap.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms in front of her, the walls going up instinctively. “What about us?” she asked, her eyes narrowing, though she tried to keep the edge out of her voice.

Lando sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. “You know this whole thing… whatever it is… it’s killing me, Y/N.”

Her jaw clenched. “What are you talking about? You knew what this was when we started. No labels. No promises. Just… us. And if you didn’t like that, you should’ve said something earlier.”

“That’s the thing,” he snapped, frustration creeping into his voice. “I never wanted it like this. I thought maybe… maybe we could actually figure it out. But you’re so damn cold. You keep me at arm's length, and it’s like I’m not even real to you when we’re not together.”

Her breath caught. She was used to the cold, used to compartmentalizing her emotions, but this wasn’t a courtroom. It was Lando. And as much as she hated admitting it, it stung.

“I’m not cold,” she said, her voice tight, but the walls were beginning to crack. “I just… I don’t do messy. I have a career to focus on. And you have the entire world chasing after you. I’m not the type to play these games.”

“Games?” Lando repeated, his eyes flashing with frustration. “This isn’t a game, Y/N. I don’t get it. One second, it’s like I mean something to you. The next, I’m just some guy who’s filling space until the next big thing comes along.”

Her chest tightened. “You think I’m stringing you along?” She could feel the heat rising in her face. This wasn’t just an argument. It felt like it was unearthing something deeper — something they hadn’t dared to look at yet.

“I don’t know what I think anymore,” Lando shot back, leaning closer to the screen, his expression hard. “I’m asking you to be honest with me for once. What the hell is this? Because I’m not just gonna sit here pretending like it’s nothing while you keep everything locked up.”

Her pulse raced, the words threatening to spill out before she could stop them. “You think I’m the one who’s afraid of this? Of us? Lando, I don’t have time for games. You want someone who’s all in, someone who will follow you around and pretend that this is normal? It’s not. And I’m not some girl who’s gonna throw my life away for—”

“For what?” Lando interrupted, his voice sharp, cutting through her words. “For someone who you don't even give a damn? For someone who you treat like a casual fling when everyone’s watching?”

She froze, the hurt in his words hitting her harder than she expected. “That’s not fair,” she whispered. “You don’t get to do that. You know what my life is like. You don’t get to judge me for how I handle things. I’ve worked too damn hard to get where I am, and I won’t throw that away for anything or anyone.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched long between them, heavy and tense. Finally, Lando broke the quiet, his voice softer but laced with frustration.

“You don’t have to throw it all away. I just… I just want to know if I matter, Y/N. If I mean anything to you.”

Her throat tightened, the words suddenly stuck. “You do,” she said, barely above a whisper. “But it’s not that simple.”

“Then make it simple,” Lando pleaded, his eyes searching hers through the screen. “Stop hiding from me.”

She stared at him, her heart racing, the emotional walls crumbling faster than she could rebuild them. “I can’t promise you what you want,” she said finally, her voice shaking just a little. “But I’m not walking away. Just… just give me time.”

Lando sighed deeply, his expression softening. “Time. Yeah. Okay. But I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I’m fine with this.”

She didn’t have an answer for that. Not yet.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

The next couple of weeks after their argument were… strange. Awkward. Almost like both of them had hit a wall they didn’t know how to scale.

She kept herself busy. Ridiculously busy. Court cases, meetings, contracts — anything to keep her mind off the tension that still clung to her thoughts. She buried herself in work, refusing to admit to herself that something about Lando was starting to haunt her, even if she wasn’t ready to admit that out loud.

Lando, on the other hand, was everywhere. In the paddock. At fashion shows. With influencers, models, and people who seemed to have everything in the world but didn’t seem to be doing anything. They laughed, they posed for the cameras, they made it look easy.

It drove her insane.

She wasn’t supposed to care. She wasn’t supposed to get jealous over him. But when she saw a photo of Lando and a famous Instagram model sharing a laugh at a recent charity event, it felt like a punch to the gut.

It wasn’t that she was jealous. No, of course not. She wasn’t like that. But… they were so perfect for each other. Gorgeous, carefree, and living in a world where appearances were everything. The kind of world she didn’t belong to.

So, she did what she did best: she pretended it didn’t bother her.

She posted a few pictures from her latest trial, looking fierce in a tailored suit, with her caption reflecting the confidence she wanted to project: “Court’s in session. Winning isn't a choice. It's a guarantee.”

Her phone buzzed almost immediately with messages — friends, colleagues, even a few family members. But the one that made her stop was from Lando.

Lan:

Looking good in court. You know, you should wear a suit more often…

She stared at the message, blinking as the words sat in front of her. Was it a compliment? Or was it just a casual comment, like he always sent? Either way, she couldn’t ignore the gnawing feeling in her gut that told her he was distracted by something — or someone — else.

So, she ignored his text. Just for a few hours. Maybe she was being petty. But she couldn’t help it.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

Meanwhile, Lando had his own demons. He’d been thinking about the conversation they had, replaying it over and over in his head. Make it simple. She’d said that to him. But the more he thought about it, the more complicated it seemed.

He'd been surrounded by people, sure, but all these models, influencers, and socialites? They didn’t fill the space she left behind. They never could.

Still, seeing her posts — those posts — with all her academic accomplishments, her sleek, polished persona… it made him second-guess everything. He knew she was fierce. She was a force. But sometimes, he wondered if he was the right match for her. Was he really what she wanted? Or was she just pretending, keeping him at arm's length like she had from the start?

He'd seen how she interacted with the serious academics — those suave lawyers, those well-dressed business types she surrounded herself with at galas. People who played the game of life like it was a chess match, making calculated moves every step of the way. People who probably looked better on paper than he did. Lando couldn’t help but think, Does she need someone like that? Someone more… professional? More grounded?

The thought twisted at his insides.

A couple of days later, his answer came when he saw her with one of those very types at an event — a tall, dark-haired man in a crisp suit. He was talking to her, laughing at something she said, clearly enjoying her company.

Of course she likes someone like him, Lando thought bitterly, as he watched from across the room. The man was everything Lando was not — serious, calculated, and mature. He didn’t need to be the center of attention, and he certainly didn’t have to make himself a spectacle for people to notice him.

Lando’s grip tightened around the flute of champagne in his hand. He turned away, trying to shake off the unease bubbling in his chest. But the feeling stuck with him. All night.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

The next day, he texted her again, his message half-accusatory, half-playful:

Lan:

So, who’s the guy? Looks like a lawyer from here. Thought you were into people who could keep up with your… complicated life.

She read the message and snorted. Was he really going to throw that at her? The jealousy card? Really?

She quickly typed back, biting her lip.

Y/N:

He’s just a colleague. Someone from work. You know, not everyone revolves around F1 or the latest influencer trends.

The words stung even as she typed them. She hated that she was putting walls up, but she was so tired of constantly second-guessing herself.

Lan:

Right. And I suppose I’m the one who’s into those trends?

Y/N:

I mean, you’ve been hanging around them enough.

There. She said it. She was being petty, but jealousy was eating at her.

Lando’s response came quickly, almost instantly.

Lan:

Yeah, because that’s exactly what I want, more Instagram followers and pretty girls with no substance.

Her eyes narrowed at the text. She read it twice, the sharp edge in his words cutting deeper than she expected.

Y/N:

Then why do you keep surrounding yourself with them?

His response came even faster this time.

Lan:

I don’t know, Y/N. Maybe because I’m tired of wondering if you even want to be with me or if you’d rather be with someone who looks like he has it all together.

She froze, her heart dropping.

The tension between them had reached its peak. It was a tangled mess of insecurities, unspoken fears, and silent accusations. They both thought the other wanted something they weren’t ready to give. They were both fighting to keep a part of themselves that the other couldn’t touch.

But maybe… just maybe, it was time to tear down the walls and face it.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

Monza had been a whirlwind for Lando — racing, media events, and the pressure that always seemed to come with the spotlight. But that wasn’t what weighed on his mind. No, it was her.

He had tried to act like he was fine, ignoring the nagging feeling in his gut, but deep down, he knew things were slipping. Every moment without her felt like they were growing further apart, despite how hard they tried to convince themselves otherwise. The jealousy, the silence — it was building up, and he couldn’t take it anymore.

So, without a second thought, he packed his bags and boarded a plane. Destination: New York. The city that never sleeps, or so they said. But for him, it was the city where he would finally have it out with her.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

Lando stood outside her apartment building, his heart racing. He wasn’t sure how he got there, just that something in him had snapped. The confusion, the doubt — it was all consuming. The thought that they could end like this, with all the words left unsaid, made him angry. Angry at himself. Angry at the situation. And angry at her for shutting him out, even if she didn’t realize it.

He hit the buzzer.

A moment later, her voice crackled through the speaker. "Yes?"

He didn't even give it a second thought. "It's me. Lando. Open the door."

There was a pause. He could almost hear her hesitation through the intercom. Then the lock clicked, and the door swung open.

She stood there in front of him, looking stunned, her hair disheveled from a long day of meetings and calls. But despite the exhaustion, the moment their eyes met, everything else seemed to disappear. The anger, the confusion, the jealousy — it all melted away in that instant. But she didn’t move. She didn’t speak.

Lando stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “We need to talk,” he said, his voice tight with emotion.

She crossed her arms, not backing down. “I didn’t think you’d show up.”

“You didn’t think I would?” Lando’s voice cracked, and the rawness of it hit her like a punch to the chest. “I’ve been standing on the edge of this whole damn mess for weeks. Watching you pull away, acting like I don’t even exist. And then I see you with some guy at that gala, acting like I’m nothing but a distraction. So yeah, I came here to figure this out once and for all.”

Her face flushed, but she refused to back down. “You think I want to be with you, Lando? You think I’m the one pulling away? I saw you with all those models and influencers. You think I can’t see what’s right in front of me? You want someone who fits your world — someone who doesn’t have a career that takes up all her time, someone who doesn’t get tangled up in complicated lawsuits and corporate contracts.”

Lando shook his head, walking toward her, his frustration mounting. “No! That’s not it at all! I don’t want someone like that. I want you.” He stepped closer, his voice rising. “But you keep acting like I’m not good enough for you. Like you don’t want someone who’s just... here. You want someone serious, someone who can sit in boardrooms and talk numbers and contracts all day. I’m just some guy who drives cars.”

“Lando…” She started, but he cut her off, his words tumbling out faster now.

“You don’t get it, do you? I’m in this world, yes, but I don’t care about that crap. I care about you. I care about us. But every time I try to get close, you push me away, like you’re afraid I’ll screw it all up. And you’re right, I’ve been surrounded by people who don’t care about anything. But you— you’re different. You’re smart. You’re ambitious. You’re real. And that scares me, okay? It scares me because I’ve never had someone like you before. And I don’t want to lose you because I’m too scared not being enough.”

She stood there, silent for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. Her gaze softened, the tension in her shoulders releasing as she let out a long breath.

“I’m scared too,” she admitted quietly, almost in a whisper. “Scared that I’m not the kind of person you need. I’ve seen how you are around those people— how easy it is for you to just... slip into that world. And I thought, maybe, that’s what you wanted. Someone who can play that game better than I ever could.”

Lando shook his head vehemently. “No. No. I don’t need that. I need you. You’re the one who makes me want to get out of bed every morning, who pushes me to be better. Not some model or influencer with a perfect smile and a million followers. I need someone who knows who they are and isn’t afraid of what the world thinks. And that’s you. I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

Her lips parted as if she was about to argue, but something in his eyes stopped her. She took a step forward, looking up at him.

“Lando... I don’t know how to make this easier. But I can’t keep pretending that everything’s okay when it’s not. I’ve been so wrapped up in what I think you want, and I forgot what I need. I want us. I just need to figure out how to stop being so damn scared.”

Lando reached for her hand, his voice softer now. “Then let’s figure it out together. No more pretending. No more games. Just us.”

She smiled, the weight lifting off her shoulders. She finally closed the space between them, letting her arms wrap around him.

“I’ve never been good at this,” she murmured, her face buried in his chest. “But I want to try.”

Lando squeezed her tighter. “Me too. I’ll do whatever it takes, even if it means figuring out how to play the long game with you.”

They stood there for a long time, just holding each other. The silence between them felt different now — like they were both finally on the same page, after all the chaos.

And as the city buzzed around them, they finally understood: sometimes, the best relationships weren’t the ones you planned out. They were the messy, complicated ones you couldn’t live without.

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris x y/n #lando norris x you #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #f1 x female reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1blr #formula one fanfic #formula one fanfiction #lando norris fanfiction #lando norris x female reader

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honeyslibrary · 2 days ago

Text

Sunshine | Luke Hughes

Pairing; Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Established relationship, fluff, overuse of '—' probably (I can't help myself I'm sorry😞), edited once!

Request; 'can you do one about luke where like they are long distance since he moved to NJ and they finally get to spend the summer together after being apart the whole season’

Word Count; 7.8k

Authors Note: Thanks so much for the request, friend!! This was pretty fun to write, and I hope you like it!!. I won't spoil anything in the author's note, but let's just say this is kind of a self insert, aka something I occasionally fantasize about. Any thoughts + reblogs are appreciated!! Love you guys!! -Honey

The scent of fryer oil clung to your clothes as you pirouetted between tables, delivering plates with a flourish that wasn't part of your usual workday choreography. You caught yourself humming between orders, your smile wide enough to make your cheeks ache by mid-shift. Every time the door chimed, your heart performed a little somersault before settling back when it wasn't him, even though you knew perfectly well Luke wouldn't be walking through the restaurant's doors tonight.

"Earth to crazy girl," Mia teased, bumping your hip with hers as she passed with a tray of drinks. "Table six has been trying to get your attention while you've been daydreaming about hockey boy."

"I wasn't—" you started to protest, but the knowing smirks from your coworkers silenced you. Marcus, wiping down the counter, made exaggerated kissing noises.

"Two months," you reminded them, feeling warmth creep up your neck. "You'd be excited too."

"Oh, we know," Mia laughed. "You've only mentioned it every fifteen minutes since you clocked in."

You'd originally planned to join his parents at the airport, had even begged your manager for the night off, but Friday nights were non-negotiable at Lakeside Grill. The bitter disappointment had faded to resigned acceptance, tempered by the knowledge that in just a few hours, the distance that had stretched between Michigan and New Jersey would finally collapse.

When you finally shed your name tag and push through the back door into the crisp April air, the clock on your phone reads 11:32 PM. Your fingers trembled slightly as you unlocked your car, the exhaustion from your double shift evaporating at the prospect of seeing Luke. You slid into the driver's seat and immediately called, pressing the phone to your ear as it rang.

You'd texted him obsessively throughout the day. First when their plane departed Newark, again when they landed in Detroit, and several times after that with increasingly transparent excuses.

"Hey, you," Luke answered, his voice a warm rumble that made your stomach flip. In the background, you could hear the familiar chaos of his summer home. Dishes clinking, Jack's laugh, what sounded like ESPN playing on the TV.

"I just finished up work," you said, trying to keep the breathless anticipation from your voice as you navigated out of the parking lot. "I'm on my way over."

There was a pause, some shuffling on his end. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped a notch lower. "How about you just come over tomorrow. It's late." Your hand froze on the gearshift. A car behind you honked as the exit to the main road remained clear but your vehicle didn't move.

You waved an apologetic hand and pulled out, trying to process his words. "You don't want to see me?" The question slipped out before you could soften it, vulnerability naked in your voice. The red traffic light ahead bathed your dashboard in crimson, matching the flush of embarrassment warming your face.

Luke's chuckle filtered through the speakers, but it sounded strained. "Course I do, don't be silly." A pause. "It's been torture, honestly." The light changed to green, its glow illuminating the empty intersection as you accelerated through.

Something felt off. The Luke who had FaceTimed you just yesterday had been counting down the hours until you'd be together again. "Then why?" You didn't bother hiding the confusion or the hint of hurt that crept into your tone. The late-night streets of your small Michigan town stretched empty before you, streetlights creating pools of yellow that your car passed through rhythmically.

"It's late, sunshine. I don't want you making the drive over." His voice was gentle but firm, the tone he used when his mind was made up about something.

Your fingers tightened around the steering wheel. "It's only half an hour." Even that was generous at this hour, with the freeways clear and most of the town asleep, the drive to the lake house where he spent his summers would be closer to twenty minutes. You'd made the journey so many times you could navigate it half-asleep, following the winding roads until they opened up to the glittering expanse of water and the cape cod style house that his brothers had bought after making it to the NHL.

The property had quickly become your second home over the past two years. The silence stretched between you, filled only by the soft rush of air from your car heater and what sounded like Luke moving to another room, the background noise fading.

He let out a small sigh, that particular sigh you'd come to recognize, the one that signaled the conversation was effectively over. "I'll see you tomorrow, I promise. I'll come and scoop you around eleven?"

You caught your bottom lip between your teeth, worrying the chapped skin there as disappointment settled heavy in your chest. Two months of falling asleep to texts instead of his heartbeat, of watching his games on a screen rather than from the stands, and now another night alone when he was just a short drive away. "Fine," you finally conceded, the word coming out more clipped than intended. You softened your tone, not wanting your reunion to start with tension. "I miss you, that's all."

"Miss you more," he replied, and despite your disappointment, the familiar phrase made your heart constrict. "See you tomorrow, okay?"

As you hung up and turned your car toward your apartment instead of the lake, questions swirled beneath your resignation. In two years together, through multiple separations due to his hockey schedule, Luke had never once not wanted to see you immediately when he got home. Something wasn't adding up, but perhaps it was just exhaustion clouding your judgment. Tomorrow would bring clarity, you told yourself, even as a nagging unease settled beside the anticipation that had carried you through your shift.

Sleep came fitfully that night, your dreams a fragmented mix of anticipation and unease. You didn't set an alarm, allowing yourself to sleep however long your body wanted. Once awake, you reached for your phone with eyes still half-closed, only to jolt fully awake at the notification glowing on your screen.

Lukey [8:12 AM]: Good morning, baby. Wear your favorite sundress today.��

You blinked at the message, sleep evaporating as your thumbs moved quickly across the keyboard.

You [9:34 AM]: Good morning to you too. Why the specific request?

The reply came almost immediately, as if he'd been waiting for you to wake up.

Lukey [9:35 AM]: Don't worry about it :)

You [9:35 AM]: What are you up to?

Lukey [9:36 AM]: If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise, now would it? See you at 11 ❤️

Curiosity thoroughly piqued, you tossed aside your comforter and padded to the bathroom, suddenly grateful for the deep conditioning treatment you'd given your hair last night. The disappointment of not seeing him had translated into a lengthy self-care ritual. Face mask, hair treatment, a leisurely shower, a coincidence that now seemed to be luck.

Standing before your closet an hour later, freshly showered and made up with more care than your usual weekend routine, your fingers skimmed past hangers until they found the familiar fabric. The pastel yellow sundress had been an impulse purchase last summer, right before a family barbecue, the first one that Luke attended with you.

You still remembered the way Luke's eyes had lingered when you'd first worn it, how he'd whispered "You look like sunshine." when your cousins were out of earshot, thus birthing the familiar term of endearment. The dress flowed around your knees as you twirled once before the mirror, the delicate floral pattern catching the morning light. You paired it with simple sandals and minimal jewelry, just some small dangly earrings and a necklace Luke had given you last Christmas. The familiar weight of the pendant against your collarbone was comforting, a tangible reminder of promises whispered across pillows and state lines.

At precisely 10:57 AM, a knock sounded at your apartment door. Your heart somersaulted in your chest as you crossed the living room, taking one steadying breath before turning the handle. And there he was. Luke filled the doorframe, taller than you remembered somehow, his broad shoulders blocking out the morning light from the hallway windows. His curly hair was shorter than when you'd last seen him, the fresh cut accentuating the sharp angle of his jaw. But his eyes, those warm green eyes that crinkled at the corners, were exactly as you remembered, now widening slightly as they took you in.

For one suspended moment, neither of you moved. Two months of FaceTime calls and late-night texts crystallized into this single point of reconnection, the air between you charged with everything unsaid. "Hi," you breathed finally, the single syllable barely audible.

Luke's face broke into that crooked smile that never failed to make your stomach flip. "Hi yourself, sunshine." And then the space between you disappeared as he stepped forward, one arm circling your waist while his other hand cradled the back of your head.

The kiss was gentle at first, a reacquaintance, before deepening into something that spoke of lonely nights and patient waiting. When you finally pulled apart, you noticed the faint circles under his eyes that the phone camera had never quite captured. "You look tired," you murmured, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone.

"Worth it," he said simply, stealing another quick kiss before adding, "I've missed this face."

You smiled against his lips. "Just my face?"

His laugh rumbled through his chest, vibrating where your bodies pressed together. "Among other things." His gaze dropped to your dress, appreciation evident in his expression. "You look beautiful."

"Like I'd forget your not-so-subtle favorite," you teased, stepping back to give him a proper view with a small twirl.

Luke caught your hand mid-spin, interlacing his fingers with yours. "Ready to go? I've got plans for us."

"Is that why you wouldn't let me come over last night? Secret preparations?" The question was light, but curiosity still nagged.

A flicker of something, hesitation perhaps, crossed his face before his smile returned. "Something like that. Come on, chariot awaits."

His Ford Bronco sat in your apartment complex's parking lot, freshly washed by the looks of it. Luke opened the passenger door with an exaggerated bow that made you laugh before sliding into the driver's seat beside you. "So where are we—"

"Nope," he interrupted, turning the key in the ignition. "No questions. Just trust me?"

You settled back against the leather seat, watching his profile as he navigated through the Saturday afternoon traffic. The familiar contours of his face, the way he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of the radio, the scent of his cologne filling the enclosed space, all of it felt like coming home after a long journey.

Twenty minutes later, Luke turned onto a familiar tree-lined street, and your heart gave a little leap of recognition as Marigold's distinctive blue awning came into view. "You remembered," you said softly as he parked, eyes fixed on the cozy brunch spot where you'd had your first official date two years ago.

Luke's expression softened. "Course I did."

Inside, the hostess led you to a corner table by the window. The same table, you realized with a start, where you'd sat that first morning, nervous and trying not to show it. The restaurant hadn't changed much: still the same exposed brick walls covered in local artwork, still the hanging plants creating pockets of privacy between tables, still the mouthwatering smell of their famous lemon-ricotta pancakes permeating the air.

"I took a chance they'd have an opening," Luke admitted as you settled into your seats. "Called them last week from Jersey."

"You did?" His smile turned sheepish.

"Yeah." He reached across the table, taking your hand in his. "But brunch isn't the only surprise."

From his jacket pocket, he withdrew a small velvet box, sliding it across the table toward you. Your breath caught in your throat as your fingers hovered over it. "Luke..."

"It's not a ring," he clarified quickly, a flush creeping up his neck. With trembling fingers, you opened the box to reveal a delicate silver bracelet, its chain fine and shimmering in the sunlight streaming through the window. And there, dangling from the center, was a perfectly crafted silver lily, small but intricately detailed, your favorite flower. "Happy belated anniversary," Luke said softly, watching your face. "I know the flowers I sent weren't much—"

"They were perfect," you interrupted, remembering how the unexpected delivery had brightened your apartment on that otherwise ordinary Tuesday in March, your actual anniversary.

"But I wanted to give you something more permanent," he continued. "Something you could have with you even when I'm not." Tears pricked behind your eyes as you lifted the bracelet from its velvet nest.

"It's beautiful." Luke took it gently from your hands, motioning for your wrist.

As he fastened the clasp, his fingers lingered against your pulse point. "I had it custom made at a small shop in Grand Rapids. The jeweler thought I was crazy with how specific I was about the lily."

You turned your wrist, watching the charm catch the light. "Thank you," you whispered, emotion making your voice thick. "I love it. I love you."

"I love you too," he replied, the simple declaration filling the space between you with everything that two months apart had left unsaid.

The words hung in the air between you, warm and familiar and heavier in person than through a phone screen. A comfortable silence settled as the waitress approached with steaming mugs of coffee, giving you both a moment to collect yourselves.

"So," Luke said after taking a sip from his mug, "tell me everything I missed. And don't say 'nothing' because I know how that brain of yours works."

You laughed, stirring cream into your coffee. "Well, Mia at work has been relentless with the teasing. You should have heard her last night when I kept checking my phone between orders."

"I hope you set her straight about how incredibly cool your boyfriend is," he grinned, leaning forward on his elbows.

"Oh absolutely. I told them all about your exciting life of hotel rooms and ice baths."

Luke clutches his chest in mock offense. "You wound me. What about the glamorous team plane rides? The thrilling post-game interviews where I say the same five phrases in different orders?"

The laughter that bubbled up from your chest felt like releasing a breath you'd been holding for two months. This, the easy banter, the way his eyes never left your face even as he reached for his water glass, this was what FaceTime couldn't replicate.

Your orders arrived with impeccable timing: lemon-ricotta pancakes for you (just as you'd had on your first date) and the breakfast skillet loaded with everything for him. Luke immediately cut a piece of his pancake, raised an eyebrow in silent question, and you nodded, opening your mouth to accept the offered bite. "Still as good as you remember?" he asked, watching your reaction intently.

You closed your eyes briefly, savoring the perfect balance of savory and sweet. "Better."

The conversation flowed as naturally as it always had, filling each other in on the details that text messages couldn't capture. The way his new teammate Brett had adopted a stray cat that now terrorized him and his wife, how you started going on morning walks while listening to old funk albums, his ongoing battle with the dry cleaner that keeps giving him the wrong suits.

As you shared the last bite of pancake, Luke checked his watch with what seemed like exaggerated casualness. "Got somewhere to be?" you teased, dabbing your mouth with a napkin.

"Actually," he said, signaling for the check, "we do have somewhere to be. If you're up for another surprise."

"Another one? You're spoiling me, Hughes."

His smile turned mischievous. "Day's just gettin' started, sunshine."

Back in the Bronco, Luke turned up the radio, your favorite station already programmed in, and headed toward the highway instead of back toward your apartment or the lake house. "Going to give me a hint?" you asked, watching the familiar landmarks of your town give way to the interstate.

"Not a chance," he replied, reaching over to lace his fingers through yours. "But you might want to grab your sunglasses from the glove compartment. It's supposed to be bright today."

A little over an hour later, your curiosity peaked as Luke guided the Bronco off the highway and followed signs toward Detroit. Your mind raced through possibilities. A museum? A concert? Shopping? Nothing felt quite right for the secretive smile playing at the corners of his mouth. When he finally turned into a massive parking lot and you caught sight of the distinctive entrance sign, your jaw dropped. "The Detroit Zoo?" you exclaimed, straightening in your seat. "Luke, how did you—"

He parked the car, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Know that you've been wanting to come here? Particularly to see the new penguin exhibit that opened while I was gone?" He tapped his temple. "I pay attention."

"But I never mentioned—" You paused, realization dawning. "You stalked my Facebook."

"Maybe," he admits, reaching into the backseat for a small backpack you hadn't noticed before. "You shared it about a month ago, commenting about how you hadn't been to the zoo since you were a kid. I might have done some planning right then and there."

Warmth spread through your chest at the thought of him, tired after practice or a game, scrolling through his feed and filing away this small detail about you. Not just remembering it, but building it into today's reunion. "You never cease to amaze me," you said softly.

Luke leaned across the center console, brushing his lips against yours. "That's the plan, sunshine. Keep you on your toes for the next sixty years or so."

The zoo was bustling with weekend visitors, families with strollers and couples walking hand-in-hand beneath the canopy of spring trees. Luke purchased tickets at the entrance booth, waving away your offer to split the cost with a firm "Anniversary, remember?"

"Our anniversary was in March," you reminded him, accepting the map he handed you.

"Which makes this our belated celebration," he countered, pointing to a spot on the map. "Penguins first? Or do you want to wander and find them later?"

You studied the map, noting the penguin habitat was on the far side of the zoo. "Let's save them for later. Build up the anticipation."

The day unfolded like something from a dream, the kind where everything aligns just right. Luke kept his arm around your waist as you wandered from exhibit to exhibit, stopping to watch the tigers lounging in the sun and the otters tumbling playfully in their pool. He listened attentively as you shared random animal facts you'd accumulated over the years, never once making you feel self-conscious about your enthusiasm.

"Did you know giraffes have the same number of vertebrae in their necks as humans do?" you asked as you watched one gracefully bend to drink. "Just seven, but theirs are way longer."

"I did not know that," he said, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Tell me another one."

By the time you reached the polar bears, the clouds had given way to the bright sun that glinted off the water in their enclosure. Luke guided you to a shaded bench nearby, unzipping the backpack to reveal two bottles of water and a container of sliced fruit. "You thought of everything," you marveled, gratefully accepting the water.

"Mom helped," he admitted, offering you a strawberry. "She packed this this morning while I was picking up your bracelet." You glanced down at your wrist, where the silver lily caught the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves above.

"So that's why you didn't want me coming over last night."

A flicker of something, the same hesitation you'd noticed earlier, crossed his face before he nodded. "Had to keep the surprise intact."

You studied him for a moment, noting the way his eyes didn't quite meet yours. "Luke Warren, are you hiding something else from me?"

He popped a grape into his mouth, taking his time chewing before answering. "What if I am?"

"Then I'd say you're being very mysterious for someone who usually can't keep a secret to save his life." You bumped your shoulder against his. "Remember when you tried to surprise me for my birthday last year and ended up telling me the plan three days early because you were too excited?"

Luke laughed, the sound echoing in the open air. "That was different. This is... bigger."

"Bigger than my birthday?"

Instead of answering, he stood, offering his hand. "Come on, I think it's time we found those penguins."

The Polk Penguin Conservation Center was everything the article had promised, a stunning 326,000-gallon aquatic habitat where deep-diving penguins swam with breathtaking speed past the glass viewing areas. You stood transfixed as they rocketed through the water, their bodies sleek bullets of black and white. "They look like they're flying underwater," you mumble, pressing a hand against the cool glass.

Luke stood behind you, his arms encircling your waist as he rested his chin on your shoulder. "Worth the wait?"

"Absolutely," you breathed as a particularly bold penguin swooped close to the glass before darting away in a flurry of bubbles. You could have stayed watching them for hours, but eventually the growing crowd prompted you to move along, making your way through the rest of the habitat. As you emerged back into the sunlight, Luke checked his phone, typing something quickly before pocketing it again.

"Everything okay?" you asked.

"Yes," he assured you, taking your hand again. "Just checking in with the parents. Dad wanted to know if we'll be back for dinner."

"Will we?"

Luke smiled, the secretive edge returning. "That depends on you, actually. But first, I have one more stop in mind." He led you along the winding paths until you reached the zoo's central garden, a beautiful space with flowering bushes and a small pond where koi fish swam lazily beneath lily pads. A musician was playing guitar on a nearby bench, the gentle melody floating through the air. Luke drops his backpack. "Dance with me?" Luke asked, extending his hand with a formal bow.

You glanced around at the other zoo visitors, some watching the musician, others passing by on their way to the next exhibit. "Here? Now?"

"Here. Now." His eyes held yours, unwavering. "Don't leave me hangin'."

Placing your hand in his, you let him pull you close, his arm wrapping securely around your waist as you began to sway to the gentle rhythm of the guitar. The yellow fabric of your sundress fluttered around your knees, catching the afternoon breeze. A comfortable silence fell between the two of you as you held each other following the chords.

"I used to imagine this," he murmured against your hair. "During away games. When I couldn't sleep in hotel rooms. I'd close my eyes and remember how it feels to hold you like this."

Your throat tightened with emotion. "Me too. Except I'd wear your old Devils hoodie and pretend it still smelled like you."

Luke pulled back just enough to look at your face, his expression softening. "I'm sorry about last night. I should have just told you to come over. Would have saved us both a lonely night."

"It was worth it for all this," you assured him, gesturing to the beautiful garden around you. "Perfect day."

"Not quite perfect yet," he said, something shifting in his tone.

Before you could question him, he stepped back slightly, still holding your hands in his. The musician, you noticed with sudden clarity, had switched to a slower, more deliberate melody that sounded strangely familiar. Luke was lowering himself to one knee on the brick pathway, and the world around you seemed to freeze in place.

"Luke," you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"I told you earlier that the bracelet wasn't a ring," he said, voice steady despite the vulnerability in his eyes. "But I never said there wasn't a ring." From his pocket, he withdrew a small velvet box, different from the one that had held the bracelet, this one midnight blue instead of black. Around you, other zoo visitors had begun to notice, a small crowd forming at a respectful distance.

"I had this whole speech planned," Luke continued, looking up at you with those eyes that had captivated you from the very first day. "About how these past two years have been the best of my life. About how even when we're apart, I feel connected to you in ways I can't explain. About how I want to build a life with you that's as beautiful and unexpected as finding you was in the first place."

He opened the box to reveal a ring that caught the sunlight, sending prisms of light dancing across your dress—a solitaire diamond on a delicate band, simple yet stunning.

"But standing here now, looking at you in that gorgeous dress with those eyes that see right through me, all I can think to say is this: I love you. More than hockey, more than anything. And I want to spend the rest of my life proving that to you." His voice caught slightly. "I know we're both young, and we don't even live in the same state half the year, but none of that matters to me. When you know, you know. And I've known since that first summer that you're the one I want to build my life with. Will you marry me?"

Time seemed suspended as you looked down at him: the boy who had become a man before your eyes, who sent you souvenirs from every state he traveled, who beat the Tetris levels you couldn't, who loved you more than you ever thought possible. "Yes," you whispered, then louder, "Yes, Luke. Of course, yes."

His face broke into that brilliant smile you loved so much as he slid the ring onto your finger with trembling hands. The small crowd that had gathered broke into applause as he stood and pulled you into his arms, lifting you slightly off your feet in his enthusiasm. When he set you down, he pressed his lips against yours eagerly, rushed passion and genuine happiness flittering between mouths before allowing you to examine the ring, now sitting perfectly below the delicate lily bracelet on your wrist. "So this was the plan all along."

Luke laughed, pressing his forehead against yours. "Quinn and Jack were helping me set up. I had candles and flowers all over the lake house, planning to propose there. But I changed my mind last minute."

"This was perfect." you said softly. Your lips form a pout, catching his lips delicately, before he pulls away.

"Everyone's waiting at the lake house. My parents, your parents, Quinn, Jack, they're all there for dinner. If you're up for it."

You smiled, shaking your head in amazement. "You really did think of everything."

"I had many months to plan," he reminded you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "And now I have a lifetime of loving you to look forward to."

As you walked hand-in-hand toward the zoo exit, the afternoon sun warm on your shoulders and the weight of the ring still new and thrilling on your finger, you couldn't help but think of how truly blessed you were. "Ready to go tell everyone?" Luke asked as you reached the parking lot, his Bronco waiting like a chariot to carry you to the next chapter.

"Ready," you confirmed, squeezing his hand as the future unfurled before you, as bright and promising as the yellow dress you wore and the boy who loved you.

The drive back to the lake house felt surreal. You kept stealing glances at your left hand, where the diamond caught the late afternoon light streaming through the windshield. Luke caught you looking for the third time and smiled, squeezing your knee gently. "Happy?" he asked, eyes flicking between you and the road.

"I keep thinking I'm going to wake up," you admit. "That I'll be back in my apartment, and you'll still be in New Jersey, and this whole perfect day will have been a dream."

Luke's hand moved from your knee to capture yours, bringing your knuckles to his lips for a soft kiss. "Not a dream, sunshine. Though I'm pretty sure I've dreamt about this exact moment more times than I can count."

As the highway gave way to the familiar winding roads that led to the lake, a mix of excitement and nervousness fluttered in your stomach. "So everyone already knows? That you were proposing today?"

"Well, they knew the plan," Luke amended with a hint of mischief in his voice. "But they don't know your answer yet."

"You weren't sure I'd say yes?" You raised an eyebrow, unable to keep the smile from your face.

Luke's cheeks flushed slightly. "I was... cautiously optimistic." He turned onto the tree-lined private road that led to the property. "But Jack kept teasing me about having a backup plan. As if I could ever have a backup plan for you."

The familiar house came into view, its large windows reflecting the golden afternoon light off the lake beyond. In the circular driveway sat your parents' familiar sedan, parked alongside another car and what you recognized as Jack's truck. Your heart performed a little somersault at the realization that they had all gathered here, waiting for this moment. Luke parked the Bronco and turned to face you fully. "Ready to get ambushed?"

"As I'll ever be," you replied, leaning across the console to press a quick kiss to his lips. He caught you before you could pull away, deepening the kiss with a newfound urgency that made your head spin.

When he finally broke away, his eyes were darker, more intense. "Just wanted one more moment where it's just us," he explained softly.

Hand in hand, you approached the front door. You smoothed down your sundress with your free hand, suddenly acutely aware of the day's adventures in your slightly windblown hair and sun-kissed cheeks. The door swung open before Luke could even touch the handle, revealing Jack, his smirk eerily similar to Luke's own.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, leaning against the doorframe with crossed arms. "Look what the cat dragged in." His eyes dropped pointedly to where your hands remained intertwined, then to the ring now adorning your finger. His smile widened impossibly further. "Guess baby brother didn't chicken out after all."

"Shut up, Jack," Luke said good-naturedly, shouldering past him into the house. The familiar scent of something pasta, rich with garlic and herbs, made your stomach growl despite the late brunch.

"They're here!" Jack called out, unnecessarily loud given the fact that everyone was already gathered.

There was a flurry of movement as people emerged from the kitchen and living room area. Your mother appeared first, her eyes immediately finding yours with a question in them that was answered by your beaming smile. Behind her came your father, trying and failing to look casual despite the slight redness around his eyes that suggested he might have been more emotional about this day than he was letting on. Ellen appeared next, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her face lighting up as she took in the scene. Quinn followed, a beer in one hand and his phone in the other, clearly in the middle of recording the moment.

"Well?" Ellen prompted, looking between you and Luke with barely contained excitement. "Do we have news to celebrate?"

Luke turned to you, his eyes soft with an unspoken invitation for you to share. The weight of everyone's gaze felt momentarily overwhelming until you lifted your left hand, the ring catching the light streaming through the windows. "We're engaged," you announced, your voice strong despite the emotion making your heart race.

The room erupted in cheers. Your mother was the first to reach you, pulling you into a tight embrace that smelled of her familiar perfume. "I'm so happy for you, sweetheart," she whispered against your hair, her voice thick with emotion. Over her shoulder, you caught sight of your father shaking Luke's hand before pulling him into a quick, firm hug. The sight of the two most important men in your life embracing sent a fresh wave of emotion through you.

"Let me see, let me see!" Ellen exclaimed, gently extracting you from your mother's arms to examine the ring. "Oh, Luke, you did good. It's absolutely perfect."

"Just like her," Luke said, the simple statement causing a fresh round of happy tears to spring to your eyes. Quinn approached next, phone now pocketed as he wrapped you in a bear hug that lifted you slightly off your feet.

"Welcome to the family, officially," he said, setting you down with a grin. "Though we've considered you a Hughes since Luke first brought you home with those puppy dog eyes two years ago."

"I did not have puppy dog eyes," Luke protested, though his expression as he watched you being welcomed by his family suggested otherwise.

Jack slung an arm around Luke's shoulders. "You still have puppy dog eyes" He turned to you with a wink, teasing. "Life with no chance of parole for you, eh?"

"Jack," Ellen chided, though her smile remained firmly in place.

Your father cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention. He was not typically a man of many words, preferring to express himself through actions rather than speeches. But now he raised the glass of what appeared to be whiskey that Jim had just handed him. "To Luke and his impeccable taste," he began, his voice gruff with emotion. "And to my daughter, who has never looked happier than she does right now. May this be just the beginning of a lifetime of joy for you both."

"Hear, hear," Jim echoed around the room as glasses were clinked together. Luke found his way back to your side, his arm sliding naturally around your waist as if it belonged there. Which, you supposed, it did.

"Dinner's almost ready," Ellen announced. "The boys have been grilling all afternoon, and I've got about six side dishes that need final touches." She turned to you with a warm smile. "But first, I think these two need a moment to breathe. Why don't you two get some air?"

Luke shot his mother a grateful look before guiding you toward the back of the house. As you slipped out the sliding glass doors onto the expansive deck, you heard the animated chatter resume behind you—your mother already deep in conversation with Ellen, no doubt discussing wedding details you hadn't even begun to consider.

The late afternoon sun hung low over the lake, casting long golden reflections across the rippling surface. The wooden dock extended from the grassy backyard into the water, bobbing gently with the mild waves. It was your favorite spot at the lake house, where you and Luke had spent countless hours talking, swimming, or simply sitting in comfortable silence.

"You okay?" Luke asked as you reached the end of the dock, both of you slipping off your shoes to dangle your feet in the cool water. "I know it's a lot all at once."

You leaned your head against his shoulder, watching a pair of ducks paddle by in the distance. "I'm really good," you assured him. "Just processing that this is real. That you're really here, and we're really engaged, and our families are inside already planning our wedding probably."

Luke chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest where you were pressed against him. "Mom's had a Pinterest board for at least a year. I caught her looking at it over Christmas."

"You're kidding."

"Dead serious. Quinn ratted her out." He kissed the top of your head. "But we don't have to decide anything right away. We can take our time, do this however we want."

You nodded, grateful for his understanding. The two of you sat on there, on the end of the dock, your head resting on his shoulder, for a few minutes, watching the sun setting along the water.

Soon enough, the sliding door opened, and Jack's voice carried across the yard. "Lovebirds! Mom says dinner's ready, and Dad's threatening to start without you!"

Luke stood first, offering you a hand up that you gladly accepted. Before you could head back toward the house, he tugged you gently into his arms, one hand cupping your cheek with impossible tenderness.

"Thank you," he murmured, his eyes searching yours.

"For saying yes?" you teased lightly.

He shook his head, expression serious despite the smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "For making every homecoming feel like this. Like no matter where hockey takes me, I have something infinitely more valuable to come back to."

Your heart swelled as you rose onto your tiptoes to brush your lips against his. "Always," you promised.

The word hung between you, as golden and full of promise as the sunset beginning to paint the sky in brilliant hues of orange and pink. It was a promise neither of you made lightly, to be each other's constant in a world of variables, to be home for each other no matter the distance.

Hand in hand, you walked back toward the house where your families waited, the yellow sundress swishing around your knees and the evening breeze carrying the scent of grilled steak and the subtle promise of summer. The weight of the ring on your finger still felt new and thrilling, but the feeling that bloomed in your chest as Luke held the door open for you, that feeling was as familiar and essential as breathing.

Inside, the dining table had been set with Ellen's best dishes, bottles of champagne chilling in ice buckets at either end. As you took your seat beside Luke, surrounded by the people who had shaped both of your lives, the conversation and laughter flowing as naturally as the lake waters outside, you couldn't help but think that for all of Luke's careful planning and perfect surprises today, this moment of belonging, outside of his proposal, was the next best gift.

Jim raised his glass once everyone was seated, his expression uncharacteristically emotional. "To the future Mr. and Mrs. Hughes," he toasted, his voice steady despite the moisture gathering in his eyes. "May your love story continue to be written with the same beauty with which it began."

As glasses clinked and smiles were exchanged across the table, Luke's hand found yours beneath the tablecloth, his thumb brushing over the ring he'd placed there just hours ago, an unspoken reminder that this was just the beginning.

"I love you," Luke whispered for your ears alone.

You squeezed his hand in response, knowing that whatever the future held, whatever cities hockey might take him to, whatever challenges might arise, the foundation you'd built together over the past two years was strong enough to weather any storm.

"Love you, too," you echoed softly.

Dinner stretched languidly into the evening, multiple courses interspersed with stories and laughter that left your cheeks aching. Your father, usually reserved, had warmed up after his second glass of wine, regaling everyone with embarrassing childhood stories that made you hide your face in Luke's shoulder. Luke's arm had remained draped across the back of your chair, his fingers occasionally brushing against your shoulder in a gesture so casually intimate it made your heart flutter even after two years together.

"Remember when she insisted on wearing her tutu to soccer practice?" your mother chimed in, eyes twinkling with mischief. "The coach didn't know what to do with her."

"In my defense," you protested, "I was five, and I thought tutus were appropriate for all athletic activities."

"Not much has changed," Luke teased, earning himself a playful jab to the ribs. "What? You still have strong opinions about athletic wear."

"Says the man who refuses to wear anything but black compression shorts under his gear for 'luck,'" Quinn interjected, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.

The conversation flowed easily between hockey stories, childhood memories, and tentative wedding ideas that Ellen couldn't help but slip into the conversation. Jim had opened a second bottle of champagne somewhere between dessert and coffee, insisting that such an occasion warranted proper celebration.

As the clock on the mantel chimed ten, your father stifled a yawn. "I hate to be the one to break up the party," he said apologetically, "but some of us don't have the stamina of you young folks anymore. Early meeting tomorrow."

"Yeah," your mother agreed, though her reluctance was evident in her voice. "It's a bit of a drive back."

Ellen nodded, beginning to gather some of the dessert plates. "We're gonna get going too, actually."

"You're leaving?" Luke asked, surprise evident in his voice as he looked between his parents.

Jim exchanged a knowing glance with Ellen before clearing his throat. "Thought we'd give you two some privacy to celebrate properly."

"We're out too," Quinn nods, already standing and shooting Luke a barely concealed wink.

"That's right," Jack added, his expression all innocence despite the mischief dancing in his eyes. "Wouldn't want to be a third and fourth wheel on your engagement night."

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you realized what they were doing, orchestrating an obvious exit to leave you and Luke alone in the lake house. Luke's arm tightened around your shoulders, his own face slightly flushed.

"You don't have to—" you began, but Ellen waved away your protest.

"Nonsense, sweetheart. You two deserve some time alone after being apart for so long. Besides," she added with a gentle smile, "It seems only right that you should have it to yourselves tonight."

The next fifteen minutes were a flurry of hugs, promises to call tomorrow, and last-minute wedding suggestions that you nodded along to without fully processing. Your mother hugged you especially tight at the door.

"I always knew he was the one," she whispered against your ear. "From the first time you brought him home. The way he looked at you, like you were everything."

Emotion tightened your throat as you squeezed her back. "I love you, Mom."

"Love you too, sweetheart." She pulled back, dabbing at the corner of her eye. "Enjoy your night, we'll talk details soon."

You and Luke stood on the porch, waving as both families piled into their respective cars. Quinn shot Luke a thumbs up from the passenger seat of Jack's truck, and Jack made a gesture that Luke quickly responded to with an obscene hand signal of his own, hidden from the parents' view.

"Brothers," Luke muttered, despite the smile playing on his lips

With final waves, both cars pulled away down the private road, headlights sweeping across the front of the house before disappearing around the bend. You stood in the doorway watching until the red taillights vanished around the bend, Luke's arm secure around your waist.

"Alone at last," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I think that's the fastest I've ever seen my family clear out of here."

You laughed, leaning into his embrace. "They weren't exactly subtle about it."

"Subtlety isn't really a Hughes family trait," he admitted with a grin, leading you back inside and closing the door behind you. "But I can't say I'm complaining."

The house felt different now. Quieter, more intimate, the spaces that had been filled with laughter and conversation now containing only the two of you. The dining room table still held the remnants of your celebration dinner, champagne glasses with lipstick marks and cake crumbs telling the story of the evening's festivities.

"Should we clean up?" you asked, though the thought of mundane chores seemed at odds with the electric anticipation humming beneath your skin.

Luke shook his head, taking your hand. "Tomorrow. I have something to show you first."

Curiosity piqued, you allowed him to lead you through the familiar path up the wooden staircase. When you reached the door to his bedroom at the end of the hall, he paused, turning to face you with an expression that mingled nervousness and excitement.

"Close your eyes," he instructed softly.

You did as he asked, heart fluttering with anticipation. You heard the door creak open, felt Luke's hands gentle on your shoulders as he guided you forward into the room. The subtle scent of roses reached you before he spoke again.

"Okay. You can look now."

When you opened your eyes, a soft gasp escaped your lips. The room was transformed from the familiar space you remembered. Dozens of candles in various sizes were arranged across every surface, unlit but ready to cast their warm glow. Rose petals in deep crimson created a path from the doorway to the bed, where they were scattered across the navy comforter in a striking contrast. The curtains had been drawn back to reveal the panoramic view of the moonlit lake, silver light dancing across the gentle waves.

"Luke," you breathed, turning in a slow circle to take it all in. "When did you—"

"I had help," he admitted with a sheepish smile. "Jack and Quinn set this up while we were at the Zoo. It was supposed to be part of my original proposal plan, but...ya know." He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. "I still wanted the night to be special."

You crossed to him, rising on tiptoes to cup his face in your hands. "It's perfect," you whispered, emotion making your voice catch. "All of it."

With careful movements, he pulled away, and reached for the bedside table, retrieving a lighter to begin illuminating the candles. One by one, small flames sprang to life around the room, casting everything in a warm, golden glow that made the rose petals seem to shimmer. When the last candle was lit, Luke dimmed the overhead light, leaving only the dancing flames and moonlight to illuminate the space.

"There," he said, turning back to you with such tenderness in his eyes it made your breath catch. "Now it's perfect."

You moved toward him, drawn like a magnet to his warmth, his solidity, the familiar scent of his cologne mingling with the fresh rose petals and lake air drifting through the partially open window.

"I missed you." you whispered, reaching up to trace the strong line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble. "Two months is too long."

Luke caught your hand, turning it to press a kiss to your palm. "I'll quit the NHL," he murmured against your skin, "just wanna be with you."

"Oh wow," Your eyes widened with amusement. "I think Devils fans would kill me."

"We can go off the grid." A teasing smile on his lips as he drew you closer. "Survive off of my ELC money."

Your fingers traced the neckline of his shirt, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the fabric as you threw your head back with a laugh. "Whatever would we do with all that time alone?" you asked, your voice deliberately innocent despite the heat building between you.

Luke's eyes darkened as his hands slid from your waist to your hips, drawing you impossibly closer. "I have a few ideas," he murmured, his voice dropping to that low register that always made your stomach flip. "Starting with properly celebrating our engagement."

You can find the 18+ extended cut of this fic, (5k+ words of smut), on my Patreon, or via the direct link: HERE

#luke hughes #luke hughes imagines #luke hughes imagine #luke hughes fanfiction #luke hughes fic #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes x you #luke hughes fluff

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rhyrhy · 20 hours ago

Text

Something Like Sin

Older!Farmhand! Abby x perv!farmers daughter R

CONTAINS: rough draft for a fic idea I had. MDNI. Religious guilt, impure thoughts, short.

She does it on purpose. You swear she does.

The lift of her shirt to swipe sweat from her forehead. Being sure you’re in her line of sight while she works. The small touches when passing by.

How could one woman weaken your resolve so much?

How, after a long day of doing nothing but giving your wet dreams more fuel, could she step into the main house and “report back”?

Listing everything she took care of—

That wobbly fence your belt loop always seemed to catch on. The left tire on your daddy’s truck that made that god-awful squeak when started in the early morning.

Everything but the small flicker of amusement she’d get when she caught your stare—or even just felt it.

The grumbling of your father’s “Sounds good, thanks again, Abbigail,” seeming more frequent than before.

Didn’t she fix that fence last week?

The only relief was writing it out.

The dark green journal that stayed tucked in the back pocket of worn jeans. Pages of thoughts, frustrations, fantasies.

And hidden in the back pages— Not passwords to the Wi-Fi, or the lockbox— Your feelings. The real ones. About her. Starting innocently from last summer, when she filled in for her father.

Jerry did honest work. Only lived a few roads down—he was the first person you called when things went belly-up. But he’s older now. Knees don’t work as well. So naturally, she came.

Quiet. Worked quickly. Efficient. Good hands are always welcome on the hundreds of acres your family owned.

Months of torture.

Farmhands came and went—but not her. She—Abbigail—always came back.

In your dreams.

And in the back pages of that journal.

June 5th, 2025

“She said she liked the top I was wearing last night. The one I swore I’d never wear again because of how tight it felt across my chest. But her eyes—they lingered. Just for a second. Long enough to make me feel bare. I didn’t sleep after that.”

God, you prayed she never read that one. But what was a girl like you calling on Him for? Impurities like that didn’t deserve His protection.

Sinners only thrive when hidden in the comfort of shadows.

When the sun greets the sky, the mask takes its place— In the form of the farmer’s daughter.

She made supper every evening, brought water to those helping hands, leaned into her daddy’s kisses on the forehead.

So busy being the golden girl, you—so worn—you didn’t notice that your back pocket was empty as you entered the house. Sleeping peacefully in your mattress. Farm dog Gracie barking occasionally when cars passed in the distance.

All while the green spine cracked open—

By fingers that didn’t hold the pen that stained the pages. With an ease, nothing rushed—like it had been done millions of times.

The pages flipped until their heart’s content.

Those same eyes watched you the next morning, messy hair falling as you lifted from your bed. In full view of the bay window warming the room.

The new day dances around you. Smiles and “you’re welcome”s, as usual. Until a voice sent panic striking through you like lightning.

“Not doodling in those pages of yours this mornin’?” your father said as you reached the bottom of the stairs, still slightly sleep-ridden.

No caffeine could wake someone faster. Your hand flew to your pockets. Eyes widening as the words stuck in your throat.

Where is it? Why didn’t I double-check last night? Did someone else find it? Your mind raced.

“Oh sweetheart, relax—you probably left it in your room,” your mother called out from the kitchen

Before they could say another word, the screen door flew open. Your boots crunched the gravel, bolting for the barn. You’d been there last night, writing to your heart’s content. Dreams of the future. Leaving the fields behind one day. Sending postcards to Momma with different cities attached.

But those weren’t the ones you were worried about.

A heaving chest and shaky fingers reached for the rusted latch. Greeted by moos, and Gracie sleeping near the ladder. Eyes searched the wooden floors, hands and knees warming as you looked.

And looked.

Where the hell is it? The furrow in your eyebrow deepened as did the pit in your stomach.

“You alright?” a voice called out a few feet away.

Your body jerked, a small gasp leaving you. Not expecting anyone else to be here. So early anyhow. Slowly lifting your head, trailing up the woman who almost seemed to have appeared.

Heavy boots, dark-washed jeans. That thick brown belt, silver buckle. A white beater lifted just enough to see that blonde happy trail that made your thighs squeeze together.

“Jesus, you scared me—yeah, I’m alright.”

You glanced to the woman with a quirked eyebrow at your position. Realizing how ridiculous you must’ve looked, you pushed to your feet. Hands dusting off your knees.

“Good morning, Ms. Anderson.” You stood slightly awkwardly, with a small head nod.

“I always tell you that just Abby is fine.” She smiled. “But good mornin’” The silence stretched out. Abby cleared her throat and spoke once more. “What are you looking for… in here?”

“Nothing, I just… thought I lost something in here. And now that I’ve checked… I’ll be on my way.” You gave a small smile, shifting to turn on your heels. Unable to hold that eye contact any longer.

“You sure?” “Because I found this—“ short fingers grazed something as she turned, reaching behind her. “on the floor.”

There it was. Thank God. Maybe He was listening.

“Oh! Thank you—little squirrel brain of mine sometimes.” A joke you forced out.

She huffed at the attempt and hummed “Don’t mention it.”

Your fingers brushed as you went to take it from her. Your heart rammed against your ribs. Pausing when she lifted it again slightly like she’d changed her mind. Eyes flickered to her face, meeting hers. Your hand now left with nothing as she teased it backwards. Only you heard her say—

“The way she moves—like she knows time will wait for her.” You froze. Your breath caught. Abby only tilted her head “That’s pretty, y’know? Like poetry.”

Oh, how sweet, you thought. Yet, Your heart pounded louder. How far did she read?

“Thank you…It’s nothing really. Just something I do when I’m bored.” You barely managed the words. They sounded distant, hollow in your mouth—like they belonged to someone else. Your hand closed around the journal like a secret you couldn’t bury fast enough. And then you turned. Quick. Too quick. Boots scraping against the barn floor. already vowing to be more careful next time.

That was a close one. Just leave, get this book of sin from her. Wanting to throw lighter fluid on it even. However, before you could make your escape she continued, the words burning in the light—

“Her eyes lingered. Just for a second. Long enough to make me feel bare.” Then with a small chuckle “That’s the line, ain’t it?”

Her silky voice cut through the air behind you, amusement wrapped around every word. You stopped cold. Turned slowly. “Didn’t sleep after that, huh?”

“What—what did you—” you stammered. “Oh lord—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for you to read—”

She cut you off with a soft laugh, stepping closer. “It’s alright, really”

“That’s a filthy little thought for a girl who says good morning like a church bell.” Her eyes flicked to the journal still clutched in your guilty hands.

“What else keeps you up at night, sweetheart?”

#abby anderson #abby anderson smut #older abby #abby anderson the last of us 2 #abby anderson x y/n #abby anderson x female reader #abby tlou #rhysdrabbles #cowgirl abby #abby x fem!reader #x reader #abby anderson tlou2 #abby x reader #abby the last of us #abby anderson x reader #lgbtq #abby x you #abby smut

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almostwisegalaxy · 2 days ago

Note

Hey, hope you're having a wonderful day.

Could you maybe write a few fics for Geum Seong-Je from Weak Hero Class 2? Fluff and *soft only for her* trope.

Thank you so much and its okay if you don't wanna.

I totally get it, I'm a writer too.

Love,

Anon

You can't fix me

Geum Seong-je x fem!reader

Cause... I love villains without a sob story, just psycho

..................................................................................

The first day Y/N saw him, he was bleeding from the corner of his lip and sneering like a rabid dog.

Ganghak High School was far from a stable place, but this boy… this Geum Seong-je, he reeked of instability from miles away. Chaos lived within him. He was the type to destroy a room because someone had sneezed too loudly. Y/N was supposed to watch him.

It was one fight too many.

The hallways trembled, the windows exploded. He had his fist in the mouth of another kid already on the ground and he kept going, methodical, his eyebrows furrowed as if hitting helped him breathe. Three supervisors hadn't been able to do anything. So she had entered. Silent at first.

Then:

"Are you done with your circus act, or do I need to train you like a mutt?"

He hadn't even looked at her. Just a hoarse breath, another blow. She had approached. A hand on his shoulder. He had growled. She had reacted: a knee strike, then two. He had thrown a chair. She had teased him.

He had collapsed, his muscles contracted in a brutal spasm.

When he woke up in the principal's office, still groggy, she was waiting for him. Arms crossed, back straight.

"What are you, some genetic waste?"

She had looked at him with an almost chilling calm.

"Did you think you were a hero today? Do you believe that hitting harder erases your shitty life?"

Pause. A silence.

"You're pathetic. Even dogs know when to stop."

He had wanted to smile. But there was this crack in his chest, this short breath he couldn't expel. She wasn't yelling. She was cutting. And it was worse.

She had hit him again, another time, another week. Because he had strangled a student against the lockers. Because he had smashed a cell phone against a wall. Because he had looked at her, her, with that look full of defiance, filth, and darkness.

And yet.

He always came back to her. Sat on the bench near the supervisors' room, his back torn by blows, a poorly stuck bandage, his eyes fixed on her with a morbid intensity. He followed her in the hallways, provoked her in class, insulted her sometimes, coldly, softly, almost tenderly.

"Ms. Y/N."

He murmured her name like a reproach. Like a burn.

"Are you stalking me, or is it the other way around?"

She never answered. She took notes, wrote words in her notebook, read his old files. And sometimes… sometimes, when his back was turned, she looked at his scars. The angle of his jaw, clenched. The tremors in his fingers. The way he would break when he no longer knew how to breathe.

He wasn't crazy. Just fractured. And in his cracks, he had lodged her, her. He stared at her like a mystery he had to dissect, like a living enigma he hated not being able to silence.

He said nothing, but in his eyes, it was obvious:

Y/N lived in his head.

And he had decided that as long as she was there, he wouldn't let anyone else breathe.

---

He always came back.

Sometimes at dawn, eyes red-rimmed, a piece of chewing gum stuck under his tongue, fists bandaged. Other times at the last hour, dragging his feet, but his gaze sharp. He didn't miss any of her rounds. He waited for the click of her heels in the deserted hallways, the rustle of her files against her hip, that clinical way she had of ignoring him.

And it drove him crazy.

"Sleeping in your office now, ma'am?" He had sat on the table, head tilted.

"Don't you have a life? Or are you waiting for me to give you one?"

She hadn't looked up.

"Do you want me to take away your right to speak, or do you want your jaw to last until tomorrow?"

He had laughed. A real laugh, hoarse, short. No provocation, just… a release. As if, with her, the mask fell without him realizing it.

But he hated her for it. For that way of seeing through him. Of walking through his shattered pieces without ever getting cut.

So, he tested her.

He wrote stupid things on the walls: "Madam is a cold witch. She punishes without heart."

He sat in her chair when she wasn't there. Rummaged through her papers. Watched her from afar.

And when she entered a room, he spoke loudly, always too loudly, so she would hear his name amidst the laughter.

But never, never did he touch her.

There was a line. He didn't know why. Maybe because she had already put him on the ground. Maybe because she was the only one who had never backed down from him. No fear, no false respect. Just… contempt. Pure and precise.

And that obsessed him.

He had started dreaming about her. Not in a gentle way, no. Suffocating, sweaty dreams, where she held him down with her foot, where she slapped him silently while he laughed. He would wake up, heart pounding, unable to understand if he loved her, hated her, or both.

He bought drinks that he left on her desk without a word. She threw them away. He started again. Out of habit. Out of defiance. Out of need.

One day, she had called him into her office. He sat down, provocative.

"Another punishment, ma'am?"

"Do you think I enjoy seeing you all the time?"

She had stepped forward, thrown a file onto his lap. His file.

"Do you think I haven't read it? You're pathetic, Geum Seong-je. You cling to violence like a kid to his teddy bear. It's your only way to exist. But you don't impress me. You just waste my time."

She had said that without raising her voice. He had smiled. Slowly.

"It's crazy how much you like to talk about me. Haven't you noticed? It's always me in your mouth."

She had almost slapped him. But she hadn't. And he had known: that, that was the real trap.

That day, he had gone home. He hadn't slept. He had punched the walls. He had clenched his teeth until they bled. And he had sworn, not out loud, just to himself:

Y/N would look at him. Even if it meant burning everything he touched.

---

It was hot that day. A sticky, stifling heat that the school walls couldn't contain. The air reeked of teenage sweat, cheap deodorants, and something electric—a premonition, perhaps. As if something was about to break.

Geum Seong-je, however, seemed unusually calm. Too calm.

He loitered in the courtyard, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a half-empty water bottle. He had the kind of look that you couldn't hold: empty but sharp, like a polished abyss. That day, no one dared approach him. Even his own guys kept their distance. He had beaten up a kid that morning for asking him for a cigarette. Just that. One sentence too many, and he had seen red.

But when he saw Y/N, her straight back, her determined walk, the way she seemed to cut through the air around her, he straightened up. Something within him readjusted, like a broken compass suddenly finding north again.

She was coming out of a meeting with a student. She looked tired. No makeup. A few strands of hair stuck to her forehead. And above all, she seemed elsewhere.

He followed her, silently.

When she entered her office, she felt it. A sensation at the nape of her neck, almost animalistic. She turned around.

He was there. Leaning against the doorframe, his gaze fixed on her, not mocking for once. Almost… attentive.

"You look dead."

He moved closer. Slowly.

"Didn't you sleep?"

She groaned, irritated, and threw her file onto the desk.

"What's it to you?"

He smiled. Not his usual smile. Not the one that preceded blows. Another one, rarer. Soft. And dangerous.

"I'm meddling in what belongs to me."

She raised her head, eyes dark, ready to strike him. But he was already there, very close, hands in his pockets, his chest almost touching hers. And he wasn't looking at her in defiance. He was looking at her as if he were listening. As if he could hear her heart beating.

"Step back."

"No."

A silence. Too long. Too charged. The slightest movement would have shattered everything.

Then she made the mistake. A human error, certainly. Fatigue. Loneliness. A slight crack in the mask.

She didn't hit him.

She didn't run away.

She sighed. Just that. A sigh. A release.

And he saw the flaw.

He sensed the weakness, the whisper of a possible attachment.

And it was worse than pity. Worse than hate.

He raised his hand. Slowly. Gently. And his fingers brushed her cheek. Not roughly. With an awkward, almost sacred tenderness.

"You should sleep, ma'am."

She let him. Just a few seconds. She could have broken his wrist. She didn't.

And that's when he knew. That she was no longer invulnerable. That she had opened, even just a centimeter, the door. And in that gap, he rushed in.

Since that day, everything changed.

He no longer just followed her. He waited for her. At the metro exit, sometimes. In front of the teachers' lounge. He left things on her desk: a lighter, an annotated book he had stolen from the library, a peach-flavored chewing gum she liked. He didn't always speak. But he watched. For a long time. Obsessively.

And she… she said nothing.

She should have. She knew it. Every step towards him chipped away at her a little more. She saw his gaze change—more fixed, more serious. He no longer called her just "ma'am." Sometimes, it was Y/N. Pronounced slowly. As if he were chewing each letter. As if it were an incantation.

She should have set boundaries. She should have re-established the distance. But she had found herself waiting for his gaze. Watching for his silhouette. And feeling something bitter when he wasn't there.

One day, she had hurt her hand—a stupid cut with a piece of cardboard. She hadn't noticed him watching her from afar. That evening, he had entered her office without knocking, a first-aid kit in his hand.

"You're incapable of taking care of yourself, huh."

He had taken her hand without waiting. She could have slapped him. She should have. But he was already gently cleaning the wound. Without brutality. His fingers were warm, calloused, but precise.

She said nothing. He wrapped the gauze around her palm. Then, he kept her hand in his for a few seconds too long.

"I can't get you out of my head."

She wanted to answer. He interrupted her.

"I don't want you to be like the others. You're not. And I'm not stupid, Y/N. You think I'm just a wild animal, but I see what you're trying to hide. You furrow your brow when you're worried. You're afraid of getting attached, and you always look at me like I'm a time bomb. Maybe I am one, yeah. But you activated me. And now, it's too late."

She stepped back, finally. But gently. He didn't try to hold her.

She closed her eyes. For a second. Just one. And he saw her breathe faster. He saw that what she was holding back wasn't anger. It was something else. Something more painful.

"You'd better leave."

"Not until you understand what you've unleashed."

He left the room. Slowly. He didn't need to kiss her. Not yet. Not right away. He had seen what he wanted to see: the mistake.

She had looked at him differently. She had trembled, even slightly.

And that crack, he would never let it close again.

---

The rain had fallen all night. It hammered against the windows of Y/N's car, punctuating the tension that tightened her throat. She hadn't stopped staring at the police station door, her eyes fixed in a blur, her jaw clenched. She knew these kinds of calls. Too well. Violent kids, repeat offenders, desperate cases left to drift in a soulless system. But tonight, it wasn't a "case," it wasn't a student.

It was him.

Geum Seong-je.

When she had walked through the doors, the smell of disinfectant mixed with stale coffee and dampness had hit her. A familiar smell. Too familiar. And the police officers had greeted her with a vague air, as if it were just another detail in their night.

"He can leave," one of them said.

"What do you mean?" she asked, frowning.

"Orders from above."

"Meaning?"

He shrugged, offering no further explanation.

"Release him to the supervisor. That's what we were told."

Y/N felt her temples throb. She wasn't stupid. "Orders from above" didn't exist without a reason. Even less so when it involved a teenager implicated in a violent fight with another school. There had been serious injuries. One of the boys had a fractured jaw. And Seong-je? He was going to walk out, as if nothing had happened.

It smelled like bullshit. Real bullshit.

And not a single answer. Nothing.

When she entered the small back room, she saw him. Sitting on a metal chair, slumped against the wall, legs spread apart, face turned to the floor. He looked… drained. Arms crossed over his chest, forehead pressed against the wall. Disarmed.

A dirty bandage covered his right foot, which he held half-raised, without even paying attention to it. Dried blood stained his temple. His knuckles were split open, scraped down to the bone.

But it wasn't the sight of his injuries that struck her. It was the absence of fire in his eyes. The absence of that fierce rage he wore like a second skin.

"Seong-je?"

He slowly raised his head. He blinked. Then a small, painful grimace stretched across his split lips.

"Ma'am..."

His voice was hoarse. Slowly, he straightened up, swayed, but remained standing.

But this time, there was nothing provocative about that "ma'am."

There was no more irony. No more game.

He had said it like an oath. Like a sacred whisper.

"Let's go home." She took his arm. He didn't protest. But she felt his whole body stiffen when she put an arm around his waist to help him walk.

She settled him in her home. Not out of weakness. Not out of pity. But because she knew. Instinctively.

He didn't want to go back. He had no one.

He hadn't said it. He hadn't even tried to make excuses. He had just let himself be guided, silent.

In her small living room, she sat him down on the sofa. She got what she needed: first-aid kit, compresses, hydrogen peroxide. He watched her, his dark gaze fixed on her every move as if he never wanted to lose sight of her again.

And when she laid her hands on him…

When she gently cleaned the blood from his temple, when she brushed her fingertips over his swollen cheek, when she bandaged his ribs without even raising her voice…

He broke.

Not in sobs. Not in screams. Inwardly. Silently. Devastated.

Because no one had ever touched him like that.

No one had ever cared for him without making him feel like a beast, a problem, a mistake. She, she placed her hands with an almost… frightening delicacy. As if he had value. As if he were fragile.

And the more she touched him, the more something inside him melted.

The more his obsession with her became visceral, devouring, uncontrollable.

He looked at her like one looks at a vision. Like a miracle in a world of filth.

Y/N, for her part, focused on her actions. But she felt it. She felt his eyes following her, scrutinizing her. As if he wanted to engrave her into his flesh.

She tried to remain upright. Hard. But it was too late.

In a corner of her mind, she admitted it: she hurt for him.

And she hated that crack within herself.

"You're going to have to stay off that foot for a few days. It's pierced."

"They stomped on me with a metal bar," he replied without emotion.

She froze. He said it as if he were talking about the rain. As if it were normal.

And this time, she couldn't help but look up at him. He was staring at her. Intense. Obsessed.

"Why are you like this with me?" he murmured.

She hesitated. Her hands trembled almost imperceptibly.

"Because you're still standing despite everything."

"You still think I'm just a kid, huh."

She didn't answer. He licked his lips, painfully. Then, he leaned in slightly. He was still sitting, she kneeling in front of him. And slowly, he placed his hand on her cheek.

"Y/N..."

She felt her throat tighten.

He wasn't trying to provoke her. Or seduce her. Not really.

He was just trying to maintain that contact. That link. That small, invisible thread that now connected them.

And in an almost unreal moment, she closed her eyes.

Just for a moment.

She felt his warm palm against her skin. Understood. Accepted.

But as she was about to straighten up, he spoke. His voice was deeper. Slower. Trembling.

"Even if you were to love me one day… you'd refuse. Because I'm still a minor. Because you have too many principles. Because you're strong. And me… I'm everything you've learned to run from."

She opened her eyes. Their gazes met.

Brutally.

And she understood. That this boy, this damn broken, unstable, twisted boy… had just realized that he was falling.

That he was falling for her.

And she… she wasn't sure she wanted to stop him anymore.

She placed her hand on his. Withdrew it almost immediately.

But it was too late.

He had felt it.

And in his eyes, in that uncontrollable flame, she read the promise of an obsession with no way out.

"I'm going to disappear for a while," he finally said.

She raised her head.

"Where?"

"You don't want to know."

She wanted to protest. He shook his head.

"Not now. But I'll be back."

He stood up with difficulty. She helped him. He rested his forehead against hers. Just for a second.

"You see… you left a crack, ma'am. And me? I'm going to make it open until you belong to me."

And she let him go.

Not because she wanted to.

But because she knew that when he returned, nothing would ever be the same.

---

I’ve kept a low profile.

No more fighting. No more staring. Nothing. Like a ghost in these damn hallways. Not because I’ve changed. No. I’m the same. I just understood. Baek Jin, that dog, that parasite… he used me. I was a tool. A pit bull he’d unleash when he needed to. Nothing else.

So I backed off. I waited. I watched.

And during that time, I thought about her.

Ms. Y/N.

Fucking hell. Just her name in my head and my nerves ignite.

I remember her fingers on my face that night. It was nothing. An almost professional gesture. Cold. Calculated. But damn it… I got hard as a rock that night. I clenched the sheets between my teeth. I touched myself like a dog in heat. And it was her. It’s always her. It’s always her hand I imagine between my legs.

I’m sick.

I know it. I don’t care.

I want her to touch me again. Not just my face. No. I want her hand everywhere. I want her mouth on my skin. Her nails in my back. Her breath in my ear. Her saliva. Her fucking scent—that mix between clean and fire. Between discipline and hell.

I want to see her crumble. See her lose that mask.

I want to be the one who makes her tremble. Not from fear. From need.

I want her to tell me I’m hers. Even if it’s not true. Even if she’s lying. Even if she hates me.

Because me… I love her.

Not that bullshit love they sing about in dramas.

Me, I love her to the bone.

I love her like you burn.

I dream of her. And in my dreams, she doesn’t scream. She moans.

She tells me no, at first. Always. Because it’s her. Because she’s proud. Fucking upright. But I see her body betray her words. I see her thighs part, slowly. I see her mouth slightly open. I see her breathing quicken.

And I grab her by the nape of the neck. I look at her. I say nothing. And she understands.

And I take her.

I devour her.

I want her to feel that I’m there. Inside her. Everywhere. That even after, when she washes herself, when she tries to forget, I’ll still be there. Under her fingernails. In her nightmares. In her scent.

I’m obsessed.

I could spend hours staring at her without speaking. Just watching her walk. Her swaying hips. Her dark gaze. That contempt she wears like perfume.

Even when she insulted me, I got hard.

Even when she threw me to the ground, tased me like a dog, I would have thanked her.

It was her.

She calmed me down. She hurt me. She looked at me like I was a monster. And damn it… I want her to continue.

I want her to tell me I’m fucked up. That I’m a lost cause.

But I want her to tell me that while moaning. Between two sighs.

I want her to scratch me. Make me bleed. Reject me while I take her. I want her hate, her fear, her confusion. I want her damn mind.

I want to crush her beneath me and whisper in her ear:

“You’re mine now, ma’am.”

And she won’t say anything. Because she’ll know it’s true.

Even if she denies it. Even if she runs.

I’ll always find her.

Because I’m not in love like other people.

I’m not a nice guy. I’m not made for happiness.

I’m made to destroy her softly.

To show her that she never really controlled her heart.

I stole it, little by little.

And one day, she’ll see it.

One day, she’ll feel that she can no longer breathe without thinking of me.

That day… I’ll be there. With my hands around her hips.

With my mouth against her throat.

And she won’t say anything.

Because it will be too late.

---

She’d been warned he was back, in a fearful whisper from a student with a tongue that wagged too freely.

He hadn’t returned to school. Of course not. Too obvious. Too risky. He was hanging around the construction site of the old shopping center, the one no one watched. Walls covered in graffiti, windows blown out, rats making their kingdom out of the debris.

That’s where she found him.

He hadn’t hidden. He was sitting on the cracked steps, one arm bloody beneath his torn sleeve. His eyes were vacant. An expression she’d never seen on him before.

And it drove her mad.

Mad with rage. With pain. With not knowing. With not understanding. With having believed him to be different, perhaps. A dangerous, unstable guy, but not this. Not a fucking rapist.

She approached. The sound of her footsteps echoed on the concrete.

He looked up, slowly.

And without warning, the first slap landed.

A sharp crack in the cold air. Seong-je’s head snapped violently to the side. He didn’t react. He blinked. That was all.

“Tell me it’s not true,” Y/N breathed. Her voice was low. Strangled.

Not a scream. A warning.

He looked at her, silent.

She slapped him a second time, harder, backhanded this time. He swayed slightly but remained seated. Still without a word.

“Tell me it’s not true, damn it!”

He inhaled. Closed his eyes.

“It’s not true,” he said.

But it was too late.

The third slap was brutal. Stinging. He placed a hand on his cheek this time. Not to protect himself. Just… to feel.

As if the pain was the only proof he was still there.

Y/N was trembling. Her whole body. Not with fear. With rage. She grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up brutally.

“Then why did you hide?! Huh?! Why did you disappear?! What did you think?! That by leaving me in the dark, I’d… forget?! Defend you without knowing?!”

He kept his eyes locked on hers.

“Because I knew you’d do exactly that. Hit me. Judge me. Look at me like them.”

She gritted her teeth. And then, without thinking, the fourth slap came. And this time, she screamed.

“I protected you! I covered for you for months! And you leave me with a fucking accusation like that?! What do you want?! For me to abandon you?!”

He flinched.

He hadn’t said anything.

But his eyes had clouded over. A shadow had passed.

“I didn’t want you to see that. Me, like that.”

She shoved him violently; he fell back onto the steps, his hands scraped by the concrete.

He didn’t get up.

She remained standing, panting. Broken.

“They have photos, Seong-je. Blurry, yes, but usable. Your black hoodie. Your profile. Your scar on your temple.”

He murmured:

“I wasn’t there. I was somewhere else. I was…”

He hesitated.

“I was hiding out at an old acquaintance’s place. I didn’t call you. I… I was scared.”

“Scared of what?! Of me?!”

He finally looked up at her, and this time, she saw it.

She saw the distress. The real kind.

“Scared that you wouldn’t believe me. That you’d look at the evidence and hesitate. That you’d doubt. Even for a second.”

She didn’t answer. She approached slowly. Squatted down in front of him.

And she hit him one last time, not a slap this time, a punch to the chest, with a closed fist.

“Bastard,” she breathed.

But he looked at her as if she were the last beautiful thing he had left.

And maybe she was.

He coughed, a trace of blood on his lips.

“I’m not a good guy, ma’am. But I never touched that girl. I never wanted that. And I never wanted you to see me like this. Weak. Accused. Falsely accused.”

She closed her eyes. For a long time. Then, gently, she placed a hand on his shoulder. He shivered under her touch.

“Who?”

“Nabaek-jin. Or the guys behind him. They want to take me down. Shut me up. Make me disappear. And there’s no better way than this kind of accusation.”

She nodded.

And for a long moment, they said nothing.

His lips were split. His gaze was lost. He looked worn out. Damaged. Younger than ever. Just a kid. A kid who had been hit too much, dirtied too much.

She stood up.

“You’re coming with me. We’re going to prove you weren’t there that night. We’re going to flip the script. And if you’re lying…”

He nodded.

“I’m not lying.”

She didn’t answer him. She didn’t touch him again.

But as she left, she murmured:

“Don’t run from me again. Because if you do… I’ll hunt you down myself.”

He offered a broken smile.

And in his head, a single thought returned, insistent:

She’s still here. Even after all that. She’s here. She touches him. She hits him. She yells at him. But she’s here.

And that presence was worth all the pain.

Even the pain she inflicted.

---

He was there, leaning against the damp wall of the fire escape behind the school, his gaze fixed on the empty alleyway. He knew she was close. He could feel it. He didn’t need to see her to anticipate her steps – that cold, steady, almost military rhythm. Y/N never did anything halfway.

And she arrived, straight as a knife, her fists clenched in the pockets of her too-thin coat.

She shot him a dark look. He didn’t flinch.

“You have bruises.”

He smiled. An empty smile.

“I don’t fight, Ma’am. I fall.”

She hated that smile. Because it made her want to believe him. And she refused.

“Why do you insist on doing this alone?”

He looked at her for a long time. Too long. And in his eyes, there was that fever she dreaded. That uncontrollable thing, that unhealthy fire that simmered beneath his skin.

“Because it’s my mess. Not yours.”

“And if you get killed? If you fall?”

He approached. Slowly. One step after another. Until he was close enough to feel her breath on his face.

“Then I fall alone. But I refuse to let you dirty your hands for this. I refuse to let them see you, associate you with me, touch you from afar or up close.”

She raised her voice.

“You think I’m some fucking porcelain doll?! You think I—"

He cut her off sharply.

“Let me be a man for once, Y/N.”

She stopped.

He continued, lower. His voice hoarse. And full of that muffled crack he only showed her.

“You want to do everything, carry everything. You’re used to people relying on you. Me, I want… I want to be the one who isn’t saved. I want that at least once in my life, I can say: ‘I handled it. Me.’

He looked up at her. He was burning. Literally.

“You brought me to my knees with your gaze, Y/N. And I don’t want the rats in this city to know you exist. You’re mine. And I’m your dirt to hide.”

She tried to answer. But the words didn’t come. Not right away.

So he left. And this time, she didn’t stop him.

Three hours later, in a deserted bowling alley with a broken neon sign, Geum Seong-je retrieved what he had carefully hidden.

An old sports bag, stashed under a false ceiling in the utility room. Inside, papers, hard drives, photos. He had kept it all, just in case. Not because he was careful. Because deep down, he knew that one day, he would have to betray.

He wasn’t afraid of Na Baek-jin.

Not like before.

What he feared was no longer being worthy of Y/N’s gaze. She had slapped him as if she wanted him to become real again. And she had succeeded.

So that night, he walked to the hill where Yeon Si-eun and his two war dogs, baku, gotak and jun-tae. sometimes hung out.

They were there.

He handed the bag to Si-eun, without speaking.

Yeon Si-eun didn’t ask questions. He opened it. Scanned it. Understood. And looked up.

“Why?”

Seong-je ran a hand through his hair, his gaze elsewhere.

“You want to demolish their fucking syndicate? Here’s your bomb. Me, I have something else to protect.”

Si-eun nodded. He didn’t add anything. No need.

The next day, Seong-je returned to his hole. He didn’t plan on being a hero. He let others destroy. He just wanted to survive.

But in his head, Y/N.

Always Y/N.

Her voice, her slaps, her silences, her scent.

He thought of her as he went to bed. As he breathed. As he walked. As he washed his hands like a maniac so as not to contaminate what he might one day offer her.

He wanted her. Physically. Yes.

But it wasn’t just that.

He wanted her to see him and think: he’s changed.

He wanted her to offer him a hand one day. Not to save him. Just to touch him.

And every step he took in this fucking rotten world, he took for her.

Not for love. Not for forgiveness.

For the possibility.

The tiny, painful, terribly uncertain possibility… that one day, she would look at him without rage.

Without fear.

Just… with something a little soft.

And for that, he was ready to betray everything he had been.

Even himself.

---

CHAPTER 10 – STORIES ARE WRITTEN TOGETHER

Two months. That’s all it had taken for the dust to settle over the city. Two months of voluntary isolation. Of self-imposed exile.

Geum Seongje hadn’t returned right away. No. He had been a shadow, a figure hidden in the underbelly, where people like him hid, where wounds half-healed, and where time seemed to have forgotten to pass.

The war was over, but he still bore its scars. His name was no longer whispered in the dark alleys with disgust or fear. The syndicate had fallen. The accusations against him had crumbled with the collapse of that underworld. He was cleared, or almost.

But not yet rehabilitated. Not yet returned to who he had been.

The two months had passed. And here he stood before the school, in the middle of the school holidays, in the shade of a tree. He had grown, changed. He was now a man. Of age. And, more importantly, he was there for her.

A cold gaze settled on the entrance of the building. It wasn’t the first time he had returned here. But this time, he had a reason beyond mere rage to reappear in the life of the one who had marked him with fire.

Y/N.

She was there. In the shadow of the gate, talking to a group of students, like a guardian figure. When she turned her head, her eyes met his. A shiver pierced the warm summer air. She recognized him immediately, even after those two months.

She hadn’t changed. But he… He was something else entirely. Harder, more mature, more enigmatic. Far from the teenager she had had to watch, control, sometimes insult. He was no longer the one she had slapped. He was no longer the one she had tried to help, with her icy and closed heart. No, he was a man. A man she knew by heart… and who, yet, was no longer the same at all.

Seongje approached her, his gaze scrutinizing every movement. It wasn't just the desire to possess her. It was deeper. It was a visceral need. A need to connect, to give meaning back to his existence. An obsession, of course, but tinged with that nuance he had never thought possible.

“You know, I can’t call you ‘ma’am’ anymore. I’m no longer under your supervision,” he said with a wry smile, a smile that was both teasing and unhealthy. But his voice was softer, more confident. It was more than a provocation. It was… almost an attempt to get closer.

She stared at him. She was no longer as implacable, but her expression remained distant.

“You’ve changed,” she finally said. Not a question, just a statement.

He didn’t answer immediately, preferring to look her in the eyes. And in that gaze, she could almost feel what he was feeling. The buried pain, the shame, the rage, but also an insatiable need to be seen. To be accepted. To be chosen.

“I’m an adult now, aren’t I?” His voice was tinged with that childish arrogance he had always had, but this time, it wasn’t empty. There was something more in the way he addressed her. A plea for recognition.

She didn’t answer right away, her gaze lost in a mixture of confusion and curiosity. The situation was too unclear for her to embrace with a simple look.

He moved closer slowly, each step heavy with unspoken meanings. Everything he had lived through, everything he had endured… He had gone through it all to be there, in front of her. He was ready for anything. Even that dull ache that resonated in his gut with every movement he made.

“If I follow you… it’s not for school, you know.”

His words were simple, but they struck her heart like a hammer blow.

“You want to follow me away from all this?” she asked, surprised, but also slightly amused. She had remained calm, but he could feel the tension in her gestures.

“Maybe,” he said, a mischievous smile in his eyes. Then he added, lower, almost to himself, “I’ve always had this kind of connection with you. I want more than silences. More than furtive glances.”

She looked at him then, and for the first time in a long time, her gaze softened. Perhaps because she understood now. Perhaps because she knew.

“I’m going to another school… I’m getting transferred,” she murmured. “You know, the distance…”

He leaned a little closer to her, and this time, it wasn’t an enraged look, or the look of a badly behaved child. No, it was a conscious look, the look of someone who knew what he wanted.

“Then I’ll call you ‘noona’ now,” he said in a warm, sensual breath. The word slipped from his lips, and he pronounced it in an almost intimate way, a way that made all the difference. Because he had never pronounced that word that way before, not to her, not ever.

She froze for a moment before relaxing slightly. An almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. But he could see it. She saw it too, that small crack in the wall she had built around herself. She felt an electric tension, a dull pulse, as palpable as the air between them.

Their gazes locked.

It wasn’t a kiss yet, no. But there was something even stronger. It was a silent promise, a profound change. He, the child who had tormented her, now ready to be the one who would follow her. She, the woman ready to accept him, but not without her own fears.

Seongje’s fingers slid onto Y/N’s skin, brushing her wrist. The touch was soft, almost fragile, as if he were afraid of breaking what had just been created. And Y/N, this time, didn’t pull away. On the contrary, she leaned in slightly, like an invitation.

“Noona…” he repeated, in a heavier tone, almost a whisper. And this time, it was the beginning of something real, something vulnerable. It was no longer an obsession.

It was hope.

And then, he did it. He crossed that boundary that, until then, had seemed like an insurmountable chasm. He kissed her. Not brutally, not violently. But gently, gently, as if each movement was a revelation, as if he were discovering himself through her. He had no expectations. Just this desire to feel her close, even closer, more real than ever.

She recoiled slightly, her eyes wide open, shocked by the gesture, but he didn’t move away. Not this time. He waited for a reaction. He didn’t want her words. He just wanted… her to see him. To really see him.

And for the first time since he had met her, Seongje felt at peace. Not because the battle was over, not because he had won anything. But because this time, he had taken his future into his own hands. And that future, he wanted to share with her. No matter how twisted, difficult, or uncertain it might be.

She placed her hand on his cheek, caressing it gently. He had never thought that simple gesture could have such an impact. That tenderness… he received it like a precious, fragile gift. And perhaps, deep down, he was beginning to believe that he could build something real with her. Perhaps, finally, he could exist beyond his mistakes.

She leaned slightly towards him.

“Seongje…”

She said nothing more. Words were unnecessary. But in her eyes, there was what he had always sought: a promise. A promise he had waited for. That he would now build with her.

He smiled, without a word.

Things weren’t perfect. They never would be.

But for the first time, there was an “us.” And that was all he had ever wanted.

Their hands trembled. The air between them was saturated with desire and tension, but also with that fragility that now bound them. No further words were needed. No grander gestures. They understood each other. And for the first time, Seongje felt that he wasn’t alone in being obsessed with the other.

Y/N was there, ready to accept who he had become. But the question remained: would they be able to repair what had been broken before? Or would it all consume them even more?

..................................................................................

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neferaskingdom · 21 hours ago

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♡ Downward Spiral | LN4

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: It's been weeks since the breakup, and they're both on a downward spiral. It's getting so bad that now their friends have to intervene. Guess it's time for project "Save Dumb and Dumber"

A/N: This is part of my Playlist Roulette series, where I shuffle my playlists and write a story inspired by the first song that pops up. This is Part 2 of the story inspired by the song Too Precious by Em Beihold.

Previous | Series Masterlist | Next

It was weird, the things you miss. Like the sound of his laugh echoing off the kitchen tiles. The way he’d talk to himself when he thought no one was listening. Or how his hand would always find hers without even looking.

She didn’t talk about him. Not to anyone. But some days, he was all she thought about.

And it wasn’t like she missed everything. The loud nights, the arguments that started small and spiraled into something ugly. But there were moments. The soft ones. Mornings in bed when everything felt still. His thumb brushing her cheek. His voice, quiet and raspy.

Some days she did fine. Went to work. Came home. Read books. Answered texts. It was almost like she was normal.

But some nights, the weight of missing him made her feel like her ribs were collapsing inward. She’d cry quietly in the shower, wiping her face before facing anyone. She avoided their usual haunts, blocked half his friend group on Instagram, and stopped listening to music altogether.

It all reminded her of him.

Meanwhile, Lando was coming undone in louder ways.

He went out every night. Ibiza, Monaco, wherever the afterparty was. Girls draped over his arm, drinks in both hands. He laughed too hard. Said yes to everything. He burned through days and nights without blinking, too high or too drunk to care if he was crashing.

He didn’t really notice how fast it got out of control until he woke up in someone else’s bed and couldn’t remember her name.

The parties helped. So did the girls, for a while. But nothing stuck. Nothing felt like her.

Max pulled the joint out of his hand. "Mate. You look like shit."

"Thanks," Lando muttered.

"I mean it. This isn’t you."

Lando snorted. "Don’t act like you know me."

Max didn’t rise to it. "No one knows you anymore. Not since she left."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Lando stood and grabbed another drink. He didn’t answer.

The sadness came in waves. Some days she was fine. Other days, she’d see something small — a hoodie he left behind, a stupid meme he would’ve sent her — and it knocked the breath out of her.

He was still everywhere and it was getting harder to pretend she was okay.

"You’ve gotta snap out of it," Layla said, sitting on the edge of her bed. "You can’t keep rotting in here."

"I’m not rotting."

"You’re literally lying in the same hoodie you’ve worn for four days. You barely eat. You barely talk. You’re spiraling, babe."

She didn’t answer. Because it was true.

She stopped going to brunch with her friends, stopped answering FaceTime calls. Every little reminder of him chipped away at her—his mug in her cupboard, the perfume he said he liked on her, a half-used bottle of hair gel in her bathroom drawer.

She was unraveling. Some days she didn’t brush her hair until noon. Her appetite vanished. Her eyes looked duller. Even her laugh had a hollow edge.

He was getting mean.

Short with his engineers. Cold with his friends. His trainer, Will, had stopped trying to get him up for workouts after Lando told him to "piss off" for the third time in a row.

It was like something in him had cracked — and everything that came out now was bitter and sharp and empty.

She’d stopped pretending she was okay.

The tears came easier now — over empty coffee mugs, over old songs on the radio, over the sweater that still smelled like him even after three washes.

Her best friend, Layla, didn’t push her to go out anymore. Didn’t force pep talks against her will and just showed up with food and tissues and sat beside her while she broke down.

"He didn’t even fight for us," she whispered one night, eyes red, throat raw. "He just let it happen."

Layla ran a hand down her back. "You both did. That’s why it’s so sad."

She nodded, curling tighter on the couch.

Some days were worse than others. On the worst ones, she barely left her room. She’d reread old texts and convince herself that maybe it was all an act. That never cared at all.

Max shoved the door open. The flat reeked of stale weed and whatever had spilled on the carpet.

Lando was passed out on the couch. Again.

"This is getting out of hand," Max muttered.

Pietra crossed her arms. "No. It’s already out of hand."

Lando stirred and blinked up at them, groggy. "You guys have the keys to my place now?"

"We’ve always had the keys," Pietra snapped. "Because we don’t trust you not to OD in here."

Lando laughed. It was dry and lifeless. "I’m not that bad."

"Trust me, mate you don't even know what you are anymore," Max said.

"I’m not going," she said, arms crossed.

Layla didn’t blink. "It’s my birthday."

"So?"

"So you owe me. Remember who held your hair while you sobbed over The Notebook and tequila?"

"That was one time."

"You broke my Dyson. That vacuum cost money, bitch."

She blinked. "You’re emotionally blackmailing me."

"Damn right I am”

“I thought you were going for high tea for your birthday? Why did you suddenly change it to Jimmy’s? I thought you hated that place!”

“Hate is a strong word. Also, it’s my birthday and I want to party for once. You better be there or else I’m telling your mom about the broken vase.”

“For fucks sake no need to blackmail me!” She said exasperated, “I’ll go”

Taglist: @sltwins @verogonewild @anunstablefangirl

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dark-fanfics-moon · 3 days ago

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THE PET Remmick X Reader

WARNING: POSSESSIVE BEHAVIOUR AND DEATH OF MINOR CHARACTERS IN THIS CHAPTER ! BLOOD ! NOT FOR MINORS OR SENSITIVE SOULS ! Synopsis: You let him in ? Now, face the consequences.

(This is my first Sinners fanfic. I hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. Also, you have French ancestry here.)

The scent of roasted meat and sweet cinnamon filled the air, wrapping itself around laughter and the lively sound of fiddles. The neighboring village’s festival was in full swing, spilling over with cheer. String lights crisscrossed above, glowing amber against the twilight sky. People danced in pairs, whirling and stomping to the beat, while children darted between tables with sticky fingers and half-eaten pies.

You were seated on a bench near the firepit, a flaky pastry cradled in your hand. It was warm and sweet, filled with something jammy that stuck to your lips. You had just taken a bite when the knock came.

Knock-knock.

You blinked, brushing crumbs from your mouth as you rose. You made your way towards the wooden gate that separated the garden from the winding road, the music slightly muffled behind you.

When you opened it, you saw him.

A man with bright eyes and windswept dark hair grinned at you. A banjo was strapped across his back, and his shirt was rolled to the elbows, streaked faintly with road dust. He stood with the ease of someone who traveled often, who’d seen a dozen roads and made friends in every town he passed. Behind him stood two others—one, a quiet woman with dark hair, a blue dress and a tambourine at her hip, the other a man holding a lantern and wearing a wary sort of smile.

“Hey there !” the first man greeted, his voice thick with a warm Irish lilt. “Me name is Remmick. These two next to me are called Bert and Joan. And me friends and I are travelin’ musicians. We heard music and thought we could maybe join ye happy bunch ?”

His smile was so bright, so full of good cheer, you couldn’t help but mirror it.

“Where are you all from, friends ?” you asked, tilting your head.

Remmick chuckled, eyes dancing. “Ah, here and there. Wherever the music leads, really. But most recently ? A little place past the Ridgefolk Hills—though I reckon that name means nothin’ unless you’ve lost a boot in its bog.”

You laughed softly.

The woman beside him added, “We’ve played in towns where the lanterns don’t go out ‘til dawn. Thought we’d see if this one keeps the same rhythm.”

Remmick tilted his head, still grinning. “Ah, we’re from all over, really. Bits o’ the Isles, some time in the south…but right now ?” He winked at you. “We’re from wherever the road takes us—and tonight, I’m hopin’ that’s here.”

You glanced back at the flickering lights, the sounds of joy and clinking glasses behind you, and then to the trio at your gate.

“Well,” you said, stepping aside with a smile, “no reason to keep music waiting. Come on in.”

Remmick’s grin stretched even wider—wolfish and warm all at once—as he tipped an invisible hat. “Much obliged.”

The woman beside him gave you a grateful nod, her long fingers tightening on the neck of her instrument. She had sharp eyes that missed nothing, and you got the sense she was the one who made sure the group didn’t starve or freeze when the road got cruel. The tall man murmured a thank you under his breath as he stepped inside, looking a little like he’d never seen so many lights in one place.

The moment their boots hit the flagstone courtyard, the party seemed to notice them—people turned, curious, expectant, drawn by the presence of strangers like moths to a new flame. A hush fell, not of suspicion, but of curiosity. Somewhere, the fiddle player slowed, notes trailing into the night like a question waiting to be answered.

Remmick cleared his throat, lifting a banjo hidden behind his back. “Evenin’ folks,” he called out cheerfully, “I hope ye don’t mind us joinin’. We come bearing songs and no shortage of cheer.”

Someone—probably Maris, already flushed with too much elderflower wine—clapped and shouted, “Only if ya play somethin’ worth dancin’ to !”

That seemed to relax the atmosphere as some people started laughing around the garden.

Remmick gave a mock bow. “Challenge accepted, milady.”

Then the music began—low and playful at first, the woman’s strange instrument thrumming like the heartbeat of the earth itself. Remmick’s banjo played wonderfully, light and bright, and the tall man took out a pair of small drums, tapping out a rhythm that felt like feet hitting the road.

It was a sound that didn’t ask to be heard—it insisted.

And just like that, the courtyard was alight again, laughter rising like sparks from a fire, the party folding them into its rhythm as though they’d always been meant to arrive at your little party tonight.

And you—well, you stood at the edge, pastry forgotten, watching Remmick play and sing, wondering just how far these travelers had come from and how long they were planning to stay. His eyes met yours at times and you couldn’t deny that his smile did make your heart skip a beat. He seemed to be around your age. Perhaps a few years older—but attractive nonetheless.

As the final twang of Remmick’s banjo danced into the air, the crowd erupted into cheers and clapping, the kind that rattled tankards and lifted spirits higher than the smoke curling into the stars. You found yourself smiling without even meaning to, hands coming together in a steady, appreciative rhythm.

Remmick caught your eye once more and gave you a sly wink, still catching his breath, curls damp at the edges from the firelight’s heat. You were about to turn and fetch him something to drink when your father’s booming voice cut through the air like a blade through butter.

“Well now,” he said, too loudly and a little too proud. “That was fine, lad, real fine—but it’s my daughter who’s got the voice that’ll stop a room dead.”

Your heart stopped right along with the hum of the party.

“Pa,” you hissed under your breath, stepping towards him with your cheeks burning. “Manners. They’re guests.”

But he was already clapping a firm hand on Remmick’s shoulder, all hearty laughter and puffed-up pride. “You wouldn’t believe the songs she can sing. Clear as a bell, that one. Got it from her mother. Girl’s too shy to show off, but get her goin’ and you’ll swear the gods themselves hush just to listen.”

Remmick turned to you slowly, that grin of his curling again—but now with something softer at the edges. “Is that so, lassie ? Ye can sing ?”

You blinked, trying not to glare at your father, who now looked immensely pleased with himself and entirely unaware of the way your stomach had dropped.

“Well, sometimes,” you murmured, suddenly very interested in your shoes.

But Remmick only stepped forward, banjo cradled in one arm like a sleeping child. “Well, if ya ever feel like sharin’, I’d count meself lucky to hear it,” he encouraged you gently. “But only if it’s your idea, not yer Pa’s. I wouldn’t want to sound too pushy now…a’right ?”

He glanced at your father with a crooked grin. “Though I do appreciate a proud father. That’s a rare sort of music, too.”

The party had fallen into a hush again, but this time it was not out of curiosity—it was anticipation. You hadn’t stood in the middle of a crowd like this in years, not since you were a child humming lullabies in your mother’s sun-drenched kitchen, her flour-dusted hands clapping quietly along. But now, under the heavy dusk sky and the golden festival lights strung like constellations, you took a breath and let it catch deep in your chest.

Then you began to sing.

Soft at first, almost trembling, the words laced in French. But as the melody poured out—dark, rich, and aching with something deeper than memory—your voice steadied, growing bolder.

“J’avais un amant

Depuis quelques mois

Je l’aimais de toute mon âme

Mais il m'a quitté

Sans savoir pourquoi Il a brisé mon cœur de femme…”

People began to stop where they stood. The clinking of mugs faded, the footsteps slowed. Even the children paused their games. The music of the words—foreign to many—was understood nonetheless. A woman scorned. Champagne-laced laughter masking the ache of a broken heart. Madness blooming like roses from betrayal.

“Et moi sur la table, j’ai pris un couteau

Et ma vengeance fut cruelle…”

Your voice rose, fearless now, resonating with the power of grief turned to fury, sweetness turned to steel. Some stared. Others closed their eyes, swaying. Your father had gone still, his pride now touched with something more reverent.

Remmick didn’t take his eyes off you. Not once. A smile graced his features as he heard your voice and his eyes glistening slightly. You thought it was because the song was rather melancholic, but his smile made you understand that he was admiring you and it made your heart race in your chest. Your voice became louder and trembling slightly under such a heavy look. It made your cheeks burn with heat—not only because of the effort.

“Oui, j'étais grise

J'ai fais une bêtise

J'ai tué mon gigolo !”

When you reached the final note, your voice trembling on the edge of that last, heart-wrenched word—

“Mon amant d’coeur

M’a rendu folle…”

—there was a moment of utter stillness following your performance.

Then came the applause.

It started slow, as if people were unsure if they’d been witness to art or a confession. But then it built, wave upon wave of clapping, cheering, even whistling from the back of the courtyard. People stomped their feet, raised their drinks, and called your name with giddy disbelief.

Remmick stepped forward, banjo hanging forgotten at his side. He looked at you with something unreadable in his eyes. His unmistakable smile making your brain forget all caution as he bowed slightly.

“Christ above,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear. “And here I thought I knew how to tell a story. Your Pa was right. Such a beautiful voice is meant to be heard.”

You looked at him and smiled, breath still coming in soft waves from the song, your voice quiet but steady.

“You are just as impressive, sir.”

Remmick blinked, like he hadn’t expected you to say that. Then that boyish grin returned—slower this time, softer around the edges.

“Careful,” he murmured, with a playful tilt of his head. “Flatterin’ a musician’s a dangerous game. We’re known t’follow compliments like hounds on a scent.”

He stepped a little closer, not enough to make it obvious, but just enough that you could smell the road-dust and campfire smoke clinging to his shirt. “But I mean it, lass,” he added, voice lowering a touch. “That wasn’t just singin’. That was…somethin’ else. Like ya sang straight through the air and stitched it shut behind ye.”

Before you could answer, a loud cheer broke out to your left.

“Oi !” shouted Maris again, already climbing up onto a barrel. “Someone get this lass a drink—and this poor fella too, he looks like he’s been struck dumb !”

More laughter followed. You felt so embarrassed at Maris’ words, the moment scattering like sparks in the wind.

Remmick chuckled, shaking his head. “Your people are wild.”

You raised a brow, lifting your skirt slightly in mock formality. “You’re not goin’ to run away now, are you sir ?”

“Not a chance.” He offered you his arm like a gentleman—albeit one with dusty sleeves and banjo-calloused fingers. “Now come on. I believe we’ve both earned a drink. And maybe, if I’m lucky, another song ?”

You stepped away with the Irish musician and smiled at your father who gave you a supportive thumbs up. He still hoped for grandchildren and he wouldn’t get mad if you married as soon as possible. You had tried to approach men before, but it was the first time you had felt such a connection with one of them. You liked him and he seemed to like you.

Once far away enough, Remmick stepped a little closer, still giving you that look—not of a man who saw a pretty girl, but of someone who had just stumbled across a secret, a buried treasure sung into the open. “That song…I’ve never heard anything like it. Who taught you that ?”

You glanced toward the edge of the festival, where the shadows had softened into the dark, and the music had shifted to something lighter now—something meant for dancing again. “My mother,” you admitted softly. “She used to sing it when she’d had a little too much wine. Always said French songs were the best for heartbreak. And she had had her fair share before meeting my father.”

Remmick nodded slowly, the corner of his mouth still curved. “Then I owe her a great deal…for passin’ that down.”

You smiled before you heard your father shout from behind you: “Young lad ! How about you invite my daughter for a dance before you both take roots, yeah ?!"

You shot a warning glance at your father who seemed unable to hold his tongue after the number of shots in his bloodstream.

Remmick chuckled awkwardly and hesitated, then offered his hand, with that charming, exaggerated flourish of a troubadour in a tale. “Would the lady do me the honor of a dance ?”

You looked at him for a moment—really looked.

In the golden spill of lantern-light, Remmick didn’t seem like the sort of man who belonged to one place. He looked like the wind—here for a moment, then off to some far corner of the world where the roads were still dirt and the stars still sang. And yet, right now, he stood still. Waiting. Just for you.

With a smile you couldn’t quite hide, you slid your hand into the crook of his arm.

“I suppose the lady would.”

His grin could’ve lit the road back to the mountains. “Careful,” he said, leading you gently back toward the music. “You keep sayin’ yes to me, and I’ll start thinkin’ I’ve got a chance with such a sweet girl.”

You laughed, low and warm. “I think you already do.”

He seemed surprised for a moment before smiling brightly at you. The music picked up—fiddles and tambourines and clapping hands—and the people had started to twirl again, skirts brushing the cobblestones, boots thudding to the beat. No one stared now; the spotlight had moved, the night embracing you like just another part of the song.

Remmick took your hand, one at your waist, light as a secret.

“A’right now,” he murmured, his Irish lilt softening with the moment, “don’t worry if you’re not good at dancin’. Just follow me.”

You did. And the night carried on—spinning, laughing, warm as firelight on your skin—and for just a little while, you forgot the difference between music and magic. The world around you blurred into rhythm and laughter—faces twirling, skirts flaring, the scent of honeyed pastries and woodsmoke curling through the air. Remmick guided you gently, never pulling, just offering. His hand was secure at your waist, fingers light on your skin, like he’d learned to hold fragile things without breaking them.

…You should have probably seen that something was not exactly normal with that man at that moment. But you were dancing and having fun. He was charming and you had had quite the exciting night. So you didn’t notice anything wrong with your dancing companion.

As the music slowed—just a little, just enough to let hearts breathe—he leaned in close, breath brushing the shell of your ear.

“I always wanted to dance with a pretty lady under the moonlight,” he whispered.

The words weren’t rehearsed. They didn’t tumble out with the smoothness of a practiced charmer. No, they were quiet, like something he’d kept tucked deep in his chest for a long, long time. You turned your face just slightly, close enough to catch the earnest gleam in his eyes—lit not by the lanterns but by the silver light drifting down from the night sky.

“And now ?” you asked, voice soft as lace.

He smiled, a little crooked, a little shy.

“Now I don’t know if I’m dreamin’…or just lucky as sin.”

The last note of the dance faded, swallowed into the soft hum of crickets and the murmur of full-bellied laughter. As people began to break off in pairs and groups, drifting back towards food and drinks, your father clapped his hands together with a booming cheer.

“Well now ! No one’s travelin’ tonight, that’s certain !” he declared, lifting a mug high. “We’ve got room in the village—and hearts enough to share it. These fine travelers stay the night, aye ?”

A chorus of agreement answered him. A few of the younger villagers, wide-eyed and rosy-cheeked from drink and music, eagerly stepped forward.

“They can stay at mine !”

“No, no—my place, I’ve got room by the fire !”

Remmick chuckled beside you, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly flattered but looking a little overwhelmed. “Saints, you lot are generous.”

Before any more offers could pile on, you moved without thinking—wrapping your arm around his. You felt him go still, just for a moment. His arm, solid beneath yours, warmed under your touch.

“Father,” you said, your voice clear, though not loud. “Would it be alright if Remmick stayed at our home tonight ?”

The words fell like a stone into the center of the crowd. Your father blinked, brows lifting high. Then slowly—so slowly—you saw the corner of his mouth tug upward.

“Is that so ?” he asked you, eyeing the two of you with the careful amusement only a father could muster. “Well, if that’s what you want, daughter.”

He glanced at Remmick, narrowing his eyes just slightly. “You’re under my roof, boy. Not just hers. You understand ?”

Remmick, to his credit, nodded solemnly—even as his eyes danced with that same crooked smile. “Aye, sir. Wouldn’t dream of disrespectin’ your hospitality.”

Your father huffed and turned away, but not before you saw the rare ghost of a grin flicker beneath his mustache. Still holding Remmick’s arm, you felt him lean a little closer, his voice warm by your ear.

“Didn’t realize I’d wandered into heaven,” he murmured and lifted a hand above his heart with a smile. “And right into an angel’s kind arms…I am deeply grateful.”

You tried not to smile too wide. It was foolish to feel so warm so quickly—but god, it was hard not to.

That night:

The table was lit by the soft golden glow of oil lamps, flickering shadows dancing across the worn wood and the carved plates. Your father ate with gusto, exchanging the occasional gruff comment with Remmick, while your younger cousin babbled sleepily about his favorite song of the night.

You had spent the better part of an hour preparing the meal—stew with root vegetables, herb butter on dark bread, and a honey pastry just like the ones your mother used to make. A small way to say thank you, maybe. Or maybe just a quiet offering, hoping he’d stay longer than a single night.

But now…Now your eyes flicked to the spot in front of Remmick. The food sat there, barely touched. His spoon stirred idly, but never lifted. The bread remained untouched on the edge of the plate. He’d taken one bite, maybe two—and then nothing.

A pang bloomed in your chest.

You looked away quickly, busying your hands with clearing crumbs, adjusting a napkin that didn’t need fixing. Maybe it wasn’t to his taste. Maybe travelers had finer food on the road. Or maybe…maybe you’d tried too hard. You bit your lip, forcing a smile when your father laughed at something Remmick said.

Then, from the corner of your eye, you saw him glance down at the untouched food again—then at you.

His smile faltered. And he leaned in, voice pitched low enough only for you to hear.

“Lass,” he whispered softly, “I need you to know… your cookin’ smells like a blessing. Truly.”

You blinked, surprised.

He gave a sheepish, almost guilty smile. “It’s not the food. It’s…me. I get…nervous, when I’m somewhere new. Stomach tightens up like a drumskin.” He looked away for a beat. “It’s stupid, I know. But I didn’t want ye to think I didn’t notice the care ye put in. Or that I am bein’ rude on purpose.”

He looked at you again, earnest and apologetic.

“Wouldn’t trade this meal for all the gold in the west.”

You smiled and nodded.

“Of course. No worries.”

Later, when the dishes were washed and the house had fallen quiet—save for the distant murmur of your father’s voice in the next room—you picked up the lantern and motioned for Remmick to follow.

“This way,” you said gently, your voice softer now in the hush of the hour.

He walked behind you through the narrow hallway, his boots light on the old wooden floor. You paused at a small door near the end, nudging it open. The room inside was simple—just a bed with a woolen blanket, a small washbasin, and a shuttered window that let in a sliver of moonlight.

“I hope it’s alright,” you said, setting the lantern down. “This was my brother’s room before he married and moved out. It’s not much, but it’s warm. And quiet.”

Remmick stepped in slowly, his eyes scanning the space, taking in the old books still stacked on the shelf, the carved initials in the wooden bedframe, the lopsided rug by the hearth. He smiled.

“It’s perfect,” he assured you, with that same soft sincerity he’d spoken with at dinner. “Better than a hundred inns with feather beds.”

You nodded, lingering for a moment, unsure whether to say goodnight or just walk away. There was something weighty in the stillness—like the hush after a song, when no one quite knew if it was truly over.

Remmick looked at you, one hand still resting lightly on the doorframe.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “Fer the song. Fer the food. Fer…all o’ this.”

You looked down, trying to keep your excuses from showing too obviously, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

“I should thank you,” you replied, fingers brushing the edge of your sleeve. “For sharing your music…and your charming company.”

He let out a quiet breath of a laugh, one hand settling on the back of his neck as though unsure what to do with such a compliment. “Ah, now you’ve gone and made me blush,” he murmured, and his voice had that low, rough Irish accent that wrapped around the quiet like a blanket. “That’s not fair.”

You met his eyes again, and something warm passed between you—unspoken, still new, still fragile.

“I’ll let you rest,” you announced, stepping back just slightly. “It’s been a long day.”

Remmick nodded, though he didn’t move to close the door right away. “Sleep well, lass.”

And just before the door shut, barely a breath between it and the frame, he added, soft as a hum: “I hope I get to see you in my dreams tonight.”

You smiled happily at his words. You looked at Remmick as he stood there, the door now half-closed between you. But something caught your eye—something small, a glimmer in the soft light of the room. A simple band around his ring finger. Silver, unadorned, but it was enough to make your smile falter just slightly, just for a moment.

Your heart skipped. A wedding ring. Of course. You hadn’t thought about it before. You hadn’t even considered it. A band on his finger. A reminder that, despite the charm in his words and the way his laughter made the air around you feel lighter, he belonged to someone else.

“R-Right,” you stammered, feeling a strange warmth in your chest, trying to swallow the feeling that seemed to come from nowhere. “Goodnight then.”

Your voice wasn’t as steady as it had been moments before. You forced a smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes, not now. And before he could notice the flicker of hesitation, you stepped back, retreating into the hallway.

The door of your bedroom clicked softly behind you, and you leaned against the cool wall of the corridor, taking a breath that didn’t quite settle.

…Right. He was too good to be true anyway.

You went to bed.

A few hours later:

The moonlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting long shadows on the floor as you awoke in the dead silence of the night. The weight of sleep still clung to your eyelids, but a dry thirst tugged at your throat, urging you out of bed. You moved quietly, the cool wooden floor creaking underfoot as you tiptoed to the door. The house was still—too still. You padded softly down the dark hall, a faint shiver crawling up your spine as you neared the kitchen. Perhaps it was nothing. Just the wind, or the house settling. But when you reached the door, something—a noise—caught your attention. It was faint at first, like the scuff of shoes against the floor, and then a low, disturbing sound.

Curiosity got the better of you, and with a deep breath, you slowly opened the door.

What you saw made your breath catch, your heart slamming against your ribcage in a panic-stricken beat.

There, in the dim light of the kitchen, Remmick was hovering over your father. His hands were pressing down on your father’s shoulders with unnatural force, his face—his eyes—were different. Yellow. Glowing with an eerie, otherworldly hue. His chin was smeared in blood, and your father’s body lay limp beneath him, lifeless or unconscious—there was no telling which.

A guttural sound escaped your father’s throat, a noise that wasn’t quite a scream, but something worse, something terrible. You couldn’t even move. The sight of him like this—of Remmick—made your blood freeze in your veins.

Then, just as quickly as the horror settled in, a scream echoed from a neighboring house. It was loud, panicked, and unmistakably human. Remmick looked up sharply, his eyes flashing toward the source of the noise. The blood on his chin gleamed in the dim light, and he screeched.

In that instant, you locked eyes with him. And what you saw in his gaze was nothing short of predatory, feral even. His smile twisted, a dark amusement in the curve of his lips, and he wiped his chin with the back of his hand, as if it were nothing more than a passing inconvenience.

Tears blurred your vision, but you couldn’t stop them. You didn’t understand—how could you understand ? Remmick wasn’t who he had seemed. He wasn’t the charming troubadour or the gentleman who had danced with you in the moonlight. He was something else entirely.

With your heart pounding in your throat, you turned and ran. You didn’t think—just instinct. You bolted back to your room, the door slamming behind you as you locked it, every nerve on edge. You sank against the door, gasping for air, tears streaming down your face. What was happening ? What was Remmick ? Who was he really ?

You had seen the horror with your own eyes, but it didn’t make sense. It couldn’t.

The sound of the knock at your bedroom door sliced through the heavy silence that had enveloped you. Your pulse raced in your ears, your breath shallow and panicked. You pressed your back against the door, as though trying to melt into the wood, to make yourself invisible to whatever nightmare lurked outside.

Then, the voice. A soft chuckle, too familiar, too unsettling.

“Lil’ lassie. Open this door. I promise not to hurt ye.”

Remmick. The warmth, the charm, the music—it all felt like a lie now. His voice, once smooth and comforting, now held a twisted edge, like the calm before a storm. His words were like honey, but they dripped with something darker beneath. Your fingers trembled on the edge of the door, heart pounding in your chest as your thoughts spiraled. What was he ? What had happened to him ? What had you just witnessed ?

You wanted to scream, to yell at him to leave, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you held your breath, hoping the silence would swallow his presence whole. You locked the door and took a few steps back. However, the sound of the door splintering under the force of Remmick’s strength made your heart stop. You barely had time to react before he was in the room, his smirk dark and unnerving, like a predator who had caught sight of its prey.

“Dolly now…Don’t worry. Me thinks your voice’s simply beautiful. So, no harm will come to ye.”

His words dripped with a twisted calmness, but the underlying menace was unmistakable. He wasn’t here to comfort or protect; he was here to toy with you, to watch as you squirmed under his gaze.

Before you could even think to protest, Remmick casually walked over to one of your chairs, picked up one of your old teddy bears, and held it in his hands with an eerie fondness. He chuckled lowly, his eyes glowing a dark red, and you felt the hairs on your neck stand up in terror.

“He’s a cutie. Just like his missy…”

His gaze lingered on you, a cold smile spreading across his face, and you felt the overwhelming weight of his presence in the room. The teddy bear seemed so out of place in his hands, the innocence of it clashing with the dark intensity of his eyes and the blood still on his chin.

Tears stung the back of your throat, but you forced yourself to stay still. Fear gnawed at you, but you refused to show it. Not now. Not to him.

“Wh-What are you ?” you managed, voice trembling despite yourself.

He leaned back in the chair, his smile widening as he casually twirled the bear in his fingers, almost as if he were savoring your terror.

“Ahh, the questions you’re askin’,” he mused, his voice still that smooth Irish drawl. “I’m just a man, dolly. But sometimes…a man needs to be more than that, don’t ye think ?”

His words hung in the air like a promise—or a threat. You didn’t know which was worse.

Your voice cracked as you spoke, barely above a whisper, and yet it carried through the heavy silence of the room like thunder.

“My father…Is he dead ?”

Remmick’s fingers paused their idle play with the teddy bear. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. His red eyes studied you, as if weighing the cost of a truth—or the benefit of a lie. The smile faded from his face, replaced with something else…something that almost resembled regret.

He leaned forward slightly in the chair, elbows on his knees, his voice softer now.

“He…put up a good fight. Brave man. Loved his little girl sooo fiercely—he truly did. I did like him—a lot. But…the hunger was just too strong. Haven’t eaten in quite some time…It was almost a miracle me and me friends found yer village when we did—or else we would have starved to death.”

That was all he said.

But he didn’t need to say more.

Your breath hitched, your knees buckling slightly beneath the weight of his answer. You brought a hand to your mouth again, as though you could push back the sob clawing its way up your throat.

“I’m sorry, lassie,” he said quietly, but it didn’t sound quite like he meant it.

Your sobs broke free, trembling and quiet at first, then louder—like something in you had finally cracked. The room spun with the weight of it all: the music, the dancing, the charm in his voice, your father’s proud smile just hours ago. Gone. All gone.

Remmick giggled softly. That same sweet, lyrical sound he’d given you at the door, when he was just a traveling musician with a banjo and a charming grin.

But now—now it sent chills down your spine.

He leaned forward, still cradling the teddy bear with gentle care, and slowly reached towards you. With a strange, almost playful tenderness, he brought the soft arm of the bear to your cheek and dabbed away a few tears with the fabric.

“Now now, shhh…Dolly. No cryin’. Please. I didn’t mean to,” he murmured, almost singsong, like a lullaby meant to soothe a child. Then his gaze sharpened. His eyes glowed again—deep, hellish red—and the corner of his mouth twitched as he tilted his head slightly.

“But remember…” he whispered, voice curling into your ear like smoke, “you invited me in.”

The truth of it made your stomach twist. You had. You’d opened the door with a smile and let the devil step through.

And now ?

Now the devil was in your room…your home.

Your tears burned hot as they rolled down your cheeks, but you didn’t let them fall quietly anymore. You locked eyes with him—those glowing, inhuman eyes—and your trembling hand balled into a fist at your side.

You glared, voice tight and low, laced with grief and fury.

“Demon.”

The word hung in the air like smoke after a fire, and for a moment, Remmick said nothing. His smirk faded.

Then—he laughed.

Not loud. Not mad. Just a quiet, knowing chuckle, like you’d finally solved the riddle he’d been waiting for.

“Aye,” he said, setting the bear gently down on your bed. “That’s one word for it.”

He rose to his feet slowly, every movement deliberate, graceful—inhuman. His eyes never left yours. “But I’ve been called many things over the centuries, dolly. Demon’s just…one of the more honest ones.”

He took a step forward. Then another.

“But you—ah, you,” he said with a curl of his tongue, “you called me in with a smile. Sang your pain like a siren. And god forgive me—I listened.”

You stood your ground, though your legs trembled and your breath shook. Gritting your teeth, you summoned every last thread of strength left in your aching chest and hissed:

“Get out of my house, demon.”

Remmick stilled. The playful glint in his eye dulled. The smile slipped from his face, replaced with something cold—ancient. His head tilted back slightly, as if tasting your defiance in the air. The room felt colder now. As though your words had summoned something deeper from within him.

He stepped closer—just once. Just enough for his shadow to brush your feet. Then, in a voice far older than his grin, far darker than his song, he murmured,

“This house…was so full of light. Music, love, laughter. But now it’s soaked in blood.” He leaned in just slightly, eyes burning into yours. “You made it mine the moment you let me cross your threshold.”

And then—he stepped back. Just a bit.

His smirk returned, gentler this time, but mocking all the same.

“But if the lady insists…” he said with a low bow, like a twisted gentleman from a ballroom long buried. “I’ll go. For now.”

He turned toward the shattered door.

“But don’t forget, dolly…” he called to you, glancing back over his shoulder with one last flicker of red, “…I never leave without takin’ something with me. And if ye find yerself in trouble ? Call me.”

And with that—he disappeared into the dark.

With shaky legs, you stood up and ran into your cousin’s room and let out a sigh of relief as you found his asleep in his bed. You stepped closer and held him in your arms. He woke up and blinked several times before looking up at you with curiosity.

“Y/N ? Why are you crying ?”

You didn’t answer. You just held him closer and kissed his forehead.

“Nothing, little one. Just…return to sleep. I will be bringing you to the train station tomorrow to return to your Ma and Pa, okay ?”

He frowned in confusion. “What ?! No ! But I just arrived ! I don’t wanna go !”

He then stood up and ran. You ran after him. “No ! Come back !”

He went into the kitchen and slipped on something warm and liquid. He lifted a trembling hand and stared at the red substance and his eyes glassed over.

“W-What ?”

Suddenly, he heard a low growl and slowly turned around to find your father standing there. You stopped dead in your tracks and as your father lunged at the boy, you had no other choice but to grab your father’s pistol and shoot your own father in the head. Your little cousin was frozen in shock and fear and you quickly grabbed him before running outside to the shelter. You held the child against your bosom all night as you heard your own father growl and call for you outside. But you knew. This wasn’t your father anymore. He clawed and roared as you started praying and rocking your cousin back and forth to soothe him as he burst into tears.

The sun barely broke through the clouds the next morning, casting a dim, pale light over the village that your father started screeching in pain. You took a look outside and saw him burst into flames. He tried to get back in the house, but wasn’t fast enough. He dropped to the ground in a pile of rotten flesh and bones. You stayed immobile for a moment before slowly and carefully stepping out. You then gestured for your cousin to follow. He took your hand and once you were sure that danger had passed, you ran to the car and drove away.

You stopped at the train station and took two tickets. You gave one to your little cousin and he quickly got onboard…but you hesitated. You hadn’t buried your father, and who would protect the village once that your father was gone ? Your little cousin begged you to stay with him, but you only kissed his forehead and promised you would take the next one. The train left and you took a few steps back from the window. You followed the train with your eyes until it was out of sight and returned home.

…

The scent of damp earth filled the air as you stood alone, the weight of the shovel in your hand a stark reminder of the hollow emptiness that now defined your life.

Your father’s body lay beneath the earth, buried with the dignity he had deserved. But the ground felt so much heavier than it had the night before. You could still hear the faint echo of your father’s voice, feel his arms around you, the comfort of home—now shattered beyond repair.

But as you buried him, the village began to notice the emptiness of the houses nearby. The once-lively homes that had welcomed the travelers—now cold and silent. A dark curiosity swept through the air, a sick sense of unease that soon turned to whispers. It didn’t take long for those whispers to swell into something darker.

They came for you, as expected.

Whispers of witches and curses circled the village like a ravenous flock. Those who had once welcomed you with smiles now looked upon you with suspicion, their eyes narrowed, as if the very air you breathed was tainted. A man from the town square approached, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Demon’s daughter,” he muttered under his breath. “Witch…”

The rumors spread quickly. It wasn’t long before you heard them say you had brought this horror upon them, that your strange songs and otherworldly visitors were the cause of the deaths. They even claimed you had some unholy connection to the darkness that had claimed the others.

You tried to explain—tried to tell them that it wasn’t you, that it was him. But they didn’t believe you. To them, your grief, your silence, your sorrow—it all seemed like a cover. They looked at you like you had something to hide, like your very existence was cursed.

A few of the braver villagers called for you to be driven out. Others, more cautious, said you should be locked away. The older women whispered in hushed tones about curses passed down through bloodlines.

And through it all, you heard nothing but the distant, haunting echo of Remmick’s words:

“I never leave without takin’ something with me.”

And as much as you wanted to scream, to deny it, a part of you knew. You weren’t just a survivor. You were a target. Your father was dead and no doubt he had been meant to survive and join his legion of doom. But you had killed him…Remmick would come back to collect his due.

You were alone in the world now. Even your own people had turned against you.

The village had descended into madness. Your name, once uttered with kindness, had become a curse on their lips. You no longer had any allies—just a sea of fearful faces staring at you from every corner. Every day had been a battle to keep the worst of it at bay. But tonight…tonight it seemed as if the shadows had finally caught up with you.

The air outside was thick with the weight of impending violence, and you could feel it. It had started with murmurs at the market, then stares of contempt as you walked past the villagers. Now, as the moon rose high in the sky, the line between the world you knew and the nightmare you had tried to escape had blurred completely.

The door to your house—once a place of warmth—was torn open, splintering as angry hands and vengeful fists battered it down. Your heart raced as you stumbled backward, desperate, trembling. They were coming for you. The weight of their fear, their hatred, the burning need for retribution pressed in from all sides.

With nowhere else to turn, panic rose in your chest, squeezing the breath from your lungs. You ran to the small room that had once been a place of comfort. The walls felt like they were closing in, suffocating you. You were cornered. There was no escape.

And then, through the fog of terror, one name surged: Remmick. You didn’t think. You didn’t question. You just needed to survive.

You sank to your knees, the cold stone of the floor pressing into your palms as you whispered the words that had haunted you for so long—words of desperation, words you never thought you would say.

“Remmick…please…help me.”

A chill filled the air, so intense that it felt as though the very bones of your house had frozen over. The shadows in the room deepened, stretching unnaturally as the sound of the world outside—the pounding at the door, the shouts of the villagers—faded into a muted silence.

And then, with a slow, deliberate step, he appeared.

Remmick.

His presence flooded the room like a storm as he strutted in with a happy grin. His red eyes glowed in the darkness, his smile stretched wide across his face, sharp and knowing.

“Well, dolly…” His voice was a low, dark purr, full of amusement. “Seems ye’ve finally decided to call me.”

His eyes flicked toward the door, which rattled under the force of the villagers’ assault, then back to you.

“They’ll be at yer door any minute now… Would ye like me to let them in first, or shall I deal with ‘em right away ?”

A cold shiver ran down your spine as you looked at him. Your heart ached—not just from fear, but from the twisted mix of relief and terror that filled you. You had no choice. You had summoned him.

“Please…just stop them,” you whispered, barely able to breathe, still kneeling before him.

Remmick chuckled, the sound like the crackling of fire, dark and dangerous. “Stop them ? Oh, me dolly…” He crouched down to your level, his fingers brushing against your cheek with unsettling tenderness. “You called me, didn’t ye ? And I’m always here when someone needs me. Don’t ye worry. Nothin’ will happen to yer pretty face.”

He stood, moving to the door. With a flick of his wrist, the wood splintered. The villagers froze, their eyes wide with terror as they looked into the room.

“Now,” Remmick said with a grin, “Who dares to harm me sweet lil’ doll ?”

The room darkened further as he stepped into the doorway, his presence swallowing up the light. A low, guttural growl escaped him, vibrating the very air. The villagers stammered, fear clawing at their throats.

“W-Who…are you ?” one of them stuttered, backing away.

Remmick laughed darkly, his voice dripping with venom. “I’m the one who’ll be leaving with what’s mine…and trust me, nothing is more mine than this one right there.” He pointed a finger at you.

A wave of energy rippled outward from him, and you felt it wash over you—cold, powerful, as though his very presence was reshaping the room, reshaping the world. The villagers were frozen, paralyzed by fear, unable to move.

“Now,” Remmick said, his tone suddenly cold but his smile was still on his face, “Who’s gonna be first ? And please. Make it interestin’.”

The villagers stood frozen, terror paralyzing them as Remmick’s grin spread wider. The air was thick with the stench of fear, the kind that clung to the skin and made the heart race with helplessness. But a few of them, their desperation pushing them beyond reason, tried to fight. They lunged forward, weapons in hand—wooden clubs, pitchforks, anything they could grab in their panic.

One man, his face twisted with rage, swung a rusty iron rod at Remmick’s head. But the moment the rod touched the air near him, it was as if the world itself slowed down. Remmick didn’t even flinch. His eyes, glowing bright like two burning embers in the night, never left the man.

“Is that all ye’ve got, lad ?” Remmick purred, his voice dripping with amusement. Before the man could take another swing, Remmick moved, faster than a blink. With a sharp crack, he twisted the man’s arm, pulling him in close until their faces were mere inches apart. The man’s breath hitched in terror, and the scent of his sweat and panic flooded the room.

“Ye should’ve stayed away, boy,” Remmick whispered, his voice sweet like poison. His smile widened even further, his teeth glinting in the dim light. Then, with a swift motion, he wrenched the man’s arm completely from its socket, the sound of bone snapping echoing through the air like thunder.

The man screamed, a blood-curdling shriek that sent a jolt through the others, but Remmick didn’t let him suffer long. With a cruel laugh, he plunged his other hand deep into the man’s chest, tearing through skin, flesh, and bone as though it were paper. The villagers watched in stunned silence, unable to comprehend the brutality of it. The man’s blood sprayed out, staining the floor and walls as Remmick threw his lifeless body aside like a ragdoll. The body hit the ground with a sickening thud, blood pooling around it.

“Who’s next ?” Remmick’s voice was low, dark, and thick with pleasure, like a predator toying with its prey. He wiped his hand on the man’s clothing, dragging the blood over his fingers with a languid motion. “Come on then, let’s see who’s brave enough to join him.”

The villagers recoiled, their faces a mixture of disbelief, horror, and abject terror. But one woman, a brave fool, stepped forward. Her hands trembled, her voice cracked as she shouted, “Die ! Demon !”

Remmick turned his gaze toward her, his eyes gleaming. “Is that so ?”

Before she could even react, he was upon her.

With a flick of his wrist, he grabbed her by the throat, lifting her off the ground with one hand. She kicked and struggled, her legs flailing uselessly as she gasped for air, but it was no use. His grip was unyielding, cold as ice, and she couldn’t escape.

The other villagers screamed in terror, trying to run, but they were trapped. The door had been shattered, and the windows were too far away to escape through. It was too late.

Remmick slowly squeezed the woman’s throat, his grin widening with sadistic glee. Her eyes bulged, desperate for air, and her hands clawed at his wrist, but he didn’t let go. His eyes never left hers, savoring every moment of her struggle. With one final, brutal motion, he snapped her neck, the sickening crack of bone filling the room. Her body went limp, and he let her fall, her blood splattering on the floor with a wet thud.

“Not much of a challenge, were they ?” Remmick chuckled darkly, before licking and drinking from the blood that had escaped from the broken woman’s neck on his arm. He then took a slow, deliberate step forward, eyes never leaving the remaining villagers. The fear in their eyes was palpable, suffocating, and he reveled in it.

One by one, they tried to flee, but Remmick was faster, always faster. A man attempted to run for the door, but Remmick grabbed him by the back of the neck, lifting him off the ground and slamming him into the wall with bone-crushing force. The man’s spine cracked, his body going limp as he slid to the floor, a pool of blood quickly spreading around him. Once he was dead, Remmick drank straight from his shattered neck.

Another villager tried to tackle him, but Remmick effortlessly sidestepped the attack, kicking the man in the chest so hard that the air whooshed out of his lungs. The man crumpled to the ground, gasping, unable to breathe as Remmick loomed over him.

“Is this all ye’ve got, then ? A few desperate fools ?” Remmick purred, clearly enjoying the terror in their eyes. “Pathetic.”

The remaining villagers were paralyzed with fear, unable to make a sound. They had seen what he could do, and there was nothing left for them but to wait for their inevitable end.

“Now,” Remmick said, his tone casual as he wiped his hands on his bloody clothes. “Ye’ve all had a front-row seat. Time to meet yer maker.”

Without warning, he moved again, faster than the eye could follow. His hands flashed out, and the final villagers were torn apart in a flurry of blood and gore, their bodies falling to the floor in lifeless heaps.

…

The room was silent now, save for the heavy, uneven breathing of the demon. The stench of blood and death hung thick in the air, and the once-strong walls now felt like a tomb, closing in with the weight of what had just transpired.

Remmick turned to you, his red eyes gleaming in the dark. His smile was wide, almost too wide, as if the act of violence had only made him hungrier.

“Well,” he finally said, his voice filled with satisfaction, “That was fun, wasn’t it ?”

You could barely move, the shock of the scene still coursing through your veins. Your body trembled, but you weren’t sure if it was from fear or something else—something darker that you didn’t want to acknowledge.

You stood, staring at Remmick, your body trembling, heart still racing.

“You saved me,” you whispered, the words barely leaving your mouth.

Remmick chuckled.

“I always keep my promises, dolly,” he said softly, his voice smooth as velvet, but laced with something darker. “But remember…” He leaned in close, his breath warm on your skin, “I always get meself somethin’ fer everythin’ I do. And the cost fer yer life will be mighty expensive.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

His eyes lit up in the dark.

“Now, c’mere.” He swept you up in one smooth motion, arms like iron under your back and knees, and before you could even gasp, you felt the world tilt beneath you. His grin was wide, predatory—and for a breathless moment you wondered if you’d fallen into some nightmare you couldn’t wake from.

“Let’s fly, lassie,” he murmured, voice low and daydream-soft, though every word tasted like brimstone.

You felt the cool night air rush in as he burst through the window and out into the courtyard. One powerful leap, and the ground fell away beneath you both. Your heart slammed against your ribs as the wind tore at your hair and clothes; moonlight skittered across Remmick’s twisted smile, his eyes shining like polished amber.

Below, the village was a scattering of torches and panicked figures—tiny, scrambling things you could barely make out. Their screams rose to you in a distant chorus, but the air around you was so thin, so cold, that it almost felt peaceful.

Remmick’s grip never wavered. You pressed yourself against him, trying to anchor yourself to something real. Was he though ? You weren’t sure anymore…

Higher and higher you flew, the thatch-roofed houses shrinking, the forests beyond the fields dark and endless. He flew with a grace that mocked gravity itself, as though the stars were his to command. Every so often he glanced back at you, that same chilling smirk on his lips.

“Quite the view, innit lassie ?” he asked with a smirk on his face that made you want to fall and hopefully—the fall would be lethal. Yet even as your mind screamed to fight, a strange awe filled your chest: this creature had saved you and now carried you beyond the only home you’d ever known.

Soon, you reached a clearing, and what you saw made your breath catch in your throat. A ring of carriages stood like silent sentinels around a roaring bonfire that reached toward the sky, flickering with eerie red and gold flames. Figures danced in the firelight—figures who moved with an unsettling grace, their eyes glowing with hunger, their movements fluid and predatory. Vampires.

They twirled and spun in the heat of the blaze, their laughter high-pitched, echoing through the woods like the sound of birds in an endless night. The fire crackled and popped, sending embers spiraling into the dark sky, where the moon was nothing but a distant, cold witness to this dance of the damned.

Remmick led you into the center, where the vampires paused their dancing and turned their predatory eyes on you. Their gazes flickered between curiosity and hunger, but Remmick raised his hand, his grin wide and confident.

“Lads and lasses,” he called, his voice booming in the night, “this here’s our newest lil’ treasure. Meet her properly, eh ?”

A low murmur spread through the group, and several of them stepped closer, their eyes scanning you with hunger and amusement. They weren’t human, not by a long shot. But they looked…beautiful, in an eerie, dangerous way. Their skin shimmered under the firelight, and their lips curled into smiles that promised either death or delight—depending on their whims.

You felt a cold shiver run down your spine as their gazes focused on you, but Remmick’s hand was still firm on yours. You didn’t know what this place was, or what they expected of you, but you felt an undeniable pull to the night, to the fire, to Remmick. He chuckled and rested both hands on your shoulders and nuzzled the back of your ear playfully.

“Aww…see ? Ye already adopted. I was sure they’d love ye,” he whispered with that same wicked grin. “Welcome to yer new home, me pet.”

You closed your eyes as one of his hands wrapped itself around your throat from behind and you felt his already long fingers stretch into sharp claws.

…Christ. What had you done ?

#Spotify #remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick x y/n #sinners 2025 #sinners movie

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sirfrogsworth · 14 hours ago

Text

(In reference to this post)

I'm going to be honest, this kind of attitude concerns me.

I've been going over my past lately. I'm writing something about my relationship with my brother. And I found a letter I never sent him.

Here is an excerpt.

-----------------------

I was not a good brother to you.

I took you for granted and was an ungrateful jerk. You used to do so much to help me. You did all kinds of manual labor because my stupid failing body could not. You built me things. You helped me fix things. You drove me places I needed to be. When I first got sick at college you came to Kansas City and scooped me up and brought me back home.

I remember one Christmas you even went back to the family gathering and stuck up for me. They didn't understand how sick I was and you explained it to them. I never told you how much that meant to me. I should have hugged you and thanked you profusely on the spot. You believed me even when some doctors refused to. And you used that big heart of yours to defend me.

That was an amazing act of courage. Find that same courage now. Stand up for Mom & Dad. Stand up for yourself. Put your foot down and fix this.

It took me way too long to figure it out, but it is my regret of being a bad brother that helped me realize why you don't like my humor. Why you are one of the very few people I can't make laugh. It's because I used that humor at your expense. I made fun of you. I teased you the same way those betraying bastard fake friends did in high school. At the time, I probably thought my jokes were harmless fun. But I'm sure you felt they were cruel and hurtful. We are such different people and I had a hard time understanding you. I used humor as a weapon to highlight our differences. I have no excuse. I have no justification for being a jerk to you.

All I can do is say I am sorry. Truly and deeply sorry.

-----------------------

I didn't send that letter because he was too far gone. His wife read every email and text and I had no way of getting through to just him.

My brother used to be a much better person than me. I often failed to be the good person I thought I was. I didn't realize I was being hurtful at the time. And I didn't do this to just him. I thought I was just making jokes. It was not "pretty easy" for me to realize that. It took years of growing and hindsight.

He used to be nothing but good behaviors all the way down.

And I struggled to limit my bad behaviors.

I was bullied in grade school and realized that if you are funny, people don't bully you anymore. So my brain thought I needed to make people laugh at all times. And it didn't matter if my jokes were at someone else's expense.

Bad behaviors are often easy. They can be tempting. They can require less effort. They can have greater rewards. And sometimes they can protect you. They can be a defense mechanism. Your brain trying to avoid trauma. "I'll hurt someone first so no one hurts me."

There is a reason so many people struggle to be good all the time.

Good behavior requires constant vigilance. You can't do a certain number of good things and then just call yourself a good person. And you can't just not do bad things either. A good person isn't necessarily just "not being evil to other people." That is neutral, at best.

I've learned that being a good person isn't something you just are. It is an ongoing choice. You have to maintain it. You have to actively keep it going. You have to consistently choose good behaviors and limit the bad.

And we all choose bad behaviors from time to time.

Don't kid yourself.

If you know the story of my brother, he let bad behaviors win. He let someone influence him to abuse and neglect his own family. He did it because he was traumatized. He was humiliated by a girl in high school. She said she was his girlfriend. She let him take her to prom. Then she wrote a one-act play called "Prom Nightmare" and performed it in front of the entire school. He was a laughing stock to 2000 classmates.

He is terrified of being alone but he is also terrified that any romantic partner is faking their affections. So obedience is his tool to prevent that. He will do anything his partner instructs to make sure her affection is real. His unmanaged trauma has run amok and led him to dark choices to keep his relationship intact at any cost.

He was such a good person. And now he is not. He has the potential. He is so good with his daughter. He is capable of good behaviors. And I think that is why it upsets and angers me so much. I can still see what he could be.

If you want to see people as just good and bad, that's up to you. I can't do it anymore. I think humans are too complicated. And I worry about getting complacent. I need to check in on my ratio of good to bad behaviors constantly. It would be too easy to say I am a good person and not think about it again.

I mean, sure, I don't kick puppies. I don't taunt the elderly. I don't assault random strangers.

Being good is easy!

Right?

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better-setterv2 · 2 days ago

Note

Hi! How are you? Idk if you are not comfortable writing about things that happen in real life (you Can change the name) but i would love to read about reader reaction to lewis liking his ex picture! With a happy ending he thank you

𝒩𝑜𝓉 𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒜 𝐿𝒾𝓀𝑒

Authors Note: Hi all! Here is a quick request I completed today when I should have been doing class work…Enjoy! Lots of love xx

P.S I hope this meets the expectations of what you requested and doesn’t seem rushed

Summary: After discovering Lewis liked a sultry photo of his ex just before her engagement announcement, the reader confronts her insecurities. Only to have Lewis reassure her with a heartfelt proposal that proves she's the only one he wants.

Warnings: bit of angst

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The sun was barely rising over Monaco when you woke up to your phone vibrating with back to back notifications. You almost ignored it - another group chat, probably, or your best friend sending TikToks before her morning coffee. But then you saw her name.

Nicole Scherzinger.

And beneath it, two posts.

The first was a sultry black and white shot of her in a body hugging satin dress, cut high on the thigh, one hand tangled in her hair, the other resting just above her hipbone. She looked radiant. Wild. Free. The caption was a simple black heart.

The second post was a carousel - a ring, a kiss, a sweeping view of Italy.

“Yes a thousand times.” The caption said.

And in the likes?

Lewis Hamilton.

Your heart dropped.

You stared at the screen, feeling everything go unnaturally still the room, your breath, your chest.

You weren’t the jealous type. Not really. You’d seen the pictures of them before, the old red carpet photos, the gossip columns, the recycled headlines. You’d told yourself that was the past. You were his present. His future.

But something about him liking that photo the sultry one, the one posted right before she announced she was engaged…made your stomach twist into knots.

It was like seeing a private moment you weren’t supposed to witness. Like a secret you hadn’t been let in on.

You stared at the photo again. Then again. Then at the comments. And then, finally at the name highlighted among the hundreds of thousands of likes.

Your boyfriend’s name.

Lewis emerged from the shower a few minutes later, towel slung low around his waist, humming something low under his breath. He stopped when he saw the expression on your face.

“Hey. You alright?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you held up your phone.

His brows pulled together. “What’s that?”

“You tell me.” Your voice came out quieter than you meant it to. “You liked her photo. The one where she’s practically naked. And then she posted that she’s engaged.”

Lewis blinked, stepping closer. “I - what? Wait, what are you talking about?”

“She posted a sexy photo,” you said, trying not to sound petty. “Then minutes later posted her engagement. And you liked both.”

His face fell.

He crossed the room, taking your phone gently from your hand and scrolling through the posts. You watched his expression go from confused to frustrated to instantly guilty.

“Shit,” he muttered. “I didn’t even notice the second one.”

“Not sure that makes it better,” you said, trying to keep your voice from cracking. “I know I’m not her. I know you loved her once. But you liking that picture, it felt like you were looking back. Like some part of you still misses it. Misses her.”

“Hey. No.” His voice was sharp but earnest as he crouched in front of you, hands on your knees. “That’s not it. I promise. I didn’t even see the engagement post. I saw the first one when I was half asleep last night and I just scroll, double tap, move on. Mindless. It didn’t mean anything.”

“It meant something to me.”

That’s what broke him.

He sat down beside you on the bed, his head in his hands. “I’m sorry. I was careless. I didn’t think about how it might make you feel, and that’s on me.”

You stared down at your hands. “It just hurts. She was such a big part of your past. And sometimes I feel like I’m just standing in her shadow. That no matter how far we go, she’ll always be that part of your life that people compare me to.”

Lewis reached for you, gently lifting your chin until your eyes met his.

“You’re not standing in anyone’s shadow,” he said softly. “And you never will be.”

You stayed quiet, your heart aching in that vulnerable way you hated, the kind that made you feel small. Replaceable.

Lewis stood, turned and went to the drawer in the corner - the one you never really paid attention to. He pulled out a small velvet box and held it in his palm for a second before walking back over.

“I wasn’t gonna do this yet,” he said. “Had some grand plan in mind. Something in Italy maybe next month . Somewhere romantic. But maybe what matters more is doing it right now to show you it’s real. That it truly counts.”

He sank to one knee.

You gasped softly, lips parting, eyes darting between his face and the box in his hand.

“Liking that photo? That was a mistake. But the biggest truth in my life is this - I don’t want her. I don’t want anyone else. It’s always been you. You’re the one I want beside me when I’m tired, when I win, when I lose. You’re the one I think about when I land in a new country, when I’m stuck in traffic, when I’m lying in bed staring at the ceiling.”

The box opened, revealing a diamond ring that glimmered even in the soft morning light. It was timeless. Elegant. You.

“I want a life with you. A messy, honest, ridiculously beautiful life,” he said. “Marry me. Let’s make our story the one people talk about.”

You covered your mouth with your hands, breath trembling. The pain in your chest had softened into something warmer, fuller.

“Yes,” you whispered. “God, yes.”

He slipped the ring onto your finger like it belonged there, like you belonged. And when he kissed you, it wasn’t performative or perfect. It was just him sincere and sure and a little shaky, like he’d been holding that love in for too long.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Later that night , social media buzzed again only this time, it was about you.

A new post. From Lewis.

A photo of the two of you curled up on your sun soaked balcony, your ring front and center, his lips pressed to your temple.

Caption: “Some things aren’t for the timeline. But this? This love? I want the world to know.”

There were no more doubts after that.

Not because of the ring.

But because of the way he looked at you every day after, like you were the only person who ever mattered.

Because you were.

Every quiet moment after in the slow mornings tangled in sheets, in the late nights when sleep wouldn’t come and the world felt too loud, he looked at you like that.

Like you were the calm after every storm.

The choice he made a thousand times over.

The beginning and the forever.

And when he held your hand in public, when the flashes went off and whispers of "Is that his fiancée?" rippled through the crowd, he didn’t let go.

He didn’t flinch.

Because you were no secret.

No rebound.

No shadow.

You were it.

His love. His future. His home.

And the whole world could watch, because he finally had everything he’d ever wanted.

And this time, he wasn’t letting go.

#lewis hamilton #lh44 #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton x reader #x reader #f1 imagine #lh44 x reader #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton one shot #lh44 imagine #f1 one shot

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foreverisntenough · 1 day ago

Text

‘Aperture’

Summary: A professional footballer with a playboy reputation finds his world reframed when he meets a talented photographer who captures the light and depth he’s never seen in himself. As their friendship develops, he finds himself illuminated by her presence—a stark contrast to the shallow spotlight he’s used to, but her guarded heart keeps her from fully trusting his intentions. Their friendship develops, like film in a darkroom, shifting into something far more intimate. But when their connection begins to blur the lines between friendship and something more, he realizes she’s the light he’s been chasing without knowing it and fights to prove he’s ready for something real. Yet, their love hangs in the balance—will the film of their story overexpose and fade, or will it develop into something vivid and timeless. Sometimes, love is about adjusting the focus, letting in the right light, and trusting the process.

Chapter Index:

Fashion Index Cont: For all Y/N's looks! No more bad links!

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, slight mention of drugs, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!]

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Please read: Little note from me about him and one more about our community In summary: This is a swan song fic. The fic was never really about "him" as much as it was a fictional story and character I got to create and share with you all. I hope you still love reading it as much as I still love writing it. xx

Chapter 20 - 'The Quiet' | 'Aperture'

word count - 14.1k

You kept your tone breezy when you spoke to Dianne. You smiled like you’d only just met Trent in a work context, like he wasn’t the reason your mascara had run on your birthday, like your hand hadn’t once been curled around the hem of his shirt, pleading without sound. You told Dianne it was nice to meet her, and meant it, but you couldn’t hide the way your hands fidgeted around the strap of your bag. She didn’t call attention to it. She didn’t have to.

“Do you live close by or just visiting?” she asked, friendly. Curious. But she heard your accent. She knew you weren't exactly local to Toxteth.

“Oh, I only live in Manchester, so not too far.” You said and her lips twitched. Her son lived near there. “But I’m on the move a lot. I’m off down to London in a day. Then I have to go right to Paris. Work’s been a bit mad.” You explained and she smiled softly. Her son was on the move a lot too. The obviousness was blinding but you were doing well though, trying to at least. You even chuckled lightly when she mentioned how the kids were always in awe of Trent, but that they had no idea he was technically shy when not on the pitch. You knew that though. Still, you fumbled when she asked whether you’d met his younger brother who she explained was the most outgoing of her three boys.

“Marcel?” you’d said, too fast. “Yeah—he’s great. He’s funny.” You clocked the faint raise of her brows before you could reel it back in. Her lips curved gently, not in suspicion, but in amusement. You'd stepped out of line. She wasn't drawing attention to it. But the slip was enough. And then there was the moment you mentioned his schedule, something about the international break and how he must be exhausted after the last away leg in the Champions League, and Dianne’s eyes narrowed softly, kindly. You were saying too much for someone who was just here to help a youth league event. But she never once pried. She just tilted her head slightly, as if to say I see you, but you don’t owe me anything. Still, you felt it. That warmth in her stare. That intuitive understanding. She didn’t need the full picture. She already had it. And then you felt it—him. Before you saw him. The shift in air, the subtle hush of the world adjusting. Your heart thudded harder as Trent approached from behind the field's scatter of children, voices behind him still carrying laughter as they whined about him leaving.

“I’m just going to see my mum. I’ll be back before the next whistle. Promise.” He told them and they giggled. Trent Alexander-Arnold going to see his mummy. Just the same way they (six years old) would when they left the pitch. But yes, Trent Alexander-Arnold needed to see his mummy… now. Immediately. But his smile fell as soon as his trainers hit the grass near you. You turned. And there he was. Trent Alexander-Arnold. The boy you’d kissed in the heat of summer in Ibiza and told not to make it mean anything. The boy who sat on the carpet of your apartment when you needed him to hold you. The boy who had told you, almost bitterly, ‘You never let me have you.’ and later, painfully ‘I love you.’ And now here you both stood. In front of his mum. Your mouth parted slightly, unsure of how to greet him. The instinct was there, to grin, to tease, to touch his shoulder, but your feet felt heavy. He stepped forward first, smile trained. Polished. And then he hugged you. Not your hug. Not the one he’d given you in the car park after he picked you up from the train, or the one he gave when you fell asleep on his chest with a film still playing. This was clean. Careful. A press of bodies with too much space between them. Quick.

“Glad you came,” he said softly as he pulled back, voice neutral, hand squeezing your arm once before dropping. You nodded, blinking.

“Yeah, ‘course.” That was when Dianne looked between the two of you. And she saw it instantly. Saw the way you tensed beneath his touch, expecting a familiarity that never came. The way he didn’t cradle the back of your head, didn’t whisper something only you could hear. It was performative. Or scared. Maybe both. Dianne had watched her son shake hands with the Prince of Wales and post-match pundits who were legends of the game. She knew when he was acting. But what she didn’t expect was the breath you let out as he let go. The tiny exhale that sounded like heartbreak laced with hope. And that was what gave it away. Not the hug. Not the silence. But that. Her gaze softened. And she didn’t say a word.

—

Dianne didn’t say anything either when she left you two alone. She only smiled and said something about grabbing a tea before the next session started, but you knew it was intentional. The kind of exit a mother makes when she’s seen enough to know what’s not being said. You stood beside Trent on the touchline, both of you watching six-year-olds dart after a ball like bees after sugar. One toe-poke followed another, the chaos of childhood football somehow steadying. You breathed easier in it. So did he. You didn’t speak for a while. Just stood next to him, close enough to feel him radiating warmth through the sleeve of your jacket, but not touching. Not really. Not like you used to. You smiled softly when a tiny kid celebrated a goal like he’d just won the Champions League. It was warm on your face, that smile. But Trent wasn’t looking at the pitch. He was watching you. Your laugh, the one you didn't even mean to let out when the kids started arguing about who was playing midfield, hit him like sunlight to the chest. He really loved you. You were just so good. So kind, so sweet. He never had this experience with a girl before. Where she cared, and you cared. Cared about people, about life, but what hurt was he just so desperately wanted you to care about him. And you did but it didn’t come out in the three words he wanted, not when he wanted them. He wanted to shake you sometimes—not hard, just enough to make you see it. To want him back the way he wanted you. That he didn’t care about anything but you. That all he ever wanted was you. Your care, your softness, directed at him. But instead he watched the game again. A moment passed, and the ball went wide. Trent stepped forward instinctively, trapping it with ease before flipping it up with the side of his foot and catching it in his hands. The little girl waiting clapped and he chuckled at her fondness.

“You can do that too.” He told her, handing it to her with a wink. You smiled. And then you felt it—a nudge to the side of your trainer. You glanced down. His shoe tapped yours again lightly. “Like these,” he said, smirking like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t noticed. But of course he had. You looked down to your matching adidas sambas, different but the same, both not the usual kind. Your pair was Wales Bonner, rare, curated, limited. His too. A small giggle slipped out of you and it nearly broke him.

“Yeah? I was trying to be, you know… on brand. Footie and that.” You nudged his foot right back.

“Aye!” He yelped with a lethal childish smile. “Don’t scuff ‘em up, you.” He smirked and your cheeks hurt for the flush and the fullness.

“Oh shush.” You waved him off, eyes flicking to the pitch. “Anyways, guess I was on theme then. Big prem baller like you wearing them too.” You smiled. And then, without thinking, you reached across yourself and squeezed his arm. Just a gentle press of your hand around his forearm, your touch dainty but purposeful. Your fingers curling around the muscle like a memory. It was casual. But to Trent, it was anything but. He felt it in his ribs. Like you’d knocked on his heart and walked away again. He didn’t look at you. He couldn’t. Eyes stayed fixed on the field, lashes low, expression unreadable except for the smallest twitch in his jaw.

“Cute,” he murmured. You almost didn’t hear it. But he doubled down. “You’re really bloody cute, baby.” He shook his head. You had him down bad and he knew it. He remembered kicking himself sitting in your hotel room in Ibiza thinking it was insane he thought you looked cute struggling with the safe, and now, he unapologetically thought that. Cute. You doing the mundane like wearing a pair of sambas, that was even cute. You turned to him slowly. Your eyes studied his face, the way his jaw set tighter than usual, the way his lashes didn’t lift. He wasn’t teasing. He was unspooling. And then it hit you—Blanche. Byredo. That soft, clean scent that clung to your pillowcases long after he left, lotion you’d once rubbed across his back in lazy post-shower rituals, trying not to read too much into it. But now? It made your head dizzy. Your skin pricked. You blinked. And just like that, you weren’t on a pitch anymore. You were in his sheets. You were back in the kitchen. In his arms. In all the moments that didn’t count out here in daylight. He still didn’t look at you. But he felt it. Felt you. Felt the way the silence between you wasn’t quiet at all. It was deafening. Because nothing was said. But everything was screaming.

—

You weren’t even looking at him anymore when it happened. Your eyes were back out on the pitch, caught somewhere in the blur of moving bodies and neon bibs, trying to ground yourself. But really, it was those three inches between you and Trent that held your attention. Three inches that used to be nothing. Less than nothing. A space he used to fill without hesitation. Now it felt like a canyon. And maybe he felt it too. Maybe he hated it even more. Because you didn’t notice he’d moved until you felt it—his finger, low and loose, hooking gently into the belt loop of your jeans. Your breath caught like someone had poured ice water straight down your spine. You didn’t look at him. But he pulled you in anyway. Not far. Just enough. Just so your arms brushed against his, just so your shoulder pressed into his. Just so you remembered that warmth, that softness, that safety that once lived in his skin. You stayed quiet. So did he. But the air around you howled. Kids squealed about a goal in the background, and somewhere in their noise, Trent was whispering something to you without a word. Don’t leave again. That’s what it felt like. That’s what it said. And then he did speak. Not loud. Not dramatic. Not breaking the moment, just slipping something heavy into the quiet.

"Y’know I don’t think I’ve ever had to pretend I don’t know someone before," he said, still watching the field. His voice was light. Too light. Like it was a joke, but it wasn’t. You blinked. He didn’t look at you. “Like, really know them. Like...know how they take their tea, what music they play in the car, what they do when they’re sad.” He paused. You swallowed. “I watched you talk to my mum and it—” He shook his head gently. Embarrassed even maybe. “Felt like I was watching you pretend you’re not the most important person in my life.” You didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. His finger was still in your belt loop, holding you there. Like he knew you’d run if he let go. But he didn’t. He just stood still beside you. Heart cracked open so quietly, you could barely hear it. “Just weird, that’s all,” he said at last. “Didn’t like it.” And that was it. He didn’t push. Didn’t ask for anything. But it echoed in you anyway. Loud. Real. Because maybe it was the first time Trent didn’t try to fix it, or flirt through it. He just told the truth. Quietly. Honestly. And waited to see what you’d do with it.

You didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t pull away either though. Just stood there with his finger still looped through your jeans like it was the only thread keeping you tethered to the ground. Your chest felt tight, throat drier than you thought possible for someone who hadn’t stopped swallowing back emotion since they got here. His words clung to you like the cold. You wanted to say something. Anything. But the honesty in his voice was still vibrating inside you, curling around your ribs like smoke. The worst part was… you knew exactly what he meant. You had done it, walked up to his mum with your best polite voice, your glossy smile, like you didn’t know what he looked like with tear-soaked lashes in the middle of the night. Like you didn’t know how he looked when he kissed you forehead-deep in sleep. Like you hadn’t once heard him say your name like it was a prayer he wasn’t sure he deserved to say out loud. And you hated that you’d made him feel that small. That invisible. So you turned. Slowly. Carefully. Like if you moved too fast, the air might shatter between you. He was still watching the pitch, like he hadn’t said anything monumental. Like his voice hadn’t just carved something permanent into the moment. But you saw the muscle in his jaw twitch. Saw the way his fingers curled slightly tighter in your belt loop. You looked at him for a long time. Then finally, quietly…

“I didn’t know what I was supposed to be to her.” You said. He looked at you. You shrugged, barely. “Wasn’t sure if I was allowed to be what I really was to you anymore.” That silence after was different. Not heavy this time. Just... real. And then, softer still, you added, “Didn’t want to ruin anything else for you.” He let out a breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Then he turned toward you a little more, his voice hushed but certain.

“You are everything. Still are. It’s already ruined without you.” Your heart split. And still, the kids squealed in the distance. One tripped, face-planted into the grass, and a ripple of chaotic laughter rolled through the air. But you and Trent stayed still in it all, like the whole world could fall apart around you—but here, just for now, it didn’t matter. Because finally, after all this time, you weren’t pretending.

–

It was starting to cool down now. The kind of chill that didn’t bite but reminded you it was still England, still April, still real life. You hadn’t said much after that. Not because there wasn’t anything to say—there was too much. It collected behind your ribs, blurred your thoughts, turned even small silences into loud, aching things. You stood beside Trent on the sideline, close but not as close as you wanted to be. Every so often, your hands nearly brushed, his jacket grazing yours. You pretended not to notice. He didn’t call you out on it. That made it worse. When a little boy kicked the ball too far out again, Trent stepped forward to get it. Casual. Like he always did this. His movement was smooth, grounded, his body memory sharp. He passed the ball back and jogged the short distance back to you. He reached out gently, hand landing for half a second on your lower back to guide you out of the way. You inhaled too sharply. His hand dropped.

“I’m not gonna apologise for touching you,” he said, voice low, not looking at you. You kept your eyes forward too.

“You don’t have to.” But even you heard the shake in your voice. Felt the guilt begin to press behind your sternum.

“I’m not doing anything different,” he said, still quiet. “But feels like it’s always wrong now.” That stung, but only because it was true. You’d flinched. You’d pulled back. You'd made it so hard for him to love you, and when he stopped reaching quite so freely, you’d wept like he abandoned you. But he hadn’t. Not really. He’d just been tired. Tired of loving you so openly while you shied away. Tired of holding you when it left bruises on him. You hadn’t meant to make him feel like this. But you had. And now, standing here, you didn’t know how to put any of that into words without unraveling in front of him. So you didn’t try. You just stood there, hand clenched lightly around the strap of your camera, watching the pitch through wet lashes. He didn't look at you. Maybe because he knew if he did, you'd start to cry. Or maybe because he was afraid he would. That’s when Coach Craig called him over again. Just a wave from across the field. Trent shifted slightly, took a breath like he was about to say something important—then stopped. Instead, he turned to you and waited. You looked at him. He looked tired. Soft around the eyes. Still devastatingly gorgeous.

“I should…” you gestured half-heartedly at your camera, “I haven’t really taken any pictures. Sorry, I’ve been—” You awkwardly stuttered.

“Bab—” He caught the word with an exhale. “Y/N,” he corrected himself gently. “It’s alright.” You nodded, swallowing a fresh wave of shame. “I’m just glad you’re here.” His voice was calm, even. Like he didn’t want to scare you away. Like he knew you were already halfway out the door and still... he was trying to anchor you. You smiled, but it barely reached. He gave a small nod and jogged back onto the pitch, slipping back into his safe space easily surrounded by little kids dreaming to be him when he wanted to be anyone else. You stood on the touchline for a moment longer, watching the kids chase after the ball, listening to the echo of his words press into your chest. You were here. But only just.

—

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until Trent jogged off, slipping back into the centre of the pitch where a circle of six-year-olds shrieked and scattered like marbles let loose across pavement. You stayed behind, on the edge, shifting your weight onto one leg, lifting your camera like it might shield you from the weight in your chest. The familiar click of the shutter offered rhythm, something mechanical in contrast to the mess you felt inside. Through the lens, you found him. He was crouched low now, arms out wide like wings as a little boy tried to dribble a ball past him. He was grinning, laughing, playful, patient. And even from here, with distance and the filtered glass of your lens between you, he still made you ache.

Because if you were so good, he was too good. Because he always had been. Not just in the way he moved or the way the kids looked at him like he was magic in trainers, but in the quiet things too. The text to check your flight landed safe. The way he remembered your mum’s name the one time you’d managed to say it. The late-night drives where he’d let you play your music and didn’t speak, just held your hand on the gear shift like it was a lifeline. And now… he looked up. It wasn’t deliberate, not really. He was half-listening to something a little girl said, nodding along, but he glanced toward the sideline and caught you in his eyeline. Through your viewfinder, it was like he stared straight through you. Your hands shook slightly, and the photo blurred. You lowered the camera. You didn’t deserve that look. Not when he’d loved you openly and without armor, not when he’d tried, and tried again, even after you’d flinched from his words. Because he’d said something real and you’d met it with silence. With fear. You’d turned love into a ghost, and now it haunted both of you. He was only distant now because you had made him so. That was the worst part. It would’ve been easier if he had messed up. If he’d flirted or left or fallen out of love. But he hadn’t. He still was. And now you stood with your expensive camera and glossy lips and stupid Sambas, pretending you were just here for the shots. But you weren’t. You were here because it was him. Always him. You lifted the camera again, caught him mid-laugh, kids climbing him like he was a tree. And it shattered you, soft and slow. You’d give anything to go back. To be braver. To say the word better. But not here. Not yet.

—

It should’ve been simple. He was standing in a sea of high-pitched laughter, kids crowding around, jostling to ask who his favorite player was–he was theirs, if he could do an around the world–they couldn’t, if he’d ever played in the snow– they wanted to. One of them had his boot untied and Trent bent instinctively to lace it. Another tugged at his sleeve asking his favorite food. He obliged by telling him pasta. He smiled. He always smiled. But his heart wasn’t here. It hadn’t been since the moment he saw you lean against the goalpost, camera to your face, hiding and yet fully seen. You looked like a picture. Not just pretty. Not just poised. Poetic. The kind of image that stayed behind your eyelids when you blinked. The kind you didn’t know how to unsee. And he prayed for you to see him the same way. God, he was begging. Please. Please just look at me like that and mean it. Please say this isn’t just guilt or routine or some warped sense of obligation. Please love me the way I love you. Please let it not be too late. You were angled slightly, camera lifted again, one hip against the post, focused on something—on him, he realized. You hadn’t moved in minutes, like you were trying to preserve him in still life. Trent didn’t smile for it. He didn’t pose. He just stayed how he was, speaking gently to the kids, letting you see him as he is. Letting you take it, if you needed to. If that was the only way you could hold him right now. But he wanted more. He wanted you to run up and throw your arms around his neck and tell him you were sorry and that you loved him and that the year you’d spent trying to pretend this was anything less than gravity had been a lie. He wanted to feel the truth in your kiss the way he had a hundred times before you got scared of what it meant.

Instead, he got a glance. A small one. From behind the camera, you peeked around the side of it like you thought he wouldn’t notice. But he always noticed you. And for a second, it was like you were screaming I love you across the pitch, silently, wildly, completely unaware of how loud your silence had become. He couldn’t look too long. Not because he didn’t want to, but because it hurt. Because he could feel it in his ribs how close you were to being everything and how far you were from letting yourself be.

Dianne’s voice broke the stretch of tension before he drowned in it. He turned slightly as she walked past him, heading toward you. And even that, even the image of his mum approaching you, felt heavy. Not in a bad way, but in a way that said everything was real. That you weren’t just someone. That Dianne already knew. That she always had. His eyes flicked back. You were still looking through the lens, lost in him, until Dianne’s hand landed soft on your arm and you jumped, like you’d been caught trespassing. Trent’s chest pinched. You didn’t look like a photographer anymore. You looked like a girl scared of her own heart. He watched you speak, he couldn’t hear what you said, but the way your hand moved to your chest, the way your eyes darted toward him, then away, it was all there. You were terrified. And maybe that was the problem.

—-

You hadn’t heard her footsteps over the chorus shouts, muffled by the grass, didn’t register the shadow until her hand landed gently on your arm. You startled, sucking in a breath like you’d been pulled out of water.

“Oh my gosh,” you gasped, instinctively pressing a hand over your heart, your camera dropping slightly. Dianne just smiled, soft and maternal, eyes a shade too knowing.

“Oop sorry, hun,” she said, kind and light. “Didn’t want to interrupt your… focus.” You flushed, heat rising into your cheeks before you could stop it. Focus. If only she knew how much you hadn’t been. Your camera might’ve been steady, but everything else inside you had been shaking. She didn’t press. She wouldn’t. But you could feel it in her gaze. Not judgment. Just understanding. Which, somehow, made it worse.

“I was just…” You trailed off. There was no dignified way to say I was zooming in on your son like he’s the last safe thing I’ve ever known and I still don’t know what to do about it. Dianne glanced back toward the kids on the pitch. Trent still hadn’t looked away. But she turned to you again, folding her hands in front of her like this was all casual, like she hadn’t just seen the emotional tether between you two glowing like a live wire.

“I was going to make some tea after this,” she said. “Nothing fancy. Just something warm before the day’s done. Usually make Trenty come home after these types of things. Have to force him to sit still and sign a few things.” She laughed softly, knowing, loving, reciting a trait of Trent’s you’d come to be well aware of. Stillness wasn’t something he did particularly well. Then a pause. “You’re more than welcome, if you’re not busy.” She meant it sincerely. She did. This wasn’t a trick, wasn’t calculated. She was just being a mum. A nice one. But Trenty? Home? Your heart started thudding too loudly anyway. What were you supposed to say? Who were you to him? And why did it feel so dangerous to answer? Were you supposed to go to his family’s house? Have tea with his mum? You hesitated, blinking fast.

“Oh.. wow. Thank you for thinking of me. I—uh, sure,” you murmured, glancing briefly toward Trent again, like the answer could be found in his expression. “If… if it’s no trouble, or he’s not busy.” It came out small, almost shy. Like you couldn’t bear to make a choice of your own. Like you were throwing it back to him to decide—because maybe that was the safest thing you knew how to do. Let him lead. Let him hold it. Let him say yes or no so you didn’t have to. But maybe that was the issue. The not choosing. Dianne didn’t comment. She just nodded with that same patient warmth, though you could swear there was something a little sad behind it. Not disappointment—just… clarity.

“Alright, love,” she said, giving your arm a gentle squeeze before she turned. “We’ll see what he says. No pressure.” And just like that, you were alone again. Camera still in hand. Heart still hammering. Viewfinder still warm with the imprint of someone you weren’t sure how to name anymore.

—

The sun had dipped low enough to cast honeyed light across the pitch, soft and slow like it understood the sacredness of this hour. You were crouched at the sidelines, elbows resting lightly on your thighs, camera looped around your neck as you smiled up at the boy in front of you. He just turned six, he told you proudly. His curls glistened slightly, cheeks flushed with nerves and leftover adrenaline. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his jersey, his eyes flickering between his boots and the figure waiting near the centre of the pitch.

“Is it okay if you go get your photo taken?” you asked him gently, voice soft like you were sharing a secret.

“With him?” He looked up at you, worried eyes wide and unsure. You nodded, smile folding gently into your cheeks.

“Yeah. With him. He’s really nice, I promise. I think he’d be really excited to meet you.” But the little boy, who was shaking his head no already, small hands gripped the bottom of his shirt like he was holding onto safety. His lashes were long, cheeks chubby, and his lip trembled ever so slightly as he looked toward the pitch.

“Yeah, it’ll be okay. C’mon.” Your voice came like sunlight through leaves, gentle, slow, full of promise. You smiled at him, soft and conspiratorial. “He really wants to meet you…. Can I tell you a little secret?” The boy looked at you warily, but nodded. You leaned in, close enough for your breath to ruffle the edge of his curls. “Trent gets nervous sometimes too.” You felt it before you saw it, the pull of Trent’s gaze from across the grass. You glanced up for just a second, and there he was, watching with a fondness that tugged quietly at the air between you. Like the simple act of you being kind made something inside him ache. Dianne had stilled too. Her head tilted, expression unreadable, but attentive. “You ever watch him on the telly?” you asked the little boy, your hand finding the small of his back. The boy nodded, shy again. “Yeah? Different in real life, right?” You said gently but smiling a bit wider. “T, C’mere.” You called out, looking up from where you knelt in the soft grass. Trent’s walk over was unhurried, loose-limbed and warm, eyes flicking between you and the boy as if trying to read something in the spaces between.

“What’s up, lad?” he asked gently. All boyish charm. Confident and yet open.

“We’re just a little shy, huh?” you said, lifting your brows slightly as you looked up at Trent.

“Ah, that’s alright, mate. I get shy too sometimes,” Trent said, crouching down behind the boy. His voice was low and kind, threaded with that subtle Liverpool lilt, the one that always made your stomach flutter in spite of yourself.

“No.” The little boy looked up at him, utterly unconvinced. “No,” he repeated, serious. “You're Alexander-Arnold.” That made Trent chuckle, head ducking as he let the laughter move through him. Trust him, being Liverpool’s Alexander-Arnold was filled with moments of nerves.

“You don’t think I get nervous?” he asked. The boy shook his head with conviction, and you bit your lip to hold back a grin. “Course, I do, lad” Trent replied, sure of himself. Grown to be comfortable in his shyness. “I get nervous all the time. It’s alright.” He turned his body a bit more, shoulders softening like he wasn’t just crouching, he was with him now. Like they were equals. And it made something in your chest go tender. “Did you watch the Euros?” Trent asked. The boy nodded, and this time the excitement cracked through. He lit up, just a little. “Did you watch the semi’s? The penalties?” Trent cooed, soft, knowing. “You know I was so nervous,” Trent said, leaning in like it really was just between them. “But I wanted to be on that pitch. And do you remember what happened?” The boy nodded again, this time more emphatically, like it was seared into his brain. Because this little boy, like the entire nation, yourself included, were elated with Trent Alexander-Arnold’s bravery in that penalty. You watched his eyes widen, the memory blooming across his face.

“Think you’ll score a penalty for England one day?” you asked, resting your chin lightly on your knee, smiling.

“Don’t know.” He shrugged, but there was a giggle just beneath it.

“I think you would,” Trent beamed, eyes crinkling. “Think you can take a picture with me? I want a picture with a future England goal scorer.” He smirked. But the boy’s face dropped again, nerves washing back over him like a tide. Trent’s smile faltered for just a second. You tried not to pout. You felt so bad for the little boy.

“Hmm,” you hummed gently, scanning the field. “What about taking a picture with Trent…” You paused as your eyes continued to flicker through the crowd. “And we ask your mummy to be in the photo too?” You found her in the crowd, standing with her phone ready, a combination of pride and fear, flickering in her eyes.

“Hunny, c’mon. Be brave, please” she called out. “Don’t take too much of his time. Come on.” She waved encouragingly but likely nervous too only because her son was so. Trent leaned in closer, one hand bracing against the grass for balance. His voice was quiet, soft as cotton.

“Gimme a big smile, bro.” And then he smiled too, really smiled. “There we go!” Trent cooed, his dimples in his cheeks crept out like they had a mind of their own. Your heart caught. Like something folded in on itself. Because that smile had been yours once. Or maybe it still was. You weren’t sure. You only knew it meant something, and you felt it too deeply to name. You stepped behind the camera as if to shield yourself from it, hands moving with practiced ease.

“Yeah, see?” you said, voice warm as the sun still hanging low behind you. “So handsome!” Trent glanced at you over the boy’s head, a glint of mischief sliding into his tone.

“Me or him?” And there it was, that look again. That unspoken thing you kept passing back and forth like a secret neither of you knew how to say aloud. Your breath wavered, just slightly. But your smile didn’t falter. You didn’t flinch. Just smiled slowly, knowingly, camera rising halfway between you and your chest.

“Both,” you said softly, voice calm and sure. “Obviously.” Trent held your gaze for a beat too long. The boy leaned into his side without even realizing it, comforted, safe. And you understood that feeling too, leaned into him, how your whole body would still. You raised the camera. Framed the shot. Clicked the shutter. But your hands were trembling because you weren’t the one pressed into him now, there was no stillness to be had. Trent’s laugh was soft and low and slightly incredulous, more breath than sound. You could see the way his shoulders relaxed, the way the corners of his mouth pulled in something like disbelief. Like a man who was trying not to read too much into something, and failing.

Dianne was stood along the edge of the pitch nearby watching on. Her eyes were on you. Then Trent. Then you again. The air between the two of you was thick with something so alive, so obvious, it was practically a flare against the sky. You were staring across the field like there was a string between you, held by breath, by memory, by the ache of everything you hadn’t said yet. Trent stayed in a crouched position, all easy warmth and gentle eyes.

“Hey, don’t forget that it’s alright to be shy, bro, yeah?” he murmured to the little boy who nodded. “But I think you’ve got a good smile. Just like she said. That’ll get ya places.” The boy beamed at that, turning his face fully to Trent now, trust unlocked in a single heartbeat.

“Does it… does it get you pretty girls?” he asked quietly, his voice soft but not sly, just earnest. Maybe eager. “Like her?” He turned and pointed back at you. And just like that, the world stopped for a second. Your breath caught behind your ribs. Trent blinked, like he hadn’t expected that kind of honesty to land right in his chest. Not from someone that small. Not when it was so true it hurt. Because no, it hadn’t gotten him you. He’d tried. Told you the truth, laid it all down. And you’d looked at that love and cried. Walked away. But here you were again, still looking at him like this. You stepped in a little then, fixing the strap of your camera, doing your best not to look like your hands were shaking.

“Oh, with a smile like yours?” you told the boy, eyes glimmering. “You’ll get all the girls.” The boy laughed, smitten and bold now. Glowing. Trent’s gaze didn’t leave yours though. His next words were for the boy, but his voice had gone low and slow and warm enough to slide under your skin.

“Just gotta find the one though, mate,” he said quietly. And then he winked just for you. You blinked like it hit you, like someone knocked the wind from your lungs with a single beat of their heart. Your face was warm. Too warm. The camera felt heavier around your neck. You turned to frame the photo again, anything to have something between you again, but through the viewfinder, the world didn’t get smaller. It got sharper. There he was. Crouched beside the little boy, smiling soft and real. Looking a little more like the boy himself. And somehow, still looking at you. You took another shot. And tried not to tremble.

—

The moment passed like sunlight slipping through clouds, flickering, fragile. The boy and his mum wandered off after their photo, and you were still behind the camera, pretending to check the images, when you felt a familiar presence at your shoulder.

“Thank you, love,” Dianne said softly. You turned, startled slightly by her nearness. Her tone wasn’t just polite, it was genuine. Careful, maybe even a little... delicate.

“Oh—no, it was nothing,” you replied quickly, adjusting your camera like a shield. “He was so sweet. Just nervous.” Dianne smiled, and for a beat it was quiet between you. You couldn’t quite read her. She had Trent’s eyes, but hers were sharper somehow, like she saw everything, even the things you tried not to show. Because you weren’t just good with one shy boy, you were good with hers too.

“You were good with him. You’ve always been good with kids?” She asked you.

“Thanks,” you said, voice a little unsure now. You weren’t great with praise, especially not from women like Dianne. Especially not her. “I think it’s easy to be good with people that are good. You know, kids, they’re just honest.” You babbled a bit. She nodded once, then glanced past you toward the cars.

“Anything keeping you in the area past this?” She smiled gently. Like she knew there was one thing that was like an anchor on the ocean floor keeping you wherever he was.

“Not this far west.” You hummed with a little laugh and smile. You knew what she was asking. “Just came for this.” You replied but you might as well have said, just came for him.

“Mmm,” she murmured. “Well, how about next time you’re in the area, I give you some more notice and you pop by for tea, yeah?” Dianne offered and you wanted to gush a thank you. She read you like a book. She saw it. The hesitation. The love. The real fear of walking into her home. So she gave you ‘next time.’ You opened your mouth to respond, but Trent appeared beside you, footsteps soft over the gravel.

“Tea?” he echoed, his voice almost cracking on the word.

“Don’t be rude, hun.” Dianne raised her brow with a tilt of the head.

“I didn’t mean—” Trent stammered, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly sixteen again and getting told off by his mum.

“She helped you today, but anyways we’re planning for a next time. I want to get to know her too.” She nudged him teasingly. Because she could read you, but only because she’d already memorized Trent. Dianne continued moving, back toward her car. She popped the boot open and pulled a cardboard box filled with shirts towards herself like a reminder. “Hun, I’m gonna drop these off with you. You’ll sign them by next week, please?” She called to Trent.

“Uh—yeah. Or I can…” Trent began, stepping forward. Caught out by being in such close proximity between you and her.

“It’s fine, I’ll grab the other box from mine and I’ll meet you there with these,” she said breezily, shifting the box further into the boot with practiced ease.

“Okay…” he mumbled. You and Trent exchanged a glance, half confusion, half something heavier. You could feel the unsaid pressing up between your ribs. Then Dianne turned back toward you, her keys jingling softly in her hand.

“Y/N, does tea next week work for you?” she asked, tone even but not indifferent. It was a real invitation. But the question still landed like a stone in the middle of a still lake.

“Sorry?” Trent faltered, brows jumping. It was just such a finite offer. But Dianne didn’t miss a beat.

“Whatever you decide, hun. Let me know whenever is good for you,” she said gently, her voice like a lullaby, like she was giving you the choice to step into something or stay safe on the shore. She kissed Trent’s cheek lightly, gave you a little wave, and got into the car without another word. And just like that, she was gone. You and Trent stood in the wake of her. The air felt full, of possibilities, or pressure, you weren’t sure which. Neither of you moved for a second. Or spoke. You could hear birds in the trees, a car door slamming far off. You turned your face toward him, slowly, and he was already looking at you. And then he exhaled, a little too forcefully, rubbing a hand down his jaw.

“Jesus… Sorry you don’t have to…” He shook his head trying to come back to reality after standing in between his mum and the girl he was desperately in love with in a carpark.

“I’ll go.” You interrupted his thoughts with a smile, finding his flush embarrassment rather endearing. “It’s fine, T.” You tried to reassure him.

“Feel like I’m sixteen again. Wow." He chuckled. The laugh broke out of you without thinking, nervous, delighted, incredulous.

“I think I’d like to be sixteen with you,” you teased softly, cheeks warming. His head tilted, eyes narrowing like he’d just remembered how to be smooth.

“Yeah? Would you have a crush on me?” His voice had dropped an octave. That cheeky lilt returned, winding its way around your ribs. You swallowed, suddenly too aware of how close he was, of how his scent, amber, cedarwood, something warm and golden, was curling around you like a memory you’d never quite been able to forget.

“You know my answer,” you murmured, trying not to fall apart under the way he was looking at you. Like he’d waited years to ask that question again.

“Nah, nah, nah, say it.” His hand slid to your hip, fingers curving gently, grounding you and pulling you in like he couldn’t help it. Like it was muscle memory now. Your heart stuttered, panicked, wanting. God, he’d said that before. Not here. Not like this. But on your skin, against your mouth, in a bed where your worlds had collapsed into one. Say it. Please say it. Say you love me back. And you had. Or maybe you hadn’t. Not then. But you wanted to now. So you swallowed your pride. Softened your fear. You said it for the boy who’d always loved you, badly, imperfectly, but with everything he had.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I really would.” You leaned into him just enough that your forehead nearly brushed his jaw. Begging him silently–please kiss me. But he didn’t. He paused. Pulled away just enough to breathe. His thumb swept along your hip once, then he squeezed gently and stepped back. Not here. Not yet. And even though it almost broke you, it also made you sure of him. Because when he did kiss you again, if h did, it’d be everything. And he wanted it to be right.

—

You didn’t move after that right away. Couldn’t. His hand still rested at your side like it belonged there, like it had never forgotten the shape of you. Your breaths felt synchronized, slow, shallow, cautious. Like one wrong inhale would tip everything over. Trent’s eyes dropped to your lips, then back up. Not yet, he thought. But he wanted to. You both did. So instead, he leaned in, not to kiss, but to rest his forehead gently against yours. Just that. No flash, no dramatics. Just the two of you standing there, held in something silent and sacred. You closed your eyes. The world went quiet again. The breeze tickled your jaw. A dog barked in the distance. Somewhere, a car door slammed again. But all you felt was him. His warmth. His restraint. His thumb still pressing small, grounding circles into your side like it was keeping a secret between you. A hum sat low in your chest, like your body was vibrating with something unsaid. Something undeniable. When he finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, the expression on his face made your breath catch. He wasn’t smiling. Not really. He looked wrecked with love.

“Probably got more to do today than photograph me.” He murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering longer than they should’ve. He smirked but even with his subtle joke, and push to leave the car park, it was contradicted by his thumb staying right there at your hip, circling slow and steady like it was tracing a memory, or maybe trying to make one. The space between your bodies felt fragile, like a glass bubble suspended in air, thin enough to burst at any moment if one of you breathed too deep. You wanted him to kiss you. So badly it hurt. But you both knew better now. Knew what rushing it could cost. Knew what it meant to say everything in the wrong place at the wrong time. So you stood there. Inches apart. Drenched in something heavier than air.

—

The last streaks of sun painted his face in gold. It caught the glint of his chain, the warmth in his eyes, the barely-there crease between his brows that always showed up when he was holding something in. You’d learned to recognize that look. Want. Restraint. Hope. He looked at you like you were the cliff and the parachute all at once.

“Maybe don’t go yet,” he said, almost too soft to hear. Not a demand. Not even a request. Just the truth slipping out. A contradiction too.

“I have to,” you whispered, and you meant it. You had to, before the closeness, the stillness, became too much to carry home. “I should.” But you stayed a second longer. One second to memorize him like this, soft, wanting, right on the edge. His hand left your hip slowly, but not before he gave it one last squeeze. Not before he looked at you like maybe letting go was the hardest thing he’d done all day.

“Ah alright, go on then,” he murmured, stepping back with a small smile. “Before I change my mind.” You smiled back, wobbly, not really looking at him. You couldn’t. Not if you were going to survive the drive. And then you turned, walking toward your car like your bones didn’t ache from the distance already pulling between you.

—

The inside of your car felt too quiet. The engine hummed beneath you, headlights cutting through the dusky dark as the sky melted from lilac to ink. But it wasn’t enough to fill the silence. Your hand stayed on the wheel. Ten and two. Gripping like the steadiness might keep you from turning around. You could still feel his touch. Not metaphorically, actually. His thumbprint pressed into your skin like a seal, like some part of him had decided to stay with you. The road blurred a little. Not from tears. Just from that heavy, heady sense of longing. Of having almost had something and choosing—choosing—not to take it. Not yet. You could’ve stayed. You could’ve said yes to tea. To more. But that wasn’t how you were doing it this time. Not a rushed confession under the haze of adrenaline. Not a gasp of love in the dark, tangled in sheets and fear. This time, it had to mean something. So you drove. Past quiet streets and shuttered cafés. Past the places that didn’t know your story. The car ticked gently as it cooled in the night. The music stayed off. But in your chest, he pulsed. Loud. In your fingertips. In your lungs. In the beat you’d been trying not to name. He was in his car somewhere behind you, maybe taking a longer route. Maybe gripping his own wheel, trying not to think about what it felt like to let you walk away again. You’d both made the right choice. But it didn’t feel right. Not when you loved someone like that. Not when it was everywhere. Not when the distance between you wasn’t just measured in miles, but in all the things you wanted to say but couldn’t risk saying wrong again.

—

[YKWIM - Yot Club (slow// reverb)]

The match was crackling in low fidelity, all static-laced commentary and washed-out reds and blues, a grainy '90s replay streaming across the cinema screen in Trent’s house, though he wasn’t really watching it. He’d picked it at random, something far enough removed from today, from you, from the weight of you. But it hadn’t worked. The room was dim, a low amber light casting long shadows along the plush armrests and empty seats. He sat in the middle of it all, legs stretched out, fingers templed against his mouth like maybe if he sat still enough, if he quieted his body, he could silence his mind. But you were everywhere. In the places you weren’t. You weren’t here, curled up into his side the way you always used to, half-draped over him like you belonged there. Like the folds of your body had been moulded to fit the curve of his. You weren’t here tracing your finger along the hem of his hoodie, bare legs tangled with his joggers, breath hot against his throat. You weren’t whispering those soft, curious little questions that used to melt him. “Who won the league that year?” “Was this when he still played for them?” “Do you like playing in that stadium now?” You weren’t purring them into his neck while he pulled you in tighter, pretending to be distracted by the match even as his hand slid up under the back of your shirt. You weren’t softly laughing when he whispered a response with something cheeky, and you weren’t replying back with your lips right against his skin.

It was the absence of those things, the smell of your shampoo, the warmth of your body pressed into his, the quiet thrum of your presence beside him, that made the cinema feel colder than it was. Empty. Like the space had once held ghosts. He shifted. Stared harder at the screen. Tried to care about the positioning, the formation, the nostalgia of it all. But his chest still ached. That dull, familiar weight that sat behind his ribs like it had burrowed in for good. Because tonight, when he wanted you most, not in the wild, chaotic kind of way that left his mouth on yours in dark corners but in the quiet way, the I just want to be near you way… you weren’t there.

And that absence didn’t just hurt. It howled. He breathed out sharply through his nose, jaw clenched. It was pathetic really, how a man like him, built from grit and control, could be undone by the simple lack of your voice in a dark room. But then again, maybe it wasn’t so simple. Because he'd let you in. In every way. Let you see him when he wasn’t Trent Alexander-Arnold, the star, the name stitched onto shirts and shouted across continents but when he was just Trent. Just a boy in love with a girl who asked too many questions during matches and kissed his neck like it was holy. And now that you weren’t here, now that you were almost, almost his again but not quite, every second without you felt like penance.

The glow of the screen flickered over his skin as the old match trundled through its final minutes of the first half. The crowd noise crackled like rain, white noise, unimportant. His fingers tapped absently against the cushion. He was barely watching. Because the more he tried to anchor himself in the rhythm of the match, the angles, the off-the-ball runs, the shape of the press, the more you kept bleeding into his mind. Quiet at first. The softest slipstream of thought. A scent. A sound. The phantom weight of your hand ghosting over his stomach like it had hundreds of times before. And then it wasn’t quiet anymore. It was everywhere.

It was your voice, teasing and syrupy, coaxing its way into his ear with that familiar ‘Keep watching then… ignore me’ as your fingers crept into the waistband of his joggers. Your thumb hooking just enough to make him twitch. God, he missed that. He missed you. Missed the way you’d press kisses into the warm part of his neck like you had nowhere else to be. Like this, him, was the only thing worth worshipping. Missed the way you’d touch him so slow at first, like you had hours to ruin him, eyes fluttering up with that knowing look he still wasn’t sure how to survive. You’d play coy, make him feel like he was doing you a favour by keeping his eyes on the match, when all the while you were the one orchestrating his undoing, with your mouth, your hands, your perfect fucking timing. And now, here he was. Hard. Really fucking hard. Alone in a dark room where you used to live inside of him, where you'd slip between his legs and take your time like it was ritual. Like it was sacred. He shifted, jaw tight. A low breath hissed out between his teeth as he adjusted his joggers. Useless effort. The ache wasn’t going anywhere. Because it wasn’t just about sex. Not really. It never had been. It was the intimacy of it. The closeness. The way you’d crawl into his lap and he’d forget a match was even playing, forget his name, forget his career, because all that mattered was your tongue tracing the sharp of his hip, the soft whisper of your breath against him, the way your hands knew every way to make him forget what control felt like. He ran a hand down his face. This was torture. He wasn’t a boy anymore. He had women, he had offers, he had options. He wasn’t supposed to feel this... devastated by the absence of a girl.

But you weren’t just any girl. You were the girl who made him feel seen in the most terrifying, soul-deep way. The girl who kissed him like he was hers. The girl who could break him in a whisper, and didn’t, hadn’t, even when he deserved it. He pressed the heel of his hand towards the inside of thigh, willing the tension to drain. It didn’t. The screen played on, unbothered, forgotten. Someone scored. He didn’t look who did. Because all he could see was you, between his legs, between his ribs, beneath his skin, smiling, soft, impossible. And he was starving for it. For you. For home

—

Twenty minutes away from him, your flat was still. Still in that way that made your skin itch. That made the air feel too thin, too quiet, too full of all the things he wasn’t saying and all the things you were too scared to. You’d kicked off your shoes at the door, but you hadn’t moved much further. You couldn’t. Because the minute the lock clicked behind you, the wave hit, his absence. It crashed into you like a tide. Your chest was heaving before you even made it to the bedroom. You sank into your mattress, the fabric cool and unfamiliar without him there. Without the rustle of his trousers being peeled off. Without his laugh, low and sleepy, as he nudged your knees apart like it was nothing, like it was routine, like it was home. Your hands drifted low, thin and dainty, fingers trembling as they grazed over your hips. It wasn’t enough. You weren’t enough, not for yourself, not like he was. Your hand wasn’t his. Not the way his palm knew your body like a compass, like he’d drawn it from memory a thousand times. You could touch yourself, sure. But it didn’t light that fire, didn’t carry that command, that need, the way he did. You could tease your own waistband, dip under silk and lace, but your fingers didn’t part you the way his always did. With reverence. With ownership. With that hunger that made you forget where you ended and he began. You pressed your thighs together, hot and aching, but still, it wasn’t him.

He used to push your panties aside without asking, like he knew he didn’t have to. Like your body was his to love. His weight would press you into the mattress, every inch of him wrapped around you, his lips at your ear as he whispered ‘Shh, baby... don’t talk, just let me feel you…’ You missed him. You missed his scent. His mouth. The soft scrape of his stubble on your inner thigh. The way he’d mouth at your collarbone like it was the holiest place he'd ever been. The way his voice would rasp, ‘You know no one else gets this, yeah? Just me. Just for you.’ Your back arched like it remembered the shape of him. Your pussy pulsed like it mourned him. You were soaked with the ache of it, the ache of not being touched right. Not being held like he did, firm, like you were breakable, precious, like he couldn’t stand the thought of letting you go. Because when he touched you, it wasn’t just to get off. It was to know you. To worship you. To claim you in the only way he could when words failed. And now here you were. Clenched. Shaking. Alone. Because whatever your mouths couldn’t say, your bodies screamed. And yet, you both stayed silent, separated by a stretch of motorway and a shared fear of ruining something that already felt so rare. So sacred. But, God, what you’d give for his helping hand tonight. His fingers. His mouth. His weight pinning you in place as he made you come apart just to piece you back together again with a kiss. You both ached. You both waited. But how much longer could you last?

Trent came undone alone that night. Not fast, not thoughtless, slow, reluctant, as if every pulse of pleasure only pushed him further into the emptiness of your absence. His chest rose and fell, sharp and shallow, fingers slackening as the last of that tethered high slipped from him like smoke. It worked, he was a man, and your memory still lit him up like kindling. The way you used to whisper his name like a secret, how you touched him with confidence and care, how you always knew exactly what he needed. But when it passed, when the haze lifted and the glow faded, what stayed was the silence. The room felt colder than it had minutes ago, too big for just him. He didn’t reach for the remote. Didn’t move at all. Just sat there in the dark, boxers hitched lower on his hips, sweat cooling on his skin, surrounded by flickering light from a match he no longer cared about. His body had been satisfied, but his heart, that thudded on painfully. Because you weren’t there, tangled in him, mouthing gentle praise into the crook of his neck. You weren’t brushing your hand over his hair, humming soft thank-yous against his skin like what he gave you mattered more than anything. You weren’t curled into his side after, bare legs hooked over his, lips ghosting his collarbone, asking tiredly ‘if he enjoyed that’ just for the sound of his voice. That was what made it ache. The part after.

Not the sex, not the heat, but the quiet warmth that always followed. The safety of your body against his. The trust of sleep in his arms. The way you wrapped around his waist like you’d never let go. His hands fell to the sides of his thighs, jaw clenched, eyes staring into nothing. He missed a lot of things. Your laugh. Your smell. The feel of your fingers lacing with his while the world blurred around you. But it was that grip he missed most, your arms around him. Not claiming. Just holding. Knowing. And yeah, he missed the other grip too. But it wasn’t just his body that was starving. It was everything else. The match ended. He hadn’t seen any of it. He just sat there. Still. Silent. Missing you like it was the only thing he’d ever known how to do.

—

You didn’t mean to cry. But it’d been happening a lot lately. You didn’t even realise you were, not at first. It was quiet, too quiet, for tears to make themselves known. Just the slow weight of them trailing down the slope of your cheek, collecting in the dip of your temple, soaking into silk. The pillow beneath you was cool, then damp. You blinked, dazed, barely breathing, like even your body was trying not to disturb the ache that had settled in your chest. It wasn't loud or messy or dramatic. It was soft. Stinging. Unrelenting. It built behind your ribs like a bruise, pressing from the inside out. You missed him. Not his mouth, not his hands, not even the way he could undo you with a single look. You missed him. The weight of him beside you, arm flung around your waist in sleep. The way he’d rub the pads of his fingers along your skin absentmindedly, always touching, always reaching even when he was half-asleep. The way he’d laugh under his breath when you teased him, or murmur something dumb into your neck when he thought you were already drifting off. You loved him. You loved him. You’d throw every high, every flash of heat, every night spent tangled in each other’s limbs into the fire if it meant just once—just once—you could tell him out loud. No distractions. No fear. No sex to muffle the truth between your lips.

I love you.

That’s all you wanted to say. Not scream it. Not whisper it as a dare into the dark. Just say it, plain and open and unafraid. But you hadn’t. And now you were alone. And now it felt like maybe you were the only one who felt that deeply. Or maybe he felt it too. Maybe he was just scared for you to hurt him all over again. Maybe you both were. Your chest tightened, a sharp ache rippling through the hollow of your throat. You curled deeper into the sheets, clutching the edge of the pillow like it might anchor you to something other than the ache. The silk was wet. Your fingers shook. You’d never felt more unloved. Not because he didn’t love you. But because you did and it had nowhere to go. Just a hundred unspoken words, and a bed too cold for the warmth you used to fall asleep to.

—

The music was low but pulsing, threads of bass weaving through the house like a heartbeat. The kind that thudded in your chest and temple, made worse by the heat, the sweat, the laughter that sounded muffled, like you were underwater. Bodies moved around you in gentle blurs, arms slung over shoulders, someone dancing, someone pouring another drink. The lights were low, all warm-toned and pretty, but the buzz in your limbs had long since turned from fun to floaty. Detached. You were drunk. Way drunker than you should’ve been.

It had started so stupidly innocuous. A tiny shot with Campbell as you got ready in her bathroom, sharing a lipstick, nervously hyping each other up. Then after you arrived, Delaney had handed you one, warm with best friendship and concern, and you hadn’t hesitated. Then Kieren passed you a tequila soda with a wink and a ‘c’mon gonna be alright.’ Then there were Leon and Foster, pressing salt to your hand and holding a lime wedge to your lips after you lost some dumb made-up game that everyone forgot the rules to halfway through. And now your world was tilting gently, like a boat at sea, the floor soft under your feet even though you knew it wasn’t. Your mouth buzzed with lime and regret. You were smiling too much and not at all. Your limbs were warm but your throat burned. There were about thirty people here. Not a crowd, not packed, but enough that it didn’t feel intimate. Enough that you could get lost in it. Enough that you had gotten lost in it. Because he wasn’t here. Not really.

Sure, it was his house. The same house you’d been curled up in not long ago, your head on his chest, fingers tracing the lines of his stomach like you were memorising something holy. But now? It was just a venue. An open door. A luxury showroom filled with strangers and laughter and liquor. And Trent? Trent hadn’t said hello. Hadn’t found you. Hadn’t so much as glanced your way, as far as you could tell. He’d said okay when Kieren asked if they could host something here, an indifferent shrug masked as permission. But it had spiraled. Drinks, music, people, people you liked, sure, people you trusted, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Because the only person you wanted to see you hadn’t. He wasn’t in the kitchen, wasn’t in the living room. But you knew he was here. You felt him here. Like gravity. Like a shadow lurking behind your every laugh and drink and blink.

And still… he hadn’t come. He was hiding. From you, from this. From the ache that had carved itself into the weeks since you last touched. You didn’t know it, but up in his room, behind a closed door, he was pacing. Tense. Hands running over his face, trying to breathe around a pressure in his ribs that had nothing to do with the noise or the alcohol or the party. He hadn’t seen you yet. Not really. He’d watched you walk in and retreated. He hadn’t seen you drunk, soft, glowing under low lights. And he was scared. Scared that if he saw more than he already had, if he saw that sad sparkle in your eye and the pout he used to kiss away, he’d lose all self-control. Pin you to the nearest wall and beg forgiveness into your skin. Or worse, say something he couldn’t take back. Because he’d been seeing you all week anyway. In dreams, in photos, in memories. Your laugh had stalked him through headphones. The smell of you still lived on his hoodie. You were a ghost and a gravity all at once. And you? You were just drunk enough to hate him for it. For not being the boy who rushed into the room and found you. For not pulling you aside, not cupping your cheek and whispering he was sorry, he missed you, he loved you. So you laughed too loud. Pouted too obviously. Let your head loll against Campbell’s shoulder and pretend you were fine. Pretended you were fun. Pretended you weren’t stupidly in love with someone who hadn’t even said hello. And still, through the hum of music and the weight of liquor in your bloodstream, your body strained like a magnet, pulling, pulling, pulling toward the boy upstairs who couldn’t even look at you.

—-

You were drunk. Plain and simple. Hours and drinks had gone when the words came out of your mouth like soft cotton.

"I’m gonna go find T." You barely noticed the way Kieren reached for you before pulling back, like he knew better than to touch a live wire. Like even he understood something was about to give. You were too far gone to see how everyone stilled. Not with their bodies, those still laughed, passed drinks, pressed shuffle on the playlist, but with something quieter. Something in the air. Like tension slipping under the doorframe, ghosting over shoulders, catching in the throat. Because you’d said it like it meant nothing. Slurred and sweet, tossed out into the room like an afterthought. But it felt like someone had picked up a loaded gun and pointed it at the past two weeks. You knew where he was. Of course you did. Trent always had his bolt-holes. Safe places. Corners where no one would look too closely, where he could tell himself he was present without having to actually be in it. So the party raged on in his kitchen, Kieren laughing, Campbell pouring another round, Foster and Leon dancing barefoot, and down the corridor, second door on the left, Trent sat alone in the cinema room.

[Space Song - Beach House]

A game flickered on the big screen. NBA. Something loud and unthinking. He wasn’t watching it. He hadn’t been watching anything in weeks. It was just the illusion of distraction. A screen to mask the fact that his mind had been replaying you like tape he couldn’t rewind. You pushed open the door, and for a second, it was like your bloodstream ran cold. Like the tequila left you. Like you remembered how to feel again. Because there he was. And the room smelled like him, clean and warm and unmistakable. His head was tilted back against the seat. One ankle slung over the opposite knee. A bottle of water unopened beside him. Shirt tight across his chest, his hand running across his jaw like he’d been trying to pull himself out of something for hours and failing miserably. And then… you were in the room. The air shifted. Subtle. Cataclysmic. He didn’t look up right away, but you knew he felt you. Your heart was pounding. Your fingers tingled. And for all the liquor in your system, you were somehow too aware of everything, how his shoulders tensed. How your stomach twisted. How the silence between you had weight, texture. You swallowed, and it was so loud in the quiet you wanted to cry. You were scared. But you were drunk enough to act like you weren’t.

“Must be a big game,” you mumbled, voice thick, slurring on the light sarcasm. And then he turned ever so slightly to look at you. Slow. Lethal. Eyes meeting yours like a match to gasoline. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. He just looked. Like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like the memory of you had stepped out of his head and walked through the door. “Didn’t want to party?” you asked, voice molasses-thick and slurred around the edges, a smile curling on your lips that didn’t reach your eyes. You collapsed softly onto the sofa like a falling petal, slow and deliberate, your limbs loose with drink but still careful enough to leave distance between you. Three cushions. An entire small country. You settled into the far end with the kind of grace that only heartbreak can teach, elegant in detachment, practiced in pretending.

Trent felt it all, the air thinning, the room bending, his own ribs tightening like they were trying to hold his heart in. The moment you entered, he felt it. Like instinct. Like muscle memory. And when your voice broke the quiet, light but brittle, the kind of light that splinters, he knew he was gone again. Already slipping. Already dizzy from you. Already winded by just the sound of your syllables and the scent you carried with you, warm vanilla, a trace of something clean, something womanly, something you. The same scent that still clung to the jumper he refused to wash at the back of his wardrobe. He didn’t look at you directly. He couldn’t. He’d been ruined by you once tonight already. From the moment you walked through his front door in that little cardigan—pink, soft, mocking him like memory [ref index.] He knew it wasn’t innocent. Not truly. You knew what it did to him. How it framed your chest like poetry, how the knit gaped at just the right moment, offering a sliver of your sternum, a tease of curve, the whisper of a nipple through cotton. But even if you hadn’t known, his body still would’ve reacted like you had. You always undid him. Just by being.

“Not in a party mood,” he muttered, mouth barely moving, voice quiet enough to keep him from unraveling. A ghost of a smile flirted with his lips. His eyes flicked over to you, just once, just a hit of the drug, before returning to the basketball game like it mattered. Like the stats and commentary could drown out the echo of your laugh in his bloodstream.

“Oh…” The syllable barely made it into the space between you. And then came tequila, your oldest friend and worst accomplice, dragging more from you than you’d meant to say. “I get that... I’m tired,” you sighed, letting your body melt deeper into the sofa. Letting yourself settle into the plushness of the space he lived in, the space you used to live in, the scent of his laundry detergent wrapping around you like an exhale. Trent’s stomach flipped. You moved again. Shifted just enough for him to see. Your heels sliding off your feet with ease, thudding against the carpet as you curled them under yourself. Your cardigan pulled open slightly, the neckline shifting, revealing more skin, that delicate hollow beneath your collarbones. He saw your chest rise and fall. The curve of you. The outline. It wasn’t even overt. But it knocked the air out of him.You were art. And the worst part was, you didn’t even mean to be. Or maybe you did. Maybe it was unintentionally intentional and that made it all the worse.

“And drunk,” he added, smirking—softly, gently—just enough cheek to tease, not enough to wound. You giggled, and the sound was like sugar cracking. It loosened something in the room. A dam somewhere upstream broke, and suddenly the silence wasn’t just silence—it was tension gone thin, stretching, fraying, breaking.

“Honestly, just want to get to bed,” you mumbled, sinking deeper. Your words were sleepy. Loose. But something about the way you said bed hit like a strike of lightning in his spine. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. And the pause that followed wasn’t innocent. It hung, thick and charged. The kind of silence that comes after someone says I miss you with their body but not their voice. You were staring at the screen now too, eyes glazed with more than tequila. When he didn’t respond, didn’t offer the softness you ached for, your voice came again, quiet and fragile, a thread about to snap. “You don’t want me in your bed anymore though…” You said it like a fact. Like a sad, quiet little truth. Something you've made peace with, even if it still hurt to hold in your hands. You reached for a pillow then. Something to cling to. Something to touch that wasn’t him. It was innocent. Mindless. And yet it crushed him. Trent’s jaw tightened, hand flexing subtly on his thigh. He hated that pout. The one you never knew existed that pulled at his heart as it rolled on your face. He could feel it. The itch under his skin. The need to reach for you. Shake you. Kiss you. Yell at you that you were out of your mind. Because he didn’t just want you in his bed. He wanted you on his chest, pressed tight to his side, your arm slung around his middle the way you used to in the lull of post-sex silence. He wanted you tucked into him in the dark, asleep before the second quarter ended. He wanted the weight of you and the softness. The sex, yes, but God, the quiet after. The knowing you trusted him. That grip. But instead, he stared at the screen. Cool. Controlled. A little broken. And you were next to him, flushed and vulnerable and almost trembling. Your lips slightly parted, your breath a little shallow, your cardigan open just enough to make his blood sing and his heart hurt. He wanted to tell you. He wanted to say You’re perfect, I’m a mess, and I’m not over you. But he didn’t. He just sat there. Breathing you in. And breaking quietly, beautifully, just like you were just for a moment longer before he couldn’t hold out any longer.

“C’mere,” he said, soft as dusk, low like a lullaby you didn’t know you’d been waiting for. That tone, it pulled at something deep in you. That tone was yours. It lived in the space between your ribs, a sound made only for you. You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. You simply went. Your limbs moved before your thoughts could catch them, like instinct, like gravity, like being pulled into orbit. You slid toward him across the couch, the air between you thick with all the words neither of you had said for weeks. Three cushions had felt like miles, but the distance disappeared the second you reached him. He opened his arm to you and you folded into him like you’d never belonged anywhere else. His hoodie was soft and worn, and he smelled like skin and sun and a comfort you hadn’t let yourself need in so long. Your cheek pressed to his chest, your hand resting in the hollow of his sternum where his heart beat like a soft drumroll. You felt it skip. You knew he felt yours too. “Who told you that, hmm?” he murmured a rhetoric, his voice all silk and smoke, fingers coming up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. A touch so careful it made your eyes sting. His thumb brushed your cheek, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your sadness. You didn’t answer, you didn’t need to. You just curled tighter into him, let yourself melt into the safety of his arms. You hadn’t realized how cold you’d been until now.

“Miss being in your bed,” you whispered, lips dragging against the fabric of his hoodie, your voice a little slurred, a little soft, like confessional. “Wanna be there. With you.” His breath hitched and you felt it. Like you always did. Like you were attuned to the tremors he never let the world see. His hand slid beneath the edge of your cardigan, the pads of his fingers finding skin, reverent. Like he was relearning the braille of you. Like he wanted to remember what every part of you felt like. His other hand was splayed against your bare thigh, warm and wide, kneading gently, grounding you both.

“Alright.” He purred, fighting a victorious smile. “How about here though in my arms for right now?” he offered, voice scratchy with restraint. “That tide you over?” He smirked. It was so him, to pretend he wasn’t unraveling. But you felt it. The thrum beneath his skin. The want.

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, sleepy-drunk and soft as you burrowed into his neck, hiding in the scent of him, letting his pulse calm the ache behind your ribs. Then, like a spell, your lips brushed the column of his throat. Once. Featherlight. And again. Then again. You felt his breath shudder out.

“Love when you kiss my neck,” he whispered, eyes fluttering closed lost in you. His voice was syrupy now, slow and thick, his hands no longer still– sliding, stroking, holding. You didn’t mean to wind him up, but you were drunk on him. You were full of him. Every time you pressed your lips to that spot beneath his jaw, you felt him fall apart a little more.

“Kiss you all over,” you murmured, your lips still pressed to him, words muffled but clear. An offering.

“Mm,” he exhaled, a low warning-laugh. “Don’t play with me, baby.” You pulled away from the safety of his neck, slow, reluctant, just enough for your gaze to meet his. His face was flushed, lips parted, eyes heavy with want but gentled by something deeper, something that looked like love. Not lust. Love.

“I’m not playing,” you said, softly, like a promise. “You know I would.” Something flickered in his eyes. A hunger. A fear. A need.

“Alright,” he said after a breath, his voice quiet. “Wherever you want to kiss, you kiss.” It landed in you like thunder in the chest, not loud, not violent, just deep. A rumble through your bones. The way he said it… like a confession folded into surrender. Like worship. Like he’d placed his whole heart in your hands and was daring you not to break it. You stared at him. Really stared. Trying to decipher what lived behind those eyes you knew too well, deep, unreadable brown, and yet, somehow, wide open just for you. And it was dangerous, that gaze. Like he was trying to say everything he didn’t know how to speak. There were whole stories there. Chapters and chapters of ache and longing and the kind of love that felt too big for language. It made your throat tighten.

“Wherever I want?” you asked, your voice feather-light, strung through with disbelief and something quieter, reverence, maybe. A tiny challenge wrapped in awe. He nodded. Once. Barely. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, nerves buzzing under his skin. He was sure. But not steady. Not with you this close. Not when he was offering you the matchbook and standing in gasoline. His eyes dropped to your lips, a flicker, no longer than a blink like he already knew what you’d choose, a silent decision, a confirmation, an agreement. But you saw it. Felt it. Like a phantom touch. And suddenly, the air between you shifted. Like the moment right before rain, thick and still and expectant. Something about to break. The space between your faces narrowed and time slowed with it. You leaned in slowly, like you were approaching a holy thing. His breath caught, just slightly. So did yours. Because this moment, this breathless pause before contact, it was everything. It was all your almosts and not-quites and could-have-beens swaying on a thread. And then, Your lips touched. And the world fell quiet. It was barely even a kiss at first. Just a brush. A test. A tremble. But it sent shivers down your spine, sent your hands curling into the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to the ground. It was soft. Painfully slow. Like the first bloom of spring after a brutal winter. He made a sound, low in his throat, like the kiss had knocked the wind out of him. You deepened it. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just… honest. Your mouth moving against his like you were making up for every second you’d spent apart. It was the kind of kiss that said I missed you so much it hurt. The kind that said I’m sorry, I’m still here though without needing words. His hands rose slowly, reverently, to your waist. Not to pull you in, but to hold you steady. Like you were fragile. Like this meant everything. And it did. Your lips moving together like they’d rehearsed for centuries. But it was just once. One kiss. But that was all it took. And when it broke, just barely, only when your lungs demanded it, your foreheads stayed pressed together, eyes closed, breath shared in the quiet between you. And in that silence, something clicked into place. Something final. In the hush between heartbeats. In his arms in the quiet. This wasn’t just a kiss. It was a return. A homecoming. A beginning disguised as something familiar. Always him. Always.

•

Thank you for reading! I really hope you enjoy this chapter and look forward to what's ahead!

PLEASE PLEASE Please like, comment, or message what you think!!!

Next part - Chapter 21 Coming Soon!

📷 🪩 💄 🤍 🎞️ 🎱🍸 💷

#trent alexander arnold #Trent Alexander Arnold x reader #alexander arnold #trent alexander arnold imagines #taa x reader #footballer x y/n #footballer x reader #fie fic #aperture fic

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uvobreakmylegs · 3 days ago

Note

Hello ⁦(⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠)⁩

I read the piece you published a few days ago yesterday (because of my damn final exams), and I really liked the new part a lot! I had some questions about it and wanted to discuss them with you a little (there’s nothing better than discussing the story with its author).

Did Chrollo kidnap CHR just to tame her and convince her to join the Phantom Troupe? But will he force her to sleep in the same bed with him and/or force her to have sex with him in order to persuade her to join the Phantom Troupe as well? I had the same question as Phinks, about what Chrollo did to CHR that made her so terrified of him!

I remember you said at the beginning of the story in the first part that Feitan was a bit worried about CHR because she opposed Chrollo’s orders, and now I know the reason! Feitan and CHR used to live together when they were kids 🥹💞

Thank you for writing it!!!

hi!!!

so despite what he's been saying to both CHR and the troupe, Chrollo is not being honest when he says that he wants them to join the PT. that's the excuse he uses to justify what he's doing to CHR and to the rest of the troupe, but really, he just wants to keep CHR to himself. the excuse that everything is being done to "rehabilitate" CHR was only made for the sake of the troupe, because it's one thing to kidnap a random someone and keep them as your s/o, it's another when you're taking someone that the people you work with also know

Chrollo has also definitely forced CHR into sleeping with him😭 not because he wants them as part of the troupe, but because he wants them

thank you for enjoying my fic! and I hope your finals exams went well!!❤️❤️❤️

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coldkidcookieneck · 3 days ago

Text

Title: All by Myself With Severus Snape Bound By Loyalty

Summary: Captured and broken, you face Voldemort’s wrath — and when Snape finally arrives, the betrayal cuts deeper than any curse. But in a war of masks and lies, is anything ever what it seems?

Author note: Hey, my dear reader, as I know it’s been a long wait for this chapter, and I’m so sorry for the delay! I’ve been hit with a bludger-sized writer’s block while writing this chapter. However, thank you so much to everyone who stuck with the story through it all. Hope you guys enjoy reading it.

Pairing: Severus Snape x Fem Reader

Warnings: Angst, Emotional tension, Torture and Violence

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, and Part 9 here

Cross posted on AO3

=============================================

The morning mist hung low, curling around Severus Snape’s boots as he paced the perimeter of the forest behind the safehouse. The leaves, still damp from dawn, whispered with every step he took — a subtle, mocking echo to the thoughts tearing through his mind.

He hadn’t slept.

Not really.

Not after what had happened last night — her touch, her breath, her soft voice breaking through the walls he’d so meticulously built around himself. And just before sunrise, when the guilt finally overcame the calm, he had whispered the most cowardly words he knew:

“This was a mistake.”

He’d watched her eyes widen in confusion and pain as he barked words he didn’t mean. Had turned his back on her because it had all become too much. He, Severus Snape, Death Eater-turned-spy, half-broken man, couldn’t handle the weight of someone loving him. Not when love had always meant loss. Not when it put her in danger.

He ran a trembling hand through his hair, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. The guilt was thick, a living thing that clawed at his ribs and burned in his throat.

He shouldn’t have touched her. Shouldn’t have let her see that part of him. But gods… she had looked at him like he was worth saving.

And now—

CRACK.

The sound of magic snapping tore through the quiet. A ward. His ward.

He froze.

His blood ran cold.

No. No no no—

He turned on his heel, wand already drawn, and ran.

By the time he reached the clearing near the safehouse, Albus Dumbledore was already there — robes askew, eyes blazing.

“Where were you, Severus?” the older man demanded, striding toward him. “What in Merlin’s name—?”

“I—I went out. I needed to clear my—” Snape’s voice caught as he saw the open door, the scattered potion vials, the broken coffee mug on the floor. "Where is she?"

Dumbledore didn’t answer at first. Instead, he lifted something from the table — a piece of parchment, left in plain sight.

He handed it to Severus, his voice low and grim. “This was left behind.”

Snape took the note. His hands trembled.

The parchment was thick and old. Elegant handwriting—Voldemort’s—looped across the surface like a serpent coiling through blood.

“A precious daughter, born of betrayal. Let us see if her screams carry the same melody as her mother’s silence. — L.V.”

The room spun.

No air. No sound. Just the pounding in his skull.

His knees nearly buckled. “No. No, please…”

“Severus.” Dumbledore gripped his shoulder. “They knew. They must have been watching. Waiting for an opening.”

He had left her alone. After everything. After vowing to protect her. After she had laid herself bare to him—her trust, her love, her entire self.

And he had walked into the woods like a fool.

He clenched the note in his fist, eyes stinging. “This is my fault. All of it.”

“We’ll find her,” Albus said softly.

But Snape didn’t hear him.

His mind was already screaming with every possibility — where she could be, what they were doing to her. What they would make him do if they summoned him.

He turned to Dumbledore, something raw and panicked flickering behind his eyes.

“If he calls me,” Snape rasped, “I’ll go.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I will. And I’ll be ready.”

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. “Then let us prepare.”

Snape’s grip tightened on his wand. His expression was carved from stone now, but his voice was hoarse as he whispered, mostly to himself:

“I’ll bring her back. Even if I have to burn for it.”

Stars danced behind your eyes.

Your world swam in blurred shapes and splintering ache. Pain throbbed like war drums beneath your skin— ribs burning, wrists raw, muscles trembling with strain. Something sticky clung to your temple—blood or sweat, you couldn’t tell.

The silence was thick, oppressive. Your thoughts staggered, dragging behind the agony like broken limbs.

You blinked slowly. Stone. Chains. Damp air heavy with decay and metal. The coppery scent hit your first blood. Yours.

The last thing you remembered—

“Remus—” you whispered, and then flinched.

No. Not Remus. Not really.

The face you had trusted. The warm voice. The smile that made you let your guard down.

A lie.

A mask.

Polyjuice.

Your heart thundered as the realisation settled, cold and sharp: she had been taken.

You looked down. Your wrists were bound with enchanted iron shackles, chained to the wall. Your jacket had been stripped away. Your wand? Gone.

Think. THINK.

You took a deep breath, wincing at the ache in your ribs. Cracked, maybe. Bruised at the very least.

The door creaked open.

Boots. Multiple pairs.

Your pulse spiked.

A trio of Death Eaters swaggered in, grinning like wolves around a wounded lamb.

“Well, well,” one of them drawled. “Sleeping Beauty wakes.”

“Oh, the Dark Lord will be thrilled,” another smirked, bending close. “Such a pretty little heir of a traitor. Do you scream like your mother did, hmm?”

“Shut up,” you spat, summoning every ounce of venom you could. “You don’t even know her—”

A sharp slap cracked across your cheek.

“That’s for speaking out of turn,” the first one sneered. “You’ll learn manners soon enough, princess.”

They unchained your wrists, only to drag you up roughly by the arms. Your legs buckled, but they didn’t care. You were half-dragged through the corridors of what could only be an underground stronghold—stone walls, iron sconces, ancient runes half-hidden in grime.

Every footstep echoed like a countdown.

And then they reached it.

A massive chamber lit by green fire, silent but for the hissing of something large and alive.

Nagini.

And beyond her—

Him.

Tall. Pale. Eyes like twin pits of hell. Slit nostrils flaring with amusement.

Lord Voldemort.

Your heart skipped, and your breath left you.

“Ah…” The Dark Lord’s voice slid like oil over your skin. “There she is. The daughter of Lyra Carrington. I must say… your mother had more dignity. But you-you are special.”

You said nothing.

“I can smell her in you. That same fire. That same defiance.” He stepped closer. “Do you know what she cost me?”

Your lip trembled, but you held his gaze.

“Everything,” you said, quiet but unyielding. “She left you. She chose life.”

The air turned colder.

Voldemort’s smile died.

“Crucio.”

The pain was immediate and consuming. Your body arched, mouth open in a silent scream. Your nerves were on fire, bones fracturing from within. The magic crawled under your skin like insects with claws.

When it finally stopped, you collapsed, panting, sobbing—but still conscious.

Voldemort crouched beside you. “Where is the potion, girl? Where are the ingredients?”

“I don’t know,” you gasped.

Another blast. Crucio.

You screamed this time. Loud. Raw.

But your mind clung to one thing: Severus. If anyone knew you was gone… it was him. And he would come. He had to.

The world blurred. Everything hurt.

And still—

“I don’t… know,” she rasped.

Voldemort straightened, gaze calculating.

“We’ll see,” he whispered. “Soon, you’ll be begging to give me what I want.”

He turned away.

And with a flick of his hand, you were dragged back to the cell—barely conscious, half-broken, but not shattered.

Not yet.

The fire hissed in the hearth. Not crackled. Hissed—like it knew the danger leaking into the room.

Snape sat at the worn table, hunched forward, fingers pressed hard into his temple as if he could will away the creeping burn spreading through his left arm.

The Mark was waking.

It wasn’t fully summoned—yet. But it tingled and flushed red, just like it always had before the Dark Lord called him in. The skin crawled with heat, a warning flare from Hell.

He swallowed down the nausea.

“He’s going to summon me,” Snape said hoarsely.

Dumbledore, seated across from him, looked grave. “Soon?”

“Tonight,” Snape answered. “Or earlier if he grows impatient.”

A tense pause.

“I need options.”

Dumbledore nodded, already pulling parchments toward him. “What’s your first play?”

“The potion,” Snape said. “I give him what he wants—a version that looks perfect, feels functional, but is laced with a slow poison. Ten-minute delay. Odorless. Tasteless. Non-reactive to basic detection charms.”

“And the real one?” Dumbledore asked.

Snape pulled a scroll from his sleeve. “Locked. Concealed. With an activation phrase only I know. If I have to take it to prove its safety... I’ll take mine. Not his.”

“And if he makes her take it?” Dumbledore asked, voice dangerously quiet.

Snape’s jaw clenched. “Then I’ll bloody well kill him before he can touch her.”

There was silence between them, heavy and sharp.

Snape stood and paced the room, each step echoing like a metronome of dread.

“If he doubts me,” Snape muttered, “he’ll test my loyalty in front of her. Force me to—hurt her. Humiliate her. Break her.”

Dumbledore’s eyes were stormy. “Can you endure that?”

Snape hesitated.

Then, bitterly: “It won’t be the first time I’ve acted a monster.”

“But not with someone you care for.”

Snape looked away, jaw trembling ever so slightly before he locked it down again.

“She’ll understand,” he said. “Eventually.”

“You’re sure she will?” Dumbledore asked.

Snape didn’t reply.

Instead, he unrolled a small leather pouch and laid out vials: a concealed healing potion. A blood coagulant. A short-term strength booster. A transfigured portkey—a bronze coin, etched with runes, keyed to his wand signature and a three-tap spell sequence.

“If I can get close enough,” he said, fingers ghosting over the coin, “I’ll portkey her out. No warning. Just grab her and go.”

“And if you can’t?” Dumbledore asked.

Snape finally looked him in the eye.

“Then you break in. Burn the place to the ground if you have to.”

Dumbledore’s voice was steel. “You know that won’t be easy. If he’s expecting betrayal—”

“Then I’ll make sure he doesn’t.” Snape’s eyes were like obsidian. “I’ll be convincing. I’ll be the loyal dog he thinks he owns.”

The room was silent again, save for the soft, ever-present hiss of the fire.

Then the Dark Mark flared hot—angry and urgent.

Snape sucked in a sharp breath, staggering slightly before catching himself on the table. A dark bruise of magic spread under the skin.

Dumbledore stood instantly. “It’s time.”

Snape nodded, tucking the coin deep into his robe.

“May Merlin go with you,” Dumbledore murmured.

“No.” Snape straightened his shoulders, pulling his mask back on. “Merlin would turn away.”

He took one final look toward the hearth.

Then he was gone in a whip of black robes, walking into the jaws of hell with a heart clenched around one fragile hope.

The stone beneath her cheek was cold, but not colder than the silence.

You didn’t know how long you'd been left alone—hours? A day? Your arms ached from the shackles biting into your wrists, your lips cracked and stinging, blood crusted at the edge of your mouth.

But it was the silence that gnawed at your mind.

Then—voices. Not from the cell, but through the wall. You held your breath and turned your head.

Two Death Eaters. Close. Talking.

“I don’t trust him,” one muttered.

“Snape?”

“Who else? He’s too clever. And the way he looks at her—”

A sneer. “Too fond, you mean.”

The other spat on the floor. “He was always the Dark Lord’s lapdog. But this—this girl’s messing with his head.”

“He’s losing his edge. Makes you wonder where his loyalties really are.”

Your heart thudded. No. No, they couldn’t be talking about you. About Snape.

Another voice broke the tension.

Colder than ice. Slicker than poison.

“Oh, but I do wonder…”

The Death Eaters fell silent as Voldemort himself glided into the dungeon, the shadows curling tighter around him like hounds. His red eyes gleamed with something twisted—anticipation.

“Such curiosity… such attachment…” he murmured, circling her cell like a predator. “And now... such doubt.”

He stopped before the bars and tilted his head.

“You heard them, didn’t you?”

You didn’t answer.

He smiled. “Good.”

With a flick of his wand, the cell door creaked open, and ropes slithered around you like snakes, dragging you upright. Pain jolted throughout broken ribs as you gasped.

Voldemort leaned in close, whispering, “Shall we test his loyalty?”

He stepped back and turned to the Death Eaters.

“Let’s see if he comes when I call him.”

He raised his arm and pressed two skeletal fingers against the Mark.

A pulse of dark magic erupted from his skin—silent, but violent. Summoning.

The Dark Lord’s gaze returned to you, that terrible smile widening.

“Let’s show you the truth, child,” he hissed, voice dripping like venom. “The face behind your precious protector’s mask.”

And as your knees buckled and the pain roared in your bones, you realised—

You were about to watch everything break.

CRACK.

Apparition split the dungeon like a thunderclap—air twisting, smoke curling tight around the silhouette that materialized with purpose.

Severus Snape stood tall, his black robes settling with a whisper against the cold stone floor.

His expression was carved from granite—blank, unreadable, like nothing in this room could touch him.

But his mind was chaos.

You walk into Hell now, Severus. Wear the Devil’s mask… or die with her.

He did not look at her.

Not at you—bloodied, bound, bruised, your eyes wide with silent hope and horror.

No. He looked only at him.

“Severus,” Voldemort crooned, his voice like a knife dragged along bone.

Snape bowed low, sharp and controlled. “My Lord.”

A pause. Heavy. Suspicious.

Like the whole room held its breath.

Then Voldemort moved—slowly, predatory, eyes glinting with quiet fury.

“Why,” he said, voice coiling like smoke, “did you not tell me you were living with her?”

The room seemed to shudder.

Snape straightened, hands calmly clasped behind his back.

His heart thundered behind his ribs.

“I was gaining her trust, my Lord. Nothing more.”

Lie. Make it real. Say it like you mean it or she dies.

Voldemort’s brow arched. “Trust?”

“Yes.” His voice turned to steel. “Her mother’s formula is sealed behind emotion. Her grief, her memories—it’s a maze. She wouldn’t have given it up under torture. But she… trusted me.”

He said it like it meant nothing.

Like you were a tool. A stupid girl.

Forgive me.

Voldemort began circling him, slow and calculating.

Like a serpent trying to decide where to strike.

“And yet… you did not inform me.”

“I wanted results. Not suspicion. I could have gotten everything.”

The words sliced through you.

Is this real? Is he lying? Is this all just survival?

You searched his face for anything—anything—human.

There was nothing.

Just the mask.

No… no, not him. Please don’t be him.

Voldemort’s smile was poison. “Could have. But didn’t.”

Snape didn’t speak.

But his eyes flickered—barely.

She’s still alive. She’s still breathing. I can still fix this.

“Perhaps your failure should be punished.”

From the shadows, Bellatrix let out a delighted squeal.

You flinched.

“Or…” Voldemort said silkily, eyes sliding back to you, “Perhaps you’ll prove your loyalty instead.”

Snape’s spine stiffened.

Here it is.

“Bring her.”

Ropes dragged you forward. Your knees scraped stone.

Your heart slammed in your chest like it wanted to escape.

“Prove yourself, Severus,” the Dark Lord whispered, eyes gleaming. “Strike her. Hurt her. Make her bleed.”

You froze.

Snape didn't move.

Then he stepped forward.

One step.

Another.

Still, he didn’t look at you—until the last second.

And when he did—

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to scream his name. You wanted to run to him and hide behind the man who once protected you.

But what you saw in his eyes…

Was agony.

War.

Don’t make me do this.

I have to do this.

Forgive me.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered—so low only you heard.

And then—

CRACK.

The slap rang out like a curse.

You stumbled, more stunned by the betrayal than the sting.

Your eyes watered—not from pain.

From heartbreak.

From shattering.

But Voldemort wasn’t finished.

He leaned in. Delighted. “Again.”

Snape didn’t flinch.

His wand was already drawn.

Please. Don’t. Don’t.

“Crucio.”

You screamed.

Your body twisted as white-hot pain exploded in your veins.

But not as loud as the scream that tore through him on the inside.

He had to keep it short. Just enough. Not too long. Not too deep. Enough for her to live.

His magic cut the curse off in seconds, but it felt like hours.

You collapsed, gasping, barely conscious.

The dungeon went silent.

And Voldemort smiled.

“Good,” he said, turning away.

“Brew the potion now.”

Snape didn’t move.

You’re still breathing.

I’m still here.

But you didn’t see him anymore.

Only the man who broke you.

He didn’t even hesitate.

You could still feel it—the echo of the slap, the curse thrumming through your nerves like fire.

But worse was the silence now.

He didn’t look back.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t reach for you.

Was it all a lie?

The mornings, the healing potions, the quiet moments that felt like truce...

Had any of it been real?

You blinked against the tears—furious with yourself.

Furious with him.

You told yourself he was different. That something behind his eyes meant something.

But now?

Now you weren’t sure what you saw at all.

And the next time you looked at him…

You hoped you wouldn’t.

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