#back in there day emotions weren’t a thing

[lomlando]

Principal's Office

summary: “So, what about you? What crazy principal office story do you have?”

content warnings: mild language, principal's office / getting in trouble in school, mention of non-serious injury :)!

word count: 2 k

pairing: lando norris x fem!driver!reader

SERIES: Messy || may be confusing if read as a standalone one-shot!

A/N: LANDO HOME WIN!! IM SO PROUD

You sat in a cold, metal chair with your head in your hands, replaying the events of just a few moments ago in your head over and over again-wishing the memory would fade into the abyss. 

Lando had hit the ground with a thud, his black hat flying off in the process. What came next was as clear as day, although you wish it had all been a blur. The yelling, finger pointing, you, Kimi, and Lando all swiftly being escorted to the room you sat in now. You don’t think the look on Lando’s face when he turned back around to you, still on the ground, would ever leave your mind. You were sure it had somehow managed to burn its way into your eyelids, as every single time you now closed your eyes, it was all you saw. 

The worst part was, even after you still saw it in your mind so many times, you still didn’t know what expression was on his face. You weren’t sure a professional body language interpreter would be able to tell at this point. Was it anger? Hurt? Sadness? Confusion? Fear? You swore, though, in all the bad emotion, there was a tinge of something else. A slight glimmer in his eyes. A slight smirk trying to creep up. As if his face was trying to tell you, “Oh, it’s on now,” without his lips ever having to work. You would rather have just taken a bad, hateful emotion, and not the impending doom of whatever this rivalry was working its way into both of your minds. 

More than the Lando predicament going on in your mind, you were scared shitless of how this could affect the race Sunday. It was your first race, and it felt like the chances of you even getting a point were slowly drifting away from your grasp before even stepping foot on the track. The stewards were known for being too harsh with their punishments during the race. You didn’t even know you could be brought up against the FIA with pre-race incidents. You could hear them now…Disqualified completely…Disqualified until race 5…Can not enter a race at all this season. 

“Ughhh.” You said, somehow sinking further than you already were into your own hands. You couldn’t even sit there and somehow convince yourself this wasn’t fair, because you knew it was. You had dead-legged your opponent. Sure, Kimi had done the same to you-but the relationship between you and Kimi and you and Lando was, clearly, vastly different. In fact, you were fully prepared to fight for Kimi not to have any penalty if it came down to it. You were very, very, sure that Lando would not do the same to you. 

For the first time since you have been in the room, you remove your hands from your head to look at the two boys sitting across from you. Kimi was already staring back at you with an eyebrow slightly raised-silently asking if you were okay. 

You weren't. 

You stood up and started pacing around the small room. For a solid minute, just back and forth between the walls. It was probably causing more anxiety rather than helping, but you couldn’t help it. You watched as Lando’s and Kimi’s heads followed you from one side of the room to the 

other-as if they were watching an exciting tennis match. They were moving in perfect unison, but the look on their faces could not have been more different. 

Kimi looked at you with full concern. As if he wanted to put his hand on your head to just hold you still for a minute. He knew you too well. He knew that a million things were racing through your mind, and at the forefront of it was the race-the team.

Lando, on the other hand, looked at you with a mostly straight face. Expect for that damn smirk. You couldn’t let it get to you, you couldn’t let it bother you. You needed to be concerned about the race-about the team-about the awful penalty that was in your foreseeable future. 

“This reminds me of being in line for the principal's office,” Kimi says, looking at Lando. He was, absolutely, trying to feel the void of silence amongst your squeaky shoes treading over the tile floor over and over again. 

“Yeah, it does a little bit, doesn’t it?” Lando says back to him. “Those were the days, I think I went at least once a week.” 

For the next 15 minutes, you listen to Lando and Kimi exchange stories of their school day principal visits. Somewhere during the time, you had finally stopped pacing around and instead took back up your seat across from them. Even more astonishing, you found yourself beginning to laugh along with both of them, somehow bringing yourself to forget about the situation you were all in, even if it was just for a few minutes. 

“So, what about you? What crazy principal office story do you have?” Lando asks, slumping back into his chair. 

“No way you ever went to the principal’s office,” Kimi says, sitting up more in his chair while looking over at Lando. 

“I actually did-only once, though.” You say, matching Kimi’s posture-now sitting up in your chair. 

“So, what did you do? Incitie violence?” Lando says as he sits up more. The three of you were now all leaning up into each other’s company, as if you were having a secret meeting no one else could ever know about. 

“Not exactly. I kinda, totally accidentally, may have started a food fight.” 

“How do you accidentally start a food fight?” 

You sit back, huffing. This was one of your most embarrassing stories, maybe only second to the whole deadleg that transpired earlier. In any other circumstance, you would never even consider telling this story again. At this point, though, what dignity did you have to lose? 

“I thought I would be able to drink watermelon juice out of a chunk of watermelon.” You say, pausing. 

“Okay, how does that lead to starting a whole food fight?” 

“Well, I found out that the whole watermelon juice thing didn't really work. So then, I was stuck with a watermelon chunk on the end of a straw. Look, I thought it would be funny to pretend it was a magic wand, and I went to flick the wand, not the watermelon chunk, at my friend. But, well, the watermelon chunk came off and hit some kid at the next table over. The next thing we all knew, watermelon was flying everywhere. God, I was so terrified of getting in trouble, I think I cried the whole time waiting for the principal.” You say, now, laughing along with the two boys in front of you. 

“There is no way that actually happened,” Kimi says, wiping his eyes. 

“Trust me, I wish it hadn’t.” You say back.

Before any of you could get anything else out, a man appeared in the room. No doubt an FIA representative. 

“Okay, we would like to speak to the three of you separately now. Antonelli, if you’ll follow me.” Kimi quickly stood up and followed the man out of the room, leaving you and Lando staring at each other. 

God is this awkward. You feel the need to apologize yet again, something you have probably done thirty times already. 

“You don’t have to apologize again.” 

oh my god. Can he read my mind now?

All you could do was nod in response. And then again, the silence crept back into the room as if it were a skilled robber. This silence had a different feeling to it though-it really was, mostly, comfortable. You weren’t sweating buckets. You didn’t feel the need to get up and start pacing again, or put your head in your hands to hide away. It was just still and, almost, peaceful. 

“What spell were you trying to cast?” Lando broke the silence, holding back a laugh while asking. 

“I was trying to send him to an alligator moat. He had made me mad.” 

“Damn, remind me to not mess with you,” Lando said, now fully succumbing to laughing. 

You did too.

In the middle of you both laughing, the man had reappeared. He must have been waiting for both of you to stop laughing, but when he realized neither of you were planning on doing that any time soon, he spoke up. 

“Norris, your turn.” And before you knew it, Lando was out the door, and you were alone again. 

Alone, all of the thoughts-the realities-came back in full force. Reality had not crept back in, it had come all at once, like a car hitting a wall. Lando didn’t care for you. Even if you two were just laughing your asses off together. He was definitely going to push for you to be harshly punished. All you could do was lean your head against the wall and wait. 

Much to your surprise, it didn’t take very long for the man to show back up in the room and lead you down the hallway. 

In the conference room, you were joined by 3 other FIA representatives. This was it, your future was held in the hands of these four people in front of you. You wanted to run out of the room, they couldn’t give you your penalty if they couldn’t catch you, right? 

“Okay, your punishment is a 3-place grid drop. You are free to return to your media availability.” The FIA representative in the middle smiles at you and motions to the door. 

Have I lost my mind? Am I in a dream? Only a 3-place grid drop? 

“I'm sorry, only a 3-place drop? Not a 5, or 10?” 

The FIA representatives look amongst themselves, and then back at you. Now it was their turn to wonder if you had lost your mind. Who would question the lightness of a penalty? You weren’t sure why you were, why you didn’t take the chance to run out of the room while you could. 

“Well, Antonelli and Norris both told us you three were just messing around and accidentally caused each other to fall. Both of them pushed for no punishment for the three of you. Sadly, you three could have hurt each other, so we must set some example. Did either of them purposefully hurt you?” The representatives lean in, you knew what they were suggesting. 

“Not at all!” You practically scream at them. “I just expected at least a 5-place drop.” You say as you stand up, ready to put this whole situation behind you.

“We understand, but Norris especially really fought for a lighter punishment for you three since no one was hurt. We took that into consideration. You’re welcome to leave now.” The same representative says, now pointing to the door again. 

You nod as a way to say thank you, and in a second are through the door and back into the hallway. 

What is up with Lando, and what kind of messy head game is he playing with you?

tag list!! :)

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[sylusgworl]

01 — REACHING OUT

synopsis: you keep away from people, feeling like you don't belong anywhere, with no will to do anything, but a certain doctor is able to move your heart in ways you can't fathom. except, will you let him in again?

content and TWs: modern!au, fem!reader, angst (with eventual comfort), caleb and tara cameo, no evol, graphic description of depression, self-harm, blood, blades, break up, exes to lovers (probably?), yearning zayne, alcohol (brief), both zayne and you are the same age (around 27), use of [name] instead of y/n

word count: 2.1k

REGULAR m.list — SERIES m.list

PART 01 — PART 02 — PART 03 — PART 04 ...

Everyone around you genuinely thought you were getting better.

Maybe, it was because your smiles and laughs had been more frequent, or maybe it was because you hadn’t opened up with anyone about your pain, so they just assumed it went away, as if someone had shaken it off with a magical wand.

It’s okay though—or maybe not. Nobody is actually entitled to always follow you around, knowing every detail about your days. It’d be impossible for them, it’d feel suffocating to you.

Yes, feeling like your freedom was suddenly revoked because of your past actions was the worst. Except, now that everyone had gone back to their usual routines, you finally could breathe again. The smiles you had so desperately shown, in an attempt to shake off the pitiful gazes, were finally no more, the spark in your eyes that was anything but genuine was gone. The silent pain you hadn’t told anybody about? Still there, lingering, chaining your blackening heart in iron wire, unrelenting, as it caused your strained breathing and aching throat.

You had no way to stop it. You had no reason to. And even its origin? Unknown. One day, you woke up with it. Suddenly, life felt gray, almost black, and nothing seemed to be worth living for anymore.

Sometimes, no tears would flow. You’d just sit there, eyes lost into emptiness, chest heaving and lowering in rhythmic beats, a knot obstructing your throat. Your head empty of any rational thoughts, inhabited by a demon who’d whisper to you what most would classify as nonsense. Except, it had become a code you lived by ever since.

It was the worst, except you actually had nothing to compare it to, in order to be fully certain. But people do tend to say that emotional pain, grief and the likes, are the cause of a greater suffering.

Now, with your “freedom” reacquired, you could finally hide away, maybe slowly disappear. Just like an insignificant particle of sea foam when it reaches the shore. Except, you weren’t surfacing ashore, but drowning in a deep pit, no idea of returning manifesting inside of your mind.

As soon as your day at work ended, the mask slowly bled away from your countenance—you’d hoped they’d be for a while.

You slowly went back home, ready to repeat your usual routine, no real strength holding your limbs. Probably, you were just pushing one last effort.

Clack.

The door opened, quickly, as if it was able to anticipate your coming.

Your silent and lone apartment felt cold and… bleak. The plain walls, the dull wooden floor, the silent bedroom. If you spoke at that moment, your voice would probably echo throughout the house.

Sighing heavily, you stepped inside. It was probably best to just stop thinking about the monotony of it all. After all, wherever you were, you could probably never make a home anywhere you went.

It was past 7 in the evening. You used your last bits of energy to shower and make something to eat—nothing fancy or tasteful, just edible.

Then you headed to bed, the softness of your mattress being the only nice and welcoming thing that day.

The room was enveloped in darkness. Windows closed, blinds shut, lights off.

Only small glow-in-the-dark stars that carpeted part of your ceiling, the side right over your bed.

Zayne.

He got you those back when the two of you were still in highschool, when things were still alright, when he was there and you were still unaware of the gloom that held your heart and mind captive.

Your head sank into the pillow and you closed your eyes, not because you felt sleepy, but probably as a way to shut off your mind, locking the rest of the world outside.

Probably, you were already drifting off to sleep. Most days, it was a struggle, mind too tightened by useless recollections.

It was your fault. You were the one to cut him off, giving him no closure. It just happened like a switch. One day you thought you were fine in your relationship, the next, you were in agony, the thought of being too much consuming you, the feeling of being unbearable to your own partner making you drive him away.

That day, Zayne looked at you, his green eyes overshadowed by a veil of burning tears. His lips, usually pinkish, seemed devoid of color, while his frown stung your heart.

“Why?” he walked closer—you could hear the agony in his tone.

“Just… because,” you answered, avoiding his scorching gaze. Because if you’d kept staring into those eyes you loved so much, you’d probably give in, right that instant.

“Is it me? Did… did I do something wrong?” Zayne said the last word like a whisper, like a secret nobody could hear of. His tone held no trace of arrogance, he was just… scared.

The same Dr Zayne everybody praised and revered, the doctor who gave everyone the cold shoulder, not bothering to display his feelings to anyone, was on the verge of sobbing.

A traitorous tear spilled over the rim of his eye, falling from his chin in a droplet of sorrow.

You gulped at the sight, shaking your head off as a response. Your throat felt tight, clogged, as you clenched your eyes shut, for just a couple of seconds. Don’t cry.

“It's me,” you muttered, backing away. You didn’t wait for his reaction, you didn’t dare to look at him another time—now you regretted it dearly. Turning around, not granting yourself a single look behind, you walked away—better, dragged your feet, almost in a death march. Then, you were running.  Because no matter how anyone viewed Zayne, with you he was always soft, always accommodating, always affectionate. He was just the kind of person who never left unresolved conflicts alone. You couldn’t bear it if he’d followed you then and there.

Only when you reached your flat did your legs finally give out.

The grip inside of your throat loosened, a sob escaped. Then another.

It went on for hours… it was the last heartfelt cry you were granted.

Now, one year later, the memories were still too strong, too monopolizing.

You sat up, sighing heavily, your hands crossed in front of your chest as they brushed your arms quickly, in a sort of self-soothing act.

Ping.

The sudden noise startled you, your eyes now wide open. Stretching out your hand, you gripped your phone from the bedside table, annoyed but relieved, finally saved from a never-ending swirl of torturing memories.

Your eyes squinted because of the sudden light, your breath caught in your throat as soon as your vision cleared, gulping down so hard, you felt a sting of pain.

The last person you were expecting actually texted you, after one year of no-contact.

Your hand trembled, you had to grip your wrist, tightly, to steady it.

Heartbeat leaping out of your chest, a nostalgic feeling crept up at you, but you readily shook it off. Not now.

You exhaled, loudly, then pressed the notification icon.

Hello [Name]. I know we haven’t spoken to each other for a whole year, but I’ve been thinking this through, day and night, and I think we need to talk. Properly. I tried to respect your timing, giving you space and everything. But I still think I need a clear explanation.

You didn’t know what it was exactly you were expecting. But this was so Zayne-coded, you could have chuckled, had it not been for the sudden shock.

A few minutes passed, your fingers hovered above the phone keyboard, not knowing how to answer.

Ping.

Will you open up to me?

It was an invite, one to bury old disputes and, perhaps, find a solution. Together.

As if. It's never going to happen. Not in this lifetime.

But even though your lack of trust prohibited you from viewing a flourishing future rather than a black canvas with no motion on it, something unknown took over your body, your fingers started typing before you could think.

Alright.

A short answer, one single word.

You dropped the phone on the bed, recoiling from it like it had scalded your hands.

One shy look was all you spared, eyeing his response, wondering what would come next.

It was nothing extraordinary, simple and neat. A bit like him.

Tomorrow, at the Summer&Sweet Café next to your apartment. At 5.

No more texts were sent after that. He didn’t need to, and you were too guilty to dare.

So, lying back down, you simply stared at the numerous glowing stars in different sizes, the room tightening more around you, the night feeling more overwhelming, as your brain birthed different scenarios.

Will he be mad? Well, obviously. I wouldn’t hold it against him if he were. What do I tell him, though?

Just like that, the freezing night went by, swiftly and silently, the same way it came.

You didn’t sleep a wink—how could you, after all that.

At 6 in the morning, sharp, you got up and made your way to the bathroom.

The light felt blinding, but still bearable. You almost gasped as your gaze met your monstrous form reflected in the small mirror over the sink. You didn’t though, you were very much used to that tired sight that welcomed you every morning.

Your hair had formed a live lump over your head, under eyes puffy and the rims red. The skin on your face seemed lifeless, inhuman.

Your gaze dropped down, your hands fumbling with the toothpaste cap, your brain too busy to focus on appearances. There was no point to it, anyway.

It was truly exhausting. Everything was.

Had it not been for the bills you needed to pay, you wouldn’t be bothered to get out of your apartment. Especially not in that state.

Don’t forget about your appointment with Zayne. An annoying voice slashed through your fake peace of mind, you wanted to kick it—you would have, if only it had a physical form.

No breakfast was on the menu. Like always.

But Zayne would’ve nagged you to eat at least one slice of toast. You shook your head. Damned memories that come and go as they want.

You dressed up into something that seemed remotely presentable, outerwear that would possibly let you keep your role as an accountant in your modest office, ignoring the piling laundry that sat in the basket for much too long.

One last look into the mirror, a habit you seemed to never be able to shake, no matter the circumstances. The puffiness was buried under multiple coats of concealer, your scraped lips hidden under a sticky layer of lipliner and lipgloss, and that frown.

The frown you had to hide under false pretenses for six hours straight. Again.

Looking down, not bearing to stare the monster in the eyes, you picked up your purse, and stepped out of the house, keys clinging in the lock.

The work day was nothing out of the ordinary. The clicking of the computer keyboards, the sour smell of the vending-machine coffee, the air-con, freezing you more than the outside weather.

You sighed with relief when your shift was finally over, as you logged out, gathered the few scattered pens and sprung up.

Not sparing one glance back into your office, you stormed out, hailed a cab and, only then, remembered your upcoming appointment. Liar, you’d been thinking of it every single minute, even in the midst of your tasks. You ignored the honest part of you, again.

One look at your wrist watch. 4:35 pm. You still had time.

When you got in front of the café, you sighed. There was no turning back now.

A bell chimed when you pushed the glass door, a waft of roasted coffee beans and freshly baked goods hit your nose like a soft and gentle caress.

It hadn’t changed one bit in the past year.

You had been steering clear of this place. But oh, your own feet took you there to meet the reason you’d started avoiding it in the first place.

Your steps clad in uncertainty clacked on the floor like a rhythmic march. Calculated. Unnatural.

Surveying the empty tables, as if drawn by a magnet, your eyes slowly found him.

He sat in that very same elegance that had always been a part of him, a black coat draped over his shoulders and a simple brown scarf lying right next to him.

Zayne's fingers fiddled with a couple of documents—work papers, probably. Then his gaze shot up, and he saw you.

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© sylusgworl - 2025, all rights reserved / i don't allow anyone to copy, repost on other platforms or sell my works.

[buckybarnes82]

Migraines.

Summary: All those years of torture left Bucky with a major side effect- migraines. When he doesn’t reach out to you like he normally does you start to get worried and decide to show up at the watchtower.

A/N: This fic was inspired by @forthebrokenheartedthings fic about the reader getting a migraine and Bucky taking care of her. It’s beautiful, check it out!

Warnings: Bucky doesn’t feel well at all, so he’s slightly emotional. The reader mentions medication.

You checked your phone for what felt like the hundredth time this morning, wondering why Bucky hadn’t contacted you yet. He was usually the first one awake, sending you a quick text or leaving you voice memos to wake up to but not today. You knew he had gotten in late last night, he stayed at the watchtower with the rest of the team, as he usually would on nights like that but not reaching out was abnormal.

You hadn’t been dating for a historically long time, it had only been six months but you were used to his routine, he had never gone a day without reaching out first. You weren���t too proud to send him a quick message when you got to work, sending him a good morning with a teddy bear emoji before you waved hello to all the patients sitting in the physical therapy office.

You walked into the kitchen in a hurry, almost running into your best friend (and coworker) Brittany. “Hey, woah there!” She giggled and you muttered a quick apology before she looked up at you.

“What’s wrong? Are you alright?” She poured you both a cup of coffee, pushing your mug carefully toward you so you could add your own creamer.

“It’s Harley” you whispered, opening the fridge. Harley was the nickname you both called him in public so nobody knew who you were talking about. Brittany picked it, and it stuck due to the fact that when Brittany first met Bucky he picked you up on his Harley-Davidson Pan America 1250 ST, it just logically made sense.

“Is he not back yet?” Brittany knew he had been gone the last few days because you had spent the weekend together.

“He told me when he got home late last night, but I haven’t heard from him yet today, which is weird because he always reaches out first” you tapped your fingers against your cup, thinking deeply for a moment.

“Maybe he’s sleeping in? He’s probably exhausted!” Brittany was always the type to look on the bright side of things so you gave her a sympathetic smile before you nodded and walked back to your cubicle.

When it was finally lunch time you still couldn’t shake your gut feeling, asking your boss to be excused for the rest of the day, telling her you had some personal things to take care of. You had never been to the watchtower, Bucky always said it was too chaotic and unsafe for you to be there but if he wasn’t going to answer you, you had to try the next best thing.

You walked into the building, your purse that was way too large for your frame slung over your shoulder. You swallowed hard as you faked confidence, walking directly over to the front desk, You weren’t sure what to tell them and luckily you didn’t have to think long before Yelena and Walker both came down from the elevator.

“Y/N! What’re you doing here?” She looked surprised, limping over to you and giving you a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Walker followed her, giving you an awkward half-enthused wave. You had met them all a few times, sporadically but Yelena frequented your physical therapy office often.

“I know this sounds kind of crazy but is Bucky okay? I haven’t heard from him and I was just starting to get worried.” You chewed on the inside of your cheek wondering if they were both now going to look at you as a crazy girlfriend.

“Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him come out of his bedroom” She turned to Walker who hadn’t been listening, elbowing him in the ribs to get his attention.

“Ow! What? Sorry, I wasn’t listening” he admitted with a shrug. Walker was never your favorite person and it didn’t seem like he was set on changing your mind anytime soon.

“Barnes? Have you seen him since last night?” She tilted her head as she waited for a response.

“He’s been in his room all morning moaning and groaning. I had to knock on the wall earlier to tell him to shut up” Walker rolled his eyes but Yelena digested the worried look on your face.

“Walker go get the groceries. I’m going back up with her.” Yelena didn’t wait for Walker to reply before you followed her back into the elevator.

“Do you want me to go with you to his room? I can stand guard.” She wasn’t sure why Bucky would be ignoring you either considering he had talked about you to her for the entire trip home less than 12 hours previously. She walked you over to his room, pointing to it.

“No, that’s fine. Thank you for helping me get up here.” Yelena nodded, walking away before you knocked lightly and heard a soft moan from inside the room. “Bucky. It’s me, baby, can I come in?” You whispered knowing you didn’t have to be very loud for him to hear you.

You heard a muffled reply, taking that as a yes as you slowly and quietly opened his bedroom door. His room was dark and noticeably bare, consisting of a computer chair, a bookshelf, a small side dresser, and a bed. He was sprawled across his bed, tangled in the sheets with one leg out. He was shirtless and you weren’t sure if he had pants on either. His room was freezing, sending an immediate chill down your spine and goosebumps down your arms. The window unit was set to 55 degrees but he was noticeably sweaty as you set your purse down on the computer chair and approached him.

A soft squishy pillow was pressed to both ears, wrapped around his head as his eyes were shut tightly. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” You whispered, kneeling beside him on the bed, hesitant to touch him.

“Migraine” he groaned, grinding his teeth together as a tear escaped his tightly shut eyes. His voice was laced with low energy, he didn’t sound like his usual self and the pit of your stomach ached at that. You knew some of what Bucky had been through, it wasn’t much of a secret but he had told you a little bit more than what just anyone could read in a museum, so the migraines made sense when you thought about it.

“Do you have medication?” You kept your voice low as you rubbed his arm softly, you looked around his room hoping to find a pill bottle. You knew he took some daily vitamins and anxiety medications but you weren’t entirely sure what else he took daily.

“Took it, it’s not helping” he sniffled as he scooted back toward the wall, making room for you to lie beside him in bed. You lifted the covers, moving his half empty water bottle to the table beside you. You had already taken off your shoes, you scooted toward him, and he finally let go of the pillow around his head exhaling sharply.

“I’m sorry, this is embarrassing.” His hands were trembling as they blindly found your body, pulling you closer. His bottom lip quivered as he spoke, and you knew he was trying his hardest to stay strong in front of you. The truth was, when he felt this way, he felt completely debilitated.

“You have nothing to apologize or be embarrassed for. I promise.” You softly kissed his temple to reassure him. “Is it okay if I play with your hair? It might help.” You wanted to make sure he wanted to be touched first, waiting for his response.

He nodded, his eyes still tightly shut as he felt the room was physically spinning. He had spent the last hour and half trying not to throw up, and had only hoped it wouldn’t hit while you were next to him. He couldn’t help but feel like a nuisance, a burden and he didn’t want you to feel obligated to drop everything to come to his rescue.

You ran your fingers through his messy bed-head hair, lightly scratching at his scalp. He let out a small moan of relief, letting you know it was slightly easing some of the pressure.

“Work?” He asked questionably, a painful pulsating throb wracked his brain as he spoke making him wince under your touch. It was something you noticed immediately, worried you had hurt him you removed your hands but he quickly reached out and put them right back in his hair.

“I left early, they didn’t need me today.” You made sure to speak as low as possible. He knew you were only saying that so he wouldn’t feel guilty, and he admired that you cared that much. Your teeth were chattering even as you absorbed Buckys' body heat, his room was really an ice box and it was when he heard you sniffle that he realized you were probably affected by that.

He started running his hand blindly through the sheets to find the remote to his window unit. He turned the degrees to 65, mumbling another apology at you.

“I’m okay, I’m just worried about you” and suddenly you remembered something you had in your purse, carefully sliding out from under the covers.

“Please don’t leave” he winced, his arms reaching out for you as he felt the bed dip in your absence. He wasn’t ready for you to go just yet, having just started to get used to you being here beside him.

“I’m not sweetheart. I think I have something that can help you.” You started to dig around your bag, using your phone as a flashlight and making sure to block the light from Buckys view. You remembered that you had cooling gel sheets for your own occasional migraines. You opened the package, throwing the garbage back into your purse.

“Lie flat for me baby, I need to put this cooling sheet on your forehead. It’ll help regulate your body temperature a little too.”

Bucky flopped down on his back, following your instruction, his eyes still tightly shut. “I have something you can wear in the bottom drawer” he pointed to the small side dresser beside his bed knowing you were still freezing.

“Not my concern right now” you whispered back before you tip-toed over to him putting the cooling sheet on his forehead as delicately as possible. You touched him like he was made of glass, a way nobody had ever approached him before. He finally smiled, a small smile but it was the first time since you arrived.

“You really do have everything in that big purse.” He teased with a whisper. “But why do you have these?”

“I get migraines from time to time.” That sentence made him start to feel more “normal.” He hadn’t been sure if this was only something he dealt with or if other people suffered with them too.

The small side dresser beside him had a few items inside, you grabbed the plain black hoodie that completely swallowed you up, making it look like a dress as you crawled back into bed beside him, your hands finding his scalp again immediately.

“You should take a nap, maybe that will help too. I’ll stay right here with you.”

“Doll, I think kisses would help too.” he mumbled only half-joking. It made you softly blow air out of your nose, trying not to laugh out loud as the sound might make his head throb more. You peppered his face is soft, gentle kisses before kissing his lips.

“Thank you for being here” he mumbled leaning in to kiss your forehead. He wrapped his legs in yours, making sure he was careful about it.

“You don’t have to thank me. I’ll always be here for you.” You said it confidently, and Bucky believed you. He felt a wave of peace with you around, which was something he had been searching for, for a long time.

It didn’t take long before soft snores filled the room, his tense expression finally softening as his mouth fell slightly agape. You continued to rub his temples, play with his hair and give him soft kisses until you fell asleep too.

You didn’t say it, but Bucky knew then, that you loved him, the same way he loved you.

[wvyik]

THE VIRGIN PROBLEM.

sam winchester x fem! reader

ꕤ summary: you’re a sharp-tongued hunter with a secret… one that makes you the monster’s perfect target. when things get tense, sam figures it out… and decides it’s time to solve the problem himself. very thoroughly.

♯ warnings: mdni!! explicit content, virgin! reader, soft dom! sam, p in v, oral sex (fem! receiving), emotional intimacy, consent focused, aftercare so sweet you’ll rot, mentions of fear/paranoia tied to virginity, dean walking in and mentally combusting, so slight voyeurism.

♯ notes: the bitch is back at it again!! also?? what the fuck is up with me writing so many virginity plots specifically for sam winchester. idk. guess.

You weren’t new to creepy towns. You’d seen more than your share of cornfield nightmares and rusted playgrounds that screamed bad vibes. But the second the Impala rolled through the cracked welcome sign, something about the place just felt… wrong. It wasn’t the broken sidewalks or the way the trees seemed too still, it was the air. Stale. Almost held breath kind of wrong.

“‘Welcome to Morrow Creek. Population 1,206.’” You squinted out the window, voice flat with disdain. “Cute.”

Dean snorted from the driver’s seat, tapping the steering wheel with a finger like he was already bored. “Bet they sell homemade jam and death in the same gift shop.”

“Three women,” Sam muttered from the passenger seat, flipping through the thick folder of clippings in his lap. His tone was low, the kind he used when something wasn’t sitting right. “All under twenty-five. Found dead in bed, no forced entry, no signs of struggle. Local cops think it’s a carbon monoxide leak or a curse. But each of ‘em—” He paused, glancing back at you. “They were all virgins.”

The word dropped heavy between the seats, even though Dean chuckled like it was just another day at the office. “So we’ve got a purity-sucking monster. Awesome. What’s next, a ghost nun with mommy issues?”

You leaned your head against the cold window, lips quirking into a smirk that felt a little too tight. “Well, good thing none of us fit the bill, right?”

Dean laughed under his breath, but you felt Sam’s eyes flick back to you, too quick to mean nothing. You didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, you stared hard at the road and let your smile fade.

The motel was standard horror-flick material: peeling yellow wallpaper, buzzing neon sign and a front desk guy who looked like he’d eaten his own fingernails. The three of you tossed your bags into one of the two-bed rooms and you immediately claimed the lumpy couch in the corner before the brothers could bicker about it.

“I’ll take the death trap,” you said, dropping your bag with a thud. “I’ve had worse.”

Dean smirked, eyeing the couch like it owed him money. “Suit yourself, sweetheart. Hope you like springs in your spine.”

Sam didn’t say anything, just watched you with that unreadable expression he got when he was thinking too hard. “You sure?” he asked after a beat. His voice wasn’t pushy, it was gentle, like he wasn’t asking about the couch at all.

You raised an eyebrow, already pulling out the iron blade you kept tucked beneath your jacket. “Don’t worry about me, Sammy. I’m not exactly delicate.”

That earned the tiniest smile from him, but his eyes didn’t let go of yours right away. You turned your back before it could linger.

The three of you spent the afternoon digging through the town’s pathetic excuse for a library. Sam and Dean did their usual tag-team, Sam sweet-talking the clerk for access to records, Dean bitching about how much dust was on the damn files. You tucked yourself into a quiet corner and started scribbling connections, your fingers stained with ink and that familiar buzz of adrenaline humming under your skin.

You were good at this. Better than good. You’d learned from the best, but you had your own rhythm now, your own gut instincts that whispered before the lore caught up.

You leaned over the table and tapped your notebook with the back of your pen. “Look at the dates. All three deaths were on the waxing crescent. Always between midnight and 3 a.m., always in their homes. No signs of entry. That means it’s either incorporeal, or it’s being let in.”

Dean leaned over your shoulder, and you caught the faint scent of his cologne. “Damn,” he muttered, lips close enough to your ear to make your skin prickle. “You’re getting scary good at this.”

“I’ve been scary good,” you replied coolly, not looking at him.

You could feel Sam watching you again, from behind the half-wall of old encyclopedias. His gaze felt different. He was trying to peel something back. You didn’t give him the chance.

By the time night crawled in, the motel felt colder than it should’ve. Dean was lounging on his bed with a beer, flipping channels, while Sam meticulously salted the windows and doors, making sure every corner was sealed. You added your own touch, drawing sigils on the mirror with charcoal, tucking your blade under your pillow, double checking the line of salt at the threshold until it looked like you were pacing. You told yourself it was just muscle memory. You told yourself you weren’t nervous.

But you were. Not because of the hunt.

Because of you.

Because the second Sam said the v-word earlier, your body went cold. Not because you were ashamed, or insecure, or anything stupid like that. You just hadn’t wanted them to know. You hadn’t wanted them to realize you were the kind of girl this monster wanted— pure, untouched. You’d spent years building yourself into something sharp and untouchable. And now, something out there could sniff it out like blood in the water.

You cracked open a beer and forced yourself to take a long sip, masking the shake in your hands with practiced ease. Then you stood. “I’m beat. Gonna crash early.”

Dean waved you off with a lazy salute. “Sweet dreams, killer.”

Sam said nothing. Just watched you walk out like he already knew something you didn’t want him to.

Your motel room was just a few doors down, but it felt like another planet once you locked yourself inside. The silence hit hard. No TV hum, no quiet brotherly arguing in the background. Just your own shallow breathing and the steady tick of your watch as the minutes dragged by. You did what you always did. You locked the door, salted the windows, tested your knife grip, triple-checked the lines on the floor. But your chest still felt tight. Your palms were damp. Your skin felt… exposed.

You weren’t scared of dying. That had stopped being your biggest fear a long time ago. What made your stomach twist was the idea that you might get chosen. That this thing might sniff you out, and suddenly Sam and Dean would know. They’d look at you differently. Pity you. Protect you.

You didn’t want to be protected. You wanted to be seen as dangerous.

But right now? Sitting alone in a dark motel room, knees pulled up to your chest as you stared at the door like it might explode inward; you felt like prey.

A knock broke the silence. Soft. Careful.

Your head snapped up.

“Hey… it’s me.” Sam’s voice was low through the door, almost gentle. Like he already knew not to scare you more than you were.

You hesitated, heart hammering. “What the hell— Sam?”

“I saw that expression when you left,” he said. “You okay?”

The words caught in your throat. You didn’t know how to lie to him right now. There was a long pause. He didn’t push.

You stood slowly, crossed the room on quiet feet, and undid the lock. Your hand trembled just slightly on the doorknob before you opened it.

“…Come in.”

Sam stepped inside like he wasn’t sure you’d actually let him. His eyes scanned the room, your over-prepared salt lines, the open blade on the nightstand, the half-drunk beer. Then they found you again. That same look. Not pity. Not judgment. Just… something deeper.

And that, somehow, felt even worse.

He stood in the middle of your motel room like he didn’t want to make the first move. His arms were crossed, jaw tight, eyes scanning you, taking in every single tell. The clenched fists. The tension in your shoulders. The way your lip tugged between your teeth like you were trying to chew the fear out of your own mouth.

“You gonna say something?” you asked, voice quiet but sharp. Defensive. Like if he touched the wrong nerve, you might shatter or explode. You weren’t sure which.

Sam’s gaze softened a little, but it didn’t lose focus. “Did you really come in here just to sleep?”

That hit low. You turned away, busying yourself by pretending to adjust the salt line by the window. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You’re scared,” he said, blunt now. Voice low. Grounded. “Not of the hunt. Not of the monster. Of being its target. And I think you already know why.”

You felt your pulse in your throat, your fingers twitching at your sides. “So what? You gonna tell Dean? Put me on some kinda leash? Lock me in the car like a liability?”

He was behind you before you even heard his steps, like he didn’t want to scare you off. His voice brushed close to your neck. “No. I’m not gonna tell him anything. I’m not here to judge you. I’m here because…” He paused, like he needed to find the exact words. “Because if you are what this thing’s looking for, that means you’re in danger. Real, personal danger. And I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

You turned to face him, and suddenly he was close, his chest nearly brushing yours, his hand ghosting over the air between you like he was holding back from touching your face. His eyes were darker now, heavy with something that wasn’t just concern. “You don’t get it,” you said quietly. “You don’t know what it’s like… walking around with this stupid secret. Being the only one in the room who hasn’t— who isn’t—”

“A fuckin’ virgin?” Sam finished for you, gently but without hesitation. “Yeah, I got that part.”

Your cheeks burned, but you didn’t look away. “…You think it makes me weak?”

His jaw flexed, and finally—finally—his hand came to your cheek, calloused thumb stroking just beneath your eye. “No,” he said, voice low and certain. “I think it makes you brave as hell for coming out here and hunting with us anyway. For pretending like it doesn’t matter when I can tell it’s tearing you apart inside.”

You felt something split wide open in your chest. A dam cracking. A truth you hadn’t let yourself say aloud. You were so tired of holding it in. Of hiding behind sharp jokes and harder walls.

“I didn’t plan on staying that way forever,” you murmured. “It just… didn’t happen. Didn’t feel right. Not yet.”

Sam’s thumb brushed your jaw. “And now?”

You swallowed. Looked up at him through your lashes. “Now I feel like a goddamn target. Like I’m marked. Like it’s this thing hanging over me and— Sam, I hate it. I hate being afraid.”

His lips hovered close to yours, voice a whisper against your skin. “Then let me help.”

You stared at him. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

There was no hesitation in his eyes. No pity. No lust-fueled pressure. Just heat. Control. Promise. He leaned in, mouth catching yours in a kiss that was patient but deep, like he’d been holding it back for too long. You melted against him before you could even think, hands grabbing the front of his shirt like it was the only thing anchoring you.

His tongue brushed yours and the groan he let out was filthy, like the taste of you knocked the breath out of him. “You taste so fucking sweet,” he muttered against your lips. “Been wondering what it’d feel like to kiss that mouth since you first mouthed off at me.”

You pulled back slightly, breathless. “That was, like… day three.”

Sam smiled, hand sliding down to the curve of your hip. “Yeah. I’m patient.”

You tugged his shirt off, finally getting your hands on all that muscle he kept hidden under layers. Broad chest, scarred and warm, his stomach taut under your fingers as he stepped you back toward the bed.

“You sure about this?” he asked one last time, voice rough but gentle.

You nodded. “I don’t want it to be fear that takes it away from me. I want you.”

That did something to him. His eyes darkened, and then he was all over you, mouth on your neck, hands gripping your thighs as he lifted you onto the bed like you weighed nothing. He kissed down your body like worship, like apology, like promise. Every touch was careful and intentional, but hungry. And when he finally pushed your thighs apart and knelt between them, he looked up at you like he was about to ruin you.

“I’m gonna make this good for you,” he murmured, voice so deep it made your toes curl. “So good you forget why you were scared at all. So good it won’t matter that you waited this long.”

You barely managed to gasp before his mouth was on you— hot, slow, skilled, tongue licking long deliberate strokes like he was memorizing every single sound you made. You clawed at the sheets, moaning his name like a prayer, and he just held you open with those strong hands, eating you out like he’d die if you pulled away.

And when you finally came, shaking and gasping, he kissed back up your body, slow and sweet. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, brushing his lips over your jaw. “Let me take care of the rest.”

Sam moved over you like he’d been dreaming about it. Like every moment leading up to this one had been some long, slow burn of almosts. Until now, until your back was arched against the bed and his body was finally settled between your thighs, all warmth and pressure and want. The motel room around you felt like it didn’t matter. The only thing real was him.

“You good?” he asked again, voice wrecked and whisper-rough, his fingers brushing your cheek while his other hand slowly guided his cock along your folds, teasing— not out of cruelty, but to give you time to breathe.

You nodded, but your voice cracked a little when you said, “Yeah. I want it.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, like he was trying to calm your heartbeat with his mouth. “Gonna go real slow,” he murmured, forehead pressed to yours. “You tell me if you want me to stop. You say the word, and I back off. No questions.”

“I won’t,” you whispered, hips already lifting to meet him. “I want you, Sam. Just you.”

And that made something shift in him.

The first push was gentle. He went slow, careful, watching your face the entire time, not even trying to hide how hard he was breathing. You were tight, hot, the stretch just on the edge of too much, and the feeling of him filling you had your eyes rolling back almost instantly.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, fingers gripping his shoulders. “Sam—”

“I know, baby. I know.” His voice was tight, controlled—like he was holding back a growl. “You feel—fuck—you feel perfect.”

He paused once he was buried inside, letting you adjust, kissing your neck and running one hand slowly up your thigh like it would help you relax. “Breathe,” he whispered. “You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good.”

You were trembling, half from nerves, half from the feeling of him, all of him, seated so deep inside you, stretching you open in a way that felt devastating and intimate all at once. You didn’t even realize tears were brimming at your lashes until Sam kissed one off your cheek. “You okay?” he murmured, thumb brushing under your eye again.

“I’m perfect,” you whispered. “Just—holy fuck—don’t stop.”

His hips pulled back slowly, and when he pushed in again, it was smoother. Still deliberate. Still slow, but deeper, more rhythmic, like he was finding his pace with you, tuning his body to yours. You wrapped your legs around his waist and let your head fall back, moaning shamelessly as he started fucking you in deep, slow strokes that made your breath hitch every time he bottomed out.

“That’s it,” he grunted, forehead still pressed to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “Taking me so fuckin’ well, baby… I’ve got you. Just let go.”

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. The way he was moving slow, like worship, like he was trying to memorize every reaction was undoing you. His name kept falling from your lips, a quiet chant, the only word you could seem to remember.

Sam’s hand slid between your bodies, thumb pressing soft circles into your clit. You gasped, body jolting, and he smiled against your neck. “That feel good, sweetheart?” he whispered. “You like when I touch you like this?”

“Yes—yes, please, don’t stop—” Your voice broke again as pleasure started coiling hot and heavy in your belly. “I’m gonna—Sam—fuck—”

“I’ve got you,” he said again, voice so loving it hurt. “You can let go. You’re safe.”

You came around him hard, clenching so tightly around his cock that he had to bite his lip to keep it together. Your whole body tensed, then collapsed under him as you shook and gasped through it, and he held you like you were something precious, whispering through every tremor, every twitch.

“That’s it, that’s my girl… fuck, baby, you’re so beautiful like this…”

He kept moving, chasing his own high now, breath stuttering as he fucked into you deeper, a little faster, but never rough. His face was buried in your neck, hand gripping your thigh, and when he came, it was with a full-body groan, low and primal and wrecked. He buried himself to the hilt, hips stuttering, panting like he’d just run a marathon.

And then… silence.

Heavy breathing. Sweat-slick skin. The weight of him on top of you, solid and real and safe. You ran your fingers through his hair, and he let out the softest sound, content, like he didn’t want to move.

He stayed draped over you, all warmth and quiet breath, his hand still curled around your waist like he needed to keep you close in case you disappeared. You felt wrecked, in the best way.

After a while, Sam leaned up on his elbow, pushing the sweaty hair off your forehead, looking down at you like you were made of fucking starlight. “You okay?” he whispered, and his voice was so gentle, so low and fond, it made your throat get tight.

“Mhm,” you mumbled, already half-asleep, still spread out and naked beneath him. “I think you fixed me.”

Sam chuckled, brushing his lips over your temple. “I’m a healer now?”

“Literally,” you sighed. “Virginity demon who?”

He kissed your jaw. “She’s dead now. Spirit banished. World saved.”

You rolled into him, lazy grin pulling at your lips. “One orgasm at a time.”

“…One?”

You blinked up at him, then immediately burst out laughing as he smirked like the smug bastard he was. “Okay, chill, Winchester,” you groaned. “My body’s not even functioning yet.”

“I’ll give you thirty minutes,” he muttered, pulling you into his chest, tucking the blanket around both of you like you weren’t still sticky and sweaty and fucked dumb.

“I’m gonna fall asleep like this,” you whispered, fingers drawing little shapes on his bare chest.

“Good. You should.” His voice was all honey again. “You’re safe with me.”

And that was the last thing you heard before you drifted off, wrapped in Sam’s arms, thoroughly wrecked and absolutely ruined for anyone who wasn’t a 6’4” soft-spoken demon hunter who fucked like he was trying to put your soul back together.

You were finally asleep. Your legs were tangled with Sam’s, your head tucked under his chin, and his hand was still splayed across your ass like it belonged there. Which, to be fair, it did. The room was still warm with sex and body heat and whatever leftover cologne he wore that now lived in your hair.

Until the door slammed open like it was kicked by a cop.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

You screamed. Like, full-on choked gasp scream. Sam jolted awake with military precision, reaching for the knife on the nightstand in one motion while covering you with his body in the next.

And standing in the doorway, framed by shitty motel light and holding a crumpled paper bag full of snacks, was Dean Winchester.

Mouth open. Eyes wide. Face full of regret.

He blinked twice. Said nothing.

You just stared at each other.

“…Dude,” Sam said groggily, arm still around you like he didn’t have his whole ass out under the sheet. “What the fuck.”

Dean blinked again. “Nah.”

He turned around immediately. Stared at the wall. Took a breath.

“Oh, no, no no no, this is not happening. This is not how I start my fuckin’ morning. I got beef jerky and a Coke and now I have to go pour bleach in my brain because my little brother decided to go all Lust in the Dust with her.”

You groaned, flopping onto your back and dragging the sheet over your head like a corpse. “Please kill me. Please kill me now.”

“Don’t tempt me!” Dean yelled, still facing the wall with his arms out like he was trying to keep a crime scene untouched. “I trusted you! You were the normal one! You sat next to me during stakeouts! You made fun of him with me! What the hell?!”

“I don’t think I’ve ever made fun of Sam with you—” you started to say, but Dean spun around dramatically, index finger raised like a furious little league coach.

“Don’t lie to me now, sex goblin! I walked in and saw a whole-ass Winchester sandwich with the crusts off, and I can’t ever go back from that!”

Sam had the audacity to rub his eyes and mumble, “You could’ve knocked, dude.”

“Oh, don’t you start,” Dean snapped, pacing now. “I’ve heard you. I knew you were in here. I was trying to be respectful. I thought, ‘Hey, they probably just fell asleep watching TV, maybe they’re sharing the room, maybe Sam’s just being weird and overprotective, maybe she had a nightmare..’ BUT NO.”

He spun to face you both again, looking personally betrayed.

“Y’all were out here doing the monster mash and I walked in ten seconds too late to stop my retinas from dissolving.”

You peeked out from under the covers. “We didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”

“Oh really?” Dean scoffed. “How were you planning to tell me? Group text? PowerPoint? Smoke signals from your fucking bedroom?!”

Sam sighed. “Dean—”

“No. No ‘Dean.’ I need to go shower with holy water. I need a therapist. I need Castiel to erase the last ten minutes of my life.”

He turned back toward the door, paused dramatically, and looked over his shoulder with the most betrayed face known to man.

“I hope you know,” he said solemnly, “that I will never sit on that bed again.”

The door slammed, and you and Sam burst into quiet laughter, already knowing this was going to be the story Dean never lets you forget.

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[arixella]

Mushi Mushi, Baby

╰┈➤ pairing: Luffy x female! reader

a/n: none

summary: While separated on a mission, you and Luffy share an intimate late-night call filled with longing, love, and desire — a tender connection bridging the ache of distance.

wc: 1.2k

contains: smut, explicit, praise, emotional vulnerability and longing, established relationship, soft, affectionate dirty talk, maybe oc luffy idk

The night was quiet. Too quiet.

You lay on your side, wrapped in the thin white sheets of the Sunny's infirmary bunk, the little porthole window beside you cracked just enough to let in the salt breeze. The stars outside were endless, mocking in their stillness.

He'd been gone three days. Just a quick scouting mission to investigate something for the Revolutionary Army. Something Sabo asked for personally. Of course Luffy had agreed. Of course he’d promised it wouldn’t take long.

Three days shouldn’t feel like forever. But it did.

Because now, after everything — the years of chaos, growth, kisses under moonlight, training bruises and stolen touches between battles — you weren’t used to a bed that didn’t smell like him. You weren’t used to silence.

Your fingers hovered over the Denden Mushi, thumb brushing its little shell face. You’d already picked it up twice. Told yourself you were being clingy. That he needed rest.

But you missed him. You missed his stupid laugh and his even stupider grin, the one that made your heart ache with how much you loved him.

So this time, you didn’t hesitate.

Brrr… brrr…

The snail buzzed lazily, sleepily.

Then, a click.

Then — his voice.

“…Hey, baby.”

Your breath caught.

His voice was gravelly, low. Sleep roughened and deeper than usual, thick with warmth. You could hear the rustle of him shifting, probably sitting up wherever he was. Maybe in some dark little hideout with a blanket wrapped around his hips. Maybe shirtless.

“Hey,” you whispered, suddenly shy.

“You okay?” he asked, and you heard it — that soft concern in his voice that he rarely showed others. “It’s late.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” You rolled to your back, letting your eyes flutter closed. “Missed you.”

He exhaled, slow and warm, like he was smiling.

“I missed you too,” he murmured. “You sound tired.”

“I was. But now I’m just… thinking.”

A pause. “About what?”

You hesitated. You could hear him, feel him, his breath in your ear like he was right there with you. And the way his voice dipped lower — the way he said “baby” — was doing something to your insides.

You squirmed a little under the covers.

“About you,” you whispered.

Another pause. Longer. Then —

“…Yeah?” His tone shifted, almost playful, but heavy. Like he knew where this was going. “What about me?”

Your breath hitched. “About how you sounded just now.”

“Mm.” A hum. Deep. Almost a purr. “You like my voice right now?”

“I love your voice all the time,” you admitted, voice shaky. “But right now? You sound…”

“Hot?” he teased, voice a little smug.

“Yeah,” you breathed.

You heard him laugh, low and slow, and it thrummed through you. Made your thighs press together.

“Tell me what you’re doin’ right now,” he said, quieter.

You hesitated.

“I’m in bed. Laying on my back. Thinking about you.”

He groaned a little, soft and needy. “What’re you wearin’, baby?”

You swallowed. “Nothing.”

The Denden Mushi made a tiny, shocked little face that mirrored yours. But Luffy didn’t laugh.

He was quiet for a second. Then he said, softer:

“…You touchin’ yourself?”

“Not yet.”

His breath caught.

“I want you to,” he said. “Right now.”

You whimpered, your hand sliding slowly down your belly. You were already slick, already aching. His voice alone was doing things to you that he hadn’t even meant to learn — but Rayleigh and that damn women-only island had taught him a thing or two, hadn’t they?

Your fingers found your clit, circling lazily. “Luffy…”

“I got you, baby,” he said, voice now rough with desire. “Close your eyes. Pretend I’m there.”

“I wish you were,” you whispered.

“You know what I’d do if I was?”

“Tell me.”

You could hear the smirk in his voice now. “I’d kiss you first. Slow. Make you feel it. You’d open your mouth for me, wouldn’t you?”

You moaned, pressing a little harder. “Yes…”

“Yeah, I know you would,” he whispered. “You’re so good for me. I’d touch you everywhere, nice and slow. Nip at your neck. Squeeze your thighs.”

Your hand moved lower, sliding between your folds, gathering wetness. Your body trembled.

“I’d suck on those pretty tits. Roll my tongue around your nipples 'til you whine for me. You always get so sensitive, baby…”

“I’m already sensitive,” you moaned.

“Good. That’s it.” His breath hitched — he was touching himself, you knew it. Probably had one hand wrapped around his cock, lazy and slow, just listening to you pant his name.

“You wet for me?”

“Dripping.”

“Fuck. I love you like that. Open your legs wider, baby. Rub slow, like how I do with my thumb, yeah?”

You did as he said, letting your fingers circle your clit just like he did — steady, teasing. It was maddening. His voice wrapped around you like heat.

“I wanna hear you,” he said. “Let me hear those pretty noises.”

You gasped, moaned his name again.

“Faster,” he growled, and the sudden command made your hips buck. “Now slide your fingers inside. Two. You can take it.”

You obeyed, biting your lip as you slipped two fingers into your heat, crying out.

“Wish it was me,” he groaned. “Wish it was my cock stretching you open. You’d be so full, baby. So warm.”

“Luffy—”

“I’d go slow,” he whispered. “Let you feel all of it. Grind deep, just how you like. Thumb on your clit, mouth on your neck. God, you’d squeeze me so tight…”

You were close. So close. Your fingers moved faster, hips rolling.

“Can I cum?” you pleaded.

“Not yet.” His voice was stern, but soft. “Wait for me.”

You whimpered. You wanted to be good for him. You needed it.

“You close, baby?”

“Yes.”

“I’m right behind you. Cum for me. Right now.”

That was it. You broke with a moan, crying out his name as the orgasm washed over you — hot, intense, blinding. Your back arched. Legs trembled. And you swore you could feel him there, whispering in your ear, pressing kisses to your skin.

You were still gasping when he groaned in your ear — a deep, broken sound — and you knew he’d finished too.

For a moment, there was only breath. Soft. Raw.

Then, his voice again.

“I love you so much.”

Your heart thudded.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

A long silence. Then —

“…You still sleepy?” he murmured.

You smiled, curling into the sheets.

“Not anymore.”

“Good.” His voice softened, gentle now. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

“I’ll make it in time for breakfast. And after that… I’m not letting you outta my bed for anything.”

You giggled, glowing.

“Good. I’ll be waiting.”

♡♡♡

© 2025 arixella | please do not plagiarize or translate any of my work without my consent.

[squidsquidsquidsquidsquidgame]

heyyy!! can we pls have a somewhat longass angsty nam-gyu x fem reader (thanos' ex before games) where he grows attached to her before the games and even more after thanos dies? like, maybe the 2 had some tense moments at first because of her past with thanos, but after he’s gone, nam-gyu starts seeing her differently n becomes softer, protective, maybe even a little possessive. but then, of course, tragedy strikes (because this is squid game, duh) and reader doesn’t make it to the end. maybe she sacrifices herself for him in one of the later games, or just doesn’t survive, leaving him completely wrecked. feel free to add some smut, suggestive tension, unresolved feelings, or bittersweet fluff where it fits, but overall, i just want it heartbreaking, intense yet tender 😭 thank u in advance & luv ur nam-gyu works sm i hope to see even more of him<3

(😭😭)

Survivors guilt

Character: Nam-Gyu X fem!reader

Summary: Above in the request

Warnings: Major Character Death, Grief & Emotional Trauma, Themes of survivor’s guilt, unresolved feelings, and mourning. Angst/Heartbreak, Implied/Unspoken Romantic Tension, Violence / Life-or-death Situations, Past Toxic Relationship, Mild Suggestive Themes

You and Nam-Gyu weren’t friends.

He made that clear from day one, when your eyes locked across the dorm room floor and you caught the flicker of recognition in his gaze. You knew what it meant. Not the oh-I-know-you-from-the-outside look — no. It was that you were his friend’s girl look. The don’t trust her look.

And it stung. Because you weren’t anymore. Not after what Thanos did to you before the game.

But Nam-Gyu didn’t know that part.

He was loyal. Quiet. The kind of man who said little but watched everything. The kind of man Thanos always said he could trust.

So for the first few days, Nam-Gyu avoided you. Not overtly — he didn’t sneer or roll his eyes — he just… kept his distance. You tried not to care. You had enough to worry about. The looming threat of elimination. The cold nights. The fear that someone might stab you in your sleep.

And then Thanos died.

It was a dramatic death. A lost fight in the bathroom. His blood spilling in a steady flow all over the tiles. He had gotten a fork in the neck. One moment he was there — loud and cocky and laughing like he had the whole thing in the bag — and the next, he was gone.

Player 230 eliminated

You didn’t cry.

But you sat alone by the wall that night, knees to your chest, heart crumpled like a paper crane. And that was the first time Nam-Gyu spoke to you.

He didn’t say sorry. Didn’t offer empty condolences.

He just sat beside you, back against the wall, his shoulder barely brushing yours.

“I didn’t think it would end like that in there...” he murmured.

“Neither did he” you said flatly.

Silence.

You didn’t expect him to stay. But he did. For hours. Long after most people had gone to bed. And something in you began to shift.

Over the next few games, things changed.

He started choosing to sit with you during meals. Partnered with you during the bridge game, his fingers brushing yours in tense, silent moments.

He didn’t talk much — still Nam-Gyu, still quiet — but the walls between you grew thinner. One night, when your ankle gave out after the hide and seek game, he carried you back to the dorms. Didn't ask. Just did it.

You teased him afterward — “Who knew you were a gentleman?” — and for the first time, he smiled at you.

A small, broken thing. But real.

The tension simmered after that.

Not just because of what you'd been through together — not just because he held you when your nightmares woke you up, or the way you bandaged the cut on his hand with shaking fingers — but because there was something undeniable between you. Something magnetic. Something that felt like it was trying to be love, even if the timing was wrong and the world was cruel.

But neither of you acted on it. Not fully.

You brushed his hair back one night. He leaned into your touch.

You almost kissed once, but he pulled away.

"Not here," he muttered. "Not like this."

And you understood. You did. But god, you wanted him.

Not because he was safe, or kind — though he was both. But because he saw you. Not as Thanos’ ex. Not as the girl who didn’t cry. But as you.

And that was terrifying.

It all ended in the Jump rope game.

Namgyu had been kind, offered to go first. Which you accepted. You tried to be tough during it, jumping when he yelled at you do to so.

People fell. Slipped. Died.

You and Nam-Gyu locked eyes.

One jump left.

Your ankles hurt, you were tired, too tired to jump. And you knew so

He reached for your hand, to get you across. But you already knew.

Just as the rope was about to get you both, you pushed him.

Not off. Not to his death.

But to victory. To the end playform.

Namgyu was flabberghasted, baffled.

He turned around just in time to see your foot get cought in the rope, and you sweet, soft smile before you fell.

Your last thought, was of the way his eyes widened.

The way he screamed your name, that beautiful voice finally breaking.

Nam-Gyu never forgave himself.

Not for going ahead. Not for surviving. Not for not telling you how he felt when he still had the chance.

They say he didn’t speak much after that. That he started sleeping in your old spot. That he carried the bandage you’d given him in his pocket for the rest of the day.

He didn't make it to the end.

He couldn't think of getting out of that game with nothing to live for.

He didn't have you.

And oh God he wanted you, he needed you.

So, he tied his jacket to the bed at the top.

He closed his eyes as he tied the sleeve around his neck. He imagined how you were doing.

Were you in heaven?

Were you in pain?

Could you forgive him?

Were you happy?

Then, softly.

"I'm coming to you, Y/N"

And he jumped.

Player 124 Eliminated

----

The guards brought the coffin in the morning.

Lowered him from the bed, like an old used pillow.

But somewhere, he was running those stairs to get to you.

[aventurineswife]

Salutations and good day to you, I have been a fan of your work for some time and I love all of them🥹🫶

If it's okay to request, how will the (characters of your choice from HSR and GI) react to a s/o who is gentlemanly in nature regardless of gender?

Like opening doors for them, doing the sidewalk thing (where the s/o is near the road), and light physical touches on the body just to guide them or urge them to move faster.

I'm sorry if this is too specific, but regardless, have a merry day!

Chivalry is Love in Motion

Synopsis: In a world where strength often takes the form of power, control, or duty, your quiet, gentlemanly care defies expectations. You hold doors, guide with light touches, and shield without asking—small gestures that leave deep impressions on the hearts of those unused to being protected. Your quiet chivalry invites even the proudest hearts to lean, just a little, into being cherished.

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Argenti x Reader, Kafka x Reader, Neuvillette x Reader, Navia x Reader, Romantic Fluff, Gentle Romance, Mutual Pining, Emotional Intimacy, Soft Interactions, Subtle Affection, Chivalrous Reader, Reversed Roles, Slow Burn Undertones.

Warnings: Mild emotional vulnerability, Light physical touch (non-explicit and respectful), Canon-typical melancholy/Angst undertones (in backstory and internal monologue).

The air in Sweetdream Paradise always smelled of lavender and false serenity. But when you, his ever-thoughtful partner, reached forward to open the ornate glass door of the Celestial Hall for him, Sunday paused.

“You truly insist on this,” he said, his eyes glinting with quiet amusement.

“Of course,” you replied, with a soft smile. “You lead everyone else. It’s only fair someone leads you now and then.”

He let out a faint, airy laugh—a sound like wind stirring chimes. “You believe in fairness… even for me.”

It was not the first time you shifted to the side closest to the floating garden’s path edge, subtly placing yourself between him and any danger. Nor the first time your hand touched the small of his back to gently nudge him along when he got lost in thought. Yet every time, it disarmed him more than he’d like to admit.

“Such chivalry,” he mused aloud, eyes half-lidded. “You act as though I’m the one who needs saving.”

You didn’t answer. You just offered your hand when the cobblestone slope inclined too sharply—no words, only the quiet insistence that he take it.

And Sunday, dignified, composed Sunday, who held the weight of illusions and eternity in his grasp, took it.

“I could fall for you,” he whispered. “But I fear… you would catch me.”

And that terrified him more than any rebellion.

Argenti was used to being the gallant one. His life was a sonnet to Beauty, a march in honor of grace and glory.

But you—you with your quiet gestures, your protective positioning, your hand at his elbow guiding him away from passing hovercrafts—you threw off his rhythm.

He blinked as you handed him a cup of rose tea before he could even reach for the kettle. “I—ah—thank you.”

“You seemed tired,” you replied simply, with that polite smile he’d come to associate with comfort.

Argenti wasn’t used to being the one protected. When you opened doors for him, he would awkwardly reach to do the same at the same time, resulting in a brief, ridiculous dance of over-courtesy.

“Your devotion to honor rivals even mine,” he said, lightly amused. “Are you sure you weren’t also trained by the Knights of Beauty?”

You only chuckled and brushed some wind-tossed strands of red hair from his face before he could react.

That touch burned more than any battlefield.

He took your hand in his gloved one, kissed your knuckles, and said, “If I am Beauty’s knight… then you are surely its soul.”

Kafka was used to control. Control of situations. Of words. Of people.

But you? You weren’t one to dominate. You didn’t manipulate. You simply cared—in small, deliberate ways that unnerved her far more than threats ever could.

When your hand settled at the small of her back as a hover-limo sped by too close on the sidewalk, she narrowed her eyes. Not in suspicion. In… curiosity.

“You do know I’m perfectly capable of dismembering a hover-car with my mind, right?” she said, voice laced with mirth.

“I know,” you replied. “That’s not why I did it.”

“Oh?” she turned to you, lips curling. “Then why?”

“Because I want to. You’re important to me.”

She leaned close then, eyes gleaming behind the sheen of her glasses. “You do realize, darling, that chivalry makes you all the more interesting to break?”

You stepped around to open the door for her before she could take the handle.

Kafka paused.

Then she chuckled. Low. Sultry. Delighted.

“Oh, fine,” she sighed dramatically, stepping through. “I suppose I’ll allow you your little habits… for now.”

But when your fingers grazed hers later—light, grounding—Kafka squeezed back.

Because behind every calculated move… she liked feeling like she wasn’t always in control.

And that scared her just enough to keep coming back.

“Wait—let me.”

You stepped forward to open the ornate glass doors of the Court of Fontaine, your gloved hand meeting polished gold. Navia raised an eyebrow, the jeweled tip of her umbrella tapping against the tiled floor as she halted.

“You know, I can open my own doors,” she said, tone half-playful, half-challenging.

You smiled, sweeping a hand. “I know. But it’s a pleasure, not a task.”

She stared for a moment longer, then strode through, skirts brushing past you like a whisper of perfume and resolve. “You're dangerously charming, you know that?”

“I try,” you said, stepping in behind her—only to lightly touch the small of her back when a stream of people bustled past. She glanced up, surprised by the subtle, grounding touch, and the way you angled yourself between her and the crowd.

“Always walking on the road side, too,” she observed as you exited the chamber later. “That’s the third time today.”

“Habit,” you said simply. “I like making sure you’re safe.”

Navia looked down for a second, just enough for her golden curls to obscure her expression. When she raised her head, her smile was soft—slightly tremulous.

“You know, you don’t have to prove your care with these gestures.”

“I’m not proving anything,” you replied gently. “I just… like treating you with the respect you deserve.”

That time, she didn’t hide the way her eyes misted over.

“Then I’m afraid I might be falling for you, Monsieur Courtoisie,” she whispered, and this time she took your arm.

Neuvillette did not expect you to open the carriage door for him.

He paused, a flicker of confusion crossing his otherwise serene expression.

“I do not require assistance,” he said, stepping down anyway.

“It’s not assistance,” you said. “It’s care.”

That gave him pause.

As you walked along the rain-dappled promenade of the Fleuve Cendre, you again subtly maneuvered him toward the inner side, placing yourself between him and the edge of the canal. The soft pressure of your hand at his elbow was gentle, respectful—but undeniable.

“You always position yourself as though shielding me,” he murmured, voice low and unreadable.

“Because I want to,” you answered. “Because someone should.”

Neuvillette looked at you for a long moment, his eyes reflecting the cloudy sky. “Many have spoken kindly to me. Few have acted kindly without need for recognition.”

You just shrugged. “That’s not why I do it.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

He walked in silence for a few more steps. Then—unexpectedly—he extended his arm, ever so slightly brushing against yours, a silent request for closeness.

“For someone who watches the rain fall over every sorrow… you deserve a little shelter, too,” you added.

For the first time in a long while, the Chief Justice felt his steps grow lighter.

[seresinhangmanjake]

Moments - Remmick x Reader

Summary: Moments in time from when Remmick is forced to abandon you, to finding out you’re pregnant, to happily ever after.

Notes/Warnings: I couldn’t manage a full fic for some reason (writing is super hard right now), so I wrote these in separate sections. Cursing. Mention of pregnancy. Animal death. Mention of sex.

Words: 1800

Sinners Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag List

No one knows you’re sleeping together. It’s better that way. Stack and Mary and Cornbread and the others don’t need to know he’s fucking a human, certainly not a human they greatly care for. Not that Remmick would have to face repercussions for taking you nearly every night—perks of being their leader—but he doesn’t want to bother with the questions and the prying. Too exhausting, he tells you. 

—

He bangs on your door in a rush, saying they have to leave to throw a group of hunters off their track. When you plead with him to stay, that you'll shelter and protect him, he shakes his head.

“Too dangerous,” he tells you. “If they track me back here, they’ll find you and kill you just for associatin’ yourself with me.”

He swears he will come home to you. Swears that this is short-term, that they’ll have the hunters either lost and confused or dead in no time. And with tears in your eyes and a final kiss, you believe him.

Two days later, you realize you missed your monthly bleeding. You don’t know if that knowledge terrifies you more than the thought of Remmick not being ok, but regardless, you’re nauseous.

—

You whisper his promise to you along with your nightly prayers, as if that will aid in their swift and safe return. But nothing ever comes of it. You should have known that appealing to God to bring the devil home to you was never going to work. 

—

By the third month, you surrender all hope. Night after night you spend begging and pleading, only for your efforts to result in no mercy. He’s dead, all of them are dead. They have to be. Either that, or they decided you aren’t worth coming back for. And that thought cracks your heart wide open.

—

You often dream of him. Of his return. Of him holding you. Of him being by your side as your stomach rounds, doing the things fathers usually do when their woman is pregnant.

—

Five more months pass with no hint of their presence. It solidifies your worst fears. Whether they are alive or not, you are alone. Alone and left to deal with the emotional and physical impact of having this baby on your own.

—

They come back in the dead of night. There’s a knock, and when you peek through the curtain covering one of the thin windows that flank the door, multiple figures are cutting shadowy shapes through the moonlight. You can’t quite make out their faces. But as they knock again, you understand that whoever they are, they clearly aren’t planning to go away. 

You step back and open the drawer of the small entryway table, pulling out a pistol and setting it atop the wooden surface. You curse under your breath as you wrap your fingers around the door knob, twist, and pull. 

You flip on the porch light. Mary, Stack…and Remmick. 

Your entire body tenses. 

Mary is practically bouncing on her toes, a wide grin splitting her face as she fights the urge to attempt reaching past the invisible barrier that protects your house from them. Stack is smirking, giving you a nod in greeting. Remmick won’t look you in the eye, and it absolutely devastates you. You missed him so much. So much you thought you weren’t going to survive it, and for reasons unknown, he won’t look at you. 

When you let them in, they file into your living room, making themselves at home. Mary meanders around the room, observing your bookshelves and framed photos, taking in the familiar space and praising that nothing has changed. Stack plops down on one side of the couch and crosses his ankle over his leg. Remmick sits in an armchair, his head down, elbows braced on his knees, and fingers fidgeting. 

At first, none of them detects your large bump. Your loose nightgown and the blanket you grabbed off the back of the couch to wrap around your shoulders when they weren’t paying attention aid in that. But you're sure you won't be able to hide it forever. 

Mary notices first. Says there’s something different about you. Then she looks down. Her eyes go wide. A gasp leaves her throat. Stack’s expression twists in confusion at his lover's sudden display of surprise. Then he, too, notices. 

As he stands from the couch, Mary eases closer to you. Not until she asks “You’re pregnant?” does Remmick’s head whip up, his face a mixture of shock and denial.

You don’t have time to answer Mary between her bombardment of questions. When did you get married? What a quick engagement. What’s he like? Can we meet him? Tomorrow? Gosh, by the look of you, I’d say you’re about six months along, that right?

Eight, actually. You don’t correct her. You can’t stop staring at Remmick staring at your stomach. He’s not so much as twitching. But then you catch his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat with his hard swallow. Finally, his eyes flick up to yours. There’s a silent question in his irises, and you nod ever so slightly to confirm it. He falls back into the chair. His hand runs down his face as he blows out a breath.

Despite not a word of appreciation leaving your lips, Mary’s excitement for you does not dwindle, nor does Stack’s offerings of congratulations. Then they—well, Mary—decides they should leave you for the night. You must be exhausted after all. 

Remmick lingers as he passes you on his way toward the door. The rod of tension between your gazes does not snap until Mary yells from the bottom of the stairs that are connected to your porch. “We’ll be back first thing tomorrow night!” 

Remmick blinks. His eyes fall to your lips for a handful of seconds before he steps past your threshold.

—

You don’t sleep. You lie on your side in bed, unable to stop picturing his face. Was he happy? Angry? One was no more detectable than the other. 

Your worries are interrupted when your bedroom door creaks open from behind you. Footsteps are quiet despite the weight they carry, which reverberate off the wooden flooring. Your mattress dips. His chest meets your spine. An arm slips under your duvet, draping over your waist, and a hand rests on your rounded stomach. 

His breath brushes your ear when he whispers, “How?” 

“I don’t know,” you say.

“S’been hard on you?” You shake your head. Silence hangs heavy in the space. “I shouldn’t’a left without you, darlin’. If I would’a known we’d be gone that long…”

“I would’ve slowed you down,” you tell him as your palm settles on top of his hand. 

He holds you for what feels like ages, and yet the sun never rises. He kisses the shell of your ear, the slope of your shoulder, the spot on the back of your neck not covered by your hair. Your tears fall with each press of his lips. 

“Think it’ll survive?” he asks. “If I turn you?”

You tell him you don’t want to risk it. He nods, albeit reluctantly. 

—

He comes to you every night. The others still don’t know. He kisses you sweetly, but he won’t have sex with you. “I’ll hurt it” is his justification, no matter how many times you tell him the book you read subtly suggests otherwise.

—

Eventually, Remmick tells Mary and Stack. He has to. And soon after, the rest of the family knows.

—

Remmick has nightmares of the baby ripping you open, blood pouring from your body so quickly that he doesn’t have time to save you. His sweat soaks the sheets. You have to hold him, run your fingers through his hair, to get him back to sleep. 

—

On the nights without the nightmares, you wake to find him looking at the ceiling, his eyes wide, hands overlapped on his abdomen. “What’s it gonna be?” he whispers. “What'd we make, darlin’?”

You assure him for the hundredth time that whatever is growing inside of you is not some demon or monster. It’s just a baby. Your baby. Your baby that will be beautiful and healthy. You’re only half-sure of that statement, but he needs to believe it, so you say it with confidence.

—

You go into labor on the living room carpet, screaming through your contractions. He’s practically frozen in place, but when you call his name, reaching your hand toward him, he snaps out of it and rushes to your side.

There’s no time to seek help from anyone else. It’s just you and him. He catches the baby and bites the umbilical cord with his teeth before tying it off. “It’s a boy, darlin’,” he says, wiping him off and wrapping him up in a blanket. He and the baby cry out in unison when he realizes you haven’t said a word in response. 

You leave him no choice. He has to turn you. When you wake, it’s a different world. Sights and sounds and touches are all the more intense; difficult to adapt to so quickly. When you hold your son for the first time, your newly heightened senses make the moment almost unbearably overwhelming. 

—

You don’t know what he is. Full vampire? Part human? There’s no telling if there will be fangs yet, but his eyes glow that foggy glow, same as Remmick’s, same as yours now.

As any other baby, he consumes your milk that is somehow preserved despite your new life-state—or death-state—but he’s never quite satisfied the way he is when you mix a bit of the blood his father hunts into his bottle. 

—

Remmick reads about attachment and holds the baby to his bare chest as often as he can. 

—

Mary and Stack are obsessed. She didn’t know how much she wished she could have children with the man she loves until you had your son, and he almost makes up for not being able to have a child of their own. 

—

Your son eases his teething pain with the bodies of dead mice as little fangs start to come in. He sucks them dry to the bone, making a sloppy mess that leaves blood coating his mouth and dripping down his chest. Definitely less human than vampire, if human at all, and it’s a relief.

—

By the time he is a toddler, your son is fast. A fast crawler, a fast walker, a fast climber. He’s quick enough to catch small animals in the field. He brings them to you and Remmick in a showing of pride. 

—

With a stomped foot and a looming tantrum, your son demands to go hunting with his father. As a small boy of four, he watches Remmick attack the creatures of the forest, clapping with the same glee that most children would display at the sight of a new toy. Before the year is up, they are hunting side-by-side.

—

One night, after you've thoroughly worn each other out, Remmick whispers to you, “I wanna marry you, darlin’.” When you peer up at him through your lashes, he kisses your forehead and says, “Should’a done a long time ago.”

And weeks later, to your surprise, God does indeed let you marry the devil. He lets you swear yourself to Remmick in front of an unaware priest without opening up a hole in the ground to drag the two of you to hell. Neither of you burst into flames and disintegrate into ash while Remmick says his vows just after you do. Judgment does not come when he slides a ring on your finger and kisses you like a man free of sin. 

You fuck some, and then you fuck some more.

You return home just before dawn to find a pile of shriveled squirrels at the base of your porch—your son’s dinner. You relieve Mary and Stack of their babysitting duties and head upstairs to where your son sleeps peacefully. As you kiss his forehead, Remmick tucks the blankets around him. 

“Thank you, darlin,’” he says once you go into the hallway. Turning, you raise a brow in question. “For givin’ me him,” he tells you. “For givin’ me you.” 

You have no words, so you smile and kiss him, and then you drag him back to your own room and pull him into bed.

---

Tags: @ailoda @daisydark @blobbytheblobblob

[understeeringirl]

Distance makes it worse

Summary: The silence between you grows heavier every day. After the fallout, the pretending cracks wider, and the space feels colder. Lando is still trying — maybe too hard — but the distance lingers like a shadow neither of you knows how to shake. Words left unsaid, fears left unspoken, and a fragile hope that maybe this mess can still be fixed. But it’s going to take more than apologies and coffee. Warnings: emotional repression, subtle heartbreak, guarded conversations, slow rebuilding, vulnerability, mild tension Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader Word count: 3.4k Series: Wrong Side of the Camera - intro - chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four - chapter five - chapter six - chapter seven - chapter eight - chapter nine - epilogue

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You wake to the sound of your own breath.

Shallow. Steady. Real.

The fever's gone.

But the weight in your chest?

Still there.

You blink past the blur of dried sweat and sleep, feeling the ache in your limbs settle into something deeper. Your head pounds, your lips are cracked, and the world feels quiet in a way that’s almost cruel.

Then you hear it.

Breath. Shift. Movement.

You turn your head.

He’s still here.

Lando.

Curled on the floor by the dresser, hoodie bunched up beneath his neck, face slack with sleep. One leg pulled close, one arm stretched out like he’d reached for you and passed out halfway through.

You stare at him.

And all you can think is:

Of course.

Of course he stayed now. Now that you were too weak to scream at him. Now that you’d burned yourself into stillness. Now that there was no fight left to give.

But the thing is—you’re not soft this morning.

You’re not sick enough to forget anymore.

You remember everything.

The way he looked at you. The silence he left you in. The photo. The lie. The door you had to close just to breathe.

And suddenly, it’s like rage is the only thing keeping your spine straight.

You shift under the covers. The noise stirs him.

He lifts his head.

Eyes heavy. Voice cracked.

“You’re awake.”

You don’t answer.

He scrambles upright. Knees cracking, hoodie slipping. He looks like hell.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Do you—do you need anything?”

You sit up slowly. Every muscle groans. Your throat scrapes.

You take the glass of water beside the bed.

He moves forward like he’s going to help.

You flinch.

“I’ve got it.”

He freezes.

And suddenly the room is too quiet again.

You sip the water. Set it down.

And when you finally look at him, it’s not soft. It’s not warm. It’s not kind.

“You stayed.”

He nods. “Of course I did.”

You laugh once. Hollow. “Bit late for that, don’t you think?”

He swallows. “I was scared.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Me too. Right around the time I passed out on my own floor.”

“I didn’t know you were that sick. I tried calling—”

“You tried after you broke me.”

His mouth opens. No sound comes out.

You push the blanket off and swing your legs to the floor.

“You know what the worst part is?” you say, standing slowly, every joint protesting. “I still wanted you to be there. Even after the photo. Even after the lie. Even after you looked me in the eye and told me you’d be better.”

He looks like he’s going to speak.

You don’t let him.

“But you weren’t. You didn’t even try. You let me believe you were different. You let me trust you.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care what you meant.”

The words land hard between you.

You see it in his face—the hit. The way it rattles through him like a blow.

“You don’t get to fuck up and still feel like the victim,” you say. “You don’t get to show up when it’s convenient for you, act like you care when you’ve made it so clear you don’t.”

“I do,” he says quietly. “I care so much, it’s ruining me.”

“Then why did you leave me alone?”

He blinks. “I thought you didn’t want to see me.”

“You’re right,” you snap. “I didn’t. I still don’t.”

He steps back like you slapped him.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he says. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“That’s not my problem anymore.”

You take a step toward the bathroom. You don’t bother hiding the way your legs shake.

Lando watches you, eyes wide, mouth trembling with words that never make it out.

“I’m going to shower,” you say. “When I come out, I want you gone.”

He exhales like he’s trying to keep from begging.

“Please,” he says. “Just talk to me. Just let me explain.”

“You had every chance,” you whisper. “You had so many chances.”

“I didn’t know how to handle it—how to handle us. It stopped feeling fake and I panicked, and I made the worst decisions because I thought if I pulled away, it would hurt less—”

“For who?” you hiss. “For me? Because it didn’t. It fucking destroyed me.”

He’s crying now.

You hate that it still gets to you.

You reach for the doorknob.

His voice cracks. “Please don’t walk away.”

You pause.

Then look at him one last time.

“You did it first.”

And then you close the door.

Lock it.

And turn the shower on full blast just so you don’t hear him on the other side.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He doesn’t move when the door clicks shut.

Doesn’t breathe.

Doesn’t think.

Just… stands there, staring at the grain of the wood like maybe if he waits long enough, it’ll forgive him.

The sound of the shower starts, and it’s like a punch to the ribs.

He presses his forehead to the door. It’s still warm where her hand was.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, fuck—”

His voice cracks halfway through the third one, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop it from unraveling into something worse. Something pathetic.

He wants to knock. Wants to say something—I didn’t mean it, I was scared, please don’t hate me—but none of the words feel like enough. Not after what he’s done. Not after what she said.

And she was right.

God, she was so right.

He had walked away first. He’d disappeared, pulled back, shut her out. And all the while, she was still reaching for him.

And he’d missed it.

Worse—he’d let her feel alone.

He slides down the door slowly. Hears the water running. Imagines her under it—jaw clenched, skin burning, shoulders shaking.

He wonders if she’s crying too.

He buries his face in his hands.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I ruined it. I’m sorry I ruined you.”

His phone buzzes in his hoodie pocket. He doesn’t check it. Doesn’t need to.

Whatever’s out there—press, rumors, another photo—none of it matters.

The only thing that does is behind this fucking door.

And she wants him gone.

He sits there anyway.

Just in case.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You stay in the shower longer than you need to.

Hot water beating down on your shoulders. Skin raw. Eyes closed.

You let it scald. Let it sting.

Because at least that pain makes sense.

When you finally step out, the mirror’s fogged, the towel scratchy, your limbs weak—but you still move with purpose. You dry off slowly. Dress in the softest clothes you can find—sweatpants, hoodie, thick socks.

No makeup. No armor.

Just skin and silence.

You open the bathroom door and brace yourself for an empty room.

He’s still there.

Sitting against the dresser, knees pulled up, face buried in his arms like sleep never really came for him. He looks up the moment he hears you—eyes red, hair mussed, hoodie wrinkled like it’s the same one from yesterday.

You freeze.

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

The silence stretches like a dare.

He blinks. Stands slowly. “I—I didn’t leave.”

“I can see that.”

“I thought maybe you’d need—” He cuts himself off. Tries again. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You lean against the doorframe. Still tired. Still pissed.

“You said you would leave.”

“I know.”

You stare at him.

“You don’t get a gold star for sitting on the floor all night.”

“I know,” he says again. Softer. “But I didn’t know where else to be.”

There’s a pause.

And then you say it—flat, final:

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

He looks like he’s trying to stay upright on breaking glass. “I didn’t want to go.”

You sigh. The ache in your chest returns—not the kind from fever, but the kind he put there weeks ago.

He stands, eyes desperate but guarded. His voice is raw when he speaks, like he’s been holding it in for days.

“I’m not leaving. Not yet. Not until you say it’s okay.”

You stiffen, wrapping your arms around yourself, every muscle aching from the fever and heartbreak.

“Lando, I can’t do this right now. I have a shoot in two hours. I need space. You’re suffocating me.”

He steps closer, voice breaking. “I know I’ve been a mess. I’ve been an idiot. But I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere. Not again.”

You shake your head, frustrated tears threatening. “You don’t get to show up when it suits you and expect me to just… forgive. I’m exhausted. I’m sick. I’m trying to keep myself together, and you’re just here, making it harder.”

He reaches out, hesitant. “Please. Just one chance. One conversation. I’ll fix this. I swear.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, biting down your own need to beg him back.

“I can’t, Lando. I have to work. I have to pretend everything’s fine. And I can’t do that if you’re here, breathing down my neck, waiting for me to fall apart again.”

His jaw tightens. “Then let me help you. Don’t push me away.”

You shake your head again, tired and angry. “No. I need you to leave. For now.”

His shoulders slump, but he still doesn’t move.

“Please,” he whispers. “I’m begging you.”

He stays rooted, eyes burning with that stubborn mix of regret and hope. His voice cracks when he finally speaks, barely louder than a whisper but full of everything he’s been holding back.

“I’m not leaving.”

You cross your arms, tired in a way that goes beyond your sickness—like your whole body is done with the fight.

“Fine,” you say, voice flat, dry, drained. “Do whatever you want then.”

He blinks, like the words haven’t quite registered. Then he takes a slow step forward.

“I just want to make it right. I want to be here for you.”

You don’t look at him.

“You want to be here? Great. Then maybe start by leaving me alone for like, five minutes.”

He steps closer, eyes wide and pleading. “I can’t do that.”

You let out a humorless laugh, voice sharp with exhaustion. “Yeah, well, neither can I. But I have a Vogue shoot in two hours, so I don’t exactly have the luxury of being broken all day.”

He swallows hard, jaw tightening.

“I’m sorry for everything. For not being there. For messing this up. For making you feel like you were alone.”

You finally glance at him, the ghost of softness buried under a mountain of frustration.

“I know you’re sorry. I know you’re scared. But right now, I just need… I don’t even know. Space? Time? Silence?”

He nods slowly, like he’s trying to memorize your words.

“So.. can I just sit here and wait?"

You shrug, voice clipped.

“You do whatever you want. I’ll do what I have to.”

He steps back, chest tight, but doesn’t leave.

“I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.”

You roll your eyes, a dry smirk breaking through.

“Great. Then get comfortable. This is gonna be a long day.”

He lets out a soft laugh, the sound rough but genuine.

“Yeah. A long day.”

You grab your bag, heading for the door.

He follows, just a step behind, like a shadow you can’t shake.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Vogue studio buzzes with energy, but you feel miles away. Stylists swarm around, tugging, pinning, spraying—like they’re trying to fix more than just your hair and clothes.

Lando’s there, sitting on a stool in the corner, eyes flickering to you every few seconds, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

The photographer calls out, "Alright, let’s get this done!"

You step into position, plaster on a smile that’s all business, not emotion.

Flash.

Click.

Pose.

You hear the camera shutter but none of it feels real.

Between takes, Lando sidles up, voice low. “You okay?”

You arch an eyebrow, voice flat as ice. “Peachy. Just thrilled to be in front of a camera while my personal life is a dumpster fire.”

He winces but tries again, softer. “I’m here. I want to fix this.”

You turn away, voice sharp. “Great. Could’ve fooled me.”

He reaches out, but you step back, eyes rolling.

“Don’t,” you say. “Not now. Not like this.”

He bites his lip, nodding, defeated.

The stylist calls you back.

“Ready for the next one.”

You flick a glance at Lando—half apology, half warning.

Then you plaster that perfect, empty smile back on and face the camera.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The last flash clicks and you’re done. Done with the endless angles, the fake smiles, the pressure to be perfect when you don’t even feel like you’re fully here. You slip off your heels as soon as you can, massaging your aching feet and practically dragging yourself toward the exit.

Your fingers fumble with your phone as you step outside, desperately trying to get an Uber before your patience completely snaps. You’re halfway through the app when you hear it — that familiar voice.

“Hey.”

You spin around. Of course it’s Lando, standing there like a lost puppy who’s just realized the one thing he desperately wants is about to walk away.

“Are you serious?” you snap, voice sharp and raw. “Why are you still here? I told you I needed space. Needed. Not maybe, not later, needed. And here you are, following me out like I’m some stray you can’t stop chasing.”

He shrugs, looking sheepish and utterly clueless. “I just… I want to be around.”

You let out a humorless laugh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Around? Lando, I’m sick, exhausted. This is the last thing I need.”

He takes a step closer, eyes hopeful. “I’m sorry. I messed up. But I’m here now.”

You raise an eyebrow, deadpan. “Yeah. And that fixes everything, huh? You know what? I’m too tired to argue, so go ahead—tag along. But don’t slow me down.”

He grins like he’s just won the lottery. You shake your head, resisting the urge to laugh at how ridiculous this whole situation is.

“This is going to be a very long night.”

The Uber pulls up, and you slide in without looking back. Lando’s right behind you, practically shadowing your every move.

The car hums through the city streets, the dull glow of streetlights casting long shadows on your face. Lando reaches over, fingers lightly brushing your hand.

You pull your hand away like it’s on fire.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice soft. “I know I’ve hurt you. I just want to fix this.”

You stare out the window, voice cool, almost tired. “Fixing things doesn’t happen with words anymore, Lando. It’s about actions. Real ones.”

He swallows hard. “I’m ready to do whatever it takes.”

You finally glance at him, eyes tired but sharp. “Good. Because right now, I’m running on fumes, and so is this.”

Silence settles heavy between you.

The car slows at your building.

You open the door, stepping out and pausing.

Lando’s eyes flick to yours, searching.

You don’t say anything as you head inside.

You close the door behind you, the weight of the day heavy on your shoulders. Lando lingers too close, eyes hopeful, voice tentative.

“Can we talk?”

You spin around, jaw tight. “No. Not tonight.”

He steps forward. “Please. Just a few minutes.”

You take a deep breath, all the frustration bubbling up. “I said no. Just—leave. For tonight.”

His face falls, eyes searching yours.

You slam the door hard enough to make him jump.

“Go. Just go. I need space. I’m exhausted. And I can’t do this right now.”

He stands there for a long beat, pain flickering across his face.

Then, finally, he steps back.

“Okay. For tonight.”

You don’t look back as he walks away.

The door clicks shut, and the silence that follows feels like the first breath you’ve taken all day.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You wake to the faint hum of voices and the smell of something warm—coffee, maybe? Your head still aches, but the worst of the cold is gone.

Blinking against the morning light, you try to sit up, only to realize your limbs feel heavier than usual.

Lando is already there, sitting beside the bed with a half-empty mug in his hands, eyes watching you with a mix of relief and worry.

“You’re awake,” he says quietly, voice soft like he’s afraid to break the fragile calm.

You glare at him, trying to summon some fire, but your voice comes out dry and low.

“What are you still doing here?”

He shrugs, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “I wasn’t about to let you face this alone.”

You roll your eyes, trying to keep your tone sharp. “I’m better. Don’t need a babysitter.”

He grins, undeterred. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

You stare at him, stubborn and tired.

“Fine,” you mutter, voice rough. “But don’t expect me to be grateful.”

He laughs softly, the sound warm and steady.

You shift under the covers, pulling the blanket tighter around you like armor. Your voice is sharp, even if your body feels fragile.

“Look, Lando, I don’t need you hovering.”

He holds up a small bouquet of wildflowers, colors bright against the dull light of your room.

“I’m not hovering,” he says softly. “I’m here. And I brought these.”

You snort, dry. “Flowers? Seriously?”

He grins, undeterred.

“Yeah. And I got you that herbal tea you like, plus some soup from that place you love.”

He places the tray carefully on the bedside table — a steaming bowl, the tea, and a small stack of your favorite books.

You stare, part amused, part exasperated.

“You’re spoiling me,” you say, voice tired.

“Only because you deserve it,” he replies, eyes sincere.

You look away, biting your lip.

“I don’t want to admit it, but… thanks,” you mutter, voice almost too quiet to hear.

He reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s been a week of the same tired routine. You wake up, groggy and stiff, the ache in your muscles a dull reminder that you’re not quite yourself yet.

You shuffle to the kitchen, expecting to find it empty, just like every morning before this.

But there he is.

Lando.

Leaning against the counter, dressed in one of your old hoodies that somehow fits him better than it should. He’s humming something off-key—annoyingly cheerful.

On the counter sits a mug—your mug—with steam curling lazily from the top.

Next to it, a sticky note, written in his hurried scrawl:

“For the world’s toughest girl. Don’t make me drink it.”

You scowl, crossing your arms, biting back a sarcastic remark.

“Are you seriously still doing this?” you ask, voice dry.

He looks up, grinning like a kid caught stealing cookies.

“What? You like it.”

You roll your eyes but let yourself grab the mug anyway, the warmth seeping into your cold hands.

“Don’t think this changes anything,” you say, voice low, skeptical. “You can’t just keep playing Mr. Sunshine and expect me to forget everything.”

He shrugs, eyes honest.

“Yeah, I’m not trying to erase anything. I just want to be here. If you let me.”

You sip the coffee, bitterness matching your mood.

“The silence was the worst part,” you admit, voice almost breaking. “You pulling away like I’m wasn't even here. Like I was just… some chore.”

He steps closer, cautious.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I was scared. And that scared me into shutting down.”

You look away, biting your lip.

“Scared of what?”

“Of how real this all feels,” he admits, voice low. “Of losing you, even before I had you.”

You stare at him, heart thudding.

“You should’ve told me,” you whisper.

He nods, taking a small step forward.

“I’m trying to.”

You set the mug down, a shaky breath escaping.

“This is going to take time.”

He smiles, relief flooding his face.

“I’ll wait. As long as you need.”

You meet his eyes.

“Don’t make me regret that.”

He grins.

“Never.”

For the first time in a long while, the morning doesn’t feel so heavy.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

hi!! i'm so so sorry for taking so long to update this, but i just feel like i made such a mess and i didn't knew how to move forward but i did my best and i think i figured it out. thank you for sticking up with me and let me know if you want to be added to my taglist for this and future stuff!!

see you next lap, -N 🏁

taglist: @suibianupyourass

[chadobi]

Babes, it’s my 20th birthday today!! 🥳💗 Sooo as a lil treat for y’all, I’m doing a mini marathon!! Say hello to the first story of the day, get ready for a tiny spam 😭 Anyway ily all sm!!

You’re More Human

TMNT Bayverse – Michelangelo x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Mild language, injury mention, emotional vulnerability, fluff

New York never truly slept, but tonight it felt quieter. Calmer. The buzz of traffic far above was reduced to the occasional hum, muffled by layers of concrete, steel, and sewer grates.

You walked through the tunnels with dirt on your jeans and dried blood caking your shirt. It wasn’t yours, but it didn’t matter. The fight was over. The city was safe. For now.

Your boots splashed through shallow water as you followed close behind the turtles, your fingers twitching at your sides. You weren’t sure if it was from the cold, or from the adrenaline that hadn’t quite settled yet.

Leonardo walked ahead, silent and focused as always. Donatello was checking a crack in his tech-glasses, mumbling to himself. Raphael muttered curses under his breath every time his injured leg dragged. But Michelangelo… he lagged behind.

With him, silence felt unnatural.

You glanced back. His nunchucks were strapped to his side. His mask hung loosely around his neck. His shoulders were lower than usual not just from exhaustion. Something was off.

He caught you looking. Tried to smile.

It didn’t reach his eyes.

The lair was dim when you arrived. Donnie immediately headed for his workstation, muttering something about recalibrating sensors. Raph went to the dojo without a word, limping but refusing help. Leo disappeared into the shadows like he always did.

That left you and Mikey.

He dropped heavily onto the beat-up couch, breathing hard. You hovered by the doorway, unsure. You’d been in the lair before, many times but never when things felt like this.

Quiet.

Heavy.

Not even the TV was on.

“Hey,” you said gently. “You okay?”

He looked up at you, and for a second, he was just Mikey - your Mikey - goofy, sweet, and full of warmth.

Then he broke eye contact and exhaled, slow and low.

“I’m good, Angelcakes,” he said. “Just… tired.”

You weren’t convinced.

You walked over and sat beside him. The couch creaked under your combined weight, but neither of you cared.

He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. The silence stretched.

“I hate when people scream,” he said suddenly. His voice was quiet. Unsteady. “Even if it’s not me they’re scared of… I still hear it. Feel it.”

You turned to face him.

He wasn’t looking at you.

“Tonight,” he continued, “we saved a whole family from those Kraang freaks. Got ’em out just in time. But the mom…she screamed when she saw me. Shielded her kid like I was the threat. Like I was worse than the damn aliens.”

You swallowed, hard.

“She was just scared,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he muttered, finally glancing at you. “Of me.”

The pain in his voice hit you in the chest. You wanted to say something , anything but words felt useless. So instead, you reached out and touched his hand.

It was warm. Rough. Strong.

And trembling slightly.

He looked down at your hand, then up at you.

“Why don’t you ever flinch?” he asked.

“What?”

“When you look at me. You don’t flinch. You don’t stare. You don’t… hesitate.”

You met his eyes. “Because I see you.”

His expression cracked. Something unspoken passed between you, something deeper than any joke or flirtation you’d shared before. Something real.

“You know,” you said softly, “you’re more human than most people I know.”

Mikey froze.

It hung in the air like a revelation. Like a secret you’d just exposed.

Then, without warning, he stood up and paced to the far end of the room. He ran a hand down his face.

“Don’t say stuff like that,” he said, his voice thick.

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll believe you.”

You rose slowly. “Good. You should.”

He turned to you, shoulders tense. His eyesusually full of fire and laughter, were glassy. Broken.

“I’m a six-foot-tall mutant turtle,” he said, gesturing at himself. “People run from me in the daylight. I eat pizza off sewer grates. I sleep underground. I’ve never had a normal life. I never will.”

You crossed the room. “You think humanity is about where you live? What you look like?”

He stared at you, lips pressed tight.

You reached out and placed your hand on his plastron, right over his heart.

“Humans love. They feel. They fight for what matters. They laugh even when it hurts. That’s what makes us human, Mikey. And you? You’ve got more of that than most people I’ve ever met.”

He inhaled shakily. Then, slowly, so very slowly, he wrapped his arms around you.

You melted into his chest, feeling the tension in his body. He held you like he was afraid you’d vanish. Like you were something precious.

“I didn’t mean to lose it,” he whispered. “I just… I try so hard to be the light. The happy one. I want people to see me and smile. Not scream.”

“You’re allowed to break sometimes,” you murmured against his skin. “Even the sun has to set.”

He chuckled wetly. “That was poetic as hell.”

You smiled. “Maybe I’ve been hanging out with you too much.”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. “Not possible.”

For a moment, everything was still.

Then he leaned in and kissed you.

Soft. Hesitant. Like a question.

You answered him with your lips.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.

“You mean it?” he whispered.

“Every word.”

“More human than most, huh?”

You nodded. “And more mine than anyone else’s.”

He grinned, a real grin, this timecand lifted you off the ground in one swift lotion.

You squealed, laughing as he spun you in a slow circle.

“Mikey!”

“Sorry, can’t help it! You’re my favorite person and you just called me human! I might combust!”

He set you down, holding you by the waist.

“Don’t combust,” you said, smiling up at him. “I kind of like having you around.”

He winked. “I’m not going anywhere, angelcakes.”

And for the first time all night, he looked… light again.

Still bruised. Still tired.

But light.

Later, the others drifted in and out of the room, Donnie muttering something about circuits, Raph grumbling about protein shakes but no one questioned the way you and Mikey sat curled on the couch together, tangled like vines.

Your head rested on his shoulder. His fingers traced lazy circles on your back.

“I think I get it now,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“What you meant. About being human.”

You looked up at him. He met your gaze, soft and full of understanding.

“It’s not about being born one,” he said. “It’s about choosing to be one. Choosing to feel. To care. Even when it hurts.”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

He kissed the top of your head and exhaled deeply.

“Then yeah… I’ll take being human. As long as I’ve got you.”

You closed your eyes and held him tighter.

“You always will.”

[jays-bonnie-on-the-side]

BUT NEVER AGAIN

PAIRING : beau arlen x younger fem!reader

SUMMARY : beau sees reader for the first time since he disowned her, on their anniversary of all days, and she isn’t alone.

WARNINGS : age gap. strong language. angst. fluff. smut. unprotected p in v. rough sex. pregnancy sex. makeup sex. semi-pubic sex. creampie. cockwarming. dom!beau. sub!reader. pregnant!reader. daddy!kink (if you squint). size kink. maiesiophilia. physical altercation. jealous!beau. slightly corrupt!sheriff.

A/N : just wanna start off with i’m sorry, this wasn’t supposed to take as long as it did. i have plenty of valid reasons as to why but the cutest one was each time i opened my laptop to write, my cat would hear and wander over to lay on the keyboard and my lap, refusing to get up. and if i dared try moving him, he’d bite me then go back to cuddling. anyways, i hope y’all enjoy the final part of this mini-series! (kind) thoughts are always appreciated.

You couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be happening. It had to have been a mistake. Why would God ever play such a cruel joke on you? After everything you’ve gone through with Beau, this was the last thing you needed. The irony was evident: You wanted nothing to do with your ex, and now you were pregnant with his child.

Fucking shit. You were filled with a mix of emotions: happy, sad, panic, excitement, to name a few. You dreamt of having Beau’s children. Who wouldn’t? He was a great man and, as far as you could tell, a great father. With everything going on, you weren’t sure what to do, but if one thing was certain, you were keeping it.

The problem wasn’t questioning what you’d do with your offspring’s life. No, the issue was your indecisiveness about whether to tell Beau or not. After all, he made his choice. He was ashamed and disowned you, so why would he want a pregnant you? Would you really give him a chance to disown your baby too?

But would he? Would he really want nothing to do with you or the product of love that was growing inside you? Or what if you told him and he only wanted you because of the baby? Too many thoughts were running through your head, making you dizzy. You gripped the bathroom countertop and closed your eyes, inhaling a deep breath.

I just need a sign, you thought. Any sign that tells me if I should tell Beau. Suddenly, your phone rang, causing you to jump in surprise. You looked at the device and your heart quickened with rage. It was your ex-cowboy—your sign. Fuck that!

You had hit the end call button, refusing to speak with him. Really, God? So not funny! You weren’t amused at the sign He sent you, and you weren’t going to listen either. Maybe that was your sign. Knowing how you truly felt when the opportunity to tell the sheriff arose.

After throwing the test in the trash, you walked to your bedroom. This can’t be happening. You climbed into bed and wrapped your body with your duvet, wishing, deep down, it was Beau’s warm embrace. The room was pitch black, the perfect setting to fall into a peaceful slumber, but you couldn’t sleep. No, the news of your unborn baby kept you up. You just wanted to talk to someone, and you hated that that someone happened to be Beau.

A week had passed, but not a moment when Beau didn’t try to win you back, and you certainly didn’t make it easy. You refused to answer his calls or texts, not that he blamed you. So, every morning since his conversation with Emily, he stopped by your work, hoping to get a chance to see you. When he didn’t, which was no surprise, he’d leave your favorite meal, and the most gorgeous roses the florist had to offer with one of your coworkers, instructing that they pass them along. Each bouquet came with a handwritten note, and despite your many warnings, you couldn’t resist reading each and every one.

I’m so sorry, princess. I was stupid and an idiot—a stupid idiot. Please forgive me.

Sweetheart, please call me.

I’m not giving you up, darlin’.

I’ll make it up to you. I’m gonna make this right. For us. I promise.

There’ll never be a moment when you’re not on my mind, sweetpea. I need you more and more.

I love & miss you more than you know, angel.

I’ll never forget the first time I laid eyes on you. Happy Anniversary, beautiful.

If he hadn’t disowned you, his attempts would’ve worked. Your heart wanted to let him in, but you knew better since he broke the very thing you told him not to. It was hard getting over a man like Beau, though you had no choice but to. For weeks, you were a complete wreck over him. However, as time passed, you began to heal. That was until the shock of your pregnancy.

Every reminder of him made your decision harder and harder. You so desperately wanted to tell Beau the truth. There were signs everywhere but you were too damn stubborn to listen. You knew you had to face him sooner or later, and you prayed it was the latter. But as your luck would have it, it was the former.

It was your anniversary, or what would’ve been if you were still together. Your heart was heavy and your body was weak, but you couldn’t call in to work again, especially when you had to train the new hire. So, on the rarest of warm days in early Spring, you put on your favorite summer dress, one you won’t admit was also Beau’s favorite. It was long & flowy, hugging you in just the right places while showing a tasteful amount of cleavage. If you were going to move on from the sheriff, you needed to enjoy the day instead of wallowing in it, and if putting on a nice dress helped, then so be it.

It was almost half past noon meaning your lunch break was coming up; Beau knew it like clockwork. Deciding to get out of the office, you asked Wren, the new associate, if he wanted to accompany you. He was new to town and didn’t know any good spots so you thought you’d be nice. He happily agreed, so you drove to your favorite brunch spot. The only downside was that it was down the street from Dewell & Hoyt Private Investigations, a place your ex-cowboy frequently visited.

Sure, it was risky but you had to rise above. And what were the chances that he happened to be on that side of town as you were? Being the Sheriff, he had more important things going on than keeping his eyes peeled for you everywhere he went...or so you thought. Beau jogs out of their office the second he catches a glimpse of your vehicle. His heart skips a beat as you and Wren exit your vehicle, and he can’t tell if it’s because it’s the first time he’s seen you in three weeks, or if it’s because some man, closer in age, is with you.

He knew this day might come but not this soon. Not when he hasn’t shown you that he’s changed. Not when your last memory of him is heartbreaking. Not while his heart still beat for you. You walk toward the diner and the cowboy’s feet move faster than they ever have before. As if it were slow motion, Wren begins to pull the door open just as Beau’s large hand wraps around your arm.

Instinctively, you pull out of the grasp before you even turn to see that it’s him. And when you do, your eyes widen in surprise. The very possibility of bumping into him materialized before you, and yet, here he stands—unexpected and undeniable. The father of your child. Fuck!

You take a few steps back, baffled that he had the nerve to touch you. “Sweetheart—”

“No. We’re not doing this.”

“Please, darlin’, I need to talk to you.”

His hand goes for yours but you move it away. “Damn it, Beau. No! I don’t want to hear it. Just go on somewhere.”

“But, Y/N, I—” He moves closer, eyes filled with so much emotion you could melt.

Wren steps in between you, unfamiliar with the situation yet brave enough to do so. Intrepidly, he reminds your ex, “Hey, man. She said she doesn’t want to talk.”

Beau’s attention shifts to the man before him, brows drawn together and eyes darker. “Excuse me?”

“You heard her: Leave her alone.”

The cowboy scoffs, amused by the pair the stranger seemed to have. Who the fuck does he think he is? He thought. “Listen, buddy, it’s best you just stay the hell out of our business.”

“I will when you walk away.”

Your ex takes a step closer, a daring look in his eyes. You know that look, and it’s dangerous. As your heart increases rapidly, you move around Wren and try adding distance between the two, but neither man moves.

“Hey, it’s alright. Let’s just go inside.” You encourage your associate.

Beau’s forehead wrinkles. He’s determined to tell you that he came clean to Emily. “I’m not leaving until we talk.”

His hand reaches toward your waist but Wren stops the Sheriff before he can make contact. The younger man shoves Johnny Law, warning him not to touch you. Beau stumbles back, completely caught off guard. An audible gasp leaves your lips; You hadn’t expected the escalation.

Your ex’s once chartreuse eyes turn to a forest green. He steps forward and Wren shoves him again, telling him something neither of you hears. His nostrils flare with rage and you can see the logic and law slip from his mind. Oh, shit... Before you can say a word, you witness Beau’s fist collide with his opponent’s jaw.

The impact makes an audible sound, one you feel in your bones. Wren’s body twists in the direction he was punched, nearly falling from the hard blow. With his balance compromised, he teeters back and forth, surely fighting unconsciousness and you’re shocked it wasn’t a swift knockout. He was a tall and lean male, just taller than your child’s father with a similar build. If you weren’t so hung up on your cowboy you would see how handsome Wren really was.

“You fucker,” The young man spits, swaying slightly.

He lunges forward and tackles the sheriff, nearly taking you down with them. You leap out of the way, fear coursing through your body at the possibility of your baby getting hurt. They wrestle on the ground while you stand back, watching with panicked eyes. Wren delivers a sucker punch to your ex’s cheek and though he deserves it—Lord knows as much—you can’t bear to see Beau hurt.

“Stop it!” You frantically cry.

The cowboy grabs the civilian and flips them over so he’s on top. He’s quick to strike the guy’s pretty face, again and again. Wren grunts in pain and it shatters your heart. You can tell he’s surprised at Beau’s strength as he struggles to break free of his hold. Though you’re terrified to get hit, you refuse to let the fight continue.

“Beau!” You run over and see your associate’s swollen and bloody face. “Beau, stop!” It’s risky but you try catching his flailing arm. “Get off of him!”

Whether it’s the growing crowd or your helpless tugs, maybe even both, Beau ceases the abuse. He rises from the beaten man, panting heavily. He reaches for his cuffs, shouting at Wren to turn over. The sun shines on the brass clipped to the sheriff’s belt and reflects into Wren’s eyes. He sees the badge and immediately curses to himself, knowing he was fucked.

“Now!”

“Okay, okay.” He lifts his hands in surrender and does as he’s told.

Beau immediately wraps Wren’s wrists and with ease, yanks him up from the ground. This isn’t right, you thought. He didn’t know. He was just trying to help me. Your ex escorts the new worker to his vehicle and you follow closely behind.

“Let him go!” You demand. “He didn’t know any better.”

“Sweetheart, stay outta this,” Beau warns sternly.

“No, this is my business, too!”

“We’ll talk later.”

“The hell we are—let him go!”

He opens the rear passenger door and damn near shoves the ‘criminal’ in. The cowboy walks around the front of his Defender and hops into the driver’s seat. You pound on his door, loudly insisting that he free your coworker. Instead, he starts his vehicle and tries his hardest to pay you no mind. He’s almost convinced to let the guy go on your behalf, but he just can’t. So, he speeds off.

You rush to your car, and as soon as you get in, you scream. You scream because of his fight with Wren. You scream because luck was never on your side. You scream because of all the days to see your ex, it had to be on your anniversary. You scream because you’re pregnant with his child. You scream because you realize how much you aren’t over him. You scream because you know if you don’t, you’ll cry.

With a deep breath, you race to the station. By the time you get there Wren’s in lockup, and Beau’s in his office. You aren’t sure if it’s your natural rage or the added hormones but your body was on fire and everyone you passed could see it too. The workers within the station come to a halt, seeing you beeline straight to the Sheriff to unleash some much-deserved wrath. However, one individual makes the mistake of stepping out in front of you.

“He’s busy right now. You’ll have to come back another time,” says Sargent Crowders.

“Fuck off, Madge.” You order and storm past her.

He heard you as soon as you entered the station, your heels clattering angrily against the tile floor. He knew he was in for it but he was ready. Or at least he thought so. He discarded his jacket on the back of his chair, the heat from his anger causing him to shed it. Too upset to sit at his desk, he stood as he waited for the background check on Wren to come through and for you.

“Let him out now!” You command the moment you enter his office.

“‘Can’t.”

“Like hell, you can’t! You’re the sheriff, or did you forget when you were beating the shit out of that poor man?”

He walks past you and calls from the doorframe, “Everybody, leave.”

“But, boss—” Poppernak begins but Beau interrupts.

“NOW!” His voice makes you flinch unexpectedly. You had never heard his voice reach that octave before. “All of you, get the hell out. And be back in 20.”

Everyone shuffles to the front doors, leaving you two alone. He walks back in and silently closes both doors to his space. He shuts each blind before hitting his mark beside his chair. His eyes are the same darkened color as they were earlier. You wait for him to speak before you counter.

“You know I respect you—”

“Oh, please!”

“But I would never tell you how to do your job so don’t tell me how to do mine.”

He had a fair point but you were too prideful and stubborn to admit it.

“He was just protecting me.”

“From who? Me?” He asks, his voice growing louder. “You know I would never hurt you.”

You scoff and the sound hits him right in the chest. “I’ve heard that lie before.”

“It isn't a lie.”

“Right..so tell me why we aren’t celebrating our eight-month anniversary again.”

He shakes his head in disgust at his regrettable actions. “Because I’m stupid.”

“That’s one word for it,” you murmur.

“I made a horrible mistake. Hell, mistakes, and there will never be enough apologies to reflect how sorry I am but I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

You roll your eyes but it strikes your heart. Damn it, Y/N, get it together.

“Don’t bother. I’m done giving you chances. After you kicked me out then pretended not to know me!” The memories are still fresh and it hits you harder today. “You deserve to have your ass handed to you.”

“You’re right.” He admits. “But you know I can’t let him go. He assaulted a sheriff.”

“You’re the one who threw the first punch! And plenty after. You’re supposed to be the sheriff and you abused your power. You could lose your job!”

He sighs in defeat. You’re right. This hadn’t been the first time he’d roughed someone up but it was the first time he’d had witnesses. He could lose his new permanent position. After he convinced Carla to stay in Montana with Emily, he accepted the offer and then met you.

“That’s…something I’ll have to deal with later but right now, all I want to do is talk to you.”

“We have nothing else to talk about unless it’s regarding Wren walking out of here today.”

He glances at the floor, a sly smirk involuntarily tugging at the corner of his mouth before licking his lips to mask it. His eyes lift from the ground and focus on you. God, she's so stubborn. He pauses, thinking it over. He knows he shouldn’t but he’ll do anything to repair your relationship. So, if that meant bending the rules and releasing the man who attacked him then so be it. Though envy influenced his actions, he knew he was wrong. He shouldn’t have reacted the way he did towards the young man.

“I’ll make you a deal,” He piques your interest, but you remain wary. “I’ll let him go after we talk.”

You hesitate but agree. “Fine. Talk.”

“Do you want to sit?” He offers you his large, comfortable chair, but you decline.

“No, I’m good here.”

“Okay,” He clears his throat, suddenly nervous despite his consistent daydreams about this very moment. “I know it’s probably too late, but I told Emily and Carla about you. About us.”

Your heart dares to jump excitedly, but your brain frowns against it. Did he expect you to applaud? Did he want a medal for doing what every boyfriend should’ve done from the start? For once, he’s right: It’s too late. But was it? Deep down, you don’t want it to be, especially with your growing fetus.

“And?”

“And I was foolish. It was all in my head, and to an extent, you were right. I was ashamed; Not of you, but of our age difference. I was scared I’d risk losing Emily when I should’ve thought of you, too. I know a daughter and an ex-wife wasn’t something you signed up for, and part of that turned into fear, that one day you’d wake up and realize you didn’t want me anymore.

“What if you want things I might not be able to give you? Hell, I don’t even know if I can produce any more kids. And I’m only getting older. What if that’s something that affects our decision to marry? To buy a house and live together. I was scared that if you had met the girls, you’d break Emily’s heart if you chose to leave. Most of all, I was scared I wasn’t good enough for you. And after all I’ve done to hurt you, I realized you’re better off without me. Lord knows I don’t want to lose you, but if moving on is what you need...well, I’ll love you even if you can’t ever love me again.”

You’re left speechless. All the anger, all the words, the hurt, and betrayal, suddenly fly out the window. You should be upset that your fire’s been extinguished by his honest and powerful words. Part of yourself curses your ability to be easily swooned. You stare into his precious green orbs, and a thought occurs: I hope our baby has his eyes. And you realize you’ve found your sign.

With a neutral face, you walk toward your cowboy and he swallows nervously. He isn’t sure what you’re going to do. It’s cute—satisfying even—that you make him so vulnerable. You halt before him, your eyes searching his for any sign of lies. When you can’t find any, you wrap your hands around his neck and pull him toward you.

Your lips gently meet his, moving in a soft yet firm dance. His shock paralyzes him for a moment; He didn’t expect this. Without wasting another beat, he kisses you back. All those weeks apart, all the pain, ignites a familiar spark. With much regret, you break away. He stares into your doe eyes, falling even deeper in love.

“I’ve never stopped.” A smile spreads on his handsome face, and you fear you’ll wipe it off after you come clean. All right, now or never. “About the concern of your reproduction...I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”

His brows furrow. I don’t get...Wait. Is she saying what I think she’s saying? Is she..? You see the wheels turn in his beautiful head. So, with a grin upon your pretty face, you confirm his suspicion.

“I’m pregnant.”

The air in his lungs vanishes as if he had been struck hard in the gut. His mind races, and so does his heart. He hadn’t expected this news, maybe ever again but here you were, the love of his life, telling him you’re pregnant with his unborn child. He stands frozen again, making you worry just slightly.

Oh, no. He’s upset. He doesn’t want any more babies, your mind automatically assumes. Suddenly, he breaks free from the block of ice and wraps his arms around you. He sweeps you off the ground, spinning you joyfully in a whirl of laughter, his delight infectious as you both revel in the moment.

“Oh, sweetheart, that’s the best news I’ve heard since Carla told me about Emily.” He puts you down, grabs your arms loosely, and looks at your small belly. “How are you feeling? Have you gone to the OB yet? How far along are you?”

“I’m fine. I’ll see them in a few days to find out. Wanna come with?”

“Are you kidding? I’ll be at every appointment.”

His large hand cups your cheek and he stares into your eyes. Oh, how he’s missed you. You lean into his touch, missing him just as much. Now that he has you again, he isn’t letting you go. So, he sets his lips on yours and takes his sweet time, enamored by the way your mouth responds to his.

He pulls you in closer, pressing your body against his. His right hand rests on your lower back, but as your kisses get deeper, he glides it over the curve of your bottom. His left slips into your hair and cradles the back of your neck while his other hand squeezes your plump cheek; A move he often made when he wanted more. You aren’t opposed. Hell, you thought about calling him a few times over your break just so he could fuck you.

He spins you around, shoving his chair away, and backs you into his messy desk, your thighs leaning against the edge. You know he wants you just as much as you want him. The butterflies migrate to your fanny, begging to be set free by the only key you’ll ever allow to enter your keyhole again. He attacks your neck, kissing, licking, and biting just how you like it. You can’t help the moans falling from your swollen lips but they only spur him further.

The Sheriff kisses the top of your breasts, his beard hair tickling your skin. You want to laugh being as ticklish as you are but the moment he pulls down your strap, the support for your chest falling with it, and takes your sensitive nipple into his warm mouth, you melt. His expert tongue swirls around it, and when his teeth sink in, your body shivers. Instinctively, your arms wrap around his head, and your fingers tug on his perfect hair. The hand perched on your ass moves past your hip, down to the back of your knee, and pulls your leg toward his waist. His free arm wraps around your back, holding you steady. He gingerly sucks your growing boobs, and you can feel the bruises forming.

“Fuck, princess, I want you so bad,” His husky voice murmurs against your chest. “Let me show you how sorry I am.”

You whimper at his words. The hold he has over you is so unhealthy. What can you say, you were a sucker for that cowboy. The pool between your legs begs to be swum in, and you know from experience that he’s an excellent swimmer. So, who are you to deny the wants and needs of your body?

“Fine,” you cave. “But don’t think I’ve forgiven you just yet.”

“‘Course not. I’ll happily spend the rest of our lives making it up to you.”

“Your life,” you joke, lifting the mood.

He chuckles, the crow’s feet around his eyes making their dashing appearance. “Yes. My life. Thank you for reminding me how much older I am.”

You gently hold his head, guiding it closer to yours, to place a soft, tender kiss on the sensitive spot just beneath his ear. The warmth of your lips lingers there, evoking a shiver of pleasure that travels through him. He groans, desperate for more. “You’ll feel young again when you’re chasing our kid around our house.”

He smiles widely at the imagery. “‘Can’t wait.”

“But for now, I need you inside my guts.”

His dick twitches at your request and the tug your teeth deliver to his earlob. “Whatever you want, darlin’.”

You unhook your leg from around his hip so he can kneel before you. He lifts your dress and you take the fabric from his hands, keeping it out of his way. His fingers wrap around the waistband of your drenched panties and he slowly peels them down your legs. You bite your lip in anticipation; He knew you hated taking things slow. When you wanted him, you wanted him right away, with no time to waste.

His lecherous eyes linger on your glistening folds, desperately wanting to devour you, but his need to be in you is stronger. The moment you step out of the soaked underwear, his mouth trails wet kisses up your thighs. Your fingers clutch the strands of his long hair as his lips travel over your hip. When they brush over your abdomen you gaze down at your boyfriend. He presses a light peck to your bump before warning the small fetus.

“‘Sorry, kid. Daddy’s gonna love on Mommy for a bit. ‘Better hold on tight.”

You giggle softly, but the sound quickly fades as he stands before you. A single glance into his deep, intense eyes sends a wave of eros throughout your warm body, leaving you utterly captivated. He holds your gaze, drawing you into a hypnotic trance, and without a second thought, you find yourself reaching for his collar, yanking him close to you. The world around you blurs, and the kisses that follow are urgent and passionate, filled with a raw intensity that makes them feel rushed and almost chaotic, but thrilling all the same. You aren’t sure if it’s the hormones or the desperate longing you’ve had since he was last between your legs but you’ve never wanted him more than in this moment.

Your fingers fly to his button-up and you swiftly undo each one before running your hands up and down his smooth and chiseled chest. Oh, how you missed him, all of him. They move to his Longhorn buckle, unfastening it with ease before reaching for his badge. You yank off his heavy belt and blindly toss both on the leather chair. His tongue explores your mouth as you unzip his jeans, your bodies grow hotter by the second, the anticipation nearly overwhelming.

You shove his pants down, liberating his well-endowed cock from its restraints. Beau reaches behind you and pushes the clutter aside, making room for you on his desk. He leans you back, your legs immediately wrapping around his hips. You break the kiss with a pathetic whimper as his hardened member skims along your inner thigh. He slithers his hand between you and grabs hold of his enlarged gourd. He rubs it through your wet folds, lathering his dick in your juice. Before you have a chance to vocalize your impatience, he aligns himself with your pulsing entrance. Your heels dig into the dimples at the bottom of his spine, urging him in.

Beau presses his swollen tip into your small hole and your breath hitches. He moves forward but your body rejects him. It’s been weeks since he last stretched you out, reverting to how it was before him. His brows pinch together, watching as your body refuses his thick limb. He thrusts again, this time sliding in further.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so fucking tight,” He huffs as he forces himself deeper.

“Mhmmm...”

You couldn’t talk. Not just because it hurt too much to speak but because you felt all the pleasure that also came with it. He tells you to relax and you try your hardest. You can’t help yourself; It hurts so good. With each thrust, you accept him more than you did before.

“Just like that, princess. Open up for Daddy.”

His words nearly make you drool. You hadn’t called him that before, thinking it would be too weird as you were closer in age to his daughter than you were to him. But the way he says it makes you want to call him that more often, sexual or not. You nod, easing up on the vice grip your walls had around him. It didn’t take him long before he bottoms out and you’re squirming underneath him.

His thrusts are relentless. The room fills with the sound of skin slapping skin, as if you’re being punished when really, you’re being rewarded. You don’t have to ask him to go faster or deeper because he already is. Like a madman, he digs his pickaxe further into your cave. He forces your insides to conform around him. Hell, he’d rearrange your guts if your child wasn’t already harbored within.

Beau’s chest brushes against yours as one hand holds onto the edge of his desk while the other wraps around your shoulders. His fingers claim a death grip while yours clutch the fabric of his shirt. You hold on for dear life, your legs trembling around him. The objects around you bounce to the rhythm of your boyfriend’s hips, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re questioning the sturdiness of the mahogany table. Your moans flood his ears, loud and whiny. They grow stronger and more consistent when his abdomen rubs against your sensitive clit.

The pleasure becomes too much to bear. You hadn’t expected to last long but the way your cowboy grinds on you brings you closer to your climax than intended. If he were any other man, you would have felt embarrassed, but given your history with Beau, you feel a sense of satisfaction. Only he can get you there as quickly as you deserve, and after he’s hurt you, it seems to be quicker. Maybe makeup sex is the best kind of sex.

He grunts in your ear, only turning you on further. His breathy moans make you forget what he’d ever done. Beau was never shy about making noise, reminding you you’re responsible for each and every one. His face scrunches, and you know he’s as close as you. Your eyes roll back and so does your head as you near sheer ecstasy.

Struggling to get the words out, you stutter through, “I-I’m g-gon-na, oh, fuck—”

“Me too, baby,” His lips brush against your ear, purring the words that send you over the edge. “Cum for Daddy.”

You let out a ferocious scream, a primal sound that echoed through the room, one you had never unleashed before. It tears from your throat as the knot in your belly finally snaps, releasing a surge of raw emotion that had been building inside you for far too long. The tension that had gripped you so tightly unravels, leaving you breathless and trembling, as wave after wave crashes around Beau’s solid member. Your convulsions summon his release, so with a halt of his hips and a twitch from his cock, he spews his hot load into your spent cunt. A feral shout rips from the depths of his core, a noise that surprises even himself.

The Sheriff resists collapsing on you like he usually did after a round of intercourse, refusing to apply weight to your growing belly. Your chests heave quickly, your lungs desperately gasping for air. The office is so quiet, you swear you can hear the rhythm of your hearts beating as one. He captures your lips in a kiss, commanding the butterflies to flutter once again. The world fades around you leaving only the intensity of the moment.

The kiss lingers on the edge of breathlessness, leaving you wondering why you came here to begin with. He withdraws his luscious lips and you softly whimper, craving more. You dive into the pools of his enchanting eyes the second you open yours, all of your problems drowning the deeper you swim. He tucks his head in the crook of your neck, breaking the spell he held you in only to place you under another when he begins peppering your exposed skin with tiny kisses. You both lay in a comfortable silence, basking in the blissful aftermath of your physical and emotional unity as your nails lightly trace up and down his back.

“That was...wow.” He breathes.

You chuckle, quipping, “You have such a way with words.”

Beau snorts. He raises his head and a lazy smirk forms, his eyes raking over your countenance. “I got in between your legs, didn’t I?”

“For that, you can get out.”

“S’alright. I got what I wanted anyway.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“You, pregnant.”

Those two words went straight to your stuffed pussy.

“That so?” You struggle to ask calmly.

“‘Course. Why wouldn’t I want a kid that’s half you? You’re everything and more. I can’t wait to tell everyone.” Your heart melts and his eyes glance at your fleshy mountains above it. “Fuck, darlin’, the thought of my seed growing inside you does things to a man.”

You want to slap him for ruining the sweet moment but you’re too turned on to do so. He lifts himself off of you, careful not to pull out. Beau stares down at your small bump, his impure thoughts untamed. Just maybe, if he said them aloud, he could get another round before everyone returned. The way your breath hitches tells him all he needs.

“You’re gonna look so sexy with a swollen belly. I don’t know how I’m gonna keep my hands off you. You’re gonna be one smokin’ mom. ‘Think I might just keep you pregnant after this one.” He grabs the top of your thighs, pulling you towards the edge of the desk. One by one, he lifts your legs and leans them against his strong chest. He turns his head and presses tender kisses to your right ankle, sending tingling sensations down your legs, and straight to your core. In between pecks, he asks, “How’s that sound, sweetheart?”

You barely register the question as he switches his attention to your other ankle. He chuckles when you murmur something incoherently agreeable.

He can’t help but mock, “You have such a way with words.”

Beau’s kisses halt and he looks at you with dark eyes. You squeeze his hardening dick and in return, he pushes deeper, his bellend brushing your shut cervix. He forces a whimper out of your pretty little mouth, and it drives you both feral. The fire in your tummy reignites and you bite your lip with anticipation. You want him so bad, you don’t care who walks in. His hands secure at your hips and you brace at the new angle, ready for more.

With your arms comfortably propped against his desk, you lean back with a satisfied smile, watching as the hot sheriff tucks himself back into his jeans. The office was quiet except for the occasional and distant ring of the abandoned phones. You should have been ashamed for being apathetic to those calling but your selfishness thrives on the euphoria Beau brought to you moments before. Coming here—in more ways than one—to mend things was the last thing on your mind but you aren’t disappointed with how they turned out. He begins to button his shirt from the bottom up when he notices you staring.

“See something you like?”

“Yes, sir.” Your lip tucks between your sharp teeth, nearly drawing blood. Despite having him twice already, you could go for a third. “Something I really, really, like.”

His fingers fall from his shirt and a devilish smirk makes a broad appearance on his irresistibly handsome face.

He steps between your thighs and leans closer as his sultry voice remarks, “Sounds like you’ve got a problem, princess.”

“I sure do...Daddy.”

His eyebrow raises, and so does his package. “What’d’ya gonna do about it?”

“I would show you but I don’t think you could handle another round.”

“Oh, sweetheart, when have I ever stopped at two with you?” Beau rhetorically questions before seizing your lips.

His mouth moves in sync with yours but he’s damn near ravenous. You moan into the urgent kiss, slightly taken aback by his hunger. It was as if you hadn’t done it twice in the last twenty minutes, a record for him. Sure he’s right, he didn’t stop at two rounds, hell, there’ve been days you never left the bedroom, but there was time between each copulation. His thick fingers run through your hair and massage your scalp, turning your brain to mush. Your arms envelope his torso in a warm embrace, longing for the moment to stretch into eternity, wishing never to let go again.

It had surpassed the 20-minute limit that Beau hadn’t given to his subordinates. They waited outside and would’ve enjoyed the nice weather had it not been for the way the Sheriff had exploded. Despite the copious amount of stress that came with the job, Beau had never reacted in such a way, which caused them all to worry. Everyone had formed small circles, talking amongst themselves about what was happening in the office. Little did they know...

Jenny pulls up to the station and her brows furrow once she sees the individuals. What in the hell..? She throws her ‘96 Bronco into park, her eyes narrow as she scans the crowd for Poppernak after rounding the vehicle. His back faces her but she instantly recognizes her partner. As she walks closer, he hears her boots against the pavement and spins around with a relieved smile.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Y/N. She showed up with hell to pay. They’re in there right now, going at it.”

“How long have they been in there?”

“Just under half an hour,” The detective nods, trying to piece together if that was enough time for you to kill him and hide his body. “The boss said to come back after twenty but we’re all too scared to go in before she comes out. I don’t want to get yelled at again.”

She huffs in slight amusement. “Do you want me to check?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What’d I tell you about calling me ma’am?”

“Sorry, ma—Hoyt.”

Jenny turns on her heel with a roll of her eyes. She walks up the steps and past the glass doors. It was quiet which made her wary. She figured the first interaction since that shameful day would involve yelling but nope. Just silence. A sick feeling set in her stomach. Maybe she had killed him, she thought.

Mo felt guilty for letting his partner go into the belly of the beast alone so he worked up the courage to follow after her. Jenny tiptoed through the station, not wanting to disrupt what may or may not be happening. He takes larger steps and catches up with her quickly, being just as quiet. She hears his heavy and nervous breathing, chuckling to herself. How can a man of his size be afraid of anything?

Then, there it was: The Sheriff’s office. They notice both doors and blinds are closed. This can’t be good. The Deputies shuffle closer and peer into the window of the door, past the vinyl lettering on the tempered glass. Beau’s lips attack your bruised neck and your body arches into his.

Their eyes widen as they watch the intimate scene before them. Your moans shove past the door and fill more than your cowboy’s ears. Poppernak gulps and his body goes hot; This wasn’t what he expected, and neither did Hoyt. She awkwardly chuckles but doesn’t tear her gaze away.

“Well, you weren’t kidding about them going at it.” Before he can respond, she knocks on the door, louder than normal, startling you. You jump while Beau slumps his shoulders. She pushes the door open and says with a sarcastic cheer, “I see you two made up.”

Beau sighs with great annoyance then straightens with a look matching his exhale. Your face blushes bright red, completely embarrassed yet thankful they hadn’t interrupted any sooner. But Jenny knew otherwise. The disheveled clothes, the messy hair, the faint smell of sex, the marks on each of your skins, the reason why the doors and blinds were closed to his office—it all added up. As soon as his partner opened the Sheriff’s door, his eyes stayed glued to the floor.

“What’d’ya want?” The handsome man beside you grumbles.

“Well, I was just wondering if everyone can come back and do their jobs, that is if you guys are done in here.”

You push your dress past your knees and hop down from the desk. Beau wraps his arm around your waist, holding you upright, knowing your legs are bound to give out on you. And he was most certainly right. They tremble underneath your weight but you hide it well. He gives you a look only you know and understand: Are you okay? You nod with a reassuring smile, once again, getting lost in his enchanting eyes until Jenny clears her throat.

“Sorry—Yeah, we’re finished.” You reply.

“Great. I’ll let ‘em know.” She closes the door behind her and takes Mo with her.

You grumble as you bury your flushed face in his naked chest. “Oh my gosh, that was so embarrassing.”

He rubs circles into your aching back, trying his best to comfort you. “I know, at least it wasn’t worse.”

“What would you have done if they came five minutes earlier?”

His brows draw together, glancing at you in question as he confidently answers, “If you’re asking if I would’ve stopped, the answer’s no.”

With a startled gasp, you snap your head towards his and witness his composed expression. He isn’t joking. Your laughter fills the room, instantly settling your nerves. The Sheriff cracks a smile; Oh, how he’s missed you. He was a fool for ever pushing you away and he’ll spend the rest of his life regretting the time he pushed you away. The station begins to fill with bodies, along with a light chaotic chatter, bringing you back to reality.

“I should call my boss. Tell ‘em the sheriff beat up our new hire.” You kid.

He rolls his eyes with a sly grin. “Tell him Wren wasn’t the only pussy I beat up today.”

“Beau Arlen!” Your face flushes at his quip. “I hate you.”

“Love you too, darlin’.”

Wren sat on the steel bench, cursing himself for letting another pretty girl get him into trouble. Footsteps echo down the corridor, grasping his attention enough to whip his head toward the exit. His shoulders slump in solace the moment you walk in but it doesn’t last long. His muscles tighten and his jaw locks in place as he shoots a fiery glare at the sheriff, anger crackling in the air between them. You could cut the tension with a knife and you hated it; It was all a misunderstanding, not that it mattered now.

Beau sighs in defeat as he takes the cellar keys from his pocket. A deal was a deal, and if he’s being honest, he got the better end of it: You. He inserts the key into the lock, and with hesitation to unlock it, he glances at you for assurance. You stare at him with expectant eyes and he knows he has to turn it. With a click, the cell unlocks and he slides it open.

“All right, you’re free to go.”

The inmate’s eyes dart between the two of you, bewildered. “I don’t understand.”

You gaze at your boyfriend, and ask, “Could you give us a minute?”

He was wary; He didn’t feel comfortable leaving you alone with the man who attacked him. He didn’t know him and neither did you. How bad could he be if he willingly defended you? You can practically feel Beau’s apprehensiveness, more now that you’re carrying his child.

“Please.”

He nods with reluctance. If he so much as lays a hand on her... “I’ll be right outside.”

You give your undivided attention to your coworker, wearing a look of sorrow. “Listen—”

“Let me guess,” He strolls from behind the bars toward you. “He’s your jealous ex-boyfriend who you’ve been avoiding, but then he sees you with me, unleashes his anger on my face, and now you’re sorry.”

That’s pretty spot on. “Yeah—”

“You could’ve told me he was the damn sheriff.”

“Well, I didn’t expect you to—!” You pause and exhale softly. “Look, I talked to him and he isn’t gonna press any charges, and I really hope you don’t either. I don’t know what came over him, and I’m not excusing how he handled the situation, but he’s a good man.”

“What’s your deal with him?”

Your eyebrows pinch together, confused by the question. “Huh?”

“Just an hour ago, you were demanding he leave you alone and now you’re team Arlen.”

“I—I just, I know he regrets what he did and I don’t want this one mistake to ruin his career.”

“So those hickeys on your neck didn’t influence your change of heart?” Your hand flies to Beau’s canvas, your face growing hot with embarrassment. You totally forgot, but your cowboy sure didn’t. “‘Thought so.”

“It’s not like that. We just, we finally talked, and I’m sorry it came at your expense but please don’t punish him because of me. I never meant for you to get involved and if there’s anything I can do to fix it, I will.”

His eyes scan your countenance, finding only sincerity. He kicks himself; It isn’t your fault that he ended up in a jail cell on his first day of work, at least not all of it.

“Can you fix my face?”

“And take away how badass you look? Nuh uh.” You chuckle whilst praying your persuasion works. “Taking on a sheriff...the girls are gonna be all over you, don’t you worry.”

“Ya think so?”

“‘Course. Everyone loves a bad boy.”

Wren grins, now content with his swelling eye, bruised cheek, and fat lip. “You better be right.”

You were.

A week had passed since you and Beau made up. He took a few days off work and focused on you and your relationship moving forward. You both went to the baby’s first ultrasound and found out you were nearly two months pregnant. The look on your partner’s face was the happiest you’d ever seen. A memory you’d never forget.

From the moment you mentioned you were expecting, he hadn’t shut up about it. He was so proud to be the father of your child. He’d talk about how to raise it, his hopes of it looking and acting just like you, and that he couldn’t wait for Emily to be a big sister. He wanted to call her the day he found out but you both agreed it was best to meet formally first. You didn’t want to overwhelm her; After all, one could argue that you and Beau were moving too fast. Though, neither of you had seen it that way.

The Sheriff had talked of marriage plans, wanting to—legally—keep you forever. You’d be honored to be made his wife, but you didn’t want to upset his daughter by rushing it. So, you each decided to wait until after she adjusted to your relationship and her new sibling. He adored you, even more so, having put Emily’s feelings first. From that moment moving forward, he vowed never to fuck up again.

You were outside of Beau’s trailer in your prettiest dress, setting up the table with four plates, four utensils, and four cups while he cooked on his George Foreman. Despite your efforts to buy him a real, big boy grill, he refused. It was a big day; You were finally meeting Carla and Emily. He looked over and saw the tremble in your hands. ‘Nervous’ didn’t begin to cover how you truly felt.

“Sweetheart,” He pulls you into an embrace, kissing your shoulder as a comfort. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“What if they don’t like me? What i-if they ask you to break up with me? Oh, gosh, my baby isn’t going to have a father—”

“Hey, hey, hey! Don’t ever say that. Don’t even think it. I would never leave you, just like they’d never ask. They’re going to love you. You hear me?”

He had cupped your face as he assured you, shooing away the tears that formed in your pretty eyes. You nodded softly, letting the words sink in. Maybe he’s right, maybe they’ll love you. With a deep breath, you blinked the tears away, refusing to listen to the doubtful thoughts that haunted your mind. Beau pulled your forehead towards his lips and delivered a lingering peck.

The gravel underneath Carla’s tires crunched as she drove toward the trailer. Emily was ecstatic to meet you properly, as her father’s girlfriend, but her mother...not so much. Sure she had moved on but the thought of her ex-husband involved with a younger girl made her skin crawl. She wouldn’t call it jealousy; She wanted him to be happy, like she was with Avery, but did it have to be with someone half his age? And when the sheriff moved out of the way and she finally saw you, a sliver of envy pierced her heart: You were beautiful.

Your own pounded against your ribcase; There they were. It was time. Beau took your hand and he squeezed it as a reminder that you weren’t alone. They exited the vehicle, both wearing bright smiles, one real, the other fake.

“Hey!” He called, matching his daughter’s grin.

Emily jogged up the porch steps while Carla followed slowly behind. You released his hand before he pulled his daughter in for a hug, watching with a large smile as he held her close, incredibly grateful for her, and her acceptance of the two of you. When she began to groan, he set her free. She turned to you, each of you nervous about how to greet each other. Finally, you settled on a quick embrace.

“It’s so nice to see you again!”

“You too! I’m so glad you’re my dad’s girlfriend.”

“Awe,” Your heart clenched at the lovely comment. “You are so sweet.”

“Did you like the flowers he sent?”

“I loved them.”

“They were my idea.” She bragged.

“I knew it couldn’t have been him. They were too thoughtful.”

“Hey!” He called sternly. “That’s not true.”

You both giggled before you cleared your throat pretending to be serious. “No, of course not.”

Beau rolled his eyes with annoyance, earning another laugh. He should have known how fast it would be before you two turned on him. This next one better be a boy! He grumbles to himself. Carla watched how quickly her daughter took a liking to you so she figured it was only fair to give you a shot.

“Carla, this is Y/N. Y/N, Carla.” Beau introduced.

She extended her hand and you gladly shook it. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“You as well. I’ve heard so many great things about you.”

“Thanks,” Her eyes glanced at her ex-husband and she playfully remarked, “You’re right about his thoughtfulness. It’s terrible.”

“Okay, okay. That’s enough.” He hollered.

You led them to the table to get to know one another better while he finished cooking. You both agreed to keep the baby a secret for a little while longer so you made sure not to mention it. Time flew by and before you knew it, Beau had finished grilling. The man was right, they loved you. After eating, they stayed well into the night, everyone exchanging stories and having a grand ol' time. He was grateful as he watched the most important women in his world build a bridge he should've crossed a long time ago, and he was ashamed he hadn't done it sooner.

BEAU ALREN MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST | JOIN THE TAG LIST

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[staticthread]

Welcome to Amphoreus!

pairing: phainon x reader (fem.)

tags: isekai & transmigration, attempt at humor, additional tags tba

author's note: cleaner lore is lowkey so insane to me. i said to myself this was gonna be lighthearted no plot but whoops!

masterlist

Elpis. 

Elpis.

Elpis.

EL-PIS. 

That was your name.

Answer when someone calls it out.

Marmoreal Market is bigger than it is in-game. There are more people, more stalls, and the same goes for the streets. The game version felt like one of those architecture models compared to the real (?) thing; the details are there, but the real version had way more. 

At least, the flying amphora and breakables weren’t a thing. You’re pretty sure you’d try to break those on instinct.

Irene: Hey, where are you?

Chartonus’ shop

Irene: ?!!

You send a thumbs-up in response.

Well, it’s not like you knew any place in Okhema other than Marmoreal Palace—which you’re not sure how to get to. Chartonus’ shop was the only landmark you had managed to navigate so far, and even then, it took you thirty minutes to find it.

Sadly, Aglea’s version of the internet didn’t come with Google Maps.

But at least you aren’t illiterate in Okheman.

Wait, is it called Okheman?

Anyways. That made navigating the streets easier.

You’re not sure if that came with being isekai’d in general or being isekai’d through transmigration. Like whatever skills the real Elpis had, you’d also have situation.

You’re not sure that’s the case, though.

The real Elpis seemed to be a functional human being, which you d efinitely aren’t.

The first thing you did when you woke up in Amphoreous was go back to bedrotting. The initial freak-out quickly subsided when you realised you were an NPC, an unimportant one at that! 

Biggest mistake of your (new) life, by the way.

It turns out that being transmigrated as an NPC meant you had to do things other than be crowd filler. 

You see, Elpis has a job , a job that you’ve been ignoring for three days now. What’s her job? You don’t know. You hope she isn’t a warrior or something because NOPE! Not doing that. 

Still, it must be important if Irene is worried.

Or Elpis was just a functional human being social life.

Worried…

It felt weird to associate an emotion like that with an NPC. Even if everything around you felt alive, there’s still that assurance that none of this is real. You’re in a video game and even then Amphoreous isn’t—

Yeah, no, let’s not think about that. 

You didn’t feel like spiralling right now. Spiralling wouldn’t be good. You’re getting enough weird stares as it is.

“There you are!” A woman in a lilac dress comes up to you, and you assume that this is Irene. She’s pretty, you note, but then again, everyone here seems to be attractive. Elpis herself is good-looking, but Irene had the elegant kind of face card.

Is being ugly not a thing in this world? 

“H-hi Irene…” Her face changes instantly from happy to concerned (?), and before you knew it, she was dragging you by the arm to an alleyway.

Oops! Guess that’s not how Elpis talked! 

“Something’s wrong with you.” She points out, her entire demeanor changing to something sharper, something dangerous.

“I…I haven’t been feeling well.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t exactly the truth either. It’s not like you had any other excuse. 

Irene clicks her tongue. “In what way?”

Why do I have a feeling I’m totally screwed!

“Um…I’ve been getting headaches–” because I haven’t been eating, “–- feeling more exhausted than usual,”-- because I haven’t been eating– “and,” you open and close your palm, trying your best to look disturbed—it’s really easy in this situation, “I…I feel like I’ve forgotten a lot of things.”

Irene stills.

You wish you could freeze time and look at a camera. What were you up to, Elpis?! 

“It seems there was an issue with the transference.”

“Transferance?”

She gives you a pitying look and takes your hands in hers, “Yes, the essence transferance. Do you remember?”

“No.” 

“A shame.” Can you atleast tell me what it is?!?! PLEASE?!!?!

“But,” Irene gives you a twisted but proud smile, “Still, I must give you my congratulations.”

…

Huh?

“Congratulations on becoming an official member of the Cleaner Order, Elpis. Do your successor proud as the seventy-seventh generation. ”

…

Huh?!!1!1/?!?!?!!

[taylor-swift-isnt-straight]

I would like to add onto a few of my thoughts (I love this btw) for the MAaTHBP it makes me think of deep blue but you painted me golden also it makes sense that she’s listening to music… also the line “boys will be boys then, where are the wise men? darling I’m scared” connects (in my brain) to the Albatross (as she’s singing examples of what “wise men” have said in the past starting out in the song, she later changes tune.. she then sings…) “Wise men once read fake news and they believed it. Jackals raised their hackles, you couldn't conceive it” which brings us back to that feeling of anxiety once again looking for where the wise men went. Because if taylor isn’t the man, are there any wise men? 🤭😂

as for how I interpreted “capitalize on a feeling” and “greedy” goes back (for me anyways) to “baby we’re the New Romantics”. Makes one wonder 🤔 Was that the idea they (her team/whomever) tried to shut her down on so long ago to try to start up? They knew the whole time that I was onto something. Bloods think but nothing like a payroll, bet they never spared a prayer for my soul. Just as someone with more conservative family/extended family I get that. However it could also be interpreted via the lens of the fans not thinking about how the human being taylor is being affected too, not Taylor Swift™️? The person who goes to doctors check ups and likes binge watching Hulu.. and normal things, ya know? The one who at the end of the day probably still can’t imagine she actually made it (which of course she did because she’s beyond talented and brilliant)

The wreckage being eaten up and spit back out again (if you even make it through the blender in the first place) is enough to drive anyone mad, yet artists are our sources of hope, because they are our visionaries for the future via their expression. And of course their courage, bravery, and resilience throughout it all. They are our touchstones for universal emotions that will hopefully empower humanity, and bring communities back together again. Music is definitely empowering to me just as one soul/individual alone, it’s healing in ways words can’t often describe.

However her potentially being involved in breaking the machine? especially since she started at “big machine records” and also sang renegade with big red machine? (interesting to think about) 🕰️👀 but also we have the whole connection with Barbie I’ve seen on blue sky and the Barbie in the blender theory (there’s a day for that?!), which I also think is brilliant. Because that’s essentially her “playing up” the brand (as we know, director taylor is most likely in the comfiest clothing, to herself, in the moment, same with what outfits we did see after eras tour that weren’t PR) which honestly? checks out to me. I wouldn’t wanna be in that itchy uncomfortable sequin stuff longer than I had to be either, bless her heart. What’s a girl gonna do, she’s showing you every version of yourself tonight. 💜

Assorted thoughts on this shot:

There's definitely a shoutout to their "secret moments in a crowded room".

I'm not really sure if there's any specific meaning about the sweatshirt, other than that the song about them.

Not totally sure what "capitalize on the feeling" in intended to mean, but in this context she absolutely did capitalize on her feelings in this situation. She wrote albums and made millions off of her music about Karlie. Maybe this is what she was told to do- Capitalize before it's too late. Capitalize before you come out and ruin your success.

Now time for my favorite- greedy. I think there's absolutely a lot behind this. I think you can definitely draw parallels in double standards- women are greedy, men are ambitious. Women are greedy for wanting anything more for themselves, men are just worth so much.

But looking at it, it's written between them. They're being greedy. Why? I'm placing my bets that when Taylor first started to want to come out (2014? 2015? 2016?), she was told she was being greedy. It could have been by her management, by her family, by herself, it doesn't really matter. She was greedy to want that for herself because her success creates the paychecks for hundreds of people around her, and to come out would be to risk that. And for what? She's succeeding, everyone is at the edge of their seats to know who she's dating, the beards are working, people love her and her music, she's making history, no one is questioning her sexuality (except, um, nevermind), everything is going perfectly. Why do you need to risk it? To be "true to yourself"? Bullshit. To be "representative"? Who cares. To live your life with who you want to live it with? You have the resources to do all of that in secret. To ask for more is greedy. Even though it's just basic humanity. Taylor Swift is not just a person- she's a company, a brand, a machine. In her music, she seems like she's balancing this need to be authentic while still keeping the machine operational. Double meanings, references, Easter eggs, riddles, what do they all point to? These were born of trying to walk an impossible line between maintaining her public image but keeping her honesty to herself and her fans.

I do have a feeling that we said goodbye to a big part of the machine in November, but only time will tell.

[mggssocks]

The Eighth

the eighth masterlist

pairing: fem!kook!reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: good ole love makin'

a/n: sooo...just a note, I've been trying to post every Sunday for the last few chapters and will continue along with that schedule. Also, I imagine Owen as Ross Lynch when he was brunette. And one last thing... I reached 200 followers the other day and just wanted to take a quick moment to show my gratitude for everything- the likes, reblogs, and comments. I'm glad this series is being enjoyed and loved. More to come.. stay tuned!

You’re seated on your flight back to New York, forehead gently pressed against the cool window. The sky outside is a wash of fading blues and soft clouds, but you barely notice. You’re not watching the scenery- you’re hiding behind it. Quietly crying in business class.You blink quickly, trying to keep your tears from becoming too obvious, even as one slips down your cheek. You dab it away with the corner of your sleeve, pretending to adjust your seatbelt. You’ve never cried like this over a goodbye before- not even the dramatic ones in the past. But this one? This one tore something out of you.

It was the hardest goodbye you’ve ever had to say.

By the time the wheels touch down in New York, you feel slightly more composed. Slightly. The kind of “fine” that’s just good enough to get you through baggage claim. But your face tells the truth- eyes puffy and rimmed red, your cheeks flushed, your nose sore from dabbing away tears for hours. Your driver says nothing, thankfully. Just nods and helps with your bag before dropping you off at your apartment. Once inside, you shut the door behind you and lean your forehead against it for a moment. The quiet of your place feels heavier than usual, like it knows your heart is too full and too empty at the same time.

You strip off your travel clothes and run a warm bath, letting the tub fill slowly while you pour in lavender salts, a few drops of oil, and a bath bomb that releases soft foam. You sink in and let your head fall back, the warmth wrapping around your body like a hug you didn’t know you needed. But even the water can’t wash away the ache in your chest. After your bath, you towel off, slip into your softest lounge clothes, and curl up on the couch. You don’t even bother opening the blinds. The apartment stays dim and cozy as you pull a blanket over your legs, open a fresh bag of snacks, and flip on Love Island- the kind of background noise that doesn’t require thinking.

You’d always judged the show a little, but now, in your raw emotional state, something about it feels… oddly comforting. You start to understand the appeal—- the longing, the messiness, the way people reach for love even when it’s complicated and loud and imperfect. You feel your eyelids grow heavy. The soft sound of accents and flirtations fades into the background as sleep starts to pull you under.

Knock knock.

The sudden sound jerks you awake. You sit up, blinking fast, heart racing slightly from the jolt of it. You weren’t expecting anyone. Not tonight. Not now. You glance at the door. Another knock.

Slower this time. More hesitant. You wipe your face with your sleeve again and stand, your breath catching in your throat as you quietly cross the room, wondering who could possibly be on the other side.

You press your eye to the peephole, squinting. The fisheye lens distorts everything, but there’s no mistaking the two figures on the other side of your door: Noel is practically pressed against it, her face magnified and wide-eyed, while Allegra stands a few feet behind her, effortlessly composed, arms crossed like she’s posing for the cover of a fashion editorial. You crack the door open.

Before you can even say hello, Noel throws herself at you with a dramatic squeal, wrapping her arms tightly around your neck. You stumble back a step from the force of her hug, the breath catching in your throat, but it’s a good kind of surprise.

“You’re back!” she says, squeezing you like she hasn’t seen you in years.

Allegra walks in behind her, cool as ever, letting the door click shut behind her. She doesn’t say much, just offers you a quiet, assessing look as she leans against the wall, arms still folded. She’s the final boss of emotional control, sharp eyes taking in everything without giving much away.

“I am,” you reply softly, finally letting Noel go.

Noel’s still smiling as she pulls back, but her expression shifts when she gets a better look at you. Her brows furrow and she tilts her head, the way someone does when they’re not sure if you’re about to laugh or cry.

“You okay?” she asks gently, one hand rubbing your upper arm in slow circles.

You nod automatically- an instinct, a reflex, a lie you don’t even mean to tell. You try to summon a smile, but it wavers before it can fully form. Allegra’s gaze sharpens a little, and Noel’s hand stills.

And then it hits you. Like a crack in the dam.

Your breath hitches, your chin trembles, and before you can stop yourself, you’re covering your face with your hands and sobbing- raw, quiet at first, then deeper, like something’s been waiting to escape. Noel immediately wraps her arms around you again, holding you tighter than before, rubbing your back and whispering something soft you can’t quite make out.

“Oh, Y/N…” she breathes, her voice a blend of sympathy and heartbreak.

Allegra crosses the room quietly, sitting on the arm of your couch. She doesn’t say anything just yet- but her posture shifts. Arms uncrossed, one hand resting on her thigh, the other hanging loosely. Still chill, but open. Present. The silence in the room is suddenly warm. Held. You’re not alone in this. You let Noel hold you for a little longer before finally exhaling against her shoulder, your body a little lighter for it.

After Allegra brews a pot of tea in your kitchen -her only domestic act of the week, probably- the three of you settle back onto your living room couch, mugs in hand and socks pulled up. The steam curls between you like fog over water, and for once, the room feels soft enough to confess in.

You tell them everything. About Rafe. About your parents. About how you lied to Becca yesterday- and how the guilt of it is still sitting on your chest like a paperweight. 

Allegra takes a long sip of her tea and raises an eyebrow. “This Rafe guy better be hot for all that trouble.”

You let out a breath of a laugh, rubbing your fingers along the rim of your mug.

“He is. Unfortunately. He’s also an asshole… but like-” you shrug with a helpless smile, “in the most charmingly infuriating way possible.”

“Charming assholes are still assholes.” Allegra snorts, ever the realist.

Noel gives her a subtle side-eye, the way a tired mom might glance at a brash aunt during a family dinner. She turns back to you, voice softer.

“It was really sweet of him. All those gifts. The ring. And letting you set boundaries without throwing a tantrum? That’s… rare.”

She’s always been the optimist of the two. The one who looks for the stitch in the tear. They don’t press you for more. Instead, they stay for another half hour, chatting about upcoming shoots and weird subway stories before eventually gathering their things. You walk them to the door, hugging Noel tight and giving Allegra a playful side-eye when she calls you a “lovesick poet.”

Once they leave, the apartment falls into quiet again. You pad barefoot back into the kitchen, tossing the used tea bags in the trash and rinsing out the mugs before setting them in the sink. Your fingers trail across the counter. You pause a moment, just breathing. Letting the stillness settle.

Then you return to your dent in the couch, picking up your phone absentmindedly. There’s a missed call. Rafe.

Your heart jumps- not sharply, but enough to remind you it’s still tender. You hadn’t heard it. The phone was on vibrate. Without thinking too hard, you press redial.

He answers almost instantly, like he’s been holding the phone in his hand.

“Y/n,” he breathes. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you say softly, tucking your knees up. “Sorry I missed your call- I had some friends over.”

There’s a pause. You don’t say who. He doesn’t ask. But you can feel the question hovering there, unsaid, like smoke.

“I was just calling to see how your flight went,” he says finally, voice low and careful. It sounds like he’s lying in bed, speaking in that nighttime tone, halfway between sleepy and raw.

Your eyes sting suddenly. Not sadness exactly. But a wave of something, nostalgia, grief, longing, all braided together.

“It was fine,” you whisper, brushing away a tear. “Thanks for asking.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “Do you need anything?” His voice drops even gentler, like he’s checking on a sick child. A part of you aches at the tenderness.

You shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “No… I’m okay. Do you?”

“I’m good,” he says, though there’s something fragile behind the words.

The silence that follows is not awkward. It’s not heavy either. Just full. Like you’re both on the other end of something you don’t know how to name.

“I should let you get some sleep,” he says at last, even though neither of you want to hang up.

You nod, barely. “Okay.”

“Goodnight, Y/n.”

“Goodnight, Rafe.” You hesitate.

And then he says it, so softly you almost miss it: “Love you.”

You don’t know if it’s muscle memory or something he meant to say. But it leaves you breathless all the same.

“I love you too,” you reply without thinking, because it’s true, even if it’s not simple.

—

You walk the red carpet beside Celeste, the sharp hum of camera shutters creating a kind of rhythm beneath the clamor. Bright flashes go off from every direction, bouncing off the velvet ropes and polished shoes. You try to keep your expression neutral, composed, but your fingers are gripping the clutch in your hand like it’s a lifeline. Never in a million years did you imagine you’d be the one being photographed by paparazzi. The second you both step inside the venue, the sound dims behind the thick doors, replaced by a pulsing bass and the muffled chatter of a glamorous crowd. Glittering chandeliers hang overhead, and fashion insiders dressed in layers of perfectly executed effortlessness float from corner to corner.

“You’ll be doing this soon,” Celeste says, glancing over at you with a knowing smile. “Running around, getting people ready for a show. Styling chaos. Controlled panic. And the best adrenaline rush you’ll ever have.”

You nod, managing a smile. It’s genuine. But faint.

She notices. Of course she does. “You okay?” she asks, placing a gentle hand on the small of your back.

You nod again, shaking yourself out of your thoughts. “Yeah, I’m good. Just… feeling a little off today.”

Her eyes study your face, sharp and soft at once. “You sure? You’ve seemed… a little out of it. Since you got back from the OBX- what, two weeks ago?” She lowers her voice slightly, leaning in. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“What? No! God, no,” you whisper-shout, turning to her with wide eyes.

She lifts her hands in mock surrender, though there’s a glint of amusement in her expression. Still, she gives you a sympathetic look. Celeste doesn’t push -not when she knows you’re not ready- but she doesn’t stop noticing either.

“Well, if you ever want to talk about whatever’s causing that far-off stare of yours…” she taps the side of her own head before straightening. “Want to go backstage?”

Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, we can do that?”

“This is one of the perks, sweetheart,” she grins. “Come on.”

She leads you through a side corridor lined with moody lighting and abstract art, and suddenly, the glamour gives way to organized chaos. Backstage is a world of its own -flooded with fluorescent lights, the smell of hairspray and heat tools thick in the air. Models swerve around racks of clothes in six-inch heels. Stylists bark last-minute changes. There’s a distinct hiss of a steamer somewhere and the rhythmic click of someone power-walking in platform boots.

“This,” Celeste says, gesturing to the controlled whirlwind around you, “is what you’ll be knee-deep in soon.”

You blink, wide-eyed, taking it all in. “It’s like a beautiful war zone.”

She laughs. “Exactly. And you’re going to thrive in it.”

A voice calls out over the clamor. “Celeste, darling!”

You both turn. The woman approaching is unmistakably the designer- she wears a cropped white baby tee with a blue-and-green patterned shawl tossed over it, like a cape. A flowy cobalt skirt brushes the floor as she walks, her oversized glasses perched at the tip of her nose. Her hair’s twisted into a makeshift bun, held together by a pencil, and somehow it works.

She hugs your aunt tightly before turning to you. “And this must be the lovely Y/N I keep hearing about!”

Caught slightly off guard, you offer a shy wave before reaching out your hand. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m incredibly honored to be here.”

She takes your hand with the grace of someone who knows the importance of first impressions. 

“The honor’s all mine. Celeste tells me you’re the future of this industry.”

You let out a nervous laugh. “She’s being generous,” you say, glancing at your aunt.

“She’s being honest,” the designer corrects you with a wink. “And something tells me you’ll be running a show of your own soon enough.”

Celeste nudges you gently. “Told you.”

And for a moment, surrounded by talent and vision and the buzz of creativity, you almost believe it. Almost forget the ache of a boy back home, the tension with your mother, and the lie that still lingers between you and Becca.

Almost.

-

As you and Celeste settle into your assigned seats near the front row, a soft hum of anticipation buzzes through the room. Guests chat over glasses of champagne, glossy programs flutter in manicured hands, and the runway -clean, stark, and glowing under overhead lights- waits like a blank canvas about to come alive.

You glance down at your phone, unlocking it out of instinct, and see a notification: a text from Rafe.

Rafe: that’s good to hear. hope you enjoy it. love you.

Your stomach flips- not in a bad way, but not in a good one either. That sort of ache that reminds you of what once felt like home. This was his response to you telling him you were attending a fashion show.

Since you left the Outer Banks, the two of you have been… cordial. The texts are consistent. Soft check-ins. How are you’s. What are you up to today’s. The kind of gentle familiarity you might find between two people pretending they’re not standing on the remnants of something once intense.

There are no late-night confessions. No flirtatious remarks. No heavy moments of emotional weight. Just small conversations that carefully tiptoe around the memory of a shared summer.

But the “I love yous”- those still come from him. Regularly. Softly. Like muscle memory.

And you? You’ve stopped saying it first. You’ll echo it when you hang up the phone, maybe. Whisper it back sometimes when it feels right. But never more than that. Never like before. Because you’re trying to keep it friendly.

You’re trying to make it platonic. At least… that’s what you keep telling yourself.

You snap a quick photo of the runway -just the clean minimalist view, nothing filtered, nothing curated- and send it to him without a caption. Something casual. Easy. Just as the house lights begin to dim, you slide your phone into your purse out of respect, folding your hands in your lap. The music starts low and slow, and you take a steadying breath as the first model steps out.

Your eyes remain fixed on the runway. But somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re still thinking about that text. Still thinking about him.

——

After lunch with Celeste and a few others—publishers, models, someone who swore they’d “just flown in from Paris that morning”- you return to your apartment. You’re full, a little dazed from small talk, and even more exhausted from pretending to be okay.

As soon as you unlock the door, Celeste walks in behind you and pauses just past the threshold, surveying the space.

“You haven’t really decorated much, have you?” she muses aloud, toeing off her heels with a soft clunk.

“Not really, no,” you mumble, already flopping onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. She joins you, folding herself gracefully into the seat beside you, one leg tucked under the other. She leans her head on her hand, elbow perched on the back cushion, watching you quietly.

“I’m not going to push,” she starts, her voice gentle. “But I just want you to know that if -or when- you want to talk, I’m here. No pressure. I just… I’ve known you long enough to know you’re not being yourself. And it’s worrying me.”

You try to swallow it down, but the weight of her words hits something raw in you. Your throat tightens. “I just…” you begin, already blinking past the sting behind your eyes. “I like this life. I really do. The job, the city, the opportunity… I should be happy.” You pause, voice breaking. “But I left so much behind. And it hurts more than I thought it would.”

Celeste nods slowly. “It does hurt,” she agrees quietly, her tone warm and maternal. “Letting go of anything meaningful always does.” Then, she tilts her head, studying you carefully. “Is this about that Rafe character?”

You look at her, startled. “How did you—?”

She chuckles, waving a hand. “Your mom and I aren’t as estranged as you think. She said a name in passing. And you’re not exactly hard to read when something’s weighing on you.”

Your gaze drops to the coffee table, where your sketches and fabric swatches lie in a beautiful mess. You sigh, reaching up to scratch at your temple like you’re trying to get the pressure out of your head.

“It’s a long story,” you say finally, voice low.

“Good,” she smiles, already standing up and heading for the kitchen. “Because I’m putting the kettle on.”

You hear her rummaging through cabinets, the sound of water running, and it brings a small bit of comfort. The kind of comfort that makes you feel, even for a moment, like you’re not entirely alone in this big, beautiful, lonely city.

-

It feels like déjà vu- just like that first night back in New York, sitting across from Allegra and Noel, pouring your heart out. Only this time, it’s Celeste. And somehow, repeating the story doesn’t make it any easier to tell.

You walk her through everything- your parents, Becca’s party, the summer that blurred into something both painful and beautiful, and finally, Rafe. Every detail, from the high to the heartbreak, spills out between quiet sips of tea.

When you finish, Celeste sits quietly for a moment, her hands wrapped around her mug.

“I’m not trying to invalidate your pain,” she says carefully, “but… I think you did the right thing.”

You nod, slowly. “Yeah. I know.”

The silence that follows is thick. Not awkward- just heavy. You’re about to speak again when she gently lifts a few pages from the coffee table.

“These designs are really good,” she says, flipping through them slowly.

You glance up, grateful for the change in subject. You were dangerously close to crying again.

“You really think so?” you ask, wiping your cheek with your sleeve before she can notice the gloss in your eyes.

Celeste holds up one of your sketches- a slinky gown with layered mesh and delicate embroidery. “These could make it into a runway show someday, you know.”

You shrug, half-embarrassed. “I just… I drew them without thinking. Just something to get my mind off things.”

“Even better,” she says, looking up at you. “That just proves your talent. Some people spend weeks trying to force something that wouldn’t hold a candle to these.”

A soft smile tugs at your lips. You stare into your mug, letting her words settle. Then, she sets the drawings down and glances at you with a more serious expression.

“How would you feel about running the behind-the-scenes of a show one day?” she asks, casually, but you can tell she’s testing the waters.

Your stomach flips. The idea excites you- but it terrifies you more.

“Uhhh… I don’t know,” you admit, your voice slightly tight. “That sounds… intense.”

“It is,” Celeste agrees. “But you don’t have to say yes now. Just think about it. It’s a good stepping stone- plus, it’ll give you more credibility when you’re the one running the show.”

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. The idea lingers like the steam rising from your tea- hazy, warm, and a little intimidating. But maybe… maybe possible.

-

“You don’t want to do that though?” Rafe’s voice cuts through the quiet of your bedroom, low and pointed.

You’re mid-stride, walking around in a towel with under-eye patches stuck to your face, digging through your closet for something to wear. Your phone is propped up on the nightstand, plugged in and pointed at the ceiling. He’s FaceTiming you- his full face in frame as he lays on his bed, while yours is nowhere to be seen.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” you say, tossing a rejected shirt onto the growing pile on your bed. “It’s just… it feels like too much, too fast.”

There’s a pause, long enough for you to wonder if he’s going to let it go. But then, his voice cuts through again- softer this time, careful.

“Isn’t that the whole point of walking away from the OBX?”

You freeze with your hand hovering over a pair of jeans. He’s not talking about the island. Not really. He’s talking about you and him. About how you pulled away- how you said goodbye. This is his quiet way of saying: Wasn’t that the reason you let me go?

You chew the inside of your cheek. Rafe Cameron holding up a mirror to you… yeah, you didn’t see that one coming. “I mean… yeah. I guess,” you admit, turning away from the closet. “I just didn’t think I’d get thrown into everything so fast. I needed time to… breathe.”

“What did you expect would happen?” he asks gently, but it still strikes a nerve- because he’s not wrong. And you hate that.

You sigh. “I don’t know.” You shrug as if he can see it. “Hey, um… I’m heading out in a sec. Can we talk later?”

“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “Love you.”

You don’t say it back. Not this time. You just hang up before the silence gets any heavier. You finish getting ready in a rush, pulling on a gray miniskirt and a black corset top. The outfit is edgier than your usual, but there’s something about Allegra’s effortless cool that’s been rubbing off on you lately. Black platform Mary Janes, gold jewelry, a matching purse. You straighten your hair, swipe on a final coat of lip gloss, and give yourself a once-over in the mirror. You look good. You feel… almost good.

Phone in hand, you head downstairs. Owen’s already waiting in the lobby, leaning casually against the wall near the entrance. He smiles as soon as he sees you, stepping forward into a warm, friendly hug.

“Hey,” he says, pulling back with a quick glance over your outfit. “You look- wow.”

“Thanks,” you grin. “I see we’re still waiting on the girls?”

“Supposedly,” he chuckles, pulling out his phone. A moment later, both of yours buzz with the same group text.

Allegra: Change of plans. We’re bailing. Go without us. Have fun ;)

Noel: You’re welcome <3

You blink down at the screen, then glance up at Owen. He’s already smiling.

“They’re trying to set us up,” you say.

“Oh, absolutely,” he agrees.

A laugh escapes you as you both head toward the door.

“Well,” you say, pushing it open, “let’s give them something to gossip about.”

He laughs and follows you out into the night.

-

You swipe the last fry through the ketchup, popping it into your mouth just as Owen finishes telling a story that has you nearly choking from laughter.

“So then she looks at me -dead serious- and says, ‘You’re not even a real photographer, are you? You just pretend so you can sleep with models.’” He shakes his head, grinning at the memory. “Meanwhile, I’m literally holding a $5,000 camera and wearing a lanyard that says CREW.”

You snort. “No way.”

“I swear!” he says, still laughing. “And the craziest part is- she still tried to sleep with me.”

Your jaw drops in amused disbelief. “Wait. She thought you were some kind of fraud and still made a move?”

“Yep. Apparently, I’m just that charming.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “And you, a man, turned that down?”

He leans back in the booth, mock-offended. “What can I say? I’m not easy.”

You burst into laughter. “Wow. The bar. It’s in hell. But go ahead, king of standards.”

He gives you a playful salute. “A man of honor.”

You shake your head, still giggling as you reach for your water. And then, in a quiet moment between jokes, it hits you—you’re genuinely having a good time. Like… a real one. The first time since you left the OBX after Becca’s birthday that your laughter doesn’t feel like a mask or a distraction. It’s light, easy. It’s not pretending.

You lean your elbow on the table, resting your cheek in your palm, and glance at Owen. He’s still smiling, stirring the ice in his drink with his straw.

“I forgot how nice this could be,” you admit softly, mostly to yourself.

Owen looks up. “What?”

You sit up straight. “Nothing,” you say quickly, brushing it off with a smile. “Just… this has been nice.”

His smile softens. “Yeah. It really has.”

You look down at your empty plate, fighting the urge to overthink the moment. For now, it’s enough to feel like yourself again- even if only for the night.

“You’re not going to laugh if I ask whether you need me to walk you upstairs, are you?” Owen asks, his voice teasing but sincere.

You laugh, turning slightly toward him on the sidewalk. “Only if you’re not offering just to stoop below your usual standards and try to get with me.”

He lifts his hands in mock surrender, a grin tugging at his lips. “I swear, that wasn’t the intention. Scout’s honor.”

You tilt your head at him, amused. “I won’t laugh at you,” you say gently, “but I will turn down your offer- kindly.”

You step into a hug before he can say anything else, and his arms come around your waist without hesitation. It’s warm. Uncomplicated. And you’re not mad at it. Not at all.

“Goodnight, Owen,” you murmur into his shoulder before pulling away.

He blinks at you, looking slightly dazed. “I -uh- goodnight, Y/n,” he stumbles, running a hand through his hair as you walk away.

You flash a quick, polite smile to the doorman as he opens the building’s glass door for you. Once inside, you step into the elevator, leaning your head back against the wall with a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Your apartment greets you with familiar stillness. You kick off your shoes, toss your purse on the counter, and head into your room, where the city lights bleed softly through the sheer curtains. 

You sit on the edge of your bed and finally let yourself smile- an honest, full one that spreads across your face like warmth.

It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t chaos. But it was something steady. Something light.

You think back over the evening -no pressure, no expectations, just genuine laughter and conversation- and a strange but welcome thought crosses your mind: this is the first time you’ve had a good time with a guy… without sex even being a part of the equation.

You exhale and nod to yourself, letting the realization settle. Maybe things really are starting to shift.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t dread what comes next.

-

Between work, late-night hangs with Allegra and Noel, and your one-on-one outings with Owen, life had taken on a kind of rhythm again. Not perfect- but steady. Predictable in a way that felt safe. You were finally slipping back into your groove, and for the first time since leaving OBX, things felt… healthy.

You still talked to Rafe from time to time -brief check-ins, the occasional “hope you’re okay” text- but it wasn’t like before. You hadn’t told him about Owen. It didn’t feel like something he needed to know. And, thankfully, he hadn’t pushed. His texts had gotten less frequent, more respectful of your space. Maybe he was finally realizing what you both had been too afraid to admit: that chapter needed to close, or at least stay tucked away for now.

You’re leaned over the bathroom sink, eyeliner in hand, trying to keep your hand steady as music thumps from your portable speaker. Allegra and Noel move around you like you’re all sharing choreography, slipping between makeup bags and hot tools without saying a word. This time, they were actually going out with you -no surprise dates, no matchmaker schemes- just a girls’ night.

The three of you end up at a sleek bar in SoHo- marble countertops, candlelight glow, overpriced martinis in frosted glasses. You’re mid-sip when a guy walks past your table and you and Allegra both clock him. Tall, good hair, sharp jaw.

“Him.” Allegra whispers with a smirk.

“I’d climb him like a tree,” you murmur, setting your glass down.

Noel makes a face. “Ew. He looks like he cries after sex.”

You laugh, nearly choking on your drink. That’s when it happens.

“Is that ALLEGRA?”

You turn simultaneously with the girls, your stomach already twisting at the tone. The voice belongs to a tall brunette with rich-girl posture, all cheekbones and lip gloss. She’s model-pretty, and worse- she knows it. You instinctively straighten your shoulders.

Allegra sets her martini down slowly, her expression souring just for a second before she spins around with a sugary smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Miya!” she sings, stepping in for a hug. You and Noel rise behind her like backup dancers, exchanging a quick look of shared dread.

“How are you?! You look amazing!” Miya exclaims, holding Allegra’s arms like she’s about to auction her off.

“I’m great, how are you? You look… exactly the same,” Allegra replies sweetly.

The passive aggression between them is so thick you could ice a cake with it. You want to laugh, but you don’t. You’re a guest in this catfight.

“Oh, you know,” Miya says, flipping her perfectly waved hair over her shoulder. “Just climbing the ranks, going into my third year of Fashion Week. No big deal.” Her tone is drenched in false humility. “It’s been incredible.”

“That’s amazing,” Allegra says, all smiles. “I love that for you and your nepotism.”

You nearly snort. Oscar-worthy, the both of them- smiling like sorority sisters, clawing like alley cats.

Miya doesn’t miss a beat. “So… what happened to you following me on Insta?” Her voice turns syrupy-sweet. “I was scrolling through my one point two million followers and noticed you weren’t there anymore, and I got sooo confused. I thought we were, like, really good friends.”

You and Noel visibly cringe.

Allegra cocks her head. “You know what? That was probably my agent. She goes through my socials sometimes and deletes accounts with low engagement or… irrelevant reach.” Her smile never wavers. “But I’ll be sure to follow you again. Promise.”

This whole interaction is faker than a reality TV romance.

“That’d be amazing,” Miya beams, her pouty lip back in place. “Because I still follow you- even though I promised myself I’d never follow anyone with less than a million.”

Allegra laughs like Miya just told a great joke. “Well, so good seeing you, girl! You look…” she pauses, eyeing her outfit, “expensive.”

“Always,” Miya chirps.

Allegra turns on her heel, and you and Noel follow like shadows. The second you’re out of earshot, Noel mutters, “Was she real, or a Madame Tussauds wax figure come to life?”

“I don’t think she even knows we exist,” you add.

“She doesn’t,” Allegra confirms, rolling her eyes. “And thank God for that.”

You clink your martinis in quiet solidarity and head toward the other end of the bar.

-

The three of you sit drunk in a half-empty local pizza joint, the glow of the fluorescent lights bouncing off the red-and-white checkered tablecloths. Aside from a couple slumped over in the corner and a lone delivery guy picking up an order, the place is practically deserted- not surprising since it’s close to midnight.

Laughter bubbles at your table, the kind that only comes when you’re slightly sleep-deprived, full of carbs, and safe with people who get you.

“I hate her,” Allegra declares, rolling her eyes so hard you think they might get stuck. She drops her phone onto the table with a dramatic thud- Miya’s Instagram page still open.

You lean over to glance at the grid of glossy selfies, ad campaigns, and filtered story highlights, before taking another bite of your pizza. “Okay, but what is your deal with her? It’s giving frenemy vibes… minus the ‘friend’ part.”

“She thinks she’s untouchable because her dad’s on the board for what gets approved for final Vogue spreads or something insane like that,” Allegra huffs, crossing her arms. “Top-tier nepotism baby. Trust fund. Insta fame. The face people fawn over?” She gestures at the screen. “Put under the needle. Thrice.”

Noel snorts into her water and glances your way. “That still doesn’t answer Y/N’s question.”

Allegra sighs, like the story itself is exhausting. “Okay, fine. We used to be cool. Like, actually cool. She was one of those trust-fund influencers who vlogged her whole life- Coachella trips, sponsored hauls, tacky celebrity parties with every D-list person you can think of.”

“She’s a stereotype,” Noel mutters.

“Exactly. Meanwhile, I moved here trying to go to acting school, remember? My dad  -a producer- was like, ‘You’re either singing, or I’m cutting you off.’ So I picked up a few modeling gigs to survive, ended up getting signed. Booked and Busy.” Allegra leans back in her chair with a shrug. “The second she saw I was doing something real with my life -more than just filming herself in crop tops- she got weird. Jealous. Next thing I know, she’s injecting her face, getting long-ass extensions, and suddenly she’s walking next to me at New York Fashion Week… for her first ever show.”

You and Noel exchange wide-eyed looks as Allegra continues, her voice rising slightly.

“Then she ghosted me. Pretended we were never close. But still acts fake nice every time we run into each other like tonight.” She lets out a sharp laugh. “Not me. That ship sailed. I think the fuck not, bitch.”

You can’t help it- you burst out laughing. There’s something deeply satisfying about Allegra’s unapologetic rage, especially paired with the dramatic flick of her wrist as she pushes the phone away from her. Curious, you pull out your own phone and type in Miya’s name.

Noel leans over. “You stalking now too?”

“Maybe,” you say, tapping through Miya’s photos- picture after picture of her posing outside art deco hotels and on rooftops in Paris. But it isn’t until you scroll to the top of the page that your heart skips.

You pause. Blink. Scroll back up to make sure you read it right.

Followed by RafeCameron_

You freeze.

“Something wrong?” Noel asks, catching your face change.

You force a half-smile and shake your head, but your stomach sinks slightly. You can’t help but wonder:

Did he just start following her… or has he been? And either answer feels worse than the other.

-

You lie on your bed, cross-legged in yesterday’s clothes, mind racing as you fiddle with your phone. Your fingers tap against the screen, then backtrack. You open Rafe’s contact. Close it. Open it again.

It’s almost 4 a.m. You know you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. But your brain won’t stop running laps. Miya.

You saw her name sitting right over that little “followed by RafeCameron_” on Instagram like it meant nothing. Maybe it does mean nothing. Maybe you’re spiraling for no reason. Maybe you’re just tired. Maybe it’s the pizza. Or maybe it’s the fact that no matter how hard you try to move forward, something about Rafe always drags you back into the undertow.

Logically, this isn’t your place. You’re the one who walked away. You’re the one who drew the line. You haven’t even told him about Owen. But this wasn’t about you right now. This was about her. Miya, with the high cheekbones and surgically perfected pout and the passive-aggressive grip on Allegra’s entire last nerve. Miya, who rubbed you the wrong way the moment she opened her mouth. And now she’s in his orbit?

You press the call button before your better judgment can slap the phone out of your hand.

The line rings. Once. Twice. Again. And again. No answer.

You stare at the screen for a while after it stops ringing, like you’re waiting for it to apologize for not fixing your heartache. You eventually set the phone on your nightstand, still face-up, still glowing. Then you pass out without even meaning to, mind whirring until sleep wins.

-

You wake up to your phone vibrating violently beside you and a loud, steady knocking at your front door. You groan, your limbs heavy and tangled in the blankets, and blink against the morning light cutting through your shades.

Your phone’s ringing. Celeste.

You swipe to answer just as you drag yourself out of bed, last night’s eyeliner smudged beneath your eyes like mascara war paint.

“Hey,” you croak, voice gravelly from sleep and dehydration.

“Open the damn door,” Celeste says flatly. “I’ve been knocking for ten minutes. I think your neighbors are about to call the cops.”

“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” you mumble, trudging toward the door as you hang up.

You swing it open and Celeste pushes in immediately, not waiting for an invitation. She’s in tailored pants, hair in a claw clip, and her lipstick is already perfectly applied- too put together for someone who’s obviously been up just as early.

In her hand is a rolled-up copy of something thick and glossy.

“Rough night?” she asks, eyeing your smeared makeup and pajama-level effort.

You shrug, barely functioning. “Didn’t sleep well.”

“Clearly,” she mutters. Then she holds out what’s in her hand. It’s a pre-release copy of Vogue.

You take it, brow furrowing- but then you see it. Right there on the glossy front page tag, in clean serif font:

“Spotlight: Valentina & Co.’s Meteoric Rise”

Your stomach drops. You fumble with the pages, flipping until you hit it. A full spread. Photos. Interviews. Details. Everything.

Valentina & Co. splashed across one of the most powerful pages in fashion- and you weren’t even sure how it got there.

You look up at Celeste. “How…?”

She shrugs a little, already sipping her iced coffee. “That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

Your fingers trace the corner of the page, heart thudding for reasons you can’t quite name. It’s not jealousy, exactly. Not fear. But something about it buzzes under your skin. You blink down at the glossy pages again, a strange unease creeping in. You have no idea why, but this doesn’t feel like just another spread. 

It feels like the beginning of something. Something you can’t see yet.

-

You’re perched beside Allegra in the bustling prep area, watching as her glam team swirls around her like bees. She’s scheduled to walk for Christian Dior’s Fall/Winter collection, and thanks to your increasingly public ties to Valentina & Co., you’d been granted the rare honor of tagging along- though strictly as a spectator.

As a makeup artist smooths highlighter across Allegra’s cheekbone, she glances sideways at you. “So… when are you and Owen finally going to, you know, take things to the next level?”

You sigh, chest tightening. The question immediately calls up Rafe’s face in your mind like muscle memory- his laugh, the way he’d touch your jaw when he wanted your full attention, the softness you’d tried to walk away from. You shake your head gently, trying to dislodge the image.

“I don’t think I’m ready for… another relationship. Or a fling,” you mutter, sinking slightly lower into the chair.

Allegra’s lips twitch. “Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on-”

She’s cut off by a voice that grates like nails on glass.

“Oh. My. God. Don’t tell me we’re walking the same show!”

You both turn. Miya floats toward you in a voluminous silk robe with oversized feathered cuffs, her hair in rollers, her mouth already curled in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

You sense Allegra tense beside you but watch her pull out a sugary smile like muscle memory. 

“I guess we are,” she replies coolly.

Miya sinks into the chair across from you both, completely uninvited, dropping her phone onto the vanity with all the grace of a mic drop. Her legs cross, her lips pout, and her gaze flickers to Allegra.

“Still waiting for that follow baaack,” she sings.

Allegra’s smile doesn’t budge. “I don’t have Insta on my phone. My manager runs my account.” A bold-faced lie.

Miya hums. “Well, I’d really hate to unfollow you. But following someone with less than a million who doesn’t follow me back? It just, like, messes with the aesthetic, you know?”

“I like, totally get it,” Allegra replies in an exaggerated valley-girl drawl, barely concealing the mimicry. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop from laughing.

Miya lets it slide, adjusting her robe like she’s prepping for a photo shoot. “Anyway, crazy that we’re doing the same show. I haven’t walked in the States in forever.”

“Funds must be running loooow,” Allegra sing-songs under her breath, laughing as she flips her hair. Miya laughs too -way too hard- but there’s an edge to it.

“You’re hilarious. But no, I was just visiting my boyfriend.” She stands and brushes imaginary dust off her robe. “I’m off to change. See you out there!”

You and Allegra watch her leave like she’s a walking ad for artificial sugar.

“Fucking bitch thinks she’s Bella Hadid,” Allegra mutters once Miya is out of earshot.

You chuckle, the tension breaking for a moment. Allegra stands, smoothing down her robe.

“I’ve gotta get into my first look. You’ll be watching, yeah?” she winks.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you smile.

She disappears into the chaos of racks and models, and you sit for a moment, letting the movement of the room carry on around you. Stylists bark orders, steam hisses from irons, and perfumes mingle in the air. It’s beautiful, frantic, and utterly intoxicating.

Your gaze drifts casually to the vanity across from you- where Miya’s phone still lies. It vibrates once, skittering slightly on the surface.

You look.

And then you freeze.

Rafe C.

The name flashes across the screen. Your breath catches in your throat. The blood drains from your face.

You take a shaky step back, mind racing, chest tightening. Of all the possible explanations, the most painful one settles in your gut like a stone. You’re halfway to spiraling when you turn- and bump straight into someone.

“Oh- sorry,” you mumble, blinking away tears as you look up.

Standing before you is Aïsha Bellamy- creative director of the house.

“Y/N Y/L/N? You’re here!” she says brightly, clasping her hands together. “I’ve been meaning to reach out to you.”

You try to collect yourself, forcing your expression into something that vaguely resembles polite interest.

“Oh, uh, hi. Wow, yeah. That’s me.”

“I’d love to have you assist on one of our international shows. Milan or Paris, maybe? That’ll give you time to prep. We could really use your eye.”

You nod before fully processing. Anything to get away. “Yes. Definitely. I’d love to.”

“Great! My assistant will be in touch.” She pats your shoulder and disappears into the crowd.

And you? You beeline for the bathroom. Not because you’re going to cry- Because you already are.

-

“You’re awful quiet today,” Rafe says, voice soft through your laptop speakers.

You’re lying on your bed, MacBook propped on your lap, head tipped back against the headboard. The room is dimly lit, the only glow coming from the screen- and from him. He’s calling from his kitchen, phone leaned up against a glass, a reheated steak on the plate in front of him. Shirtless, naturally. And looking every bit as good as the food he’s eating.

You twist the silver ring on your finger-  one of the many pieces of jewelry he left in your childhood bedroom, the one you swore you’d put away but never did. “Just… long day,” you murmur, eyes drifting from his face to his hands, to the slice of steak he’s cutting with far too much sex appeal for a domestic task.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks, biting a piece off his fork. He chews lazily, like he knows how pretty he looks doing absolutely nothing at all.

You glance at your screen, trying to gauge his expression, trying to figure out how to slip Miya into the conversation without sounding crazy.

“I, um… I went to a show earlier,” you start, keeping your tone light. “A friend of mine walked for Christian Dior.”

Nothing. No flicker in his expression, no shift in his tone. He just hums in vague interest, eyes still on his plate.

You try again, fingers fidgeting with the ring. “Anything exciting or… new in your life?”

He swallows, wipes his mouth on a napkin, and shrugs. “Nothing worth speaking about.”

And there it is- the first hit of disappointment. Not because you expected him to confess, but because some naïve part of you hoped he might.

There’s a silence that settles for a beat too long before you speak again. “I actually got invited to help on a show,” you say casually, like it’s not the biggest news of your week. “Christian Dior. One of their upcoming ones.”

Now he looks up.

His expression shifts immediately- his whole face lights up. “No way. Really?”

You nod, warmth spreading across your chest. His excitement is real. Genuine. And that makes you smile- not because of the opportunity, but because he’s smiling.

“Yeah… it’s either Milan or Paris. I haven’t gotten all the details yet.” You shrug like it’s nothing, but the pink in your cheeks gives you away.

“I’m seriously proud of you, Y/N,” he says, voice quieter, more sincere.

You lower your gaze, chewing the inside of your cheek, unable to suppress your grin. The feelings -the ones you’ve been trying to outrun in crowded rooms and through Owen’s easy smiles- are back, swelling in your chest, sharp and soft all at once.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He squints at the screen. “Wait a second… are you blushing right now?”

You immediately cover your face with your hands, laughing. “Absolutely not.”

He grins. “You totally are. It’s ‘cause I’m shirtless, isn’t it?”

“You wish,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes.

His voice drops a little, suddenly more vulnerable. “I wish I was up there with you right now.”

Your breath catches. The words land like a stone dropped in still water, rippling through your chest.

You stare at your keyboard, picking at a faded Vans sticker near the touchpad. “Me too,” you say, just barely loud enough for the mic to catch it- like you’re admitting it more to yourself than to him.

The silence that follows is thick with everything unsaid. You look at each other for a moment longer than you should, and for a moment it feels like nothing’s changed.

“I should let you get to bed,” he says finally, voice a little softer now. “You’ve got a show to run soon.”

“Yeah…” you nod slowly. “Goodnight, Rafe.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.” He hesitates. “I Love you.”

You don’t even think- the words come out before you can catch them. “I Love you too.”

You end the call, your screen fading to black.

And you sit there for a moment, the weight of what just happened pressing in like gravity. You’ve been busy, sure- distracted with work, dinners, nights out, Owen. But suddenly, all that noise feels like exactly what it was: a distraction.

Because the truth is…

You miss him.

More than you’ve let yourself admit.

-

You lean against the cool stone of the balcony doorframe, watching as Noel enthusiastically snaps photos of Allegra, who’s draped effortlessly over the terrace railing like she’s shooting an editorial spread. The glow of the Parisian evening bathes the scene in gold, the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the background like a postcard come to life.

Tomorrow is the Christian Dior show -the first one you’ve ever been a part of- and “nervous” doesn’t begin to cover it. It feels like everything’s been leading to this, and yet the only people here to cheer you on are your two newest friends. Becca had family obligations. Marie’s back in school. Celeste wanted to come, but business wouldn’t allow it. Your parents haven’t said much beyond a vague “good luck.” And Rafe… well, he’s moved on.

You sip from your champagne glass, trying not to let the ache of that last thought linger too long. Instead, you laugh quietly as the girls bicker playfully on the balcony.

“Don’t get my bad side,” Allegra says, flipping her hair with practiced flair.

“Bitch, your bad side is still better than my good side,” Noel fires back, adjusting her camera angle without missing a beat.

The jazz you had playing through the speaker cuts off abruptly, replaced by your ringtone. You glance over to the side table and see Rafe’s name lighting up your screen.

Your stomach flips.

It’s six p.m. in Paris, which means it’s only noon in the OBX. You usually only talk late at night, when the weight of the day softens the edges between you. Midday calls aren’t your thing- and definitely not his.

You grab the phone and walk away from the balcony, your fingers brushing the screen as you switch off Bluetooth and press it to your ear.

“Hey, Rafe,” you say, voice low as you slip into a quieter corner near the door.

“Hey, darling.”

The way he says it -warm, careful, intimate- makes your breath catch. You’re used to affection from him, but this? This sounds like something heavier. Something older. Like you’re still his.

“What’s up?” you ask, pacing slowly in the little entryway between the bathroom and closet.

“I know your show’s tomorrow,” he says. “I just wanted to say I’m proud of you.”

That’s all it takes. Your chest tightens instantly. You feel it not just in your heart but somewhere lower too, deeper. His voice hits like a trigger, one you’ve been tiptoeing around for weeks.

You blink fast, trying to hold it together. “I just…” Your voice falters. “I wish you were here.”

The silence that follows is thick, but not cold.

“Mmm,” he hums softly, and somehow that sound says everything he isn’t- like maybe he wishes he was there too. “You’re going to kill it tomorrow,” he adds. “I mean that.”

The tears finally fall. You shut yourself in the bathroom, turning the lock and bracing your hand against the marble counter as you look into the mirror. Your reflection is blurred by glassy eyes. You swipe at them quickly, hoping your mascara isn’t ruined.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

There’s a pause, and you can feel it building- something unspoken taking shape in the quiet.

Then he says it. “Hey… I love you.”

It doesn’t sound casual this time. It doesn’t sound like a placeholder, or an echo, or a routine sign-off. It sounds like a confession. You close your eyes.

“I love you too,” you reply- and this time, you mean it the way he does. Not platonic. Not safe. Just… real.

And as the words hang there between you, soft and fragile, you wonder if they’ll still mean the same thing tomorrow.

-

Outside, the hotel hallway is buzzing. Assistants rush by with garment bags slung over their shoulders, stylists with clipboards tap frantically on phones, and someone is yelling in French about a missing pair of heels.

By the time you reach the venue -an opulent courtyard wrapped in white florals and shimmering lights- the transformation is already underway. The Christian Dior team has taken a historic Parisian building and turned it into a dreamscape. The long runway, slick with soft light, cuts through the center of the room like a river of silver. Rows of editors, buyers, and celebrities already line the velvet benches, air-kissing and crossing their legs in curated choreography.

But you don’t sit down right away.

Instead, you’re led backstage- your domain tonight. Controlled chaos unfolds all around you: models ducking into dressing areas, hairstylists curling last-minute flyaways, makeup artists applying lip liner with military precision. Fabric whispers. Heels clack. Someone is crying. Someone is screaming about time.

And yet, amid it all, you find a strange calm in the rhythm.

You spot Allegra getting her final touches done- her gown draping off her like it was stitched directly onto her body. She glances over her shoulder and lifts a brow.

“You surviving?” she teases softly.

You smirk, brushing a stray hair from your forehead. “Barely.”

A stylist taps your shoulder and asks for help pinning the hem of a jacket that snagged just before lineup. You kneel on the cold concrete floor and fix it carefully, your hands surprisingly steady.

You belong here.

Not because of your name. Not because of anyone else’s reputation. But because you’re learning how to make it work- quietly, efficiently. The designer, Aïsha Bellamy, passes through with her assistant and gives you a quick, approving nod. “Good,” she says simply, already moving on. It’s not effusive, but it’s enough. In this world, calm is currency.

Moments later, the lights dim and the music begins- haunting strings layered with a pulsing electronic beat. The show has begun.

From backstage, you watch Allegra take her first step onto the runway- measured, confident, seamless. Cameras flash in rhythm with her steps, and you find yourself exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

There’s no time to think about anything else- not Rafe, not what he’s doing, or if he somehow managed to stream the show. You’re too busy checking hems, smoothing collars, and nudging models toward the curtain at just the right time.

And when the final looks disappears down the runway, when the applause echoes faintly from the other side of the curtain, the energy backstage subtly shifts. The tension breaks -not with confetti or champagne- but with soft exhales, loosened shoulders, quiet grins. It’s done.

Allegra returns from the runway still glowing, stepping out of her heels the second she crosses backstage. She walks up to you and bumps your shoulder gently.

“No disasters. I’ll take that as a win,” she says, grabbing a bottle of water from a tray.

You smile faintly, too tired to offer anything more. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t explosive. But everything went the way it was supposed to- and that, in this world, is everything.

And for the first time in a while, you don’t feel like you’re running from something. You feel like you’re standing still, right where you need to be.

-

As you make your way through the venue, weaving between guests, you find yourself in conversation after conversation- thanking fashion editors, shaking hands with designers, nodding politely at influencers you’ve only seen on your feed. You’re smiling, you’re gracious, you’re doing everything you’re supposed to do. But beneath it all, your heart’s still thudding from the adrenaline of the show.

You’re halfway through a light chat with a journalist from Elle when something in the corner of your eye makes you freeze.

That buzzcut. That height. That familiar tilt of his head as he scans the crowd.

Your eyebrows knit as you trail off mid-sentence, excusing yourself with a soft “just a moment” and turning sharply, threading through the throng of well-dressed strangers, heels tapping quickly against the stone floor.

“Rafe?” you call out when you’re close enough.

He turns- like he was waiting to hear your voice. His eyes meet yours, and then he smiles, slow and warm, holding a single rose in his hand.

Your breath catches.

“What are you doing here?” you laugh, disbelief curling through your voice as you reach for him. 

He doesn’t answer right away- just pulls you into him. And you go willingly, arms winding around his middle, cheek pressed against his chest.

His voice is soft against your ear. “I wanted to support you. I couldn’t do that from the island.”

The hug isn’t polite. It’s full-bodied, long, grounding. His warmth seeps into your skin, and for a moment, everything around you -the lights, the cameras, the Parisian venue buzzing with couture energy- fades into static.

When you finally pull back, your hands stay at his sides, but your eyes roam over his face like you’re trying to convince yourself he’s real. The bridge of his nose. The slant of his mouth. Those damn eyes.

You blink, but the tears come anyway. He notices instantly.

“Hey…” His voice is barely above a whisper as he gently reaches up, brushes a strand of hair away from your face, and tucks the rose behind your ear. “Don’t cry.”

But you do. Quietly. Unstoppably. A single tear, then another. Not because you’re sad—but because he’s here. Because you missed him. Because you didn’t realize how much you needed this moment until it landed right in front of you. He lets you have it. No pressure. Just his eyes on yours, full of something that’s almost too tender to name. And for the first time in a long time, you’re not bracing for the goodbye.

You’re just… here. With him.

-

“This is Rafe,” you say, voice a little softer than intended, gesturing between him and the girls.

The venue has mostly cleared out now, just a few staff and cleaners buzzing around in the background, the glamour stripped away. It feels quieter, more intimate. You can sense Allegra and Noel already sizing him up before you finish speaking. They exchange a glance -one of those silent, telepathic girl-friend looks- and you swear an entire conversation just passed between them without a word.

Allegra steps forward first, extending her hand. “Allegra. Pleasure to meet you.” Her voice is smooth, a little too polite- but not cold. Surprisingly, this might be the most gracious you’ve seen her be to a man who wasn’t Owen.

Rafe shakes her hand with a polite nod before turning to Noel, who offers hers more hesitantly.

“Noel,” she says, her voice quiet, unsure, but curious. He takes it gently and nods again.

Then his attention returns to you- full, present, and almost boyish. “You doing anything tonight?” he asks, tone casual but familiar. It hits you with a strange wave of déjà vu. This is the Rafe from early summer- the one who flirted with ease and always felt one step ahead of your heartbeat.

You glance at the girls, who are very pointedly pretending not to eavesdrop, failing miserably. Their eyes are glued to the two of you.

“I didn’t exactly have anything planned,” you admit, glancing at them again. “We might do something later.”

Before Rafe can respond, Allegra pulls you aside, looping her arm through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

As soon as you’re a few feet away, she whispers, “So that’s Rafe.” Her eyes flick back to him, then to you again. “I get it now. Honestly, I might fall for it too.”

Noel leans in from your other side. “He’s hot. Like, dangerously hot,” she murmurs. “But he looks at you like he’d burn the world down for you, so… maybe worth it?”

You stifle a laugh, cheeks warming.

Allegra gives you a knowing nudge. “You gonna go? He looks like he came all this way for a reason.”

You hesitate. “I mean… if you guys don’t mind…”

“Girl.” Allegra deadpans. “We’re not your babysitters.”

“Go,” Noel adds with a grin.

When you turn back around, Rafe is still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching you like he already knew how this was going to end.

“I know this spot,” he says before you can speak. “Private, low-key. Best steak in Paris. Let me take you to dinner.”

You pause. Just for a second. Then nod. “Okay,” you say, voice soft but sure.

And just like that, you’re walking toward him, heels echoing against the marble, leaving behind the remnants of the show -and the girls- who watch you go with matching smirks.

-

You’re silently grateful you didn’t let Becca convince you to swap out your private French lessons for Spanish back in tenth grade. The words still come slowly, sure- but you can read a menu without embarrassing yourself. That has to count for something.

After the show, Rafe insisted on taking you somewhere special. He let you stop by your hotel to change, and now you’re wrapped in a black backless midi dress with matching ballet flats, your hair left softly tousled from the night. You’d opted for simple gold earrings, no necklace. You didn’t need anything else.

Now you sit across from him in a dim, elegant restaurant near the Eiffel Tower. He’s still in the tux he wore to the show, the tie gone, the top buttons undone. The two of you are tucked into a quiet corner table by the window, and the glow of the tower outside filters in like something out of a dream.

You rub the goosebumps from your arms -more from the A/C than the view- and lift your wineglass to your lips. The burgundy liquid is velvety, expensive.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” you say with a quiet smile, looking at him over the rim of your glass.

His eyes are lit in a way you haven’t seen in a long time. “I’m glad that I am.” His gaze doesn’t waver. It’s steady, reverent. Like he’s memorizing your face.

There’s a stillness between you -soft piano music drifting in from the far side of the restaurant, silverware clinking gently, murmured conversation filling the rest of the space- but you’re only aware of him.

Then he speaks. “I need to come clean about something.”

Your stomach twists, but you keep your face neutral. Calm. Ready. You nod once, bracing yourself.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. Instead, he reaches to adjust the knife on his side of the table, moves the candle an inch like it’s suddenly in the way.

“I don’t really know how to say it, so I’m just gonna… say it.”

“Okay,” you say softly, willing your breath to stay steady.

“I, uh… I was seeing someone.”

Your heart doesn’t just sink. It folds into itself. You look away, not trusting your face to hold itself together.

“It wasn’t anything,” he continues quickly. “Just-”

“You moved on,” you finish for him, the words more bitter than you meant.

“No.” His voice comes out louder than expected. Firm. Immediate. He glances around, then lowers his voice. “No. I never moved on.”

You look down at your lap, swallowing against the lump forming in your throat.

“That’s the thing,” he continues, voice low and slow. “Do you remember when Valentina & Co. got that full spread in that… Vogue magazine?”

You nod cautiously. “Yeah…”

His eyes meet yours. “That was me. Sort of. I… I dated this girl. Her dad’s one of the big players behind the scenes in that fashion shit. I convinced her to get it in front of him. To push it. I thought maybe it could help.”

You stare at him, mouth parting slightly. “Wait… you did that?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Yeah.”

“Who was it?” you ask, though you already know.

He hesitates. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

He sighs. “Miya. Something. I don’t even remember her last name.”

You nod slowly, letting it settle. “So… you used her to help me?”

“I mean…” he leans back, running a hand over his face, “yeah. I guess I did.”

Your lips twitch into a smile you weren’t expecting. “You don’t feel bad about that.”

A grin pulls at his mouth. “No. Not really.”

The two of you laugh -quiet and conspiratorial- until the tension dissolves, leaving something warmer in its place.

After a beat, your voice drops, uncertain. “You didn’t… sleep with her, did you?”

He gives you a look. “God, no.”

You nod again, your breath releasing without realizing you’d been holding it.

The waiter places your food in front of you, and for a while, the conversation falls into an easy rhythm. You eat. You laugh about his god-awful French and how he refuses to even try with the pronunciation. He teases you for being a language snob. You tell him he’s lucky he’s pretty.

It’s not just dinner. It’s a return. A rebalancing.

You don’t say it, but you feel it: you’re not sure where this goes next. But for now -just for tonight- you’re glad he’s here. And you’re glad it still feels like this.

-

The car pulls up to the curb, the soft glow of the hotel’s golden lights reflecting off its polished windows. The driver gets out to open the door, and you and Rafe step out together, the quiet hum of the city night wrapping around you like silk. You’re both staying at the same hotel, something neither of you planned but secretly feel grateful for.

Inside, the marble floors gleam beneath the lobby chandelier. Rafe glances at you, his hand brushing yours for a second too long as you both slow your steps.

“Want me to walk you to your room?” he asks, voice casual but eyes unreadable.

You smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Sure.”

The two of you cross the vast lobby and step into the elevator, the hush of the space suddenly intimate. A woman slips in behind you—a tall blonde, maybe late twenties, in heels and a fitted dress that says she’s not here alone. She turns to Rafe, completely ignoring you.

“What floor?” she asks, smiling with a little too much interest.

Something twists low in your stomach. Maybe it’s irrational. Maybe it’s not. But you feel it all the same.

“Six,” you say, stepping a little closer and sliding your fingers through Rafe’s. Your tone is light, but the message is not.

You don’t look at him, but you can feel the smirk forming on his face. You don’t have to see it- you can feel the smug heat of it in the air between you. When the elevator dings and the doors open, Rafe’s hand is still wrapped around yours as you step out into the hallway.

The door to your room is only a few steps away, but the moment stretches like static.

“So…” he says, once you’re standing in front of it. “Was that jealousy back there?”

You roll your eyes, key card in hand. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He leans a shoulder against the wall, grinning. “You grabbed my hand like you were staking a claim.”

You shrug, but your smirk is involuntary. “Maybe I was.”

Rafe lifts an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this too much. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you still like me.”

You tap the key card, the lock flashing green with a soft click.

You glance back at him, your voice quieter now. “Do you want to come in?”

His teasing expression shifts- still amused, but softer now. “Yeah. I do.”

You push the door open and let him follow you inside.

The suite is spacious, luxurious, and -thankfully- no longer a disaster. You kick off your shoes, the plush carpet soft under your feet as you step inside. The chaos you left behind that morning has vanished. The remnants of your half-eaten room service breakfast are gone, the bed is freshly made, trash bins emptied, and the crisp scent of something clean and citrusy lingers in the air.

You breathe in, grateful. When you’d rushed out earlier, it had looked like a hurricane passed through- clothes on chairs, towels on the floor, makeup scattered on the counter.

Now, everything feels quiet. Still. Intimate.

You walk over and sit at the edge of the bed, then let yourself fall backward with a soft thud, arms stretched above your head. Rafe is still near the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching you. It’s the first time in a while -maybe ever- that you’ve seen him without that usual air of cocky confidence. He looks… unsure. Out of place, even.

“You can sit, you know,” you say, casting him a lazy smile.

He huffs a soft laugh, like your comfort eases something in him, and walks toward you. Slowly, he drops down beside you, then leans back until you’re both lying side by side, staring up at the ceiling. Your faces are nearly aligned, breath mingling in the space between.

Silence stretches for a beat. Then he speaks, his voice impossibly neutral.

“You never moved on?”

Your chest tightens. The question is simple, but it lands like a weight.

“No,” you say, shaking your head. You turn toward him, propping yourself up on one elbow, hair cascading down the side of your face and brushing the bed.

“Never.”

Owen was sweet. He did everything right. But he wasn’t Rafe. He never could’ve been.

Rafe’s eyes flick toward you, catching you in the corner of his vision. “Never?” he repeats, a hint of disbelief -or hope- threaded through the word.

“Never,” you whisper, the truth sitting heavy in the space between you.

Your eyes stay locked, and something deep in your chest pushes you forward. You don’t kiss him. You don’t need to. Instead, you gently lay your head beside his, your nose brushing his cheekbone, your forehead pressing lightly against his temple. The warmth of him seeps into your skin, familiar and achingly missed.

He exhales slowly, like the words have been waiting years to escape.

“I’ll never not love you,” he murmurs.

Your eyes flutter shut. “I’ll never not love you too,” you breathe, the confession soft, reverent.

Another beat of silence, filled only with the hum of the city outside the window and the quiet thunder of your heart. Then you slowly sit up, crossing the room toward the en-suite bathroom.

You twist the handle in the shower, steam starting to rise almost instantly, curling in the air like ghosts.

When you step back out, he’s still lying on the bed, watching you.

You walk over, standing between his knees. No words. Just the water running in the background, the dim light casting a soft glow on your skin. You reach out a hand to him, no pressure, no performance. Just an invitation. He looks up at you, and then down at your hand. And when he takes it, it’s not just about the shower. It’s about everything that came before- and maybe, everything still ahead. You stand across from each other in the steamy glow of the bathroom, the sound of rushing water filling the space between you. Neither of you speaks as you undress, slow and unhurried, but there’s a nervous energy threading through the silence- your heartbeat is wild in your chest, and from the way Rafe stares down at the floor, jaw tense, you know he feels it too. He’s not smirking. Not teasing. Just quiet. Focused.

You step into the shower first, the blast of heat cascading over your skin and soaking your hair instantly. You tilt your face into the stream for a moment, eyes closed, grounding yourself in the warmth. Then you turn around- and he’s there. Rafe steps in behind you, and without a word, you wrap your arms around his torso, pressing your cheek to his chest. His arms encircle you in return, slow and sure, and he kisses the crown of your head like it’s second nature.

You both just stand there for a while, bodies swaying gently from side to side, water pouring over you like rainfall. Your eyes are closed, but your heart is wide open- his touch, his breath, the solid rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek… it’s all too much and somehow not enough.

Eventually, you both shift- he reaches for the body wash, you grab the loofah, and the moment turns practical but no less intimate. You wash each other’s backs, slow strokes and soft touches in between shy glances and barely-there smiles. There’s something sacred about it. No performance. Just care.

After rinsing off, you each step out, wrapping towels around yourselves. You press one to your face, still damp and flushed, while Rafe wanders the room like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. His towel hangs low on his hips, water dripping from the ends of his short hair as he stops in front of the dresser. He runs a finger over the surface, pausing at the decorative tray filled with little glass bottles, candles, and hotel trinkets. He’s quiet- like something’s heavy on his mind.

You walk up behind him, slipping your arms beneath his, hands curling gently over his shoulders. You press a kiss between his shoulder blades, then to the curve of his neck, your lips brushing warm skin still damp from the shower.

He watches you through the mirror for a beat, then turns his head, eyes locking with yours.

Without a word, he takes your hands and guides them down, turning around to face you fully. Then he lifts you effortlessly, and your legs wrap around his waist like instinct, like muscle memory. His eyes search yours- like he’s trying to find the exact words but knows he doesn’t need them. So you close the space between you, lips meeting his in a slow, deliberate kiss.

He carries you to the bed, laying you down with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. He hovers over you, brushing damp hair from your face, and you reach between your bodies to untuck the towel from your frame, letting it fall away.

You break the kiss just enough to speak, eyes locked with his.

“I want to make love,” you whisper, voice trembling but steady with intent.

His eyes open, wide and searching. You expect a smile, maybe another kiss, but instead, he stills. For a second, you’re afraid he didn’t hear you right- until you notice the tears brimming in his eyes, threatening to spill over.

Your brows draw together in concern. “Rafe…”

But before you can finish, he nods, that familiar furrow in his brow deepening as he leans in and presses his mouth to yours again- this time with more purpose, more emotion.

You kiss him back like it’s the only way to stay grounded, your hands sliding to the sides of his face, holding him as if he might disappear- like if you let go, this might all vanish, a dream you’ve conjured from missing him for far too long.

Rafe pulls you with him, guiding you both up toward the head of the bed, his towel slipping off and forgotten somewhere along the way. His lips leave yours only briefly, traveling down to the delicate skin of your neck, then just beneath your ear. Every kiss he places feels deliberate, reverent, like he’s rediscovering you inch by inch.

He gently urges your legs apart, settling his weight between them with ease. You feel the heat of him against you, the soft drag of his tip gliding up and down your entrance- not teasing, just savoring. His eyes stay locked on yours, lips brushing over your jawline like a promise. You keep one hand cradling his cheek, thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone slowly, eyes blinking against the overwhelming rush of emotion as he finally pushes in. The stretch is familiar, but the feeling? The feeling is entirely different.

This isn’t like the times before. Not your bedroom. Not his. Not Becca’s laundry room. Not the backseat of his car.

This time feels sacred.

Your mouth parts on a soft gasp, brows drawing together in pleasure- but your eyes never leave his. He begins to move, hips rolling in slow, tender thrusts, like he’s syncing his body to yours. One of his hands fists the pillow beside your head, the other gripping the edge of the sheet as if anchoring himself to this moment.

The bed creaks softly beneath you, your bodies finding a rhythm that’s more than physical- moans and breathless gasps filling the space like whispers of things you’re too afraid to say out loud. Your legs stay wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. Then he slides an arm beneath you, lifting you slightly so your chest presses to his, skin flush against skin. His head drops to the crook of your neck, breath hot and ragged.

“Rafe,” you cry out, arms locking tightly around him, holding him with everything you have left.

“I know, baby. Let go,” he murmurs, voice low and strained—like he’s barely holding it together himself.

That’s all it takes.

Your body arches against his as release takes over, your head falling back as a raw cry slips from your lips. Your eyes roll back, your chest trembling, and it feels like your soul is being drawn from your body- too much, too beautiful, too intense.

Rafe isn’t far behind. He lowers you both to the bed, staying inside just long enough to feel your shudders slow before gently pulling out. He finishes on your stomach with a soft grunt, then reaches for one of the discarded towels, careful and quiet as he wipes you clean. There’s no rush. No awkwardness. Just silence and something that feels a lot like love.

Eventually, the sheets are pulled up over your bodies, and you both settle beneath them, limbs tangled. The window offers a postcard view of Paris- city lights twinkling across the skyline, the Eiffel Tower glowing in the distance like a dream you forgot you once had. Rafe’s arm is wrapped tightly around you, the hand of the arm you rest on woven through your fingers. He rubs his thumb over your knuckles, chest rising and falling slow and steady beneath your cheek.

You don’t know what this means. Not for tomorrow. Not for when you both go back to the States. There are still questions lingering in the air, consequences waiting on the other side of sunrise.

But right now, none of that matters.

Right now, he’s here. You’re here. And nothing else in the world comes close to mattering as much as this moment.

[hansungie01]

Confessions of an Attorney Part 3 / hjs

Contains: Attorney!Jisung, CourtReporter!Reader, Dom!Jisung, Sub!Reader, Slow burn, ROUGH sex, choking, spit play, oral sex (male receiving), degradation, dirty talk, nipple play, making out, teasing, regular themes of smut etc etc

Synopsis: After your casual date with Jisung, you find yourself connecting with him more and more. You learn about his personal life and delve a bit into the things that make him who he is. You also learn that Jisung seems to be carrying the weight of his career on his shoulders, as any attorney would be.

How will the evening end when, after some contemplation, you decide to check on him after work?

Word Count: 5.6k

A/N: Part 3!! This one is spicy. Hold onto your hats and enjoy!!<3

Part 1 / Part 2

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Monday came faster than you had hoped. You weren’t ready to come back to work. You had had such a good time with Jisung that night, and you were enjoying the remainder of your weekend and your free time.

Speak of the devil. There he was, in your courtroom. You were working a case management court today, so you prepared for many, many appearances and many names. Unfortunately, Jisung was one of them.

When court opened, you rose, bowing to the presiding judge and proceeding with your typing. It was definitely a busy day today; you were likely going to be here for a while. The judge worked his way down the list, starting with those who had counsel. That’s when he called the matter of R. V. Yang.

Jisung rose from his seat. “Your honour, I represent the accused in this matter.”

He flipped to a page in his notes. “Our request is to adjourn for another week to have discussions with the Crown. We believe there may be a resolution in the works.”

The judge nodded and acknowledged his request, marking down the date on the file. “Thank you Mr. Han, adjourning two weeks to be spoken to and for potential resolution. Any other matters with which we can deal?”

A pause. The judge spoke up again. “Mr. Han?”

You looked over to where he had been sitting, expecting him to be flipping through his notes again. But he wasn’t. Instead, he was looking directly at you with no particular emotion on his face. You couldn’t read him. When your eyes finally locked, that seemed to snap him back to reality.

Jisung shook his head. “Oh, yes. Sorry Your Honour. That was my only client for today if I may be excused.”

The judge nodded, excusing him from the courtroom. He grabbed his files and swiftly walked out, not making eye contact with anyone on his way out. Not bowing to the judge, which was an unwritten rule but expected. Weird.

The rest of your day went as normal. You ate lunch in the reporters room, had pleasant conversations with your colleagues before returning to work. Just as your routine normally went, you decided to stop by Jisung’s law firm after your work duties called. Just to check in with him, and to thank him for Friday night.

When you walked in, the secretary wasn’t there. She must’ve already gone home, so you walked to his office and knocked twice on the door.

“Yes?”

You stepped inside carefully, as though he were asleep and you were trying not to wake him. When you walked in, Jisung sat directly in front of you at his desk, tapping his pen on the desk and staring down at his notes. He didn’t look at you, didn’t acknowledge your presence, until you spoke up.

“Um, hey. I hope I’m not bothering you.”

He finally raised his eyes to meet your gaze, only for a moment. It seemed as though hearing your voice made him finally recognize that you were there, in front of him. He seemed pleasantly surprised to see you but remained focused on his work.

“I’m sorry y/n. I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

 “It’s okay, you weren’t ignoring. I can see you’re busy,” you shook your head. You leaned against the back of the wall. “Also, thank you for taking me home the other night. I shouldn’t have drunk that much.”

Jisung placed his pen on the table, letting out a small chuckle at your words. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad you had a good time.”

You smiled back. You debated in your head for a moment on whether or not to ask the question that had been pulling at your mind for some time. “Are you doing alright? You seemed out of it today.”

Jisung’s smile dropped very slightly, like he knew the answer already but wasn’t sure how to word it. His eyes drifted from the page he was reading, now looking off to the side with his tongue poking the side of his cheek. He didn’t look annoyed, not at you. He simply looked lost in thought, contemplating his answer.

After a moment of silence, Jisung pushed his chair back before standing up. With his hands in his pockets, he walked over towards you, slowly, until he was right in front of you. You wanted to step back, but the wall behind you halted your movements.

Jisung paused once he could feel the fabric of your blouse brushing his shirt. His voice lowered as he spoke. “I had a really nice time too, you know?”

He had ignored your question, but you chose not to acknowledge that. You nodded, “That’s great to hear.”

“Mhm,” Jisung’s hands left his pockets, now grazing the lower buttons of your blouse. “It’s a shame though.”

You looked up at him, confusion plastered on your face. “Shame?”

He pursed his lips, watching his own fingers touching your buttons. “Mhm. Shame I didn’t get to play with you that night.”

Your breath hitched. You suddenly became aware of the fact that his hands were on you, or your clothes for that matter. You had also wished he could’ve touched you that night, kissed you, anything. Knowing that he wanted you too made you feel all that more aroused.

“I wanted to.”

“I know,” he said with a quiet sort of confidence. His figure stood over you, not necessarily in height but in aura. His hair was slightly messy, more unkept than it had been earlier that day in court. His sleeves were rolled up his arms, revealing his gold watch wrapped on his right wrist. His hands played with your buttons a bit longer before he finally unhooked one.

“Whoops,” he gave you a look of mischief. You knew he didn’t mean it. Every movement of his was calculated, he never did anything he didn’t want to.

And then he unhooked another one. And you allowed him. He kept going until your entire blouse was unbuttoned. He brought his fingers up to your shoulders, pulling off your top and dropping it on the floor. You stood there, in your bra, awaiting his next move.

Jisung didn’t waste anytime slipping his finger into the cup of your bra, pulling it down and revealing your breast to him. He lowered his head, and you knew what he was about to do.

You felt the warm sensation of his tongue on your nipple. You let out a gasp as your body jerked forward, and Jisung placed his other hand on your lower back to steady you. He rubbed quick circles around your nipple, occasioning sucking to push you over the edge even more.

You let out a soft moan when you felt his teeth bite down slightly on your skin. The sounds you made only egged him on, making him want to bite harder. The air around you two suddenly felt heavy, the walls closing in.

After a few minutes later, his mouth left your breast to pepper kisses along your chest up to your neck, all the way to your ear. He took your ear lobe in his mouth, nibbling, sucking, while his hand made its way down your stomach, stopping just at the hem of your pants. You pushed your body into his, silently giving him permission to continue.

His kisses felt like heaven. This wasn’t why you came to his office in the first place; you wanted to check in with him, to thank him for Friday night, but you didn’t care to question it. His lips were soft, yet his actions determined. His hand bunched up the fabric of your pants, like he was securing you in place.

“I’ve had such a stressful day at work today, baby,” he whispered against your ear. “Can you make it better?”

You nodded, too immersed in the pleasure to reply. But that’s not what he wanted. He needed words, you knew that. “Yes.”

“That’s right, I know you can,” he moaned into your ear. “You always take such good care of me.”

His words indicated submission, but his tone indicated that he was still in control. He was always in control. You decided to make the next bold move, and with your back pushed against the wall, you slid down until you were all the way down on your knees in front of him.

Jisung already looked feral. He loved seeing you on your knees, submissive and ready to do anything to make him feel good. He dropped one hand down to grab your chin and make you look directly at him.

“Fuck,” he exclaimed, his voice now dropping an octave lower than before. “I swear I could cum just looking at that fucking innocent face of yours.”

You blushed at the compliment; your cheeks still squished in his hand. He let go of your chin, running his hand through your hair before grabbing a tight handful of it.

You knew what to do, you always did. You unzipped his pants, dropping them down to reveal his black boxers. Jisung immediately pulled you towards him, rubbing his already hard bulge against your face. His head fell back at the anticipation of finally getting his cock into that wet mouth of yours.

He didn’t want to wait any longer. He pulled down his boxers with his one hand before wrapping it around the tip of his cock.

“Tongue out, now” he instructed, and you complied. Almost immediately, Jisung slapped his cock on your tongue, on your cheek, rubbing it along your lips, before pushing in. He let out a deep groan as he felt your warm throat hugging his cock.

“Your throat is always so tight, baby. Like it’s been waiting for me,” his words had an effect on you like no other. You hummed in acknowledgment, which of course only made him hungrier. His hips, stilled, now began to move at a pace comfortable to him.

You lips tugged on his cock like a lollipop, driving him mad inside.

You kept trying to hold his shirt up with your free hand, but it became gradually harder as your vision became cloudier with tears and your face flushed.

“This fucking shirt,” Jisung aggressively unbuttoned his top like it was a matter of life or death, tossing it to the side. You watched his abs come into full view, and you felt yourself become wetter at the sight. His toned figure made him look like a god. He was buffer than you’d expect an attorney whose buried in his work 95% of the time to be. But his body was built like someone who went to the gym regularly, and you never got tired of seeing it. And standing before you, made you want to worship him until the end of the earth.

Now, Jisung could fully see your face. Your beautiful, fucked out face. Spit running down your chin, cheeks red, makeup running down your face. You looked like a disaster; a perfect disaster made for him, by him.

He continued to fuck your face. He was greedy, taking his pleasure like he was entitled to it.

“I wanted to do this Friday night,” he confessed. “But you had to get fucking drunk.”

You moaned around his cock, bringing a hand up to his thigh in an attempt to steady yourself. He continued talking, not phased by your hands.

“I should’ve taken you home before that first glass. Ripped that fucking tight dress off your body, thrown you onto the floor and fucked the shit out of you. You would’ve been sober enough to feel everything. Fucking every inch of me.”

He was using your mouth as though he were masturbating, vocalizing all the dirty fantasies he had been dreaming about with you. If you wanted to reply, you couldn’t. Jisung didn’t hold up, getting off on you gagging on his cock and crying out in pleasure.

“You always love it when I use your body like this. To take out my frustrations on you.”

You tapped your hand on his thigh now, trying to get his attention. He noticed, and with one frustrated grunt, he pulled your face away from his cock.

He leaned over with your mouth still wide open, and spat hard onto your tongue. You gasped, not expecting it, but you shut your mouth to swallow his spit nonetheless. His eyebrow raised in approval, and he took his hand to your chin, shoving his thumb down your throat as if he were trying to ensure you had swallowed every last drop of him. You weren’t like that; you’d always make sure to take everything he gave you.

He pulled you up by your hair, turning you over to face the wall.

Jisung wasted no time in slapping your ass through your pants, cursing at the way it recoiled. His hands slipped around the unbutton your pants, tugging them down with such force you almost fell over. That, and you were also in a complete daze from his cock being so far down your throat you almost saw stars.

After your pants then came your underwear, and suddenly you were completely naked aside from your bra still being on. Jisung didn’t care much about that.

Jisung positioned himself at your entrance. You could hear the audible sound of him spitting onto his cock, more so for dramatic effect as his cock was still soaked from your throat.

His hand wrapped around the front of your throat, bringing you closer to him. You were trapped entirely in between his body and the wall, although you had no intentioned of escaping.

“I’m going to fuck you now, alright?,” he was asking for permission without actually asking for permission. “And you’re going to take it, okay?”

You nodded, “Mhm.”

“Good.,” his free hand pushed down on your lower back, making you arch into him. He held his cock right at your entrance, and you braced yourself for what lay ahead.

Jisung paused, giving one last line before inserted himself inside of you. “And you’re also going to tap on me three times if it gets too much, alright?”

You nodded.

“Give me an answer, baby”

“Yes, sir”

“That’s fucking right.” With that, your jaw fell as you felt your pussy stretch with the feeling of his cock. Jisung let out a strained moan.

You knew he was watching himself stretch you out, he usually did when you fucked. He liked the visual of his cock disappearing inside of you, and the euphoria he felt when your walls would wrap around him so tight every time.

He held himself in place for a moment, very obviously trying to tease you but also trying to keep his composure long enough for you to adjust to his size. “Jesus fucking Christ, baby.”

When your breathing seemed to calm down he pulled himself back, holding you still, before slamming back into you. You let out a choked moan as you reached around to touch his lower stomach, trying desperately to brace yourself. You knew it was useless. He was so deep it felt illegal, his body was poison and his actions borderline sinful. The way he made you suck him off – no. the way he fucked your face – just building up to what he really had planned for you.

Once he was inside you, nothing else mattered in the world. You hadn’t come here for him to fuck you, but god, you were glad you were leaving having achieved that.

His pace quickened as he chased his own pleasure, and got off on the sounds you were just barely managing to slip out. His pace got more aggressive, more careless, angrier. His thrusts were sloppier, his hands gripping hard onto your neck and your hip like he was on the verge of falling off the deep end. He was obsessed with your body, with the way your pussy would take him each time, and he was doing everything but holding back from letting you know that.

“Shit, you’re so fucking warm. You know exactly how to make my fucking day.,” you knew he was talking about you, but you also knew he didn’t expect you to answer. How could you respond in your current state?

“Stupid fucking people, stupid deadlines. Wish everyone would just fuck off.,” Jisung’s thrusts got harder when his voice did. Every curse had his hips slamming against your ass, like he was trying to get his point across to no one in particular.

You didn’t try to respond, you just let him talk, let him take out his frustrations on you. You allowed yourself to melt into the pleasure, eyes rolling into the back of your head as you felt the world fade around you both.

“No one fucking gets it. The work,” his hands moved to grip your ass, the other latching onto the back strap of your bra. “The fucking pressure. All of that for nothing. No recognition, only more expectations.”

Jisung kept going, never slowing down. He was so immersed in his own pleasure, encouraged by the sounds of your strained moans and your pussy clenching around his cock. Your legs buckled and you felt yourself wanting to fall more each time cock reached unimaginable depths within you.

“And this fucking pussy,” he was now talking directly to you. “None of that matters when I’m inside this fucking tight pussy.”

You wanted to respond now, to tell him how good he was making you feel. How you felt your orgasm coming fast. But each time you tried, the words only came out in choked moans.

“Ji-“, was all you could manage to choke out.

Jisung didn’t care that you couldn’t talk. He knew what he wanted, and he was going to take it.

That’s when you felt the world crash underneath you, and with one swift movement, your legs fully buckled and you both slipped onto the floor.

Jisung didn’t stop, not for long. He let himself fall with you, not wanting to lose the feeling of your pussy for too long. He braced himself by grabbing your hips, pulling you in his embrace as you both fell to the floor. His back hit the floor first, then your arms caught your fall on the soft carpet beneath you. Jisung pulled out only momentarily so his could reposition himself. He rolled you onto your back, and he put his hands on either side of your head, pushing himself back into your pussy and letting out a deep groan.

“I’m so close baby,” he pleaded to you. “I’m so close, are you close? Wanna cum inside of you so bad. Just let me take you there.”

You nodded. You and him were now in missionary, with your hands placed on his chest, steading yourself as he fucked you. His hair was damp, sweat dripping down his chest. He fucked you like an animal, like your touch had possessed him into something unhuman-like. He fucked you with such force it had you gasping for air, craving more and more.

You thought he was about to cum when his hips twitched inside of you and his pace faltered, until he wasn’t. He bit down on his lip hard, his chest heaving and his arms trying to keep his balance. He was holding back.

He wanted you to cum first.

Your head rolled back once he lifted one of your legs over his shoulder, somehow now able to fuck you even deeper. His hips were pulling out almost fully before slamming back into you. The feeling of his full length stretching you out, paired with his groans only motivated the orgasm building up inside of you.

“Oh god, Jisung,” you moaned out.

“Yeah baby, that’s it,” Jisung said, his tone stuttering like he was begging for it. “You’re gonna make a mess while I fuck your pretty pussy?”

He proceeding to encourage you more, still mixing it with a hint of degradation.

“Cum for me right fucking now, baby. I need it so bad.,” Jisung took one hand around your throat, and like a light switch, the feeling triggered your orgasm to finally wash over you. “You’re all I need. This body, this pussy, your moans, it’s all I need right now.”

You weren’t even sure of the sounds that were coming from your mouth. All you felt was the intense wave of please rushing over you, starting low and sparking up to your head.

Soon enough, you felt the warm sensation of Jisung’s cum spilling into you. Your pussy clenched around him, only causing Jisung to vocalize his pleasure even more. His hips slammed into yours as he came, whispering curses to himself about god knows what.

Jisung collapsed on top of you, soft enough not to hurt you but hard enough to cause you to gasp.

Heavy breathing, sweat coating both of your bodies, the silence floating in the room.

For a moment, you couldn’t move. You could only try to catch your breath while Jisung lay on top of you. Before long, he rolled off of you and onto the floor next to you.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he ran a hand through his hair, now drenched in sweat as he looked over to you, still laying on the floor in your same position. “I should’ve slowed down. Given you a chance to breathe.”

“No,” you smiled, gasping for air. “No. That felt good. Like, unimaginably good.”

Jisung nodded, appreciating the reassurance. “Good. So, you’re okay?”

“Yes, Jisung. I’m okay. Are you?”

He looked over at you, his eyes uncertain. “Yeah, yeah. I’m good. That was good.”

One more pause. “Hey. I’m not sure why we haven’t done this already, but, can I have your number?”

You had wondered the same. All the weeks of interactions and you’d never thought to get his number. But you guessed that since you aways knew where to go, and what time, it hadn’t crossed your mind before today.

“Yeah, definitely.,” you probably didn’t have to respond, with how quickly you got up to grab your clothing, searching for your clothing in the meantime. You got dressed and handed the phone over to him to put his number in.

Jisung <3

You looked at him, puzzled. “Why the heart?”

He shrugged, lifting himself off of the floor to meet your gaze. “Why not?”

“Because you’re not my boyfriend. Or my mother.”

Jisung scoffed. “Well, that’s just impossible. And the other like, really unrealistic in so many ways.”

You weren’t entirely sure which of those things he was referring to. From what you understood, both of those things were impossible.

You watched as Jisung walked around the room to grab his clothes, slipping on his pants and shirt. He looked a hot mess; his buttons weren’t carefully buttoned up and the cuffs of his sleeves unfolded. His underwear was somewhere unknown to you both, but Jisung didn’t seem to care about that so long as he had something to cover himself up with.

Jisung was the first to speak after the long pause. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, honestly I need to get home,” you shook your head, ruffling your shirt so you looked at least a little decent.

Jisung’s eyes flickered with a hint of disappointment. You saw it, but he seemed to play it off as tiredness.

You walked home that night feeling strange. Jisung usually took his frustrations out on you, but this felt different. It felt stronger, more intense. Like it was pent up anger just crawling to come out. And he had let some of it out.

That night you realized you hadn’t even checked to make sure his number went through. You grabbed your phone, falling on your bed as you opened your messages.

You:

Just testing this out. Can you see my message?

Jisung<3:

Yes. Can you see mine?

You:

Okay good😊 yes I can see your message.

Jisung<3:

Apologies for being so rough today. Hope your body is holding up.

You:

I’m fine, took a bath when I came home. Thanks for asking though.

Jisung<3:

Hm. Good.

Three bubbles. Then they disappeared. Then they showed up again.

Hope you have a good night.

----------------------------------------

Tuesday came and you finally felt the affects of your time with Jisung. You rose from your bed, your body feeling sorer than yesterday. You did your best to stretch, working out all the strains in your body before getting up to get dressed for work.

Today, you were to report in a settlement conference. Family court. It wasn’t that you found Family court boring, but it was mostly just discussions with the judge that had you having to hold back yawns.

Work ended, and your patience nearly did too. You started to walk home from work, looking forward to a night of watching TV and peace and quiet. You chose not to stop by Jisung’s office today, your body was still sore and you were mentally exhausted.

Then, your phone dinged.

Jisung<3:

You looked lovely in that blouse, by the way.

You squinted at your phone. How the hell-?

Jisung hadn’t even been on the same floor as you let alone the same court, how could he have seen you?

You:

Are you stalking me? How did you know I was wearing a blouse.

Jisung<3:

I was talking about yesterday, silly. But have you forgotten we quite literally work in the same building?

You slapped your hand on your forehead, almost cartoonishly. Of course he was referring to Monday.

You:

I know, I know. I was joking.

Anyways, I won’t be able to stop by your office tonight.

Jisung<3:

Shame. How come?

You:

I don’t think I can physically make it there. I think you broke me.

Jisung<3:

Should I apologize? Or do you need some head to make you feel better.

You scoffed at his bluntness. He was definitely horny.

You:

You’re such a whore. Get some therapy or something to deal with that 😉

Jisung<3:

That pussy is better than therapy.

You’re better than therapy.

Your heart fluttered faster than you could tell it to stop. You knew he hadn’t meant for it to come across as romantic, you knew he was referring to the sex, but you couldn’t help but to think there was a small chance, a tiny possibility, that he meant it for you.

You:

I’m sure you can get it somewhere else, don’t let me hold you up.

Jisung<3:

Cute.

Don’t act like you wouldn’t just love for me to pin you down on your bed, or your couch, or wherever the hell you are now, and make you forget all about your pain. I’d have you melting like ice on my tongue within 5 minutes.

You wouldn’t even have to do anything.

Jisung never failed to surprise you. Just yesterday he was using your body like he was claiming you, now he talked about gently bringing you to your high with his tongue. You pretended like it wasn’t effecting you, but you always loved when he ate you out. He took his time driving you wild, not in the way that meant he was always soft, but in the way that meant he’d hold you back from orgasming if it meant he could taste you for longer. You had already told him you weren’t interested, and your pride wanted it to remain that way.

You:

You’re insufferable. A real whore, you know that?

Jisung<3:

I’m the whore, but I bet you’re already thinking about touching yourself, right?

Shit.

You:

Wrong. But I bet you already are, right?

Jisung<3:

You would be correct.

Your eyes widened as you read the text. Your pussy clenched at the thought of him in his office, which is where he most definitely was, hand wrapped around his cock with the other hand typing out his messages to you. Did he really need you that bad?

There was no way you were folding. This was a game to you, and you knew Jisung wanted you to give in.

You:

Then you have everything you need. Have a good time, don’t stay up too late 😉

You could almost picture it. Jisung, grunting in frustration, throwing his phone on the desk, and rocking his head back into his chair. The image made you laugh to yourself.

-------------------------------------------------

The next day came with a blink of an eye. Literally. You closed your eyes, and almost instantaneously, your alarm woke you back up.

Wednesday. Your least favourite day of the week. The reality always seemed to set in on Wednesdays that you were supposed to get through yet another week. Still three days until the weekend. And two days behind you. It was draining.

And just to make matters worse, Jisung looked deadly today.

He walked into the courtroom, head high and shoulders back. His hair was messy, like he hadn’t bothered to style it today. He sat at the counsel table, not bothering to check that no one else had claimed that seat. He placed his bag down on the table, unboxing the files and paperwork that filled it.

Today, you were scheduled in a preliminary hearing. It seemed to be that Jisung represented the defendant.

And Jisung was completely, utterly focused. He glanced at his notes one last time before court opened, and in came the judge.

“Good morning all,” the judge spoke. “I understand there is a preliminary hearing to be held today. It is the matter of R v. Seo. Mr. Han, I understand you represent the accused in this matter.”

Jisung rose from his seat with a sort of confidence that drew eyes to his direction. “Ah, yes Your Honour. My client is Mr. Seo in this matter.”

The Crown began presenting the case by reading in the facts. At approximately 1:35am on Tuesday evening, police conducted a search after a call had been anonymously made alleging that drugs were in the home. The police had arrived at the location, and requested that they enter the house. The man at the door refused, and the police caught sight of something in the background. A coffee table, with drugs and drug paraphernalia scattered everywhere. The police arrested the accused, and now here he was facing charges for possession of illicit substances.

“Objection,” Jisung stood from his desk. “This is merely inadmissible evidence. The Prosecution has stated that illicit drugs were found in the home of Mr. Seo. But where is the evidence that states these were Mr. Seo’s drugs? DNA? My client has already testified, under oath might I add, that he spends half his day at work every weekday, and his roommate only works 3 days a week. How are we, as a court, certain that these are Mr. Seo’s drugs and his alone?”

Jisung’s objection was carefully laid out, yet straight to the point. But he wasn’t done.

“Not to mention, where is the evidence that this discovery was lawful. How are we certain that Mr. Seo’s rights have been protected, the right to reasonable search and seizure upheld? The police approach his door, from his testimony and police reports, we learn that he’s calm, collected, and willing to answer questions. That is, until the police request, no, demand, that they enter his house to search. Where is the warrant?”

You can’t help but smirk. It might be a simple observation, but a clever one nonetheless.

It’s the Prosecutions turn to speak up. “Your Honour if I may,” he doesn’t wait for permission to continue. “The police did not enter his home, as per Mr. Seo’s request, so they did not require a warrant. They simply look to his side and see the coffee table full of drugs and-.”

Jisung cuts him off. “And decide to take it upon themselves to arrest the accused.”

He turns now to look at him. “Without immediately initiating a drug test. In fact, if I recall from the police records… they did not even read him his rights.”

The Prosecution hasn’t spoken. Your fingers hover over your keyboard for a response, anything. But nothing. Until Jisung decides to speak up again, now locking eyes with the judge, holding eye contact like he knew he was right.

“Your Honour, that would be all for my objection.”

“Sustained.”

Jisung remains professional despite the no doubt shit eating grin that’s probably trying to crawl its way out. The court closes with a dismissal of the charges, earlier than expected.

You ask your supervisor of any work that you could do, but he declines, instead sending you home early as a reward for “working so hard.”

You head home that day, hungry, tired, and still thinking about how attractive Jisung had looked today. You never got tired of glancing at him from your desk, watching him argue his case with such attractiveness.

Jisung<3:

Caught you eyeing me in court today. Does my confidence turn you on?

You:

I wasn’t looking at you. I was watching that prosecutor eat his words.

Jisung<3:

Well that too.

Anyways, I’ve been thinking about taking you on another date soon. This time, a surprise. Friday night again. What do you say?

You:

Alright, count me in.

You weren’t sure if what you were getting into was a good idea or you were just digging yourself deeper. But either way, you couldn’t help the feeling stirring in your stomach when you received that text from Jisung. Whatever awaited you Friday evening, you were sure you were ready.

[littlemonstrosityy]

𝑨𝒍𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕, 𝑨𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 ~ Chapter Five (Casey Novak x Reader)

casey novak x female reader

slow burn, angst, emotional hurt/comfort, eventual smut word count: 2k

After a week of distance, wine night brings them back together. Confessions linger beneath every glance, and somewhere between laughter and silence, the inevitable happens. Read on AO3 A lot of smut's about to happen in the next chapter :))

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑭𝒊𝒗𝒆 - 𝑨𝒍𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝑯𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒕

Casey was convinced she’d only stay for an hour, maybe two if the wine hit her. She wouldn’t stay late, wouldn’t let herself get too comfortable, wouldn’t sit too close.

The taxi ride over felt longer than usual, like she was out of her body. Unable to face her mind.

You opened the door before she could even knock, standing there in soft clothes and slides, your hair a little messy from the end of the day. You look so you. So easy, warm and familiar in a way that made her stomach turn.

“Hey,” you said, eyes searching hers for something. “You made it.”

“I said I would,” she replied, quieter than she meant to.

Your expression didn’t shift much, but she could feel the tension just under your skin, like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to be happy to see her.

“Come in. The wine’s already breathing or whatever.”

Casey stepped inside, the smell of your apartment, of you, already making her feel unsteady. Something herbal, something floral. Something like home.

She set her things down on the kitchen counter and lingered there awkwardly, pretending to read the label on the one you’d opened. You moved around her, brushing past her back lightly as you reached for your glasses. The contact was brief and accidental, but she felt it shoot up her spine like static.

You weren’t talking much either. That was new. Usually, you filled the space with joking or rambling until Casey loosened up enough to join in. But with this newfound space, the quiet felt weighted. You passed her a glass, and your fingers touched, just barely. Neither of you acknowledged it.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice low, her eyes on the wine instead of you.

You nodded, then turned toward the living room without another word. Casey followed, steps cautious as she felt out of place in a place she used to feel at ease in. You sat in your usual spot on the couch, tucking both feet under you. She hesitated for half a second before taking the cushion beside you. It was the same place she always sat, but it didn’t feel like it anymore.

You raised your glass halfway, lips pulling into a faint and hesitant smile.

“To pretending nothing’s weird,” you said, casual and half joking, but your voice thinned a little at the edges.

Casey exhaled softly through her nose, not quite a laugh. She tapped her glass against yours.

“To being very good at that,” she said.

The wine was sharp on her tongue. It didn’t help. You both took slow sips. The silence that followed wasn’t hostile, just thick. The usual comfortable silence was now lined with something unspoken.

Your knees brushed, but this time, neither of you pulled away.

The silence lingered. You both stared straight ahead at the muted TV, something forgettable flickering in the corner of the room. Neither of you was watching. Casey’s grip on her wine glass was too tight. Her knuckles were pale, the tip of her finger pressed hard enough to leave a mark on the stem. She was sitting with perfect posture, back barely touching the couch, knees together, feet flat on the floor like she was at a deposition.

You glanced sideways at her. She didn’t look back. Your knee was still touching hers, lightly. She hadn’t pulled away, but she hadn’t leaned in either. It was like sitting beside someone you used to know.

You cleared your throat gently. “So… are you gonna tell me what’s going on, or are we meant to keep sitting in silence?”

Casey’s jaw flexed. She didn’t move.

“Because if it’s something I did, I’d rather know than spend the rest of the week wondering what the hell I said to make you shut down.”

Her eyes stay fixed on the screen. You leaned back slightly, your voice softer this time. “You’ve been weird with me for days, Novak. You won’t even look at me.”

That made her head turn. She met your eyes like it physically hurt to do so. Her gaze was sharp, but fragile, like a sheet of glass about to shatter.

“I am looking at you,” she said quietly.

You tilted your head, a small, sad smile tugging at your mouth. “Not like you used to.”

That landed. You saw it in the way her shoulders tensed, in the way her eyes fluttered shut for a second. She looked away again, fingers tightening slightly around the glass. Her voice came low. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

There was a pause. One beat too long. You blinked.

“What does that mean?”

Casey didn’t answer right away. She stared down into her wine like she was looking for the words. Her mouth opened, then closed again. She exhaled, short and frustrated, like it was your fault, until she finally muttered, “It’s hard to pretend you’re just my friend when you look at me like that.”

The silence was different this time. You didn’t speak. You didn’t move. And neither did she.

Casey didn’t look at you, her words impossible to take back. Her shoulders were still tense, her wine untouched in her lap. The flickering light from the TV caught in the curve of her jaw, outlining how still she’d gone.

You placed your wine glass on the coffee table with a careful clink. Then, you sat back, your throat tight. It should’ve meant something to hear her say that, but it was hard to feel anything clearly through the fog of the last few days.

The silence stretched. Not peaceful. Not safe. Finally, you spoke, your voice low, not quite steady.

“I’ve been looking at you the same way for months, Casey.”

She blinked. Her mouth parted slightly like she wanted to respond, but didn’t know how. You didn’t wait for her to figure it out.

“But suddenly now it’s a problem?”

Her jaw clenched, but still, she said nothing.

You turned toward her a little, one leg shifting so your knee fully pressed into hers. Not teasing, not flirty, but grounding. A touch that asked Why are you pulling away from me?

“You ignore my texts, avoid me all week, look through me like I don’t even exist,” you continued, quieter now, but still sharp around the edges. “And I’m just meant to be what, flattered? Flattered that you finally decided to show up and admit something after pretending I wasn’t in the room every time we passed in the hallway?”

She didn’t flinch, but her eyes were glassy.

You exhaled slowly, biting back the part of you that still wanted to reach for her. “You don’t get to act like I’m the problem because you started feeling something.”

That made her breathe in sharply like a bruise that had been pressed.

You looked at her then. Really looked. “So what is this? Hm? You want me to stop looking at you like that? You want me to pretend I don’t feel it too?”

That silenced whatever she was about to say. Because she had been about to say something, but now she couldn’t.

There was panic in her eyes, but also something softer beneath it. Regret, maybe, or longing she hadn’t found the courage to name until now.

“I didn’t mean to–” she started, her voice fragile, thin around the edges. “I didn’t mean to shut you out like that. I just…”

She paused, searching for the right words. They didn’t come easily. They never did for her.

“I needed space. I needed to stop feeling like I was going to fall apart every time you looked at me like that.”

You watched her closely. “So you decided to punish me for making you feel something?”

Casey flinches at that, but doesn’t argue. Her silence said enough.

You shook your head slowly, the heat in your chest rising again. “You don’t get to shut me out for days, ignore me like I never mattered, and then sit on my couch like nothing happened. Am I supposed to just understand?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said, quiet and desperate now. “It’s not about you. It’s me. I–”

You cut her off before she could fall back on that cliche. “No. It is about me. It’s about what you did to me. You think I haven’t noticed how you retreat every time it gets a little too close? Like, if you just run fast enough, I’ll stop caring?”

Casey looked away again. You didn’t let her.

“You don’t get to be terrified and tender and then disappear. Not with me. I’ve done nothing but show up for you. I’ve sat beside you and waited for you to say something. Anything while you stared at me like you wanted to and didn’t.”

Casey’s lips parted like she wanted to say something. You waited, you were done filling in the blanks for her.

“I don’t know how to want something without ruining it,” she said, voice low, almost like it wasn’t meant to be heard. “I never learned how.”

You blinked, your heart tugging painfully in your chest. You could see how scared she was. But fear wasn’t a free pass, not anymore.

“Then maybe figure it out,” you said, steady and quiet. “Because I’m not going to keep handing myself to you if you’re not ready to take me.”

That landed. She nodded once, barely perceptible. Then stood up, a little too quickly, setting her untouched wine glass on the table.

“I should go,” she said.

You didn’t stop her.

She walked to the door in silence, pulling her coat from the hook without meeting your eyes again. When she opened it, the cold air rushed in and filled the space she used to be in.

You followed, just far enough to see her cross the street. She didn’t look back. A cab rolled up like it had been waiting for her. She got in, and you stood there watching as it pulled away.

When you closed the door, the room felt bigger. Quieter.

You gathered the glasses without thinking, bringing them to the sink with the kind of mechanical focus that only came from trying not to feel too much. The wine had gone warm, even though the couch still held the shape of where she’d been sitting.

You didn’t cry, you told yourself you weren’t going to cry.

You rinsed a glass, the water running too loudly in the sink. You were halfway through drying it when a knock came.

It wasn’t loud, it was just a soft, uncertain knock.

You paused, towel still in hand, when for a second you thought you’d imagined it. Then it came again.

You walked slowly to the door, heart pounding. You didn’t know what you expected to see. Maybe your neighbour, maybe no one at all.

But when you opened it–

There she was.

Coat still on, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes wide and glassy like she hadn’t blinked since she left.

“I got in a cab,” she said, breath catching on the words. “And I told him to drive, but I couldn’t, I just couldn’t leave like that.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t move.

“I’m sorry,” she said, stepping forward, just enough for you to smell her again. Her perfume mixed with the wine she barely drank, the warmth of her body just under her coat. “I was scared. I am scared. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you.”

She paused, searching your face like she might still be turned away.

“I want you so badly it makes me feel sick sometimes. And I don’t know what to do with that, except… be here.”

Her voice broke a little. “If you’ll still let me.”

You didn’t say anything. You just stepped forward, reached for her coat with one hand, and kissed her.

It was soft at first. An answer, an acceptance, a question she hasn’t known how to ask. Her lips parted under yours with a quiet gasp, her hand coming to your waist like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to touch you yet.

You pulled her inside without breaking the kiss, the door closing behind her with a dull click. Her coat was cold against your arms, but her mouth was warm and trembling and so, so real.

When you finally pulled back to breathe, her eyes fluttered open, wide and blown and already wrecked.

“I wanted this,” she whispered, voice catching in her throat. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

You leaned in again, forehead pressing gently into hers. “Then show me.”

Her hands gripped your hips like she was trying not to shake.

“You’re not getting rid of me now,” she murmured, voice lower, rougher. “You understand that, right?”

You smiled, breathless. “Good.”

She kissed you again, like it hurt to stop. This time, there was nothing tentative about it. Her hands slid under your shirt, fingers splayed wide across your back, holding you close like she’d fall apart if you pulled away.

“God, the things I’ve thought about doing to you,” she breathed into your mouth, her voice cracked and urgent. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You gasped as her teeth scraped your bottom lip, her mouth hot and desperate against yours. Your hands tangled in her coat, trying to get closer, closer, but still it wasn’t enough.

She pulled back just enough to look at you. “Take me to bed.”

You didn’t hesitate.