#anyways. this live was something...and that man's low speaking voice...

[miirily]

Sometimes It Comes Like Spring

Pairing — Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader

Synopsis — “He cups your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone and says nothing for a long moment, just watches you, eyes blown but warm, like you’re the only thing tethering him to this world. And when he finally speaks, his voice is low and hoarse, heavy with emotion.

‘You have no idea what you’ve done to me.’”

Content — modern!au, fluff, hurt and comfort, getting together, smut, Sukuna is down bad, uncle!Sukuna.

Word count — 7.6k

The first time you notice him is on a mild spring afternoon in Meguro, the kind where the breeze still carries a bite but the sunlight is warm enough to loosen jackets and melt away a bit of the city’s sharpness. The playground near the local kindergarten buzzes with shrieks of laughter, the metallic clang of swings and the drone of parents making half-hearted small talk while checking their phones.

Miki, your four-year-old niece, has bolted straight for the climbing frame the second you unclip her helmet and set her down. You follow more slowly, coffee in one hand, half a mind already on the emails you’ve ignored all day. That’s when you see him.

Hard to miss.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Tattooed. Bold black lines like ancient calligraphy curling out from under the sleeves of his black shirt and disappearing into the collar. He sits stiffly on a bench beneath a cherry tree, sunglasses perched on his nose, a scowl carved deep into his face. His arms are crossed like he’s physically restraining himself from throttling someone. Or maybe everyone.

Other parents give him a wide berth. You watch a mother with manicured nails and a designer tote steer her child in a purposeful arc around him. He doesn’t flinch. Just sits there like a jaguar among house cats, radiating the kind of tension that makes people instinctively avoid eye contact.

And yet when a small boy with wild, pink hair and a juice box comes sprinting toward him, arms flailing, something in the air shifts.

The man straightens just slightly, reaches out with one hand, and catches the boy mid-barrel into his legs. The kid laughs. His scowl doesn’t quite vanish, but something softens just a little. He brushes the boy’s hair back with a rough sort of care, mutters something that makes the kid snort and wiggle onto the bench beside him.

That’s the first time you saw Ryomen Sukuna.

You didn’t know his name then. Just that he looks like he belongs in a gritty gangster film, not on a cherry-blossom-lined bench surrounded by toddlers and yoga moms.

You take a sip of your coffee, watching as Miki tries to crown herself queen of the playground and tell yourself not to stare.

You do it anyway.

After that first afternoon, you start noticing him more. Or maybe it’s less about noticing and more about looking for him.

Each time you and Miki come to the playground after kindergarten, usually on the days when work hasn’t swallowed you whole and you have nothing urgent waiting at home, you find your feet drifting towards that same spot beneath the cherry tree. He’s always there. Same bench. Same posture. Sunglasses still hiding his eyes, though the sun grows softer and slower with each passing week. The season warms. The sakura petals thin out, drifting down around him like soft pink confetti, catching in his hair and on the broad shelf of his shoulders. He never brushes them off.

Miki doesn’t notice him the way you do. She’s busy living in the bright, breathless world of four-year-olds, where every pebble is treasure and every new kid is a potential lifelong friend. She pulls you through the gate, yanking on your hand, chattering about snack time and drawing cats with five eyes and whether she can have chocolate for dinner. Always chocolate.

You let her run ahead and scan the park, already knowing what you’ll find.

There. The same man. Arms crossed. Eyes probably sweeping the playground like he’s watching for threats, not watching kids. His lips never move. His body never slouches. The kid with the messy hair is usually somewhere nearby, sometimes dangling from the monkey bars, sometimes stomping around with a stick and a wild imagination. That kid, Yuji, you later hear, is as bright as the man is dark.

And somehow, they fit.

You can’t explain why you look. Curiosity, at first. He’s not like the other parents. Doesn’t wear button-downs or soft cardigans or designer sunglasses. No whispered gossip circles around him. No smiles of recognition or plastic compliments. He’s an anomaly. A presence. You tell yourself it’s natural to be interested in someone so different.

But deep down, you know it’s maybe more than that.

Maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last two years living a life you never expected to live. After your sister died from a sudden illness, so sudden it still feels like fiction, you’d had to grow up overnight. She’d left behind a daughter and a mess of a situation. Her ex had vanished like smoke, and there was no one left but you.

You were twenty-four. Single. Career-focused. Selfish, if you were being honest. You liked your late nights and long brunches and the occasional reckless decision. Children had always been someone else’s plan.

But fate doesn’t ask. It just drops a little girl with tearstained cheeks into your arms and dares you to do better.

So you did.

You’re still figuring it out, still flailing sometimes, but Miki smiles more now. Laughs freely. Sleeps without crying. And that has to count for something.

The playground has become a routine. A way to give her something normal after the chaos. You sit on your usual bench, coffee cooling beside you, while she conquers the sandbox or builds intricate leaf villages. And you glance over to his bench. Because he's always there. Because there’s something steady about his presence.

You catch yourself wondering about him. Who he is. What he does. Why someone like him, all steel and ink and silence, would be raising a child with such warmth buried beneath the scowl. You’ve seen it now. That subtle gentleness when Yuji trips and cries. The way he listens when the boy talks, even if his face stays unreadable. The way he always brings a second juice box.

You find yourself waiting to see if he shows up, and when he does, your chest lightens in some small, unspoken way.

You’ve never spoken to him. Not yet.

That changes when spring slowly morphs into summer, when the breeze stops carrying any real relief, and the air begins to wrap around your skin like a wet sheet. The cicadas haven’t started screaming yet, but the days are heavier now, thick with heat and the scent of sunscreen and soft-serve from the cart across the street.

You pick Miki up from kindergarten, her cheeks already flushed, her tiny backpack bouncing against her back. She sings some nonsense song about cats and dogs, something about them getting married, you think, and you hum along, fingers laced with hers as the two of you walk toward the playground. You're wearing a soft white summer dress today, the lightest thing you own, because it’s just too damn hot. Sweat’s already collecting on your forehead, and you didn’t even bother with make-up beyond a swipe of blush and gloss and SPF.

When you round the corner, the playground is packed, far more than usual. Moms with sun hats, dads in rolled-up sleeves, strollers parked like traffic along the walkway. Kids are everywhere, darting, climbing, shrieking. Miki lets go of your hand with a squeal, making a beeline for the slide, already calling out to a friend.

You scan the area for a free bench. Nothing. Not by the sandbox. Not by the swings. Not even that crooked one near the trash bins.

Your eyes sweep back across the playground and land, of course, on him.

Under the same tree. On the same bench. Just like always.

But today, there’s room.

Just a sliver of space on the far end of the bench, barely enough for one person, the other half occupied by a bulky frame and a presence that still somehow makes the air feel a little cooler, sharper, despite the heat.

He’s crouched in front of Yuji, tying the kid’s shoes, black sneakers with red lightning bolts and frayed laces. His plain t-shirt pulls across his back as he leans forward, muscles shifting beneath the fabric in a way that feels unfair in this heat. The tattoos peek out from his sleeves again, bold against sun-browned skin. He doesn’t glance up, doesn’t seem to notice you. But you do.

You absolutely notice him. And you tell yourself that your eyes aren’t lingering.

You clutch your bag tighter against your side, shifting from foot to foot as if that might cool you down or calm you. The reasonable part of your brain tells you to just keep standing. To wait. Something will open up. But the part of you that’s been wondering, the part of you that looks for him now, tells your feet to move.

You approach slowly, carefully, pretending like this is normal, like you’re not about to sit down next to the man who’s occupied your peripheral thoughts for weeks now.

He finishes tying Yuji’s shoes just as you stop in front of the bench. He straightens up, casually, like a panther uncoiling, and glances toward you. His sunglasses catch the sun, unreadable. The scowl is there, of course. It always is. But it doesn’t deepen at your approach.

You clear your throat softly, offering a polite smile that feels much too fragile for your face. “Um, hi. Is this spot taken?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then a slight tilt of the head. Barely a nod. “No.”

Just that.

You hesitate only half a second before easing down onto the bench, smoothing the hem of your dress over your thighs. The wood is hot beneath you. Your shoulder is just inches from his. He smells faintly like wood and something darker, leather maybe, or just the sun on his skin.

Yuji bounds off into the chaos of the playground, and for a moment, the two of you sit in silence.

You fiddle with your handbag, pretending to look for something, lip gloss, gum, a non-existent bottle of water, anything to occupy your hands and distract from the heat creeping up your neck. The silence is thick. Not tense, exactly, but not relaxed either. Like a room with the windows shut, waiting to be aired out.

Beside you, he leans back on the bench, arms crossing loosely over his chest, his body taking up space like it’s his by right. The bench creaks faintly beneath the weight of him. He doesn’t look at you, just sweeps his gaze across the playground like he’s analysing a battlefield. You wonder what he sees. What he’s watching for.

You peek at him from the corner of your eye. He’s intense, always has been. You’ve seen that scowl turned on countless strangers, but now, up close, there’s something almost sculptural about him, sharp lines, sun-darkened skin, a jaw that could probably break glass. You bite your lip, wondering why that makes your chest tighten instead of your spine straighten.

You’re the kind of person who fills silence. Always have been. Silence makes your thoughts too loud.

“Do you come here often?” you ask lightly, aiming for casual. Playful, even.

His head turns toward you slowly, and for the first time, you see his eyebrows lift just slightly. A flicker of something like surprise passes over his features, like he wasn’t expecting you to speak, much less make small talk. You think maybe most people don’t try with him. Maybe they take one look and decide it isn’t worth the effort.

He doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches just long enough for doubt to creep in. Maybe he won’t respond. Maybe this was a mistake.

But then—“Yeah,” he says simply. “Yuji likes it here.”

His voice is deeper than you imagined. Rough, like gravel underfoot, but not unkind. There’s no edge to it. Just matter-of-fact.

You nod, heart beating a little faster for no real reason. Your eyes sweep the playground, grateful for something else to focus on. You spot Miki near the swings now, crouched down next to Yuji. He’s holding a stick, gesturing wildly while another kid looks on, bewildered. Miki listens with wide eyes, her pigtails bouncing as she nods.

“They know each other?” you ask, tilting your head.

He glances over. “Not sure. Yuji talks to everyone.”

You smile faintly. “Same with Miki. She tried to give her teacher a rock the other day and called it a ‘friendship jewel.’ She was heartbroken when he didn’t keep it in his pocket.”

His mouth twitches, just the smallest movement, but it might be the beginning of a smile. You count it as a win.

You turn your gaze back to the kids, then ask, “How old’s your son?”

He shifts, arms still crossed. “Nephew,” he corrects. “Yuji. He’s four.”

You blink, then glance back at him. “Oh! Same as Miki.”

You laugh softly, a breeze finally cutting through the thick air. “Huh. Small world.”

You feel his eyes on you for a heartbeat, a flicker, a weight. You don’t look at him, but you feel the shift in the air, like the atmosphere between you has changed just a little.

After that day, it becomes a quiet rhythm. Familiar. Not quite routine, not yet, but steady enough to make you expect him.

You note him noticing you more often now. His gaze still sweeps the playground like always, unreadable behind his sunglasses, but when your eyes happen to meet, maybe over the top of Miki’s head as she begs for one more minute on the swings, or across the sandbox where Yuji is mid-stick duel with an imaginary dragon, he nods.

Just once. Small, subtle. But real.

And you return it with a soft smile.

Sometimes, when Yuji isn’t taking up the space beside him, you sit there again. The bench under the cherry tree becomes a quiet little island away from the chaos of children. You still bring coffee in a paper cup, sometimes too hot for the weather, but it gives your hands something to do. Miki is usually a blur of movement, chasing butterflies or imaginary quests, and that gives you time to talk.

Small talk at first.

You learn his name after the third time you sit beside him. You’d asked casually, playing with the strap of your bag.

“I’m sorry,” you’d said. “We've talked half a dozen times and I don’t even know your name.”

He’d glanced at you, then looked back toward the slide where Yuji had just flung himself face-first into the gravel with no sense of mortality.

“Sukuna,” he said. Then, after a beat, “You?”

You gave your name, watching how he nodded slightly, like he was filing it away. You liked the way he said it, plain and unembellished, no teasing edge like some people had. Just… direct.

Over the next couple of weeks, pieces of him began to stitch themselves together. You find out he’s only three years older than you. He works as a mechanic in Shinagawa, owns his own little shop, and hates being indoors for too long. That’s why he brings Yuji here often, since they live just a few blocks away.

“He gets wild if he’s stuck inside,” Sukuna had muttered one day, gesturing toward the boy as Yuji ran full-speed into a tree and bounced off like nothing had happened.

You tell him about your work too; that you're in IT, mostly remote, lots of problem solving and long hours of quiet focus. He’d hummed at that. “Sounds like hell.”

You’d laughed. “It kind of is.”

And then there are the lighter things. Things you don’t even realise you’d shared until after you’d said them. Like how Miki’s favourite colour changes every week. How you live only ten minutes from the park. How your sister used to bring Miki here on weekends. How you prefer savoury over sweet, especially one afternoon when Miki offers you the rest of her half-melted chocolate ice cream with a sticky grin and you’d declined, smiling at her and stroking her hair.

“I don’t really have a sweet tooth,” you explain offhandedly.

That’s when you hear it. A low, rough sound; brief, quiet and completely unexpected. A chuckle.

You blink, turning to him, and see the corner of Sukuna’s mouth curve just slightly. His sunglasses are still on, but you can imagine the glint behind them.

“You don’t have a sweet tooth,” he repeats, as if the very idea is strange. “Figures.”

“Why?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugs, like he hasn’t meant to say it aloud. “Just… seems like you’d go for salty snacks. Crisps. Something with bite.”

You laugh, leaning back on the bench, letting the warmth of the moment soak into your skin. “You’re not wrong.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but you catch the way his head tilts just slightly towards you and that space between you, once stiff and uncertain, starts to feel like something else. Not quite soft. Not quite warm. But open.

The seasons shift again, almost without warning.

The suffocating heat of summer fades into something gentler, the days growing cooler, the humidity giving way to crisp air and overcast skies. Leaves start to turn, not quite golden yet but edged with amber and rust. The playground is quieter now, less crowded, less frantic. You start bringing a light cardigan when you come with Miki after kindergarten, and she insists on wearing her pink cat-ear hoodie, even when it’s warm enough not to.

Yuji still runs around like he’s immune to weather, like wind and dirt and scraped knees only fuel his tiny engine. And lately Miki runs right beside him.

It’s been happening more and more.

Where before they played on opposite ends of the playground, now they race together, build elaborate kingdoms in the sandbox, argue over imaginary villains and whose turn it is on the slide. It’s like seeing your bond with Sukuna, subtle and unspoken, translated into something loud and bright and simple in the way only four-year-olds can manage.

They seem to understand. Or maybe they just mirror what they see.

You spot them both on a particular Saturday afternoon, the sky covered in a soft layer of clouds that promise rain but haven’t delivered yet. You and Miki took your time getting ready today, no rush, no plans. She insisted on wearing her “shiny boots” even though the ground is dry.

As you approach the playground, you see that familiar silhouette instantly. Sukuna’s there, same bench, same tree, but this time, Yuji sees you first.

“Miki!” he shouts, beaming. He jumps to his feet like he’s been waiting all day. “Miki, look! Uncle Kuna brought snacks today!”

Miki squeals in return, already tugging her hand free to run up and meet him. The two of them meet near the bench and Yuji immediately grabs her hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“He got drinks too! For you, Miki. And your auntie!” he announces proudly, waving a juice box in one hand and pointing at Sukuna like he’s the day’s hero.

Your eyes dart to Sukuna and he’s already looking at you from behind his sunglasses. His arms are crossed, jaw relaxed, mouth set in its usual line but there’s something softer around the edges today. Something not quite so closed-off.

You feel a blush creep onto your cheeks as you step up to the bench.

“Thank you,” you murmur as you lower yourself onto the wood beside him, suddenly all too aware of how close you always end up sitting, of the way your knees almost brush. “You didn’t have to…”

Sukuna huffs under his breath and reaches into a small black bag by his feet. He pulls out a paper cup and hands it over without fanfare.

“It’s for not being as lame as all the other parents around here,” he says, almost like it’s a compliment.

You glance at him, eyes narrowing in amusement. “That’s your way of being nice, isn’t it?”

“No,” he says flatly, but his mouth twitches just slightly.

You accept the coffee, your fingers brushing his for a brief moment as you take it. Warm. Solid.

You glance inside the cup. It’s your favourite—black, with just a splash of cream. Exactly how you like it. Your brows rise, impressed. “You remembered?”

He shrugs again, looking straight ahead. “You talk a lot. I listen.”

You laugh softly, taking a sip. It’s perfect.

In front of you, the kids have already darted back toward the slide, juice boxes in hand, loud and messy and full of life.

You watch them for a moment, then glance sideways at Sukuna. His arms are crossed again, one foot tapping absently against the ground. His eyes are hidden, but you don’t need to see them to know where he’s looking.

“They’re good together,” you say quietly.

He nods. “Yeah.”

You both fall into silence then, but it’s not awkward. It’s not empty. It’s full with the smell of coffee, the echo of laughter and the rustle of leaves overhead.

By the time you and Miki leave the playground, the clouds are deeper in colour, casting long shadows along the quiet streets of your neighbourhood. The air is cool now, crisp enough to carry the scent of distant rain and fallen leaves. Your hand is warm around Miki’s small one as you walk together, your steps slow, unrushed.

She hums under her breath, a soft little tune from kindergarten about stars and rainbows and animal friends who never go home angry. It’s off-key and a little wobbly, but it fills the space between you like golden thread stitching the day together.

Your heart feels full, almost too full. You catch yourself smiling, the kind of smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth before you even notice it’s there. You think of Sukuna’s coffee, his dry remark, the faint twitch at the edge of his lips. Of how his hand brushed yours.

You think of how Yuji had held Miki’s hand like he’d done it a hundred times before.

And then Miki speaks.

“Yuji said his mommy and daddy are in heaven,” she says suddenly, like it’s a passing observation, like she’s talking about clouds. You freeze mid-step.

Your gaze flicks downward just as you reach the street corner, the little crosswalk button already glowing red. You press it with trembling fingers and crouch slightly, turning toward her.

Your voice is careful. “He told you that?”

She nods, blinking up at you with her big, round eyes. “Mhm. Like Mommy. He misses them a lot.”

There’s a soft weight in your chest now, like the air’s been knocked out of you in the gentlest way imaginable. You swallow, too fast, and it sticks in your throat.

Miki stares out at the street as the signal changes to green, her tone thoughtful, unburdened. “But he said his uncle is great. That he makes the dark corners spill with light.”

Your breath hitches.

Her words hang there, weightless and devastating all at once.

Your sister’s face flashes behind your eyes. Serene, laughing in a way that always made other people laugh too. That memory, always warm, always painful. And then the crushing silence that came after. The cold hospital room. The white-knuckled grip you had on your own knees as you sat beside a child who didn’t understand that goodbye was forever.

Your eyes sting. You blink fast, trying to keep the tears back, but one escapes anyway, quietly slipping down your cheek before you can stop it.

And then Miki squeezes your hand.

You look down, startled by her warmth, her knowing little smile. She doesn’t say anything for a second, then she lifts her eyes to yours again and says with all the certainty in the world: “You’re the same, you know. Like Uncle Sukuna.”

You blink, not understanding. “The same?”

She nods. “You fill dark corners with light too.”

The world wavers at the edges, your vision blurry with sudden, sharp tears.

You crouch down beside her right there at the edge of the street, pull her close and kiss her forehead as gently as you can. She smells like grass and juice and sunshine. And in that moment, your heart breaks and heals in the same beat.

You whisper against her hair, “Thank you, darling.”

Her arms wrap around your neck, squeezing tight. She hums again on the way home, skipping every few steps. And this time, you hum along.

>><<<

Miki’s words linger in your mind like an echoing melody you can’t stop humming, curling around your thoughts in quiet moments. You’re the same, you know. Like Uncle Sukuna. You fill dark corners with light too.

They stay with you even days later, when you spot him again at the playground.

It’s late afternoon and the sky is a muted blue-grey, thick with the hush of an autumn day winding down. The breeze is cool, curling through the branches of the naked cherry tree above that familiar bench. Yuji is mid-race across the gravel toward Miki, who waits near the slide with her arms open wide like she’s about to catch him in a spinning hug.

But your eyes are on Sukuna.

He’s not wearing his sunglasses today. It’s the first time you’ve seen him without them and it feels oddly intimate. Like some unspoken layer between you has peeled away without announcement or ceremony.

His red eyes are startling at first, sharp and cutting, so unlike anything you’ve seen before, but then, the longer you look, the more you begin to see the truth behind them. They’re watchful, yes, always alert. But they’re not cold.

They’re warm.

Not in the obvious, overly expressive way some people wear their hearts on their sleeves but in small ways. The way he checks on Yuji from the corner of his eye, like he can’t stop. The way those crimson irises soften, just barely, when he spots you approaching. The way his mouth doesn’t scowl the moment you sit beside him.

You wonder if Yuji has told him about Miki’s mom.

If he knows, like you now know, how cruel and strange fate has been to both of you. Two kids, each missing someone irreplaceable. Two adults trying their best, often feeling like it’s not enough.

It makes everything ache a little more. But also, oddly, less. Because you’re not alone in it anymore.

That’s why you ask.

“Hey,” you say, halfway through the hour, when Miki and Yuji are busy collecting acorns beneath the tree like they’re rare gems. “Would you two want to come over for dinner on Sunday?”

Sukuna looks at you like he didn’t quite hear you right.

You keep your voice steady, gentle. “No pressure. Just… I thought it might be nice. You’ve kind of become part of our week.”

There’s a pause. His brows lift, his expression unreadable for a second.

Then he asks, slowly, “You sure?”

You nod. “Of course.”

He watches you. Really watches you. And you don’t flinch from it.

After a moment, his voice is lower. “Should I bring anything? Help out?”

You shake your head with a smile. “Just bring your appetite. I was thinking I’d make oden.”

That’s when it happens—he smiles. A real one. Rare. Small, but not fleeting.

It pulls at his sharp features, softens the edges that usually make people keep their distance. It transforms him, not into someone else, but into someone you finally understand a little more.

He leans back on the bench, arms crossed, mouth tugging up in amusement.

“Oden, huh?” he says. “That’s mine and Yuji’s favourite.”

Your heart flutters in a way that catches you off guard. But you just laugh, nudging your knee lightly against his.

“Then it’s settled.”

You watch the kids from your place beneath the cherry tree, Yuji laughing, Miki chasing after him, their hands sticky with juice and full of little treasures from the ground.

And beside you, Sukuna doesn’t scowl. Doesn’t frown. He just sits there with you, the thread between you pulling a little tighter. A little steadier.

Sukuna and Yuji arrive just a few minutes past five that Sunday, and the moment they step inside your small but cozy apartment, the air feels warmer, more alive.

Yuji barrels through the doorway with his usual unfiltered energy, announcing that he smells something really good, while Miki squeals and pulls him toward the living room, already chattering about the game she wants to show him. Sukuna follows after them more slowly, a slight smile tugging at his mouth as he offers a polite nod and kicks off his boots.

You’re still wearing your apron, sleeves rolled up, cheeks flushed from leaning over the pot. “Dinner’ll be ready in ten.”

Sukuna lingers near the kitchen doorway. “You weren’t kidding about oden.”

You glance over your shoulder at him. “You doubted me?”

He smirks. “Just surprised. Feels like it’s been a long time since someone cooked for us.”

There’s something in his voice when he says that, soft and quiet, like a piece of him he doesn’t usually show. It makes you want to offer more than just food.

The evening unfolds in a rhythm that feels too natural to be new.

Dinner is loud in the best way with Yuji and Miki sitting side by side at the low table, alternating between chewing and telling increasingly wild stories about their kindergarten adventures. You and Sukuna eat more slowly, trading glances and soft smiles between refilling bowls and nudging extra daikon toward the kids’ plates.

At some point, Sukuna actually laughs, deep and rough and so startlingly genuine that you turn your head just to catch it with your own eyes.

Later, when the kids are tucked into Miki’s room with a stack of books and Sukuna helps you clear the dishes, there’s a moment where neither of you says anything. His fingers brush yours as he passes you a bowl. You don’t move away.

“I don’t want this to be just a one-time thing,” you say softly, almost before you can think better of it.

Sukuna’s gaze flicks to yours, unreadable at first. Then, he nods. “Yeah. Me neither.”

So you decide, quietly, like a secret you both already knew, to do it again next week. And the one after that.

You call it dinner for the kids because it’s easier that way. But each week, it becomes harder to ignore the way your chest feels fuller, lighter, every time you hear Yuji’s knock at the door. Harder to pretend that the subtle brushing of hands or the way Sukuna always stays just a little longer isn’t something more.

After the fourth Sunday, when bellies are heavy with sukiyaki and cheeks are pink from warmth and laughter, you and Miki leave Sukuna and Yuji at their door with promises for next week. The first snow has begun to fall as you walk home, soft and slow like a whispered lullaby. It gathers in Miki’s dark hair and on the tip of her nose as she hops beside you, clutching your hand.

It’s peaceful. Magical, even. Then Miki looks up at you with wide, innocent eyes and asks, “When are you gonna marry Uncle Sukuna?”

You almost choke. Your breath stutters, your cheeks go hot, and your feet miss a step as you sputter, “W-what?”

She giggles like she knows exactly what she’s doing. “You like each other. You always smile when he talks and he always looks at you like you’re a magical princess.”

You stare at her, mouth open, absolutely stunned.

“Miki!” you manage, a little breathlessly. “Where is that even coming from?”

She shrugs, skipping ahead with snow crunching beneath her boots. “Yuji said he wants us to stay with them. So if you get married, we could be family forever.”

Your heart clenches in the most unexpected, tender way.

You glance up at the snowflakes drifting lazily through the streetlamp glow, cheeks burning not from the cold. And though you laugh and shake your head, part of you, deep, quiet and hopefulm, doesn’t dismiss the thought entirely.

Something begins to slowly shift in the weeks after that snowy walk home with Miki. It’s nothing dramatic, nothing that announces itself with fanfare. But you feel it.

You see Sukuna a little differently now.

Not that he’s changed much. He’s still blunt, still gruff and unreadable at times, still scowls when other parents get too nosy or too loud. He still speaks with that low, gravel-edged voice that makes people instinctively step back before he’s even said anything of substance.

But you’ve started seeing under all that. Maybe you always had, but now it’s clearer.

At the playground, he stands with his arms crossed and watches the kids like a silent guardian, but when Yuji calls out to show him a poorly made snowman or a silly drawing in the dirt, Sukuna’s face softens and he always crouches down, always listens, always praises even if his praise is hidden in sarcasm. “That’s one monstrous snowman, kid. Terrifying. Good work.”

Sometimes, the four of you go to cafés or the small arcade a few blocks from your place. The kids race from machine to machine while you and Sukuna stand side by side, sipping from paper cups and pretending not to notice the way your arms brush when you lean close to talk.

But it’s at home, your home, where he changes the most.

He cooks with you now, without question. He washes the vegetables while you stir the pot, reads off the instructions on your slightly stained recipe cards, leans over your shoulder to check the seasoning and mumbles, “Tastes good,” like it’s the highest compliment he knows how to give.

He’s more relaxed here, as though he’s finally stopped waiting for the ground to fall out from under him.

Then one night, it happens.

It’s late. The kids are full and quiet, curled on the couch watching some loud, colourful cartoon that has them hypnotised. Outside, the first signs of winter’s edge creep into the wind and the little balcony attached to your living room feels like a private pocket of the world.

You’re sitting out there with Sukuna now, sharing a blanket over your laps, nursing the last of a bottle of red wine. He refills your glass without asking and you thank him quietly. Your fingers brush again.

And then he speaks.

“My brother and his wife,” he says, looking out at the night skyline, voice low. “It was a car crash. A year and a half ago.”

You turn toward him, eyes soft, lips parted, but you don’t speak. You don’t interrupt.

“I didn’t know what the hell I was doing,” he continues. “Still don’t, most days. Yuji hadn’t even turned three. Kept asking where they were. I didn’t know how to tell him he was never gonna see them again. So I just... tried to keep the lights on. Keep him fed. Put him to sleep when he cried.”

You reach for his hand. He doesn’t pull away.

You squeeze gently. “I get you,” you say, your voice equally soft, equally vulnerable. “I really do.”

He looks at you then, really looks. Not with pity, but with something deeper. Understanding. Recognition. Like you’re mirrors of each other in the dim light.

“Miki was only two,” you continue. “My sister died after a sudden illness. Miki’s dad disappeared before she was born. I was twenty-four. I had no idea what I was doing either.”

He exhales, long and quiet. The moment hangs there, warm despite the chill, the wind nudging at your blanket like it’s trying to sneak in and remind you how fragile these moments are. But you hold on. And so does he.

His gaze lingers on you longer than usual as he gently pulls the blanket a little higher around your shoulders. His fingers brush your cheek as they do, rough and warm.

Then the balcony door slides open just enough for Yuji’s sleepy face to peek through. “Uncle Kuna,” he mumbles. “I’m tired…”

“I’m coming,” Sukuna murmurs. He rises, steps inside, lifts Yuji into his arms effortlessly like he’s done it a thousand times. Maybe he has.

Miki is already dozing on the couch, curled under a fuzzy blanket.

You follow him to the door slowly, not wanting the evening to end. Not wanting the fragile thread between you to loosen.

Sukuna turns, Yuji resting his head on his shoulder, his little hand fisted in the collar of his uncle’s sweater.

Your breath catches when Sukuna leans in, pauses, and then kisses you.

It’s not rushed. It’s not heated. It’s warm and tender.

His lips are slightly chapped from the cold, and his free hand brushes your waist as you lean in, your own hand pressed to the solid warmth of his chest. You feel it then, his heart. Beating fast. Hard. Like yours.

When he pulls back, just slightly, he says nothing at first. Just looks at you like maybe he’s been waiting for this just as long as you have.

“…See you next Sunday?” he murmurs.

You nod, smile, eyes soft. “Yeah. Next Sunday.”

He leaves with a sleeping child in his arms and a part of your heart in his hands.

>>><<<

The days pass like quiet brushstrokes across a growing canvas, until what you once saw as fragments, playground glances, shared meals, overlapping footsteps on the walk home, start to fit together without you even trying. The shift isn’t sudden, it’s soft and subtle.

It’s the way Sukuna’s laughter comes more easily now, like he’s no longer bracing for the world to pull something away from him. It’s in how Yuji and Miki have started calling each other best friends without hesitation. It’s how you find yourself reaching for Sukuna’s hand not just out of habit but out of want.

Your homes blur into one, weekends blending into weekdays. He knows where you keep your coffee filters. You know how he likes his miso soup.

And when your eyes meet across a room, over the heads of laughing children or across the kitchen counter, it no longer feels accidental. It feels inevitable.

You spend Christmas together, all four of you. You hang handmade ornaments on a modest little tree while Yuji and Miki wear matching reindeer pyjamas. Sukuna pretends to hate the cheesy holiday music but you catch him humming along under his breath. He buys you a gift, simple and thoughtful. A delicate bracelet with a single charm shaped like a sakura blossom.

“Something to remind you of spring,” he mutters, like it means nothing. But you look at the charm and remember that first mild spring day in the park. And it means everything.

You kiss him under the mistletoe that night.

New Year’s is quieter. Cozy. The kids fall asleep well before midnight, curled up in a fort of blankets on the pull-out sofa in your living room, the warm glow of the lamp flickering above them.

You and Sukuna sit on the floor beside each other, drinking something hot and watching the countdown on mute. When the fireworks go off outside your window, painting the dark with gold and red, he turns to you and says nothing.

But his hand finds yours. And when you lean into him, he doesn’t hesitate. He kisses you slowly, thoroughly, like it’s something he’s been waiting to do for far too long.

You don’t talk much as he carries you to your bedroom, careful not to wake the children. The air between you is charged with anticipation, yes, but also something gentler, something reverent.

He touches you like he’s memorising you. Like you’re not just someone he wants but someone he needs.

His hands are calloused but tender, skimming your skin with the kind of patience that breaks you open. His mouth trails down your throat, over your collarbone, across every inch of bare skin like he’s tracing a story into you, like each kiss is a vow spoken without words.

Your breath stutters when he sinks into you, slow, deep and grounding. He holds your gaze as if afraid you’ll vanish if he looks away.

“Sukuna,” you whisper, your voice already trembling with everything you feel.

He cups your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone and says nothing for a long moment, just watches you, eyes blown but warm, like you’re the only thing tethering him to this world.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is low and hoarse, heavy with emotion.

“You have no idea what you’ve done to me.”

You kiss him again before he can say more because you feel it too. The weight, the warmth, the terrifying, beautiful truth of it all. That somewhere along the way, without either of you meaning to, this stopped being something temporary.

It’s a quiet Saturday in late January when you decide it’s time to tell the kids. Outside, the sky is a pale grey, snow drifting down in soft spirals, dusting the balcony and windowsills in a thin, glimmering layer. Inside, it’s warm. The heater hums gently, the kotatsu glows faintly beneath its heavy blanket, and the air smells like grilled onigiri and miso soup.

Yuji and Miki are seated cross-legged on the living room floor, heads bowed together as they share a page from a colouring book, trading markers like bartering pros. Miki’s cheeks are flushed, a little crayon streaked near her temple. Yuji’s tongue pokes out as he concentrates, one tiny socked foot pressed against her shin. They look so natural together. Familiar. Like they’ve always belonged in the same frame.

You sit across the room on the couch beside Sukuna, the warmth of his thigh brushing yours, your pinkies just barely touching on the cushion. There’s a calm silence between you, but it’s pulsing, full of something unspoken. You glance at him. His gaze is already on you.

You don’t even need to say it. You both just know. It’s time.

You shift, pulling your legs under you, and Sukuna straightens slightly, his broad shoulders lifting with a breath as he leans forward toward Yuji. You take a moment to smooth your palms over your jeans, nerves fluttering in your stomach like birds trapped in your chest.

“Sweetheart,” you call softly.

Miki looks up immediately, eyes bright. “Yes?”

Sukuna places a steady hand on Yuji’s back. “Hey, kid.”

They both stop colouring, sensing the shift, that subtle change in atmosphere, the stillness beneath the warmth.

You lean forward, heart beating a little too loud in your ears. “We have something to tell you.” You glance at Sukuna, and he gives you the faintest nod.

You look back to Miki, meeting her eyes. “Sukuna and I… we’re together now. We’re dating.”

For a moment, time stands still. The kotatsu’s low hum becomes the only sound in the room. The kids blink. Then Miki’s face crumples, her little hands flying to her mouth as her eyes fill to the brim with tears.

“Really?” she whispers, voice breaking with joy.

You nod slowly. “Really.”

She lets out a noise, a tiny squeal, half sob, half laugh, and launches herself into your lap so suddenly it knocks the breath from your lungs. Her arms go around your neck like she’s trying to hold all of you, her cheek pressing into your shoulder.

“I knew it,” she hiccups. “I told Yuji you love each other!”

Your throat tightens as your arms wrap around her, instinctive and firm, and the tears come fast, hot and unbidden. You bury your face into her hair, trying to breathe past the ache in your chest. But it’s not a painful ache, it’s too full for that. Too vast.

Across from you, Yuji’s staring wide-eyed up at Sukuna, his little hands gripping the fabric of his uncle’s pants like an anchor.

“Uncle Kuna,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “does that mean we’re finally a family?”

Sukuna doesn’t speak right away. You see something flicker across his face, something old, maybe painful, but then it softens, melts into something so tender it cracks you open all over again.

He bends down and scoops Yuji up, settling the boy easily against his chest. “Yeah, bud,” he says, voice low and sure. “I think it does.”

Your heart stutters. The words slam into your ribs, your lungs, your throat.

A family.

You pull Miki in closer, blinking back more tears even as they spill anyway. Her small hands are tangled in your sweater now, and you feel her little heartbeat fluttering wildly against your chest.

Sukuna moves towards you, one arm still holding Yuji, the other wrapping firmly around your shoulders. You lean into his chest without thinking, without hesitation, burying yourself in his warmth, letting his strength fold around you like shelter.

And you cry.

Quietly, freely.

You cry for all the moments you’ve held your breath. For the ache of missing your sister. For the nights you rocked Miki to sleep wondering if you were enough. You cry because, for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel alone.

You look down at Miki, her little face damp with happy tears, her lashes sticking together, and you whisper brokenly, “She’d be so happy, sweetheart. Your mommy would be so proud of you.”

Sukuna presses a kiss to the top of your head. The warmth of it sinks straight into your bones.

You close your eyes and allow yourself to imagine, just for a moment, your sister sitting in the corner of the room, watching this unfold. You imagine her smiling, soft and teary-eyed, her hand over her heart.

You hope, wherever she is, she sees this. That she sees Miki safe in your arms. That she sees you, finally surrounded by the kind of love that doesn’t slip away.

And that she sees the man beside you, the one who walked into your life with rough edges and a guarded heart, and stayed long enough to show you that love doesn’t always come like lightning. Sometimes it comes like spring.

Slow. Patient. And blooming.

[traumainpyjamas]

JOHNNY \\ [231016] JOHNNY NCT 127 WEVERSE LIVE

[i-like-loserz]

honey, baby

synopsis: san needs your attention

pairing: husband!san x afab!reader

warnings: SMUT (18+), jealousy, handjob, begging, teasing, sub!san, dacryphilia, pet-names, house-wife!reader, messy endings, light marking kink, reader does not get off..., not proof-read :0

word count: 2.5k

note: i'm sorry, we all need some sub!san in our lives... right...

masterlist

How delicate his hand is, adorned handsomely with understated rings, pressing gently against the small of your back as he leads you through the room. Artificial chatter, decorated with an occasional bout of posh laughter, settles finely above the jazz playing in the background. 

Your heels click softly against the marble flooring, each step lining up perfectly with his. 

Together, you’re a vision of excellence. 

San is the man that everyone wants. The definition of a gentleman. He’s charming, polite, and patient. But also unbelievably beautiful. He comes from a background of old money, but his legacy never stopped him from looking elsewhere for love.

Then there’s you. A woman who can blend into any crowd, disarming even the most stuck-up aristocrat with an easy smile. No one knows where you came from, but they don’t really care – or rather, they stopped caring once they realized how easily San would drop them for bothering you. 

The two of you act as the personification of refined love. 

Modest, refined, and lovely. Rarely sharing even a single kiss in front of an audience. 

San nods to a few guests as he passes them, politely acknowledging their existence, but never making a move to engage with them. He exudes this aura of cool confidence – as if every breath he takes is calculated and perfected. This way, no one ever questions his decisions or fights his whims…not like you anyway.

The wine glass in your hand has a bare sip of red left in it. The rim is spotted with the seductive print of your lips, reflecting the small tastes you took throughout the night to keep yourself relatively sober.

You would have gone for another but a heated whisper, pressed exquisitely against the edge of your ear, drew away any thoughts of humoring your husband’s guests. You settle it gently on a counter, no longer needing the prop of a hostess. 

San’s leading hand presses more insistently against back with each step he takes. His breaths grow deeper, his body draws closer. 

Usually, he’s able to wait until the party ends – watching you with dark eyes as you see the last of the crowd off, thanking them for visiting with that polite smile you’ve perfected. You’re so good to him, putting up with the lifestyle he was born into and taking the role of the perfect housewife and hostess that pays attention to every need her guests have.  

But now, San needs your attention to be directed at him. 

—

He broke while you were in the middle of a conversation with somebody’s plus one. And San knows he was a plus one because he didn’t recognize the man…or his name…or his “successful tech” company. 

He’s not usually a jealous man, but something about this guy…

San was sitting next to you, charming yet another investor of his father’s business, when he heard a low voice speaking to his beautiful wife, “Please, call me Yunho, Mr. Jeong is my father.” 

It peeved him.

You laughed politely, displaying your easy going nature by complying with his wish, repeating his first name before offering your own. San bristled at the sound of another man’s name coming from your lips. 

Who even is this guy? 

There were no Jeongs on the guestlist – and he would know, he’s the one who checks off on that stuff. This is a business party, not some get together that can be crashed so unpleasantly by an overnight millionaire like him.

The investor he was once trying to woo was getting pulled into a different conversation. And thank god for that. He wouldn’t have been much fun to talk to when he’s distracted like this anyway. 

San took that as an opportunity to turn his body toward yours. He watched intently as you continued your friendly interaction with a handsome stranger – who seems to be leaning closer with every pretty word you speak. 

You looked effortlessly beautiful as you rambled about the recent trip he took you on, excitedly describing your favorite restaurants with that familiar brightness in your eyes. He’s suddenly longing to hold your hand right then and there, to pull you onto his lap and nuzzle his face against the crook of your neck. 

His hand moved before he could think about it, gently brushing over your forearm to get your attention. When you turned to look at your husband, the man in front of you retreated from his slow shift into your space, suddenly uneasy by how San was staring him down. 

“Honey?”

At the sound of your voice, he shifted his attention from the offending man to you, the tension in his shoulders easing at the affectionate pet-name. San rounded his eyes innocently, softening his expression. 

“Baby…” He said timidly in a bare whisper, fully knowing that that name was strictly off-limits in public. You raise a questioning eyebrow, wondering what made your husband so needy all of the sudden.

“San.”

San leaned closer to you, a hand slowly shifting from the velvet couch to the top of your thigh. The guests continued to bustle around the two of you, unaware of the sudden tension settling between you. You let him push closer until his lips barely brush against ear.

“Pay attention to me…”

—

You’ve never left your own party early. You have actually trained yourself to have the same amount of energy greeting the guests as you do leading them out. The party doesn't end until you've seen everyone out.

So will anyone really notice a scant 15 minutes of your absence?

Well, you hope not. 

San couldn’t even make it to the bedroom. Instead, he pulled you into an oversized laundry room at the end of the hall, sliding the door shut before you could protest about being too close to the party.

“Sannie, wait.” 

Your words are lost to the air. 

He’s already pressing desperate, hot kisses against your throat. His broad body effectively pins you to the door as his hands, itching to undress you, drag over your soft curves covered by the fine fabric of your dress. Eager fingers grope over your tits before settling delicately around the base of your neck.

His suit jacket rests in a heap on the floor, leaving him in his unbuttoned vest and wrinkled dress shirt – a view you’d love to devour if not for the people who stand on the other side of the door. 

“Maybe we should stop –” 

“I can’t, I-I need you, baby.” He’s begging you – each word pathetically whined out from his pouty lips. “Need you close to me.”

“What if they notice that we’re both gone? What if they come looking?”

Pitiful moans are pressed onto your skin as he helplessly grasps at your body, scared that you’d leave him wanting and overwhelmed by his need to feel you against him.

At this point, San wouldn’t care if the whole party saw him fucking you against the dining table – least of all that Yunho guy. He doesn’t care if they can hear him whining for you, begging you to let him fill you up like he does every night. He wants to show you off, hold open your cum soaked thighs just to show them that you love him and he’s your good boy. 

But at the same time, letting anyone see you like that irks him like nothing else. You’re his and he’s yours.

“Please.” He implores, eyes glistening with a needy look. He gently takes your hand and leads it to where he needs you the most. You give in easily, pressing against his cock which strains against his perfectly tailored trousers. He’s already throbbing from the faint sensation of your touch. 

“Please…?” You tease under your breath, now fully gripping the shape of him through the layers of his clothes. He watches the way your hand moves over him with a dazed look, appreciating the way your small hand looks, fisting his clothed cock with glazed eyes.

You squeeze him abruptly, nudging him for an answer and he responds with a surprised whine, his hips jerking up against you from the intense sensation.  

“Please t-touch me.” 

“I am, baby.”

His dark eyebrows pinch in frustration, “You know what I mean.”

You hum understandingly, slowly unzipping his pants as you taunt him.

“You’re so needy…” 

He sighs as you pull down his briefs along with the restricting fabric of his pants. His thick cock slaps against his covered stomach, flushed prettily in a deep shade of pink, gently weeping pre-cum at the tip. Everything about San is pretty – especially the enamoured way he stares down at you with his signature pouty lips and flushed cheeks.

Eyes locked with his, you idly run a finger against his bare hip, so close to where he wants you to touch. He stutters out a shaky breath, his body shivering from the delicate sensation.

“K-kiss me.” He cups your jaw and moves impossibly closer to you. Your chest meets his as he holds you close, his hips pressing his hard cock against your body. He dips down to hover his soft lips over yours, “...Please.” He adds in a whisper – drenched in desperation. 

As if you could ever deny him.

“You’re cute…” You whisper back before pressing your lips onto his. 

You feel him immediately melt against you, his cock twitching eagerly against your stomach as he finally tastes you on his tongue. You hope he doesn't notice how you subtly rub your thighs together, an attempt to relieve the ache between them.

Your hands drift from resting on his chest to tangle in his hair, tugging gently at the ends, if only to hear that breathless whine that you adore. 

As you draw away for a breath, you notice a smear of red messily decorating his lips. He doesn’t seem to care though, looking down at a similar mess on your lips with a heated gaze.

You can tell that he’s imagining the same stain at the base of his cock. San has a thing for marks, especially because it’s you who’s leaving them. 

You lift up his dress shirt before pressing the palm of your hand against his aching erection, drawing a cute whimper from him. His stomach flexes from the sudden coolness of the air touching his heated skin.

Oh, how you want to lick over each defined ab, make him cry out from your teasing before biting into the firmness of his stupidly broad chest – but you don’t have time for that right now.

“Look at you,” You wrap your hand around him and slowly start to jerk him off, “almost about to cum from some kissing.” San bites his bottom lip to keep his moans down as your thumb repeatedly rubs over the edge of his sensitive tip. 

“C-can’t help it, you taste s-so good.” His hips thrust eagerly against your hand, cock generously leaking as he feels himself already approaching the edge.

Your wrist moves in quick, practiced motions, slick noises filling the space between you. You can't help but dip your other hand under his dress shirt, feeling up his perfect body with the edge of your nails to make him tremble.

“I'll let you taste more tonight if you cum for me like a good boy."

San nods eagerly, but you can tell by that hazy look in his eye that he'd agree to jump off from the second floor balcony if you asked him.

You can tell that he's getting close by the way he's bucking into your slippery fist, whines growing louder and more desperate. It almost looks like he's about to cry as he stares down at the way your hand is wrapped so perfectly around his throbbing cock.

“About to c-cum,” he pants, eyes glistening sweetly. "F-ffuck, baby… Y-you’re s-so good to me. Don’t want it to get on you, though, and ruin your pretty dress.”

"No?" You tease as you watch him struggle to move a mere inch away, hips still thrusting in want. How cute. His eyes squeeze shut at your honeyed tone, knowing you were going to make it harder for him to back away. "You don't want to see me covered in your pretty mess?"

"Nnghh~" You watch him scramble to hold off his orgasm, legs shaking as his hands grip your waist tightly to ground himself. "please -- !"

You finally let him make some space between you, finding it adorable that even in this state, he's worried about protecting you from the people outside.

You give him one last squeeze, fingers brushing over his dripping tip before whispering: "Okay, baby~ Cum for me."

And he does. Oh, how he makes a mess of himself.

His broad shoulders shake as he curls his body into himself, head dipped while spilling out the most pathetic breathy whines against the top of your shoulder.

His hips shake sporadically as each rope of cum covers your hand, dripping miraculously over his lap and onto his once perfectly-pressed pants. Somehow, he stayed true to his word. Not a drop touched your dress.

"Good boy..."

He groans as you milk him with a tight fist, body shuddering from the overstimulation. Your other hand soothes him, rubbing gently over his stomach as he moves through his high.

---

San's panting, leaning against the washing machine with a fucked-out look on his face. He pulled his briefs back on, opting to leave the pants unbuttoned and barely hanging onto his hips.

At this point, it would be better for him to change – his pants are stained with drops of cum, his shirt is wrinkled and stretched out, his hair has been fluffed into a mess. 

Maybe you should just tell everyone that he wasn’t feeling well…

You press a light peck to the side of his flushed neck before moving away from him in a hurry. You wash your hands in the small sink at the corner of the room and find a few tissues to take off your ruined lipstick and any residual sweat. 

You try to fix your hair to look decent – though there is no mirror to really check – and smooth out your dress. Thankfully, San only made a mess of himself (at least, visually). You were planning to slip into a bathroom on the way to the parlor anyway. 

“Ok, baby.” You throw the tissues away before turning back to your husband. His eyes are still half-lidded with lust, watching how easily you go back to being the refined woman from earlier this evening. “Clean yourself up, I’m going back out. I’ll tell them you’re feeling under the weather.” 

“You’re so beautiful.” His raspy voice is endearing. 

You feel your cheeks heating up at the compliment. You try to stamp it down, try to stay composed, but he always knows what to say to make you feel this way. 

“You are beautiful, baby.” You respond with a gentle smile, walking back to him to give him one last kiss. One turns into many. He shyly smiles back, his dimples deepening as you scatter more kisses around his face.

“Wish me luck out there.” You whisper, running your fingers through his hair to reduce the fluffiness. 

“Come back to me soon, okay?”

“Anything for you, my love.”

[machveil]

I can't resist the siren call

Roommate!Simon Riley that low-key enjoys fucking with your friends Y/N

subtle foreshadowing… I suppose I can dip into my nsfw Roommate!Simon Riley thoughts

Roommate!Simon Riley who shares a laundry bin with you, it had been agreed a long time ago that just doing a big load would be easier. you takes turns, knowingly stealing each other’s clothes every couple days when the laundry is fresh out the machine. you know Simon took an oversized t-shirt you owned, but that’s okay, you took his favorite gym hoodie

Roommate!Simon Riley who doesn’t get embarrassed about his underwear being in the bin with yours, it’s all going in the machine anyways. that doesn’t stop him from raising an eyebrow though when his favorite boxers go missing. he was sure he put them in with the dirties, well, the cleans now. he figures the machine ate it, or maybe they’ll show up some day by chance - he shrugs it off and separates his clothes from yours, snagging one of your oversized sweaters to lounge in later

Roommate!Simon Riley who freezes when he sees you on the couch that night. eyes wide and jaw slack, he can’t bring himself to move. sat watching something on the tv - he can’t be bothered to acknowledge whats playing - he stares at you, wearing his boxers as shorts. “Hey, come watch this— I’ll catch you up since it just started. I’m not pausing it though so you better pay attention.”, your words are all in one ear and out the other. suddenly his legs are moving on their own, stopping in front of you. he doesn’t register what you’re saying, telling him to move because you can’t see the tv, but then he speaks

Roommate!Simon Riley whose voice is deliciously deep, a little raspy from how his throat suddenly feels dry, “S’that mine?”, he asks, eyeing his boxers. he’s never had such a hard time swallowing before, heartbeat erratic as you casually respond, “Huh— oh, yeah. They’re really comfy, the fabrics nice.”. fabrics nice, yeah, he knows. “You— ya know those are boxers, right love?”, he asks, hands twitchy as you reply, “Mhm, just borrowin’ them.”

CW: guilty wank, man is hopeless [kisses his cheek]

Roommate!Simon Riley who’s a mess after that interaction. you wouldn’t be able to tell by looking at him, but he’s losing it on the inside. he’s seen you be audacious with stealing his clothes before, taking his loose-fit tank tops that left little to the imagination on you, stealing clothes you knew he favored and parading around in them, but his boxers? that had him stalking back to his room, quick to turn on his heel before you could see his pants tent

he’s sweating, closes the door to his room a little harder than he meant to. god, he wants to go back out there and see you again, get an eyeful of how comfortable you looked - wearing his boxers like they were yours. you wouldn’t know, and he can’t help but think about it, but you had stolen his favorite pair. they’re plain, a simple black pair, something he bought at the store because he needed new underwear. but when you wear them? they suddenly looked different, makes his heart hammer against his chest. it feels like he walked out into the living room and you wearing lingerie, not something he got for fifteen pounds

he feels a little guilty, shoving his jeans down his thighs as he sits down on his bed. you’re home, sat in the living room just down the hall, and here’s Simon fishing his leaky cock out of his underwear. he really shouldn’t, he should sneak into the bathroom for a cold shower, think about war and blood and bullets to get his boner down. but he isn’t, he’s spitting into his palm and groaning, bringing his free hand up to cover his mouth - he’s never been good about keeping quiet. it’s not his fault you were out there wearing his clothes, you were the one that decided to look so— so cozy and content in your makeshift shorts. domestic

when that word settles at the forefront of his brain Simon’s hips jerk, you looked domestic, wanting to watch some show with him. his leg jolts slightly, hand moving to shallowly pump his weeping head. maybe your friends are right, Simon does take care of you - could bend you over and make you sob his name - he’s basically your boyfriend, often mistaken for your husband. his thighs tense when he imagines a ring on your finger— no, his dog tags hanging from your neck— god, holding you at night as an actual couple—

he’s choking out a moan, muffled and hoarse, as he coats his hand. eyes fluttering shut and breathing heavily, all his thoughts fly out the window as his cum drips down his fingers - all his thoughts except for one. he’s going to have to go back out there later to eat dinner with you, and oh, fuck, he sucks in a deep breath as he chubs up again

[spikedfearn]

All That's Left Is Yours

Part I

Walter "Lion" Kaminski x fem!reader

summary: Walter Kaminski doesn't know how to be loved without bracing for impact. A washed-up fighter living out of motel rooms and underground leagues, he's spent years surviving hits—in the ring, from his brother, from the world. But when you, a runaway with a sharp mouth and a sharper gaze enters his orbit, everything starts to tilt. The closer you get, the more Walter fears what his hands—trained to hurt, never to hold—might do.

wc: 8k

a/n: I’ve been working through Jack O’Connell’s filmography and the Remmick Discord recently did a group watch of Jungleland—and wow. I knew I was going to love it, but I didn’t expect Walter to tug at my heartstrings the way he did 😭 Dedicated to Liz @fuckoffbard for both beta reading and crafting the banner, you dropped something queen 👑

Disclaimer: You DO NOT need to watch Jungleland to read this fic but I highly recommend giving it a watch, Jack absolutely crushes it!!

warnings: emotional trauma, abusive family dynamics, sibling codependency, past drug use (mentioned), PTSD, fighting/violence, sub!Walter, praise kink, past physical abuse (mentioned), hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, angst with smut, unprotected sex, fingering, creampie, unsafe living conditions, unhealthy coping mechanisms, toxic sibling relationship, trauma bonding as a form of intimacy

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Masterlist

Part I: Roadside Attraction

The soda machine clicked, rattled, then swallowed your crumpled dollar like it was nothing. No fizz, no reward. You stared at the red-lit buttons like they owed you something, like they might start speaking and tell you what the hell to do next. But they stayed quiet. Just like you.

It was cold for a desert night. Not cold enough to shiver, but enough that the concrete seeped into your spine as you curled up beneath the flickering fleabag motel sign, your back pressed to the blocky warmth of the vending machine. Your toes were bare and caked with dry blood and gravel. You’d ditched the shoes miles ago, traded them for a gas station sandwich and a bottle of vodka that had long since burned its way through your gut.

You didn’t look up when the footsteps stopped. Not until the low voice cut through the hum of the highway:

"You planning to stay there all night?"

His voice was worn down and gritty, like it had been soaked in whiskey and rung out. The kind of voice that came from a man who’d been punched more times than he could count and still stood tall about it, vowels rough around the edges courtesy of a northeastern accent.

You didn’t answer.

A shadow blocked the light overhead. Broad shoulders. Lean build. Knuckles taped. Face half-hidden under a hoodie, but even in the neon sputter you could see the bruises painting his cheekbone. Left eye a little puffy. A fighter. And not the shiny kind with sponsors and cameras. This one was all backroom and blood.

"I’m not gonna call anyone," he said, voice low. "But you’ll freeze out here."

You looked up. He looked back. It wasn’t pity in his eyes. You would’ve spat on him if it was. No, it was something worse. Recognition. Like he knew the way it felt to run until your legs gave out. To keep your back to the past until the ache in your spine turned permanent.

He fished into his pocket, pulled out a motel key. Room 8.

"I’m not gonna ask," he added. "You want a shower and a bed, it’s yours. I sleep on the floor anyway."

Still, you didn’t move. Not until he dropped the key on the concrete beside you. He didn’t wait. Just turned and walked away, boots scraping the pavement, the bruised side of his face catching the light before he vanished around the corner.

The key dug into your palm when you pushed open the warped motel door.

Room 8 smelled like stale cigarette smoke and borrowed time. The air conditioner rattled like it was dying. There was one bed, neatly made. The sink dripped.

You didn’t see him inside.

The bathroom light buzzed weakly as you flipped the switch. You caught your reflection in the mirror and winced—blood dried at your temple, mascara smeared down your cheeks like you’d been crying even when you hadn’t. The hoodie you wore (not yours, never yours) hung off your shoulders like it didn’t belong.

The water was lukewarm, the pressure shit. But you stepped in anyway.

You peeled off the hoodie and your ragged shirt. The water hit your skin and stung where you were scraped up, but it felt like something real. Something cleansing. You let your forehead press to the motel tile, inhaled mildew and rust, and exhaled the memory of someone screaming your name from a porchlight you never wanted to return to.

Outside, you heard the soft thud of boots on concrete again. Then a lighter flick. The faint, sharp tang of smoke drifting through the thin walls.

You didn’t need to look to know he was right outside the door, leaning against the rail, smoking something cheap, flexing bruised hands with every drag. Trying not to think about you.

You were trying not to think about him.

You stepped out wrapped in one of the motel’s threadbare towels, the water still dripping down your thighs. The bathroom door creaked open. He didn’t turn to look. But he didn’t leave either.

You stood there a minute too long. Listening to his breath.

Both of you pretending like you weren’t listening for each other’s sounds. Like you hadn’t already started building something unnamed in the silence.

And still—he said nothing. Just one long drag of his cigarette, one slow exhale.

Like he was waiting to see if you'd come out again. Like maybe he didn’t want to sleep on the floor tonight after all.

You cleared your throat. Quiet, but just enough to cut through the buzz.

"I’m not staying long," you said. Your voice sounded raw.

He flicked ash into the night air. Still didn’t look at you. "Didn’t figure you would."

Another beat. You hated the silence more than you thought you would.

"You got a name?"

He turned his head then. Just slightly. His eyes met yours under the orange glow of the walkway light. They were tired. Bloodshot. But something flickered there.

"Lion," he said simply. "What about you?"

You hesitated. Names had power. Names meant someone could find you. But you told him anyway.

You watched his mouth twitch. Not quite a smile. Not yet.

He nodded once. "Alright then, sweetheart. Get some sleep."

And then he walked back inside. Left the door cracked. Just wide enough for you to follow.

You stood at the threshold, towel clutched like armor, bare feet planted on the motel carpet that smelled like mildew and cigarette ash. The door was cracked open just enough to catch the whisper of his presence—Lion’s shape slouched in the dark, the thin light from the bathroom stretching shadows across his back.

He didn’t look when you stepped inside. Didn’t say a word. But you felt the shift in the air. Like the way he dragged on that cigarette changed once he knew you were behind him. The silence filled in with something else—tension, heat, the thrum of two damaged people orbiting the same wreck.

You closed the door behind you with a soft click.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. The TV was off. The only light came from the slatted bathroom door behind you and the red eye of his smoke.

“I can take the floor,” you said, voice hushed, unsure why. Maybe because the quiet felt sacred. Maybe because you were still dripping, and every breath between you felt too loud.

His laugh was short and dry. “Already told you—I sleep like shit anywhere. Might as well let the floor take the fall for it.”

You didn’t move. Just stood there in your towel, skin goose-pricked from the AC groaning in the wall unit. Your gaze fell to his hands. Thick-knuckled, calloused, bandaged in places. Hands that didn’t know how to be gentle but maybe wanted to try.

“I’ll dry off. Then I’ll go.” You said it, but you didn’t mean it. Not really.

Lion finally turned his head. Looked at you. Really looked.

His eyes dragged over you slowly, not greedy—just tired and curious, like a man taking in something rare he didn’t know how to name.

“You bled through your bandage,” he murmured.

You glanced down. A dark blot of red soaked through the towel near your knee, the scrape reopened. You hadn’t noticed. Didn’t feel it over the slow pulse building in your core, the way his voice kept getting lower, rougher, the longer you stood there.

He reached for the ice bucket lid on the side table, turned it over, pulled a first-aid kit from beneath it. You hadn’t seen it earlier. He unscrewed the cap of a bottle of rubbing alcohol, then held it out without standing.

You stepped forward. Took the bottle. His fingers brushed yours. Just a flicker. But it lit something.

You knelt down in front of him—slow, deliberate. Not sexy. Not flirty. Just there. Between his knees, towel still clinging to your body, water still trailing from your hair onto your bare shoulders. You pulled the hem back enough to clean the scrape. His eyes never left your hands.

Neither of you said a word.

He flicked the cigarette out into the metal ashtray beside him. His hand dropped to his thigh. Rested there. Twitching just slightly.

“You do this a lot?” you asked after a beat, voice barely above a whisper. “Pick up strays?”

He exhaled slow. “Only the ones with a mean left hook.”

That made your mouth twitch. You shook your head, but you didn’t move away.

“You gonna ask what happened?”

“Nope.”

“You wanna know?”

“Yep.”

You looked up at him then. Close enough now that your knees brushed his boots. He smelled like soap from a gas station bathroom and sweat soaked into cotton. Tobacco. Musk. Blood. He looked down at you with something almost tender beneath all that fight-hardened bone.

“I can’t sleep either,” you said.

“I know.”

Another breath passed between you. It felt like a line in the sand. Like if you moved now, everything would change.

So you didn’t move. You stayed right there, with his knees bracketing you and the towel slipping lower down your back, and the heat of his stare holding you still.

And finally—finally—he said:

“You should get in the bed.”

Not a demand. Not a command. Just something raw and honest.

You hesitated.

And then you stood. Dropped the towel. Turned your back to him as you pulled the scratchy motel sheet up over your body, slipping between covers that still held his heat.

He didn’t follow.

But when the lights finally cut out, and the room went dark enough that you couldn’t see the ceiling for the silence, you felt it—his hand brushing your ankle. Just a graze.

Like he was checking you were real.

Like he needed to.

And something about it made your chest ache. Something about it made you wonder.

How often had he done that—reached out, quietly, carefully—just to see if something he cared about was still there? How many times had things disappeared on him without warning? How many hands had he held just long enough to feel them slip away?

You wondered if that was why he touched like that—soft, fleeting, like anything more would scare it off. Like permanence was a luxury he didn’t believe in.

The air conditioner sputtered its last breath sometime just before dawn.

You woke to stillness. Not the kind that soothed. The kind that pressed against your ears and made you too aware of your own heartbeat. The cheap motel sheets clung to your skin, itchy with dried sweat and the weight of someone else’s silence.

The light bleeding in through the blinds was soft—desert dawn pink and melted gold. Your eyes dragged across the ceiling, then to the empty space beside you. The bed was cold now.

Lion hadn’t slept in it.

Your gaze shifted to the floor.

He was stretched out on the thin motel carpet, one arm flung over his eyes to block the sun. His hoodie had been peeled off sometime in the night, wadded up beneath his head like a makeshift pillow. The rest of him—bare from the waist up—was bathed in the kind of early morning shine that made it hard to look away, fractals of light dancing off the gold pendant hanging down and resting against his sternum.

Lean. But cut with that kind of wiry strength earned from fists and failure. There was nothing polished about him. Nothing effortless. His body was a map of fights he didn’t win, of nights that left marks.

But what you noticed first wasn’t the bruises.

It was the ink.

A tattoo bloomed on his left side, stark black against the pale skin of his ribs. A budded cross—elegant, almost holy, but done in thick lines that stretched down to his hip bone. It followed the curve of his body with a precision that made your throat tighten.

It was the kind of tattoo that looked like it meant something.

The kind of tattoo someone might get when they had something to prove. Or something to grieve.

You sat up slowly, careful not to make the bed creak. But his voice cut through the quiet anyway—low, raspy from sleep.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You looked down. He hadn’t moved his arm. But you could see the faint smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“You didn’t,” you lied.

“Liar.”

Your lips parted. You wanted to ask about the tattoo. You wanted to ask about a lot of things. But the morning air felt too fragile, like words might break it.

He finally pulled his arm away. Blinked up at you with those same tired, blue eyes. The bruising had darkened overnight—sick purple above his cheekbone now.

“You get any sleep?” you asked.

He rolled onto his side, elbow propped beneath his head. “Some.”

You nodded. Your fingers twisted on the edge of the motel sheet. He noticed.

“Don’t look so nervous,” he said, voice still rough. “I’m not gonna touch you.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Not unless you ask.”

That made your breath catch.

“I wasn’t—” you started.

“You were,” he interrupted, not cruelly. Just honest. “It’s fine. You’re allowed to be nervous. I’m not exactly a picture of comfort.”

You let the silence sit for a moment.

“I saw your tattoo,” you said eventually.

That brought a real smile. Just a flicker.

“Yeah?” he asked, tone unreadable.

“It’s…unexpected.”

“People usually expect barbed wire or brass knuckles.”

“I expected nothing.”

That made his eyes narrow slightly. Not suspicious—just focused. Curious.

“Well,” he murmured, “you’re the first person to see it sober in a while. So congrats.”

You didn’t laugh. But you didn’t look away either.

The room was quiet again. Tense, but not sharp. Just stretched thin between two people who knew how to pretend nothing mattered. Who didn’t know what to do with the moments when something actually might.

He sat up slowly, every muscle moving like it remembered pain. His back cracked as he stretched.

“Want coffee?” he asked.

You blinked. “Here?”

He smirked. “There’s a machine in the lobby. Shit tastes like burnt tires, but it’s hot.”

You thought about it.

Thought about saying no.

But you didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said. “Okay.”

He grabbed his hoodie from the floor, dragged it on without looking at you again. But before he stepped outside, he paused. Hand on the doorknob.

“You can stay,” he said, quietly. “If you want.”

Then he left. The door creaked shut behind him.

You were alone again.

But it didn’t feel the same.

The crowd wasn’t loud—it was vicious.

Packed into a basement so humid the walls sweat blood, every shout felt like it came from somewhere deep in the throat. Somewhere animal. They didn’t cheer for skill. They didn’t want grace or footwork or strategy.

They wanted carnage. Blood.

Lion knew that before his fist ever hit the canvas.

His jaw ached from the first right hook, a bone-deep throb that crackled up to his temple. His opponent was a wall of meat and rage, a prison-yard brute with fists like cinder blocks. There was no technique. Just power. And Lion didn’t need his brother shouting from the side to know that power would win this crowd over long before heart ever did.

“Stop dancing and hit him!” Stanley barked from the corner, voice thick with panic disguised as anger. “You want him to walk all over you? Huh? Lion—get up!”

Lion spat blood. His vision shimmered. The world tilted just enough to make everything feel slightly wrong—too fast, too loud, too hot.

He got up anyway.

Because Stanley needed the money.

Because Stanley had smiled that fucking smile earlier that day and said, “This one’s easy, bro. Guy’s all show, no stamina. You just gotta take a few rounds, make it ugly, then put him down. Easy payday.”

Easy payday.

Lion barely registered the fourth hit that cracked his eyebrow open. He just felt the warm trickle down his temple, thick and wet, slipping into his eye. The crowd roared. The brute cracked his knuckles. Stanley screamed something else, but Lion couldn’t hear it.

He was already gone.

Gone into that space in his mind where it was just fists and fire. Where everything else fell away except the weight of his body and the will to keep standing. To not break.

Because he didn’t have the luxury of breaking.

Not when Stanley had already bet half of it.

Not when you were waiting, maybe still asleep in the motel bed, not knowing what the hell he’d gotten roped into.

You heard the door before you saw him.

He didn’t knock.

He just opened it like it was still his room—even though he’d let you keep the bed, even though he’d left hours ago with nothing but a promise of shit coffee and that quiet, bruised voice telling you you could stay if you wanted.

You were still in bed, half-dozing with the curtains cracked to let in the morning sun when he stumbled in.

Stumbled.

That was the only word for it.

His steps weren’t steady. They were uneven, like the world tilted just slightly under his boots and he hadn’t figured out how to stand on it yet.

You sat up fast. “Lion?”

He shut the door behind him and leaned against it like it was the only thing holding him upright.

His face was a mess.

Split brow. Eye swollen nearly shut. Blood crusted from his lip to his chin. His knuckles looked worse—skin torn open, bones shifting wrong under the stretch of bruised flesh. The same hands you’d cleaned less than twelve hours ago.

“What the hell happened to you?” you asked, heart dropping.

He didn’t answer. Just blinked slow, eyes locking onto you like he was making sure you were still there. Still real. Like the only thing that mattered was that you saw him like this—wrecked, standing, and silent.

“Sit down.” You were already sliding out of bed, grabbing the shitty motel towels and the first aid kit he’d used on you.

“I’m fine,” he rasped.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Been worse.”

You knelt in front of him anyway. He didn’t stop you.

You peeled his hoodie back, the fabric stiff with sweat and blood. His body flinched when you touched his ribs, and that’s when you saw it—another set of bruises blooming over his tattoo, new and angry. The budded cross twisted just slightly with every breath.

“Jesus, Lion…”

“I took a fight.”

“No shit you took a fight.”

You pressed a cold washcloth to his brow. He winced, but didn’t pull away.

“I didn’t think you were still fighting,” you said, softer this time.

He didn’t meet your eyes. “I wasn’t.”

You waited. The silence stretched.

“Then why?”

That’s when you heard it—a knock at the door. Two quick raps. Familiar. Confident.

Before you could move, Lion stood. Winced. Opened the door.

Stanley stood there. Sunglasses, too-white smile, a wad of cash folded in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

“Atta boy,” he said, like Lion had just passed a test.

Then he saw you.

And smirked wider.

“Well shit,” Stanley drawled, eyes dragging over you in nothing but one of Lion’s shirts. “Guess we’re celebrating, huh?”

Lion didn’t say a word.

But his jaw tightened.

Hard.

Stanley didn’t even pretend to stay long.

He made himself at home fast—lit a cigarette without asking, sat on the edge of the motel dresser like it was his throne, and slapped the wad of cash down beside the TV remote with a grin that made your skin crawl.

“Got another lined up for Friday,” he said, like he was talking about weekend drinks. “Same guy running the pit. Big payout this time.”

Lion stood with his hands braced on the bathroom door frame, head bowed slightly like he was willing himself to disappear into the wood. His knuckles were still bleeding. You hadn’t even finished bandaging him.

Stanley didn’t notice. Or he did and didn’t care.

“He’s a bruiser, but nothin’ you can’t handle,” Stanley went on, flicking ash on the floor. “And hey—if you go down in round three, we double. Bookies already think you're soft.”

Lion didn’t say anything. Not even a grunt.

You stepped forward, barely keeping the venom out of your voice. “He can’t even see out of one eye.”

Stanley looked at you like you were an amusing commercial break. “He’ll be fine. Lion always bounces back. Don’t you, bro?”

Still nothing.

Not a word.

Stanley stood up then, snagging the cash again. “I’ll hold this for now. Just so you don’t blow it on painkillers and whores.” A wink in your direction. “No offense.”

You didn’t flinch. But your fists clenched hard enough to pop your knuckles.

When the door shut behind him, it was like the air collapsed. Like all the tension that had been floating in the corners of the room finally snapped loose.

Lion didn’t move. Just stood there, staring at the place Stanley had been.

You crossed the room, slow and quiet, until you were right in front of him.

“Lion,” you said softly.

Still, he didn’t look at you.

“I don’t get it,” you whispered. “Why do you let him do this to you?”

His breath hitched.

And then he laughed.

But it was a dead thing. A broken thing. Like it had rotted in his throat and came out anyway.

“Let him?” he echoed, voice raw. “You think I let him?”

He finally looked at you then.

And something in his face had cracked wide open.

“This is all I have,” he said. “This is it. Motel rooms, blood money, and fights that don’t mean shit. I’ve been fighting since I could walk. And he’s the only one who ever put food in front of me after.”

“That’s not food,” you snapped. “That’s scraps. That’s chains dressed up like favors.”

He didn’t respond. Just ran a hand through his hair, pacing now.

“You think I don’t know that?” he muttered. “You think I don’t wake up every goddamn morning and wish I’d walked away ten years ago? That I hadn’t spent my whole life being dragged around by someone who just wants to be the brains behind my broken body?”

You didn’t know what to say.

So you stepped toward him.

And touched his face.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even gentle. It was desperate. Anchoring. Real.

He leaned into it, just barely.

And for the first time, he looked like he might shatter.

“I’m tired,” he whispered.

You nodded.

“I know.”

The room was quieter after his outburst. Not peaceful—never peaceful—but quiet like the lull after a storm. You’d seen men blow up before, punch walls, throw chairs. Lion didn’t need any of that. His voice had done all the breaking.

Now he sat on the edge of the bed with his fists in his lap, head down, body humming with everything he hadn’t said. The anger. The guilt. The shame that clung to him like the blood drying on his skin.

You came back with the first-aid kit. Didn’t ask permission this time. You just dropped to your knees in front of him like you had the night before.

This time, he didn’t flinch when you touched him.

You worked slowly. Hands steady. The scrape above his eyebrow had crusted, but it split open again as soon as you wiped it. He didn’t hiss. Just stared at your face like the pain kept him grounded.

“Sorry,” you whispered when you dabbed too hard.

He shook his head. “Don’t be.”

You moved to his hands—those knuckles, those battered fingers. They were worse up close. One was likely fractured, swollen so bad the skin looked ready to burst.

“Jesus, Lion…”

He gave a tired half-smile. “I’ve had worse.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

That shut him up.

You wrapped his right hand carefully, fingers brushing the rough skin of his palm. He stared down at the top of your head as you worked, lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. You finished the left hand, taping it just tight enough.

When you looked up, he was already looking at you.

For a second, it was just that.

The light buzzed overhead.

The air conditioner kicked on, rattled, died again.

His thigh brushed yours.

And something shifted.

You don’t know who moved first. Maybe it was you, maybe it was him. Maybe it was always going to happen.

But his mouth was on yours and it was nothing like you expected.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t rough.

It was desperate.

Like he was trying to memorize the shape of your lips just in case the world took you away.

His hands—bandaged, trembling—cradled your jaw like you were something fragile. His kiss tasted like blood and salt and something quieter underneath. Something scared.

You kissed him back with both hands tangled in his hoodie, pulled him down to you like you needed him to feel how fast your heart was racing. How real it was.

When he finally pulled away, he didn’t go far. Just pressed his forehead to yours. Breathing heavy. Quiet. Real.

“I don’t go by it anymore,” he said, voice barely audible. “Haven’t in a long time.”

Your fingers curled against his thigh.

“But if you’re gonna stay—” he paused. Swallowed. “You should know.”

You didn’t say anything. Just waited.

His breath tickled your lips when he said it.

“Walter.”

You blinked.

“That’s my name. Walter Kaminski.”

You didn’t smile.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t make it smaller than it was.

Instead, you whispered, “Hi, Walter.”

And for the first time since you met him, he looked like he didn’t want to run.

The warmth of his name still lingered on your tongue by the time night fell.

Walter.

You didn’t say it out loud again. Not yet. Not while he was already pulling back into himself, curling up in the corner of the room with a bag of ice on his side and a far-off look in his eyes like he was already bracing for what came next.

You’d made the bed for him.

He didn’t use it.

He stayed in the chair near the window, legs sprawled out, hoodie zipped halfway up like armor. The bandages on his hands were fresh, but you could already see the bruising underneath turning darker by the hour.

You sat on the edge of the bed, chewing your thumbnail, watching him in the reflection of the black screen of the TV. Neither of you had turned it on.

“Are you gonna take the fight?”

The question floated between you, suspended in the dusty air. It sounded smaller than you’d meant it to.

Walter didn’t answer right away.

You hated that you already expected that.

“Stanley’s not gonna let it go,” he muttered eventually. “If I don’t show, he loses money. If he loses money, he gets mean. And if he gets mean—he finds ways to make me pay anyway.”

You frowned. “He’s not your boss.”

“He is if I keep letting him be.”

You turned then, facing him fully. “Then stop.”

His jaw flexed.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is.”

“No, it’s not,” he snapped, standing suddenly, the chair scraping loud against the laminate floor. “You think I don’t want to be done? You think I don’t want to walk away and disappear and never take another hit again?”

His voice cracked.

You didn’t flinch. You stood too. Right in front of him now.

“Then do it,” you said, voice low. “Stop letting him bleed you dry.”

“I owe him.”

“You don’t.”

He stared at you like he didn’t recognize you. Like you were something that shouldn’t have stepped into his world but did anyway, and now he didn’t know what the hell to do with you.

He turned away. Punched the dresser with his bandaged hand. Didn’t even curse. Just breathed heavy through his nose like he was holding back more than blood.

“I don’t know how to be anything but this,” he said finally. “I don’t know how to be someone you stay with if I’m not fighting.”

You crossed to him. Placed a hand on his back. Felt him flinch and stay all at once.

“You don’t have to know yet,” you whispered. “You just have to try.”

Silence.

Then: “Stanley booked the motel through the weekend.”

You exhaled slowly. “So we’ve got a few days.”

He turned, looked at you again.

Soft. Wrecked. Open.

“Yeah,” he said. “A few days.”

The motel lobby was quiet.

Desert quiet—heat pressed against the glass, flies buzzing near the snack rack, an old box fan rattling against the check-in desk. You stood there, fingers curled around a styrofoam coffee cup, waiting for the guy behind the counter to stop pretending he wasn’t watching you.

“Can I help you?” you asked finally.

The clerk—mid-forties, bored eyes, receding hairline—shrugged. “Nah. Just didn’t expect to see you come outta Room 8 this morning.”

You blinked. “Okay…”

He smirked. “You his girl or something?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“Didn’t mean anything by it,” he said quickly, hands raised. “Just—he’s usually alone. Or with the other one. The loud guy in sunglasses. You’re new.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t owe him one.

Just grabbed a second cup of that awful burnt coffee and walked out.

But the words followed you.

You his girl or something?

Walter was sitting on the hood of a rusted-out car behind the motel, shirtless in the sun, knees pulled up and cigarette dangling from his mouth. The bruises on his ribs had ripened into something nasty. The bandage on his hand was already fraying.

You handed him the coffee. He took it without a word.

“You alright?” you asked.

He nodded.

Then squinted. “Why?”

You shrugged, sitting beside him. “Motel guy asked if I was your girl.”

He paused.

You didn’t look at him, but you could feel the way his whole body stilled. Like you’d reached under his skin and pressed on something he hadn’t let anyone near in a long time.

“What’d you say?” he asked.

“Didn’t.”

He flicked ash off the hood. “Good.”

“Why? That hard to believe someone might care about you?”

Silence.

Then: “It’s not that.”

You turned to look at him.

He finally looked back.

“It’s that people who care about me don’t stay,” he said. “And when they try, they get hurt.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’m still here,” you whispered.

“Yeah.” He stared at you for a long second. “That’s what scares me.”

Stanley showed up like he always did—loud, smug, and uninvited.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed folding the same two clean shirts Walter owned when the knock came. He barely glanced at the door before dragging it open.

“Look at you,” Stanley crowed, stepping into the room like it belonged to him. “Didn’t think you’d be up. You take a nap or a beating?”

Walter didn’t laugh.

You stayed quiet.

Stanley’s eyes slid to you. “Ah. She’s still here.”

You didn’t like the way he said that—like you were a stray dog who hadn’t wandered off yet.

“She got a name?” Stanley asked, looking at Walter now.

“Yeah,” Walter said flatly. “She does.”

Stanley waited, eyebrow raised. No answer.

You could see it coming. The moment when curiosity soured into suspicion. When Stanley tilted his head just slightly and looked at you like you were a piece of something valuable. Something vulnerable.

“You gonna tell me who she is, or should I guess?” he said with a crooked smile.

And before you could open your mouth—before you could laugh it off or lie or do anything to defuse the moment—Walter stepped forward.

Not fast. Not dramatic.

But purposeful.

His hand came to your waist.

Fingers warm, firm, curling just enough to make the gesture unmistakable. Possessive. Protective. Territorial.

Yours.

You felt it like a punch to the gut.

And so did Stanley.

The look in his eyes shifted—something calculating, something darker. Like he’d just found another way to get at Walter if he ever needed it.

But Walter didn’t let go.

He just looked at his brother, jaw set, mouth a tight line.

Stanley grinned. “Well, shit.”

And then he left.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the spell broke.

Walter let go.

You turned slowly.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said.

He met your eyes. “Yeah, I did.”

You wanted to ask why.

But you already knew.

Because you were becoming something Stanley could use.

And Walter? He was already starting to care too much to let that happen.

The motel room creaked with the kind of stillness that wasn’t peace.

Just a low hum of things unsaid, hanging between the chipped walls and the uneven floorboards. The TV was off. The coffee was cold. And Walter hadn’t moved in over an hour.

He was sitting in the same chair near the window, elbows on his knees, knuckles pressed against his mouth like he could hold himself in with just that much pressure. His bruises had darkened. The side of his face was turning a sick kind of gold under the pale light.

You watched him from the bed.

He hadn’t spoken since Stanley left.

Not even when you offered him food. Not when you handed him water. Not when you pressed your palm against the small of your back like it hurt to watch him sit so still.

He didn’t even blink when the ice bucket finally gave up its last sigh of melt.

You stood, bare feet ghosting over the worn motel carpet. Crossed the room without saying anything. And this time, when you knelt in front of him, it wasn’t to tend wounds or wipe blood off his skin.

You just wanted him to see you.

To feel you.

“Walter,” you said, quiet but certain.

His eyes flicked up. Hollow. Distant.

Until they met yours.

And everything in him shifted.

You climbed into his lap without asking.

Straddled his thighs, hands curling around the sides of his jaw. You didn’t kiss him—not yet. You just pressed your forehead to his and breathed him in.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you whispered.

He exhaled, shaky and sharp. Like he’d been holding it in since the door closed.

“I’m still figuring this out,” he said.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“You won’t.”

A beat passed.

Then you felt it—his hands coming to your hips, tentative at first, like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold something that hadn’t already slipped through his fingers.

Your hands slid up into his hair. His mouth brushed yours.

The kiss came slow.

Not like last time.

Not like need.

Like relief.

Like a man who’d been starving for a touch that didn’t come with strings. Like someone who finally understood what it meant to be wanted without it costing anything.

You broke it first. Just long enough to whisper, “Come to bed.”

He hesitated.

“I don’t sleep well,” he murmured. “I—I move. I twitch. Sometimes I talk.”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t want to scare you.”

“You won’t.”

That’s when he let go.

Of the guilt.

Of the fear.

Of whatever ghosts he’d been keeping curled in his chest like fists.

He let you take his hand. Let you lead him to the bed. Let you pull back the sheets and lie beside him in the dark.

He didn’t touch you at first.

But when you curled into his side, he pulled you in with one arm and held you tight. Like he was afraid someone might come through the door and take you away.

And when he finally spoke, voice hoarse and half-asleep, it was just three words:

“Just stay, alright?”

You didn’t answer.

You just stayed.

The room was dark except for the amber lamp on the nightstand, humming soft against the silence.

Walter lay on his back, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting across his stomach where the bruises looked like spilled ink under his skin. You were curled beside him, the motel blanket tangled somewhere around your calves. Neither of you had slept. Not really. Not since that night.

Not since you crawled into bed with him and didn’t leave.

You could feel him vibrating beneath the stillness—like his body never fully powered down, even when he was quiet. Like he was always waiting for something to blow.

“Can’t sleep?” you asked, voice low in the hush.

He didn’t open his eyes. “Didn’t expect to.”

You turned on your side, propping yourself on your elbow, watching the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

“Tell me something,” you whispered.

He smirked faintly, one eye cracking open. “That broad of a request might get you in trouble.”

“I mean it. Anything. Anything you’ve never told anyone.”

He stared at the ceiling again. The air shifted.

A long, thin silence stretched between you.

Then—

“When I was thirteen,” he said slowly, “I found a dog behind a liquor store. Just a mutt. I named her Ash. She used to sleep under the trailer with me when things got bad. Only thing that made it feel like something might actually care if I didn’t wake up one day.”

You said nothing. Just listened. Let him bleed.

“I kept her for years. Stanley knew. He knew how much she meant to me. Last year, when things got tight, he sold her.”

You blinked. The way he said it—casual, empty—was worse than if he’d cried.

“He didn’t even tell me first. I came back from a fight and she was gone. Asked where she was. He said he traded her for rent and a bag of pills.”

A breath.

You reached over and traced the edge of his ribs—gentle, featherlight. He didn’t stop you.

“I didn’t talk to him for a month,” he said. “Slept outside. Ate canned corn out of a goddamn dumpster. He didn’t say sorry. Not once. Just told me next time not to get attached to things I couldn’t afford to keep.”

Your hand stilled against him.

“You don’t flinch,” he said, quietly.

You met his eyes. “Why would I?”

He looked at you like you were something rare. Something delicate he didn’t know how to hold.

“You gonna ask me why I ran?” you whispered.

He nodded, but didn’t push.

“My stepdad hit my mom. Cops came. Left. I told her to leave him. She didn’t. He hit me next.”

Walter sat up a little, jaw flexing.

“I packed a backpack and didn’t look back.”

“Jesus,” he breathed.

“I lived in my car for three months before I found you.”

He looked at you like he was trying to figure out what that meant. What you meant.

You reached over and slid your fingers under his bandaged hand.

“You’re allowed to be rough with me, Walter,” you said. “I won’t break.”

He looked down at where your fingers laced with his.

And for once—he didn’t pull away.

You didn’t let go of his hand.

Even as the silence settled heavy again, even as Walter leaned back against the motel headboard like he didn’t trust his body to do what he wanted it to. Your fingers stayed threaded with his—warm and sure, firm enough to say you’re safe without ever speaking the words.

He kept looking at you like he didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

“You ever touch someone just to see if they’d flinch?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head. “You?”

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Used to. When I was a kid. Just light. Shoulder, hand, whatever. Like—like if they didn’t flinch, maybe they didn’t think I was bad yet.”

Your stomach twisted.

You reached out, and this time, you brought his hand to your mouth.

Kissed the inside of his wrist. The rough plane of his knuckles. The pad of each finger, slow and deliberate. He watched you the whole time, breathing shallow and tight, like your lips were unraveling him one soft kiss at a time.

When you took his index and middle finger into your mouth, he choked on a sound. One you’d never heard from him before.

It wasn’t a moan.

It was a whimper.

You sucked slow—just the tips—warm and wet and careful, lips gliding down to your knuckles, your tongue dragging just enough to make him twitch. His thighs shifted. His breath hitched. His eyes slammed shut.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like he wasn’t supposed to feel this good.

You pulled off with a pop and kissed the fingertips again, then brought them down between your legs.

Guided him over your panties, soaked through now.

“I want you to touch me,” you said. “But I want it to be your idea.”

He looked at you like he was about to fall apart.

Like he was already halfway there.

“I’m scared I’ll fuck it up,” he admitted, voice barely there.

“You won’t.”

“You’re not—” he swallowed. “You’re not just a distraction.”

“I know.”

“You’re not just some girl who wants a broken boy story to tell later?”

It was a question disguised as a statement, like he was afraid to know the answer.

You took his wrist again, placed his hand just where you needed it.

And rocked your hips once—slow, deliberate—against the heat of his fingers.

“I’m yours,” you whispered.

That broke something open in him.

He pushed your panties aside, tentative at first—like he didn’t quite believe he had permission. But when he slid one slick finger through your folds and felt how wet you were for him, how ready, the sound that tore from his throat was pure disbelief.

“Christ,” he muttered, eyes locked to your face now. “You feel—God, baby.”

You whimpered, grinding down against his hand, your fingers clutching the edge of the mattress for balance.

He was gentle. So gentle. Too gentle.

You pressed your mouth to his ear. “Deeper.”

He obeyed.

You gasped.

He moaned with you.

Like your pleasure belonged to him.

Like the more you came apart, the more whole he felt.

He was panting by the time you pulled your panties down your legs and tossed them to the floor. His fingers were still wet from you, resting on his thigh like he didn’t know what to do next—like he was trying not to come just from the sight of you crawling into his lap.

You straddled him slow.

Bare thighs bracketing his hips.

His back hit the motel headboard with a dull thud, and he looked up at you like you were something holy. Something terrifying. His bandaged hands hovered in the air like he didn’t trust himself to touch without ruining it.

But you didn’t look away.

Not once.

Your eyes locked to his and stayed there—steady, warm, full of something he didn’t know how to name.

You reached between you, wrapped your hand around him. He was already hard, twitching against your palm, flushed deep red at the tip like he’d been aching for you since the second you kissed him.

Walter gasped when you stroked him. His hips bucked.

“Jesus,” he whispered, jaw clenched tight. “You’re so—fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

You lined him up with your entrance and sank down slow. Inch by inch. Taking your time. Letting him feel every slick, tight second of it.

His eyes never left yours.

He moaned through gritted teeth, fists clenched at his sides like he was holding onto control by a thread.

“Look at me,” you said, even though he already was.

“I am,” he breathed. “Fuck, I am. I can’t stop.”

You rocked your hips once, slow and deep, and watched his mouth drop open. His head tipped back for just a moment—overwhelmed—but you cupped his jaw and brought him back.

“Keep looking.”

His hands rose like instinct—found your waist, your hips, then froze.

“Can I…?” he rasped.

You nodded.

He gripped you then. Soft, trembling, reverent.

You started to ride him slow.

Long, deliberate rolls of your hips, grinding down until his breath came in short, desperate bursts. You tightened around him with every movement, dragging him deeper, drowning him in you.

The sound he made was barely human.

You leaned in, your forehead against his, lips brushing but never fully kissing.

“Good?” you whispered.

His grip tightened.

“So good,” he choked. “Fuck, baby—ride me—ride me just like that. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

You held his gaze the whole time. Watched it flicker and soften. Watched it fill with everything he didn’t know how to say.

Then you started to bounce properly—your thighs working, your body rising and falling in rhythm, slick and full and relentless.

His mouth dropped open again, breath catching.

You whispered right into his ear.

“You’re doing so good for me, Walter. Such a good boy. Taking me so deep.”

He whimpered.

“You feel so good inside me. Perfect. Just like this.”

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, head falling back. “Say it again—please—”

You gave it to him.

“You’re so good. My sweet boy. Just like that. Don’t stop. You’re making me feel so good, baby.”

He was trembling under you. Entire body tense, fingers digging into your hips like he was afraid to come without permission.

“I’m gonna—” he started, voice breaking. “Fuck, I’m gonna—should I pull out?”

You grabbed his face.

Shook your head slow.

“No. I want it. I want you.”

His eyes went wide—wild with it.

“You sure?” he rasped.

You ground down once more and whispered:

“Cum in me, Walter.”

He shattered.

Moaned your name, low and ragged, as he came inside you—deep, hot, shuddering through the kind of release that felt like surrender. His mouth was against your collarbone, panting, praising you through every wave.

“Atta girl…” he groaned, arms wrapping around you like he couldn’t bear to let you go. “Atta girl… took me so good…my girl…my fucking girl.”

You stayed right there, hearts pounding against each other, skin warm and damp.

And when he kissed you—soft, grateful, still breathless—it felt like something permanent.

You didn’t move.

Not at first.

The world had gone still in the soft aftershock, the motel room hazy with heat and breath and the smell of sweat and skin. Your thighs were still wrapped around him, his hands spread wide over your back like he didn’t trust gravity to keep you from slipping away.

He was still inside you. Still pulsing. Still trembling.

Walter exhaled into your shoulder. A sound more like relief than release.

You buried your fingers in the sweat-damp hair at the nape of his neck and kept your face tucked in close. Not to hide. Just to be near. Closer than close. You could feel his heart hammering against yours like he hadn’t come down yet. Like he didn’t want to.

His voice came low, cracked open.

“Never done that before.”

You blinked. “What?”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, but his arms didn’t loosen.

“Let someone stay.”

You studied him. His lashes were wet at the tips. His mouth was pink and kiss-bruised. The flush on his cheeks hadn’t faded.

“Does it feel wrong?” you asked softly.

“No.” His voice caught. “Feels like I’m gonna wake up and find you gone.”

You shook your head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He nodded, but you could see how much it cost him to believe you.

His hand came up to your face then—rough, bandaged, trembling at the edges—and he touched you like he wasn’t sure you were real. Thumb ghosting over your cheekbone. Fingertips tracing the line of your jaw.

“Why me?” he asked. Not self-pitying. Just raw.

“Because I see you,” you said.

He closed his eyes.

You kissed him. Gentle this time. Deep and unhurried, like you were sealing something in place.

When you finally eased off of him, he pulled you close again, curling around your body like instinct. Your head tucked into the hollow of his throat, his hand flat over your spine.

You felt safe there. And you knew, in the way his arms didn’t loosen, that he felt it too.

“Stay with me,” he whispered into your hair. “Even if I don’t know how to be good at this. Even if I fuck it up.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“I already am.”

[dreamdragonkadia]

would you consider writing a jealous xaden riorson? please andd thank youuu 🥹🥹

I thought about writing this into a spicy scene, but I am so out of practice that I didn't want to mess it up. x.riorson x reader

You hadn’t thought to bring it up. Not because you were hiding anything—but because it just... hadn’t mattered. It had been before becoming a rider. Before the Gauntlet. Before Threshing. Before Xaden Riorson had started looking at you like the world might crack in two if you didn’t make it through the next challenge.

You and Septon Izar had ended things cleanly, amicably, and left it at that. He’d been a friend before, and somehow, he still was—one of the few people who hadn’t flinched when you first started sitting with the marked ones. Honestly, his support during that time had meant more than you'd ever said aloud.

And honestly? Since Xaden? You hadn’t thought about Septon once. And maybe, maybe, you had mentioned it to Xaden. In passing. At most.

But judging by the sudden silence that swept through the dining hall—and the way Xaden’s head snapped toward you the second Septon opened his mouth—you definitely hadn’t mentioned that part.

"I think we only had sex twice," Septon said casually, sipping from his cup like he hadn’t just tossed a live drake into the center of the table. “And both times we were pretty drunk.”

You blinked.

What?

Your fork hovered above your plate as the table fell into a mixture of choked laughter and stunned silence. Garrick muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like oh shit. Nyra was already dragging her hands down her face. Bodhi looked delighted. Of course he did—this had his meddling written all over it.

You squinted up at Septon. “Man, that was so long ago, I barely remember.”

Xaden didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

Not when you could feel the way his gaze landed on you—deadly calm, unreadable, and very, very still.

Someone coughed. Garrick kicked Bodhi under the table. Septon, gods bless his complete lack of self-preservation, raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not like it meant anything,” he added, glancing between you and Xaden with a shrug. “We were just—”

"Don’t," Xaden said, voice low and even, but it carried like a cold front.

The entire table froze.

“Anyway,” you said quickly, forcing a smile as you turned your attention down the table, “Nyra, I don’t think I’ve ever heard about your physical escapades. Please, if we’re airing things out, do share.”

There was a pause.

Then Nyra leaned back with a knowing small grin. “Which year?”

And just like that, the conversation shifted. Nyra launched into a truly unhinged story involving a third-year from Rider’s Quadrant, two years ago and a storage closet full of training gear.

Everyone moved on.

Except you.

Because while the rest of the table erupted into laughter, Bodhi caught your eye and gave you a subtle salute—good luck with that—and Xaden’s shadows curled around your calves in a slow, possessive climb.

You had really thought that would be it. Completely and utterly it. There was nothing there.

You and Septon were barely a footnote, a hiccup in your timeline. But clearly, someone at the table had missed that memo—and that someone was now walking three paces behind you, silent, shadows brushing the edge of your steps like a warning.

You turned the corner just past the gym hall, fully intending to head toward the dorms, but a hand caught your arm—not rough, but firm—and suddenly, you were being pulled into a recessed archway you hadn’t even noticed.

Xaden didn’t speak at first.

Just looked at you.

That onyx stare that made it feel like he was peeling back your skin to see what was underneath. His jaw was tight, shadows curling restlessly around his boots.

“You’re mad,” you said flatly.

“I’m not mad,” he said. “I’m…” He exhaled through his nose, like he was trying to force the word back in. “You never told me.”

“I didn’t think I had to,” you shot back, arms folding. “It was nothing, Xaden. It was before.”

His brow twitched. “I watched him look at you like he still wanted something.”

“He was talking to Bodhi!”

“He was talking to you.”

You stared at him, pulse thrumming harder than it should’ve been. “Are you seriously jealous right now?”

His shadows surged, crawling up your spine like a storm about to break.

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “I’m possessive. There’s a difference.”

Your back hit the wall.

His hand came to rest beside your head, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him in waves. His voice dropped lower, into that gravel-smooth edge that made your knees a little unstable.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, eyes flickering down to your mouth, “and I don’t like being surprised.”

Your heart tripped over itself.

And because your pride had a death wish, you arched a brow and said, “Well, maybe I do.”

That was apparently the final straw.

He kissed you like it was a declaration, like he had to remind you—remind himself—that he knew every part of you better than anyone ever had. His hands found your hips, grip just shy of rough, and your fingers curled in his shirt like you needed something to hold onto before the ground gave way.

“Tell me again,” he said against your lips, voice thick with something that wasn't just anger, “how it meant nothing.”

Your breath caught—because you couldn’t. Not with the way he was looking at you. The only thing that mattered.

“It didn’t,” you whispered, barely audible. “It didn’t mean anything.”

He lingered there, just for a second, his forehead brushing yours as if he was searching for the truth in your skin. And then, with no more warning than a flick of his shadows, he pulled back just enough to say, “Come with me.”

You followed him without thinking.

Past cadets loitering in the halls, past flickering sconces and low murmurs, up flights of stairs that you barely registered because your heart was thundering in your chest. Xaden didn’t look back once—but his shadows stayed close, curling possessively around your wrist like a tether, a silent mine whispered over and over again in the dark.

By the time you reached his room, your pulse was high in your throat.

He opened the door, stepped inside—and then, just as you were about to follow, his hand shot out.

And pulled you in.

Hard.

You stumbled, but only for a heartbeat—because he was already there, catching you, pinning you back against the closed door with a thud that echoed in the silence.

“You think I care that it happened before me?” he murmured, his mouth brushing along your jaw, your neck. “I don’t.”

You shivered.

“I care that you didn’t tell me,” he continued, his hand sliding to your waist, hot through the thin fabric of your shirt. “I care that he thought he could say your name like that. Look at you like that.”

“Xaden—”

“I’m not going to be polite about it,” he interrupted, voice a low rasp. “I’m not going to pretend I’m okay hearing another man talk about what’s mine like it’s some casual memory.”

His lips found the corner of your mouth again, softer this time. A contrast to the words that came next.

“You’re not his story to tell.”

Your breath hitched.

“You want to tell me it meant nothing?” he asked, gaze catching yours with such intensity it felt like a command. “Then let me show the world who you belong with.”

Your hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him down.

And he did.

[theonottsbxtch]

BABY, BABY | MV1

an: max verstappen you are a four time world champion!!! here's a little fic to celebrate that. i started writing it while watching the race, then had to mourn the loss of the battle then went back to writing it and my back hurts because my posture is shit. anyway enjoy!!

wc: 3.3k

Max Verstappen lived for speed. The roar of the engine, the blur of the track, the thunderous applause of the crowd—this was his kingdom. At twenty-seven, he was already a legend, a three-time Formula One World Champion whose name was etched into the annals of the sport. And this season? It was shaping up to be another triumph. Four wins in the first five races, podium finishes for all of them, and whispers in the paddock that he was untouchable.

He had every reason to be confident. The car was a beast—precision-engineered, relentless in its power. His team was operating like clockwork, every pit stop a perfectly executed ballet. But above all, she was there. His fiancée. She didn’t need to speak to make her presence known; her calm, unwavering gaze from the paddock was like a talisman. He could feel her watching, believing in him, and it drove him forward.

After his most recent victory in Japan, he leaned against the garage wall, sweat still beading on his forehead. She approached him, her smile soft and private, meant just for him. The cameras flashed around them, capturing their moment, but he hardly noticed.

“You’re unstoppable,” she murmured, low enough that only he could hear.

“For you? Always,” he replied, brushing a gloved hand over her cheek before he was whisked away to interviews.

Everything was perfect. The season was his to lose, and he had no intention of letting that happen.

Six races later, the Max Verstappen that stood on the grid in Barcelona was not the same man who had claimed victory in Japan. His car was still strong, and his team still flawless. But the man behind the wheel was... distracted.

The cracks had started to show at the Monaco Grand Prix. A clumsy lock-up during qualifying left him sixth on the grid. In Hungary, he was slow off the line and struggled to match the pace of the leaders, finishing fifth.

The press was quick to pounce.

“What’s happening to Verstappen?” the headlines screamed.

Max shrugged it off, his trademark confidence still on display. “It’s the car,” he said with a wry smile after Hungary. “We’re making adjustments. It’ll come good.”

It was a convenient excuse, one his team begrudgingly accepted because of who he was. But the truth was far more complex—and far more personal.

She wasn’t here.

She hadn’t been at the last couple of races. At first, she’d said she wasn’t feeling well, and Max had brushed it off. But then the phone call came.

“I’m pregnant,” she’d whispered, her voice trembling. “I—I want to tell you in person, but I don’t think I can travel.”

In that moment, his world shifted. Joy, fear, and an overwhelming need to protect her collided in his chest. The image of her radiant on their wedding day-to-be now came with another—her cradling a newborn, their newborn. And with that came a thousand anxieties he’d never anticipated.

At every moment since, his thoughts weren’t on the track but on her. Was she eating enough? Was she getting rest? What if something went wrong, and he wasn’t there?

But no one knew. Not his team, not the press, not even his closest rivals. To them, Max Verstappen was still the king of the circuit. He could never let them see otherwise.

It was lap 32 of the Hungarian Grand Prix, and Max was battling for third with Charles. The two cars screamed through the corners, inches apart, but Max hesitated. He felt it—his grip loosened, his focus wavered. For the first time in his career, he wasn’t sure he could make the move stick.

Charles darted ahead, and Max watched as the gap widened. His engineer’s voice crackled in his ear.

“Max, you’re losing time in Sector 2. What’s going on?”

“Just the car,” he lied, jaw tight. “It’s sluggish through the corners.”

He crossed the finish line in fourth. As he stepped out of the car, he pulled off his helmet, running a hand through sweat-soaked hair. The cameras were on him, the journalists waiting. But all he could think about was her.

He needed to call. To hear her voice. To know she was okay.

The season was far from over, but the battle raging within Max was one he’d never prepared for. And as he watched his championship hopes start to slip through his fingers, he knew one thing for certain: no race, no trophy, no accolade mattered more than the life he was about to build off the track.

The Belgian Grand Prix was a race Max Verstappen wanted to forget. He’d spent the entire weekend battling the car—or so he told anyone who asked. But deep down, he knew the problem wasn’t mechanical. The fault lay within himself, his mind a chaotic swirl of worry and love that refused to quiet, no matter how fast he drove.

When he was finally allowed to go back to the hotel, the first thing he wanted to do was go home. Not the sprawling apartment in Monaco that everyone assumed was his sanctuary, but the smaller, quieter house tucked away in the English countryside. The place where she was.

It was just after midnight when his car pulled into the gravel driveway. The house was dark except for the soft glow of a single lamp in the living room window. She always left it on for him. He slipped inside quietly, leaving his suitcase in the car.

She was asleep, of course. Seven months pregnant and glowing with a beauty that stole his breath even in her most unguarded moments. He found her curled on her side in their bed, one hand resting protectively over her rounded belly. Max dropped his coat on the chair and toed off his shoes before slipping into the bed beside her.

He pressed a kiss to her temple, careful not to wake her, and then rested his head gently against her belly. The warmth of her skin, the faint, rhythmic thrum of her breathing, and the thought of the tiny life growing inside her—it was everything he needed to feel whole again.

“Hi, little one,” he whispered, his voice soft and filled with wonder. “It’s me. I’m finally home.”

As if in response, there was a small kick against his cheek. Max grinned, a tear slipping down his face as he chuckled quietly.

“Already a fighter,” he murmured. “Just like your mum.”

Her hand came to rest in his hair, threading through the blonde strands. He startled slightly, realising she was awake, her sleepy smile illuminated by the faint moonlight streaming through the window.

“You’re back,” she said, her voice thick with drowsiness.

“Always,” he replied, turning his head to kiss her palm. “How are you feeling? How’s our little champion?”

“Both fine,” she reassured him. “We missed you.”

“I missed you more,” he said, shifting up to lie beside her, wrapping an arm protectively around her waist. His hand settled over hers on her belly, and they stayed like that for a long moment, the world outside forgotten.

The days that followed were a gift—a rare stretch of time without races, press obligations, or the relentless demands of the championship fight. They spent their mornings in the garden, her feet propped up on his lap while he read aloud from the parenting books she’d stacked on the table. Afternoons were lazy, filled with naps, quiet conversations, and the occasional moment when he leaned down to kiss her belly and whisper to their unborn child.

One evening, as they sat together on the couch, her head resting on his shoulder, she turned to him with a thoughtful look.

“You should tell them,” she said softly.

“Tell who what?” he asked, though he already knew.

“Your team. The press. Everyone.” She tilted her head, watching him carefully. “You’ve been carrying this alone for too long. They’ll understand.”

Max sighed, leaning back against the cushions and closing his eyes. “I like it like this,” he said after a moment. “It’s ours. Just ours. I don’t want them to turn this into... headlines or speculation. I want to keep it safe.”

She reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. “You’re not just keeping it safe, love. You’re keeping it locked away. And it’s hurting you.”

He kissed her forehead, a slow, lingering gesture that spoke more than words could. “It’s not hurting me. It’s the only thing keeping me sane. When I’m out there, and it’s all chaos and noise, this is what I hold onto. You. Our little one. It’s my anchor.”

Her expression softened, and she leaned into him, her hand resting lightly on his chest. “You know I’ll support you, whatever you decide. But you don’t have to carry this alone.”

“I know,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her hair. “But for now, I want it to stay ours. Just a little longer.”

The break passed too quickly, as it always did, but for Max, it was enough. The air in Austin was electric. Max, back from the summer break and seemingly rejuvenated, had shown flashes of his old brilliance in the first half of the race. But a controversial move during a heated battle for second had earned him a twenty-second penalty. The disappointment was palpable.

In the press conference afterward, he faced a barrage of questions, his jaw tight as he fielded them with his usual composure. But his heart wasn’t in it. He hadn’t seen her in weeks, and the gnawing ache of being apart was beginning to wear on him.

The penalty stung less than the silence in his hotel room later that night. The upcoming triple-header—Austin, Mexico City, São Paulo—meant there’d be no chance to go home. Three weeks without her, without hearing the steady rhythm of her breathing as she slept beside him or feeling the flutter of their baby’s kicks beneath his hand. He stared at his phone for hours, tempted to call, but stopped himself. She needed rest. He could wait.

The race in São Paulo had just wrapped up. Max won, a result he should’ve been thrilled with, but all he could think about was getting back to England. The charter flight to London felt endless, the hours dragging as he stared out the window, replaying every voicemail she’d left him over the past week. Each one sounded more tired, more distant, and it made his chest tighten with unease.

When he finally arrived home, the house was eerily quiet. He dropped his bags in the hallway, calling out her name. No answer. He checked the bedroom, the nursery—they were empty. Panic began to rise as he pulled out his phone and dialled her number.

She picked up on the second ring.

“Hello?” Her voice was soft but carried an edge of exhaustion.

“Where are you?” he asked, his voice tinged with worry. “I’m home, and you’re not here.”

“I’m at my mum’s,” she replied.

“Why?” His voice dropped, laced with confusion. “What’s going on?”

There was a pause, a beat of silence that stretched too long. And then, she said it.

“I had the baby.”

The words hit him like a jolt. He froze, his breath catching in his throat. “You what?” he whispered, as though saying it louder would make it less real.

“I had the baby,” she repeated, her tone gentle, but firm. “Two weeks ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his voice a mix of hurt and disbelief.

“You had a job to do, Max,” she said softly. “I didn’t want to distract you.”

“Distract me?” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing the kitchen. “You’re my family. How could you think I wouldn’t drop everything to be there?”

“I know,” she said, her voice breaking slightly. “But I also know you. You’ve been carrying so much this season, and I didn’t want to add to it. You were halfway across the world, love. There was nothing you could’ve done.”

He wanted to argue, to tell her that she was wrong, that he would’ve found a way. But deep down, he understood. She was protecting him in her own way, just as he always tried to protect her.

“Is he... okay?” he asked finally, his voice softening.

“He’s perfect,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “Healthy and beautiful. I wanted to surprise you when you got home, but we needed a bit of extra help, so I came here.”

“I’m coming now,” he said immediately. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

The drive to her mother’s house felt like an eternity. When he finally pulled into the driveway, he barely remembered turning off the car before he was at the front door. Her mother greeted him with a warm smile and a quiet, “She’s upstairs.”

He took the steps two at a time, his heart pounding in his chest. When he reached the bedroom, he paused in the doorway.

She was sitting on the bed, her hair tied back loosely, her face glowing with a tired kind of happiness. And in her arms, wrapped in a soft blue blanket, was their son.

Max stepped inside slowly, his breath catching as he took in the sight. “Hi,” he said softly, his voice almost trembling.

“Hi,” she replied, smiling up at him. “Come meet him.”

He crossed the room, sitting beside her on the bed. She shifted the baby gently, placing him into Max’s waiting arms. For a moment, he could only stare.

Tiny fingers peeked out from the blanket, curling slightly as the baby let out a soft sigh. His nose, his chin—so small, so perfect.

“What’s his name?” Max asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“We agreed on Emilian,” she said, her eyes shining. “Emilian Lucian Verstappen.”

He looked up at her, his throat tight with emotion. “You gave him my name?”

“Of course,” she said, reaching out to touch his cheek. “You’re his dad. And he’s going to know how much you love him, even when you’re halfway across the world.”

Max pressed a kiss to his son’s forehead, a tear slipping down his cheek. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. “Both of you. More than anything.”

As Emilian stirred slightly in his arms, Max smiled. He’d missed the moment of his son’s birth, something he’d carry with him always. But here, holding his son for the first time, he knew he was exactly where he needed to be.

For two precious weeks, Max stayed home. It was just him, her, and Emilian. Those days blurred into a haze of quiet moments—feeding, changing, and rocking his son to sleep. He wasn’t just a racing legend at home; he was a father, learning the delicate art of swaddling and singing lullabies off-key at three in the morning.

His fiancée was radiant, even in her moments of exhaustion. Max found himself watching her more than ever, in awe of her strength. At night, they talked in whispers, Emilian nestled between them in a bassinet. For once, the championship felt like a distant dream.

But as the days passed, reality crept back in. The Las Vegas Grand Prix was the next race and the stakes couldn’t be higher. His rival, Lando Norris, was trailing him by just a decent amount of points, but if Max bottled it, it wouldn’t go well for his title. A strong finish could secure Max his fourth championship, but it would be a fight to the very last lap.

The night before his flight to Vegas, Max sat beside her on the couch, Emilian cradled in his arms. He had spent the entire day rehearsing his pitch, trying to strike the perfect balance of persuasion and sensitivity.

“You know,” he began, his tone casual, “Vegas is going to be a big deal. Probably the biggest race of my career.”

She glanced up from her tea, raising an eyebrow. “I thought every race was the biggest of your career.”

“This is different,” he said, grinning. “If I beat Lando by a certain amount of points, I get the title. My fourth title.”

Her smile softened. “I know. And you will. You always find a way.”

He hesitated, bouncing Emilian gently as the baby dozed. “Come with me,” he said suddenly.

Her eyes widened. “Max—”

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” he cut in quickly, “and I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you could handle it. But the doctors said you’re fit to fly, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“Please,” he said, his voice earnest. “I need you there. Both of you. It’s an important race. The biggest one maybe. And I want to share it with my family.”

She hesitated, biting her lip. He could see the worry in her eyes, the motherly instinct to keep their baby safe and away from the chaos of the paddock. But then he reached for her hand.

“Win or lose, none of it matters without you. You and Emilian are everything to me. And if I do win... I want you there to celebrate. I want the world to see what really matters.”

After a long pause, she sighed, her resolve softening. “Fine. But only if you promise to keep us far away from the press circus until it’s over.”

He grinned, leaning over to kiss her. “Deal.”

The Las Vegas Grand Prix was a spectacle like no other. The bright lights, the roaring crowd, and the tension in the paddock made it a night to remember. Max felt his nerves hum as he stepped into the garage, but knowing she and Emilian were somewhere safe in the hospitality suite calmed him.

The race was brutal. Max fought tooth and nail, battling it out with Charles and Lewis in a chaotic, tire-shredding 50 laps. In the end, he crossed the line in fifth place.

For a moment, he thought it wasn’t enough. But then Christian’s voice crackled over the radio.

“Max Verstappen, you are a four-time world champion!”

Relief and joy flooded through him, and he punched the air, his voice shaking with emotion as he shouted his thanks into the radio. The garage erupted in cheers, but Max’s mind was already on her and Emilian.

As the celebrations began, he climbed out of the car, waving to the crowd before pulling off his helmet. He turned toward the pit lane and froze.

There she was, standing at the edge of the barriers, Emilian in her arms. They were both wearing ear defenders, her smile wide and proud. Emilian’s tiny shirt caught his eye, and his heart melted:

My daddy is a 4-time world champion.

He laughed, running over to them as the cameras swarmed. When he reached her, he didn’t hesitate, pulling her into a deep kiss. The crowd roared, and the cameras clicked furiously, but he didn’t care.

He looked down at his son, who blinked up at him with wide, curious eyes. Carefully, Max took him into his arms, holding him close.

“Hey, little man,” he said softly, his voice trembling with emotion. “Your daddy did it.”

Emilian gurgled in response, and Max’s grin widened.

For the first time, the world saw Max Verstappen not just as a champion, but as a father. The images of him holding his son, his fiancée beside him, spread like wildfire. The press clamoured for details, but Max ignored them, too lost in the moment to care.

“This is your victory too,” he said to her, his voice quiet. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder, her smile radiant. “We’re so proud of you.”

As the champagne sprayed and the cheers echoed around them, Max knew this was the pinnacle of his career—not the trophy, not the title, but the family he held in his arms.

the end.

[twistedsistas-stuff]

Private Show

Club Owners SmokeStack X Reader

Pt 2 Here

The club smelled like sweat, perfume, and cheap ambition. Laser lights cut through the haze while some no-name track off a scratched Ginuwine CD tried to make the moment sexy.

Stack sat back in that wide leather chair like a man bored at church, one arm draped lazy over the side, the other nursin’ a glass of brown. His gold watch caught the light every time he shifted. Smoke leaned on the arm beside him, a half-smirk tucked beneath that toothpick he never took out his mouth.

Another girl was up. She spun half-hearted on the pole, heels clackin’ off beat, body rollin’ like her bones didn’t quite agree with the music.

Stack let out a quiet breath. “She movin’ like somebody mama at the family reunion after two daiquiris.”

Smoke grinned without lookin’. “Mmm. And not the cute mama either. The one who made that dry-ass macaroni salad.”

Stack sipped his drink. “Shame, too. She fine. But that rhythm? Tragic.”

“She dancin’ like her knees owe child support,” Smoke muttered, crossing one ankle over the other.

Stack chuckled low. “That spin was a hate crime.”

They weren’t unkind—not out loud to her—but the judgments between ‘em cracked like knuckles.

They’d seen talent. Real heat. Girls that could make a whole room hold its breath.

This? This wasn’t that.

Stack leaned forward just a bit, shadows carving deep under his jaw.

“She got one more spin ‘fore I cut the track.”

Smoke took the toothpick out his mouth just to say, “If she fall, I’m takin’ my drink back.”

The girl slipped. Right on cue.

Stack hit the remote.

Music died. Lights stayed hot.

She blinked down at ‘em, sweat on her brow, chest heaving.

Stack didn’t raise his voice. Just tilted his chin.

“Next.”

Smoke shook his head. “Lawd. Can’t even lie, I felt bad for the pole.”

Stack didn’t smile, but the twitch in his jaw betrayed him. “We ain’t here for charity. I need somebody who can own that floor.”

“We need a star, Stack. Not a stumbler.”

“You need somebody who make the room shut up and pay attention.”

Stack downed the rest of his drink and leaned back again, settling into the shadows like a king waitin’ on a better contender.

“Send the next one.”

The hallway outside the main room lit up with the slam of a door.

That girl—tan tights ripped at the thigh, lip gloss smudged—stormed out fast, mutterin’ something about “they don’t know real talent.”

But ain’t nobody chased after her.

You leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, one hip cocked like you didn’t care—but your stomach was knotted tight.

You’d been listenin’ through the walls. The bassline. The mutters. The music cuttin’ off sudden.

They was in there takin’ names and crushin’ dreams like empty beer cans.

Mary popped her gum beside you, cool as ever, like she wasn’t up next.

Skinny, pale thing. No ass to speak of, just a little apple swingin’ in a room full of peaches and plums.

But she moved like she had somethin’ to prove. Sharp little walk. Collarbones cuttin’. And attitude to match.

She fixed the strap on her heel, then stood like she was on a runway. “Aight,” she said, snapping her waistband, “Watch how it’s done.”

You almost laughed.

Not ‘cause you ain’t respect her hustle—but because that was confidence you couldn’t fake.

Truth was—you ain’t never wanted this. Not the stage. Not the lights. Not the eyes. But if men was gon’ stare anyway… might as well make ‘em pay for it.

You needed money. Real money. And fast.

Mary ain’t need this the same way. Not like you. You were the kind of girl who had to survive every night.

She was the kind that could leave and be fine.

Still, you watched her walk toward the door, spine straight, heels clickin’. Watched her vanish into the smoke of that main room, where the music lived and died on Stack’s say-so.

The girls in the back room fell quiet.

And you?

You leaned against the wall and waited your turn.

The lights had settled low again, casting long shadows across the velvet floor.

Stack swirled the last of his drink in the glass, the ice clickin’ soft. Smoke had taken to lightin’ a Black & Mild, though it hung mostly unbothered from his lips, ash crooked and long.

“You think the next one gon’ have some sense?” Smoke asked, voice dry.

Stack didn’t answer. Just watched the stage, that same slow lean in his spine, like a man waitin’ for the earth to shift.

Then—heels.

Sharp clicks on the hardwood. A silhouette in the fog.

Mary.

Skinny little thing with that slick ponytail and walk like a mean girl in study hall. She stepped out onto the stage like she belonged there, not even glancin’ at the pole yet.

She grabbed the mic by the DJ booth—somethin’ none of the others dared do.

“Name’s Mary,” she said, chin up, voice loud. “Y’all can call me Duce.”

Smoke leaned forward, brow raised. “Duce? What that even mean?”

“Probably some white girl sh*t,” Stack muttered, but his eyes didn’t leave the stage.

Then the music hit.

Not trap. Not soul. Not slow.

It was No Doubt—“Just a Girl”—that sharp drum kick and Gwen’s voice blarin’ through the club like a dare.

Stack blinked once.

Mary—Duce—hit that stage like she ain’t got nothin’ to prove but everything to sell. She didn’t swing her hips low, didn’t crawl like the others. She bounced, spun, popped her little apple like it had weight. Arms up, hair whippin’, attitude electric.

She hit that pole with precision—not sensual, but controlled. Like a gymnast raised in chaos.

Smoke made a face. “Mmm. I ain’t feelin’ this. She bouncin’ like a wind-up doll.”

Stack tilted his head. “She workin’ it, though.”

“For who?” Smoke asked, side-eye hard. “That’s for the frat boys and trailer park bar tabs. We tryin’ to sell champagne and sin, not Monster energy.”

Stack didn’t laugh. Just kept his gaze steady. “Don’t matter. Room quiet.”

And it was. For the first time all night, the club hushed.

She flipped over, legs up the pole, upside down with her back arched like a drawn bow. Hit the floor and slid into a split like she didn’t weigh nothin’. Stood up again and winked directly at Stack.

Smoke groaned. “Aight, hell nah. She winked at you? That’s why you entertainin’ this?”

Stack smirked. Just barely. “She bold. I like bold.”

“She white,” Smoke said flat. “You got all these peaches in here and you lookin’ at that lil green apple like it’s forbidden fruit.”

Stack finally chuckled, deep and slow. “Ain’t about color. It’s about command. And she got the room.”

Mary twirled once more, breath comin’ hard now, sweat glintin’ on her collarbones, and ended with a sharp bow. No smile. Just the walk-off—cool, collected, heels clickin’ into the silence she owned.

The music cut.

Stack leaned forward. “Keep her name. I want her on Friday rotation.”

Smoke sucked his teeth. “She ain’t even shake nothin’ proper.”

“She ain’t have to,” Stack said, standin’ now, shadows stretchin’ behind him. “She made folks shut up. That’s the first rule.”

He handed Smoke his empty glass. “Next.”

Mary pushed through the door, ponytail swayin’, heels clackin’ loud with her exit. Still buzzin’ off her own performance.

But you were already standin’ there—leaned on the wall, arms folded, weight on one leg like you owned gravity.

She saw you. You saw her.

Didn’t say a damn word.

Just looked her dead in the face. Cold. Clean.

That kind of look that said: Cute show, bitch. Now let me show you how a woman moves.

Mary hesitated. Just for a second. Then kept walkin’.

You turned, stepped through the door slow, your breath deep and full—like you were breathin’ in the stage. The lights. The weight of the floor.

Stack and Smoke looked up.

No heels echo yet. No music. Just you.

You ain’t announce yourself with a mic. You walked right into the center of that room like you’d been here before, voice cool and full when you finally said:

“Evenin’.”

That voice—smooth like syrup but with a low edge, like trouble sweetened just enough to taste.

Stack sat up straight first. Eyes narrowed. That lazy sprawl he kept all night? Gone. His elbows hit his knees. Chin lifted.

Smoke leaned forward, blinked once. Even the toothpick came out his mouth.

“And you are?” Stack asked, voice low.

You looked at him. Then looked at Smoke.

“I’m the reason y’all about to stop lookin’ for who you need.”

Smoke let out a low “mmm.”

Then the music hit.

“Back to Life” by Soul II Soul. That slow bounce. That bassline smooth like hips in silk. That beat with breath built in.

You ain’t rush it.

Didn’t hit that pole right away. You started with your back turned. One hand slid down your thigh, the other in your hair, hips movin’ like smoke off a match tip.

You didn’t dance fast like Mary. You didn’t crawl slow like molasses either.

You moved like you knew exactly what every man in the room wanted—before they did.

That balance of tease and confidence. Power and grace. You rolled your hips and dipped low, flipped your hair like a question with no answer, and when you finally touched that pole?

Stack whispered, “God damn.”

You swung out clean, legs long, back arched just enough, never sloppy, never out of control. You used the music like it was made for your body.

Smoke let out a breath like he’d been holdin’ it. “That’s it.”

Stack didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“She don’t need the pole,” Smoke said. “She is the pole.”

You turned, caught their eyes mid-spin, and that look? Direct. Unapologetic. You didn’t flirt. You dared.

Smoke sat back. Then leaned forward again. “Club ain’t just quiet, Stack. They froze. Like she Medusa or somethin’.”

Stack nodded, eyes still on you. “Nah. Worse. She the prayer and the punishment.”

You dropped low. Split. Slow drag up the pole with your back to them. Then turned and strutted straight up to the edge of their platform, sweat gleamin’ down your chest.

No smile. Just breathin’. Just eyes.

Just silence thick enough to swallow the room whole.

Music faded. Still nobody moved.

Neither said a word for a moment.

Then Stack cleared his throat.

“Yeah,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “You hired.”

You were still breathin’ hard, sweat clingin’ light to your collarbones, chest risin’ slow as the music died out behind you.

No one spoke for a second.

Then Smoke raised one hand—lazy but deliberate—and the waiter snapped to attention like he’d been waitin’ on that cue all night.

“Bring another round,” Smoke said, eyes still on you.

Stack didn’t move. Just studied you—jaw locked, throat shiftin’ like he just swallowed somethin’ that burned on the way down.

“You drink?” he asked, voice low, like he already knew the answer.

You tilted your head. “If it’s good.”

Smoke chuckled. “Everything here good. ‘Specially tonight.”

Stack nodded slow, eyes draggin’ over you one more time. “Have a seat.”

You didn’t hesitate. Just turned and dropped right there—on the stage edge in front of them. Legs hangin’ down casual, like you was born up high.

Your knee brushed Stack’s.

He looked down fast—like the contact caught him off guard, like his whole train of thought skipped a rail. His fingers twitched on his thigh.

But when he looked back up?

You were already lookin’ at him.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Just… watched.

Smoke leaned back in his chair, grinnin’ like the devil in silk. “Well, damn.”

The waiter returned with the tray—dark liquor in low glasses. Smoke reached out, grabbed one, then passed it straight to you.

You took it, fingers grazin’ his just enough to feel the heat.

Stack picked up his own, but didn’t drink yet.

“So what you lookin’ for?” Smoke asked. “You want night shifts? Feature sets? Talk to us.”

You swirled the liquor in your glass, eyes not leavin’ Stack. “I want top billing. A cut of my pull. And I want the good music—not that tired sh*t y’all keep runnin’ for the other girls.”

Stack raised an eyebrow.

Smoke let out a low whistle. “She negotiatin’ already.”

“I ain’t here to crawl,” you said, voice calm. “I came to work. I came to earn.”

Stack finally took a sip. Then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. That gold chain around his neck caught the light—so did the heat behind his stare.

“You came to build somethin’?”

“I came to make money,” you corrected. “And you look like the kind of man who don’t mind sharin’ when he see return on investment.”

Smoke nodded. “Sh*t, I like her.”

Stack nodded once. “Two weeks. Feature nights. We’ll see your pull.”

You raised your glass. “You gon’ see more than that.”

Stack clinked his glass against yours—sharp. Final.

Smoke lifted his next. “Welcome to Elysian. Where heaven’s earned.”

You smirked. “I ain’t lookin’ for heaven, baby. Just a good stage and a fatter envelope.”

Stack and Smoke were still talkin’ numbers, percentages, music rotation—big boss talk—but you already knew you had it in the bag. Ain’t need to keep sellin’ yourself.

You slid off the stage smooth, heels kissin’ the floor soft as satin. Your glass still in your hand, your body humming with leftover heat, that slow kind you don’t rush off.

You’d just slipped past the curtain when you heard Stack murmur, “Call one more.”

The DJ’s voice crackled overhead:

“Next up… Annie.”

Your head whipped around before you could think.

”Annie?”

And there she was—steppin’ out that back hallway, all hips and honey, skin kissed deep by the Delta sun, big curls piled on top her head like a crown she never took off.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

“Annie?” you called, stepping forward.

She looked up—and the second she saw you, her whole face lit up like the Fourth of July.

“Bitch, shut up!” she half-laughed, already movin’ toward you.

Y’all met in the middle of that hallway like homegirls who’d been through some things—tight hug, arms locked, hips swayin’ with joy.

“I thought you was gone,” she said, eyes wide, voice thick with surprise. “I ain’t seen you since—what, Club Magnolias?”

“Girl,” you breathed, smiling. “Since forever. You still dancin’?”

Annie rolled her eyes playful. “Makin’ just enough to stay in trouble.”

You laughed, clinking your glass lightly against her nail-tapped hand.

“They treatin’ you good in there?” she asked, chin noddin’ toward the stage.

You shrugged. “Just made ‘em sit up straight. Might’ve made Stack blush.”

Annie’s brows rose. “Stack? Blush?”

“Swear to God.”

She laughed, deep and rich, then the DJ’s voice buzzed again, calling her name soft.

She sighed, pulling her straps up.

“I gotta go shake it for the bosses now. You stickin’ around?”

“I might,” you said. “Ain’t seen you spin in a minute.”

Annie grinned over her shoulder as she stepped onto the stage, hips already rollin’ light.

“Then get comfy, baby. I’m ‘bout to remind ‘em what sin really look like.”

And just like that, she vanished into the light and smoke.

You stayed just behind the curtain, glass loose in your hand, leanin’ on the wall now with a smile curled at the corners of your mouth.

Annie was up.

They ain’t ready.

She stepped out into that low golden light with a slow roll of her shoulders, her body carved like Sunday blessing and summer heat. Thighs thick, stomach soft, arms strong like she carried love and hurt both in ‘em.

Stack was still seated when she walked out, but Smoke? He straightened up a little. That lazy lean gone.

Annie didn’t speak—just let her eyes find theirs, one by one, then settle on Smoke like she already had a plan for him.

He blinked.

“Say Yes” by Floetry came in slow. Real slow. That moan of a bassline, that whisper-smooth vocal.

Stack took a sip of his drink. “Ain’t that your song?” he muttered to Smoke, real low.

But Smoke didn’t answer.

Didn’t blink.

Annie stepped to the beat like she was dancin’ in honey, every move full and deliberate. She ain’t speed it up—she let the music hold her, like a slow grind prayer.

And the thing was—everybody always underestimated Annie.

Too thick. Too quiet.

But you’d seen it.

You knew when Annie danced, the damn clouds paused to watch.

She dropped low, thighs spread wide and slow, rolled her hips like a tide just starting to pull—and looked dead at Smoke while she did it.

No smile.

Just that look.

Smoke exhaled deeply

Stack laughed soft. “She got you stuck, huh?”

“She real graceful for somebody so…” Smoke paused, caught himself.

Stack raised a brow.

“Thick?” he offered.

Smoke shook his head. “Nah. That ain’t the word. She… full. Like she got her own gravity.”

Stack watched as Annie climbed the pole just a little—just enough to flip slow and come down with a bounce that had the whole damn room leanin’ forward.

“She floatin’,” Smoke muttered.

Stack nodded. “She choosin’ you.”

“Huh?”

“Look at her. She ain’t flirtin’ with the crowd. She flirtin’ with you.”

And she was.

Every swivel of her hips lined up to where Smoke sat. Every arch of her back gave him a front-row seat. She licked her lips once—once—then slid a hand down the inside of her thigh like an invitation he wasn’t ready for.

Smoke didn’t even try to play cool.

You watched from behind the curtain, smilin’ like you already knew how this scene was gon’ end.

Annie was castin’ spells.

Stack leaned back in his chair, grinning now. “Look at you. Tryna play hard. That girl got your whole spine at attention.”

Smoke didn’t argue.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t look away.

And Annie?

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t rush.

She let the end of “Say Yes” stretch like taffy, slow and warm, every note a thread she was wrappin’ tight ‘round Smoke’s neck.

She turned on her knees, still on the stage, and ran both hands down her own sides, hips rollin’ soft, slow. Then, without a sound, without askin’ permission—she crawled.

Right off the edge of that stage.

Low. Smooth.

Eyes never leavin’ Smoke’s.

He leaned back on instinct, eyes wide but not movin’. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

Stack just sat there watchin’, amused like he knew how this was gon’ play out. Like a man watchin’ his brother get baptized in fire.

Annie reached Smoke, slid her hands up the arms of his chair, her thick thighs nestled right between his legs like she belonged there.

Didn’t sit. Didn’t rush.

She danced on him. No lap grind—this wasn’t desperation. This was control.

She leaned in just close enough for Smoke to feel her breath. Ran a fingertip along the line of his collar.

Let her chest brush his—barely.

Her hips still moved with the music, slow like syrup. Her eyes locked on his.

Smoke’s hands didn’t move. But his breathing did.

He swallowed. Hard.

Stack smirked. “You good?”

Smoke didn’t answer.

Annie? She smiled then—just a little. Just enough.

She turned with one final roll of her hips, walked off the same way she came—owned.

And left Smoke sittin’ there like the damn chair was holdin’ him up.

You and Annie were already back in the waiting room, still breathin’ hard from laughin’, flopped down like queens after the war.

“Glued, girl,” you wheezed, “you had that man like his soul left his body.”

Annie wiped her brow, grinnin’ wide. “He was sittin’ so still, I thought he was tryin’ not to pass out.”

Y’all both cracked up again, heads tossed back, no shame in the joy.

Then came the high click of heels.

Mary.

She strolled in like she was the one headlinin’ tonight, arms crossed, ponytail swingin’, lookin’ the both of y’all up and down like you tracked mud in her mama’s kitchen.

“Well ain’t y’all havin’ a moment,” she muttered, eyes narrow.

Annie didn’t even blink. She just looked at you sideways, one brow raised.

You smiled back.

Then together—without even plannin’ it—y’all turned and looked Mary dead in the face.

Silent.

Flat.

Mary rolled her eyes with a huff. “Whatever.”

She flipped her hair and flounced her little apple out the room.

Annie leaned in close. “She don’t know how we get down.”

You smirked. “Not a damn clue.”

“She ain’t never fought barefoot on river mud,” Annie said.

“She don’t know nothin’ about Delta dirt,” you said, voice low now. “Or what it made.”

Annie nodded. “Girls like us? We don’t learn how to dance. We born with it.

Y’all bumped shoulders, breath finally slowin’, still wearin’ that quiet grin that come from knowin’ you run the room even after you leave it.

Stack clapped Smoke on the back, the grin on his face damn near permanent.

“Boy, she climbed down and you turned to stone. I ain’t never seen you fold like that.”

Smoke was still starin’ at nothin’, jaw tight.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

Stack raised a brow. “Uh huh.”

Smoke ran a hand down his face, then looked Stack dead in the eye. “I felt… hypnotized.”

Stack paused.

“She got my vote,” Smoke added, quiet but sure.

Stack let out a low whistle, then nodded. “Well… if she got yours, she got mine too.”

He grinned wide. “Ain’t no point pretendin’ we both wasn’t starin’.”

Smoke didn’t answer. Just shook his head, like he still ain’t believe what just happened.

You and Annie were still loungin’ in the waiting room, settled deep in the aftermath of the show you both just gave. The other girls were scattered—nervous, tryin’ to fake confidence, side-eyein’ y’all like they knew they didn’t measure up but didn’t wanna admit it.

Then the door opened.

Stack walked in first. That slow, easy stride, cigar still tucked behind his ear now, like he forgot it was there.

Smoke followed—less relaxed, jaw tight, brows low.

Stack clapped his hands together once, loud.

“Alright,” he said, voice smooth but cuttin’. “Let’s not drag it out.”

He glanced around, let his eyes pass over a few of the girls near the wall. “If I ain’t call your name, better luck next time.”

Couple girls shifted in their seats. One stood up too fast and had to sit back down, pretendin’ like her heel was twisted.

Stack’s voice rang clean:

“Babygirl and Annie.”

Your head lifted. Annie already had her arms crossed, a knowing look playin’ at her lips.

“You two—come back Friday. Featured spots.”

The room got quiet. Long and awkward.

Stack glanced around, eyes skippin’ past all the other hopefuls, brows drawin’ a little as he squinted. “…Oh. Right.”

He nodded toward the far side of the room. “You too.”

Didn’t even say the girl’s name.

Just “You too.”

That silence came again. One girl let out a shaky exhale, another grabbed her purse fast like she knew her name wasn’t ever gon’ be called.

Stack dusted off his hands like the matter was settled. “Welcome to the team. Don’t be late.”

Smoke was quiet.

Real quiet.

And Annie?

She ain’t said a word either—but she ain’t need to.

She was lookin’ at him.

Eyes steady. Still. Heat behind ‘em like a slow fire set for cookin’ somethin’ tender. She didn’t blink when his gaze slid past hers—just waited.

You saw the shift.

The bob of his Adam’s apple.

The way his stance changed—just a little. Like he needed more room in his own skin.

Stack paused mid-sentence, glancin’ over at his brother. Brow raised.

Smoke cleared his throat.

“Mm,” Stack said low, like it was nothin’. But his eyes flicked between the two of ‘em again.

And then it happened again.

Annie didn’t move, but she pressed, without touchin’ a thing.

Smoke’s jaw clenched, breathin’ deeper now, like the air was too heavy.

Stack caught it this time.

He looked at her, then back at Smoke. Then just huffed out a breath and shook his head.

“Lawd,” he muttered, chucklin’ under his breath.

He turned toward the door. “Alright ladies, that’s it. Be sharp, be early, and bring what you brought tonight.”

He tipped his head as he passed you.

“Good night, baby.”

Then winked.

Quick. Smooth. Like it was nothin’.

But Annie saw it. You felt her clock it.

Her head turned just enough to catch the corner of your grin.

FRIDAY NIGHT.

The dressing room smelled like glitter, cocoa butter, and new money.

Lashes on mirrors, lip gloss tubes open like bullets. Somebody’s baby oil spilled across the counter, mixin’ with the bass thumpin’ from the main room. The crowd out there was already loud—louder than usual.

Because they knew who was on the bill tonight. Top of the flyer in hot red cursive:

FEATURE NIGHT — PEACH & HONEY

Annie sat across from you in front of the mirror, smokin’ a clove with one hand and tightenin’ her garter with the other. Her thighs shimmered in gold body oil, her hair piled wild like a lioness that dared the jungle to try her.

“You ready?” she asked, voice low like a dare.

You smirked. “I been ready.”

Your fit was black and plum, skin peepin’ out from all the right cuts. You ain’t even need a full beat—just liner, gloss, and attitude. The rest? Carried in your walk.

The other girls moved quieter than usual. Some tried not to stare. Some did. Mary was there, still tryin’ to find the rhythm between jealousy and admiration.

“Y’all got the good slots, huh,” she said, applying lip liner crooked in the corner.

Annie didn’t even look over. “We ain’t get ‘em, baby. We earned ‘em.”

You raised your drink, smilin’ just enough. “Cheers to that.”

Behind y’all, the manager cracked the door open halfway. “Ten minutes, Peach. Honey after that.”

Annie winked at you in the mirror. “Go on and warm ‘em up.”

You stood slow, smooth, every inch deliberate. You weren’t just dancin’ tonight.

You were opening nirvana.

You stepped out under that spotlight like you were born to own it.

The first low moan of “Any Time, Any Place” crept through the speakers, and the crowd fell silent—like they felt the heat before they saw it.

Bass deep. Keys soft. Janet whisperin’ sin through velvet.

You moved slow. Deliberate. Every heel-click like punctuation. Each hip roll an invitation. Body oil gleamed under the lights—your shoulders, your thighs, your belly catching glints like gold.

A chair waited center stage. You circled it once, let your fingertips trail over the back. Then you climbed it. Straddled it. Dropped slow, real slow, hips winding like smoke before sliding back down the legs, smooth as honey.

The crowd? They didn’t cheer—they worshipped. Bills flew up like praise. Fifties. Hundreds. It rained.

You didn’t even touch the pole yet.

Up on the balcony, Stack and Smoke leaned over the railing, drinks half-drunk, attention full.

Smoke’s eyes tracked your silhouette against the soft amber glow. His voice low:

“Lord… she ain’t just earnin’ money—she crowning this whole stage.”

Stack grinned, lips twitchin’. “Them boys down there givin’ up rent checks like she the landlord.”

Smoke tilted his head. “That ain’t no dance. That’s a sermon.”

They both watched as you finally took the pole—walked toward it like you had all night. Grabbed it. Arched. Spun once, slow, before dropping into a split that had the whole front row gasp.

“Goddamn,” Stack murmured.

“She’s control,” Smoke said, his tone lower now. “Pure control.”

Stack laughed soft. “That’s what we bought into, huh?”

“Nah,” Smoke corrected. “That’s what bought into us.”

Down below, you eased into your last roll. Took your time standing. Made a slow turn toward the crowd—toward the balcony. You didn’t look up just yet, but you knew they were watching.

Then finally—you met their eyes.

Smoke stood still.

Stack tipped his glass.

And you? You just smiled, and walked off slow while Janet’s last note faded like sweat drying on hot skin.

The DJ caught his breath before speaking. “Give it up for Peach.”

Thunder. Applause. More money hit the floor even after you left.

Up top, Stack flicked his cigar.

“That’s our girl,” he murmured.

Smoke tapped the ashtray. “She made it look easy.

And down below, the stage still buzzed with you.

Back in the dressing room, sweat still cooling on your skin, you sat fannin’ yourself with a stack of fresh bills.

Annie strolled over, heels still on, lips glossy, hair wild.

“Girl,” she said, mouth open like she couldn’t believe it, “they was throwin’ money like you was a damn hurricane.”

You laughed, a low, easy sound. “That stage owe me a thank you.”

She sat beside you, tossed her leg over your knee. “I bet we could make double that.”

You blinked. “How?”

She smiled. Lazy. Intentional. That same smile she gave Smoke that night. The kind that ain’t askin’—it’s tellin’.

“Come on stage with me,” she said. “Tonight.”

You paused, brows lifting. “What? You want me to intro you or—?”

“No,” she cut in. “With me. Together.”

You leaned back a little. “Annie…”

She leaned closer.

Close enough you could smell her perfume and cocoa butter. Her thigh slid further across yours. Her voice dropped to a hush.

“Come on,” she said. “We work it together. You already know how I move… Now match it.”

And suddenly you felt what Smoke did. That pull. That lure. She wasn’t just pretty—she was magnetic. Her gaze slid down your neck like fingers.

You swallowed.

Then smiled.

“Alright.”

The DJ’s voice cracked through the speakers.

“Next up, our feature—give it up for Honey—”

He paused.

“—and Peach.”

The crowd rumbled. Confused.

Up in the balcony, Stack frowned, leaned over the railing. “both?”

Smoke’s brow furrowed. “Wasn’t just Annie scheduled?”

Stack shrugged. “Change of plans.”

Smoke sat forward slow. His eyes cut to the curtain. “They doin’ somethin’.”

The beat dropped.

“Feenin’” by Jodeci.

Low and deep. The kind of bass that made knees weak and hearts stupid.

Then y’all walked out.

Together.

Annie in crimson. You in black. Y’all ain’t touch—but you didn’t have to.

You circled each other first. Like rivals. Like sisters. Like flames dancin’ just close enough to warm but not burn.

The crowd got quiet.

The money didn’t even fly yet. They just watched.

Waited.

You grabbed the pole first, hands high, thighs flexed. Annie stepped behind, slow drag of her fingers across your hip—not nasty, not sweet, just… heat.

Stack leaned over the balcony, grippin’ the rail. “What the hell…”

Smoke didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

You dropped. Smooth split.

Annie rolled under you, back arched, chest lifted, her thighs grazing yours without contact. The lights hit the oil on your skin like stars shimmerin’.

And the crowd?

Exploded.

The money came in waves now.

Fifties. Hundreds.

Smoke’s jaw clenched.

His eyes locked on Annie—but every time she turned toward you, bent for you, looked at you, his breath caught.

Stack watched you wind slow up the pole, twist and drop into Annie’s arms like she was waitin’ for you.

He muttered, “You see this?”

Smoke didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

Annie flipped you slow—real slow—and climbed over your thigh with a grin like she had secrets written across her chest.

Your hand slid behind her neck—guiding, not takin’.

It was art.

It was fire.

It was damn near holy.

Neither of you stripped much. Didn’t need to.

Just sweat, muscle, and unspoken understanding. Backbends, pole spins, body rolls together. You in front now, Annie mirrored behind—hands above both your heads, arching the same, dipping like you was water in two glasses.

From above, the boys watched.

Stack shook his head, laughed under his breath. “They gon’ bankrupt the whole damn club.”

Smoke didn’t blink.

He just swallowed hard—watchin’ Annie watch you.

The way her eyes drank you in.

The way your body answered her.

And when y’all finally closed it out—cheeks glowing, eyes locked, bills piled like thrones around your feet—you reached for her hand.

She took it.

Y’all bowed together.

And left the stage like two storms rollin’ back into the night.

Backstage was loud with celebration—but only between y’all two

You and Annie tumbled through the curtain breathless and shining, cheeks glowing, bills stuck to your thighs like gold leaf.

“Bitch!” she yelled, smacking your hip with her wad of cash. “We did that!”

You doubled over laughing, high off the moment, that whole stage still vibrating in your chest. “Girl, we burned it down!”

You flopped into the chair, still panting, still tingling. Annie paced, pulling her hair tie out, shaking those curls loose like a lioness unwindin’.

She looked at you, slow.

Still smilin’.

Still that same heat in her eyes from the stage—but heavier now.

She came over, real close, crouched next to your chair.

“I don’t know what it is about you,” she said, voice low, husky. “But when we up there? I feel a buzz”

“You feel it too?”

You blinked, mouth open to speak, but—

The door slammed open.

Stack walked in first, jaw tight.

Smoke behind him, hands on his hips, chest still rising like he’d jogged the whole damn building.

You and Annie didn’t flinch.

You just watched.

“Y’all lost your damn minds?” Stack asked, lookin’ straight at you. “What the hell was that?”

Annie leaned back on her heels, still crouched by your side, head tilted.

Smoke stepped forward, eyes cuttin’ toward her. “That wasn’t what we agreed to. You was supposed to go solo.”

“Oh, my bad,” Annie said, standing slow. “Didn’t know we needed permission to elevate the brand.”

Stack scoffed. “That ain’t the point—”

You stood too, brushing your leg against Annie’s as you rose, all slow-like, lazy with defiance.

“You mad ‘cause we made y’all feel somethin’ you wasn’t ready for?”

Stack blinked at you, lips parting. “Ain’t nobody say all that—”

“No,” you said, stepping closer. “But your mouth hangin’ open like it wanna.”

Smoke folded his arms. “It was too much. That crowd ain’t know what to do with all that… heat.”

Annie stepped right up to him, head high, smile soft but sharp. “Did you?”

Smoke’s jaw twitched.

Annie leaned just close enough for him to feel her breath again. “’Cause you looked frozen. Again.”

Stack’s eyes shifted between them, then locked back on you. “You supposed to dance, not—start somethin’.”

You moved into his space, slow, deliberate, voice all honey and smoke. “And yet here you are. Lookin’ like somethin’ I started.”

He blinked.

Didn’t step back.

Didn’t step forward either.

You could see it—all of it. His pulse in his neck. The way his fingers flexed like he wanted to grab somethin’. Or you.

Annie grinned, watching Smoke.

“Next time,” she whispered, “maybe I’ll call you up there with us.”

Smoke’s breath hitched.

Stack huffed, ran a hand down his face like he was tryin’ to stay professional.

Then his eyes met yours again—long. Low.

He smirked.

“I see what this is,” he muttered.

“Oh yeah?” you asked, still too close.

“Mmhm.” His voice dipped. “Y’all dangerous.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you like it.”

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t have to.

Annie brushed past Smoke, slow and deliberate. “We’ll be on time next week,” she tossed back.

Smoke just watched her walk, jaw clenched, hands useless at his sides.

You followed, but not before dragging your eyes over Stack one more time.

“Tip better next time,” you said, winkin’.

Then you and Annie disappeared down the hall, hips swingin’ like the stage never ended.

-—————————

Hey yall! Hopefully yall like this and if yall do ill continue requests coming soon😫🙏🏾

[trulyumai]

too soft for your own good

—Synopsis: Remmick is finally brought in with a warm softness. The evening unfolds with a quiet domesticity—soft candlelight, the smell of fresh herbs, and the clink of silverware over a lovingly prepared dinner. He can’t eat, of course, but he sits across from you like a man who once had a family, who’s almost forgotten how to live like this. He watches with an aching reverence as you move about the kitchen, barefoot and warm, bathed in the gentle familiarity of home. You ask nothing of him. He expects you to flinch, to fear. But you don’t. Not once. And in that stillness, that trust, something fragile begins to take root. —Warnings: Talk of violence, blood.

He doesn’t touch the plate.

Just sits there, long fingers folded on the edge of the table, watching you with a stillness that hums like tension wire. You’re standing by the stove, dish towel slung over one shoulder, hair pinned back in a loose twist, humming like always—some old tune that feels like it belongs to the house more than to you.

You serve two bowls.

You always do.

You ladle out red beans, set down thick slices of buttered cornbread, pour iced tea until the glasses sweat. You do it like muscle memory, like prayer. Because even if he doesn’t eat, the gesture matters. The illusion of it. The hope.

Remmick watches your every move like he’s memorizing a ritual. Like your hands stirring the pot are some holy liturgy he’ll never be clean enough to speak aloud.

The kitchen is warm—alive. Smells like garlic and thyme, like something bubbling low and soft for hours. The air clings to you, golden with lamplight, sweat at your temple catching the glow. It’s cruel, in a way. How human you are. How here.

He, by contrast, is all silence and restraint.

No breath.

No heartbeat.

Just that faint unnatural pallor beneath his eyes, the kind that deepens the longer he sits too close to heat.

“Smells good,” he says. His voice is smoke—thin and quiet, something that slips under the door and vanishes before it can be answered.

You glance up. “I can make you something else. If it’s the garlic—”

He stops you with a small shake of his head. “I ain’t hungry.”

But he is.

God, he is.

Just not for what’s on the table.

Your eyes linger on him. His collar is open. No tie. Just the pale line of his throat and the faint stain of dried blood at the seam, nearly scrubbed clean. He looks better—less like a corpse, more like a man caught halfway between hunger and salvation.

You sit.

He watches the steam rise from your bowl.

Your spoon clinks gently. The softest sounds in the world, but to him it’s thunder. Because it reminds him he doesn’t belong here. Never really did. And yet—

“You used to?” you ask suddenly. “Eat, I mean?”

A pause.

He nods. Slow. “Years back. Another life.”

“What did you miss first?”

He thinks about it.

“The feeling of fullness,” he says. “Not even the taste. Just knowin’ you’d had enough.”

You nod, quiet, spoon paused halfway to your mouth.

He reaches out. Doesn’t touch the food, but lets his hand hover near the plate like the heat from it might singe him into something real again.

“I still remember what it’s supposed to taste like,” he murmurs. “Cornbread. Real butter. Salted beans. I close my eyes and it’s there, like a ghost.”

Your throat tightens.

You push your bowl closer to him anyway.

He looks at you like you’ve just offered him something impossible.

“Humor me,” you say. “Just hold the spoon.”

He does.

Awkwardly at first. Like it’s foreign in his hand. Like it burns with its memory of purpose. But he lets it dip into the beans, lift, steam curling upward in a soft spiral that kisses his wrist.

He doesn’t bring it to his lips.

He just holds it there. Eyes locked on the bowl.

“I used to eat like this on Sundays,” he says, like he’s somewhere else now. “Mama’s table. Window open. Cicadas loud as hell. Always had sweet tea, and my uncle used to say if the cornbread didn’t crumble in your hand, it wasn’t worth a damn.”

You smile.

“He’d like this one,” you offer.

He laughs—but it’s a small, strangled sound. Half-buried. Something folded up inside him, trembling.

“You don’t have to pretend,” you whisper.

But he does.

He wants to.

Not for you—but for himself. For the boy he used to be. For the man who might’ve had a kitchen like this, with a woman humming across the room and oil popping in a skillet, and the holy silence of two people who don’t need to speak to be full.

He sets the spoon down carefully.

“I can’t eat,” he says, finally. “But if I sit here long enough, I think maybe I almost remember how it feels.”

You rise and move behind him. Lay your hand on his shoulder. He leans into it, slow and soft, eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re here,” you murmur. “That’s all that matters.”

The beans go cold. The cornbread stiffens at the edges.

But Remmick?

He stays.

Lets the illusion wrap around him like a warm quilt. Listens to the tick of the stove, the song of your breath. Pretends, for one long, golden moment, that this is his house too.

And in that stillness, in that fragile peace, he is full.

The kitchen’s long gone quiet. Dishes rinsed, lights dimmed to a low glow. The air still smells faintly of thyme and scorched sugar.

He hadn’t left.

You didn’t ask him to.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Now he sits on the edge of your couch, long legs bent, hands folded between his knees like he’s afraid to unfold too fast and shatter the moment. The living room hums with warmth. You pad in barefoot, skin still dewy from the bath, the thin fabric of your robe clinging like a second skin. Every step is deliberate. Every breath careful.

He doesn’t look at you—not at first. Just stares at the floor like it holds the answers to all the questions he won’t let himself ask.

“I can hear it,” he murmurs, low and hoarse. “Your blood.”

You stop in front of him.

He doesn’t lift his gaze, but his hands clench tighter.

“It’s not just sound—it’s… a pull. Like somethin' remembering its way home.”

You kneel between his knees. Slowly. Gently.

His eyes rise to meet yours—and God, they’re starving. Not red. Not monstrous. Just desperate. Heavy with restraint. Guilt. A hunger he’s buried so deep, it’s gone feral in the dark.

“Remmick,” you whisper.

He shakes his head. “Don’t... Darlin'. You don’t know what you’re—”

But your fingers reach for his. Steady. Grounding.

“I do.”

He closes his eyes. A tremble runs through him—like a shiver breaking loose from the spine.

“You think this is kind,” he says. “But it’s not. It’s giving in. And once I do—once I taste—”

“You won’t hurt me.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

You reach up, tilt your head.

The robe slips just slightly, revealing the slope of your neck. That tender spot just beneath the ear. The place where your pulse flutters like a moth trapped in your throat.

His breath catches, ragged and dry.

You wait.

You don’t coax. Don’t beg.

You just are. Calm. Present. Offering.

He leans forward, slow as death, slow as forgiveness.

His lips ghost your skin. Not a kiss, not yet. Just a reverence.

Then a breath. Sharp. Inhaled like incense.

“Say stop,” he whispers. “Say it and I’ll—”

You don’t.

You tip your head farther, baring yourself with a softness that borders on holy.

He groans, quiet and wrecked, and finally sinks in—not with violence, but with ache. With restraint so taut it might break him apart. His fangs pierce skin like a prayer, and for a moment the world stills.

No pain.

Just heat.

Just the throb of your pulse against his lips, the way his hand cradles the back of your neck like you’re something breakable and beloved. His other arm slides around your waist, pulling you closer—not out of hunger, but out of need.

The kind of need that says don’t leave me here.

You let him drink. Not much. Just enough.

Enough to stop the shaking. Enough to soothe the ache behind his eyes. Enough to remind him he’s still tethered to something human.

When he pulls back, he’s shaking. His mouth red, his pupils blown wide, and yet—he looks cleaner somehow. Less haunted.

Your blood stains his lower lip.

You reach up slowly, wiping it away with your thumb.

[noirscript]

his silent script

Pairing: Yandere!Actor x Smut Writer!Reader Description: You never meant for your words to become real, but Dorian Shaw—celebrated actor, relentless shadow—has stepped straight out of your pages. He watches you like he knows you, like he’s living the life you created for him, and when he speaks, it’s with the certainty of a man who refuses to be just fiction. Warning/s: YANDERE | Stalking | Psychological Manipulation | Power Imbalance | Implied Coercion | Implied Threats | Note/s: Happy 900 followers! Actually, it already exceeded 900. I hope I can finish Sovereign's Reign on or before I reach 1,000 followers. ^^ Anyway, enjoy reading!

Masterlist | Dark Roast 50% OFF | Commission | Tip Jar

The first time you met him; it wasn’t with flashing cameras or red carpets. It was raining—of course it was raining—and the bookstore’s leaky ceiling made a steady plip-plip onto the laminate floor.

You’d come for peace. You found him instead.

He was in the back corner of the romance section, hood low over his brow, fingers grazing the spines like he was choosing a victim rather than a novel. Tall, still, silent. The kind of presence that made you aware of your own heartbeat.

You didn’t recognize him. Not really. Maybe you’d seen him once, in passing on some trailer auto-playing on your phone. But the name meant little. The face meant nothing. You weren’t in the business of idolizing men who wore fake faces for a living.

Still, you noticed the way his eyes lingered too long on the shelf where your name sat, your series nestled between glossier, brighter titles. You saw the slight twitch in his jaw when he picked up the second book in your “Sin & Silk” trilogy. And then—he smiled.

Not like a fan. Like a man who’d just found something he’d been missing.

“Is this one any good?” he asked, holding up the copy. His voice was deep—velvet laced with smoke—and you immediately felt heat crawl up your neck.

“I wouldn’t know,” you said, brushing past him to the counter. “Never read it.”

He laughed—just once. “Liar.”

You turned. He was still watching you.

“You’re her,” he said. “The author.”

Your stomach sank. “So?”

He didn’t answer. Just flipped the book open, letting the pages fan out beneath his fingers, stopping on a dog-eared chapter. You knew exactly which scene it was. Chapter 17. The one your editor almost didn’t let you keep. Too dark, too raw, too real.

But you’d fought for it. And won.

Now he was reading it. Slowly. Deliberately.

“This scene,” he murmured. “The way he talks to her. Makes her feel like she’s drowning even when she wants more.”

You stiffened. “You make it sound creepy.”

He smiled again. This time, it didn’t reach his eyes.

“It’s not creepy if it’s real.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You didn’t think much of it. A strange encounter. A nameless man in a bookstore. A slightly unsettling comment.

Then a week later, your book shot up the charts.

Overnight, your inbox was flooded with messages. Your social media exploded. Edits. Fanart. BookTok girls screaming about the “Sin & Silk” trilogy, especially Chapter 17. You didn’t understand why—until you saw the video.

Him. The man from the bookstore.

Only now, the hood was off. The world’s most sought-after actor, Dorian Shaw, was staring into a camera, book in hand, reading your words.

“I couldn’t put it down,” he said in a quiet interview, caught between questions about his next thriller and a luxury brand endorsement. “There’s something real in this writing. Dark, yeah. But honest. Like she’s not afraid to tell the truth.”

Dorian Shaw. Award-winning. Obscenely handsome. A man with a face built for obsession and a voice that bent crowds.

And now, he was yours.

Your book, your name, your words—on his lips.

It should’ve been thrilling. You should’ve been grateful.

But when you watched that interview, it wasn’t his praise that stuck with you.

It was the way he looked at the camera.

Like he wasn’t just recommending your book.

Like he was speaking to you.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The next time you saw him; it was at your signing event. Your publicist was buzzing, hands fluttering as she arranged stacks of books and fixed your hair between signatures.

“He promoted you,” she whispered. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

You did. Your Amazon page had crashed. Pre-orders were climbing. But all you could think about was the way his fingers lingered on your words.

He showed up without fanfare. No entourage. No disguise. Just Dorian, dressed in dark tones, leaning against the end of the line like he belonged there.

People turned. Whispered. Phones clicked.

And still, he waited. Twenty-three minutes.

When he finally reached you, he didn’t hand you a book.

He slid a black envelope across the table.

“I read them all,” he said. “But I think you already know that.”

You stared at him. “Why are you here?”

His smile was slow. Purposeful.

“I want to talk. The real kind. About the man you wrote.”

“I write fiction.”

“You write truth in disguise.”

He stepped back, letting the crowd absorb him. But as he disappeared, he called over his shoulder:

“Open it when you’re alone.”

Inside the envelope was a script. Handwritten. Raw. A scene lifted straight from Chapter 17—but with differences. Subtle, unnerving ones.

The villain won.

The heroine didn’t run.

And at the bottom, scrawled in ink that had bled through the page:

You wrote him. I became him.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You tried to avoid it after that. Ignored the surge of followers. Declined interviews. Turned adaptation offers.

But Dorian was persistent.

He posted again. A black-and-white video of him reading a monologue from your latest release. The comments were chaos. His fans demanded a collab. Your sales doubled. Your publisher offered a new contract. Your name was trending.

And through it all, he watched.

At first, it was distant. A like. A repost. A subtle nod during his press tours.

Then he started commenting. Small things. Quotes from your work. Direct lines. No context.

Then came the invitations. A book panel he was hosting. A charity gala “in your honor.” He even showed up at a local café reading where you’d been assured anonymity.

You finally gave in at a networking event your agent guilted you into attending. He was there before you. Waiting at the bar.

“You never answered my messages,” he said as you approached, drink in hand.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“No,” he said. “But you created me.”

You shook your head. “You’re not him. He’s fiction.”

Dorian leaned in, voice lowering. “I’ve played gods, killers, kings. But none of them fit like him. None of them felt like me—until your story.”

You hated the way he said it. Like it was fate. Like he truly believed it.

“You don’t know me,” you said.

“I know you better than anyone who’s ever touched your skin,” he said, his voice almost reverent. “Because I’ve read the parts of you no one else dares to look at.”

You walked away.

But something tethered you there.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

And now, you were in the backseat of a car. One you didn’t remember getting into. Rain blurred the windows. Your hands were shaking.

The partition slid down.

Dorian looked back at you from the driver’s seat.

“You shouldn’t get in strange cars,” he said.

Your mouth went dry. “This isn’t my driver.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s mine.”

You reached for the handle. Locked.

“Please,” he said. “Just listen.”

You swallowed. “You stalked me.”

“I followed the story.”

“There is no story.”

“There is,and you know it.”

His voice was quiet, almost broken.

“You wrote me. I was fragments before you. Empty roles. Hollow scripts. But then I found your words. And I felt something. For the first time in years, I felt alive.”

He turned in his seat, eyes meeting yours.

“Don’t take that from me.”

The knife was beneath the seat. You knew it. He didn’t reach for it.

Instead, he took your book from his coat. Your first. The one that had started it all.

“Let me show you what this means to me,” he whispered. “Let me be him.”

Your heart pounded.

“I don’t want him.”

“Yes, you do,” he said. “You buried him in fiction. I’m digging him out.”

Silence sat between you like a second presence.

Then, softly: “Give me one scene. Just one. Let me prove I understand.”

And you, against everything rational, nodded.

He didn’t touch you.

But he looked at you like you were the final line of a monologue he’d rehearsed a thousand times.

And when it was over, you went home.

And picked up your pen.

And rewrote the ending.

This time, the villain stays.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @fandangoballs @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger

[dyingswanpavlova]

"Your girl" - Part 14 | The Salesman x Reader

Summary: Life with him is really good...Right?

Warnings: dead dove do not eat, kidnapping, mentions of sexual abuse and other traumatic events in the past, numbness, helplessness, violence, threatening, mentions of blood, mentions of murder/gore/death, body issues, trauma talk, stockholm syndrome, forced relationship, unhealthy relationship, depression, manipulation and low self-esteem, mentions of sexual activities, loss of identity, threatening, penetration, breeding kink, degradation kink, cockwarming, edging, overstimulation, sleepy sex (both consent!), not beta-read, if I've missed any warnings or tags please tell me! mdni 18+!

"Your girl" - The Salesman x Reader Masterlist

Life was good.

Uncharacteristically so even.

There was still a tiny part of you that was tense around him and that was for various reasons. One of them being, that you never really knew when his evil persona would take over. So far you could tell, albeit roughly, but there were always moments, when he would simply snap and there was nothing you could do about it. Was that a problem? Probably, but not to you, anyways. Why? Because life was good.

The little trip to the balcony hadn’t been a one-time thing. In fact, it happened more and more regular. Not only to get naughty, because he was a freak, who liked the thought of possibly getting caught – but also because, as he said, you’ve been such a good girl for me all this time. And I told you, sweet girl, I don’t want to keep you locked away. I just needed to make sure you’re mine.

That you were. Quite obviously.

That one time when you told him you wanted to leave, it had been exactly that. One time. The reasons for that outburst were in the past so far. There were still moments when you feared punishment and rightfully so. But to your great relief, you were both learning.

You were learning not to expect a painful blow, whenever you went out of your way to speak your mind (which wasn’t quite as often as you wished, but you were getting there). Slow and steady.

And he? He was learning, too. He was learning to leave you be and control the wild beast that lived inside his mind and soul. The darkness that surrounded him became lighter every day or so it felt to you. Of course he wouldn’t let you downright insult him, without at least some punishment in sight. But he was working on himself and his behavior. He didn’t hurt you without a reason. He didn’t hurt severely. And on some lucky days, he didn’t hurt you at all.

Slow and steady.

What was probably the greatest part of it all, it felt like a relationship. A real one. Two people who shared a life together, doing all kinds of things, sharing an intimate relation, but most importantly, you talked.

You talked a lot.

And now it wasn’t only through games and the fear of punishment. It wasn’t even only you who was forced to talk. No, he talked as well. The important things were still a big issue, obviously. He didn’t have a name, an identity or a past, when it came to you. But you had the great, undying hope that one day he would trust you. Trust you enough to let you know who he was and where he came from, what made him who he was and what was truly important to him.

Sometimes you’d get those tiny, little flickers that shone through his façade, his tight mask. The moments when the look in his eyes became faraway and distant, when his voice became softer and the tension in his body gave way to something quiet. Maybe one day that would be the version of him that you would get. Entirely and without question. Without the filter to rule out his emotions for him.

Until then, though, you would make do with what you had. And what did you have?

His favorite movie? The good, the bad and the ugly. What a question. Actually, anything with Clint Eastwood in it. Haven’t you seen the man?

His favorite musician? Ennio Morricone. Did you watch that scene in Inglourious Basterds, right before the Bear Jew comes out of the cave? That scene – and that composition – it’s reason enough to watch the movie. Aside from all the Nazis getting burned, of course.

His favorite food? Tteokbokki. But they have to be spicy enough to make your tongue fall off.

You smirked to yourself as you stood by the stove, slowly stirring the rice cakes in a black pan. He was talking movies all the time and that was a language you understood well.

In a minute you needed to add the spices and that disturbingly hot, red sauce. It was something you had cooked before, back in England. You had been scrolling aimlessly through one of your countless apps, which you normally used so you wouldn’t have to think and there you found some recipe that had been viral for a while. A Korean recipe with rice cakes in a sauce, topped with sesame and green onions. It had been quite the ordeal to find rice cakes back where you lived, but when you finally did and you tasted the recipe you had so carefully and lovingly prepared, you found it was worth it. It had actually been the first step into the life you were now living.

South-Korea, you had thought. Why not?

You poured the sauce in and wanted to try it, but decided against it in the end. You’d spend the next hour trying to soothe the pain in your mouth with bread and milk. With a soft sigh, you turned off the stove and served the food on two plates. You set the table with the gentle precision of a lovely homemaker. Even the napkins were folded prettily, giving the whole scene the last touch it needed to come off as…thoughtful.

Of course you never mentioned to him that you knew the dish. He had mostly likely thought it was just another Korean word he threw around and you’d forget immediately. And you had made no attempts to make him believe differently. So, when you began to cook this, it was with the intention to surprise him. A short glance at the clock showed you that it was almost ten in the evening, so he would most likely be home soon.

Home. What an odd thought.

You sighed again and washed your hands. A lecture you had to learn only once before in your life – spicy food didn’t quite match well with eyes.

You glanced around the kitchen once more, half-expecting him to be late. After he luckily gave you the books back, you asked yourself if you should go and read something, until he arrived, but that question answered itself, the moment you heard the door creak open. A nervous smile grew on your face and you nibbled on your lower lip. For some reason, a part of you was still afraid. A tiny bit, at least. It was like you expected him to punish you for good things. For being affectionate or caring.

But the moment you saw his head perk through the door, you knew you wouldn’t get punished tonight. Well, at least not, until you gave him a reason to…or asked him to.

His face lit up in surprised delight, his brows furrowed in a mixture of disbelief and confusion.

“Hello?” He murmured as he stepped closer and set the briefcase down on a chair. Your smile grew somewhat and you folded your hands behind your back.

“Hey.” You took a step closer and tilted your head to the side. “I made dinner.”

“I can see that.” He glanced at the lovely decorated kitchen table. You had put in quite some effort, looking through all the drawers until you found a tablecloth, lit some candles and then there was his favorite food. He looked from the table to you and smiled.

“And what exactly did I do to deserve this?” He raised a brow in suspicion. You returned the smile.

“I just felt like it.”

“So, you know Tteokbokki!”

You laughed quietly. “We’ll see about that. You should try it first.”

He hummed softly and stepped closer. You expected him to head for the sink and wash his hands, which he most definitely would, but before that, he stepped close to you, so close that you felt the warmth radiating off him and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. Then your cheek and then your lips.

You closed eyes and leaned into the kiss, immediately aching for more. But a second later he pulled his head back and smiled again.

“I just know I’m going to love it. Thank you.”

You felt yourself blush and so you averted your gaze. He finished up getting ready and then pulled out your chair for you, like the gentleman he was, or well, he could be.

The both of you settled down and you kept a keen eye on him to check his reaction, the second he brought the fork to his lips. You half-expected him to recoil in disgust, but instead, his brows furrowed and he hummed in approval.

“This is perfect.”

You scoffed in amusement. “Stop bullshitting me.”

“No, I mean it. It’s perfectly spicy, just the way I like it. And it’s homemade. Do you know how much that me-“ He stopped himself and cleared his throat. The filter. “I really love it. Thank you.” He squeezed your hand under the table.

You smiled again and leaned back in your chair, taking a moment to simply watch him eat.

When he saw you were staring at him, he cocked a brow. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Now it’s you bullshitting me, huh?”

That made you laugh. God, how beautiful this was. Just simple, plain banter. Back and forth, like normal couples shared. You loved it.

You loved him.

When you laughed, a cocky grin grew on his face. “Mhm. I still have it in me, don’t I?”

You smirked. “Oh, shut up. For an old man.”

His grin widened and he picked up the fork, bringing it to your lips. Wordlessly, you parted them and took the food in your mouth. It was painful, of course, but you tried to keep a strong façade. And failed.

He laughed and held out a glass with milk to you, of which you took a big, grateful sip.

“Why are you making it, if you can’t even eat it?”

“You like it.”

He hummed softly. “And you remembered.”

“It’s not that hard. I collect the few things I know about you like postage stamps.”

He snorted. “Oh, so now we collect stamps, do we?”

You grinned cheekily and gently nudged his shoulder. “Eat your abnormal spicy food and shush.”

He shot you another smirk and eyed you up and down for a moment. It left you feeling oddly comfortable.

“You’re beautiful.” He mumbled before he took another bite. Your brows shot up and you titled your head to the side. You were better now, when it came to this. Compliments and accepting them. After all, he had no reason to lie to you whatsoever, now, did he?

“Thank you. But why are you saying that?” Not as good as you thought, but better.

He brows furrowed. “And why wouldn’t I?”

You shrugged and he shot you a long, suspicious look. “I’m not taking it back.”

That made you laugh again. He sounded like petulant child and you loved him even more when he was like this. Just…easy.

Easy to love.

“Why are you laughing at me?” He joined your laughter.

You smirked and took another sip of your milk. “If you can’t tell, it’s already too late.”

Days passed, weeks even, and life was still good. Very much so.

Every now and then you would ask yourself, when will things take a dark turn again? You couldn’t help yourself. These first few weeks were stuck in your mind like a nightmare you hardly remembered and yet felt in every inch of your body. Even when you didn’t...

Your body remembered.

He had that in him. That dark, that evil. It would undoubtedly come out again at some point. That’s why you always tried to remind yourself, not to dive too deep into what you called your perfect world. At some point, you’d surely be in pain again.

Though, you had to admit, you were hardly in pain nowadays. Your mysterious man was a gentle man, when he wanted to be and that happened more and more these days. Whenever he came home, he’d make a habit of kissing you and asking you about your day. His smile came out, more and more often. On very rare occasions, when you got really lucky, you even heard him laugh. And not the mock-kind of laugh he’d have so well-rehearsed in his repertoire of masks, he had for the world to see, but the real kind. A sound so unbridled and genuine, so warm and endearing, it made something inside of you ache. Why was it so rare?

Of course he still hurt you sometimes, but that was more of a consented kind of thing. In most cases.

Whenever he decided it was time for you to cockwarm him, for example. God, you hated, when he did. Because you loved it.

You loved the feeling of having him inside you on any occasion, really. Sometimes he’d be reading the newspaper and have you on his lap, his free hand on your hip to hold you perfectly still. You always asked yourself, how on earth did he manage to read like that, without even cocking an eye brow, while you were nearly fainting in agony, because all you wanted was for him to move?

On other nights, and you were ashamed to admit how much you enjoyed it, you’d even sleep like that. You’d lay either facing away or facing him, but often clenched around him. He’d nuzzle his face in your hair and after a while he’d usually drift off like that, his breathing slowly soothing down to a soft sound. Sometimes, when he’d wake up in the middle of the night, you felt him move and grind his hips against yours, giving you the friction you so desperately desired. Sometimes it happened quickly, sometimes it took a few hours and sometimes it didn’t happen at all. But when it did and when it did take hours to get to that point, you’d normally be half-asleep and yet desperate. The second you felt him move inside you, it was as though a switch got flipped. You became needy and…

Wicked.

 For you, it didn’t matter how many times he fucked you. How many times he made you cum. When you felt him like that, you needed him. Ardently.

But in most cases you managed to be good for him, just like he asked you to. Good and perfectly still. When you did, you got rewarded. Which, in most cases, consisted of him going down on you and making you feel things with his tongue that made your toes curl and your breath stutter. He made you cum so good that you nearly forgot your own name.

At times, you did forget it. But odd enough, you didn’t really miss it. Names weren’t important. Not with him.

And then there were those other times. The times, when you got too needy, too desperate and, despite your better will, you found yourself moving against him, desperate for any kind of friction. That was when you got punished still.

Sometimes with a firm slap to get you back on track. That wasn’t enough to make you forget about your need for him though. Normally, you’d just fall back into the same pattern, given enough time. And after a while, he got more creative with his punishments. When he realized that pain was something that you were rather immune to, compared to other things, you were fucked.

Quite literally.

When you moved and disobeyed his orders not to…

He fucked you. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Not at all, actually.

That was until…

You came. You came every time with him, which was something you had highly doubted, before you started this thing between you. But to your surprise, you were more than relaxed with him. And so you came.

But he didn’t stop there. No, it was a punishment after all, right?

So, he kept fucking into you, like a feral animal. Even after you came and the pleasure quickly shifted into overstimulation. You got so sensitive, it was close to painful. But he kept going.

And then, oh God, you’d come again. Of course you did. He was good at what he was doing. You came again, shuddering and gasping.

And he still wouldn’t stop.

Even when your body arched into the air and you tried to get away from him, all desperate, he’d continue fucking you, until your mind was a mess and all you could do was stutter and whimper, cry even.

It was one of his favorite ways to punish you.

When he didn’t keep you on edge or withdrew your release for the time being, he made you cum until you begged him to stop, sobbing and whimpering.

Oh, the crying turned him on, you could tell. Because it normally ended with him filling you up to the brim. And then he’d go back to sleep, wouldn’t he? With his length still buried deep inside to keep warm.

Let’s just hope you learned your lesson now, darling. I’d hate to punish you again.

He had done exactly that the night before and so you found yourself lying on the sofa, feeling sore and exhausted. When he came home that night, you were still passed out on the couch, too sleepy to even open your eyes. He regarded your broken frame with a warm, yet subtle smile and set his briefcase down. He took a few slow steps closer and watched over you for a long moment, before he reached for the nearby blanket and pulled it up to your shoulders. You weren’t really fast asleep, just somewhere in-between, so you felt his knuckles gently caress your cheek. You mumbled something in response and you heard the way he smiled, before he vanished to the bathroom and you heard the way the water got turned on.

After a while you slowly blinked your eyes open and yawned. When you saw the blanket, a smile crept onto your face and you hugged the material tightly to your body. Slowly and carefully, you sat up and rubbed your eyes, before you decided to try and cook something for a change. You got better and better at it, considering how little you knew about the Korean cuisine. Yet you had to admit, it seemed healthier than anything you had ever eaten back home.

When you couldn’t think of anything, you decided to be safe and went for Bibimbap. It was a mixture of near everything and also the fastest thing you could think of. But before you even started, you went back to your room to grab a claw clip for your hair. You swiftly did it up and made your way through the hallway, when you saw that the door to his bedroom stood open. You saw his white shirt splayed out on the bed and you just knew it smelled like him. You bit your lip as you slowly tiptoed inside and picked the shirt up, only to bury your face in the material and inhale softly.

If this wasn’t home, what would ever be?

You hummed softly to yourself, before you swiftly slid off your caramel colored skirt and your black tank top, to put his button down shirt on instead. The material hugged your body like a gentle hug and you smiled to yourself as you rolled the sleeves up in the way he would. Of course the shirt looked fairly huge on you. You took a long glance at the big mirror and smirked. It looked like a dress on you, albeit a short one. You twirled around like a ballerina and took in the way your thighs were barely covered by the material. That gave you a wicked idea.

Of course your body was begging you to leave it be, especially after last night, but the devil inside your mind forced you to keep the shirt on and make your way back to the kitchen.

In the meantime, he had finished his shower and now he sat on the couch, with the newspaper in his hand. He wore a pair of grey sweatpants (the damned bastard) and a black shirt. His hair was still damp and hung loosely into his face. He looked delicious.

When he heard you approach, he looked up, ready to greet you, when he hesitated. His gaze roamed up and down your body in a way that made you bite back a smirk.

“Hello, darling.” He murmured, without ever looking up at your face.

“Why, hello.” You purred cheerfully and approached him with slow, tiptoed steps. His gaze wandered up your legs and torso, until he finally met your gaze.

“You look…”

“I thought it suits me better than you.” You teased.

His lips curved up into a slow smile. “I can’t disagree.” He took your hand, ready to pull you onto his lap. But after last night, you felt in dire need to take some action and control.

Not, that you didn’t somehow enjoy it. But still.

You briefly squeezed his hand, before you pulled yours away. You gave him a quick peck on the lips, then took a step back.

“I’ll go cook.”

His brows shot up. “I can-“

“No.”

You hid your smirk, until you had your back facing him. With quick, measured steps, you disappeared into the kitchen, all the while pretending not to hear his frustrated groan.

The next few minutes went by rather quickly. You did a great job cooking up some ingredients and even an egg, Sunny Side Up. You quickly set the table and eventually left some rice on the stove, to slowly simmer. With a soft, exaggerated sigh you made your way back to the living room.

“It’s almost done.” You murmured as you slowly approached him. When you looked at him, you deliberately missed his face and his expression became more and more dour.

“Good. I was thinking-“

“I nearly finished my book.” You interrupted him in a sweet voice, as you sat down on his lap, causing him to freeze for a moment. It only took him a second to relax, though he seemed to have forgotten that you had interrupted him and what he even intended to say in the first place.

“That’s…good.” He murmured.

“Just two more pages. I’ll finish it quickly, before dinner, okay?”

He cocked a brow and shrugged slowly. “Sure. Suit yourself.”

His shirt rode up your thighs and revealed more and more of your skin to his gaze. He didn’t even try to be secretive about it, he was straight-up ogling you. All the while you buried your nose in your book, without reading a single word. You had to save up all your energy as not to smile.

His fingertips brushed over the skin of your thigh and you did your best to keep your expression neutral. And he, he was just…

“Are you-“

“Oh God, I didn’t see that twist coming.” You closed the book and sighed. Then you shot him an innocent look and smiled. “That was a really good book.”

You leaned back against his chest and kept up your innocent façade, all the while the look in his eyes equaled that of a bear with his fish.

“You really-“

“I’d better go and get myself another one. I’m sure the rice needs a few more minutes.”

His hand ended up in the middle of the air, while you practically jumped off of his lap. He let out a soft grunt of frustration, while you slowly swayed your way back to the bookshelf. Of course your hips swayed along and obviously his gaze did the same.

You held a finger against your lips, pretending to think, while you slowly went about the rows and rows of books. And then, what a coincidence, a book in the last row caught your attention. You smiled and bent down, pretending to read.

At the same time, his patience snapped. When his shirt rode up further, exposing just a hint of your rear to him, he let out a low growl.

“That’s enough.” He hissed. You smirked, before you slowly turned and replaced the smirk with innocent surprise.

“What? What’s enough?”

“Oh, stop this.” He slammed the newspaper down on the coffee table and stood up in a swift movement. “Stop acting all innocent. You’ve been parading around here, half-naked and ready to…”

“To what?” You murmured and tilted your head to the side in feigned curiosity. He growled again and ran a hand over his chin. Only then did you see the obvious tent in his grey sweatpants. It cost you half your life not to look down there and trust your peripheral view.

“Don’t play dumb.” He murmured. “Get over here. Now.”

You licked your lips. “But the rice-“

“Now!”

That made you laugh and there went your innocent act out of the window.

“You minx! You’re doing this on purpose!”

You chuckled. “Well…”

The look on his face was near rabid. Only the foam was missing.

“I’ll forgive you this once, if you’ll be a good girl for me and get your ass over here.”

You smirked and took a step back, circling the sofa. “And if I don’t?

He hissed in response. “You don’t want to test me today.”

And for some inexplicable reason, right then and there, you weren’t scared. That tiny part of your brain that had continued to keep up the fear, albeit briefly and barely, was completely silent. And you knew he wasn’t going to hurt you, no matter what you did.

“Make me then.”

His eyes widened and he tilted his chin up. “Oh, that’s a mistake.”

You grinned. “Oh, that’s a mistake.” You mocked his voice.

With a movement so quick that it almost made you wince, he jumped over the back of the couch and stood before you, eyeing you like a predator. You let out a soft shriek and turned on your heel, running and laughing, without looking over your shoulder.

It took him only a second to put his hand on your shoulder, but it took you only a second to shrug him off and circle the coffee table.

“That all you got, old man?”

You could have sworn you saw his lip twitch, but that would have been too easy. He tried hard to keep his expression serious.

“Grew a backbone, did you?”

You raised a brow and smirked. “Oh, boo-hoo. Did I hurt you, oppa?” You hinted a mocking curtsy.

“Oh, you just wait!” He rushed to catch you from one side, but you quickly ran the other way. When he tried the other way, you went the other way, yet again. He gave a frustrated growl.

“What now, hm?” You smirked. “Giving up already?”

He gave you a long, wild look. For a moment you almost thought he was indeed giving up, but then he rushed forward and kicked the table out of the way. It rolled over and crashed against the wall loudly. Your eyes widened in surprise and you took a step back, but before you knew it, your back was already pressed against the wall and you had to tilt your head back to stare up at him.

“You caught me.” You whispered.

He clenched his jaw and reached out a hand. You were sure. You were still sure, that you were safe.

And then…

His hand slowly tangled in your hair and gently grasped the back of your neck. He leaned down so that your lips nearly met.

“I caught you.” He whispered back, before he captured your lips in a bruising kiss.

And you let the rice burn.

A few days later, you couldn’t even tell which day it was, because every day was but a collection of memories you kept replaying in your head, he was off to work.

And to no one’s great surprise, you missed him.

Every waking moment without him was empty. The emptiness was so intense, it left you nearly suffocating. All the while, all you could do was wait. Wait and eat. Wait and sleep. Wait and read.

Sometimes, you wrote. You remembered that one time you told him about your greatest dream.

To become an author one day. You didn’t even care, if anyone knew your real name, you just wanted to touch people with your words. Like the Bronte-sisters.

Ellis Bell, huh? And who would you be?

Hana, maybe. The thought made you equally as sad as it filled you with hope.

But that was about all you did. And after hours and hours, the day neared its end. Eventually it was far past eleven, so you were sure he would be late tonight. Of course you were concerned. As you always were. You had no idea what his job was, but you could tell it was dangerous.

The man in his clean suit and a briefcase full of secrets.

When it got closer to midnight and he still wasn’t back, you decided to distract yourself, by getting yourself ready. You changed into a beautiful, white negligee with a neckline made of pretty, see-through lace. You loved it. The silk made you feel like you were the most beautiful girl on earth. And you were sure, once he saw you in it, he would totally destroy it. Chew it off or tear it down, whatever worked faster.

You did your hair down (it was slowly growing back and you barely thought back to the dreadful day that he cut it) and took a last glance at your appearance in the mirror. You smiled at yourself, something you rarely did, and eventually made your way back to his bedroom to surprise him. On his bed, wearing nothing but the negligee and a pair of…

Where were the handcuffs? You frowned as you glanced around and didn’t immediately find them. You bent down to look under the bed, but still no cuffs in sight. Your frown deepened and you gave another quick onceover, before you decided that they most likely were in the wardrobe.

You opened it and knelt down, finding the knife and several guns in the process. The small shudder brought you back to reality and you exhaled softly, before you sat back and looked at the countless weapons. Had he ever killed someone with them? Most likely.

But for a strange, inexplicable reason, you didn’t really care. Not really. Because it wasn’t real. Not then, not there, not in that moment. What was real, was him and his…

Desires.

You opened your mouth and closed it, before your fingers slowly closed around a small handgun. You swallowed thickly and carefully held it up, only to realize it was far heavier than you always assumed. The material felt cold and wrong in your hand.

Your mind involuntarily wandered back to the day he pressed one of them against your temple or…his. You closed your eyes. The thought of him…

Him…

With a shuddery gasp, the gun slipped through your fingers and landed on the carpet.

There was no thought more painful than that one. You couldn’t lose him. Not ever.

You loved him. And you loved him far too much.

Enough, to be what he wanted.

Enough, to give in to his desires.

You took another deep breath and picked up the gun again, determined to take it back to bed with you. You wanted to surprise him, right?

All you had to do beforehand was to make sure that it wasn’t loaded.

A frown formed on your face, when you realized you didn’t even know how to do that. The thought of accidentally shooting yourself, while waiting for him to come home…It didn’t sound all too appealing, though it did sound like something that could happen to you.

You sighed and already gave up the thought of ever finding the cuffs, when you caught sight of something else instead. It was far in the back of the wardrobe and you were sure, for some reason, you weren’t supposed to see it.

Of course you weren’t supposed to touch his gun, either, but you felt he would forgive you, once he realized you were slowly submitting to his every desire.

Even if it meant him fucking you, while he held a gun to your head. In your mouth…Or, God help you, somewhere else.

You were twisted. You were sure you were. Because you felt it. You felt how the thought did things to you.

But for now you tried to push the thought aside and instead glanced back at the box.

Then again, what terrible thing could be inside there?

Someone’s teeth maybe?

Your soft smile disappeared the second you realized it was possible. You nearly recoiled in disgust. But then you realized, you had to know.

It couldn’t be teeth. It was too sick. Too deranged.

Too…him?

No. No, no, no.

As if in a trance, you picked up the light, wooden box and took off the lid.

No teeth inside. Only…

Fuck.

What was in there was so much worse than teeth.

Your forehead creased into a small frown, which grew further with every second.

And suddenly you felt nauseous.

No.

Oh, no.

You nearly dropped the box and backed away like you’d been struck, the moment you heard it.

“Goddamn it." He sighed impatiently and the door slowly closed behind him. "You weren’t supposed to see that.”

___________________________________

Tag list 1:

@mitsuki-dreamfree @kpopsmutty69 @heroine-chique @vkeyy @mizuwki @blu-brrys @z0mbi345 @yourpointbreak @ayieayee @freddyzeppsworld @lola11111111 @indifitel6661 @salesmanlover08 @laurenbenoit70 @lalalaa2210 @lila-marshal @auspicious-lilana @0-aubrie0 @lovelyaegyo @theredvelvetbitch @violentbluess @muriels-lover @dorayakissu @eviebuggg @muchwita @ririgy @strxlemon @obsessedwthdilfs @kiwilov3 @misty-q

Author's note: Did I lately mention that I love you, guys?

Ps. The Tteokbokki and the teasing were anon requests! I loved them and I hope I did them justice!

[prythianpages]

Price of Fate | Azriel x Reader

Azriel x Reader | Azriel confronts your father after your sudden disappearance.

warnings: angst, mentions of violence, reader is not really in this (just mentioned), reader is a priestess (but former citizen of the court of nightmares), there will be no part two i'm sorry

a/n: this was meant to be a drabble inspired by Will Turner from Pirates of the Caribbean but it turned out to be around 1K words. Anyway, I just felt like writing something quick & dramatic.

Azriel never cared much for wealth or materialistic things. He never envied the Night Court nobles draped in silk and silver, the lords who played their political games from the safety of their estates while soldiers and citizens bled for their power.

Wealth and status had their uses. Azriel wouldn’t deny that, not after growing up with nothing. But at the end of the day, none of it truly mattered.

What mattered were the people he loved. His mother. His brothers. His friends. His family.

His mate.

You mattered.

And now you were gone. 

Taken.

Before he could even tell you who he is to you.

**

Azriel had walked through his fair share of mansions like this, where the air reeked of old money and arrogance. His shadows hissed as they slithered ahead of him, taking in the paintings that lined the hallway. Painting of ancestors who had never lifted a blade, never spilled blood for the power they hoarded.

The lord of the estate barely looked up as Azriel entered, or rather, barged in. Keir’s right hand man, your father, remained lounging in his high-backed chair. He swirled a glass of deep red wine but as he looked up to meet the shadowsinger’s eyes, his expression morphed into a scowl.

“Have you no manners, boy?” He sneered, spitting out the last word with scorn.

Azriel’s shadows hissed again, growing more restless by the second. They reached your father before he could, wrapping around his wrists and pinning him to his chair. He jerked against the restraints, but the shadows did not yield. They only tightened, biting into his skin like shackles of living night.

“You sold her off but she wasn't yours to sell.” Azriel said. "Or anyone's. You had no right."

His voice was unnervingly calm but paired with the icy rage simmering in his eyes, something shifted in your father’s expression. His struggling ceased and the anger in his eyes dimmed. Then, he laughed, low and dry, until a shadow slithered around his throat, cutting it short with a warning squeeze.

“Of course I did,” your father managed to choke out. “She is my daughter.”

Azriel’s shadows whispered madly, seething at the possessiveness of your father’s words. They were begging to be let free and do as they pleased. And Azriel would’ve let them feed into their hunger for revenge, if he didn’t need your father for more information.

Your father coughed as the shadow around his throat reluctantly loosened, just enough for him to speak. 

“Where is she?”

Your father’s lips curled in disgust at Azriel’s demanding tone.

“I do not know the customs of your barbaric people nor do I care. But let me remind you that this is the Court of Nightmares, not Illyria. Y/n is a daughter of this house, whether she likes it or not. And this is how things are done here, whether you like it or not.”

 A slow, boiling rage curled in Azriel’s gut. His siphons flared, casting violent blue shadows across the room. You had run from this life, had given everything up. And just when you had thought you were safe, your father came for you.

“Did you really think she would remain in that library forever? Hiding among dusty books, playing the part of a priestess?” Your father paused to let out a scoff. 

Azriel’s fingers twitched toward the dagger at his belt.

“No daughter of mine will waste away in that temple of cowards. She was meant to serve her purpose. A purpose you need not worry yourself over…”

Azriel’s shadows churned, overtaken by their anger. The same anger that surged through his blood. And Azriel didn’t need them to recognize the moment realization struck. The exact second your father pieced it together. His gaze met Azriel’s, the glint of cruel satisfaction flashing in his eyes.

“What difference does it make if she is married to some noble lord or sold to a dreadborn mercenary? Either way, she fulfills her duty to me.”

Azriel moved before he could think. One second, your father was smirking in his chair and the next, he was slammed against the stone wall, Azriel’s hand at his throat. His shadows now swarmed behind him like a storm ready to unfold. It all happened so fast that the wine glass that your father had still been clinging to shattered to the floor a heartbeat later, dark red liquid bleeding across the marble.

“If only I had known that she meant something to you, I would’ve let you have her. For a pretty coin, of course.”

Azriel growled, a sharp pain blooming in Azriel’s jaw from how hard he clenched his teeth. He would kill the male before him. He would rip him apart, consequences be damned and let his shadows carry his pieces to the void. 

He pressed his dagger against your father’s throat. His heartbeat pounded like war drums in his ears, each beat fueling the storm of thoughts racing through his mind. Thoughts of you. Who had your father handed you over to like some piece of property? And how far had they taken you from him?

He didn’t have time to waste.

“You are going to tell me where they took her,” Azriel said, his voice dangerously cool. “Or I will make sure you never speak another word again.”

Your father chuckled, even as the blade bit into his flesh. “You think I fear you?” He scoffed. “You are nothing but a trained beast at Rhysand’s command. I am noble blood. You wouldn’t dare—”

Azriel twisted his wrist. Just enough to pierce skin, just enough to silence him as a bead of blood welled at the tip.  “You’re right,” he said.  “I serve my High Lord. I follow his rules.”

But then Azriel leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “But I don’t follow them when it comes to her.”

Your father stilled. His arrogance fractured just enough for Azriel to see the flicker of fear in his eyes. “Derrick was his name,” he finally rasped. “Said he worked for Koschei. But it doesn’t matter. The bargain was made. The deal has been sealed.”

Azriel released him, letting the male crumple to the floor, gasping for breath. His shadows curled around his boots, eager and waiting for an order.

“Pray,” Azriel said coldly, “that she is still breathing when I find her.”

Your father let out a ragged laugh, one last attempt at defiance. “Just how far are you willing to go to save her?”

Azriel didn’t hesitate.

“I’d give my life for her.”

His words were forged in steel, unyielding and absolute. A vow so powerful that it wrapped itself around his ribs and settled into the marrow of his bones.

And then, without another word, he vanished into the night.

a/n: Please don't hate me y'all. I have no plans to continue this. (Of course things can change but I really want to focus on my current WIPs before I start anything else. I just got the sudden inspo and given my writer's block, I wanted to write something before it went away. But I am happy to entertain any questions/asks over this little scenario I created.)

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444 @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits15, @lorosette

@alwayshave-faith, @xadenswhore

[bimbowshmimbow]

neighbor!joel x reader

part 2

mdni. 18+ only. neighbor!joel, slow burn, age gap (reader mid 20s / joel late 40s), no shmex but sexy, steamy, joel is so grumpy but he’s obsessed with you, mentions of possessiveness, aftercare, reader wears tiny shorts and no bra oops.

You stood awkwardly on Joel Miller’s porch, barefoot, wearing nothing but a giant t-shirt and cotton shorts that barely covered your thighs.

The porch light buzzed overhead, casting a golden halo around your figure. Joel leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, sweat still clinging to his collarbone from whatever project he’d been working on outside.

“Somethin’ wrong, darlin’?” His voice was low, rough with sleep and something else — something thicker.

“My sink’s leaking,” you said, shifting your weight from foot to foot. “I tried fixing it myself, but I think I made it worse.”

Joel’s dark eyes drifted down, catching the curve of your bare legs, the hem of your shirt just barely brushing the tops of your thighs.

He cleared his throat, jaw ticking. “You shouldn’t be walkin’ over here dressed like that. Not this late.”

Your cheeks burned, but you lifted your chin anyway. “You gonna help me or not, Miller?”

He huffed a breath, something like a laugh. You thought you caught the faintest twitch of a smirk.

“Yeah, I’ll help you,” he muttered, stepping back to let you in. As you brushed past him, you could feel the heat radiating off his body, could smell the leather and soap and wood shavings on his skin.

Inside, his house was warm, messy — lived-in in a way yours wasn’t yet. Tools littered the kitchen table, a football game murmured low on the TV.

“You make a habit of runnin’ around dressed like that?” Joel asked, his voice casual but thick, strained.

“Just for you,” you shot back without thinking, heart pounding in your chest.

Joel’s head turned sharply. His gaze pinned you to the spot, heavy and burning.

He set the wrench he’d been grabbing down with a quiet clink. Took a slow step closer. His voice dropped to a rumble.

“You oughta be more careful, sweetheart,” he said. “A man might get the wrong idea.”

You swallowed thickly, your mouth suddenly dry. “What if I want him to?”

Joel’s nostrils flared. His eyes darkened.

And then — slow as anything, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to — he reached out and cupped your jaw in one big, calloused hand.

His thumb brushed over your cheek, tender despite the roughness of his skin.

He stared at you like he was trying to memorize every inch of your face.

“You sure about that?” he rasped.

You nodded, too breathless to speak.

Joel leaned in — close enough that you could feel the brush of his beard against your skin, could smell the bourbon on his breath —

but he didn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

He hovered there, making you ache for it, making you work for it.

Finally, when you whimpered and leaned up into him, he smiled against your lips and whispered,

“That’s my girl,”

before kissing you — hard, hungry, like he’d been waiting years for it.

I love this so so much! ~bow

part 2 is up!

[strangersteddierthings]

Good People

Part One🦇Part Two🦇Final Part

Wayne knows eavesdropping isn't the done thing. He's definitely old enough to know better, and he wasn't going to. He had a plan. He was going to walk directly into the living room, so they'd know he was awake, and after he'd fixed his cup of coffee, he'd plopped into his perfectly worn in recliner and subtly glare at the Harrington boy until he squirmed.

Mostly because it amused Wayne, but also just a little sliver of it was because he wanted the Harrington boy to know Wayne didn't think he was good enough for his boy. But only a little! Lord knows that Wayne couldn't do anything to make Eddie change his mind about Steve Harrington, short of Harrington proving Wayne right. Which he doesn't actually want because he doesn't want Eddie hurt.

He's just... He expects it to happen. That's what boys like Harrington do to boys like Eddie. He's seen it enough times to know that this song and dance leave no room for improvisation. Boys like Harrington play around, get their kicks with the devotion Eddie shows them, and then when they've had their fill, they leave.

Boys like Harrington will never be good enough for Eddie, but they always leave with Eddie feeling like he's not enough. Wayne hates it.

Anyway, his plan wasn't to eavesdrop. It's just that Harrington said his name and Wayne found himself standing still instead of continuing.

"Why doesn't Wayne like me?" Harrington asks.

"This again?" Eddie says dismissively, which has Wayne agreeing. His opinion shouldn't have bearing on their friendship.

A deep sigh from Harrington before, "I just. It's- he means so much to you. And, like, I- nevermind. It's stupid. I'm stupid."

"Hey," Eddie sounds a type of serious that Wayne rarely hears from him, "you're not stupid. And you gotta quit fucking saying that. You say it enough and you'll start to believe it and it's not true."

"Hard to quit feeling stupid when people dismiss my concerns like they are stupid," Harrington snaps back, bitchy as can be. The tone makes Wayne bristle on behalf of Eddie. His boy doesn't reply immediately, though. Doesn't bite back like Wayne's used to hearing. Huh. Maybe he's growing up, just a little.

"You're right, Steve," Eddie says when he finally speaks. "That was dismissive. I'm sorry. Explain it to me. Why does it matter to you whether Wayne likes you or not?"

"Well, because he's your family."

"Yeah," Eddie agrees, "he is. But that doesn't explain why it matters. I don't care if your parents like me or not."

"That's different!"

"How?" Eddie asks, soft but firm.

"Because their opinion doesn't matter. It's not- It's irrelevant. What they think."

"That makes no sense. Wayne's opinion matters because he's my family, but your parents' opinion doesn't even though they're your family?"

"Yes!"

"But why?" Eddie presses.

"Because they're bad people!" Steve bursts, not quite shouting but close. "Because when bad people don't think highly of you, it's not a fault in you. Their disproval is, like, a compliment. They don't like you because you're too different from them. And that's great! You shouldn't want their approval. It's different, because your uncle is a good person. And when a good person doesn't like you, it is your fault. It's something- it's..." Harrington loses steam here, voice dropping low and defeated, "there's something wrong with me. Something in me that- that he just knows. Senses about me or whatever. Something wrong or rotten or-"

"Steve! That's bullshit. Sure, Wayne's been standoffish, but he'll come around. You're not wrong, or rotten, or whatever else you think you are."

"How do you know that? I was an asshole most of life and what if that's just the real me? What if that's who I'll always be deep down. 'Cause I'm trying so damn hard, man. I'm giving it my all trying to be a better person and it's not enough! Everyone still talks about who I was in high school and even you-" Harrington snaps his mouth closed so hard that Wayne hears the clack of his teeth from his position in the hallway. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to- I'm sorry."

"Steve. This is about more than just my uncle's opinion of you, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."

"I want you, too. I want to know if I've ever done anything to make you feel like you aren't enough."

Wayne really shouldn't be listening. He should back down the hall and into his room. Give them time to talk.

"No, Eddie, you don't make me feel like- that's not what I meant. I just. I'm...."

"Hey, Stevie, you can tell me."

"I'm just so afraid that... That one day everyone will wake up and realize what Wayne already knows. That I'm not good enough for them. For you."

Oh. Wayne really shouldn't be listening.

"I'll admit that Wayne's opinion is important to me, for a lot of things. But not about you. What I feel about you, how I feel about you, isn't dictated by Wayne."

"Sure. I mean, I know that, like, logically or whatever. But it's. I can't convince my brain that you won't just. Hate me one day. And I- fuck, Eddie, I'm already halfway in love with you and-"

"You're in love with me?" Eddie interrupts, sounding awed, starstruck, and Wayne cannot be listening anymore. He backs down the hall silently and back into his room.

Steve Harrington seems to think that he's a good person, but he's not feeling like a good person at the moment.

He's got some thinking to do.

[paceprompting]

a ballad in translation

written for ‘sing’ | wc: 1000 # | steddie | rated: t | cw: no archive warnings apply | tags: 90s era steddie, established relationship, singer eddie, deaf steve, domestic fluff

@steddieholidaydrabbles

Eddie didn’t get home until late.

It was his own fault. They actually finished recording early, and rest of the band headed out with their unusual gift of free time. But Eddie, since they’d paid for the time anyway, stayed behind to work out some of the kinks in a song he’d been working on in secret.

Melodies and lyrics were easy enough to do in his head and on paper, but when he pulled out his sweetheart, someone always wanted to listen. Steve, especially, liked to sit close to one of the speakers, and feel the vibrations along with the little bit of sound he could still hear. Liked to watch Eddie’s fingers dance across the strings and the frets.

The studio had been the best place to finally lay down what had only been in his head. Hear it out loud and figure out the parts that needed a better transition, or where he might fit in an echo of the main melody somewhere in the bridge.

By the time he finally finished, an hour past their original reservation, the song wasn’t done yet—but it was getting there.

Eddie flicked the lights twice as he walked into the kitchen, offering an apologetic smile when Steve turned from the sink.

Steve set his hands on his hips, frowning.

Eddie raised his hands to his chest, signing meekly, ‘Hey, Stevie.’

In response, Steve tapped his fingers on his sides.

‘I ordered Chinese. Extra spring rolls. Should be here in,’ Eddie checked his watch. ‘Ten minutes?’

Steve stepped forward, eyes narrowed as he considered Eddie’s bribery.

‘Recording go long?’

Eddie bit at his lower lip. Steve raised his brow.

‘Sort of?’ he answered. Steve cleared his throat, clearly wanting more details. Eddie flexed his fingers, and said, ‘I was working on something. Just me losing track of time.’

Something other than the kitchen lights sparkled in Steve’s eyes. For all that Steve had bemoaned Eddie’s taste in music—both listening and creating—he jumped at every opportunity to be the first to know about anything and everything Corroded Coffin put to track.

‘New song?’ he asked, a true smile forming on his lips.

Eddie rolled his eyes, knowing he was caught. ‘Yes, you dork.’

He’d somehow managed to keep it a secret from the man he lived with for about three months. Cat had to come out of the bag sometime.

‘Can I listen?’ Steve had crossed the room into Eddie’s space, his hands signing frantically.

Eddie danced away, playfully narrowing his eyes as he signed back, ‘Not finished yet.’

Steve reached out for him, curving an arm around Eddie’s waist and pulling him back against his chest. He swept Eddie’s hair out of the way and tucked his nose against Eddie’s throat, dragging up until his lips grazed the shell of his ear.

“Please, Eds?” Steve whispered.

Over the years, they fallen more and more into signing. At first, just so they could both learn ASL as quickly as possible by making it their primary form of conversation. The only times Steve did speak out loud was when Eddie walked off while in the middle of signing, forgetting that Steve had to see to understand him, and then Steve had to call out for Eddie to come back and repeat himself.

And, of course, when he really wanted to get his way.

Steve learned quickly, way back when, that Eddie’s weakness was the low timbre of Steve’s voice and his wide palms over the span of Eddie’s ribs. Even if Eddie wasn’t already up for most anything Steve could come up with, it wasn’t hard to convince him when Steve was involved.

Steve had…not taken it well when the doctors told him he was starting to lose his hearing. Between all the concussions and the still-unknown extent of the symptoms from dealing so closely with the Upside Down, the doctors had acted like Steve was getting off easy compared to the recovery from the demobat scars.

But when they’d finally started to think maybe the bullshit was over and done with—all those years from ‘83 into ‘87 had come back once again with a vengeance.

Most days were better now.

Steve still hated wearing the hearing aids. He also hated not wearing them, especially when everybody was over and he struggled to be part of the conversation, as much as Eddie could keep up with his signing. But not everyone had the everyday practice, as much as they all tried with ASL.

Although, they both enjoyed this particular activity that had come from Steve losing his hearing.

It wasn’t all gone. If Steve sat close enough to speakers with his hands and head pressed against them, he could heart the drums and the bass, and sometimes the vibrations of the vocals.

Steve could hear Eddie sing, if he laid his head against Eddie’s chest.

Eddie turned his head toward Steve, nodding.

They moved together into the living room, Steve only releasing his hold so that Eddie could sit first on the couch. He joined beside him, ducking under Eddie’s arm as he laid it across the back of the cushions and settled with one hand on Eddie’s thigh and his head laid near his collarbone.

He traced an ‘ok’ into Eddie’s leg when he was ready.

Eddie took a slow breath and began to sing.

It was more of a ballad than anything else he’d ever written. Not too slow, but focused on the guitar going along with the vocal melody, rather than a chaos of drums and quick series of chords.

He didn’t have all the words yet. Some completed lines about getting through by following these deep brown eyes through hell and back. What he didn’t have figured out, he hummed the melody for.

The entire song was in his deepest register and a low key.

So, even without his hearing aids, Steve would be able to hear or feel every word, every note.

After all, it was for him.

[r-memberme]

yours in every way that matters | k.m

⎯⎯“I’ve watched every man you didn’t love try and touch the sun that lives behind your eyes. I’ve smiled through it. Waited. Because I knew one day, you’d look at me the way I’ve always looked at you.”

warnings: best friends to lovers, jealous Klaus,

You feel him before you see him.

Not in the dramatic way people often speak of Klaus Mikaelson—the way the air changes, the way shadows seem to stretch longer under his steps. No. You feel him because you’ve known him forever. Because your body knows the weight of his presence the way a tide knows the pull of the moon.

And right now, it’s pulling.

You’re at the bar, smiling at some guy whose name you’ve already forgotten. He said something about your necklace, the one Klaus gave you centuries ago in a quieter life. You’re not flirting, not really. Just being friendly. Just letting yourself have a night.

But you feel the shift like a quiet breath against the back of your neck. You turn.

Klaus is leaning against the far wall, drink in hand, head tilted slightly like he’s observing a painting he doesn’t quite care for. His lips are curved into the ghost of a smile. Polite. Thin. Controlled.

But his eyes. His eyes are watching.

Not the man beside you.

You.

His gaze trails the length of your bare shoulders, pausing at the charm resting at your throat—his charm—and lingers. It’s not possessive in the crude sense. It’s worse. It’s knowing. It’s the look of someone who’s memorized every inch of you in silence and has never once needed to ask for what he already carries in his chest.

You swallow.

The man next to you says something else, leans a little closer, and your laugh—automatic and distracted—rings too loud in your ears. When you glance back, Klaus is gone from the wall.

You turn—he’s closer.

Leaning beside you now, his shoulder brushing yours, the heat of him bleeding through his shirt like sunlight through thin cotton. His glass clinks softly against the bar top as he sets it down.

“You seemed deep in conversation,” Klaus says, voice like a low hum, smooth as velvet. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”

You glance up. He’s not looking at you.

He’s looking at the man.

The other guy chuckles, a little uneasily. “Yeah, we were just talking about her necklace. Said it looked old. I was curious.”

Klaus smiles. “It is old.”

There’s a beat of silence. The kind that presses just behind the eyes.

“She wear it well, don’t you think?” Klaus says softly, but his hand now rests behind your chair—casual, loose, yet unmistakably there.

“She does,” the guy agrees, then shifts slightly. “Anyway, I should—uh—get back to my friends.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

Only then does Klaus look at you.

“I wasn’t flirting,” you say before you can stop yourself.

“I didn’t say you were,” he replies, lifting his drink again, that tight-lipped smile still playing at the corners of his mouth.

“You’re doing the thing,” you mutter.

“What thing?”

“The watching thing. The saying-nothing-but-still-saying-everything thing.”

He hums, amused. “You know me well.”

“I should. You’ve followed me through three lifetimes and two wars.”

His smile fades, just barely.

“I don’t like when people forget what’s already claimed,” Klaus says, not harsh. Just true.

“I’m not a thing, Klaus.”

“No,” he says, gaze dropping to your lips. “You’re everything.”

Your breath catches.

He sets down his glass. Straightens. Takes a step closer.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “I’m not asking for declarations or apologies. I’ve waited longer for less. But don’t pretend you don’t feel it.”

Your mouth parts. But no sound comes.

He leans in—not touching, never touching—but so close you feel the warmth of him like a brand.

“You forget,” he whispers, “whose name your soul already answers to.”

Your heart is thudding now. Not out of fear, not even surprise—just that heavy, slow ache that comes when something long-denied brushes too close to truth.

His breath is warm against your cheek. You could turn your head. You could close the space between you. It would be easy—terrifyingly easy.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

Instead, you exhale. Slow. Steady. Careful, like your ribs are made of glass and he’s the storm that could shatter them.

“I never forgot,” you whisper.

Klaus doesn’t move. He stands so still, it feels like the rest of the world might be trembling just to compensate.

But in his eyes—quiet and burning and impossibly blue—there’s a shift. Something almost like pain. As if the idea that you could ever forget him had lodged somewhere deeper than he meant to let on.

You lean back just enough to see him fully, chin tilted, mouth soft. “I never forgot whose name my soul answers to, Klaus. You just never asked if I’d say it out loud.”

“And if I did?” he says, voice low.

“I might say it back.”

He lets out a slow breath—then moves.

Not to kiss you. Not yet. Just lifts a hand and gently, reverently, brushes a knuckle down the line of your jaw.

“You drive me mad,” he says, quiet. “You always have.”

You laugh—soft, disbelieving. “And you—you just stand there, knowing it. Watching. Smiling like some kind of king who already owns the war.”

“I don’t smile,” he murmurs, “because I’ve won. I smile because I’ve never lost you.”

Your breath hitches.

And for a moment, the noise of the bar fades—the people, the music, the centuries between you. There’s only the two of you, standing in a pocket of time thick with unsaid things.

You step closer, close enough that your shoulder presses against his chest now, steady and solid beneath the linen of his shirt. You feel his breath catch.

“I wasn’t flirting,” you say again, barely a whisper.

“I know,” he replies.

“But if I had been?” you ask, tilting your head.

His gaze sharpens. “I would have let him speak.”

“Oh?”

He nods once. “And then I would’ve looked him in the eye and reminded him—with nothing but a smile—what it means to covet what belongs to a Mikaelson.”

You snort. “Possessive much?”

“Only with you.”

The silence stretches again, this time softer. Wrapped in the warmth of something long-held, long-guarded. And for once, neither of you are running from it.

He shifts his hand, and you don’t stop him when his fingers curl under your chin, lifting your face to his.

“You know,” he says, voice barely a breath, “I could kiss you right now.”

You nod. “You could.”

“But I won’t,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb across your bottom lip. “Because when I do, I want it to be when you can’t help it anymore.”

“And what if that time is now?” you ask, throat tight.

He stills.

Then, with the ghost of a smile—

“I’d like to see you try and stop yourself.”

You pull away first.

Only just.

A shift of weight, a tilt of your head. Enough to breathe again, though not enough to clear the heat that lingers in the air between your mouths.

He lets you.

He always lets you.

But his eyes stay on yours, unflinching, like he's memorizing the moment—committing it to memory in case you leave it behind.

You reach for a glass of water on the bar, even though you’re not thirsty. Even though your hands feel too warm to hold anything at all. Even though Klaus hasn’t moved a single inch from where he’s watching you like a man who knows exactly what you taste like in every lifetime but has not touched you once in this one.

“So,” you say, casual, testing the air. “You’re not going to get angry? Not going to rip someone’s heart out in the alley out back?”

He hums low in his throat. “Would that impress you?”

You raise an eyebrow. “No.”

“Then no,” he says, coolly. “No hearts tonight.”

“But you are jealous,” you push.

It’s bold, maybe reckless. But he deserves the truth, and you deserve his.

Klaus doesn’t blink.

nstead, he takes one slow step closer again, and the space he fills this time is not physical. It’s heavier. Thicker. Almost unbearable.

“I’m not jealous,” he says, voice calm—too calm. “I’m possessive. There’s a difference.”

You laugh, quick and nervous. “Sure. That’s not worrying at all.”

“You misunderstand me,” he murmurs. “I don’t mean I own you. I mean I was made to find you in every lifetime. And the moment I did, something in me stopped looking. Something in me…stilled. You do not belong to me—but I belong to you.”

The laughter dies on your lips.

He steps closer again. Close enough that your knees nearly touch. That you can smell the faint, ancient cologne beneath his jacket. Amber, leather, night.

“I’ve waited,” he says. “I’ve let you dance around it. I’ve let you laugh and tease and pretend it didn’t hang in the air between us every single time you said my name.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts in—soft, relentless:

“I’ve watched every man you didn’t love try and touch the sun that lives behind your eyes. I’ve smiled through it. Waited. Because I knew one day, you’d look at me the way I’ve always looked at you.”

Your heart is thundering.

You want to run.

You want to stay forever.

You want to say something clever—anything at all—but you can’t breathe past the ache in your chest.

And Klaus, beautiful and ruinous, sees it all. Sees your unraveling and doesn’t move to stop it.

“You’re not ready to kiss me yet,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “But you will be. And when that moment comes, sweetheart…”

His hand brushes your wrist.

“You’ll taste centuries of devotion.”

༊*·˚

You need air.

That’s the excuse you give him, and yourself, when you slip off the barstool and gesture toward the door. He says nothing—just follows. Of course he does. Klaus doesn’t need to ask where you’re going. He already knows he’s part of the destination.

Outside, the air is crisp. Not cold. Just enough to bite the heat off your cheeks, to wake you a little.

The street is nearly empty. A flickering streetlamp above casts its pale golden glow, and in the distance, a drunk couple is laughing—loud and unbothered. You envy them, briefly. Nothing’s chasing them. They don’t burn like you do.

Your steps are slow.

You don’t say anything. You just walk. He’s beside you, hands in his coat pockets, as if he isn’t vibrating with restraint. As if he didn’t just look you in the eyes and say something that split your soul like an old tree.

You speak first, voice quiet.

“Klaus…”

“Mhm?”

His tone is soft. Not pushy. Not smug. Just waiting.

You stop near a railing that overlooks the city. Down below, lights glitter like someone spilled a thousand tiny stars.

You lean against the metal and let the night fold around you.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” you admit.

He stands beside you, shoulder just brushing yours. “You don’t have to do anything.”

You look over at him. “You say that. But I can feel it. All of it. In the way you look at me. The way you don’t look away.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just gives a small, crooked smile. “Would you rather I lied?”

You turn to face him fully now.

“No. Never. I just… don’t know how to carry something like this.”

He leans one hand on the railing, keeping his distance only by a thread.

“You don’t have to carry it. It’s mine. I’ll carry it for both of us, if I have to.”

God. That tone. Like a vow whispered in the ruins of a church. That devastating softness he hides behind centuries of violence.

Your voice cracks.

“But it hurts.”

His jaw tenses—just barely. “I know.”

“And if I take one step closer, I don’t know if I’ll ever stop.”

At that, he tilts his head. His gaze sharpens, but his voice remains calm—almost unbearably tender.

“Then come closer.”

You shake your head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Nothing worth it ever is.”

He turns to face you fully now. And when he speaks again, it’s quieter than before—reverent.

“You think I haven’t suffered in silence for years already? Do you think I don’t lie awake at night remembering the brush of your hand or the way you laughed when you didn’t know I was listening?”

Your eyes fill. “Klaus—”

“I know you’re scared,” he says. “But don’t insult me by thinking I’m not. I’m terrified. Because the second I touch you, really touch you—there’s no going back. No pretending. No forgetting. And I will never let go. Do you understand that?”

The wind brushes past.

You don’t speak.

You just look at him—and this time, he sees it. The shift. The breaking point.

he decision.

He doesn't move.

He waits for you.

And that’s when you do it.

You step forward.

Just enough that you feel the gravity of him, that quiet pull Klaus always has, like a tide that never learned to retreat.

Your voice is barely above a whisper. Not because you’re trying to be dramatic—but because anything louder might shatter it.

“I used to tell myself it was nothing. Just friendship. Just… you being you.”

His eyes search yours, careful, reverent.

“But I started avoiding mirrors.”

Klaus’s brow furrows.

You swallow hard. “Because every time I looked at myself, I wondered if you saw me that way. If maybe… maybe I wasn’t just yours in the way friends are. Maybe I was something else. Something you didn’t want to name.”

A breath escapes him—slow, aching.

You keep going.

“I hated that I started dressing differently when I knew you’d be around. Hated how I listened for your laugh in every room. And most of all…” You look down. Then back up. “I hated that you didn’t say anything. That you watched me fall in love with you one inch at a time and never reached for me."

There it is. Cracked open.

All the softness, all the ache.

Klaus doesn’t speak.

He just steps forward too—slow, deliberate—until your chests are nearly touching. Until the silence turns into something humming between your ribs.

And then, with that same devastating calm, he lifts a hand to your jaw.

“Darling,” he breathes, “I didn’t reach for you because I thought I’d ruin it. But now—”

His thumb brushes your cheek.

“Now I’d rather ruin everything than spend one more day pretending I don’t already belong to you.”

And then he kisses you.

No rush. No fury.

Just a long, aching press of lips to lips, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth before the world ends.

And in that moment, it does.

Not with chaos. Not with thunder.

But with the gentlest collapse.

༊*·˚

The kiss doesn’t end.

Not really.

It lingers, drawn out in the hush between two heartbeats, in the silence between inhale and exhale.

His lips are warm and steady against yours, but there’s a tremble in the way he holds your face—like even now, even here, he can’t quite believe you let him have this. That you stepped forward. That you’re still standing.

Above, the streetlamp flickers once, then steadies, casting a soft gold halo around the both of you. The air smells faintly of rain, of something waiting. But here, inside this small circle of light, time has folded itself quiet.

Klaus doesn’t press harder. He doesn’t deepen the kiss like some greedy thing.

No, he just… stays.

Like he’s trying to write a poem with his mouth.

Like he’s terrified the moment will disappear if he moves too fast.

Your hands rise slowly, one brushing against his chest, the other ghosting up toward the back of his neck. And he exhales—just a shaky sound in the hollow of your throat, as if the feel of your touch undoes him more than anything else.

Because this wasn’t just a kiss.

This was surrender.

His forehead rests against yours when you finally part, and neither of you says anything.

Because what could you say?

The quiet is so full.

So alive.

Like the whole world has its breath caught in its throat, waiting to see what happens next.

His thumb draws one final stroke across your cheek, gentle as a memory.

You’re the one who whispers first.

“…You’re shaking.”

He lets out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “You’ve no idea.”

And then he kisses your forehead. Slowly. Carefully. Like he’s sealing something ancient between you.

“I would’ve waited forever,” he murmurs. “But thank God I don’t have to.”