#because I haven’t been on here in a long time

[orangeblossomsintheair]

HONEY YOU’RE FAMILIAR | MV33

summary : For a second, he thinks about turning around. Walking out. Pretending he never saw you, because what’s the point? It’s not like he can just waltz up to you and say, “Hey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than I’m emotionally constipated. Want to get a drink?”

wc : 5k

an : writing this to distract myself from my other wips? ..i would never.. 😦 also i wrote this at 12 am so let this not be a place of judgement :))

Max sometimes forgets how small Monaco is.

It’s easy to do when most of his memories of the place are a blur of fast cars and glittering parties. He spends most of his time racing through the streets during the Grand Prix or holed up in a hotel room overlooking the harbor.

When you’re constantly traveling the world, hopping between paddocks and podiums, the compactness of Monaco barely registers. It’s a speck on the map, a gilded bubble he never really bothers to think about until it’s right in his face.

But sometimes, like tonight, he’s reminded.

Monaco isn’t a city, not really.

It’s a playground. A handful of streets strung together like a necklace, choked with Lamborghinis, Rolls-Royces, and yachts so big they could be small countries. It’s a place where everyone knows everyone.

Or, at the very least, they know of everyone.

The millionaires gossip about the billionaires. The bartenders know who tips in cash and who never tips at all. Even the stray cats probably have dirt on the local royals.

It’s not just small in size. It’s tight.

Wealth wraps around this place like a noose, strangling it into exclusivity.

There are no dark corners to disappear into, no sprawling suburbs to lose yourself in.

Just a few restaurants, a few clubs, and a few streets where the same people circle each other like they’re on a carousel. If you’re here long enough, you’ll eventually run into everyone you’ve ever met.

Even the ones you’ve been trying to avoid.

Max doesn’t think about that when he walks into the bar.

He’s not in the mood for deep reflection or existential dread. He’s here because Daniel said he needed a drink, and when Daniel Ricciardo says you need a drink, you listen.

That’s how Max ends up at some overpriced lounge that smells like vodka and ambition, standing under soft, warm lighting that’s trying too hard to make the place feel classy instead of claustrophobic.

He’s nursing a beer, half-listening to Daniel tell some convoluted story about a failed date and a stolen Vespa, when he hears it.

A voice.

Your voice.

It’s the kind of thing that cuts through the noise without him even realizing why. It’s not loud or particularly distinct; it’s not like you’re screaming or making a scene. But it’s you. The way you talk, your cadence, the rise and fall of your words. It’s all so achingly familiar that it grabs him by the throat and yanks.

Max freezes. His drink doesn’t make it to his lips.

The years fall away in a blink, and suddenly, it’s like no time has passed.

He’s twenty-two again, still figuring out how to smile for cameras, while you’re draped over the back of his couch, talking absolute nonsense about whether or not the cars in Cars have insurance or not.

He doesn’t even realize he’s turned to look until he spots you.

You’re standing at the bar, laughing as you say something to the bartender. It’s loud, and Max can’t hear you properly, but he can feel you.

The way you lean casually on the counter, the tilt of your head, the way you wave your hand to punctuate whatever you’re saying. It’s so painfully, annoyingly you.

And God, you look good.

For a second, all he can do is stare. You haven’t seen him yet, thank God, because Max Verstappen does not know what the hell to do with himself right now.

You look different.

Not in a drastic way, just… grown.

Your edges are sharper, your presence more refined, like a photo that’s come into focus after years of being a little blurry. But the core of you is still the same. It’s in the way you throw your head back when you laugh, like the world isn’t slowly crumbling under the weight of climate change, billionaires, and whatever Kardashian family drama is brewing this week.

And suddenly, Max is thrown back years.

To a time when you were his person. The one he called when things went sideways, or when he won, or when he was just bored and needed someone to hear him rant about understeer.

You were his best friend.

No. The friend. The one. The only one who ever really got him. And then…Well, then he was an asshole.

He tries to tell himself that you two drifted apart.

People do that, right? It’s life. Except that’s a lie, and Max knows it. You didn’t drift; you held on like a freaking tow hook. You tried—texted him, called him, showed up to races, tried to remind him there was a world outside of 300 km/h and tire degradation.

Max doesn’t know what to do with this. With you. He’s not used to seeing ghosts in real life, and you might as well be one now.

Max debates his next move. He could just… not. Pretend he didn’t notice you. Slip out quietly, finish his drink somewhere else, and avoid whatever emotional grenade this is about to be. That would be the smart thing. The logical thing.

But Max has never been great at logic.

For a second, he thinks about turning around. Walking out. Pretending he never saw you, because what’s the point? It’s not like he can just waltz up to you and say, “Hey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than I’m emotionally constipated. Want to get a drink?”

But then you glance over your shoulder.

And your eyes lock.

He doesn’t have time to decide whether to stay or bolt

You see him.

And Max realizes he’s fucked.

For a split second, he thinks you might look away, maybe pretend you didn’t see him either.

He’s not sure if he’s hoping for that or dreading it. But then your face lights up, and the look you give him isn’t what he expects.

It’s warm. Familiar. Like you’re genuinely happy to see him.

His chest tightens. Max isn’t sure what he thought he’d see. Resentment, awkwardness, indifference, maybe.

But this? This disarms him completely.

You wave, and before he knows it, his feet are moving.

“Maxy,” you say as he approaches, your voice carrying that teasing lilt that could only ever be you. It knocks the breath out of him, so familiar and effortless it almost hurts. “Long time no see.”

Max freezes for the briefest of moments, the nickname hitting him like a slap and a hug all at once. Maxy. No one’s called him that in years. Not his family. Not his team. Not anyone.

No one except you.

“Yeah, uh, long time,” he manages, scratching the back of his neck in a gesture so awkwardly familiar it almost makes you laugh. He looks like he’s 17 again, shy and unsure.

Before either of you can say more, Daniel sidles up next to him, a beer in hand and an amused eyebrow raised as he glances between the two of you. “Know her?” Daniel asks, his voice dripping with curiosity.

“He does,” you reply smoothly before Max can fumble an answer. Your smirk is playful, but there’s no bite to it, just that same easy warmth Max hasn’t felt in what feels like forever. “I used to keep this one in line. Back when he was all awkward interviews and tragic haircuts.”

Daniel barks out a laugh, glancing at Max’s meticulously styled hair. “Tragic haircuts? Wait, this-” he gestures wildly at Max’s head, like it’s some architectural masterpiece “-is the improved version?”

You’re already laughing, and it’s the kind of laugh Max hasn’t heard in years.

He groans, dragging a hand over his face, though the corners of his mouth are betraying him with a faint smile. “Don’t encourage her,” he mutters to Daniel, but his tone is far too soft to have any weight.

It’s stupid how easy this feels. How natural. Max isn’t used to easy anymore.

Daniel, bless him, is soaking it all in.

“So?” he says, giving Max a teasing nudge. “Aren’t you going to introduce me, or do I have to guess?”

“I was getting there,” Max grumbles, shooting him a half-hearted glare before looking at you. For a moment, he falters. He doesn’t know what to call you. Acquaintance feels too cold. Stranger would be a lie. And friend? That feels like stepping too far into a past he’s not sure he’s ready to face.

“An old friend,” you offer, saving him effortlessly, like you always did. “And you must be the famous Daniel Ricciardo.”

Daniel grins, full of boyish charm. “Guilty as charged,” he says, tipping his beer in a mock toast. “And let me just say, I already like you. Great taste in insults.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Ricciardo,” you say, though your smirk says otherwise.

The three of you fall into an almost absurdly natural rhythm, as though you’ve all been doing this for years. Daniel’s effortless charisma bounces off your sharp wit, and Max finds himself smiling more in five minutes than he has in weeks.

Maybe months.

It’s like the weight on his shoulders has lifted, just for a moment, and he can breathe again.

You’re mid-story when he realizes he hasn’t felt this light in ages.

“So there I was,” you’re saying to Daniel, gesturing dramatically, “dragging Max out of his hotel room because he was refusing to face the world after a bad race.”

“I wasn’t refusing to face the world,” Max interjects, but there’s no real heat in his voice.

You give him a look that could level a building. “You were lying on the floor eating Haribo like it was your last meal,” you say, deadpan. “It was tragic. Genuinely tragic.”

Daniel’s cackling now, nearly spilling his beer. “Please tell me there are photos of this.”

“Sadly, no,” you reply with mock disappointment. “But the image is burned into my brain forever. It was that bad.”

Max groans, shaking his head, though the grin tugging at his lips is impossible to hide. “Why did I ever let you into my life?”

“Because no one else could handle you,” you fire back, and it’s so quick, so natural, it makes his chest ache.

Daniel takes a step back, still laughing. “You two are too much,” he says, pointing at the two of you like you’ve just performed a comedy sketch. “I’ll leave you to it. Don’t get too emotional without me, okay? I’m going to find another beer. Or maybe a Vespa to steal. Who knows?”

You watch him disappear into the crowd, still grinning. For a moment, the two of you are left standing there, and the noise of the party seems to fade just slightly.

“Daniel’s fun,” you say, breaking the silence.

“He is,” Max agrees.

When the music starts bumping up again, the two of you are faced with a whole other problem entirely.

“So, you’ve been busy!” you yell, leaning across the sticky bar top, your voice barely cutting through the bass thumping around you.

“What?” Max shouts back, leaning closer.

“I SAID, YOU’VE BEEN BUSY!”

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

“I KNOW! THAT’S WHY I’M SHOUTING!”

“WHAT?”

You throw your hands up in exasperation, but he just smirks, clearly enjoying this.

So you double down.

“DO YOU WANT ANOTHER DRINK?” you bellow, miming holding a glass.

“WHY ARE YOU YELLING ABOUT DRINKS?” he shouts back, baffled.

“BECAUSE IT’S TOO LOUD IN HERE!”

“WHAT?”

This back-and-forth nonsense goes on for an impressively ridiculous three minutes, the two of you getting progressively louder, until Max finally groans, shaking his head like he’s reached his limit.

He steps closer, leans in like he’s about to shout something else, then just presses a warm, steady hand to the small of your back. “Come on,” he says, not even bothering to raise his voice this time.

“What?” you yell, still committed to the bit.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he starts gently steering you toward the stairs, and you stumble a little, caught off guard by the unexpected physical contact.

“Where are we going?” you shout, craning your neck to look at him as you climb.

“UPSTAIRS!”

“WHY?”

“BECAUSE I VALUE MY HEARING!” he fires back, glaring at you over his shoulder.

“OH, NOW YOU CARE ABOUT YOUR HEARING?” you tease, but he ignores you, his hand still firm and insistent on your back as he guides you upstairs.

The VIP section is quieter, tucked away from the pulsating bass and the sweaty chaos of the main club floor. Max had slipped a word to a bouncer—who nodded in a way that made you roll your eyes—and now you’re here, sinking into the plush leather of a semi-circular booth with a ridiculous view of the dance floor below.

The relative silence hits you like a warm blanket. You blink, adjusting to the sudden absence of aggressive EDM, and turn to Max, who looks much too smug for your liking.

“Smuggled into VIP like I’m some sort of black-market item,” you tease. “Careful, Verstappen. This is how egos start.”

“You’re welcome,” he says dryly.

“For what?” you shoot back. “The privilege of not getting tinnitus at 27?”

“Yes,” he replies smoothly, sliding into a nearby booth like he owns the place. “You’re lucky to know me.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “My life has improved immeasurably since you dragged me up here. I’ll write a thank-you card.”

“Make sure it’s handwritten,” he quips, signaling a waiter for drinks. “And don’t skimp on the stationery.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, rolling your eyes but you’re smiling, and he knows it.

He chuckles, leaning forward slightly. “Hey, if you’re going to criticize, at least admit this is better than shouting at each other over terrible music.”

You glance around the room, all dark wood and dim lighting, where a few scattered people are having hushed conversations or staring down at the dance floor with an air of superiority. “Alright,” you admit, “it’s not terrible. But the crowd up here…”

You nod toward a guy at the next table wearing sunglasses, inside, and sipping champagne like it’s water. “Is this your scene now? Bottle service bros and indoor eyewear enthusiasts?”

Max glances at the guy, smirking. “Not my scene. But I figured you deserved something better than sticky floors and overpriced tequila shots.”

You laugh. “Wow. I feel so special. Nothing says friendship like a quiet room and a drink I can’t pronounce.”

“Admit it,” he says, leaning back again. “You love it.”

“I love judging it,” you correct, grinning. “Big difference.”

Max watches you for a moment, shaking his head with an almost fond expression. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“And you’ve changed too much,” you shoot back, gesturing at his ridiculously put-together outfit. “Look at you, Verstappen. Fancy haircut, custom clothes, actual social skills. Who are you?”

“First of all, the haircut is functional,” he retorts, mock offended. “Aerodynamics.”

“Oh, of course. Wouldn’t want your hair slowing you down at 300 kph,” you say, pretending to be serious.

“It’s a real thing!” he insists, laughing now. “If you knew anything about racing-”

“If I knew anything about racing?” you interrupt, your voice rising in mock outrage. “Excuse me, I was there when you had to Google how to talk to the media without sounding like a robot. You think I don’t know the intricacies of racing, Maxy?”

“Don’t call me Maxy,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face.

“Oh, I’m definitely calling you Maxy,” you say, delighted. “I might even get a custom T-shirt. ‘Maxy’s Biggest Fan.’ I’ll wear it to a race.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “If you do that, I’ll steal your phone and delete every embarrassing photo you’ve ever taken of me.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t have backups,” you say smugly, sipping your drink.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head, but there’s a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

For a moment, the two of you fall into an easy silence, the noise of the club below fading into the background. You glance at Max, noting the relaxed set of his shoulders, the way he’s fiddling with the label on his beer bottle—a habit he’s had for as long as you can remember.

“So,” you say, breaking the quiet, “what’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve bought since you became all… you know.”

“All what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You know,” you say, waving a hand vaguely. “World Champion. Multi-millionaire. Guy who smuggles old friends into VIP sections.”

He chuckles. “Ridiculous? I don’t know… probably the private jet.”

You stare at him, deadpan. “The private jet is the least ridiculous thing about you, Verstappen. Try again.”

“Fine,” he says, thinking for a moment. “I bought a sauna for my house. Didn’t use it for six months.”

You burst out laughing. “A sauna? For what? Post-race existential crises?”

He groans, rubbing his temples. “It was a bad idea, okay? I thought it would be relaxing.”

“Did it come with, like, a tiny man who throws water on the rocks for you?” you ask, grinning.

“No, but now I kind of want one,” he admits, laughing.

“God, you’re the worst,” you say, shaking your head, but your tone is full of affection.

“And you’re jealous,” he fires back.

“Of your unused sauna?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’m absolutely consumed with envy.”

The two of you dissolve into laughter and the conversation continues.

Next thing you know it’s 3 am and you and Max are stumbling out of the club, too giggly for both of your sakes.

Daniel had hopped on to another place hours ago so it’s just you and him.

The cool night air hits you like a slap, but instead of sobering up, it just makes you giggle harder.

Max freezes mid-stumble, his head lolling back like he’s auditioning for Les Mis on the world’s worst stage. “Why’s the air so aggressive?” he slurs. “Feels like it’s… pushing me. Rude.”

“Why’s the ground so spinny?” you counter, stumbling sideways into him.

“'Cause you’re bad at walking,” he accuses, latching onto your arm like a barnacle while swaying dramatically.

“You’re bad at walking,” you fire back, immediately tripping over a shadow and nearly eating pavement.

“You can’t even walk straight!” Max protests, laughing as he catches you before you faceplant.

His arm slides around your waist, steadying you in the most unsteady way possible.

“You’re the one spinning,” you argue, slurring every other word. “Maaaybe you should ju- just stay still for once in your life.”

“Oh, because you’re the expert,” he fires back, wheezing as you nearly trip again. “Where- where are you even staying at?”

You squint at him, trying to focus. “Uh… good question.”

Max stops dead in his tracks, turning to look at you with a mix of disbelief and amusement. “What do you mean good question? How do you not know?”

“I don’t rememb- ber,” you admit, cackling as if it’s the funniest thing in the world.

Max groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re just- what? Homeless now?”

“Homeless for the night,” you correct, wagging a finger at him like that somehow makes it better.

Max laughs so hard he has to pause, doubling over slightly. “How- how do you forget where you’re staying?”

“’S not my fault!” you defend yourself, leaning heavily against him. “The hotel has, like… a name! A boring one! And too many floors!”

Max groans so loudly it echoes off the buildings. “Oh my God. You’re homeless now. You’re a wandering drunk with no home.”

“I'm trying a new lifestyle,” you say, grinning. “Like… nomadic, y’know? Spiritual.”

“Yeah, okay, Buddha, let’s find you a real place to sleep before you start befriending rats,” he mutters, dragging you down the street.

“I like rats,” you say cheerfully. “They’re just misunderstood.”

“You’re misunderstood,” Max shoots back. “Come on. You’re crashing at my hotel. I can’t leave you out here to, like, adopt a possum or something.”

“I don’t wanna!” you whine, digging your heels into the ground.

“Tough!” Max barks, throwing his arm around your shoulders to keep you moving. “You’ll thank me in the morning when you’re not spooning a garbage can.”

You groan dramatically, slumping into him. “Maxxyyy, I’m tired. Can’t I just sleep on a bench or something?”

“Nooo. No benches. Benches are gross. You’ll get, like… pigeons on you.”

“Pigeons are my friends,” you declare solemnly, as if this is a hill you’re prepared to die on.

Max shakes his head, clearly trying to stay serious but failing miserably. “Okay, Dr. Dolittle, you’re not sleeping outside.”

You groan again, dragging your feet even as he starts pulling you along.

“Stop whining,” he slurs, swaying as he tries to walk in a straight line. “It’ll be like- like a sleepover! Like when we were five.”

“Sleepovers at five were better,” you mutter. “Less… you.”

“Excuse me?” Max stops, glaring at you like you’ve mortally offended him. “I’m the best sleepover buddy. I let you steal my Haribo once.”

“You hid the Haribo under your pillow!” you counter, poking him in the chest.

“’Cause you’re a thief!” he says, grinning as he pulls you toward the street corner.

“Am not,” you huff, pouting.

“Are too,” he replies, but his tone is teasing as he hails a cab.

When the cab pulls up, it feels like the world is tilted just enough that the ground might collapse under your feet at any moment. You both tumble into the backseat in a fit of giggles, your laughter echoing off the darkened streets.

It’s the kind of laughter that’s born of a little bit too much alcohol and a whole lot of absurdity. You could’ve sworn you heard a streetlight flicker in disbelief at the sound of your shared joy.

Max flops dramatically against you as if the very act of sitting upright requires more effort than it’s worth.

His head lands squarely on your shoulder, and for a split second, you’re both tangled in the shared warmth of a really questionable decision.

He looks up at you, eyes half-lidded, and grins like a kid who just got away with stealing candy.

“You smell like tequila and poor decisions,” he mutters with a lazy drawl, his words slow but somehow still cutting through the haze of the night.

You’re already shaking your head before you even speak, the words spilling out one over the other. “You smell like someone who wore Axe in high school.”

Max’s eyes widen in mock outrage. “I did not!” He shoots up from your shoulder like you just insulted his very existence, but the motion sends him veering dangerously toward the cab door.

He catches himself at the last second, gripping the seat like it’s a lifeline.

By the time the cab pulls up to Max’s hotel, you're both deep into a discussion about whether Axe body spray could be classified as a biohazard in certain quantities.

It’s a ridiculous debate, fueled by far too much tequila and a complete disregard for logic, but it’s the most fun either of you have had in ages.

Max is practically in tears from laughing, his snort-laugh echoing off the walls of the cab as he tries to argue that Axe is, in fact, a perfectly fine product, just poorly misunderstood by society.

The cab screeches to a halt, and Max stumbles out first, holding the door open for you with the kind of exaggerated flair you’d expect from someone who probably practices his dramatic entrances in front of a mirror.

As he pays the driver, his wallet slips from his hands not once, but twice, and he’s already apologizing profusely, his face flushed from the alcohol and his own clumsiness.

Finally, he gets the wallet sorted, tucks it back in his pocket, and reaches down to drag you out of the cab like you’re a piece of luggage.

You’re both barely standing, teetering back and forth on your feet as if gravity itself is conspiring to make the night even more ridiculous.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Max says, throwing his arm out grandly to gesture toward the hotel lobby like he’s unveiling the Louvre.

The marble floors, polished to a shine, the sleek, understated furniture… none of it compares to the visual assault that is the ugly carpet underfoot.

“Your palace has really ugly carpet,” you mutter, laughing as you trip over the offending fabric, your feet not quite able to keep up with your brain’s idea of where they should go.

Max snorts, his hand steadying you as you almost face-plant into a particularly gaudy potted plant. “You’re banned from the palace,” he retorts, giving you a playful shove.

You recover, and together, you stagger toward the elevator, which, for some reason, feels like an obstacle course in itself.

The elevator doors open with a dramatic ding, and Max promptly starts jabbing the wrong floor button in a series of random, very confident moves.

Each one is a miss, but he keeps at it, as if this were somehow part of the plan.

You lean against the wall, your body shaking with laughter as you struggle to breathe through the giggles.

“This is why they don’t let you operate machinery,” you manage to gasp, watching him fumble with the buttons in disbelief.

Max grumbles under his breath but finally, miraculously, hits the correct floor button. He turns to you with an exaggerated wink. “See? I told you. Genius.”

You raise an eyebrow, patting him on the head condescendingly. “Sure you are, buddy. A true mastermind.”

The elevator ride is a blur of jokes and half-baked insults as you both fight to keep your composure.

Max leans against the wall with a smug look, clearly reveling in his victory over the elevator button.

When the doors finally open, you both stumble out, holding on to each other uselessly.

At the door to his room, Max proceeds to fumble with his key card in a way that can only be described as tragically incompetent.

The key card slips from his fingers twice, and each time, he lets out a string of expletives in a garble of Dutch and English.

“Jesus. You okay there, Einstein?” you tease, leaning casually against the wall and watching him drop the card once more. You can’t help but laugh.

“Shut up,” he mutters, his voice already tinged with frustration. “Technology’s hard.”

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the door swings open, and Max stumbles inside with the grace of a rhino on roller skates.

He turns to face you with a theatrical sigh. “There. I did it. Happy now?”

You’re already halfway to the bed, your shoes flying off in opposite directions, one ending up by the dresser and the other getting lodged under a chair.

With a dramatic thud, you collapse onto the bed, your body sinking into the soft, luxurious comfort like it was the only thing holding you together.

“This bed is softer than my hopes and dreams,” you mumble, your voice muffled by the comforter as you stretch out like a starfish.

Max, predictably, flops down beside you with the subtlety of a sack of bricks, his arms and legs sprawling out in every direction.

“Move over,” he grumbles, his face smooshed into the pillow.

“Nope,” you reply, barely lifting a finger to indicate where his side is. “Your side’s over there,” you say, pointing vaguely toward the edge of the bed, but it’s clear from the way your eyes are barely staying open that you’re not in any shape to play the “bedroom politics” game.

“Too bad,” Max grunts, grabbing your pillow from beneath your head and smushing it over his face. “This is a dictatorship, and I’m the dictator.”

“Goodnight, Haribo hoarder,” you slur, your words trailing off into nothing as sleep drags you under.

The last thing you hear before you fully fade into unconsciousness is Max’s muffled laugh, and you can’t help but smile.

For a brief moment, it feels like nothing’s changed at all.

—-

Max’s eyes snap open, and for a second, everything is blurry.

He blinks a few times, the weight of his eyelids making it feel like he’s wading through molasses.

A dull ache sits in the back of his skull, a reminder of the questionable choices he made the night before.

He groans, dry, scratchy, the kind of noise that only belongs to mornings where you regret both your life decisions and your snack choices.

He’s still in his room. So far, so good.

Nothing seems out of the ordinary... except for that persistent feeling in the air that something is off.

Max stretches, or at least tries to. His arms flail in an uncoordinated spasm, which results in a series of awkward grunts and a pop from his back that sounds like a joint trying to jump ship.

For a second, he considers staying perfectly still, hoping his body will remember how to function like a normal human.

But then—

There’s something warm beside him. Something... alive.

Max freezes, eyes snapping wide open. His breath catches in his throat as he tries to process what’s happening. The warmth next to him isn’t the soft comfort of a pillow.

It’s... a person.

A person in his bed.

What the actual hell?

His brain goes into overdrive, trying to make sense of the situation. His mind races through a thousand thoughts in a second, each one more ridiculous than the last.

Did he... did he end up getting a stranger drunk last night? Did someone break into his room to cuddle with him?

Max’s eyes dart to his left, and it hits him like a freight train.

The person is you.

You, sprawled across the bed, fast asleep, your hair tousled and your face peaceful, completely unaware of his mounting panic.

For a moment, Max just stares, brain failing to catch up.

How did this happen? His head starts swimming. His mouth goes dry. His first thought is that he’s dreaming..except, no.

This is far too real. He’s not that lucky.

“I need to call Daniel..”

[sturnsbae]

SPIN YOU AROUND - JACK HUGHES

summary: you and jack have been best friends since childhood. you’ve both always had suppressed feelings for one another, but when you suddenly become a country music fan, he finds his chance to actually confess.

warnings: use of y/n & underage drinking, not proofread sorry if there’s typos or mistakes :)

wordcount: 3.4k

—

for as long as you can remember, you’ve been best friends with the hughes brothers.

your moms were best friends in high school, and they always talked about their kids being friends growing up. your mom only ended up having one child, but it worked out perfectly seeing that she had a girl and ellen had three boys. despite her best friend playing it, your mom never cared much for hockey. but ellen made sure to have her sons teach you how to skate and how to understand the game. this led to your winter breaks always being spent playing pond hockey in a 2v2 game against the boys, which you wouldn’t have changed for the world.

you and jack are the same age, and this always made you two closer. maybe it was because you two somehow always ended up with the same elementary school teachers, or the fact that you two have the exact same humor, or maybe the fact that you guys have always had mutual friends. It doesn’t matter; he was your best friend, and you were his. although, you both took very different routes when you turned 18. he went straight to the nhl while you began college at penn state. you’re nineteen now, and so is jack. it’s finally the summer after your first semester, and you haven’t seen the boys since winter break.

as you and your parents enter the front door of your guys’ shared lake house, you smile at the familiar smell of ellen’s homemade cookies. “god it smells good in here!” you exclaim, making your presence known. “hey! you guys made it!” quinn smiles as he walks over from the dining room table towards you guys. being the gentleman that he is, he embraces your mother in a hug before anyone. luke quickly jumps off of the couch and runs over, picking you up slightly as he embraces you in a warm hug. your laughter fills the room as luke puts you down back on your feet.

“i swear, you get taller every time i see you,” you chuckle, making luke roll his eyes with a smile.

“maybe you’re just shrinking, y/n,” he shrugs before walking over to hug your parents. quinn walks over to you with a smile and gently hugs you, unlike his youngest brother. you say your hellos to jim and ellen as your dad and quinn bring in the suitcases. you furrow your brows and turn to luke, “where’s jack?” you ask.

“i think he’s in the shower, he should be out soon though,” luke shrugs before looking back down at his phone with a smile. of course, he’s probably texting a girl from school. you chuckle to yourself before walking to your room to settle in. as you walk past the shared bathroom between you, jack, and luke, you hear the shower running and muffled country music playing through the door.

you begin unpacking your suitcase, your door left open just slightly enough so that you can see the hallway. as you’re unfolding clothes, the sound of the bathroom door opening catches your attention. you look up and see jack walking out of the bathroom with just a towel around his waist. clearly, he has no idea that you’re home yet.

you can’t help but stare for a second… when did his back muscles get so toned?

you immediately shake your thoughts and continue unfolding your clothes. about three or so minutes later, there’s a gentle knock on the door. you look up and see jack in the door frame with his usual smirk-like smile.

“thought you could come home and not say hi to me?” he questions, making you roll your eyes and jump off the bed to wrap the boy in a hug. his arms wrap your smaller frame in a tight hug, his body still damp from the shower and the smell of his body wash emitting off of him.

“how’ve you been, dork?” he asks, walking in your room and sprawling out on your bed. you sit down criss cross by his feet, organizing your bikini tops to their matching bottoms.

“i’ve been good! how’s the nhl life?” you tease.

“eh, i’ve been playing alright. i’m kinda offended you haven’t been to a game since my debut, though,” he jokes, raising one eyebrow.

you groan in response, “i know, im sorry. schools been so insane. i have so much to do for my sorority, i have like a million sporting events to go to, and i have so many tests too… i just haven’t found the time. next season ill be at more games, i promise” you smile.

“hey, it’s okay, i’m just messing with you, y/n/n. i know you’re a busy girl, being all studious or whatever,” he chuckles before looking down at his phone. you two then sit in a comfortable silence for a few minutes as you finish unpacking.

—

you’ve done a lot of catching up with ellen and jim, all 8 of you sitting in the living room discussing the causal things. your mom and ellen spill their adult-life gossip, as if they don’t talk every day and meet for lunch once a week, while your dads talk about god knows what. you and quinn chirp luke about whoever he’s been texting, while jack is more focused on whatever video game he’s playing on his phone.

“jack, do you think you could go get us some pizza for dinner?” ellen asks, the room going quiet and the attention now falling onto jack.

“ugh, why can’t quinn go!” jack questions. ellen laughs, “you’re the one who insisted on bringing your jeep! you brought your car, which you never let anyone else drive, so now you have the duties of getting us dinner.”

“fine,” he groans before turning to look at you, a hopeful look in his eyes. you sigh loudly and stand up dramatically, “fine, i’ll come with you.” he grins cheesily as he grabs his keys and twirls them in his fingers on the way out to his car.

“can i have aux, pleaseeee,” you beg, making your hands look like you’re praying and giving him puppy dog eyes. he rolls his eyes and hands you his phone, “no stupid shit or ill take it back.”

jack is a country guy through and through, which you’ve never really gotten into, so you two tend to fight a lot about music. of course there are some songs and genres that you two both like, but when you put on some morgan wallen, jack looks at you like you just told him you killed someone.

“what the fuck? you- you’re- you’re willingly playing country music?!” he exclaims as he turns to look at you with a shocked expression. you have a shit eating grin on your face, “yeah, my roommate actually got me into it. i don’t know how, but she did.”

jack feigns a look of sadness, “oh, so some random girl you meet at college can get you into country, but the kid who’s been trying to get you to listen to it for like 12 years can’t?!”

you throw your head back laughing, “hey! in my defense, i was never stuck in a small room for an entire semester of college with you. of course i got her into some taylor swift though, don’t you worry. it’s only fair,” you shrug. he rolls his eyes at you jokingly before mumbling something about how you’re a fake friend, causing you to hit his arm playfully.

—

after dinner passes and the parents settle in for a movie night, you and the boys head outside for the annual first-night fire pit and beers, which started when you and jack were about 17. you and jack grab the s’mores ingredients while luke and quinn set up the fire pit. you take your seat around the fire, with luke and quinn sat across from you and jack on your right. quinn then hands everyone, even luke, a beer, making you chuckle.

“aww, lukeys first beer at the fire pit with us,” you fawn, making everyone laugh. “okay okay shut up,” the younger boy groans, his cheeks turning faintly florid with embarrassment.

“so, mrs party girl, tell us how college has been,” quinn says, roasting his marshmallow to perfection. you blush faintly at the sudden attention, humming a little as you think of what to start with. “well, my sorority is great. i love my roommate too, she’s like my best friend now. no offense jack, you’re still important i swear,” you chuckle, turning to look at jack. he flips you off before letting you continue to talk about your first semester.

“oh and, this shook jack to his core, but my roommate got me into country music. i don’t know how, im seriously convinced she put a spell on me or something, but she succeeded.”

luke’s eyes widen, “you like country now?! you used to swear up and down that you hated it!” he exclaims.

“i know! i know, but somehow she got me into it. or well, at least morgan wallen, that’s it. some country artists music i still can’t stand, i promise,” you laugh.

“i feel like this deserves a toast or something, because now we can finally listen to country on the boat without any complaints from her,” jack teases. everyone holds up their beer and takes a sip, before continuing on with the conversation. about an hour passes and the sun is completely down as you all still laugh loudly, faces illuminated by the orange glow of the fire.

you yawn, snuggling further into your sweatshirt. which is actually one of jacks old sweatshirts from high school. the logo is somewhat faded and cracked now due to how often you wear it, but he doesn’t need to know that. “you tired?” jack asks you, leaning over his chair slightly to talk to you.

you nod slowly, a telltale sign that you’re about to fall asleep. he sets down his beer and stands up, reaching out his hands for you to grab. you sigh and take his hands in yours as he helps you up. “i’m gonna take this one to bed. i can tell she’s had too many beers,” he chuckles.

“i have not!” you protest, your worlds slurred ever so slightly. jack just chuckles and walks you inside as quinn and luke are left to clean up the mess.

“they’re bound to get together one day, right?” luke asks his eldest brother.

“man, i hope so. im tired of this whole, ‘she’s just my best friend’ act. dude is whipped,” quinn shrugs. meanwhile, jack is sitting on the bathroom counter while you take off your makeup.

“you what?!” he exclaims.

“i kissed a random frat guy at a mixer with my sorority. it’s not that big of a deal jack!” you laugh, and jack just shakes his head. honestly, he would be lying if this didn’t make him feel oddly jealous. he’s so used to always knowing the guys that are involved in your love life. like for example, he was there during the alcohol induced game of truth or dare where you were dared to kiss trevor. you guys were 16 and drunk, so of course it never bothered jack. but now, he feels a weird pang of jealousy knowing that you’ve kissed another guy and he’s never even met him.

despite the fact that you’ve never talked to the frat guy since the kiss happened, jack still finds himself laying in bed scrolling through his instagram. “jesus christ, why don’t my abs look like that?” he mumbles to himself, quickly realizing how dumb he must seem right now. he puts his phone down and sighs.

this is gonna be a long summer.

—

the next morning is filled with laughter as the parents cook up breakfast, while you and the boys sit at the table with a deck of cards, playing your favorite game, BS.

“bs!” you call out as quinn puts down his alleged ‘two-fours,’ which you know is false because you literally have three fours in your stack. he groans in defeat as he takes the pile of cards, “you’re too good at this game. it’s no fun playing with you,” he whines, making everyone laugh.

“maybe you’re just a shit liar,” you shrug. as if on queue, the food is placed down in front of you guys as the parents take their seats. you all make your plates, of course the boys grab the most out of everyone. you chuckle looking at the two pancakes and two pieces of bacon on your plate, compared to jacks which has four pancakes and five pieces of bacon, along with a heavy stack of scrambled eggs.

“greedy much?” you chuckle, nudging jack slightly. he flips you off as he stuffs his face with food. a muffled, “i’m a growing boy, i can’t help it!” falls from his lips, making everyone chuckle.

after breakfast is finished, your guys’ parents go out for the day, leaving you all to fend for yourselves for entertainment. quinn suggests going out on the boat for the day, which you all agree with. you head upstairs to your room, slipping on your favorite bikini and grabbing a sweatshirt and sunglasses. you grab a book just incase, but you know that you’re definitely not gonna end up reading it.

“hurry up, y/n!” luke yells, making you groan in annoyance as you close the bedroom door.

“shut up luke, im coming i’m coming,” you say as you walk down the steps. you and luke walk side by side to the dock, where jack and quinn are getting the boat prepared. jack, per usual, demands that he get aux, and you all know better than to argue with him about it.

he queues up his country playlist, as expected. you chuckle a little as you hum a long to a few songs while quinn slowly exits the no-wake zone. about three minutes or so later, quinn speeds up the boat and your hair is flying. laughter escapes your lips as you look over at jack, who’s sitting next to you. “god i’ve missed this!” you say, making him smile and wrap an arm around you slightly.

he rests his head on top of yours, “i’ve missed you,” he says. this type of behavior is normal for you two, so quinn and luke don’t even bat an eyelash.

you guys come to a slow stop before luke throws the large tube out onto the water. him and jack get on it and grab the handles, laying down on their stomachs waiting for quinn to speed up. “everyone ready?” quinn asks, earning a “hell yeah!” and a “hurry up!” from the two boys. he looks at you and nods before speeding up. suddenly, the raft goes flying and they last a whopping twenty seconds before they both let go and belly flop into the water. you and quinn erupt into a fit of laughter, grabbing your stomachs in pain and wiping the tears that are falling.

“holy shit, are you guys okay?!” you ask, still calming your laughter as they climb back onto the boat. jack groans slightly as he rubs his now red stomach, giving you a perfect excuse to stare. you bite the inside of your cheek as he rubs up and down his abs with his hand in an attempt to soothe the pain, blissfully unaware that his entire vline is showing. he fixes his shorts and you quickly look away after you realize you’re staring, and thankfully he doesn’t notice.

“your turn y/n!” he smiles menacingly, and you quickly shake your head.

“absolutely not! personally, i don’t have a death wish today, thanks though!” you exclaim, immediately grabbing your book from your bag. “you’re so lame y/n,” he pouts before sitting down next to you and rubbing a towel in his hair to dry it.

you can’t help but slyly glance at his biceps, when the fuck did he get this hot?

suddenly, ‘spin you around’ by morgan wallen begins playing and you jump up with a smile. “i fucking love this song!” you say, immediately singing along as the words begin playing.

yes, you’re a few white claws in at this point, but you’re also just happy to be with the people you love. you’re dancing around on the boat singing the words, and jack is looking at you like he just fell in love. his smile is big and his eyes are glued to you, watching you dance and sing like a crazy person, yet he’s not judging you. far from it, actually. he thinks it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen, and the fact you’re in a bikini isn’t helping either.

he chuckles to himself and pulls the beer bottle to his lips, admiring the smile on your face and the way your cheeks are flushed from the sun.

—

the house is quiet since everyone is taking a nap or just resting from the long day out. you’re currently sat on the dock, playing some music from your phone and watching the water ripple from the slight breeze. the sun is approaching the horizon and you’re cuddled into the same sweatshirt from last night, the one jack gave you when you were 15.

suddenly, footsteps appear behind you and you turn around to see jack. “you okay?” he asks, sitting down next to you. “yeah, just got bored,” you shrug, turning down the music slightly. he smiles at the sight of you in his sweatshirt.

“watcha thinking about?” he asks.

“everything, really,” you pause. “i mean, isn’t it crazy how you and quinn are in the nhl, im in college, and lukeys already seventeen? i can still vividly remember when we were seventeen spending summers here, and talking about where we would end up for college. you were listing off your offers with no idea that you’d go first overall, while i was stressing about my common app,” you chuckle.

he smiles softly at the memory, “yeah, i miss those days honestly. i kinda wish i got the chance to go to college. it seems fun. maybe one day you can take me to a frat party,” he says before nudging your shoulder with his. you giggle slightly, “frats are gross and dirty, you’d hate it.”

“eh, maybe i would, but at least i get to spend time with you,” he shrugs. your cheeks run hot at his words, was he just being nice or was he flirting? you couldn’t tell, and the moment fell silent.

“i miss you, y/n. i miss living three blocks away from you. its so weird being in different states. and like, now you have all of these friends that i’ve never even heard of before. it’s really weird,” jack admits. your stomach turns with butterflies at his words, and you turn to look at him, praying the heat in your cheeks isn’t visible.

“i miss you too, rowdy. it’s hard being away from my best friend.” he rolls his eyes at the nickname but bites back a smile. as if on queue, spin you around by morgan wallen begins playing through your phone speaker. your face lights up, and jack suddenly gets an idea. “c’mere,” he says, forcing you to stand up. you furrow your brows before suddenly he starts singing along to the words softly, and you follow suit.

jacks heart is racing, but he knows that if he doesn’t confess his feelings soon enough, he’ll never do it. he takes your hands in his and sings along to the lyrics, “well you might tell me ‘boy hell nah,’ but hell what can hurt?”

you giggle as he takes your hands and spins you while singing, “cause i just wanna spin you ‘round, and ‘round this dance floor, get you drunk on a love like mine… might wind up and steal a couple kisses…” the rest of the words that jack sings along to fade as your heart thumps in your chest. he spins you gently around and then pulls you into his chest, looking down at you.

“cause the way you stole my heart without a sign, girl it outta be a crime,” he says softly. you’re wrapped in his arms looking up at him, a soft smile plastered on your lips and a heavy blush on your cheeks. “is it bad that i really want to kiss you?” you whisper, and jack grins like the happiest man on earth.

“i’ve wanted to kiss you for as long as i’ve known you,” jack quietly replies, his hands finding their way to the small of your back.

as the sky is painted with faint hints of pink and gold, jacks lips find yours for the first time in nineteen years.

[katsu28]

summer's golden haze - chapter five

pairing: lando norris x reader

summary: a day trip to ibiza, a nightclub, and max—who can't keep his mouth shut. (5.3k)

a/n: apologies for the lack of new chapters these past few months! writer’s block is such a bitch but i’m happy to say that i am back and working on this series as best i can <3

previous chapter | masterlist

Everything people say about time flying when you’re having fun has never been truer. You’ve developed a close friendship with Lando and his friends, and something even better with the boy himself. 

You’d say you were surprised at how fast you’ve fallen for him, but you’d be lying. Sure, you haven’t known him long at all, but it wasn’t hard to figure out that Lando Norris really was that missing thing in your life. He slots in like he was meant to, just as you hoped he would. 

You’ve all found yourselves spending more time at their place than yours because it’s just nicer. Today is no different. 

Lando’s chin sits hooked over your shoulder comfortably, stubble on his face a little scratchy, but it doesn’t annoy you. Especially not with the way the thumb of his hand on your waist is rubbing circles into the sliver of bare skin between your top and shorts.

He’s warm to the touch, but not unbearably so, more like a comforting warmth draped against you as he nuzzles closer. 

He likes to be close to you, you've learned very quickly—more often than not always having some part of him touching you. Fingers intertwined with yours, an arm slung over your shoulders, a hand on your waist. When you're sitting, it's a thigh pressed against yours, a warm palm blanketing your knee. 

Right now, he’s decided on sharing the same sun lounger as you, wedged himself in behind you comfortably.

Normally, you might’ve been put off by the sheer amount of casual physical affection he shows, but you can’t bring yourself to mind it. You want to be close to him all the time too, you’re just taking a little longer to warm up to instigating it. 

“What’re you lot up to tomorrow?” He asks casually, walking his fingers down your arm. 

“Mm, nothing probably. Might just do a beach day and chill out. Maybe take a little walk, I dunno.” You shrug. “You?” 

“Flying to Ibiza for the day. My mate Martin’s doing a DJ thing at a club there, figured we’d go support a friend.” 

You pout up at him, cooing. “You guys are so sweet.” 

“Yeah, yeah, alright. Come off it now.” He rolls his eyes, pinching your hip. You squirm at the ticklish feeling, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. He perks up then, and you swear you can almost see the gears turning in his brain. “Would you guys wanna come with us? We could hit up the beach together, hit up Martin’s gig at night, then fly back here afterwards.”

“It’s a boys’ day trip, we wouldn’t want to crash it,” You insist, shaking your head. “We’ll see each other when you get back.” 

“But I’ll miss you.” He frowns, wrapping an arm around your waist. 

“I think you’ll be fine.” 

He buries his nose into the crook of your neck, muffling his response. “No, I think I might die.”

It’s kind of sweet, you think, that Lando gets so pouty over not getting to see you for just a day. One might call him clingy, but you find it cute.

You attest it to the two of you still being in the honeymoon phase of your relationship, and it makes you happy, but something else gnaws at your stomach. You’re not even sure what it is. 

Before you can say anything, he angles his head towards the rest of the group, covering your ears gently before shouting, “Oi! We’re all going to Ibiza tomorrow, it’s been settled already. We’ll swing round yours to pick you girls up, then head to the airport.” 

He gets no objections from anyone, which you didn’t think he would, and it makes him beam. 

You try to see it from his perspective. Sun, sand, beautiful views. The two of you get to spend the day together on the gorgeous beaches of Ibiza. If you put aside your worries, everything sounds wonderful.

So why do you have this nagging feeling this isn't going to go as smoothly as Lando says it will? 

-------

It seems like you’ve just blinked and suddenly it’s the next morning and you’re heading into the hangar of a private airstrip.

The sun has barely begun to peek over the horizon, and honestly, you’re still half asleep. Most of your weight is leaned against Lando’s shoulder, who’s got a strong arm slung around your waist even as he chats away with his boys on the way in. 

You haven’t packed much at all, just a bag with a nicer outfit you can change into before going to the club. Lando insisted on carrying it for you, so it sits looped over his other shoulder. 

You aren’t sure what you were expecting when he’d brought up flying to Ibiza just for the day, but for some reason, the private jet your gaze lands on as soon as you enter the hangar has you a bit stunned for words. The unfamiliarity of your surroundings wakes you up even more as you ascend the stairs onto the jet. 

A long sofa stretches across the wall opposite you, sleek white leather to match the cushy armchair you’ve settled into. Elegant polished dark wood tables separate the banks of chairs, and there’s a fully stocked bar at the back. Even the lighting of the cabin screams money, not those awful dim blue lights on commercial airlines. 

This is the kind of thing you’ve only seen in movies, and now here you are about to enjoy a few hours on one with your very new, very rich boyfriend. It feels unreal, and honestly a little daunting.

Then in the back of your mind, you remember that this is probably just how his life is. Private jets and day trips to beautiful places, anything he wants anytime he wants it. 

It’s one of two thoughts echoing through your head through the whole flight, the second one being that you don’t belong here. You don’t ride along in chartered jets, or go on impromptu day trips to beautiful islands. This is all completely uncharted territory for you and it makes your stomach twist, but you’re able to just pass it off as being a nervous flier. 

Lando holds your hand, makes sure you’re comfortable the whole time, and that’s that. There’s no need to worry him about what’s running rampant through your mind. 

Thankfully, you fall asleep not too long into the flight, and you don’t wake up until you’re on the ground in Ibiza. From there, it feels like a whirlwind has taken hold of you. You’re put into a car, driving, driving, driving god knows where. 

Lando won’t tell you a thing, just kisses your cheek and tells you not to worry. And just when you think you’re at your destination, you’re squeezed into a golf cart that eventually drops you off at a seemingly private marina. 

A large yacht sits before you, pristine white and polished to perfection. Lando beams, holding his arms out to the side like a game show host. “Ta-da! Look what we got for the day!” 

You’re at a loss for words. When he’d agreed to a joint beach day, you thought you’d actually be going to…well, a beach. 

“How the fuck did you manage to charter a yacht on such short notice?” Maren asks, clearly disbelieving. 

Lando aims a look at her over his sunglasses, arching a brow. “What, like it’s hard?” 

“Don’t do Elle Woods. You can’t pull it off,” Samira chimes in, to which Max nods his agreement. 

“Everyone’s a critic nowadays,” Lando mutters under his breath, flipping both of them off. “Just get on the boat, dream killers!” 

Your friends seem to be taking it in a much better stride than you are, because they go exploring the moment they climb right on alongside the rest of the boys, chattering excitedly. You, on the other hand, have to take a moment after Lando helps you on. 

“So? What do you think?” He asks earnestly, rocking on the balls of his feet. 

“It’s gorgeous,” You admit, chuckling nervously. “I didn’t know you were planning on getting a yacht.” 

“Yeah, I got it so we could have the day to ourselves. Dock somewhere remote, swim and have fun without anyone else around. I know how important privacy is to you, and I wanted you to be able to relax today.”

It hits you like a heavyweight right then. Lando did this for you. 

Went through all these last minute hoops that probably cost a fortune just so you’d feel comfortable. It has to be the sweetest, albeit most outrageous, thing anyone’s ever done for you. 

You close the distance between you in two steps, throwing your arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. The force of it makes him stumble back a little bit, but he’s quick to recover, nuzzling deep into the crook of your neck with a smile you can feel pressed against your skin. 

“That was one hell of a thank you,” He breathes. You shrug innocently and he laughs, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “Ready to have some fun?” 

Turns out fun means putting an anchor down just off the shore of some small island not too far away. The day is starting to heat up a bit, perfect for you and the girls to stretch out on the cushioned benches and soak up the sun whilst the boys mess around in the water off the back of the boat. 

You’re not sure how long you lay there, but you’re about ready to drift off when you feel something on your face. A drop of water hits you square in the forehead, another hits your cheek, and it makes you peek one eye open. 

Lando stands right above you, beaming down at you as he drips water everywhere.

“Hi. Water’s nice,” He says, shaking his hair out not unlike a dog would shake out its fur. Droplets spray all over you with the action, making you squeeze your eyes shut momentarily. 

You wipe the water off your face with an amused chuckle. “Yeah, I think I can tell. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“You should come in.” 

“Maybe later. My sunscreen might not be dry yet.” 

“I think it’s plenty dry.” 

You arch a brow at his insistence, suspicious of the mischievous smile curving his lips, the glint in his eyes. He’s got something in that mind of his, and you’re starting to grasp what it might be. You sit up, inching away from him as he creeps closer. “Stop it. Lando, no. Don’t even think about it!”

He flops on top of you gently, enough to make you roll your eyes but not enough to smother you. “Lovely place to have a lay, innit?” He says innocently, squinting down at you. 

“It was,” You groan dramatically, wrinkling your nose at the puddle of water beginning to pool around you. “Now I’m being crushed.” 

“Are you calling me fat?” 

“No, no, the words you're looking for are big and strong and handsome. Did I mention the word strong?” 

“Twice, but I wouldn’t mind hearing it again.” 

“Careful, or I might start to think you have a praise kink,” You joke. Though judging by the immediate blush that blooms across his cheeks and ears, you might’ve just discovered something about your boyfriend. “Oh! You—I didn’t mean it like—”

His lips press against yours before you can finish your sentence as if to deter you from finishing your sentence, and you forget what you were saying in the first place. You’ve found that this is usually the case any time Lando kisses you, any and all previous thoughts disappearing without a trace only to be taken up by one singular thing—him. 

“Get a room, you two!” Samira grumbles, bringing you back to reality. “Happy for you and all, but I’m trying to sleep over here.” 

Right. 

You’d forgotten you were laying right next to her. Evidently Lando has too, because he whines something unintelligible, face hot against your bare skin as he buries his face into the crook of your neck in embarrassment. 

“Sorry,” You mumble, giving Lando a pat on the back to make him get off you. He does so, but not without a pout. The quick kiss you press to his shoulder when you pull yourself into an upright position is enough to settle him. 

He tilts his head invitingly, eyes bright now. “Come swim?” 

“Is the water nice?” 

“It’d be nicer if you were in it.” 

“I’m serious, Lando! Is it cold?”

“Guess you’ll just have to jump in and see.” He shrugs, winks at you playfully before ambling away.

You can’t help but admire Lando as he walks away from you, broad shoulders on full display, muscles shifting as he stretches his arms high over his head. Moles dot the expanse of his back, and it makes you want to trace your fingers along his tanned skin like you’re playing connect the dots. 

You’re expecting him to head for the back of the boat, but he goes towards the ladder heading up to the roof of the boat. 

“Now what exactly do you think you’re doing?” You call after him, raising your hand to block the sun shining in your eyes. 

“Jumping off the roof!” 

“Are you serious?” 

“It’s totally safe! I’ve done it before,” Lando reasons, waiting until he reaches the top of the ladder to offer you a smile. Somehow that doesn’t make you feel any better about him taking a flying leap from that high. “Wanna give it a go?” 

The words fuck and no teeter at the very tip of your tongue, but he’s grinning so big, and you’d be lying to yourself if you said you weren’t at least a little bit intrigued.

Jumping off the roof of a yacht into crystal clear waters isn’t something you’ve ever thought you’d do, but then again, you’ve been doing a lot of things you never thought you’d do on this trip. 

“If I die, I’m haunting your ass forever,” You warn. Once you’re up the ladder on your own, you accept his outstretched hand onto the roof as he leads you carefully to the edge, fingers firmly tangled with yours. 

“There’s no one I’d rather be haunted by.” 

He leaps, taking you with him before you can even think of a response, and for a few moments, you feel weightless, falling through the air with nothing but Lando’s hand to ground you. It feels less terrifying and more freeing than you’d thought. 

You squeeze your eyes shut just before you hit the water, keeping them closed as you sink deeper and deeper. Lando’s hand leaves yours, but you don’t panic. You let yourself float, reveling in the quiet of being underwater until you start to feel it in your chest, and only then do you push towards the surface in a flume of bubbles.

The breath of air you inhale once you get above water is refreshing, and you tip your chin towards the sky, taking in the warm sunlight with a sigh. You wipe away the water cascading down your face before paddling back towards the boat, where Lando is sitting with his legs hanging off the back of it, waving at you. 

“What’d you think?” He asks earnestly once he’s pulled you out of the water to sit next to him. 

“That was…exhilarating.” 

“See, I told you it was fun! Stick with me, baby, I’ll show you the world.” 

Somehow, you don’t doubt that. If you’re an example of playing it safe, Lando is the definition of full sending it, impulse and chaos behind a handsome face. 

-------

The day flies by, and before you know it, it’s time to head back to shore. Thankfully, the yacht is well equipped with a shower in the bathroom, so you’re able to freshen up nicely when the time comes.

Lando lets out a low whistle when you emerge back out onto the deck, eyes dragging down your whole body, drinking in the sight of you with his lower lip tugged between his teeth. The intensity of his gaze sends a shiver down your spine, makes your cheeks flame hot. 

“Damn, you’re hot, girl!” He grins, winking at you. 

“Stop it,” You huff, adjusting the strap of your heel. 

“What? It’s true! Can’t I pay my hot girlfriend a compliment?” He argues, looking absolutely giddy. “C’mon, give me a spin.” You roll your eyes but oblige, and he whistles again. “My god, I’m a lucky guy.” 

“You’re so ridiculous,” You chuckle, letting yourself be tucked under his arm as you make your way to join the rest of your friends.  

“If ridiculous means obsessed with you, then yes, I am ridiculous.” 

The place is only a stone’s throw away from the public beach near the marina and already bouncing when you get there. You’re expecting to fold into the crowd of people, but Lando skirts around it, heading for the very front of the giant area, towards the DJ box. 

Maren’s hand clamps around your arm, squeezing tightly. “That’s Martin fucking Garrix!” She hisses, jutting her chin towards the stage aggressively. “You didn’t tell us Lando’s friend Martin was Martin fucking Garrix!” 

“He didn’t even tell me, how was I supposed to know?!” is all you can utter back in response. 

You’re just as taken by surprise as she is. You’d have never expected Lando’s friend Martin to be Martin Garrix. It’s not a connection you would’ve made at all, but you keep forgetting Lando is actually famous. Of course he has famous friends. 

Martin gestures for one of the other people there to take over the set, swapping out to come say hello as soon as he spots Lando. Both boys sport identical massive smiles. 

“Mate, it is good to see you again,” He says earnestly, bringing Lando into a tight hug. “I’ve been meaning to make it out to a race! You look great out there, though.” 

Lando shrugs, enthusiasm flickering a little at the mention of work, but only for a split second. “Could be doing better, but yeah, cheers!” 

Martin’s eyes flick over to you and he must get the sense that you’re a little nervous, because his smile turns more polite. “See you’ve made some new friends. Nice to meet you all, I’m Martin.” Then he notices how Lando’s moved closer to be next to you and you’re sure he’s already got things figured out. “Enjoy the set! I’m sure Lando will take good care of you.” 

A few drinks in your system helps relax the knot of nerves sitting on your chest a significant amount, enough so to where you’ve actually started to enjoy yourself. 

Lando’s hands slide around your waist from behind to sit at your hips, chest pressed up against your back as his chin drops down to nestle in the crook of your neck. He moves with the beat and you find yourself following, guided by his firm grip.

It’s so easy to get lost in him. You want to let yourself get lost in him, let yourself sink back into him and let your inhibitions free. But you can’t. 

Anyone can see you right now, seeing as you’re not exactly in a private place. You’re tucked off to the side, partially obscured by Martin’s booth and entourage, but it wouldn’t be hard for someone to take a good look and recognize Lando, even with the smoke and flashing lights. 

It’s risky to stay like this, and you want to tell him that, but then his lips press against the skin of your shoulder tenderly and your brain nearly short circuits. Heat blooms where he kisses you, traveling up to your cheeks and down to your toes like you've just been standing too close to a flickering fire. 

It isn’t until his nose nudges in right behind your ear, and his warm breath fans across your heated skin, that you suddenly feel like you can’t breathe. The loud music dulls down into background noise to the pounding of your heart in your ears.

Taking a shuddering inhale, you wriggle free of Lando’s grip, mumbling something to him about needing air as best you can and taking off before he can figure out what’s happening. 

You squeeze through the crowd rather forcefully, just needing to get somewhere without people, somewhere quiet where you can catch your breath and calm yourself down. 

Somehow you find yourself back at the beach, throwing yourself down onto a bench and burying your face into your hands with a frustrated, strangled groan. 

You don’t even know what’s wrong. Everything is good—you’re with your best friends, with Lando, and you’re supposed to be having fun. So why do you feel like you’re not supposed to be here? 

The answer is a mystery even to you. 

Watching the gentle waves lap over the shore proves rather soothing, a repetitive back and forth that helps ease your mind just the slightest bit. Only a few people mill around at this time of night, and they pay you no notice. You’re free to drown in your own thoughts without any of them being any the wiser. 

Footsteps approach some time later. How long, you’re not exactly sure—wallowing in your own self pity feels timeless. The tips of a familiar pair of trainers step into your field of vision, and you make yourself let your gaze follow up to see the extremely concerned face of their owner. 

Lando doesn’t say anything when you meet his eyes, just holds out his hand for you to take. When all you do is blink at him, then he speaks. “C’mon, let’s take a walk.” He tilts his head over his shoulder, towards the beach behind him. 

“I can’t walk on sand in these heels,” You sniff, scowling a little bit. It’s a shit excuse, you know that, but you don’t feel like being very cooperative right now. 

“I’ll hold them,” He replies, toeing off his own shoes first. You give in almost too easily, slipping off yours to give to him and accepting his other hand up. His fingers immediately intertwine with yours, tugging you closer to him as you step into the sand.

You walk along the shore for a while before either of you feel like saying anything, and it’s him who speaks first. 

“Are you alright, love?” He asks gently. Rather than saying anything, you press your lips together. “C’mon, will you talk to me? Please?” His voice is so soft, so full of genuine concern for you it makes you start to feel bad. “I think it’ll make you feel better, instead of holding everything in.” 

“All of this—the jet, the yacht, everything—it’s a lot to take in,” You admit quietly, staring hard at the sand in front of you. “And I know you did it for me, so I’d feel comfortable, and I love how thoughtful you are when it comes to these things. But I…this is all completely new for me. Like, I can’t help but feel like such an outsider.”

Lando’s expression crumples. “Oh. I didn’t mean to—that wasn’t my intention. To make you feel like you don’t belong.”

“You don’t need to be sorry. It’s not you, it’s me.”

“This sounds like the start of a romcom breakup scene,” He says, then he freezes, brows furrowing. “Wait, is this—” 

“No! No, I’m not breaking up with you. I’m just…saying things.” 

“Okay.” He nods, looking thoughtful. “How can I fix this, how can I help with what you’re feeling?” 

You smile at him, grateful that he’s asking even though there isn’t anything for him to do about how you’re feeling. Putting it out there is already starting to help, actually. You were scared about your thoughts and feelings being cast aside, but Lando hasn’t done that. He’s nothing but kind and caring about it. About you. 

“I’m fine, Lando. Thank you though, you’re sweet,” You assure him, kissing his cheek. “Mind if we walk a little longer before going back to Martin’s set?” 

“We don’t have to go back,” He suggests. “We can stay here, go somewhere else, anything you want.” 

“I want to go back. It’ll be fun,” You say, nodding firmly. The action is meant to reassure yourself more so than Lando, but he’s the one who looks wary. 

His head cocks to the side, brows furrowing in gentle caution. “Are you sure?” 

“Positive. I’ll be fine, I promise.” 

-------

The jet is quiet on the way back to Greece after Martin’s gig lets out, with good reason. It’s late at night, bordering on very early morning, and everyone’s asleep except you and Max, who’s on the phone with his girlfriend.

Judging by the way Lando immediately found his way into your space as soon as you all settled in for the flight and promptly conked out not five minutes later, he's exhausted. 

You glance down at the boy currently snoozing away curled up with his head in your lap, one of your hands clutched between both of his. His chest rises and falls rhythmically in his sleep, long lashes fluttering against the tops of his cheekbones. 

Honestly, you don’t think you’ve ever been as content with someone as you are now with Lando. Even though things between you are still new, you feel like you really can be yourself without judgement around him too. And that talk you’d had at the beach has definitely lifted the weight off your shoulders a good amount.

Still, there’s something else you have to get off your chest. You turn your gaze on the only other person you can talk to right now, the one person you do want to talk to. 

Max ends his call shortly after with a quiet love you, see you soon, catching your eye with a sheepish smile as he sets the phone down on the table. “Pietra says hi. She’s looking forward to meeting you guys when she flies in.” 

“We’re excited to meet her too, she sounds amazing.” 

“Yeah, she is,” Max sighs. Then he squints at you, like he knows something is amiss. “Is everything alright? You look like you’ve got something on your mind.” 

You nod carefully, absentmindedly winding one of Lando’s springy curls around your finger. He exhales a little harder in his sleep when you let it bounce back into place but doesn’t wake up, just snuggles deeper into you. “It’s kind of a weird thing to bring up, but I feel like I have to ask.” 

“Anything, go ahead. We’re friends, aren’t we?” It’s actually reassuring to know that Max’s opinion on you hasn’t changed since you’d gotten together with his best friend. You’re still friends just the same. That thought helps you muster up the courage to say what’s been weighing on you. 

“Are you okay with us? Lando and I, I mean.” 

You aren’t seeking his approval or anything, you just want him to be okay with the two of you. Or maybe you are, you’re not really sure. Max is Lando’s best friend, his brother. Other than Lando’s family, who you can't even think about meeting one day without your stomach churning, he's the person who's known Lando best since they were kids. 

All these people, they’re everything to him, and it's important for you to know where they stand. 

Max smiles warmly, says your name in that same soft, gentle way Lando always does when you get unsure. “You’re exactly the kind of person Lando needs in his life. Someone away from everything he’s got going on, someone who genuinely cares for him the way you do. You’re perfect for each other, and I hope you know that.”

You swallow the lump rising in your throat, smiling at Max through eyes glossy with welled up tears. His blessing brings you comfort, even if you weren't looking for it. “Thank you.” 

“No, I feel like I should be the one thanking you.” 

Your brows furrow, head tilting curiously to the side as to what he means. “Me? What did I do?” 

“I know Lando’s filled you in about what’s been going on, so you know that he’s had a bit of a rough time lately.” Max says softly, clearing his throat to rid himself of the emotional thickness in his tone. You can tell how much Max really loves and cares for Lando. “He’s not been himself for a while, so this summer break, this trip, it was something that might help him leave it all behind. Just relax and find himself again, ‘cause it wasn’t good for him, bottling it all up like he was.” 

Your heart aches for Lando. You can’t help but want to protect him. It was true when you’d been just friends and only grown truer since. 

“I wasn’t sure if it was doing him any good, but then we met you, and I swear to god I haven’t seen him smile this much in ages. He’s been so happy, so in love, it’s been—shit, I don’t even know what else I can say other than thank you. You’ve made my best mate himself again, and…I think I owe you everything for that.” 

You know there are other parts of his sentence that you should be paying attention to—being the reason Lando feels like himself again, making him happy—but only one thing echoes at the very forefront of your brain. “He’s in love with me?” 

Max’s eyes widen almost comically at the realization of what he’s just done. The juxtaposition of the heartfelt conversation you’ve had up until this point with the sudden exaggerated panic in his eyes would’ve cracked you up had you not been stunned by what he’d just let loose. “I really need to learn how to keep my fucking mouth shut.” 

“Lando told you he was in love with me?” You press. You’d kick him under the table, but then you’d risk waking up the subject of your conversation. Max just blinks at you, probably trying to figure out a way out of this. “Max.” 

“Fuck, fine! Yeah, he told me.” You raise an expectant brow for him to elaborate. “Jesus, did you want a timestamp? He said, I think I’m falling in love with her.” 

“He thinks?” 

“Well, I don’t know! I’m not a mind reader, am I?” He huffs. Upon seeing your brows furrow, he sighs. “But if I could read his mind, I’d say yes. I’ve known Lando…shit, I dunno, ten years now? And I’ve never seen him like this with anyone else before. You’re special to him.” 

“He’s special to me too,” You say softly, stroking a thumb over Lando’s knuckles gently. It should feel strange how much you feel for this boy and how strong those feelings are, but for some reason, it doesn’t. It feels exactly right. 

“I feel obligated to give you the usual ‘hurt my best friend and I’ll hurt you’ bit, but I know you won’t. You’ve been a great friend these last couple weeks, and I trust you with him. I trust that you’ll love him as much as he loves you. You do, don’t you?” 

You sigh, chuckling softly. “Figured out that one easily too, haven’t you?” 

“Please, I’ve known since the day you lot came round ours for the barbeque. And both of you are shit at hiding things, by the way. You’d be terrible spies.” 

“Thanks, Max. Seriously.” 

“For calling you a crappy liar? You’re welcome, I guess?” He’s only joking, but you know he knows what you mean. Max is a really good guy, a really good friend, both to you and to Lando. “And if he ever hurts you, loop me in. I’ll give him a proper beating for hurting my friend.” 

“Oh, I will. Avoid the face though, I kinda like it.” 

Max snorts, shaking his head playfully. “Yeah, he’s got a nice mug, that one. Real moneymaker.”

The moneymaker is drooling a little bit with his cheek smushed up against your leg, but you pay it no mind. He still looks good. 

He’s actually starting to look like your whole world, all wrapped up into one perfectly flawed human being. 

follow @katsu-library to be notified when i post a new chapter :)

[rose24207]

No, you’re not

Summary: You and Lando have been inseparable since childhood, both secretly in love with each other but too afraid to confess—he believes you deserve better than him, and you think his flings mean he could never see you that way, leaving your feelings tangled in unspoken fears of ruining your lifelong friendship.

Genre: angst, fluff

TW: None!

A/N: wow this is a long request! Thank you!! I really hope it’s like how you wanted it! English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Based of this request

Masterlist

The Brazil Grand Prix had always been one of Lando’s toughest races. The circuit wasn’t just a test of his skill; it was a mental and physical marathon. This year was no different. After a grueling 71 laps that left him finishing far from where he wanted to be, he was wrung out, mentally frayed, and questioning every decision he’d made during the weekend. The lack of sleep afterward didn’t help, and by the time he boarded the flight back to Monaco, he was barely holding himself together.

All he wanted was to get home and shut the world out. No cameras, no engineers pointing out his mistakes, no fans bombarding him with well-meaning but exhausting messages. Just silence.

Except, as soon as he opened his front door, he realized he wasn’t going to be alone.

The lights in the living room were dim, but the faint glow of the TV illuminated the familiar figure curled up on his couch. You.

Lando’s heart squeezed at the sight of you, a feeling so achingly familiar it was almost painful. You were his best friend—the one constant in his life, the one person who saw him as just Lando, not a Formula 1 driver, not a public figure, just the boy you’d grown up with.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? You were his best friend. The girl he’d been in love with since he was sixteen. The girl who deserved better than someone like him.

You looked up when the door clicked shut, your eyes immediately finding his in the dim light. “Finally,” you said, your voice soft but teasing. “I was starting to think you’d sleep at the airport.”

Lando let out a breathless laugh, dropping his bag by the door. “Not sure I’d get much sleep there either.” He leaned against the wall, exhaustion radiating off him in waves. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” you said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I figured you’d be in a mood, so I let myself in.” You gestured to the half-empty bowl of soup on the coffee table. “I also raided your fridge. You really need to go grocery shopping.”

Lando shook his head, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “How’d you even get here?”

“I have a key, remember?” you said with a smirk. “And I used that thing called a car. Revolutionary, really.”

He rolled his eyes, but the warmth in his chest spread. You were always like this—casual, unbothered, always knowing exactly what he needed before he even realized it himself.

You stood and crossed the room, your smile fading as you got a closer look at him. “You look terrible,” you said, your voice dropping into that soft, concerned tone that always made his chest tighten.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“I mean it,” you said, tugging gently on the sleeve of his hoodie as if inspecting him. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“That’s because I haven’t,” he admitted.

You frowned, your eyes narrowing. “Lando...”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, though the hoarseness of his voice betrayed him.

“No, you’re not.” You grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the couch. He let you, too tired to argue. “Sit. You need to eat something, drink something, and then sleep for about a year.”

He dropped onto the couch with a groan, sinking into the cushions. You draped a blanket over him before disappearing into the kitchen. He could hear you rummaging around, the sound of a kettle boiling, the clink of a spoon against a mug.

When you returned, you handed him a steaming cup of tea. “Drink,” you ordered, sitting beside him.

He took the cup and cradled it in his hands, the warmth seeping into his skin. He stared at the liquid for a moment before taking a small sip. It burned his tongue, but he didn’t care.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly, not meeting your eyes.

“Do what?”

“Take care of me.”

You snorted. “Someone has to. God knows you’re useless at it.”

He looked up at you then, and the small smile on your face made his chest ache. “I mean it,” he said, his voice low. “You don’t have to... be here. I’ll be fine.”

You frowned, your brow furrowing in that way it always did when you were worried about him. “Of course I do,” you said softly. “You’re my best friend, Lando. Where else would I be?”

That was the problem, wasn’t it? You were always there. Always caring, always looking out for him, always steady and dependable. And he was... what? A mess. A guy who jumped from fling to fling, trying—and failing—to get you out of his head.

He knew what you thought of him. You’d never said it outright, but he could see it in the way you’d roll your eyes whenever you saw another headline about him with some random girl. You thought he wasn’t serious. That he couldn’t be serious. And maybe you were right. Maybe he wasn’t capable of being the kind of man you deserved.

“How was the race?” you asked, breaking the silence.

“Bad,” he said simply.

“You want to talk about it?”

He shook his head, letting his head fall back against the couch. “Not really.”

You nodded, not pushing him. Instead, you shifted closer, your shoulder brushing against his. He felt your warmth seep into him, and for a moment, he let himself relax.

“Did you eat?” you asked after a while.

“Not really.”

You sighed and stood. “Stay here. I’ll heat up the rest of the soup.”

He watched as you disappeared into the kitchen, his chest tightening with every step you took. You were too good to him. Too good for him.

By the time you came back, holding a bowl of steaming soup, he’d convinced himself to push his feelings down again, to keep them buried where they couldn’t hurt you.

“Here,” you said, handing him the bowl. “Eat.”

He took the bowl and set it on his lap, picking up the spoon. “Thanks.”

You sat beside him again, watching as he ate in silence.

“You don’t have to babysit me, you know,” he said after a while, his voice quiet.

“I’m not babysitting you,” you said with a shrug. “I’m being a good friend.”

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, well, you’re too good at it.”

You smiled, but there was a hint of sadness in your eyes that he couldn’t quite place.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The only sounds were the clink of his spoon against the bowl and the faint hum of the TV.

“Lando,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

He looked up at you, his heart skipping a beat at the way you were looking at him—like you could see right through him.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” you said. “Whatever’s going on in your head... you don’t have to carry it by yourself.”

His throat tightened, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. You always knew exactly what to say, exactly how to pull him back from the edge.

“I know,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thanks.”

You nodded, your eyes never leaving his.

And in that moment, he realized that no matter how much he tried to push you away, no matter how much he convinced himself that he didn’t deserve you, you would always be there.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Thank you for reading!

[elryuse]

Yandere Wonyoung x Male Reader

Wonyoung & y/n have been friends since childhood and promised to get married when they grow up..but since Wonyoung became an idol and got great success, she start to forget y/n and said rude things to y/n..at the same time, she's in a relationship with a male idol..y/n knows about it and feels very disappointed and slowly forgets Wonyoung

a few months later, Wonyoung compared between that male idol with y/n and felt that y/n was the best..after that, she start tracking y/n & willing to kill anyone who stood in her way.

The Price of a Broken Promise

Yandere Wonyoung X Male Reader

The rain poured heavily outside as Wonyoung sat alone in her luxurious apartment, staring blankly at the dim glow of her phone. News articles, tweets, and viral videos filled the screen, all focused on the same scandal: San, her boyfriend, caught cheating with another idol. The images of him smiling, holding someone else’s hand, sent a sharp pang through her chest.

The betrayal stung, but it wasn’t just San’s actions that haunted her tonight. As she curled up on the couch, her mind drifted back to a promise she had made long ago, to someone who had once meant everything to her.

“Y/n,” she whispered his name for the first time in years, the sound foreign yet painfully familiar.

She closed her eyes, letting the memories resurface. She saw his shy smile, the way his hand would always reach for hers as they walked home together. He had been her anchor, her unwavering support during the uncertain days of their childhood.

But she had let him go.

Her fame as an idol had taken over her life, pulling her further and further away from the boy who had once been her entire world. It wasn’t just time or distance that had severed their bond—it was her own selfishness.

“Wonyoung, don’t forget me, okay?” Y/n had said once, his voice soft but earnest.

“I could never forget you,” she had replied with a laugh, brushing off his concern. But she had forgotten him—forgotten their promise, forgotten his love.

And worse, she had pushed him away.

Her chest tightened as she remembered their last conversation, months before she debuted. He had called her late at night, worried about her.

“Wonyoung, are you okay? You haven’t replied to my texts,” he had said, his voice full of concern.

“I’m fine, Y/n. I’m just busy,” she had replied coldly.

“I just wanted to remind you I’m here for you—always.”

“I don’t need you,” she had snapped, her frustration boiling over. “Stop calling me.”

She could still hear the silence that followed, the hurt in his voice when he finally said, “Okay. I understand.”

That had been the last time she heard from him.

Now, years later, she realized the enormity of her mistake. Y/n had been the one constant in her life, the one person who had loved her unconditionally. And she had thrown him away for a fleeting romance with someone who didn’t even care enough to stay faithful.

The guilt hit her like a tidal wave. She grabbed her phone, her hands trembling as she searched for his number.

Her heart sank when the call didn’t go through.

“The number you have dialed is no longer in service.”

“No,” she whispered, her voice breaking. She tried again, but the same robotic message greeted her.

“Why did I let you go?” she sobbed, clutching the phone to her chest.

The days that followed were a blur. Wonyoung couldn’t focus on anything—rehearsals, photoshoots, interviews. Her manager noticed the change.

“Wonyoung, what’s going on with you?” he asked one afternoon, his tone sharp. “You’re distracted, and it’s starting to show.”

“I just need some time,” she mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

“Time for what? You have responsibilities, a career—”

“I need to find someone,” she interrupted, her voice trembling.

Her manager stared at her, baffled. “What are you talking about? You don’t have time for this.”

“I don’t care!” she snapped, standing abruptly. “I’ve already lost the most important person in my life because of this career. I’m not losing him forever.”

“Wonyoung, be reasonable—”

“I’m done listening to reason,” she said, her voice firm. “I’m going to find Y/n.”

She spent weeks searching, reaching out to mutual friends, scouring social media, even looking through old emails in the hope of finding some trace of him. It was through one of those emails that she found an old message from him, dated two years ago.

Wonyoung,

I know you’re busy, and I know your life is different now. But I just wanted to remind you that I’m still here. If you ever need me, just call.

- Y/n

Her tears blurred the screen as she read his words. He had been there for her, even when she didn’t deserve it. And now he was gone.

Wonyoung’s search eventually led her to New York, where she had heard he had moved. She didn’t know what she would say if she found him. She didn’t even know if he would want to see her. But she had to try.

When she finally knocked on the door of a small apartment in the city, her heart was pounding so loudly she could barely hear the rain that drenched her.

The door opened, and there he was.

“Y/n,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

He stared at her in shock, his expression unreadable. “Wonyoung?”

Before she could stop herself, tears spilled down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Y/n stepped back, his face hardening. “What are you doing here?”

“I had to see you,” she said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

“Why now?” he asked, his tone cold. “After all this time, why now?”

She collapsed onto the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. “I was selfish. I hurt you, and I let you go. I let everything go, and I didn’t realize what I had until it was gone.”

“You don’t get to just walk back into my life,” he said, his voice sharp. “You don’t get to show up here and expect me to forgive you.”

“I know,” she said, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But please… just listen to me.”

Y/n clenched his fists, his emotions a whirlwind of anger, pain, and something else he couldn’t quite name. “Do you have any idea what you put me through? You made me feel like I was nothing. Like I didn’t matter.”

“You mattered,” she said desperately. “You mattered more than anything. I was just too blind to see it.”

He shook his head, turning away. “Why are you really here, Wonyoung? Is it guilt? Regret? What do you want from me?”

“I want you,” she said, her voice trembling. “I want to make things right. I want to keep the promise we made.”

Y/n froze, her words cutting through him like a knife. For so long, he had dreamed of hearing her say those words. But now that she had, it felt hollow.

“You don’t get to fix this with a few words,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “Trust doesn’t work like that. Love doesn’t work like that.”

“I know,” she said, her voice breaking. “I know it’ll take time. But I’ll wait. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Y/n looked at her, searching her face for sincerity. For the first time, he saw it—the raw, unfiltered regret and love she had buried for so long.

But trust wasn’t something that could be rebuilt overnight. And love, once broken, wasn’t so easily mended.

Wonyoung returned to Seoul after her meeting with Y/n, but she wasn’t the same. The regret and longing that had once been a dull ache had transformed into something far more potent. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face—his indifferent expression, his cold tone. The man she had once known as her Y/n was no longer hers.

And that thought drove her mad.

She sat in her darkened apartment, scrolling through her phone for the hundredth time. She had found his social media accounts, though they were sparse. His life seemed simple now—pictures of cityscapes, books, and an occasional group photo with friends. But it was the women in those group photos that caught her attention.

Who were they? Friends? Coworkers? Or something more?

Her grip on the phone tightened, her chest heaving with anger at the mere thought of Y/n laughing with another girl, confiding in someone else, smiling for someone else.

“No,” she whispered to herself, her voice trembling. “He’s mine. He promised me. We promised each other.”

Her thoughts spiraled, and with each passing day, her obsession grew.

Wonyoung began to neglect her career. She would cancel rehearsals, ignore her manager’s calls, and avoid public appearances. Instead, she spent her days tracking Y/n’s life from afar. She learned the names of his coworkers, memorized his daily routines, and even discovered where he liked to eat lunch.

One day, she booked a flight back to New York, unable to stay away any longer.

Y/n was sitting in a café near his office, typing away on his laptop, when he felt a familiar presence. He looked up, and his heart sank.

“Wonyoung?”

She stood there, her eyes red-rimmed but filled with a desperate kind of determination.

“I needed to see you,” she said softly, taking a seat across from him without waiting for an invitation.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone laced with frustration.

“I couldn’t stay away,” she admitted. “I’ve been thinking about you every day. I need to make this right.”

Y/n sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Wonyoung, we talked about this. I told you I needed time.”

“I know,” she said quickly, her voice trembling. “But I can’t wait. I can’t let you go. You’re all I think about, Y/n. I can’t… I can’t live without you.”

Her words unsettled him. There was something unhinged in the way she spoke, in the way her hands clenched the edge of the table as if holding on for dear life.

“You can’t force this,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “You need to move on.”

“Move on?” she repeated, her eyes widening. “How can you say that? After everything we’ve been through?”

“Wonyoung, we were kids. Things are different now. You need to understand that.”

Her lips quivered, and tears welled up in her eyes. “No. No, you’re wrong. Things don’t have to be different. We can fix this. I can fix this.”

Y/n shook his head, his frustration mounting. “You’re not listening to me. This isn’t healthy—for either of us.”

She stared at him, her tears falling freely. “You don’t mean that,” she whispered.

But he did mean it. He stood, grabbing his laptop and bag. “I think you should leave, Wonyoung. Please don’t come back.”

She watched him walk away, her heart shattering all over again. But as the pain consumed her, a darker resolve began to take shape.

Wonyoung sat in her hotel room that night, replaying their conversation over and over in her mind. Y/n was pushing her away, but she couldn’t let him. He was hers. He had always been hers.

Her thoughts turned to the women she had seen in his photos. She imagined them laughing with him, touching him, taking her place. The idea was unbearable.

“No one else can have him,” she muttered to herself, pacing the room.

Her mind raced with possibilities, each one more twisted than the last. If Y/n wouldn’t come back to her willingly, she would make him. And if anyone tried to stand in her way, they would regret it.

The next day, Wonyoung followed Y/n to his office. She waited outside, watching as he chatted with a female coworker—a petite woman with a kind smile. Wonyoung’s nails dug into her palms as jealousy consumed her.

When the woman walked to a nearby café for lunch, Wonyoung followed her. She cornered her in the alley behind the café, her expression cold and menacing.

“You need to stay away from him,” Wonyoung said, her voice low and threatening.

The woman looked confused. “Excuse me?”

“Y/n,” Wonyoung clarified, stepping closer. “He’s mine. Don’t think for a second that you can take him from me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the woman stammered, backing away.

Wonyoung grabbed her wrist, her grip like iron. “Listen carefully,” she hissed. “If I see you near him again, you’ll regret it.”

The woman nodded quickly, her face pale with fear. Wonyoung released her and walked away, a twisted sense of satisfaction washing over her.

Y/n started noticing strange things in the following weeks. His coworkers seemed distant, avoiding him during breaks. One day, he found a bouquet of roses on his doorstep with a note that read, “You’re mine, forever.”

He knew who it was from.

Wonyoung’s obsession was spiraling out of control, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

He confronted her one evening, finding her waiting outside his apartment.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I just wanted to see you,” she said, her voice sweet but unsteady.

“This has to stop, Wonyoung. You’re scaring me.”

Her smile faltered. “I’m scaring you? Y/n, all I’ve done is love you. All I’ve ever wanted is to be with you.”

“This isn’t love,” he said firmly. “This is obsession.”

Her eyes darkened, and she stepped closer. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that. You don’t understand how much I need you, Y/n. I can’t live without you.”

“You need help,” he said, his voice softening. “Please, Wonyoung. Get help.”

Her expression twisted into one of rage and heartbreak. “I don’t need help. I need you. And I won’t let anyone take you from me.”

Y/n felt a chill run down his spine. He realized then just how far she was willing to go.

The obsession had consumed Wonyoung entirely. Every waking moment revolved around Y/n—what he was doing, where he was going, who he was with. She knew everything: the times he left for work, the café he liked to visit, the park where he occasionally went to clear his mind. Her network of eyes seemed endless. Every interaction, every smile he shared with someone else, ignited a storm of jealousy and fury within her.

But she couldn’t just watch anymore. She needed him. Completely.

It was a cold, quiet night when Wonyoung finally decided to act. She waited in the alley near Y/n’s apartment, cloaked in darkness. Her heart raced as she gripped the small vial in her hand, the contents a potent sedative she had procured after weeks of planning.

She knew his routine well enough to predict when he’d go to bed. The lights in his apartment flickered off around 11 PM. She waited another hour, ensuring he was deep in sleep before making her move.

Breaking into Y/n’s apartment was easier than she expected. She had studied his habits meticulously, noting how he often forgot to lock his balcony door. The quiet click of the door sliding open sent a chill down her spine, a mix of adrenaline and anticipation coursing through her.

She crept inside, her movements silent and calculated. His living room was dimly lit by the faint glow of the streetlights outside. Her gaze fell on a framed photo of him on the counter, and she couldn’t resist picking it up, her fingers trembling as she traced his face.

“You’ll understand soon,” she whispered to herself, setting the photo down.

Her footsteps were featherlight as she made her way to his bedroom. The door was ajar, and she pushed it open slowly, revealing Y/n’s sleeping form. He looked peaceful, his chest rising and falling steadily.

Wonyoung’s breath hitched. He was so close, so vulnerable.

She stepped closer, her hands trembling as she pulled out a syringe filled with the sedative. She had practiced this moment in her mind countless times, but the reality of it made her hands shake.

“I’m doing this for us,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

She knelt beside the bed, carefully brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. He stirred slightly but didn’t wake. Her heart pounded as she pressed the needle against his skin.

The prick of the needle woke Y/n. His eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, he was disoriented.

“W-Wonyoung?” he mumbled, his voice groggy.

“Shh, it’s okay,” she cooed, her voice soft and soothing. “Just relax.”

His gaze sharpened as he realized what was happening. “What… what are you doing?” he said, his voice slurred as the sedative began to take effect.

He tried to sit up, but his limbs felt heavy, his movements sluggish. Panic flashed in his eyes as he attempted to push her away.

“Wonyoung, stop,” he slurred, his strength fading.

“I can’t,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t let you leave me. I need you, Y/n. Don’t you see? We’re meant to be together.”

He struggled against her, his body weak but his mind racing. “This… isn’t love,” he managed to say, his words barely audible.

“It is,” she insisted, her voice breaking. “It’s the purest love there is. I’m doing this for us. For you.”

Y/n’s vision blurred as the drug fully took hold. His head lolled to the side, and his body went limp. The last thing he saw before everything went dark was Wonyoung’s tear-streaked face hovering over him, a mix of desperation and obsession etched into her features.

Wonyoung sat beside him for hours, her hand gently stroking his hair as he lay unconscious. She whispered promises to him, vowing to make him understand, to show him that they were destined to be together.

“You’ll see, Y/n,” she murmured. “You’ll realize that no one can love you the way I do. No one will ever understand you like I do.”

Her tears had dried, replaced by a chilling sense of determination. She had crossed a line, but she didn’t care. Nothing else mattered now—only him.

He was hers. And she would never let him go.

The news broke like wildfire across Korea: “Jang Wonyoung, the Diva of IVE, Has Gone Missing.”

Fans were devastated, flooding social media with hashtags, prayers, and theories. Was it an abduction? Had she run away to escape the pressures of fame? The police were tight-lipped, but the public was frantic. News outlets speculated endlessly, painting a picture of tragedy for one of Korea’s brightest stars.

But the truth was far darker.

Far from the glitz and glamour of Seoul, in a secluded countryside church, Wonyoung stood radiant in her wedding dress. The ornate lace fabric clung to her like a second skin, her beauty almost ethereal. Her lips curled into a serene smile, her dream finally realized.

Beside her stood Y/n, dressed in a formal suit, but his face betrayed no joy. His once-bright eyes were now dull, lifeless. The man who had fought so hard to escape his past had been subdued, stripped of his will. He moved robotically, his body weakened from the drugged haze that Wonyoung kept him in.

The church was empty, save for them. There were no friends, no family, no witnesses. It was exactly how Wonyoung wanted it. This moment wasn’t for the world—it was for them alone.

“You look so handsome, my love,” Wonyoung whispered, her voice tender as she adjusted his tie. “I’ve waited for this moment my entire life.”

Y/n’s lips twitched, but no words came. He had stopped resisting days ago. His silence didn’t bother Wonyoung anymore. She believed that, in time, he would come to accept her love again.

The officiant, a man Wonyoung had hired for discretion, cleared his throat and began the ceremony.

“Do you, Jang Wonyoung, take Y/n to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”

Wonyoung’s eyes gleamed with joy. “I do.”

“And do you, Y/n, take Jang Wonyoung to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”

Y/n remained silent, his gaze fixed on the floor. Wonyoung gently squeezed his hand, her nails digging into his skin.

“Answer him, my love,” she said sweetly, though her tone carried an edge.

“…I do,” Y/n muttered, his voice barely audible.

The officiant nodded. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Wonyoung turned to Y/n, her eyes glistening with tears of happiness. She cupped his face, forcing him to look at her.

“This is our beginning,” she whispered before pressing her lips to his in a possessive kiss.

The couple settled into their new home, a sprawling estate surrounded by high walls and dense forests. It was isolated, designed to keep the outside world away—and Y/n inside.

Wonyoung walked through the grand hallways, her arms wrapped tightly around Y/n’s as if afraid he might slip away. She beamed with contentment, her dream fully realized.

“Isn’t this perfect?” she said, her voice full of glee. “Just you and me, forever.”

Y/n didn’t respond. He walked alongside her, his steps heavy, his gaze empty. The man he once was had been consumed by her relentless obsession.

But to Wonyoung, it didn’t matter.

She had won.

No one else would ever have him. No one else could touch him. Y/n was hers—completely, irrevocably, eternally.

As they sat by the fireplace that night, Wonyoung rested her head on his shoulder, her smile serene.

“This is love,” she said softly, her fingers lacing through his. “And I’ll never let you go again.”

The flames crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows across the room. Outside, the world continued to mourn the disappearance of Jang Wonyoung. But inside, she was happier than she had ever been.

The end

[jessthebaker]

How? How? HOWWWW did I not read this when you published it?! Did I read it on ao3 and not here? Did I leave you a comment there and not here? My friend, if I haven’t commented or shared this chapter yet, I have SINNED. Because this is amazing. The whole story is amazing. You are an amazing writer.

Watching Frankie and Lee grow together, watching her grow in her personal life - grow in her confidence that has been planted and nurtured by Frankie - and then she takes that confidence and saunters it back to him in slacks - is the sexiest and most affirming way for her to be.

(That is, until she finds the confidence enough to LEAVE HER ASSHOLE ADRIAN and trust that she DOES have skills to survive without Asshole Daddy’s money. Keeping her in a job she’s not good at, with a man who disrespects her and begrudges her anything good and only wants her around for the status it bestows upon him. UGH. Fuck that guy.)

BUT. I was talking about Lee and Frankie. It makes me so happy that they are talking, sharing parts of their lives, sleeping over, staying over past sunrise (she gets to see his glorious self naked in the daylight?! *swoon*) , getting more and more in tune with each other, more comfortable discussing things - the big things, things that matter more than “what do you do for work” or “where do you live”.

I can only hope that as they separately think about being together for REAL, that they actually discuss the idea together. And that Ava’s arrival is a catalyst to making something happen! Something good!!

My darling Orange, please do not apologise for taking a long time to write this story. If you didn’t write it at all, it would never get written. And that would be an absolute tragedy. Take your time, you are worth waiting for!

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 5

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. Time flies, in room number 2. How much longer do you have, just for the two of you?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange bedroom besties 🧡 It's been a hot minute, I sincerely apologise. Thank you to everyone who stuck around, I hope it was worth it, and thank you to everyone who just passed by 🧡 @frannyzooey my love, thank you for your help on the Americanisms, invaluable as always 🧡

Word count: 13.8k

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Chapter 5: Time in a bottle

It’s late when you pull into the parking lot. Dusk cloaks the motel in its fuzzy veil, the surroundings fading in diffuse shadows. The single-story building stands out in the twilight, akin to an old ship. Wooden poles for masts, hanging lamps swaying gently in the briny breeze, their lights blurry in the muggy air. Tacky and warm, it wafts in through your car’s open windows, dampening the exposed skin of your forearms and the back of your neck. 

On the passenger seat, your iPhone’s screen glows in the semi-darkness with an incoming call. 

Adrian.  

“What now?” you sigh, through clenched teeth. 

Your eyes dart up to Frankie’s truck parked in front of you. The word FORD stretched in chrome letters on the tailgate, shining bright in your headlights. 

The familiar pull awakens between your constricted lungs. A pounding, greedy little tug compelling you to get out of your car and cover the distance to the room as quickly as your step will carry you. But you want to calm your nerves first. Slow down your heart rate, deepen your breathing. 

That discussion you had with your father, earlier this afternoon, still clings to your frame. The humiliation conveyed by his carefully chosen words like tar, black and viscous. You can almost smell its foul stench. And you don’t want to bring any of it inside. 

It’s only the third time Frankie gets here before you, if you count that very first Friday back in September. And the second, since you came back from Colorado earlier this month. The pressure in your rib cage eases at the memory of that sweet evening. 

All day long, you had rushed through your counting routine. Through the long, icy corridors of your glass prison. Rushed on the 589 northbound. Rushed to strangle the uncertainty of his presence there. 

It was a few minutes past 7pm when you parked next to his truck, his early presence cranking up your anxiousness. You got out of your car with an anguished scowl, and you all but ran toward the porch, toward the brass number 2, shoes scuffing the gravel. 

The door swung open the very second you stepped under the overhang. A flash of dimple, and his arms wrapped around your waist. He scooped you up from the floor, swift and easy, carrying you inside. Hungry kisses, teeth scraping at your jaw, down the line of your neck. A throaty husk of Happy New Year, Lee Abbott, as he tugged your clothes off your body that thrummed with his scent and his voice and his arms and his taste. 

With the density of him. 

He lifted you again, your short, giggly yelp bouncing across the room as he hauled you over his shoulder with an easy force. His steps long and balanced, as if your weight was inconsequential to his strength. 

In the dim bathroom, he put you down directly into the tub. There, he unbuckled his belt and slid down his jeans, looking at you with a mischievous grin you’d never seen before and that fitted his gorgeous face a little too well. 

“Told you I’d fuck you in this shower.” 

Thirty seconds later, you were standing together under an aggressive stream of scalding water, his broad back shielding you from the high pressure, steam blurring the tiles and the mirror. You pressed your face into his neck, hands splayed over his chest, feeling it heave with his low, rumbling chuckle. 

“ That’s the best I could do. This place is trash,” he scoffed, lips grazing your ear. 

“ It’s perfect,” you laughed. 

Another notification lights up your screen, yanking you back into the stifling cab of the sedan, to the nagging cramp poking your rib cage, to your hindered breathing. 

It glowers at you, bold black letters over a steel gray rectangle. 

MESSAGES 

Adrian

Your eyes flicker back to the red truck, your face crunching into a grimace. 

“Shit,” you grit, grabbing the phone and quickly pressing the home button before you can change your mind.  

The lock screen fades as the message app pops open. You squint against the brightness of the glowing white screen. 

I made it, babe. I fucking made it. You’re talking to the new senior partner of Balmer & Steigt.  Fuck yeah. I finally get what I fucking deserve.  

The gray ellipses start blinking underneath the bubble. You frown, bracing yourself. 

I couldn’t have made it without you. This is your victory as much as mine.

You scoff, but the dread-inducing ellipses keep bouncing happily. Fantastic. There’s more coming.

I got you something. Something fancy for my fancy girl.

“Oh, hell no.”  

Leaning down, you pick up the roomy I ❤ NY tote bag Ava got you as a Christmas present and dump your phone into it, before stuffing the bag under your seat. 

If only you could take a full breath. If only your chest would expend. It’s not that bad, really. A few months back, you would have been physically unable to keep going with your day after that conversation with your father. Let alone drive. You’d have suffocated, chocked up on your panic, until you’d been left with no choice other than to gulp down a pill, or two, or three, topped off with a swig of gin. The bitter taste of surrendering. 

Is that what it means, to give oneself some grace? You’re doing good, you’re doing better, you’re doing your best.

Closing your eyes, you exhale through pursed lips and ease down your shoulders. 

He had you called into his office by his secretary, as you were about to leave, bag in hand, counting steps. 

But you were expecting it. In all honesty, you’re surprised it’s taken him this long. Four weeks since you came back from Beaver Creek. Four weeks of defying his strict, outdated, misogynistic dress-code. 

The very first morning, you stepped out of the mirror-lined elevator on the 15th floor wearing high-waisted, wide-legged slacks and a loose button-up, the sleeves folded high on your forearms. And flat derbies.  

Nervousness, sitting heavy and queasy in the pit of your stomach, beating loud against your eardrums. Prickling under your armpits, raising the hair on your nape. 

Kaytee’s eyes widened as she caught sight of you walking by her office, before she remembered to police her expression. The shock on her face turned into something else, something worse. Lurking in the lift-up corner of her lips, in the smugness coloring her cheeks. Something sardonic. Condescension. 

“ You can’t spend your life trying to be someone else. ” Ava’s words through the receiver the previous night were a dizzying swirl inside your head, as you walked down the glass corridors, coworkers and subordinates watching you with a similar shocked expression, that blurred their features into one subdued, frightened face. 

But who the fuck am I, Ava? you wanted to ask, the only sound on the line that of your short breathing. How did you know who you were? Always. From the very beginning of your life. How did you know how to be so unapologetic about it? 

Had it been your gift to her? Does self-confidence require love? Or guidance? Is it innate? 

All you know, at this point in your life, is that wearing clothes that you chose for yourself seems like a sound first measure. One that you can actually undertake. 

And with that in mind, you stepped into your father’s office, your heart pulsating in your throat, to take a seat across from him, his clear desk standing like a wide canyon between you.

Now, your steps are nearly silent on the shifting gravel, as you walk across the parking lot, fingers brushing along the cool metal of the truck as you pass it by. That pull toward Frankie propelling you forward, inescapable, irresistible despite the nasty sensation oozing down along your legs like thick-flowing tar, weighing your gait. 

On the porch, you pause. On Friday evenings, this is when you shed your old skin. Healing wounds, scar tissues. When you set your eyes on the canopy as it swallows the sun, pink-orange dusk fading to dark. Grainy photographs, forgotten vacations. This is when your spine straightens, when you take in the horizon and let it deepen your breathing. When you ready yourself for the life you’ve chosen, between the brown carpet and the yellow curtains and his arms. 

But it’s already night. The darkness has erased the horizon and your old skin won’t shed. 

The door opens, a draft ruffling your hair.  

The first thing you see is the crease between his brow. The tick of his whiskered jaw, and then, his dark brown eyes, appraising the tension that winds up your body, appraising your silence. His grunt, like an echo, distant. 

“You sat in that car forever. I was about to come out and get you.”

The concern in his voice rattles something deep inside your belly. You’re not bringing any of it inside that room of yours, you think, as he pushes away from the door to let you in, as you cross the threshold, but it’s stuck to you. Your father’s voice. The tremendous power it still holds over you. His disappointment. Your failures, plural. All the wrong choices. 

His hat is set on the desk. His suede jacket is draped over the back of the angular wooden chair. Your gaze lingers on it, you can almost feel the comforting softness of the fabric under the pads of your fingers.

He stands a few feet away from you, giving you space. Dark mahogany searching your features, your posture. His hands propped on his hips, like that other night in the parking lot, after he’d seen the fresh scar in your hairline. 

You face away from him. The smell of the room is familiar, in a comforting way. Musty. Dust and the faintest perfume of industrial laundry detergent coming from the starched sheets. He’s pulled the bedspread off the bed. It’s folded neatly on the floor underneath the window. It rises tears along your throat, the idea of him prepping himself, prepping the place, alone in this room where you’ve waited for him countless times and hours. Guilt scrambles your brain, over what, you’re not entirely certain. Keeping him waiting? You failures, plural. All the wrong choices. 

“Lee.”

His voice seeps in through the blackness coating your skin, like warm and persistent little droplets of sweet amber.

You turn to face him, at last. An awkward upper-body twist, feet rooted to the brown carpet, teeth clenched around the lump in your throat. He’s wearing that gray threadbare t-shirt you love, the one with a v-neck, and your eyes find the dip at the base of his throat, the fireworks of freckles between his collarbone. Tears well up, too strong to hold back, and you shut your eyes to the muffled sound of his booted steps on the matted carpet.  

You’re drifting, enveloped in his warmth, his scent, leather and musk. The contact of his skin as he curls a large hand around your nape, tucking your face into the curve of his strong neck. 

His arm wraps around your waist, drawing you closer, flush to his chest, and he presses his chin to your temple. You let go, surrender, honey dripping thick and golden along your loosening limbs. 

His pulse beats solid and steady against your cheek. You breathe him in, a hindered inhale at first, and when your shoulders begin to drop, a deeper one. A single tear escapes. It rolls down the round of your cheek into his skin. Your palms skim up to the plane of his back, soaking in his heat, and he presses you in harder, his forearm aligning with your spine, fingers spreading at the base of your skull. 

Time stretches. He holds you. You lean in. 

Later, after he’s helped you climb into the cab of his truck, you keep your eyes on him as he rounds the red hood.

Sitting behind the wheel, he puts the key in the ignition and, looking at you, tilts his head to the left. 

“C’mere,” he says, and you scoot next to him, biting down a relieved sigh as you slide over the seat bench. 

He leans over your lap, grabbing the middle seat belt, and buckles you in, then himself. You settle in, with your head against his shoulder, and your hand on his thigh, soft cotton, worn denim. Under your touch, his firm muscles ripple as he drives you into the night, into oblivion. The steady motion lulling you to sleep.

Alongside the deserted road, trees and bushes roll out in the headlights as the truck swallows miles and miles of asphalt. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble after a while, fighting drowsiness.

“Don’t be. You wanna talk about it?” he adds after a pause.

“No.” 

You shake your head, your voice so low you’re not certain he’s heard your answer.

“Doesn’t have to be now,” he says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Your head bobs with his bunching muscles as he releases the wheel to bend his arm at the elbow, fingers threading through your hair. Without lifting his eyes off the road, he leans in, and pecks a pointed kiss on the crown of your head. 

Your eyes close. The image of the bedspread neatly folded underneath the window flashes through your mind. You can’t seem to get used to his tender gestures, to his attentions. You hope they will never stop. You hope you will never get used to them. 

The emotion washes over you, a soft wave, and you float with it. In the cab of his truck, in his scent and his hold, you feel free of all doubts. Fear and pain cannot find you here. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced so far, a strange feeling, potent and all encompassing, albeit one that doesn’t need to be dulled or tamed. 

The words come out of your mouth as a surprise. 

“I think I don't want it to define me anymore. My family, I mean. Where I come from.”  

This is a new state of mind. Or perhaps it’s been there for a while, a mere shadow on the wall, something you couldn’t clearly discern. Suddenly simple to comprehend and articulate.

“Yea. I get it,” he says.

And you know he does. 

You open your eyes, and take in a deep breath, fill your lungs with that distinct old leather scent that clings about him, and the smell of vintage Bakelite from the dashboard, so specific to his truck.  

“Music?” you ask.

“Sure, good idea. You like Jefferson Airplane?”

You nod, brushing your cheek against the cottony fabric of his t-shirt, leaving a little bit of you there, for him to find later.

“Yes. I like them.”

“Jefferson Airplane it is, then,” he answers. 

Gently, he bends forward, mindful not to nudge you too much, and turns on the stereo. His thick fingers push the tape that’s already there into the slot, and your lips curl with an explicit thought, unlike any you used to have before meeting him. Crude, but welcome pictures that now constantly crowd your brain. 

He keeps the volume low, and with the round rumbling of his quiet humming, your mind slowly drifts off again. 

You’re about to fall asleep when a thought surfaces, skirting the edges of your consciousness. 

“Frankie?” you quietly call. 

“Mmh?”

“Are you… Were you in the military?”

The humming stops, his silence abrupt, and his shoulder tenses under your cheek. Pushing away from it, you risk a sleepy glance at his face, plunged in the semi-darkness. It’s not dark enough that you don’t recognize the cocking of his jaw. 

“Frankie?” you ask again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“I’m a pilot,” he cuts in, pausing to inhale deeply. “I was in the Army for nearly twenty years. I got a discharge a couple years back.” 

You remain silent. His eyes flicker quickly between you and the road, and you give his thigh a strong squeeze with your left hand, before resting your cheek against his shoulder, eluding his searching gaze.

Volunteers is crackling through the speakers, but you don’t hear the music. Fully awake now, your mind is reeling with those scattered, minute parts of him you picked up Friday after Friday to stash them away in your subconscious. His puzzle of shadows. All the things that now make perfect sense, and the ones you’re dying to unravel. 

His quiet assertiveness. His hands, quick and sure. His silences. His commanding tone. That long, sideways scar etched on his left flank. 

His early rage, and his anger too. The flight forward, dimming his eyes, where deep rich mahogany now glimmers. 

The zip ties. Your eyes grow wide, a gasping sound catching in your throat. You’re not ready to address how much you appreciate this particular skill of his, considering where he picked it up.  

Your imagination produces a clear vision of him in a US Air Force uniform, the fabric stretched over his broad shoulders, and you bite your lip, your entire body covering in chills. 

Frankie has yet to say another word. Something raises your consciousness, something in the scowl sharpening his features as he scanned your face for a reaction. 

Images flash through your head. The 8 × 10 picture displayed in your father’s office in its platinum frame, for every visitor to admire. Smooth faced and confident, his sleeves rolled up high on his lean forearms, your father’s shaking hands with Reagan in front of a colorful assemblage of containers, in the industrial quarter of the Tampa Bay Harbor, during the 1984 campaign. His coldly handsome face split by a smile, larger and more genuine than any of those he ever addressed you, let alone Ava. 

Recollections of those dragging hours you spent in church as a child, beads of sweat dripping along your spine as you sat in the sweltering heat on a hard wooden bench, rigid and still like a marble statue for fear of being reprimanded. 

The hateful, vehement speeches your father would burst into at random, your mother pinching your arm for you to listen, this is important. The uneasy feeling sitting in the pit of your stomach, like bile, like nausea. Wrong. This is wrong. A feeling, not an idea yet. It grew with you, expending, to become impossible to see past by the time you started high.

The list of names in your father’s neat handwriting, scrawled on a crisp piece of paper, that he handed you before driving the entire family to the polls for your very first election. The sheer terror, primitive in its hold over you, prickling on your nape as you systematically disregarded his instructions, choosing the names followed by the three letters DEM. 

The rare political meetings you secretly attended in college, the pamphlets in loud colors and bold letters, that you read hidden from your roommate’s prying eyes, as if they were satanic verses. Reproductive rights! Demilitarization Now! No to privatized prisons! End gun violence! 

Petitions you signed with a shaking hand, because what if your parents found out? What if they heard of it? A dread so profoundly anchored at the very core of your psyche that you have never told Ava any of it, even when she would chastise your lack of interest in politics, your lack of involvement, lest she’d reveal your treason to them in the heat of an argument.

Could this be when you started finding yourself? In your diverging convictions? Could it be enough? Could it count? 

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask tentatively.

He huffs a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. 

“You’re a hell of a fast learner, aren’t you?”

“I have a very good teacher,” you shrug, trying to ignore the sharpness in his tone. 

Curiosity overthrowing your ingrained fear to displease, you ask, “What kind of aircraft do you fly? Planes? Helicopters?”

He simply nods, and your cheeks heat again at the notion, your heart racing. 

“I’m very impressed,” you whisper. “I can barely parallel park.”

“I’m sure you got plenty of other skills,” he answers, softer. 

“No. I really don’t.”

—

Frankie walks briskly across the parking lot, carrying a take-away bag and a six-pack of beer. His head hung low to shield his face from the thin, mid-February drizzle. His denim shirt sticks to his back with humidity, and sweat from the drive. It’s pulled uncomfortably taut across his shoulders. 

He steps onto the porch, hands too full to open the door or even knock on it, so he gives it three light kicks. A tiny screw pops out from the curved top of the brass number two. The whole thing swivels upside down, swinging like a pendulum.

“Jesus christ, this fucking place,” he scoffs.

The door flies open, and you’re here, with that bright, earnest smile and your wide, luminous eyes. You’ve tied your hair up in a casual do, but you’re still fully dressed. He likes those slacks on you, snug on your curves, wide on your legs. It fits you so much better than the tight pencil skirts you used to wear when he first met you. Those made you look like an 80s porn producer fever dream. But these trousers transform your gait, your entire demeanor, into something more relaxed. More confident. He could watch you strut around the room for hours. If only there was more time.  

He catches a glimpse of the mesh fabric of your bra, peeking out from the cleavage of your open shirt, and he mentally curses the corporate fucks who get to work all week around you.

“Hey, Frankie.”

The sharp, familiar pang rips through his chest at the sound of your voice, light and cheery. That ache he waits for seven excruciatingly long days to experience again.

“Hey, baby.”

As you let him in, he feels the tip of your fingers brushing his thigh, as if you need to make sure he’s here in the flesh. The miracle of you wanting him, still. 

“What’s in the bag?” you ask, dragging the chipped chair away from the desk, so he can set down his bounty. 

His eyes fall on your graceful nape as you crane your neck to see what’s inside the bag, too well-behaved to touch it without having been invited to do so. 

“Didn’t have time to eat. I took something for you too, I hope you don’t mind. Did you eat? Are you hungry?”

“I don’t usually eat before I come here,” you admit. “I drive in straight from work,” you add, heat visibly creeping up your neck and ears.

He takes off his hat, ruffling a hand through his hair to conceal a smug smile. 

“And you’re not starving, by the time I’m finished with you?”

“Quite the contrary, actually. I feel pretty full when you leave.”

Your lips stretch into a wide grin you’re ineffectively trying to hold back. 

“That so?” he chuckles, propping his hands on his hips. For countenance. 

Pride glimmers in your eyes, as it does every time you make him laugh. He knows it’s mirrored in his eyes. Your levity is his reward. 

Everything about you is unbearably endearing. He’s not sure if he’s hungry for food anymore, or if he’s not going to go straight down on you. You’ve already prepared the bed, that ugly bedspread neatly folded under the window. He could lay you prone on your stomach, lower your trousers to your knees, perk up your pretty ass and eat your sweet cunt from behind.

His hunger for you sizzles along his spine, sparkling in his loins, imperious and distracting. The sensation is delicious, and for once, he takes the time to revel in it. He’s so used to barging in here and just taking. He doesn’t savor, not really, not until after he’s had you at least once. 

He’s not proud of his unbridled hunger, the consequence of seven days’ worth of pent-up frustration, chasing your perfume on his clothes and the ghost feeling of your cool, smooth skin under his palms. That ever-growing obsession for your scent, for your eyes, and that crippling craving for the sounds you produce when he moves inside you. That high he gets when he makes you feel good. Every time he gives you what you want. 

And there’s the absolute black-out on all communications between you throughout the week that drives him out of his mind. He knows that’s the tacit deal the two of you struck at the very beginning. No phone number, no address, no marks. Hell, he didn’t even know your name until you gave it to him at Christmas. Only, he’s left in the dark for seven consecutive fucking days, with no means to check up on you, and no way to make sure you’re safe. 

He understands the necessity for secrecy. But the more time passes, the less it makes sense. 

So come Friday night, he needs to crush you under his weight. Needs to feel your flesh gushing through his splayed fingers and hear you mewl his name, eyes rolling to the back of your head, your body tensing up in his hold before it shatters around his cock. 

He needs to fuck you deep and full, find you in that place within yourself and wreck you there. He needs to make sure you’re alright. Make sure you’re real. Make sure you’re his. 

And his control might be tenuous, but he sure loves the way you lean into it. 

You’re still smiling when he takes a step closer behind you. Lowering his face into the curve of your neck, he inhales you there, that spot behind your ear, where your subtle scent becomes heady. He feels your chest rising with your own deep breathing, and he pictures your eyes fluttering shut. His hand skims the curve of your hip, sliding up to the swell of your breast over the smooth fabric of your shirt, gripping you roughly as he takes your earlobe between his lips and sucks on it. His hips move against your ass of their own volition, his cock half-hard, fucking twitching.

“Frankie,” you whine.

“Yea?”

He licks a broad stride up your neck, collecting the tangy taste of your skin, mixed with the chemical one of your perfume. 

“What’s in the bag?”

“What bag, baby? Oh, right.”

It’s a beat before he can detach himself from you. His cock is beating hard and angry against the confining fabric of his jeans. With a light brush of his knuckles along your side, he reminds himself there’s also pleasure in the anticipation. The word sits in the back of his throat, like a knife ready to bleed him dry. Concupiscence. 

Ripping the paper bag open in the middle, he smooths both sides neatly over the desk, and points at the three rolls wrapped in tin foil.

“Took three burritos, and some fried beans. There’s one beef, one pork, and one vegetarian, in case you don't eat meat.”

You look at him with a twinkle in your eyes, your grin getting wider than he’s ever seen it. He braces a hand flat on the desk. 

“Oh, I eat meat, I thought you’d know that.”

The words have barely left your mouth that you burst into a fit of giggles, covering your face with both hands.

“Christ, woman!” he laughs. “Alright, sit down. Let’s get proper food into that mouth of yours, for once.”

Together, you unfold the bedspread and arrange it over the foot of the bed. The thing is already stained, and you mutually agree there’s no need to make a mess of the white sheet just yet. 

Letting you pick between the two richer ones, he takes the vegetarian burrito, and you start eating together, two open cans of beer at your feet. 

His bites are ravenous, while you nibble gingerly at your food, holding the burrito with two hands, the foil crackling between your fingers. After a few bites, however, you start eating in bigger chunks. 

“This is delicious,” you moan with your mouth full. 

Is he getting jealous of a fucking burrito now? Is that where he’s at?

“What, you never had a burrito in your life?”

You wince, and he immediately regrets the teasing skepticism of his tone. 

Setting the food down, you dab a paper towel to the corner of your mouth, catching a fleck of sauce. There’s grace in all your movements, even the tiniest ones.  

“My mother monitored everything I ate. God forbid I put on any weight,” you explain, a hint of bitterness in your voice. 

He lowers his hands, eyes trained on your averted gaze. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” you tell him, looking up at him.

There’s that quiet resignation painted all over your face. 

“Try me.”

“You’re thinking I’m a grown woman, old enough to make her own decisions.”

He shakes his head. “Was actually thinking your mother sounds like the exact opposite of mine.”

Your mouth curves into a sad attempt at a smile.

“I don't judge you, Lee. We all do what we can with what we got dealt with.”

A slight frown knits your brow, as you seem to consider his words. 

He has spent a lot of time, lately, reflecting over his own choices, and the many places where they’ve led him, for better or for worse. 

Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria. Libya and the most dangerous places in sub-Saharan Africa. Nearly everywhere in South America. Twice over.

Over the fucking Andes, and to Tom’s funeral. 

Choices that also made him Lua’s father. 

Crossroads that have taken him all the way to that shithole bar, last year at the end of August. Conscious decisions that brought him here, into this room. Into your arms. Into your life.

A chain reaction he wouldn’t alter, he knows it now, even if he was given the chance for a do-over. 

He used to consider things as definite. Choices as absolute and irrevocable. It took him becoming a father, and meeting you, to understand his mother’s words. Paso a paso, she’d say, watching him with a tender, knowing smile as he rushed toward his life. Paso a Paso, Francisco. 

You eat in silence for a while, and he keeps watching you. That sharp pain solidly entrenched inside his chest, blooming through his heart, he has to make a conscious effort to breathe around it. 

He bought you the food you’re eating right now. Drove to his favorite place, stood in line and placed his order with you in mind. And you’re enjoying it. In fact, you’re demonstrating an impressive appetite, hungrier, messier with every bite. Sauce dripping down your chin. Pink flashes of tongue licking it from between your fingers. 

He could get used to that. Providing for you. Taking care of you. In more than just one way. Sharing the mundane routine of a daily life together. 

But this is not real. Whatever is happening between the four walls of this shitty motel is not ground for life-altering choices. 

“Do you want to share the pork one?” you ask, crinkling the tinfoil wrapper into a compact ball. 

“I’m good, baby,” he answers with a soft smile. “You can have it. Just make sure you’re still hungry for more meat when you’re done.”

—

Adrian has gifted you a new purse from another French luxury brand. It’s a square-shaped thing cut from some grayish reptile skin, with a matching tag and a decorative lock hanging from its handle. It looks insanely expensive and ridiculously vulgar, its tackiness almost cruelly ironic. Like a rich people’s inside joke.  

Somehow, you’re vaguely aware this model is exclusive and can’t be bought online or even in stores, however high-end. It has to be ordered, and there’s a waiting list. Useless knowledge you probably gathered from one of your mother’s magazines. A family of four could most likely live comfortably for a whole year for the price of this thing. 

Incidentally, there’s a new perfume clinging to Adrian’s clothes when he comes home late at night. The first time you caught a whiff of the heady fragrance, intense vanilla and white musk, it reminded you of the stunning blonde with feline hazel eyes. 

The gift immediately felt less like an expression of gratitude for your support than like a reward for your silent compliance. But it’s of little to no importance. The bag sits idly at the bottom of your walk-in dressing. Unused, containing what’s left of the love and respect you once harbored for the man. 

Every so often, you think about it, as you cruise along the 589. It makes you smile. A wide, Cheshire cat grin, one that bares your front teeth, and you wonder if it’s cruel of you to smile about the end of something that used to mean so much. Something that meant nearly everything. You wonder if you’ve ever been cruel before. Intentionally, that is. 

Then, you conclude you don’t care. This particular kind of cruelty feels far too good. Too righteous. You could get used to it. 

And you keep cruising along the 589 northbound. 

—

“Mark Twain or Lewis Carroll?”

“Oh god, Frankie, I don’t know…” you moan, too distracted to think straight. 

Teeth ghosting a bite over your neck, he wraps a kiss around your skin, sucking on it. Not sharply enough to bruise, but enough for you to clench hard around him.

In the past few weeks, he’s become playful. It’s new to you. Was it always a part of him, constituent but buried underneath the scars and the years, or was it born from your touch? 

He’s become talkative, too. Talkative, and curious. But then again, perhaps he always was. Only, not with you. 

Thus, there are new rituals between you. Secrets exchanged behind the shielding partition of the yellow curtains. Murmurs shared underneath the droning of the ceiling fan, in the golden lighting from the quaint bedside lamps.

Some of his questions can pose a challenge. You’re not always certain about the proper answer. The right one. You were raised to say what was expected of you. Taught to speak to please, not to speak your mind. To wait for your cue, and hold your thoughts in between.

Frequently, you hesitate, afraid to trip on your words. 

But he doesn’t easily relent. He’s playful and curious. But above all, he’s patient and persistent.

“I don’t know,” you repeat.

“You know. Come on.”

“Okay, um… Lewis Carroll. I love– I love Alice.”

“Oh yea? You do? You like following big white rabbits to strange places, huh?”

His chest shakes with his raspy chuckle, and you laugh, until he pulls you in closer, sheathing himself deeper inside you, and your laughter plummets into a throaty groan.

Seamlessly, these new ceremonials have replaced the old ones, the ones that were carried out under wary gazes, in appraising silence.  

Now, you don’t always count your steps on Fridays, but you leave work earlier, and when you arrive at the motel, you try to engage Raul in conversation. His discomfort is obvious, bordering on annoyance, as you disrupt his concentration while he’s busy drawing charcoal landscapes of jagged mountains. But these past two weeks, he seems to have loosened up a bit. Either you’re wearing him off, or he’s trying to get rid of you faster. 

On the porch, in front of room number 2, you watch the sun slowly sink into the canopy of trees in an explosion of tangerine pink. Every week, the sunset creates a different palette of orange, but your emotion continues to be whole and unaltered. 

Before stepping in, you flick the upside-down brass number. It smiles in greeting, swinging on its one remaining screw.

You wish the place carried Frankie’s scent. It never does, of course. As you fold the comforter and prop it under the windowsill, the only smells wafting around are that of laundry detergent, dust, and the faintest hint of mold. 

There’s nothing tangible for you to hold on to in his absence, and this is by far the most difficult. It creates a vacuum, a fertile soil for foul, festering thoughts. Doubt, dread, agitation. During those seven days apart, there is no text or voicemail on your phone you can turn to for reassurance. No photo booth pictures stashed inside your wallet. No clothes of his to drape over your body and keep you warm and safe. Keep you sane. 

Every so often, when you cannot find sleep, you convoke the memory of his gray t-shirt, the one with the v-neck and the pilled fabric. The sensation of the slightly rugged cotton under the pads of your fingers. The immediate comfort gently lulls you to sleep. 

There is one thing, one thing only: the receipt from the burrito place, that you retrieved from the wastebasket after he’d left, that one time he brought you food. It’s tucked between two pages of your Moleskine planner. You’re not sure whether it’s cute or downright pathetic.  

You had thought the want, the yearning, would ease with time. It only kept spreading to every corner of your existence, every aspect of your life. Instead of only missing his touch, you now miss his voice, too. His choice of words, the cadence of his speech, the pace of his gait. His crinkled-eyes, dimpled smile. The way he rolls up his sleeves, leaves the top buttons of his shirt open, and the way he undresses. His three-finger hold on his glass. His long reflecting pauses before he speaks. The freedom and safety you experience with him.

You just became better at handling the longing. Recently, you have become very good at handling numerous things. Quietly but steadfastly defying your father’s injunctions to comply with his dress code. Adrian’s glaring eyes of blue, their silent judgement. Ava living a life of her own, far away from you. 

Reading helps. You hadn’t read in years, and you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it. Now, you carry a book with you everywhere in your I ❤ NY tote. In these last moments before he walks into the room, you lie on your side across the motel bed, your head propped on your hand, and you read.

And when Frankie arrives, everything makes sense again, everything is justified. 

The wooden door creaks open, the brass number swiveling frantically, and his relief upon seeing you lights up the dim room. Hushed greetings, his large hands curling at your waist, pulling you into him, a husk of Hey, baby, his lips barely leaving yours while he tugs at your clothes, undressing you already. 

There’s rarely any other form of preamble beyond an occasional variation of Fuck, I really missed you, Lee , his teeth trailing down the line of your throat, sinking in just shy of a bite. Out of breath, out of time. 

The wait is over. 

Does he still come here to escape? Does he come here for you? His urgency hasn’t abated. But his intent feels different.

Stop me, skin on skin, chest to chest, the weight of his body covering yours, calloused hands hooked on your shoulders for purchase, pounding into you loud and ruthless. 

Stop me, crouched over you like a devouring beast, his face buried into the crook of your neck, shallow breaths and gripping hands, grinding deep inside your heat. 

Stop me, and what you hear is, I trust you. 

Deep grunts thrumming out of his throat, tumbling from his plush lips into your skin, a searing branding, an invisible mark. 

His plea. Lee.

He comes right after you do, pulling out just in time to spurt hot and thick over your arching body, or inside your wanting mouth. 

Later, when his spend has dried on your skin, when he’s kissed the soreness better, when your breathing has slowed, he brings you a glass of water, and waits until you’ve drank it all to bury his face between your legs, or fuck your throat if you begged him to. 

And on some Fridays, he goes by the desk to sit on the rectangular chair. He positions it sideways from the framed mirror. Says the reflection distracts you. It’s true. 

You could spend hours watching him. Watching him move, watching him sleep. Watch the care he puts in the way he handles his clothes and his truck and your pliant body. Watch him button up his jeans or tie his belt around your wrists. Watch his curls catch the light as he combs his fingers through them, the working of his throat, the pulsating throb of his heartbeat in his strong neck. The dip in his collarbone. The darker scar on his side. The muscles of his shoulders and his back, rippling under his freckled skin. Watch, and map those freckles with your lips. 

You could spend the rest of your life with him.

“C’mere,” he beckons, with a little tilt of his head, and a light pat on his thigh.

You get up from wherever he left you lying, the bed, the rough carpeting, the bathroom tiles, and walk over to him on wobbly legs. There, he draws you into his lap in a face-away straddle, his hands on your waist guiding you, firm and gentle, as he makes room for himself inside of you. The tip of your toes barely reach the carpet once you’re seated, and you have to rely entirely on him for balance. You like that. 

He braces his strong arms around you, and you keep your fingers curled around them, reclining against him, against his warmth. You like the sticky sensation of your combined sweats gluing your loose bodies. Your back molds to his chest like it was shaped for this very purpose. 

Your head tips back onto his firm shoulder, and he props his chin in the curve of your neck. The slight swaying of your hips is languid and slow, barely perceivable, in the same way the earth’s revolution around the sun is imperceptible to its inhabitants. 

Time lingers, in long lazy stretches, infinite moments in the amber lighting of the room, in the friendly shadows. In the heart of the night, and the folds of your existence. The low husk of his voice like honey in your ears, his words vibrating from his chest to your back, to your core. 

You can hear the smile in his tone. If you close your eyes, you can see it.

He asks about your taste in books, music or movies, food and entertainment, and tells you about his. Silly games of Would you rather? and Never have I ever. 

Scrunching up your nose under your pinched brow, brain cells scrambling back together inside your hazy brain, you try to produce coherent answers as his lush lips trace intricate patterns along your skin, your throat, your shoulders, nimble fingertips rolling your nipples into hardened peaks. A scrape of his teeth, followed by the wet glide of his tongue, soothing over your flushed skin.

Sometimes, you feel so full it’s overwhelming. The sensation, the emotion strangles the air out of you. Your cunt flutters around the thick, stiff girth of him, and he lets out a gravelly groan, cock throbbing inside your snug walls. Your slick pools down onto the coarse curls at his base. It’s like a virtuous circle. Everything feels right with him. 

After a while, when you’ve melted inside, when amber twirls in your bloodstream and your thoughts have turned to swirling molasses, his hand slides down along your stomach. His calloused fingers parting your folds, he starts rubbing at your clit, telling you that it’s time to come for me, baby. 

And when you do, he comes with you, shoving you down and deep onto his pulsating length, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. His mouth pressed to that sensitive spot over your pulse point, his feverish grunts sizzling against your damp skin. 

When he comes inside you, when you come together, you are made brand-new. Anything’s possible. There’s nothing you can’t do. 

The elating sensation is your favorite daydream, sitting at your desk, over dinner, stuck in traffic, or in the blue hours before dawn. It sustains you throughout the week. The promise of it tingles in tense anticipation, from the crown of your head to the tip of your toes, when you watch him walk over to the desk and fold his tall, massive figure into the ugly chair. 

Week after week, question after question, you come into focus between his arms. It’s terrifying, and exhilarating. You keep getting better at it.

It’s a bittersweet ache, tender and addictive, to learn about his existence outside this room of yours. The borderless confines of his life. Of him. The details he chooses to confide in you, about his childhood, his past, and his present, in the dead of the night, his body wrapped around yours, chasing the contact of your skin. Chasing your touch, your softness, your understanding, when he used to grunt away from it. Like a threat, with bared teeth, and a shake of his head. A forbidding. A not yet. 

It makes sense to you now. There’s an absolute about him. An all or nothing. You’re not sure when it happened. The tipping point. Perhaps in the bathroom, on that sunny morning after Christmas, when he crowded you against the sink with a wolfish look turning his gorgeous face dark and threatening. You think it was meant to scare you. One last attempt. Your last chance to recoil and escape. 

You didn’t. You kept blooming, unfurling into your own limbs under the dark depth of his gaze, reflected in the black-edged mirror. You pressed back into him, the solid, steadying bulk of his body, of his broad chest. You pushed back and sunk deeper into his world. 

Today, he had to scoop you up from the floor where you were lying, boneless, in the wet mess he drew out of you. 

When he stormed into the room, you could still hear the engine of the truck revving. A scowl shadowed his face. Fidgety, tightly wound up, he began undressing you without a word. Unceremonious in his need, an echo of those early days, when he was imprisoned in his past, when his strength was unrestrained, when violence was his sole language. 

Fingers digging into the tense muscles of his shoulders, carding through his hair, you sought eye contact, softly cooing, I’m here, Frankie, I’m here, until your voice got through him. Until he heard you, slowing down, drawing you close. His forehead smearing sweat over your temple, his ragged breathing fanning the shell of your ear. His fist clutching the fabric of your shirt in a ball, with a push-pull motion, torn and primal, I need it, Lee. Please, I need you.

You relented, gave into it, lose and pliant as he bent you over the desk with a press of his palm, flat between your shoulder blades, as he pulled your panties to the side and lined himself up, as he thrust into you in one ruthless shove, down to his base. The clasp of his watch biting into your flesh. He was still fully clothed. 

Pulling on your wrists with an iron grip, he drilled into you at a brutal pace, skin catching at your entrance along his length, and you bit your lips through it, nearly drawing blood, until, at the very center of you, the pain turned into something blindingly pleasurable, bright and searing. A shockwave, erupting from your core, fast spreading along your limbs, lighting up every nerve-ending. 

Tensing under his constraining hold, bucking against his grip, you cried out his name, your back achingly stiff. Slick gushing out of you fast and hot, as your legs trembled uncontrollably, and through the din of it all, his rumbling growl, a guttural string of Fuck, before you slumped onto the desk and he fucked his own release into you. 

When he let go of you, he had to lay you on the carpet, where he collapsed next to you, chest heaving with exertion. Time blurred, you might have spent the whole night lying there, staring blankly at the popcorn ceiling, but he got up to undress.

He’s cradling you on his lap now, gently rocking into you. The slow and steady rhythm of his heartbeat aligned with yours, you’re bathed in his warmth, enveloped by his musky scent. You play along, searching your brain for answers. To his questions, and yours.  

There’s no evidence of his earlier outburst, saved for his thumbs drawing circles on your wrists where his fingers left a bruising indent. And of course, the wet spot on the carpet. 

Nuzzling your jawline, he trails a path of messy, lazy kisses down the column of your neck, capturing the tender skin between his plush lips, his tongue peeking through them.

“I should read it again. Alice. Read it so long ago. When I was a kid.”

Humming distractedly in agreement, your head lolls back on his shoulder. 

“Did I hurt you, earlier?”

Your eyelids fly open. His voice is barely a murmur, no more than warm breath grazing your ear, and you feel him throb inside you. 

“I don’t want to hurt you. I never want to hurt you.”

The vulnerability in his words shoots through your heart like a bullet. You free your arms to twine your fingers with his. 

“What happened today, Frankie?” 

His chest stiffens underneath you. 

“Nothing. Nothing happened. It’s more… It’s the date.”

The overhead fan hums over the room, louder than your breathing, louder than his. 

“A year ago, I agreed to a mission. With my former teammates. It was… It was bullshit. From the start. Nothing went as planned.”

He pauses and you wait, still and silent. 

“One of us got killed.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, squeezing his hands with all of your strength.

A chilling, bone-deep dread settles over your body in the sweltering heat, so cold he can probably feel it. You don’t want him to. 

“You said you resigned a couple of years ago?” 

“I did. I worked for the private sector, on occasions. It’s over now.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Fuck no,” he snarls. “But some of my friends did. I– I had to go.” He clears his throat. “I chose to go.”

“Do you miss him?”

He doesn’t answer for a while. Lifting his hand in yours, you give his knuckles a long, open-mouthed kiss. His forehead rests heavy against the back of your head, his eyelashes a fluttering caress on your nape. 

“For a long time, I felt responsible for his death.”

His words are dense with defeat. With sadness, and fatality. They sink heavily into you, into your bloodstream. You don’t need a mirror to know what his face looks like at this very moment. Your body will remember it, even if you live long enough to forget your own name. The pitch-blackness of his beautiful eyes, the stern crease splitting his brow, imploring for your touch. The tightness in his jaw. The downward curve of his plush lips.

That first night at the motel comes back rushing like a flood, like a wildfire. His roughness, the urgency saturating his actions, the anger in his grief. His bleeding wounds, invisible, evident, glaring. He reached for you through his despair, clutching your body, clinging to the idea of you. 

Are you real?  

I don’t know. 

A dry sob wells up in your throat, but you swallow it down. 

“What do you think now?”

“I think it doesn’t matter who’s responsible for his death. His girls are still orphaned.”

Between your lungs, the wild creature curls up into a ball. Its tears fill up your heart. There isn’t any pill or alcohol strong enough to numb this pain of yours. But it doesn’t matter. You want to feel what he feels.

You turn around. You kiss him.

—

“What about this one?”

He should be leaving soon. But your body’s soft and relaxed, curled into his side on the rumpled bed. Pleasantly cool in the muggy atmosphere of the motel room, in the dawn’s indigo hues. Your thin fingers hover gracefully over his skin, tracing the outlines of his scars, and it’s like you’re reshaping his entire body, all of his wounds, and his whole life, with the gentle touch of your fingertips.

“Frankie, what’s this one?”

He should be leaving soon. The sun’s about to come up. 

“Did you save it for last because it’s the largest?” he deflects with a smirk.

Folding an arm over his chest, you prop your chin over it, frowning exaggeratedly with your jaw shifting to the side. He laughs so hard that your head bobbles with his shaking belly.

“That supposed to be an impression of me?”

“You recognized yourself,” you smile, sitting up next to him.

He should be leaving soon. And you know it. You’re giving him the space he needs to get up and get out. He fucking hates it.

“Stay here,” he says, curling his fingers around your arm as you’re about to get down from the bed.

The look you give him awakens the pain in his chest. You peer through the curtains, into the blue morning sky, and your gaze returns to him with a silent question. 

“Come on. Please. Just a little longer.”

It’s not lost on him that he should be the one getting up. Not pleading.

The mattress creaks in protest as you move over it on your knees, sitting in a straddle across his hips. 

“Yea, that’s better,” he smiles, smoothing his palms over your thighs. His left hand slides up to palm your breast, and he notices he hasn’t taken off his watch, tonight. It’s the second time this month.

“What’s this one?” you ask again, entirely undistracted, measuring up your hand to the length of the darker patch of skin. 

“Okay,” he sighs, “I crashed a chopper near– wait, I can’t actually tell you that.”

“Jesus, Frankie,” you gasp, spreading both hands over the old wound, as if to stop a ghost bleeding. Your eyes have grown so wide, they eat up half your face.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s old. Wasn’t a big deal.”

It had been a big deal, at the time. There had been talks of awarding him a Silver Star for that mission.

“Did it hurt?”

“Mostly my pride. It wasn’t that bad, don’t worry. Nothing compared to what my sister threatened to do to me if I didn't leave the Army.” 

“I can’t say I blame her. I would have probably done the same.”

“Ok, my turn. What’s this one?”

His left thumb skims along the thin line on your inner thigh, and he feels you tensing under his touch.  

“It’s nothing,” you snap, taking your hands off his skin as if you just got burnt. 

He presses his thumb into your soft flesh. The pain in his chest accentuates, radiating down to his stomach. 

“You’re cheating,” he says, as softly as he can. 

You face away from him, gaze flickering up to the window again, and you start moving away, but he holds you firmly in place with both hands on your waist. 

“Lee. Tell me what it is.”

Seconds turn into minutes, the only sound in the room that of the ceiling fan’s motor, and the pain grows stronger, pulsating from his neck to his gut. Your eyes remain trained on the window, lost somewhere beyond the curtains. 

“I had several more like this,” you start. Your tone is detached, your voice distant. “Smaller ones. On the back of my arms. When I was 17, my mother took me to a dermatologist. He removed them with laser treatment.” 

You pause, and look down at him. 

“She got me fixed, so I could find a good husband.”

His fingers dig into your flesh. It’s a full minute before he remembers to breathe, through his nose, because he can’t unclench his jaw. The chest pain turns into blinding, white-hot rage. His truck is parked outside and in his mind, the sequence of actions is crystal clear. Get you dressed. Get you in the cab. Drive away with you as far as the road goes, and never come back here. 

“It burnt like hel—“

“You’re perfect, you know that?” he cuts in. 

“I’m really not, Frankie,” you calmly answer. “What I am is a coward.”

He sits up with a cinch, cupping your face so you can’t recoil from him. Somehow, this would be easier if you looked upset. If you were crying. Showing any kind of emotion, really. But you’re far beyond that. 

“I can’t let you say that. Not when you risk everything to come here every week.”

“Alright, so I’m a selfish coward,” you say with a joyless little smile. 

“No. You’re perfect. You’re my perfect girl. Say it.”

It’s there. Your unbending will, your steel-hard determination. In your defiant gaze and your pinched lips. In the distance you're trying to put between your body and his. 

“Okay, fine. Don’t say it. I’ll keep repeating it until you believe me. I can be fucking persistent, you know?” he adds, falling back onto the pillows.

“I know you can,“ you say, lifting a leg off the bed.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he nearly growls, a bruising grip on your thigh, “I’m not done with you.”

His clipped tone appears to be more effective on you. You sit back down, let your shoulders relax, and the palm of your hands find his skin again. Distant gaze, cold touch.

“What’s this one?” he asks, the blunt fingernail of his thumb grazing the grid-shaped scar on your left knee, his tone barely a question, and to his surprise, you come alive with a spark in your eyes. 

“Oh! This one’s a good scar. I like it.”

You adjust your position over him, slotting your folds over his resting cock, and a coiling heat stirs in his loin.

“I had a bicycle when I was a kid. The most beautiful bicycle in the entire world. Red, the exact same shade as your truck. With a round cushion protection on the frame, I don’t know how you call that, and the letters MBK painted in white over it, you know the kind?”

He nods, and you continue talking. 

“I would spend hours riding it. I would disappear for entire afternoons. It was heaven. And maybe you’re not going to believe me, but I was pretty reckless on that thing.”

“Oh, I believe you.”

You’re smiling again. 

“Well, one day, I was too reckless. I hit the brakes too abruptly and I skidded over gravel. I flew ten feet away from the bike and I tore my knee open. I got home covered in blood, my parents were furious.”

A vengeful smile curves your lips, one he’s never seen on your face.

“They confiscated the bike. My mother said it wasn’t ladylike, and my father said– I can’t remember his exact words, probably 'you can’t damage my property,’ or something along those lines. They never let me on a bike again after that.”

“How’s that a happy story?” he frowns.

“I didn’t say it was a happy story. I said it’s a good scar. I got to keep this one. It reminds me of what I’m capable of. Even when I want to forget.” 

The sun is rising. A new day colors the sky in vivid bronze. The light filters into the room through the yellow curtains, dust particles suspended in the air, suspended like Frankie’s life when he can’t be with you. 

He should leave, but instead, he’s going to fuck you one more time. Pump you full of his come. Brand you with his essence, mark you as his in the only way he can before he has to let you go back to face those people who put murder on his mind.

His hands skim along your thighs to the swell of your ass, roughly kneading the round of your cheeks. His grip settles on your hips, and he bucks up into you, ever so lightly, his length hardening between your lips. He sees it on your face, on your profile bathed in the first ray of sunlight. The moment when you register his intention. The shift in your body, the echo to his desire. So powerful, so immediate, it’s almost like black magic. Your mouth parts open, your back arches. You press down on him. 

“That serves him well, your father,” he says, sliding you slowly over his cock.

“How’s that?” you ask, voice laced with lust. 

“Look what you’re riding now.”

—

The pillow is damp underneath your back, sweat exuding from your every pore. The last days of March have been unforgiving. You find yourself longing for a room with a proper air conditioning system, instead of the motel’s weak, outdated fan that only swishes hot air. 

Frankie’s searing touch doesn’t help. Stroking the back of your arm in a repetitive up-and-down motion, he’s laying across the bed, his head resting heavy on your lap, his long hair curling in every direction in this sweltering atmosphere. 

Instead of shying away from the discomfort, you embrace it. With your fingers twined in his locks, you lean into his touch, focusing on his high forehead, and the crease in his brow. On his long eyelashes, the curve of his lips as he speaks, the working of his throat. 

Ignoring the dark blue rectangle of night sky, gradually lightening up behind the musty curtains.

Dawn used to be a deliverance. From your thoughts that the night painted black. From the wait, when Adrian wouldn’t come back. From a forced rest that never really came, another disappointment, another let down, another part of your life requiring the artificial help of chemicals. 

Now, you resent it. Dawn is when Frankie leaves you behind to go back to his family. Dawn is when he’s the happiest, with his child, without you, in a realm over which you have no grasp. 

A rational part of you acknowledges that it’s easier if he leaves before the sun rises. It prevents you from yearning for things you’re afraid to want. Things you cannot have. A life with him in broad daylight. A life without shame. 

Recently, he’s become increasingly reluctant to let go of you. Dawn finds him wrapped around your body. Last week, he stayed past daybreak, and fucked you in the sunlight. 

The brighter tone of his skin, the lighter shade of his curls, the depth of his mahogany irises hit by a sunbeam, everything was like a knife through your chest.

“Lee?”

The caressing timber of his husky voice brings you back to the soft amber light from the dusty lampshades, to the humming fan, and the blue rectangle. 

“I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“I asked if you like it. Your job.” 

“God no, I hate it! Sales productivity statistics and accounting manager, can you picture me?”

He huffs his breathless chuckle, the one that sends tremors rippling through your chest. 

“Not really, no.”

“I’m terrible at it, and it’s a problem, but no one says anything because daddy runs the company. I don’t understand why he insists on maintaining me in this position. It’s like a power play. He needs me to be miserable.”

Frankie’s hand pauses, fingers digging into your flesh, and he cranes his neck to peer at your face. You give him a reassuring smile. A genuine one. 

“Is that what you studied at university? Accounting and statistics?”

You wipe your sweaty brow with the back of your hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Yes. But university was a golden parenthesis. I minored in Russian literature. Not a skill that easily translates to the employment market, but Richard was thoroughly pissed,” you say, wiggling your eyebrows. 

“My little punk.”

His smile is brighter than the midday sun. Your index finger darts to the dimple in his right cheek. 

“I really like this,” you whisper, your voice dropping, thick with heat and arousal. With affection. “And these,” you add, scraping your fingernail over the bare patches on each side of his jaw. 

“Mmh. I’ve noticed,” he says with a smug expression. 

“Oh, you have?” You try to laugh off your embarrassment, but what comes out is a quivering sound, betraying the want that hinders your throat. 

He grabs your hand and brings it to his mouth, closing his plush lips around your index finger, wrapping his tongue around it. Your belly quakes. You clench around nothing. 

He releases your hand, and you hope he’ll get up and move over you, but instead, he reaches for your arm again, resuming his rhythmic strokes. 

“So what would you do, if you didn’t do this?” he asks. 

You sigh, glancing up, and you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror above the desk. 

“I’ve no idea, really. I never allowed myself to consider the possibility.” And before he can prod any further, you add, “What about you? What would you have liked to do, if you hadn’t become a pilot?”

The diversion doesn’t fool him, you know it. You’re acutely aware of his gaze, scrutinizing your face. You picture the familiar, pensive frown. His hand leaves your arm as he suddenly gets up, air hitting your damp skin where his head was lying. 

A few strides, and he steps into the bathroom, disappearing behind the partition wall. The tap runs for a moment, and there’s the distinct sound of wrung out fabric before he comes out, holding the hand towel. 

You watch him walk back toward you, his naked body glistening with sweat, highlighted in shadows in the warm lighting. You think about how beautiful it is, about your extensive, intimate knowledge of it. How it feels under your touch, every single part of him. How this knowledge is now constituent of the woman you have become. 

You know the callousness of his palms that catches at your clothes. You know the silkiness of his curls around your fingers, the smoothness of his chest against your breasts, the taste of his mouth and the bobbing of his pebbled throat between your lips. The thicker skin of his shoulders, tanned and freckled. The coarseness of the darker hairs under his navel, and how they feel rubbing at your clit. You know the weight of his cock in your hand, on your tongue, inside your walls. 

And if you know all this, then, isn’t he yours? 

He circles the bed over to your side, by the window, and sits next to you. 

Delicately, his fingers circle your wrist. He lifts your arm, and brings your hand to his lips, nuzzling the relaxed curl of your fingers open, to press a kiss inside your palm. His eyes briefly flicker shut as he inhales the transparent skin of your inner wrist. 

Lowering your arm, he starts running the towel along it and you jolt at the contact of the cold, wet fabric, letting out a short whimpering sound.

The sensation is sudden, seizing like an electrical shock, but the relief is immediate. The coolness radiates on the surface of your feverish skin, soothing your thoughts. Eyes fluttering shut, you relax into it. 

“Maybe an architect,” he starts, the towel gliding up to your shoulder, “or a carpenter. Build stuff, for a change. Instead of destroying them.”

Goosebumps break out along your arms, on your nape, as he skims the towel over the plane of your chest in slow, meticulous movements. As he rounds your breasts with reverent care, one, then the other, your nipples tightening in peaked buds, the low rumble of his voice filling your mind, his words boring into your heart.

The towel brushes up, tracing your collarbone, left, then right. Higher along the column of your throat, curling to the side of your neck. A droplet of water rolls down between your breasts, running along your stomach to end its course into your navel. You sigh.

“I could… run a small business, building houses or crafting furniture. In a small town, somewhere up north. Somewhere with seasons,” he says. 

The towel wipes over your trembling belly, over your mound, down your inner thigh. He’s slow, precise, thorough. Careful and gentle with your limp limbs. You’re sinking into the mattress, and floating over it all at once. 

You lift a heavy eyelid, your dazed gaze landing on his gorgeous face. He’s solemn, focused on his task. 

He readjusts his position on the mattress, so lightly the bed barely moves, and twists his torso to reach down your leg. 

“You could be my accountant.”

Your eyes shoot open. He’s facing away from you, wiping the towel under the arch of your foot.

“The last thing you want is to have me as your bookkeeper,” you whisper, your heart beating in your throat. 

He turns around, looking straight at you. Soft sad eyes, cold hard stare. 

“That’s all I want for the rest of my life, Lee. Be with you night and day.”

—

Everything seems to hinge on you now. 

His balance, his happiness, his redemption.

You filled a void, a hollowness inside his chest, he carries you with him wherever he goes. A pale shade of yellow and celadon green. 

He tries to convince himself it’s harmless. That he’s not doing anything wrong. That it’s easier this way. Easier than the drugs, easier than placing that burden on his daughter’s shoulders. He tells himself the peace you bring him makes him a better man, and a better father. Makes him worthy again. There might even be some truth to it. 

He’s not so sure if he deserves the second chance. If he deserves the parts of you that you confide in him. Your past, your regrets, your secret victories. Your hindered aspirations and the shores of your inner island, within his reach. The touch of your cool skin. The strength of your embrace. The veneration in your eyes. Your trust, your faith. Your time. 

But he wants to believe it. It’s more of a fundamental need, really. 

And as long as he’s with you, the illusion holds. When you’re sitting next to him in the truck, singing along to the tunes playing on the old crackling stereo as he drives to nowhere, when his body’s wrapped around yours in the dark, when he murmurs against your temple everything and anything that runs through his mind, when you’re coming undone between his hold, with his name on your lips. He believes he can be as good for you as you are for him. 

But it’s a thin fabric. One that tears the very minute he steps outside the room, leaving your sleepy form tucked under the starchy sheet. 

Day after day, until the next week, he’s left on his own to fence off the thoughts that plague him. 

The voice inside him, relentless, somber, asking how much longer this can last. How long before the consequences on your life are irreversible? How long until that man who’s not your husband finds out, and takes action? What repercussions would you face, then? 

He knows what he’d be capable of if he ever met him. He doesn’t like to think about it. 

You won’t open up about your life with him, no matter how much he prods and pry. He knows your strength. And he chose to trust it.

Seven months, and one week. He sat down with the cardboard calendar hanging above Lupe’s desk at work, and counted. His mind crowded, overflowing with what ifs. 

What if he took you out of this shitty motel, for once? Not just to drive into the night, but on a proper date. Dinner. A movie. Fucking lunch. A weekend somewhere. An entire vacation. 

What if he took you out of your life? 

Lupe started dating this Marcus guy back in December. Now she’s staying at his place every other night. The man is decent, one of the best paramedics he’s worked with, honest, reliable and steadfast. The kind of man Lupe deserves, and that he doesn’t mind around Lua. 

He should move out of the house. Lupe hasn’t said anything yet, but it’s just one more grace she gives him that he hasn’t earned. Every time they see each other, Will hints at it, the allusions becoming increasingly less subtle. 

The truth is, he sees no point in moving forward with his life if it’s not with you. If it’s not to take care of you, and provide for you. Watch you thrive, keep you safe.  

A couple of weeks back, when he’d first thought about it, he’d deemed the idea crazy, painfully aware of all the frustrations a couple’s daily life entails. 

Now, it’s the only choice that makes any sense to him. 

—

The airport terminal is bustling with flocks of tourists. Noisy families with children too young to travel, transient businessmen and women, groups of youths of dubious soberness flying out after spring break. 

Ava stands out in the crowd, her tall frame topped with a short bob of bright purple hair, and you spot her immediately. Standing on your tiptoes, you wave at her until she sees you and starts running in your direction.

She all but leaps into your open arms, and you both grab at each other, leaning into the embrace, laughing. You inhale her scent, searching for that baby smell in the crook of her neck.

“Oh my god, pup, your hair!” you exclaim. “You look terrific!”

“Yeah? You like it?” she asks with a broad smile, running her fingers through her locks. 

“I love it! It’s perfect for you!”

In turn, she takes you in, looking you up and down, and lets out a low whistling sound.

“You look good, too. You look better than good. You look gorgeous!”

“Oh shush,” you gesture bashfully, but you can’t hold back your own smile.

The two of you walk to the parking lot to retrieve your car, immersed in bubbly conversation, oblivious to the moving crowds around you.

Driving out of the airport, you glance at the sign indicating the 589 northbound and smile at your precious secret, before making a left turn south.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks, “I’m hungry! Feed me! Feedmefeedmefeedme!” she chants, before breaking into a high-pitched giggle.

“Alright, alright! Hold tight, I’m taking you somewhere special. Do you like burritos?”

“Who doesn’t like burritos? Wait, what? Burritos? Do you even eat burritos? Who are you and what have you done with my sister?”

You had to type the address from the crumpled receipt into your GPS. Until today, you’ve never allowed yourself to go there. Not on your own.

It’s a small cantina with tiled walls and concrete floors, colorful trinkets arranged in pyramidal displays behind the counter, chalkboard menus and an endless list of drinks. Star-shaped lanterns are hanging from the ceiling, and the staff is busy but jovial.

Lunchtime on a Saturday, the place is packed with couples and kids, and your pulse accelerates. You hadn’t considered the possibility of running into Frankie and his family. 

You place your orders, and after a short wait, you secure a spot in the back of the restaurant. Sitting on high metal stools behind a round table, you catch up on the past three months as if you hadn’t texted every other day, speaking with your mouths full, sauce dripping down your fingers.

The life she’s built for herself in New York treats Ava better than anything you could have hoped for, anything you could have helped her achieve, had she stayed here. A job in a cutting-edge art gallery, where her vibrant personality and her flair for networking are not only recognized but valued, a bustling social life, more thrilling projects than you can keep track of, all of it balanced by Polly’s grounding presence by her side. 

Your choices and sacrifices, justified.

Ava puts down the crumbling remnants of her vegetarian burrito to wipe her mouth, and takes a sip of her margarita.

“You sure you don’t want to drink anything?”

“I’m drinking something,” you answer, pointing at your iced tea.

“Whatever you say, girl,” she shrugs.

“It’s too bad you’re not staying with me. It’s idiotic, you’re only here for a couple of days and you have to sleep over at Jules’.”

“Listen, even if your douchebag of a fiancé had agreed to have me, which I know he didn’t, I don’t want to see his ass face.”

“Alright,” you concede, “valid.”

She nearly chokes on her margarita. Setting her glass down, she gives you a pointed stare, emphatically scrutinizing your face.

“Okay, seriously, what’s going on with you? How are you? I mean, that’s obviously the wrong question, you’re fucking thriving. What happened? What’s happening? New medication? Are you finally leaving him?”

“I’m not taking any medication,” you answer with unexpected satisfaction. “But no, I’m not leaving him.”

You catch yourself before you can add another word. 

“Are you still seeing that other guy?”

You nod, dipping your head, heat creeping up your neck. Why are you like this?

“I take it he likes burritos, am I right?

“You are correct in your assumption, detective,” you quip with a grin.

There’s a pause as Ava seems to consider her next question. It’s always so easy for you to forget that she’s a grownup now. That she knows you at least as well as you know her. That she has the capacity to outsmart you. The notion flares pride in your chest.

“Is he married? Is that why you haven’t run off together in the sunset yet?”

“I’m not sure if he’s married or not.”

“What does he do in life?”

“I don’t know.”

Ava throws up her hands. 

“Girl! What do you know?” she exclaims with only half-feigned exasperation.

I know what’s important. He’s a father. He’s a friend and a brother. A pilot and a veteran. He's thoughtful and observant. He’s organized and practical. And a reluctant sentimental. He learned to swim in the Pacific Ocean. He’s capable of cold-blooded violence, but it will break him. He’s capable of infinite tenderness. And it will save him. 

You pull a face, communicating how little you care about what you don’t know. Your sister shifts on the hard stool. She frowns, and when she speaks next, her voice is low, her tone conspiratorial.  

“Adrian doesn’t suspect anything?”

“Of course, he does. Or he did. His attention is elsewhere, for now. Seems serious.”

“Again?”

“Again,” you nod. 

Ava squirms on her stool again, probably trying to restrain her temper. 

Your mind wanders, jumping back through time at light-speed, to when you first met Adrian. To the way he used to hold your hand when you started dating, squeezing your fingers with his. Letting you choose the wine, opening doors for you. To the affection in his smile, and how fast he started calling you babe . The glimmer warming his cold blue eyes when he introduced you to his family. The way he leaves the bathroom mirror splattered in toothpaste every time he brushes his teeth. The way he lets his alarm ring off forever after he’s gotten up even if you’re still in bed, even on weekends. 

The ease with which he admitted to all his flings, whenever you confronted him, but never confessed to the one with his coworker, the ambitious young lawyer. 

Would you admit to having an affair? Would you use that ugly word that make you crawl out of your skin? Would you deny it? Could you answer No, I’m not seeing anyone? Could you bear the betrayal of denying Frankie’s existence? The truth of what you share, but can’t define?

“Your fiancé is a bag of dicks,” Ava finally says, shaking her head. 

“His obliviousness suits me for now,” you remind her.  

“I don’t understand why you don’t leave him,” she snaps back, forsaking her reserve. “He got his big promotion, he got what he wanted! And Richard loves him, it’s not like he’s going to fire him just because you two broke up, right? You don’t really love him anymore, do you?” she adds on second thoughts.  

The words spill out of you unchecked, once more. Just like in the truck with Frankie, back in January. Months, years for the idea to mature below the surface of your conscious thoughts, the reflective process unbeknown to you. 

“I’m scared, Ava. I’m scared shitless. I want to leave. I’ve been wanting to leave for so long. Adrian, the company, that fucking ugly apartment.” 

“Well then fucking do it, Lee!”

“If I leave, I have nothing. No job, nowhere to go.” 

And if you could give up a relatively comfortable life, would you be able to renounce the refuge of your sadness? Of your life between the folds? 

“You have money,” Ava counters. “You have shares. Sell them. Richard can’t stop you. Get a lawyer, if you have to. One that’s not on Adrian’s payroll. And then you can fuck your man Friday every day of the week, how’s that?”

You think about the folded bedspread under the windowsill. About the wet hand towel brushing up your skin. The trucker hat on the desk, and his fingers splayed on the steering wheel. The pleading arch of his brow. 

You think about that space between Frankie’s chin and collarbone, that contains your safety, your desires, and all of your hopes.

“I don’t… I don’t know if I should leave a man for another one,” you whisper. 

Ava’s eyes widen. She sits up straight, a smirk tugging the corner of her lips. 

“I don’t know either, but it looks like this one fucked some sense into you. The irony.” 

She’s withholding something, you realize. It’s in her uncharacteristic pauses, her sideways glances. Surprisingly, human interactions were simpler when pills kept you numbed and oblivious. Being attuned to everyone’s minute expressions is a daily trial. 

“Why don’t you move to New York with us?” she eventually asks. “We can take you in until you find a job there, for as long as you need.”

There’s that we again. People talking about you in your absence, judging your choices, plotting your future. 

“I don’t know how to do anything, Ava. I have zero skills.” 

“First off, that’s not true,” she retorts, relentless with her well-rehearsed arguments. “And then, Polly can help you find something. Lee, if you can leave this company, there’s literally nothing you can’t do.”

Suddenly, you feel exhausted. Weary and old. A bone-deep lassitude. And at the heart of it, the realization that this is a liminal sequence in your life. 

“Is that why you flew here for the weekend? To ask me to come away with you?”

“Are you mad?” she asks with a face. A little girl’s expression, afraid of being scolded. Your little girl. 

“No, I’m not mad, pup. I can’t be mad. You came back for me.”

“Of course, I came back for you. I was never going to leave you behind, silly.”

****

[bonesashesglass]

God, I’m just so mad and upset and I need to rant for a minute:

I live in Wisconsin, where the last several years winters here have been scarily mild. It’s not uncommon for us to have a mild winter every few years or so, but we’ve been having milder and milder winters for the past several years in a row. Winters here are supposed to be long and snowy. It’s supposed to start snowing in November, sometimes October, and the snow doesn’t melt all the way till April, sometimes early May.

Last year, I felt like we barely even had a winter. There was snow on the ground for maybe two months total, it kept melting and then coming back, which isn’t supposed to happen. The snow will maybe melt after the first couple times, but once you get to December, it’s supposed to stay on the ground until Spring.

Same thing is happening this year. It’ll snow for like two days, stick for maybe one day, and melt. It’ll stay that way for a couple of weeks. It’s January now. The fact that there’s no snow on the ground, in fucking Wisconsin, is alarming. The fact that this has been happening several years in a row now is alarming. I’m seeing it happen right in front of me. We’re all seeing the effects of climate change now, and we’re seeing how it’s directly destroying and harming the planet. We can see it with our own eyes.

I’m thinking about the fires in LA right now. I saw someone talk about how they were alarmed they were getting these kinds of winds in January. (I’m not familiar with LA climate but this person talked about how abnormal it is).

Everything the scientists have been saying about climate change is coming true. It’s happening right in front of us, for the whole world to see. And still, the people responsible, the right-wing politicians and businesspeople that profit off of this just deny deny deny. How can you deny what’s happening right in front of everyone? They are destroying our planet, and they still think they can deny it happening. It just makes me so angry. That a handful of people have the power to destroy our planet and refuse to even acknowledge it. They act like the words “climate change” is liberal propaganda. As if it’s not something we can see happening right before our eyes. They pretend it’s political, they pretend it’s a conspiracy, because they have no other way to justify being against protecting the planet.

One thing that angers me most is that the only thing people seem to do about this is complain on social media. (I know, that’s exactly what I’m doing, but hear me out). LA is burning to the ground because of climate change, and what’s anybody going to do about it? Make a post on Twitter? Maybe write an article about it?

That doesn’t change anything. We need change. We need direct action. It’s only going to get worse if we keep letting companies and governments continue as they are. They cannot continue as they are.

If you haven’t heard of the book How to Blow Up a Pipeline, go look it up. The author talks about a lot of the stuff I want to get at here, but he puts it a lot better.

My hope is that these LA fires will start a movement for stopping climate change. Not just a general shift of opinion like we’ve seen the past few years, but a real movement where people show up in person to do something. We exist in a time where Luigi Mangione is seen as a hero for his actions, I hope people will get inspired to take more direct action in regards to climate change. (That doesn’t mean shooting more people, I’m not advocating for murder, but we need to start taking action beyond just complaining on social media).

I’m going to start researching resources to help myself and others to get more involved with preventing climate change. I hope one day, we’ll have an actual winter in Wisconsin again. To everyone in LA, please please stay safe❤️

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

compos mentis 6

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

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

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

Summary: After a long court case, your mother stays attached to her lawyer, bringing even more contention into your life.

Characters: Andy Barber

Note: hello again.

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

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

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Andy comes up the stairs and you back up. Your adrenaline continues to pound in your skull. You inhale sharply and cough. He slows as he gets to the top. 

“How are you doing?” He asks cautiously. 

You nod and gulp, “fine. I’m... fine.” 

He closes his eyes and nods. When he opens them again, the intensity behind his blue irises makes you wince. “I’m sorry if I scared you.” 

“It’s okay,” you grasp the handle of the oxygen tank with both hands, keeping it in front of you like a shield. 

“It’s not okay. Your mom is wrong, you know that, right?” 

Your eyes dart back and forth, “she’s--” 

“I know she’s your mom and you love her, because you’re a good girl, but I don’t want to hear excuses for her.” 

You frown and flicks away a shell of tears with your lashes. “Sorry, Andy.” 

“Don’t apologise to me, okay?” He sighs and pushes his head back as he grips his hips. “Look,” he looks down the hallway. “We’re gonna figure this out, together. Alright, sweetheart?” 

You lower your gaze. You still can’t accept that your mom is just gone. That you’re here with just Andy. 

“She won’t stay mad--” 

“You can’t be serious? You can’t go back to her. Sweetheart, you’re sick and she’s not making it any better.” 

“It wasn’t that hard,” you murmur. 

His face flashes with concern and hurt, “that doesn’t matter.” His jaw ticks, “let me see your arm.” 

“What?” 

“Where she hit you, let me see it.” 

You pull your arm back and put it behind you, “it’s not--” 

He shakes his head, “I know it hurts. Even if you don’t show me, it doesn’t undo what she did or what I saw.” He sniffs and rubs his nose, “besides, I’m a lawyer, I kind of have to report that sort of thing.” 

“Report? Oh,” you whimper. “Please, don’t.” 

“Sweetheart,” he exhales. 

“Please, Andy. I won’t go back but I don’t her to be in trouble.” 

You look at him, the irritation stitched into his forehead. He purses his lips and drops his hand form his hip. He lets out a resigned breath. 

“Alright, for now. We’ll just do one thing at a time,” he girds. “Let’s go pick up that mess.” 

He steps past you and heads down the hall. You follow him, the wheels on the tank squeaking. He enters the guest room and kneels to gather the mess spilled from the belt bag. You near and bend to help. He glances up. 

“Sweetie, please, you should sit down,” he says. 

“I can help,” you insist as you grab your lip balm. At the same time, he reaches for it and clutches your hand by accident. You flinch away and recoil.  

He doesn’t say a word as he continues to gather everything. He checks a pill bottle before he tucks it away. You peek at his face and notice the red blemish deepening on his cheekbone. The slap was loud, it sounded painful. 

“Are you okay?” You ask. 

“I’m not mad at you,” he assures as he keeps his head down. 

“No, uh, that,” you point at his cheek. "Does it hurt?"

He stops, cradling the belt bag in one hand as he touches his cheek with the other. “Not really,” he says. 

You reach out, “here, I’ll take it.” 

He hands over the bag and you snap it around your waist, careful to keep it from tangling with your oxygen tube. He stands and clears his throat. 

“This room works for you?” He asks. 

You peer around then back at him. 

“You’ll be here for a while so... I could grab you more blankets. A fan?” 

You shake your head, “this is fine.” 

He clicks his tongue and looks past you to the window, “I’m going to make some calls.” 

“To the police? You said--” 

“Not right now,” he shows his palms. “I’m just... I got work, still, and a few other things. Sweetheart,” he steps closer, “you just relax, okay? It’s been a long morning. And if you need anything, my office door will be open, alright?” 

You scrunch up your lips and nod. It’s all you can do. You teeter around and sit on the side of the bed. You brace the oxygen tank to keep yourself upright. 

“You sure you’re okay?” 

“This is... normal for me,” you croak. “My mom’s right. I’m a burden. I’m too sick...” 

“She’s not right,” he insists. “Lay down, sweetheart. Take it easy. I’ll be about an hour and then we can chat a bit more. There’s a lot to go through.” 

You stay as you are. You wait. He lingers before he finally strides out of the room. He leaves the door open as you sniffle at your lap. What does he mean? A lot to go through? 

Oh, this is bad. You’re so lost. What do you do? You’re not Andy’s responsibility. If you do go back to your mom, she’s going to be so mad. Oh no, oh no, oh no. You wipe your nose and gulp. Why do you have to be so worthless? 

🩶

You can’t remember when you slumped onto your side. It doesn’t really matter. Most days you spend like that; dizzy, tired, and sick to your stomach. That day is worse.  

You want to be home. Not with your mother, just in your room, with your figurines and your books. With the familiar. You stare at the wall as you listen to the airiness of the strange house. Cars pass with soft swishing noises and a few voices come from the suburban scene outside. 

Andy’s footsteps precede him up the stairs. You see his shadow as he approaches the guest room and you make yourself sit up. What you don’t expect, is the other set of steps or another figure. You bounce slightly, expecting your mother, but finding only a stranger. A man. 

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Andy asks. 

You stare at the man then grimace at Andy. He stands just inside the door as the other man lingers at his shoulder. 

“You said you wouldn’t call the cops,” you squeak. 

“Oh,” Andy looks at the other man who gives a grin. “He’s not--” 

“Hi,” the man says your name. “I’m Dr. Kemp. A friend of Andy’s.” 

Your eyes flick between them. “It’s just a bruise.” You cover your forearm where the tenderness thrums. 

“A bruise?” He repeats. “I can look at that too, but I’m just here for a check-up.” 

“A check-up? I have a doctor. I have doctors,” you argue. 

“He’s just making sure everything is normal, sweetheart,” Andy says. 

“I could’ve called Dr. Hawes.” 

“You could but I don’t think he’d be able to see you at short notice, this is just a precaution.” Andy explains. 

“I’ll be quick, okay?” Dr. Kemp says as he nears and puts his leather bag next to you. “We’ll do the standard run through, alright?” 

You pout and shrug, “okay. I’m sorry, sir.” 

“It’s okay.” He assures you, “now, I don’t have your records so just a few questions.” 

You nod and your eyes drift to the wall. Questions. There's always questions. You answer the same ones over and over. It’s just like when you had to sit in court. 

“So, I see you’re on oxygen,” he begins, “is that something you need all the time or is it just now and then?” 

“Always,” you answer. 

“Alright, and have you been diagnosed with a specific condition that requires it?” 

“Several. Cystic fibrosis, asthma, other things...” 

“Hm, okay, you’re doing good. I know the questions can get annoying,” he says. “Do you have dizziness?” You nod. “Nausea?” Another nod. “Muscle spasms? Chest pains?” Yes and yes. 

“Even with the tank?” He prompts. 

“Yes, sir,” you reply bluntly. 

“Right, let’s listen to your heart.” 

He unzips the bag and takes out a stethoscope. You stand up stiffly as he comes closer. He points to the bottom of your shirt. “You mind?” You shake your head and he tugs it up, slipping his arm beneath. You blanch as your eyes meet Andy. You almost forgot about him. 

Kemp puts the cold stethoscope on your chest. He moves it around. Across the top, then beneath, closer to your lungs. He listens intently. He hums and removes it, fixing your shirt for you. 

He then starts with the other tests; temperature, blood pressure, eye response. He gives a thoughtful look then crosses his arms. He considers you for a moment. 

“I want you to try something for me, okay?” 

You nod once more. 

“I need you to take off your oxygen.” 

“What?” You yelp. 

“Just for a few minutes, alright? I’m a doctor, right? You’ll be okay.” 

You bat your lashes and glance at Andy again. He dips his chin. He watches intently. You look at the floor and unhook the tub from around your ears. You drag it off your nose and let it hang. 

“Alright, how are you feeling?” Kemp asks. 

You shrug. He just stands there. You do too. You sway slightly, confused. 

“You having any issues?” He intones. 

You shake your head. 

“Alright, just a small test. Hold your breath for me,” he bends his arm and looks at his wrist watch, “we’re going to see how long you can do it. Tell me when you stop.” He pinches the small golden face, “three, two, one.” 

You hold your breath as your eyes widen. Your lungs are full but not horribly so. You search the room in a panic. What if you pass out? Your panic rises and makes you itch but you keep your breath in. He waits and waits and waits. 

You let it out suddenly, “I can’t--” you gasp. “See, I can’t.” 

“A minute forty-seven,” he taps his watch, “pretty standard. Definitely pretty good for someone with bad lungs.” 

“A minute... no, it wasn’t that long. Was it?” 

Andy shifts as his jaw squares. His brows furrow. He looks angry. Kemp peeks back at him and turns back to you. 

“I’m going to review your records. I’ll put a call in to Hawes.” 

“Why?” You ask. 

“Just to make sure I’m getting a full picture. Right now, you’re doing just fine. I’d say you’re doing rather well,” he squeezes your shoulder. “What I want you to do is to take it easy on this.” He touches the oxygen tube. “If you feel out of breath, by all means, put it on, five to ten minutes, but not 24/7.” 

“But I need it,” you whimper. 

“I know you feel like you do, but I’m the doctor, right? I understand you have a lot going on but your lungs aren’t bad enough to warrant constant oxygen. I’ll be back tomorrow once I get the chart,” he says. “Andy has my number.” 

Your lip quivers. You don’t understand. You need the air. That’s what mom says. And when you forget to put it back on, she gets so mad. 

“You having trouble right now?” He asks. 

You stare at him and take a breath, and another, and another. “No,” you answer. 

“There ya go. You got Andy. He'll keep an eye on you,” he packs away his bag. 

“Thanks, Steve,” Andy says as he holds out his hand. 

“We’re even,” Kemp shakes his hand then looks back at you, “see ya tomorrow.” 

“Oh, okay, sir,” you eke out. 

He leaves and Andy gives you a nod before he follows. You listen as they go downstairs. You sit on the bed and clasp your oxygen tube in your hands. You look at the tank and frown. 

It doesn’t make sense. You don’t feel like you’re struggling. You feel like you’re breathing better, actually. It’s strange. Maybe it’s the adrenaline. 

Andy returns and you push your shoulders back. He enters tentatively, “well?” 

“I won’t...” you reach over and turn the dial to cut the supply. “It’s off.” 

“Maybe he can help. More than the other doctors,” Andy says. “Er, you know, you don’t have to hide up here. I’m done for the day so I’m free and uh, if you’re hungry, we can order?” 

“Not right now,” you say and hang your head. 

“Yeah, I know. It’s a lot,” he says. “You got time, sweetheart. Whenever you need me, I’ll be here, okay?” 

[loverboysturn]

✮⋆˙ newboy!matt and popular!reader have their first kiss !

read all newboy!matt writings here & find everything else here

note: this is obviously further down the timeline of anything else i have written for these two but i wanted to write something cute for them because everything else so far has been a lil angsty! after this the angst will continue tho..

for weeks now, you and matt had been spending more and more time together—hanging out after school most days, often spending time at his place with his brothers whilst you watched the three of them bicker, you’d take long drives around town, with no actual destination in mind, just the quiet hum of the car and the occasional glance between you. sometimes, you’d even sit in silence, both reading your books, each lost in them but still in the same space, just enjoying the presence of one another.

since you met him, there had always been something intense between you from the start, something neither of you had ever addressed. the lingering glances, the way it felt like the rest of the world was on pause when you were with him. you hadn’t said anything about your feelings for him, you couldn’t bring yourself to say it, afraid of the rejection because you know that would break you now, but you felt it, the pull towards him, you just prayed he felt the same.

tonight was no different, you were sitting on the floor of his bedroom, flipping through one of his books you’d grabbed off the shelf. matt was sat on the bed, his elbows rested on his knees, watching you as you read, his brow furrowed.

“you know” you say, not looking up at him. “i was thinking..you still haven’t told me what happened at your old school.”

matt winces, not because you asking him the question bothered him, but because he didn’t want to get into it all with you. not just yet.

“it got me to be transferred to your school, that’s all that should matter” he says, his voice casual, trying to play it down. “it’s not a big deal.”

you glance up at him then, a smirk forming on your lips. “yeah, sure. because people just get transferred to a new school for ‘no big deal’”

he rolls his eyes, leaning back slightly. “yeah, well i did.”

you close the book with a snap and set it down beside you, you were unconvinced. “i don’t buy it, pretty boy” you say, voice turning playful, almost flirty. “you have this whole mysterious tough guy act going on, and just give me a little time, and i’m gonna figure you out.”

“oh, are you now? what’s your plan of action then pretty girl?” he asks you, raising an eyebrow.

you smirk, slowly standing up. “i just want to see if all those rumors about you are all talk.”

he straightens himself up, catching the playful look in your eyes. “you sure you want to do that?”

you don’t hesitate, taking a step toward him, nudging his arm lightly. “come on tough guy, show me what you got.”

before he can react, you push him, gently but just hard enough for him to fall back on the bed. he laughs, not surprised, but impressed by your sudden act of confidence. the sound of his laugh sends a flutter through your chest, making your heart skip a beat.

“oh, it is so on now” he says, grinning as he moves quickly towards you, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you down onto the floor with him.

you let out a yelp, laughing, but quickly managing to squirm out of his grip, moving so you’re now on top of him straddling his chest, hands placed softly on his shoulders, pinning him down.

for a moment, you’re both frozen in place, completely caught in how the level of intensity in the room had switched, there was a feeling of something else, something neither of you had acknowledged yet.

you catch your breath as you instinctively lean in, your fingers curling against his t shirt, your eyes searching his face, your lips hovering just inches away from his, and you could feel your chest rise and fall quicker than usual. the playful energy between you had faded, leaving only unspoken tension that had been brewing for weeks.

matt couldn’t help it, he wasn’t sure who moved first, but before his mind could even catch up to his body, he was pulling you closer, lips crashing against yours. the kiss started slow, hesitant at first, like neither of you wanted the moment to end, it was soft, your lips brushing together in a way that felt more like an invitation than an action. as the world around you completely faded, the kiss deepened, growing more desperate, as if you had both been waiting for this for a long time, and now that it had finally come, neither of you wanted to let go.

your hands find their way into his hair, tugging him closer. you could feel his heart pounding against yours, and he pulled you in tighter, deepening the kiss so it was slow and heavy. his hands finding their way to your ass, squeezing it lightly.

then, suddenly, the door swings open.

chris walks in abruptly, “matt, have you see—“ his voice cut off as he takes in the two of you, and he pauses, blinking in disbelief. “well, well…”

before matt could even react, chris was already calling down the hall. “nick! get in here, you gotta see this!”

[another-lost-mc]

SHATTERED MIRRORS

PAIRING: Solomon x gn!Reader

SUMMARY: Trapped in the Devildom's murky past, Solomon is there to remind you that even if all else seems lost, you still have each other.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: Nightbringer angst. Vague worldbuilding that hints at a darker version of the Devildom. Bittersweet with a hopeful ending. 1k words.

A/N: There's so much in Nightbringer I wish we got to see, both in the past and future timelines, and this is my small contribution to exploring that untapped potential.

Sometimes it’s the little things Solomon does for you that makes you feel loved. No one wants to be ripped from their life and thrown into the past by some mysterious entity for mysterious purposes. The demon disguise you wear, weightless thanks to the complex spells Solomon casts on you before you leave the safety of Cocytus Hall every morning, still sits heavy on your shoulders like a burden. His magic envelopes you and fills you with warmth, a reminder that he’s always there to protect you even when he can’t be.

Because you can’t be yourself when you’re in this strange version of the Devildom, with its cobblestone streets not yet paved, or the line of unfamiliar shops and market stalls that sell food that’s much too spicy (or dangerous) for you to consume. You rush past countless shops and apothecaries, ignoring the tendrils of fear that shoot down your spine when you realize they still sell rare artifacts and reagents collected from celestial beings and human specimens that will be outlawed by royal decree long before the exchange program begins.

You can’t be yourself in this version of the Devildom, not with Diavolo and his faithful butler that are so familiar yet so foreign, younger than when you first met them. Their eyes are sharp and wary as tensions within the realm fluctuate thanks to its newest residents. There’s something guarded yet knowing in their expressions when they see you, and you have to remind yourself that despite the social and political drama surrounding Diavolo’s controversial plans, he is determined to succeed. It’s only now that you realize the lengths he’s willing to go to, and that relentless ambition is laced with the menacing power his title holds. Like every obstacle he’s faced, he weathers this storm with dignity. It’s almost instinct to want to offer your support for him, heartfelt reassurances that he can do this and you are proud of him. Every time you see him now, those thoughts wither like dying flowers on the vine because the Devildom’s prince has never felt more dangerous to you than he does now. You have to suppress the uneasy shudder that threatens to ripple through you each time his cheeks dimple with a lopsided, insincere smile that shows the tip of his fangs.

You can’t be yourself in this version of the Devildom, not in the House of Lamentation that is simultaneously familiar and unrecognizable at the same time. The rooms and hallways are easy to navigate, but you can’t help but notice the walls are covered in different photographs and paintings than the ones you’re used to seeing. The décor is fashionable but strange, reflecting trends of the current time, but it doesn’t feel like the home you’re used to. The brothers haven’t been here long enough so it lacks that lived-in charm: rooms remain intact, not yet destroyed then rebuilt, and familiar scuff marks on the floors and walls have yet to develop. The house still has that lingering musty smell like it was neglected and empty until recently. The bedroom you used to call your own feels foreign, neglected and cold because they’re unused to hosting guests (and you get the feeling guests are very much unwanted). It nearly breaks your heart when you instinctively walk in that direction and one of the demon brothers chides you with undisguised annoyance that there’s nothing over there, the room that needs cleanin’ is this way.

You can’t be yourself around the demon brothers either, not with their strange and unpredictable behaviour that leaves your patience frayed and fight-or-flight response on edge. Not long after you arrive at the House of Lamentation, you can hear Lucifer scolding Mammon from halfway across the house in an unfamiliar language that sounds too beautiful to be native to the Devildom. Even in his anger and frustration and despair, you realize Lucifer’s voice still carries the lyrical cadence of Celestial language, the place he and his brothers used to call home. It’s a harsh contrast to the dark wings and anger burning in Lucifer’s gaze when you see him in his demonic form. Their celestial garb and heavenly features are only memories of a not so distant past, and like Lucifer, his brothers are forced to wear the physical manifestation of their failure – the death of their sister, their shameful fall from grace. Part of you sympathizes with them even more now that you can see the raw aftermath of their demise, but part of you fears them too, the fractured versions of themselves held together with the growing power of their respective sins.

Every morning you wake up, homesick but determined to make the best of things, and Solomon helps you don your disguise and pushes a cup of tea into your hands. Every evening, you trudge back to Cocytus Hall, weary from spending all day pretending to be the attendant of seven unruly demons that look like the demon brothers you know but feel like poor substitutes at best. Solomon is usually waiting in your dorm, greeting you with a kiss while offering a hug and if needed, a shoulder to cry on. You make food together (while you handle most of the cooking and he helps set the table and wash the dishes). Later, you read together on the sofa or talk about the latest gossip or Devildom news, and Solomon updates you on his progress – or lack thereof – of finding a way home. Despite the hopelessness of it all, it feels bearable because Solomon is there to share those burdens and fill your heavy heart with hope. You can rest easy at night, laid down in your shared bed with Solomon’s arm draped over your waist, his gentle snores coaxing you to sleep after him, and no matter how bleak things seem, it feels like a promise that one day, everything will be alright again.

Read More: Obey Me Masterlist

[luxerians]

The Last Mask (04)

Hwang In-ho/Oh Young-il/Player 001 x Reader

Chapter 04 - Player 001

Story Masterlist

NEXT : Chapter 05

PREV : Chapter 03

After the voting, the guards began distributing lunchboxes. You reached the front of the queue and took one from a pink-clad guard. Stepping out of the line, you noticed player 390 behind you, and the two of you headed toward a quiet corner between the bunk beds on the right side of the hall.

Player 456 was already sitting there, his eyes fixed on the floor. His meal and drink sat untouched beside him. You sighed softly at his distant demeanor.

“You two are friends, right?” you asked player 390, slowing your steps.

“Huh? Me and Gi-hun?” player 390 glanced at player 456. “Oh, yeah. His mother liked me.”

You nodded, assuming they had been friends for a long time. You asked, “Has he always been this distant and quiet?”

“Not at all,” player 390 said, shaking his head. “He was actually really cheerful. Also very loud. He used to laugh at stuff no one else thought was funny. And you know what always set him off?”

Curiosity piqued, you asked, “What?”

Player 390 grinned. “Losing at betting on horses.”

“You two used to bet on horses?”

“Well, we did,” he said with a shrug. “But three years ago, he disappeared. I couldn’t reach him, and his mom was worried sick. She was already physically sick, too. She passed away not long after he vanished.”

“Three years ago? He said he played these games at that time.”

“Yeah, now that you mention it,” player 390 replied. “He should’ve contacted me after winning. I really thought he was dead.”

You lowered your voice. “Well, in a way, he does seem dead yet alive right now.”

Player 390 turned to you with a small smile. “Anyway, I haven’t introduced myself yet. I’m Jung-bae, and that is Gi-hun.”

You smiled back, giving your name in return. By then, the two of you had reached Gi-hun’s spot and sat down on either side of him.

You began unboxing your lunchbox while Jung-bae turned to his long-time friend. “Look at this lunch. It’s just like my mom used to make. What’s in yours?”

Gi-hun didn’t respond. His silence hung heavy, but Jung-bae pressed on.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Jung-bae scooped a spoonful of rice with some fried egg and held it out toward him. “Look, you’ve got to eat. You know what they say, ‘Eat up, even on your deathbed.’ Just do your thinking while you eat, or afterwards. Here.”

Still, Gi-hun ignored him. Jung-bae sighed and pulled the spoon back.

“Forget it then,” he muttered before taking the bite himself. With his mouth full, he added, “This might be for the best. I don’t know about you, but that 20 million wouldn’t even cover my interest. If we play just one more game…”

“Jung-bae,” Gi-hun finally spoke, his tone heavy. He stared solemnly at his friend. “Last time I was here, someone said the exact same thing. And in the end, that person died here.”

Jung-bae chewed quietly, his earlier enthusiasm fading. You watched the two of them, a quiet curiosity growing. What kind of experience had he gone through here? Had he lost friends? The thought that everyone he once knew in these games had died was haunting. But why is he back?

“Help us then, sir.”

The voice drew your attention. You, Jung-bae, and Gi-hun turned to see player 001 approaching your corner. Behind him were player 100 and a few others. Their presence immediately shifted the atmosphere.

“You said you’ve played these games,” commented player 001.

Gi-hun stared at him briefly before lowering his head, as if retreating into himself. You thought he might ignore them altogether until player 001 spoke again.

“I pressed the O button because of you.”

Gi-hun looked up at him, surprised. Player 001 continued, “Honestly, I was scared. I wanted to quit and leave. But you made me think maybe I could play just one more game.”

“Me too,” another player behind him chimed in.

“Same here,” added another.

You glanced at Gi-hun and murmured, “Looks like it’s a bad idea revealing you’re a previous winner.”

Gi-hun turned to you, exhaling through his nose. “I thought it would make everyone understand… that everyone here is doomed to die as long as we stay here.”

You nodded slightly, your gaze shifting back to player 001, who was already looking at you. Feeling a bit awkward, you quickly averted your gaze and pretended not to notice.

“Sir,” player 001 said, leaning closer to Gi-hun. “You know which game’s next, don’t you?”

Several players leaned in, their curiosity evident. Even you couldn’t help but wonder. Jung-bae put down his lunchbox and turned to his friend. “You’re a previous winner, so you should know. What are we playing next?”

Gi-hun avoided eye contact, his voice low as he finally answered. “The second game was Dalgona.”

The bed beside you creaked as someone shifted on it. You glanced over to see player 388 leaning toward your corner. “Dalgona? The sugar candy with a shape you can carve out?”

“That’s right,” Gi-hun replied. “We had to choose one of four shapes and carve it out.”

“Four shapes? Which was the easiest one?” Jung-bae asked quickly.

“Triangle.”

“Which was the hardest one?” Jung-bae pressed further.

“Umbrella.”

“Umbrella?” player 001 scoffed. “Some people chose umbrella? Those unlucky bastards must have bitten the dust.”

At his words, Gi-hun stared at him silently, his expression unreadable. There was something in his gaze that felt like judgment, maybe even offense. You noticed it but chose not to dwell on it, focusing instead on your lunch.

“So that means we should all just pick triangle,” player 388 suggested. “Everyone could probably pass with that.”

“Hush now!” player 100 stepped forward, positioning himself beside player 001. “If all 365 of us survive, the prize money won’t go up at all. Then we’ll have risked our lives again for nothing.”

“That’s true,” a few players behind him agreed, nodding.

Player 100 continued, “Listen. We should probably keep this information to ourselves. What do you say?”

Player 001 stayed quiet, while others eagerly nodded their agreement. But before the discussion could settle, Gi-hun spoke up, his tone firm. “We can’t do that. I’m telling you this to save everyone’s lives.”

“And we don’t even know if the next game will really be Dalgona,” you added, scooping another spoonful of rice.

Gi-hun nodded. “That’s right. If it’s confirmed that the next game is Dalgona, I’m going to tell everyone what I know.”

Player 100 scoffed, rolling his eyes before turning and walking away. The group of players who had followed him quickly trailed behind, leaving the corner quieter and less tense. You exhaled softly, relieved to have the space back.

Player 001, however, remained. He shifted his gaze to you, Jung-bae and Gi-hun.

“So, which shape did you pick?” Jung-bae asked with a curious raise of an eyebrow.

Gi-hun looked at him deadpan, offering no response.

You chuckled softly at the exchange, drawing their attention. Their curious stares settled on you, but you feigned innocence, focusing on your lunch as if you hadn’t been following the conversation.

Still, the words slipped out.

“So, did you choose umbrella?” you asked, your tone playful.

Gi-hun turned his gaze toward you, his expression flat and unimpressed. For a moment, you thought he might actually answer, but then he looked away, ignoring the question entirely. His silence was pointed, as if he’d chosen to pretend he hadn’t heard you at all.

You and Jung-bae exchanged knowing glances, both of you stifling a grin. It wasn’t until player 001 spoke that you realized he had been watching the entire interaction.

“May I ask you something?”

All three of you – you, Gi-hun, and Jung-bae – turned your attention to him. Player 001 moved closer, sitting down on the stairs beside your group. He directed his question straight at Gi-hun.

“Why did you come back to this place?” he asked. “You said you won and made it out. Then you must have received 45.6 billion. Did you spend it all?”

Jung-bae’s eyes widened as realization seemed to hit him. He asked Gi-hun incredulously, “Did you bet on horses again?”

You side-eyed the pair, amused by Jung-bae’s immediate assumption.

Gi-hun shook his head solemnly. “That money doesn’t belong to me. It’s blood money for the people who died here. The same goes for the money up there.”

You couldn’t help but silently agree. Survival guilt had clearly taken a toll on him, and you imagined the weight of it must have been crushing.

“You don’t have to think of it that way,” player 001 said, his voice calm. Gi-hun looked at him in mild astonishment. Player 001 continued, “It’s not like you killed those people, and saving that money won’t bring them back to life.”

Gi-hun leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His tone turned sharp as he replied, “If you had pressed the X, everyone here would’ve changed their mind by tomorrow. All of us would’ve made it out alive.”

Player 001 held his gaze, his expression unyielding. “That’s right. I was the last to press the O button. But there were 186 more people who wanted to stay.”

“And there were also 185 people who wanted to leave,” Gi-hun countered.

You and Jung-bae exchanged glances, sensing that neither man was willing to back down. Their differing perspectives created a palpable tension.

Player 001 broke the silence. “Let’s say I pressed X and we all got a chance to vote again tomorrow. Would everyone have been happy? Do you think a majority of O players would change their mind and thank me?”

Gi-hun’s brow furrowed deeper, his glower showing he was searching for another argument.

Before things could escalate further, Jung-bae intervened. “Enough, you two,” he said. “There’s no point in placing blame now. You know the saying. A widow understands a widower best. Let’s just focus on the game tomorrow, okay?”

He gestured toward Gi-hun and said, “He has won all these games before. If we stick together, we’ll have nothing to worry about.”

“But we can’t always rely on him,” you interjected. “He doesn’t need more pressure from everyone expecting too much from him.”

Gi-hun and player 001 both turned to you, their gazes quiet but intent.

Jung-bae nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right, but he has the experience. Any advice he has will help.”

“He’s right,” another voice chimed in. The four of you turned to see player 388, who had been eavesdropping from his bed. He hopped down and stood close. “We have to stick together. I’ll be with you all the way.”

Jung-bae frowned in skepticism. “Who are you?”

The man came to a stop in front of you all and gave a quick bow. “I’m Dae-ho. Kang Dae-ho.”

Dae-ho extended his hand to Jung-bae, a clear offer for a handshake. Jung-bae didn’t take it, instead replying dryly, “Oh, Dae-ho. Have we met?”

Dae-ho’s expression faltered briefly before he glanced at player 001, who kept his head low, and then at Gi-hun, who looked at him with indifference. Finally, his gaze landed on you. Seeing no skepticism in your expression, he extended his hand toward you.

You blinked in surprise but took his hand. He clasped yours in both of his, nodding gratefully as you introduced yourself. You could feel the others watching the interaction closely. After a moment, he let go of your hand, looking slightly more at ease.

“Earlier during the game, Mr. 456 here was like,” Dae-ho began, pausing to mimic Gi-hun’s urgent warning style from the first game. “Freeze! And I became his fan.”

You grinned at his enthusiasm while Gi-hun turned his gaze away, clearly embarrassed. Undeterred, Dae-ho continued eagerly, “I’d like to get to know you all better. Please give me a chance!”

Jung-bae stood suddenly as Dae-ho mimicked Gi-hun again. “Freeze! That was so cool!”

You chuckled softly, but the sound caught Gi-hun’s attention. He glanced at you with a look that felt half-judgmental before shifting his gaze elsewhere.

“Hang on,” Jung-bae said abruptly, grabbing Dae-ho’s sleeve and pulling it upward to reveal an ROKMC tattoo. Dae-ho looked at him, confused, as Jung-bae asked, “You were in the Marines?”

“Yes, why?”

“Class number?” Jung-bae countered, his tone sharp.

Dae-ho gave him a once-over before letting out a wheeze of amusement.

“Oh, you’re laughing?” Jung-bae challenged, unzipping his jacket and pulling up his sleeve. He revealed the same ROKMC tattoo on his forearm.

Dae-ho’s amusement vanished. He stepped back, clearly caught off guard, as Jung-bae stood tall, even combing his hair back dramatically with his fingers.

Suddenly, Dae-ho snapped into a salute, raising his voice. “Victory at all costs! I was in Class 1140, sir!”

Jung-bae saluted back, his grin wide. “At ease! ‘Dae-ho.’ I knew there was something about you.”

The sudden burst of military camaraderie caught you off guard. Are they really going all military here? Their loud banter is starting to draw attention to your corner.

“Do Marines get tattoos like that?” you asked to no one in particular, genuinely curious.

Player 001, who had been observing quietly, spoke up. “It’s not officially required. But for many in the ROKMC, getting the tattoo is a tradition.”

You nodded your head in understanding. “Oh.”

Dae-ho, still stiff in his stance, screamed, “Yes, sir!”

Jung-bae laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Class 746 here. Let’s make a good team.”

“I won’t let you down, sir!” Dae-ho barked back, standing straighter.

Jung-bae guffawed, patting him on the shoulder again, earning another resounding “yes, sir!” from Dae-ho. The exchange repeated a few more times, each louder than the last. You couldn’t help but laugh softly at the spectacle, while Gi-hun watched them with an expression that screamed secondhand embarrassment.

You turned away from the comedic display of Jung-bae and Dae-ho, who seemed more like overenthusiastic military recruits than grown men, and began cleaning up your lunchbox. As you took a sip from your water bottle, you noticed player 001 shifting slightly in his seat nearby.

Lowering the bottle, you glanced over and asked casually, “Have you eaten already?”

Player 001 looked at you for a moment before a warm smile crossed his face. “Yes, I have.”

You nodded, returning his smile. “Good. The food they prepared for us was worth it. It’s a waste not to eat it.”

Turning toward Gi-hun, you pointedly glanced at his untouched lunchbox. “You need to eat, sir. It’s better to mull things over with a full stomach.”

Gi-hun hesitated, meeting your gaze briefly before nodding. He opened his lunchbox without a word and began to eat.

After a brief pause, you leaned slightly closer to player 001, lowering your voice. “By the way, do you know where the ladies’ restroom is?”

Player 001 gestured toward the door on the right side of the main double doors. “That one there. The other door is for the men.”

“Oh, thanks. Wouldn’t want to get lost and get shot by the guards.”

Player 001’s smile widened. “I’m sure the guards would bring you back here if you are lost.”

You chuckled softly. “That’s comforting to know.”

The exchange put you slightly more at ease, but player 001’s expression soon turned contemplative. “If you don’t mind me asking… why did you come here?”

Your smile faltered for a moment, and you caught Gi-hun turning his head just slightly, clearly eavesdropping. Straightening your posture, you replied with a practiced smile, “I needed the money.”

Player 001 nodded slowly, his gaze steady. “That’s all of us. But if I may say… I’m surprised. A lady like you shouldn’t have to bear the burden of crippling debt.”

You looked away, lowering your gaze to the floor. The practiced calm you had maintained slipped, replaced by a somber expression as his words hit a nerve.

Noticing your change in demeanor, player 001 spoke gently. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

You shook your head and managed a faint smile.

“It’s fine,” you replied softly. Your gaze stayed on the floor as you added, “The debts are my parents’, actually.”

Player 001 stared at you, his smile fading into something more solemn. Gi-hun, who had been eavesdropping, remained silent, his expression unreadable.

“You motherfucker!”

The shout shattered the quiet, pulling your attention to the other side of the dormitory. A commotion had broken out. MG Coin (player 333) was brawling on the floor with Thanos and his friend (player 124).

With player 124’s help, Thanos delivered a hard punch to player 333. Even as player 333 lay injured on the floor, they didn’t stop. Kicks rained down on him mercilessly while gasps of horror rippled through the watching crowd.

“I lost all that money because of you, fucker,” Thanos snarled, punctuating his words with another vicious kick. “Be grateful and fucking eat what you’re given!”

Despite the violence, no one moved. Players stayed rooted in place, their expressions a mix of fear and disgust. Jung-bae and Dae-ho, sleeves still rolled up with their tattoos visible, simply watched, making no move to intervene.

You sighed in frustration. “Good thing I finished eating. Still, ganging up on him is just unfair.”

Before you could consider stepping in, player 001 stood up. He walked past Jung-bae and Dae-ho with measured steps, heading straight toward the chaos. You rose from your seat instinctively, a mix of concern and suspense building. Gi-hun stood as well, his eyes narrowing as he watched the scene unfold.

“Boys, what are you doing in the middle of mealtime?” player 001’s voice carried as he approached Thanos and player 124. “No fights during mealtime. There are elders present. Mind your manners.”

Thanos and player 124 paused, letting go of player 333. They turned toward player 001, whose calm demeanor seemed to unnerve them. “And two against one? Aren’t you embarrassed?”

Thanos sneered and stepped closer, his posture challenging. “You’re lecturing me when you ended up in this shithole too? Uncle, stop running your mouth and take care of your own damn kids.”

The dormitory fell silent as everyone watched. Player 001 silently asked, “What did you say?”

Thanos leaned in, his tone mocking. “I said save the lecture for your own damn kid—”

Player 001’s hand shot out, gripping Thanos by the neck. The hold wasn’t a full choke, but his thumb pressed into a precise spot that made Thanos stiffen immediately. The calculated grip made it clear he knew exactly what he was doing. And it looked painful.

Thanos’ hands clawed at player 001’s arm, but the older man’s hold didn’t waver. His bravado crumbled under the pressure of the unyielding grip.

Player 124 advanced toward them. “You son of a—”

Before he could finish, player 001 swiftly kicked his shin. Player 124 let out a brief scream, immediately grasping his leg in pain. Without missing a beat, player 001 delivered another kick, sending him sprawling to the floor, clutching his injured shin. The speed of it all left several players gasping in shock.

Player 001 released Thanos’ neck, standing still in the same spot, his posture calm and steady. It was a stark contrast to Thanos and his friend who were already heaving in pain, struggling to recover.

Just as you thought it was over, Thanos stubbornly got up and advanced toward player 001 again. Raising his arm for a punch, he barely got the chance before player 001 landed a precise blow to his chest in the blink of an eye. Thanos doubled over, clutching his chest in visible pain.

“Wait,” Thanos choked out, holding up a hand in surrender.

Player 001, unfazed, grabbed Thanos’ outstretched hand and twisted it. With a calculated move, he brought Thanos down to the floor and delivered two sharp kicks to his chest, sending him sprawling.

Before Thanos could fully process what was happening, player 001 stood over him, gripping his neck once again. His free hand rose, forming a fist poised to strike. The dormitory’s atmosphere turned chillingly tense as everyone held their breath.

“I’m sorry,” Thanos choked out, his voice barely audible.

Player 001’s face remained emotionless, cold and detached. His grip tightened momentarily, making Thanos gasp for air. His purple hair seemed to match the growing discoloration of his face as the players around them watched in stunned silence.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, player 001 let him go. Calmly, he stood up as if nothing had happened. A smattering of applause broke out, quickly growing into full-on clapping and cheers.

“You’re the man!”

“Nice!”

You joined in, clapping in genuine awe of his combat prowess. He had taken down two bullies without breaking a sweat. What is he, really? He must be an expert at something combat-related.

Player 001 looked surprised by the positive reaction. With a small, appreciative nod and a faint smile, he smoothed his hair, clearly a bit embarrassed and shy by the attention.

As he walked back toward your corner, where you and the others were still clapping, Jung-bae leaned over. “What is he?”

“Is he an ex-Marine too?” Dae-ho asked.

You smirked and pointedly remarked, “If he is, you two might want to roll your sleeves down. He actually stopped the bullies, not the tattoos.”

Jung-bae and Dae-ho exchanged sheepish glances before simultaneously fixing their sleeves. They continued clapping enthusiastically for player 001, pretending they hadn’t been called out.

Player 001 returned to your corner, his calm demeanor intact despite the tension moments ago. You, Jung-bae, and Dae-ho couldn’t help but look at him with a mix of amazement and curiosity.

“Sir, that was incredible,” Jung-bae said, his voice tinged with admiration. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

Dae-ho chimed in, “Seriously, the way you took them down without even breaking a sweat. Are you some kind of martial artist or what?”

Player 001 gave a wide smile. “Let’s just say I’ve picked up a thing or two along the way.”

Jung-bae exchanged a look with Dae-ho, both nodding as if they had just decided player 001 was the coolest person they’d ever met.

“Man of mystery,” Dae-ho muttered appreciatively.

You leaned forward slightly, your gentle tone more concerned. “But you’re not hurt at all, right? You seemed upset.”

Player 001 turned to you and his smile softened. “Not at all. I left and came back the same.”

His composed response only added to the awe emanating from Jung-bae and Dae-ho, who continued to marvel at him. The brief chaos from earlier now felt like a distant memory.

You couldn’t help but grin as you turned to player 001. “You know, I just told them to roll their sleeves down because you were the one who stopped the bullies, not those tattoos.”

Player 001 let out a steady laugh, the sound warm and disarming. Jung-bae and Dae-ho immediately looked embarrassed, glancing at each other before quickly shifting their attention elsewhere.

“Hey, the tattoos still count for something,” Jung-bae muttered, rolling his sleeve back up halfway just to save face.

“Sure they do,” you replied, still smiling as Dae-ho tried to look nonchalant.

The four of you sat back down at the corner. Gi-hun, who had stayed quiet throughout the commotion, gave player 001 a subtle nod of acknowledgment. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a truce of sorts after their earlier disagreement.

Dae-ho, ever the chatterbox, broke the quiet. “So, Mr. 001, you’ve got to teach us some of those moves. What was that neck grip thing? Looked like something out of a spy movie.”

Player 001 gave a faint smile, shaking his head. “It’s just a simple technique. Nothing fancy.”

“Nothing fancy?” Jung-bae scoffed. “You had that guy gasping for air and looking like he was about to cry. If that’s simple, I’d hate to see complicated.”

“I want to learn how to do that too,” you added. “It would be useful to protect myself out there.”

Player 001 replied with a widening smile. “Sure, I could teach you. We just have to focus on winning the next game and leave this place for good. I’ll teach once we’re out of here.”

“Sir, don’t forget about me though,” said Dae-ho. “I want to learn that too.”

Jung-bae chimed in, “Me too.”

Player 001 nodded, “Got it. I’ll teach you three, then.”

The conversation drifted into lighter topics, with Dae-ho recounting an overly dramatic story from his military days that had Jung-bae laughing and shaking his head. Gi-hun stayed mostly quiet, his focus shifting between the group and the room at large.

NEXT : Chapter 05

PREV : Chapter 03

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[starstruckgoateepuppy]

the cut that always bleeds

park jihyo x f!reader

synopsis: jihyo has been grieving over the loss of her sister, as much as you try and help her move on she seems to get more agitated and bitter which causes the biggest argument of your relationship.

warnings: drinking, kinda toxic jihyo, death and anything else i didn’t say

wc: 1.8k (its short im sorry)

a/n’s note: oh my god its been so so so long 🥲🥲 thank you @cry4mina for encouraging me and giving me ideas your soooooo nice and sweet for reaching out to me ☹️🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷x infinity

You and Jihyo have never had many arguments—mostly just bickering. This is largely because you both are understanding and mature with each other. The few disagreements between you aren't serious, and you typically make up quickly. You love Jihyo, and everyone close to you knows it. No one would have thought things would turn out like this.

-

day one

It was just your typical morning routine with Jihyo, and you nevertheless cherished every moment of it. You lived in an average-sized apartment with her, and both of you were very satisfied and content with your living arrangements.

You had been married to her for quite a while, and it was quite obvious that would not change anytime soon.

While at the table, having your hands on the delicious avocado toast that was made by Jihyo, there was suddenly a tense moment as she picked up her phone and answered the call that had been made while she was in the midst of brewing coffee. She was in such distress that you could tell something was very wrong. After a few minutes of giving her time, she put the phone down and mumbled, "My sister... she's not here anymore... she's dead." You looked at her face, her eyes glistening in the light as tears filled her eyes. You just hugged her as she sobbed into your shoulder.

You held each other for what felt like twenty minutes before gently guiding her to sit down. You assured her that everything would be okay and that her sister was in a better place now. Through her tears, she spoke about their close childhood bond and her deep regret about not interacting during the holidays. from the little times you met her sister, it was clear that she was really a nice and kind woman, it also pained you seeing how wretched she was processing all this.

you called out from work and took the next 2 weeks of just to help jihyo and her family out.

-

day 7

it has been a week since the death of your sister in law, who is now 6 feet buried underground. jihyo still hasn’t taken in the fact that she would never be able to see her sister again.

-

day 90

3 months has passed since the tragic loss of jihyos childhood best friend. to say jihyo was still taking it hard was an understatement. jihyo hasn’t been able to do much other then work and go on her phone reminiscing the memories of her sister. every chance you get, you try and get her to go out and spend some time together but she always seems like she’s out of it. as much as you try to help, she pushes it away and ignores it.

-

day 365+

it has been a year since the death of the park sister and jihyo has still yet to move on. although you still insist in trying to help her deal with her feelings and emotions, she becomes more insistent about being able to deal with herself. and you really can’t lie about how aggressive she has been lately and how much it has been frustrating you. you really just care for her and want to know if shes okay, but how could you if shes trying to push you away? you’re her wife and you feel like you should be responsible for her and her emotional needs. now she’s making you feel like you haven’t been caring and doing your responsibilities as a wife.

all of this causes a big change in her attitude towards you. her being more agitated and angry made you feel like you shouldn’t be talking to her as much anymore than you should. it gets to the point that you try to start avoiding her, worried about making her angry.

-

The clock was hitting 1 in the morning and you still weren’t home. The door clicked open, slowly creaking wider. She saw your familiar shoes and flowy silky black hair tip inside the door. The lights were turned off, just her sitting on the sofa staring at the television in front of her. You slipped off your shoes, placing your sweater on the door. you slightly jumped when you saw her figure get up from the sofa walking towards you.

“hyo? baby why are you awake?”

“don’t even think about talking to me in that sweet tone. what have you been doing at this hour? there cannot be an excuse reasonable enough for this!”

“jihyo you know i would never do such a thing! what kind of person do you take me for? its like you dont even know me anymore. you never try to even bring up a conversation with me!” you fired back at her. She was mainly the dominant one in the relationship. You never made statements like this. “i have been through so much this year and you still treat me like this like its nothing!” its like she was made to make people feel in the wrong, like she purposely wanted to make you feel terrible, like how she has been how the pass few months, and you don’t want to deal with it anymore. You didn’t want to feel like that anymore, you wanted to tell her the truth. “I have been doing my best to help you cope and deal with your grief for months and all you have been doing is pushing me away! how do you think i feel jihyo? i have feelings too! i also am devastated that my sister in law passed away! i also had connections with her but i had to care for you too!”

she stays silent for a little while, taken aback by your words. you thought it was done, maybe she started to understand that what she did was wro- “excuse me? are you trying to tell me that me grieving over my dead fucking sister is crazy? i spent my entire childhood with her, you don’t get it! i am her sister, you are her sister in law. its very different from what i know, or what? are you gonna tell me what i know is wrong too? i am never right to you, is that right?” you were left speechless, unable to process what you had just heard. “no way you just had the nerve to tell me that..” she just raised her eyebrow as you both stood there. you decided that you didn’t want to hear her voice anymore so you took your coat, packed up and left, ignoring whatever protests she was doing.

you got in you car, rethinking everything she had done and how much she neglected you. all the effort to make her feel better, all of that pushed down the drain so easily. all of that and she still called you the problem. you didn’t even know what to do and where to go. your mind was still trying to process everything that had happened in the past 15 minutes.

meanwhile, you could say that jihyo was astonished. she never knew you would go this far and leave the apartment, but she definitely knew that she did something terribly wrong. she was probably sitting on the couch, head in her hands in the most distress she has ever been. obviously she still loved you, but the loss of her sister took a toll on her and she started losing her mind not being able to deal with the pain and grief. she was starting to realise how much she messed up and had a pang of guilt hit her. she called and texted you, pleading that you would give her another chance, that she wouldn’t push you away from helping her. whatever she did you just didn’t answer, she was without a doubt starting to get worried.

it has been hours since you left the house and you genuinely didn’t even know where you were anymore. all you knew was that you weren’t ready to go back to where jihyo was. you were afraid that some unintentional words might slip out which would cause an even deeper misunderstanding with her. you hesitated checking your phone, aware that there would be tons and tons of messages and missed call notifications from her who is named as “my loml 🧡”. you needed a place to stay for the meantime, but you didn’t want to stay at her members place.

if you went to a members house they would probably question you (which isn't unreasonable at all because who the hell shows up uninvited at nearly 3 in the morning?) unfortunately you didn’t want to deal with that with how dazed you were. you knew they would very surely take you in without any protests, you just hated the fact that you would have to explain everything and make even more conflicts and problems.

after the hours of driving and reflecting on your situation. your last hope was to sleep in the backseat of your car. fortunately you had some blankets to keep yourself warm. sleeping in the backseat of your car in the parking lot of your apartment complex, something you never thought you would have to do one day.

-

at 6am

3 hours of minimal sleep, you drove to the nearest convenience store and got yourself some coffee to keep your mind running while on the verge of breaking down again. you didn’t get yourself any food, you doubt you were gonna eat it anyway and it would go to some pigeons in a park or something. you were trying so hard to prevent yourself from having to return back to your house.

you genuinely wish it could start over. things shouldn’t have been like this. there was no one to blame. no one should be forced to get over it.

-

it hits you. your facing what she faced. your sitting at a graveyard, in front of a tombstone.

there it marks the words.

“here is the forever home of

Park Jihyo“

you cry again and again, begging her to please just come back.

why did it have to end like this? you hated it, you wish you had never left the house. she wouldn’t have to go looking for you. then she wouldn’t have gotten into the car crash.

this whole thing could’ve been avoided. if you just continued giving her the time and she would’ve just allowed you to help her.

you wanted to blame the stupid drunk driver. but who are you to blame when she was driving to look for you? you made her worried? driving all around all alone. you thought losing a sister in law was one of the worst experiences. your sister in law will never know she was a reason her sister died just a year later.

[snailsgoingdowntown]

Help, I Reincarnated as the Female Lead’s Sister-in-Law!

  1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8

Chapter 9

‘Slight’ Yandere! Dion Agriche x Fem! Reader

Arranged marriage AU

Warnings: thoughts about self-harm (biting thumb again), accidental self-injury(? + biting inside of lip which causes it to bleed), thoughts about implied murder, near panic attack, implied depression, slight blood, small/slight themes of obsession and possessiveness, slight themes of misogyny/some toxic behavior from Reader's family, please tell me if I missed any.

Nsfw warnings: OKAY, I honestly think Maria, if she becomes fond of a daughter-in-law, would absolutely push for grandchildren and take things into her own hands unless someone (Sierra) tries really hard to convince her otherwise. I’m really sorry for writing her as a creep but this will be the last time (either completely or for a very long time) I’ll write her like this. Anyway: suggestive, throwback to their 1st night, gifting of lingerie and aphrodisiac by Maria (again will not write her like this either completely or a long time, I tried rewriting this chapter so fucking much but this is what I settled on because it felt the most natural to me.) pushing for grandchildren, Maria somehow got the Reader’s measurements, please tell me if I missed any.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT CONDONE ANY OF THE HARMFUL AND/OR DANGEROUS/TOXIC ACTIONS AND/OR BEHAVIORS THAT TAKE PLACE IN THIS PIECE OF FICTION. THESE ACTIONS/BEHAVIORS SHOULD NOT BE NORMALIZED NOR ROMANTICIZED AS THEY ARE BOTH EXTREMELY TOXIC AND DANGEROUS.

MINORS/BLANK BLOGS/BLOGS THAT DO NOT INTERACT OR REBLOG ANYTHING FANDOM RELATED (FICS, ART, ETC.) DNI.

===

‘Dear father and mother, 

I am doing well so far. The food is nice and the clothes comfortable. I haven’t personally spoken to my father-in-law yet, but I’m going to meet him for dinner tomorrow at the time of writing this. My husband, Dion is different from what I expected. Too nice. He’s not as brutal as others described him. It was surprising. But he’s a pervert and I almost hit him out of frustration and rejected his sexual advances like any sane person would. I know that you’ll say I should have let it happen, mother, but it hurt so bad I don’t think he’ll ever fit. Speaking of those vulgar activities, you lied he wasn’t flustered in the slightest until I started crying. Can you believe that? He’s a creep! But hopefully he doesn’t kill or torture me he’ll continue to treat me nicely.

I have talked to a few in-laws, including my mother-in-law. I heard that you drank with her, mother. She's very  lively and has a sadistic unique personality. She’s very sweet to me. I have also met the fourth wife, Sierra. She’s lovely, I think you’ll also get along with her, mother. 

Of course, as his wife I’ll do my best to support him in fear of him or Lant killing me otherwise in every field to the best of my abilities. Just how you forced taught me.

I hope that the two of you are faring well. The same goes for Zac and Elena, of course. Speaking of them, how has Zac’s studies been? He’s not skipping them again, is he or planning something dangerous like that stupid but well-meant plan he informed you, father, about? Yes, I overheard everything?

Is Elena doing well in her pregnancy? I know she moved out before me, but I’m still concerned about her and the baby. And Albert, he’s taking care of her, right? 

I’m not sure what else to write, so I’ll just leave it here. Please take care of yourselves. The same goes for my brother and sister.

Your daughter, (Name)’

“... I ended up writing what I really think… I need to rewrite this… again.” You sigh, leaning back in your chair as you crumble the letter. This was your fifth try, and while each one became less hostile and more casual, you weren't satisfied with any of the rough drafts to turn into a final draft. 

If you weren’t married to Dion, into this family, would writing to them be easier? You shake your head. No point in having these useless thoughts. Especially as Hana comes in with a knock and your permission, rolling in your lunch. 

In the end, you ended up going with Hana’s suggestion - basically saying that your husband fucked you too hard and rough last night and you needed to recover. Thanks to that, you didn’t have to change into the scarlet dress she picked out either - it was decided to be saved for the dinner you’ll have with both your husband and father-in-law tomorrow. 

You already asked Hana for indigestion medicine for tomorrow. 

“Thank you, Hana,” you put your stationary away and picked up the crumbled balls of paper that were failed attempts. She eyes you curiously but doesn’t comment on it. Instead she readies your lunch, placing the plates onto the table. 

The thought of eating makes you sick. You could barely hold down breakfast - could you hold down lunch? Or would your body give up immediately and reject the food? 

Warily looking at it, you notice two prettily wrapped up boxes - one pink with light red polka dots, the bow purple in color. The second box, a flatter one, had red wrapping paper with a tiny black hearts pattern, with the bow also black. Your heart speeds up as your gut twists painfully. If they were meant for you, they contain nothing well meant nor innocent.

“Oh, right,” Hana starts before handing both ‘presents’ to your unwelcoming arms, “Lady Maria sent these to you. I don’t know what they are, unfortunately.” With a grave look on your face you shakily thank her, a pained and forced smile stretching your lips. 

Maria sent these… oh boy, I sure do wonder what they are… 

“Later today, please help me pick out a gift for her. It’s only right that I repay the favor, especially since she’s my mother-in-law.” Placing them down next to your feet, you ignore the urge to kick them far, far away from you. It’s hard to keep your eyes off of the boxes. It’s hard to focus on your food, picking up your fork and knife as you cut into the grilled fish. 

It’s hard to chew, accidentally biting your lip hard enough to taste blood. It’s hard to drink the water as it threatens to choke you. It’s hard to not wince at the sharp sounds of cutlery against the plate as you imagine your head being chopped off like nothing. 

It’s hard to breathe. 

How much longer until you go crazy?

By the time you finish your meal, you’re sweating buckets. You hate it here. You want to go home -

“My Lady, are you alright?” Hana’s voice drags you out from your thoughts, flicking your eyes to meet hers. She’s picking up the silverware and placing it back onto the tray, but quickly takes a clean napkin from it and hands it to you. You take it with shaky hands, doing your best not to drop it. Thankfully your brain didn’t lag for too long for you to realize it was for your sweat.

You pat down your temples with the white cloth.

“T-thank you… v-very much, Ha-Hana.” Why is your voice so shaky? Why are you stuttering? Hell, why are you sweating?

You already had one panic attack - you don’t need another one. Your right thumb throbs at the memory and your teeth want to clamp down on it. The bandages suddenly feel too tight around the digit and you want to rip it off so you could dig your teeth into it. You bite your lip, only worsening the newly formed wound. The taste of your own blood spreads throughout your mouth again. 

You need to stop. 

Your attention switches to Hana, the woman staring at you uncertainly. It wasn’t necessarily out of concern but rather confusion - just how was she supposed to comfort her master? …you’re probably putting her in a rough spot. 

…right. I just need to accept my new reality… but today is not going to be that day.

Taking in a deep breath, you force your nerves to settle down - positive thoughts, positive thoughts. The sun is warm, the birds are lively, the bed is comfortable, your husband is gone - 

This isn’t the first time, and clearly it won’t be the last. 

“...thank you for bringing the food, Hana.” You’re not fully composed, not fully right of mind, but as the saying goes: fake it until you make it. You did it once, you managed to do it throughout the duration of the engagement, during the wedding despite feeling horrible, you did it while consummating your marriage despite being ripped open by Dion, you did it while at the tea party with Maria and Sierra, you did it last night when you told him off.

You did it back then, too. 

Force yourself to smile now. Tilt your head innocently. Act happy. Act happy. 

“I enjoyed it. Please give my thanks to the chief.” Your smile isn’t bright as the sun and slightly wavers. Your eyes aren’t shining brightly like stars, instead seeing past her. Your mind isn’t calm as you recall the brutality of this family that was shown and described in the story. 

Fake it until you make it. 

Yes, you think. Maybe you will have a conversation with Roxana. 

- - -

Hana left an hour ago yet you haven’t moved from your spot. No, instead you’re staring intensely at the presents in front of you on the table. They’re pretty, a bit childish. But knowing Maria… 

“...is it a trap…?” Carefully, you pick up the stereo typical present box and lightly shake it; it rattles. “Sounds a bit heavy… like a box within a box.” Curiosity gets the better of you and you gingerly untie the purple bow before ripping the wrapping paper. Despite the damn thing nearly sending you into another panic episode, it was satisfying to unwrap. 

A slightly smaller box is what you see once you manage to open the outer one. It was black and had a fancy red bow. Still a good size not to be something small. Unless it was a perfume. Breathing in deeply, you undo the ribbon and take off the lid. 

You’re met with a glass container roughly the size of your hand. Your heart drops at the yellow liquid inside. 

It looks exactly like the aphrodisiac your mother-in-law gave Roxana in the manhwa. 

“...what in the actual fuck… she’s basically telling, no, begging me to fuck her son… haha!” Your head rolls back as laughter overtakes you and shoulders violently shake. “I knew she was crazy, but fuck, how morally corrupt is this woman?” 

Instead of throwing it across the room like you should, you place it down on the table. You would have slammed it down if there wasn’t a chance that just smelling it could cause your body to heat up and become needy for a thing - a person - you don’t even want. 

“I’m scared to open up the other ‘present’...” in spite of that you pull at the black bow and unwrap it. You shake it - sounds like something soft. Like clothes. 

Oh. 

Oh no, no, no, no, no no -

“She didn’t. No fucking way… maybe it’s a sweater. Or a shawl. Gloves?” 

Trembling fingers take the lid off, a pink ribbon undone easily. This time, you throw the box to the floor after seeing what it held. 

A sheer black babydoll lingerie set. 

“Maria Agriche… you fucking creep…,” without another thought you shut the lid on it and shoved it into one of your drawers on your side of the dresser. Away from sight, out of mind you chant in your head, slamming the drawer shut. Your cheeks feel warm as both embarrassment and disgust fill your head and chest. 

… even if you wanted to sleep with him… or if you were in a healthy marriage with someone you love…

“...I could never wear that… it’s too revealing, too embarrassing.” Even in your old world you never wore such things. Not because you viewed them as dirty or slutty, but because they don’t suit you. Besides, putting in so much effort just for it to be taken off…?

‘I’m only going to ask once - would you rather keep your clothes on or off?’ 

“MMMMFFFF!!” throwing yourself onto the bed at the memory, scream muffled by the pillow, you mentally curse both son and mother. The son because he made your first time so horrible you’re mentally scarred and the mother because she’s a creep. More so than her own fucking son. 

A few minutes later you manage to collect yourself somewhat. Dreadfully you go to the dresser to pull out the offending clothing. You don’t plan on putting it on or to hold it over your clothes to get a vague idea of it either. Just to get a better look at it. 

Opening it and picking up the article of clothing, you examine it; pretty lace details on the him and breast cups, a flower pattern. It was soft as silk - clearly made from expensive materials. The straps were thin but they didn't feel too rough or stiff. Probably comfortable on the shoulders. 

Not like you would know - you never tried anything like this on. 

Curiosity killing the cat, you decide to see where it ends by holding it over your clothes; it barely brushes past mid thigh. 

When you go to put it back you notice an envelope and panties in the box. First, you pick up the lacy underwear, frowning as you realize that somehow, someway Maria had gotten your fucking measurements. Did your mother also tell the crazed woman your three sizes… “No, she wouldn’t. Even if she was drunk, she wouldn’t tell anyone such private details.” 

Carelessly dropping it into the box you grab the letter, opening it after a moment of hesitation. It takes even longer to unfold the letter. And even longer to actually read it, only for horror to come across your face and enter your heart. 

‘Sierra told me it may come across as inappropriate to send such things to you… but I’m just so excited for grandchildren! Oh, but don’t feel pressured into wearing or drinking those things tonight. The aphrodisiac lasts a rather long time. Besides, considering it’s Dion, I thought you might need some help to get in the mood whenever you decide to lay with him.

- Maria’ 

“No. Never.” 

Shoving everything back in, you shut the drawer close, making sure to hide the items underneath some layers of your… underwear…

You give up. 

“Ahh, why and how did I stumbled into the scene…” You turn around only to notice the yellow liquid contained in the glass bottle. Right. You forgot about that. “Maybe I should just pour it out…”

Not once did you realize nor notice how all the fear and fright left your body and mind, instead leaving caution and annoyance in its wake. 

- - -

Your husband returned at midnight, small amounts of blood splattered on his left cheek. When you look up from your book to greet him you notice that in the candlelight his eye bags seem darker. Deeper. 

“...welcome…back.” Your body starts to quiver and your heart beats loud enough you could hear and feel it once you meet his eyes. Quickly scanning his person you notice he’s wearing the standard male servant uniform: 

black shirt with red rimmed shoulder pads that have the Agriche crest on top, the shirt long enough to reach below his knees and splits at the hips, tied together with a brown belt at the waist. If he were to turn around you would see the family crest proudly engraved into the fabric. Blank pants that disappear into nearly knee-height boots with long, tied laces. 

The last time you’ve seen him in that uniform was the first time you met him, bored expression plastered on his face as Lant introduced him with a smug smile on that disgusting face of his. All he did was shake your hand as you stood still with prayers to a God who held no love for you. With your father glancing your way every minute as you were left in some corner with your then fiance to hold a conversation that never happened. When he didn’t spare so much as a glance at you, instead staring off into space as you couldn’t take your eyes off your lap. 

Wait. 

No. 

Maybe back then, you were too deep in your thoughts to notice that unnerving stare. 

The same one he has now - looking at you as though you were his prey, scarlet eyes glowing in the candlelight, like you belonged to him and he would never change that fact. That he would never let you change it, either. 

“Wife.” 

The word mixed with his sleepy voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard - it makes your ears bleed and eye twitch as you hold back the grimace of how he addresses you. He only wants you because you’re a normal person.

The moment you become insane he’ll let you go. 

That’s the only explanation. It has to be. That’s the only explanation your brain could come up with and accept. 

You’re too scared to bring up the night before yesterday. Beads of sweat slowly roll down your temples and breathing shallow as Dion walks towards the bed, heavy boots echoing. Time stops as your heart drops once he reaches the bed, reaches you and without a single word, he grabs your right wrist and - 

“What happened here?”

Oh. You forgot about your bandaged thumb.  

[mattsfavouritewhore]

Just Go part 4... The End - Chris Sturniolo

a/n: welcome to the end pookies!! enjoy

just go part 2 part 3

you felt like a stranger in your own skin as you pushed through the crowded party. The thumping bass of the music vibrated through your bones, but it couldn’t drown out the thudding of your heart. you had come here to escape, to forget, but now the weight of what happened earlier felt suffocating. Chris likes Harper. Not you.

Why did you even come? pushing past a couple of people laughing by the kitchen. But as you walked deeper into the house, your eyes naturally found Chris. He was standing in a small circle with some friends, but Harper—of course—was right there, leaning into him as if they were already in their own world.

The sight twisted something in your chest. It wasn’t just jealousy anymore—it was something sharper, like betrayal. seeing it now, in person, felt like salt in an open wound.

Before you could look away, Chris caught their eye. The flicker of recognition passed between you guys, and in that instant, everything seemed to stop. He excused himself from Harper and started making his way toward you. your pulse quickened, a mixture of fury and something else—something that felt uncomfortably like longing.

No. you couldn’t do this. Not tonight. Not after everything.

When Chris reached them, he was breathing a little heavier than usual, clearly flustered. “Hey,” he said, running a hand through his hair, his voice hesitant. “You made it.”

You crossed their arms tightly, feeling a rush of emotions you couldn’t process all at once. you forced a tight smile. “Yeah, I thought I’d come for the free drinks and the real entertainment.”

Chris winced at the sarcasm. “I know things have been weird... but I didn’t think it was this bad.” His gaze flickered toward Harper, who was watching them from across the room.

Chris’s expression faltered, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I wasn’t trying to hide anything from you, Y/N. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” you asked, unable to keep the edge from your voice. “You think you can just sweep everything under the rug, pretend like I don’t have feelings? Because here’s the truth, Chris: I’m not the one who needs to be protected here.”

Chris stepped forward, his voice dropping. “Y/N, I never meant to hurt you. You have to believe me. You’ve always been...” He stopped, looking lost for words.

“Always been what?” you challenged, your voice growing colder. “Your second choice? Your fall-back plan? Is that it?”

Chris’s face softened with regret, his eyes desperate. “No, you’re not that to me. I care about you. But...”

“But?” you repeated, cutting him off. “But what? You care about me, but you’ve been chasing Harper this entire time, Chris. How long were you planning on stringing me along? Because, news flash, I’m not waiting for you to figure it out anymore.”

Chris opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Harper suddenly appeared at his side, her voice dripping with sweetness, but with a dangerous edge. “What’s going on here, you two? Did you need a little private chat?”

you turned to face her, your pulse quickening. Harper’s eyes gleamed with a strange satisfaction as she looked between you and Chris. She wasn’t even pretending to hide the power she had over him. “I think Chris has been very clear about his feelings, haven’t you, babe?”

Chris’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t answer. Instead, his eyes flickered briefly to you, almost like he was looking for approval, but he said nothing.

your heart felt like it was breaking, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you looked right at Harper, cutting through the tension. “You two are really something, aren’t you?” you said, your voice like ice. “You’ve been playing this game for months, pretending you care about me when all along you were just setting me up as some... rebound.”

Harper shrugged, unfazed. “Rebound? Maybe. But if the shoe fits…” She tossed her hair back with a smug smirk. “To be fair, I didn’t think he was going to fall for you. But he did. I guess it was fun while it lasted.”

you stared at Harper, anger and hurt crashing through you, but something deep inside clicked. you were done being the victim of this twisted little game. you turned to Chris, your eyes narrowing. “I’m done with both of you,” you said flatly.

But just as you turned to leave, something unexpected happened. Chris grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but gentle. “Wait,” he said urgently. “Y/N, please listen.”

you spun around, eyes blazing. “No. I’m done listening. I’m done with the lies, done with being a fucking second choice.” you yanked their wrist out of his grasp.

But Chris didn’t let go. He pulled you in, his hands on your shoulders, his eyes locking with yours in a way you'd never seen before. “Y/N, don’t walk away. I fucked up,” he said, his voice low but earnest. “I’ve been a coward, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kept you in the dark. But it was never about Harper. It was always you. You just... you have to trust me on this.”

you felt a mix of disbelief and something else—a rush of longing you had tried to suppress for so long. The anger was still there, but it was tangled up with something raw. Something real.

“Prove it,” you whispered, barely able to hear their own voice over the pounding music. “Prove that you want me. Because right now, I’m not sure you even know who the hell I am.”

Chris took a step back, eyes wide, then nodded. “I can prove it. I will. Just give me a chance.”

you stared at him for a long moment, your breath catching in your throat. you could feel Harper’s eyes burning into them from across the room, but for the first time that night, you didn’t care.

“Fine,” you said finally, their voice low. “You’ve got one chance to make this right, Chris. Don’t screw it up.”

Chris’s face broke into a genuine, relieved smile. And for the first time, it wasn’t forced. “I won’t,” he promised, his voice filled with determination.

He drags you to the yard, away from all the people, away from the music and the alcohol..

it was just the two of you.

“I was a mess, Y/N. I was so scared to face the truth that I just let things happen. I didn’t know how to break things off with Harper, and I thought… I thought I could handle everything, but I can’t. I didn’t want to lose you, but I knew I was losing myself by trying to keep you around while still being hung up on her. I messed up, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I’m willing to prove to you that I can be the person you deserve.”

You listened as he explained himself, still not understanding why he chose harper over you, why he did what he did if this is how he truly felt.

“I don’t expect you to trust me right away, but I need you to know that I’m here for the long haul. I don’t want to play games anymore. No more secrets. I’m not perfect, but I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make this right. But I need you to tell me what you need. I can’t fix things unless you let me know what you need from me.”

He tucks a strand of her hair, kissing her cheek before getting up and walking away. you watch him leave, being left alone with your thoughts.. would he ever tell you why he did what he did? should you forgive him? it all came crashing into your thoughts.

A few days go past, you hadnt heard from chris until one night he messages you..

Chris:

“I know you’ve been dying to see that documentary about that photographer you love. I got us tickets for tomorrow night. no pressure. But I want to spend some time with you, the right way. If you’re up for it, I’m here.”

You smile at your phone, quickly responding "sure"

Chris continued to spoil you, not really going into detail abt harper and why he randomly switched up from you to harper back to you but he made it clear that harper was no longer an issue.

you decided to give Chris another chance, but on your terms. you're not rushing into anything—you've learnt to trust yourself first, and now, you need to trust Chris with a more open heart. Chris’s consistent actions, honesty, and vulnerability make all the difference. Slowly, you lets down your guard. you find yourself laughing again in each other’s company, planning things together, and feeling like you can be your true selves with him—no games, no secrets.

you guys take your time. There’s no immediate rush to label things, but trust and communication gradually grow back, until one day, Chris holds your hand and says, “I’m not going anywhere. I want this with you, for real. You’re it.”

you, with a soft smile, reply, “I believe you.”

a/n: this is pretty rushed bc i geniunely had zero of an idea on how to finish the series.

tags: @riggysworld @watercolorskyy @courta13

[valentine-cafe]

May I request ritual sex with Rishen 9948v please?!?!:D

[Afab gn reader]

-🍄

˖⁺. “ bound to me ” :

﹙ cultist boyfriend x gn afab reader ﹚.𖹭 ݁

. . . verse 9948v rishen !! 🍒 : ﹙ cultist ˖ mad composer ˖ blood manipulator ﹚

ritual sex with your cultist boyfriend 

﹙ cws ﹚: explicit content ˖ ritual sex ˖ knife play ˖ bloodplay ˖ penetrative sex | wc : 0.6k 

﹙ receipts ﹚: I love you so so much for this ask because rishen is suuuchhh a brat and I finally get to write about it 

꒰  other treats : guidelines ˖ m.list ˖ characters ˖ our lore  ꒱

The first cut across her hand would be the beginning of the ritual. Before the knife found your palm, and swiftly, with one sharp cut, split skin and left blood trickling out into the large circle around the both of you.

Like an ocean, the your blood and his mixed, meeting in the middle of everything, before projectiling out to each side of the circle, slowly spinning around the both of you. As if you both stand in the eye of a hurricane.

“Take a deep breath,” She murmurs into your skin, slowly laying you down in the middle of the floor. You look so hauntingly beautiful.

The candles give you such a beautiful glow, how was the pair or ruby coloured irises supposed to avert their gaze back to the ritual book when you were below here, bare? Your flesh so warm and comforting, plump and easy to grab, grope and hold onto?

“Focus on the spellbook darling, it is alright.” You whisper to her. A twist of excitement in your stomach. It is hard to wait any longer when you have waited so long for this bonding ritual to commence. You’ve been waiting to have her like this for a while.

The bloodied hand of your lover would settle down in the middle of your chest. Her index dragging down your ribs and abdomen. All the way down to your pelvis, where the tip of her knife very delicately carved her initial. Careful not to cut too deep into the flesh.

Chants fell out of her mouth so naturally, eyes rolling back while glowing an intense red as the magic does it’s work. The knife cutting your initial into her own pelvis. Girldick throbbing with anticipation to feel the magics of the sacred rite during your intimate touch with one another.

As the whirlwind of blood calmed, and began moving across the room like waves of water. Rishen’s chanting came to an and, and her knife carved a few last runes and symbols into her shoulders, legs and throat, before moving it to carve at you.

Her hot tongue swiped across the streaks and droplets of blood that trickles down your limbs. Her fingers purchasing in the supple flesh of your thighs, prying your legs open to give entrance for the pre cumming dick between her legs.

“Rishen.” Breathless, you cling onto her as you feel your walls wrap around her. Welcoming her in like they haven’t seen her for the longest of time, felt her.

They pull out a loud groan from her lungs, nails digging into your skin and clawing while she thrusts forward slowly, making the pace rhythmic. God of resentment- this is a symphony in all of its glory. Perhaps she’d make her god fuck you into the flooring of the apartment.

Her teeth find your shoulder, sucking along the blade while shallowing and hurrying up the pace. Quietly whining when your hands move to guide her to slow down again.

Your right hand finds her chin, turning it gently, while you press deep kisses to her open mouth. Breaths mixed and tongues mingling. While your left hand’s fingers trace circles around her peppled nipples.

By the end of the ritual, she’d intensify the session with calling all of the blood back into you. Now mixed and purified by the magics. The pain of the fresh wounds reabsorbing mixed blood blended so deliciously well with the pleasure. Your orgasm hit before you knew it— Gasping and whispering for her to go on until she’d finished too. To end off the ritual as it is meant to be.

Her breaths would grow deep, stuttered, as the thrust of her hips would attempt to chase her orgasm. And eventually, when it hit. The candles were all snuffed and the room went quiet for just a moment. Before you stared giggling. Taking her face into your warm hands and snuggling close. Pampering her with kisses and praise for the entirety of the night and on.

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[munsonsmixtapes]

It’ll Be Our Little Secret

This is my first time writing something like this for Billy so please be gentle with me!

cw: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v) unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it) spanking, degradation, use of the words slut and whore, hurt/no comfort

The boys’ locker room is empty when you enter it. You feel weird being there, but Steve told you to meet him by the door after school so he could give you a ride home. But he’s nowhere to be found. No one’s there, but you’re still worried that you’re going to see something you shouldn’t. You don’t know why though since it’s not something you haven’t seen before.

You’ve got a reputation around Hawking for being a “good girl” even though you haven’t been one of those in a long time. It’s only because you don’t really party and no one ever sees you drink or do drugs. But if they could see what you get up to behind closed doors then maybe the rumors would stop.

You get further into the locker room and stop when you hear water running, steam coming from the other side. You figure it’s just Steve and he forgot to tell you he was taking a shower, so imagine your surprise when you see Billy Hargrove where you think your friend should be.

His back is turned but you just know it’s him by the hair. As soon as you catch sight of his ass, you turn on your heel even though you want to look a little longer. You don’t like him but you can appreciate a good ass when you see one. But now you’ve got to get out of here before he sees you.

“Hey, pretty girl,” you hear from behind you and you cringe at the nickname. You’ve hated Billy Hargrove since the moment you met him and that’s not going to change anytime soon. You’ve seen the way he treats women and that’s always left a bad taste in your mouth. You honestly can’t comprehend why any woman would willingly sleep with him and why they all seem to be thirsting over him when guys like Steve are right there.

“What do you want, Hargrove?” You snap as you turn around, crossing your arms over your chest. It’s a shame too because Billy was hoping he could sneak a peek at your tits before you noticed.

“I could ask you the same question,” he says as he turns around fully, his entire crotch on display for a few seconds before he covers his waist with a towel. “You are aware that this is the boys’ locker room, right? Didn’t peg you for a perv, but I think I could be into that.”

“I was looking for Steve.” You’re glaring at him now, really wishing it was Steve you had walked in on despite how awkward that would have been.

“Right, your little boyfriend.” The words are said so bitterly and you know exactly why. Billy hasn’t exactly been quiet about how badly he wants to fuck you. But you know it’s only to cross you off some sort of list, not because he actually wants to.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” You don’t know why Billy saying that Steve is your boyfriend bothers you so much, but it does.

“Well, isn’t it my lucky day?” He’s stepping closer to you know and you’re backing away, deciding that it’s best to just leave and not encourage his behavior.

“It’s not, actually. Because I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on earth.” Billy’s eyebrows shoot up And then he lets out a laugh.

“Slow down, no one said anything about fucking, doll. But I think I could change your mind. I mean, I know you’ve thought about me naked.” You would never tell him that you actually have. You would never tell him that you’re actually thinking about it right now, his cock becoming even more visible as you glance at it as quickly as possible, not wanting to get caught.

“Caught you,” he says, stepping forward and pressing his body against yours so you can feel his erection against you. You try not to think about how badly you want it inside of you, how you want him to pin you against the shower wall and fuck you until you can’t take it anymore.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you glare, so close to letting your guard down and just tell him what he wants to hear because it’s the truth.

“I know you were looking at my cock,” he smirks, his hands moving down to your ass. “I can show you if you want.”

There has to be some sort of catch. You’re sure of it. Because Billy isn’t one to do anything out of generosity. Everything comes with a price and you’re willing to pay.

“Show me then,” you command, batting your eyelashes at him in an attempt to be flirty. He makes a show out of it, reaching up and slowly opening the towel to show you his rock hard cock for only a few seconds before wrapping it back around his waist.

That’s it. You need him and you need him now. The image of him is burned into your brain and you need him inside you even though you’re pretty sure he was showing you what you can’t have because he’s a dick.

“Wow,” you tell him, pulling him to you as you reach up and fiddle with one of his curls. “I think that’s the best cock I’ve ever seen.” For once, you’re not using a line and Billy seems to know that because before you can make sense of what’s happening, he’s pushing you against one of the shower walls, his hands sliding up your dress to your panties.

“You want it?” He asks and you nod enthusiastically, the whole thing making you feel dizzy. He pushes down your panties and they pool at your feet as he digs his fingers into your hips, taking no time to pound into you over and over, his whole cock sliding inside you again and again, pulling the prettiest moans from your mouth.

It’s so painful because of the size of him but he just feels so good that you don’t want him to stop. Your arms go to his neck while you wrap your legs around his waist, giving him more access and he takes advantage, holding his cock there for a few seconds to see just how long you can take it.

“Look at you, taking it like the little slut you are. Never pegged you for a whore, doll, but I actually think that makes you even more hot,” he tells you through labored breaths and you never thought Billy was even capable of giving out compliments.

You’re too out of it to think. This whole thing has made you stupid and now you finally understand what people mean they they say that someone fucked their brains out. It’s all mush now, but you don’t even care. It’s only been a few minutes, but this is the best sex you’ve ever had.

“Does Harrington fuck you like this?” He asks, then lets out a laugh. “Bet he doesn’t. He only likes missionary.” You’ve never slept with Steve, but you also know this to be true.

“Wouldn’t know,” you reply. “I’ve never fucked him.” This surprises Billy but he hides it well. He can’t believe that Steve’s never fucked you and kinda likes that he beat him to the punch.

“Good. You’re too good for him anyway.” You’re caught off guard by his words and apparently so is he because his mouth dropping open matches your expression. But he wipes his off first, pounding into you ever harder until your clenching around him, your eyes shut tight as you come. Your back arches as Billy holds onto you, fucking you absolutely senseless as you come.

Once you come down, Billy pulls out and sets you back on the floor before pulling your panties up. He then gives your ass a hard smack which makes you gasp before he sends you on your way, but not before telling you that it’ll be a secret just between the two of you.

He’ll never admit that that was the best sex he ever had nor that he maybe, kind of, sort of…likes you. He won’t even admit it to himself. He’ll tell himself that it’s just because you’re the only person besides his sister that doesn’t take any of his shit, and yeah, sure that’s part of it. But you’re also pretty and smart. You’re also the only person Billy’s ever liked like that. And you also will never return his feelings so what’s the point? Billy is many things, but a person who has unrequited feelings isn’t one of them. He’s never been that and he’s most certainly not going to start now.