#both of these expressions are so so good i love her | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whoevenisjavier · 2 days ago

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a prize i’d cheat to win

pairing: CEO harry castillo x exec. assistant f! reader

summary: you fuck your married boss during a late night at the office.

a/n: so… this is like… heavy cheating stuff. if that’s not your thing, then best to stop now

tags/warning: +18, mdni. harry castillo is 48, reader is 25. age gap. cheating. f!reader. partners dissing. oral sex (f! and m! receiving). unprotected piv. creampie.

w/c: 9k

Harry Castillo takes many things in life very seriously.

That’s an essential trait when you're sitting in the executive chair of one of the largest construction companies in the United States: being sharp, meticulous, and systematic is as mandatory as a contractual clause imposing penalties for breach.

But there are two things Harry is even more serious and methodical about.

The first: every single one of Harry’s suits is custom-made by the son of the same tailor who once dressed his father and grandfather. Even if a ready-to-wear suit fits him perfectly, it must go to the tailor, even if it’s just to add a single stitch to the inside pocket.

The second: his wife must receive a gift on every single occasion that concerns her or their relationship.

You keep a calendar on your computer solely for this purpose. Her birthday on June 17th, their first kiss anniversary, the day he asked her out, their official anniversary, the day he proposed, their wedding anniversary, Dalilah the Poodle’s birthday.

Yes, there's even an anniversary for the first time they slept together, on September 19th.

And on all these dates, a gift must be sent to her, signed from Harry. If not, she’ll make his life a living hell, and he’ll spiral into one of those gloomy funks for at least three days: always polite, but with short answers and a stone-cold expression. And you hate seeing him like that.

Despite your color-coded calendars and hyper-organized schedule, it did happen once, but only because you didn’t know there was an anniversary for the first time Harry said “I love you,” which didn’t happen until February 15th, 2020, even though he proposed back on October 28th, 2019. Ever since, you make sure that expensive gifts are sent either to their apartment or to her law office.

Today is the anniversary of their first fight, and you're at your desk choosing between a bouquet from The Bouqs Co. and a pair of sapphire Spinelli earrings. Or maybe both?

The elevator doors open and Harry steps out, immaculately dressed in a navy suit you bought last week. He's on the phone and looks stressed. You raise your hand to greet him, and the tension in his face softens into a small smile, which is his version of “good morning.”

He walks past you into his office, leaving the door open, which means he’ll be back in a moment to give you a proper hello.

Harry Castillo’s office is on the top floor of the Castillo Construction & Co. headquarters. Behind your desk, the company’s initials — CCC — are elegantly embossed in gold on the wall. The reception décor is all rich, dark wood. On the wall panels, desks, and on the frames of the chairs in the waiting area. Gold details on the picture frames, doorknobs, and desk edges offer a refined contrast.

It’s beautiful, but a bit dull, so last year, you convinced him to add two dragon trees near the elevator. It gave the space a touch of life, even if he insisted he didn’t like plants in the office.

In the end, he liked it. You know he did.

Being Harry’s executive assistant for the past four years, since you were a twenty-one-year-old fresh out of college, means you sometimes read him better than you read yourself. Your therapist says that’s not healthy, but you like knowing his routine, especially because you’re the one who plans it. You like being his emergency contact, having access to his passwords and bank accounts, being his legal proxy with signing authority.

So, personally, you think your therapist is mistaken.

Ten minutes later, as you confirm your choice of the Spinelli earrings with Harry’s personal shopper, your boss reemerges from his office.

He’s taken off the blazer, and his white shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing his expensive watch and strong forearms.

“Good morning,” he says with a small smile, leaning casually against your desk. “Did you have a good weekend?”

And here comes the inevitable truth: you are terribly attracted to Harry, which cannot be healthy. Having feelings for your boss, who gives you tasks and commands, kills any remaining instinct for self-preservation.

But God, how could you not? Everything about him pulls you in. The physical traits, the personality, the mind. His strong arms, neatly trimmed beard and mustache, kind brown eyes, tailored clothes, manners, scent, intelligence.

Just the other day, Harry mentally calculated the average profit margin Castillo & Co. made over a five-year period because the financial report hadn’t included it, and then estimated the net return percentage; all in his head. It was the sexiest thing you’d ever seen.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve thought of him while with your boyfriend, fully aware of how wrong that is.

“Good morning, Harry.” That’s another privilege: calling him by his first name, while everyone else calls him Mr. Castillo. “I finished watching Russian Doll on Saturday.”

“Yeah? Did you like it?”

You nod, excited.

“Yes, it’s great. You have to finish it.”

Harry gives a quiet grunt.

“I know… But I get home and just crash,” he says, clearly disappointed with himself. You offer an empathetic smile. “I’ll try harder,” he adds, before shifting topics. “I have a meeting at eleven. Can you come with me?”

“Just a moment.”

You open your planner while Harry watches, and you try your best to focus on the color-coded blocks. You have a meeting with the finance team to review some items for Harry, but you can reschedule.

“I can go.”

“Thank God. I’ll need your notes.”

You tap your fingers against your forehead in a playful salute, and Harry smiles before turning to head back to his office. But before he does, he says:

“I like the outfit. Gray is my favorite color.”

He’s referring to your gray pencil skirt and matching halter-style silk blouse.

“Thank you. And I know.”

He smiles, taps his fingers lightly on your desk again, and heads back inside.

And now you can’t focus on anything else on your morning agenda.

The eleven o’clock meeting is at the headquarters of a partner company just a few minutes from Castillo & Co.’s office. Already in the building’s lobby, Harry walks calmly beside you as you head toward the elevator. You’re carrying the leather folder with your iPad and a notepad for Harry, who insists on handwritten notes.

“Did you see how many plants are in the lobby?” you ask as you both stop in front of the elevator, side by side. His security guard stands just behind you, discreet but alert.

“Don’t start,” Harry replies without taking his eyes off the elevator doors. It’s always curious how his expression changes when you’re in public. “You already put two plants on our floor.”

You find it incredibly endearing when he says “our floor.”

“It’s not enough. I’m still planning to sneak one into your office.”

The elevator doors slide open and you both step in. Harry presses the button for the twentieth floor, and you lean against the glass wall at the back of the elevator as he leans in to whisper:

“And then you’ll swing by HR to pick up your termination letter.”

By the time you reach the twentieth floor, where the meeting will take place, there’s still a slight smirk tugging at your lips.

The receptionist at the main desk takes one look at Harry and immediately stands, adopting a posture you’ve come to recognize as reserved only for partners and high-level associates. You yourself soften your voice and demeanor as part of this same executive persona.

You and Harry are led down a long, white hallway with the sterile atmosphere of a hospital (which you hate) until you reach the meeting room. Harry lets you enter first, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back to guide you in.

Inside the glass-walled boardroom, seated at an oval table, are five men and two women. All eyes turn to you, but quickly shift to Harry as he enters the room, already unbuttoning his jacket.

“Please, don’t get up,” Harry says right away, raising his hand palm-out as if to stop them from standing to greet him. Harry hates shaking hands with that many people. “Don’t mind me,” he adds, scanning the room for a free chair. Only one is available. “We’ll need one more chair. I brought my vice president with me.”

Harry is ridiculous. He always introduces you as his “vice president” in meetings like this because, for some reason, if he says “assistant,” the respect people show you is just surface-level, barely polite enough to keep Harry from getting angry. Bunch of assholes.

Someone quickly slips out to fetch an extra chair, but in the meantime, Harry’s hand returns to the small of your back, guiding you to the only available seat at the head of the table, all eyes in the room following the two of you.

Realizing what he’s doing, you whisper:

“Harry, I’m not—”

“Sit,” he cuts you off with just one word, and it leaves no room for argument.

You obey, sitting in the only chair, while Harry stands behind you. With no other option, you slide into your businesswoman persona, straighten your spine, lace your fingers on the table, and meet the stares of the executives around you.

Moments later, someone wheels in another chair for Harry, placing it beside you.

The room falls silent until Harry, now seated and relaxed, says simply:

“So?”

And the show begins.

The goal of the meeting is to convince Harry to invest in the revitalization of a hotel in Madrid, Spain, currently owned by a chain undergoing judicial reorganization. Their last hope is to reopen the hotel, which has been closed for the past ten years, and Harry’s investment would signal a vote of confidence, seen as there’s no guarantee of return for Castillo & Co.

The chain’s administrator — a short man in a tight suit — is in the middle of a PowerPoint presentation showing 3D renderings of the hotel lobby, complete with bronze detailing, when Harry lets out a dramatic sigh and raises his hand.

The man immediately falls silent.

“It’s a good presentation,” Harry says, and you pause your note-taking on the iPad. “But this isn’t what I came to see. Honestly, I’m not the one you should be showing pictures of architecture and interior design to.”

The silence is so tense you could hear a pin drop.

“So far, not a single reason has been presented to me that justifies why CCC should invest in the Madrid hotel,” Harry continues. “Has no one conducted a financial risk analysis? Or at the very least, looked at the average returns of similar hotel chains in the same area?”

“Mr. Castillo…”

“With all due respect, Mr. Edwards,” Harry cuts in again, “my question is simple: was such a study conducted?”

The administrator opens his mouth, likely to offer another flimsy excuse, but this time, one of the women at the table responds:

“Mr. Castillo, we will immediately arrange for a study addressing those questions.”

“You’re asking for more time?” Harry asks, his voice calm, not the slightest hint of aggression, yet somehow that calm makes it even more intimidating.

The woman, to her credit, is brave enough to admit:

“Yes, we are.”

You glance at Harry. He’s tapping his pen against the leather folder he hasn’t even opened. When he stops, it’s to let out a small sigh, as if being in that room is as irritating as a speck of dust in his eye.

“I started construction on a multi-business complex in Madrid last year, and had the bad luck of launching the first month of works right when construction costs in Spain hit a historic record. 117.6 points on the Eurostat index,” he sets the pen down and laces his fingers together, commanding the entire room with nothing but words. “Even with that spike, the real estate market in Madrid is growing,” he glances your way and says, “Miss?”

Of course you remember. You were the one who researched it.

“Seventeen-point-five percent increase last year alone, with a forecast of another four to five percent this year,” you say.

A flicker of pride crosses Harry’s face — but he stays impassive.

“Seventeen-point-five percent,” he repeats, whistling softly in admiration before turning his gaze back to the group. “That’s a lot. Could that offset the budget blowout we’ll likely face by the end of construction in three years? What I do know is that my contract with the buyers of the complex units includes ongoing monitoring of economic indicators and adjustment clauses, because the project team, who are very competent, accounted for all of that. And I only work with competent people.”

More silence.

Harry concludes:

“I expect a study of that level within one month. If you’re not able to deliver that, I kindly ask that you refrain from sending me any more investment proposals.”

Harry stands, and just like that, the meeting is over.

It’s past 7 p.m. when Harry steps out of his office and walks toward your desk.

Under the desk, you’ve already kicked off your heels, and your stocking-covered feet rest softly on the carpet. Your hair is tied up in a bun that probably looks tragic by now, but the kind smile Harry sends your way isn’t one of someone looking at a disaster.

Then again, his hair looks a little tousled too, like he’s run his fingers through it more times than he should’ve.

“What are you still doing here?” he asks, leaning on your desk. He sounds nothing like the man who tore through a room full of clowns earlier in the day.

“I need to go over the spreadsheet the finance team sent me.”

“They sent it late?”

“No. I’m reviewing it late,” you admit, lowering your voice to a whisper and leaning in like you’re telling him a secret. “But don’t tell my boss or he’ll fire me.”

Harry plays along, whispering back:

“A corporate scandal.”

The grin you flash him is ridiculous, and so is the flush that warms your cheeks.

“Still got a lot to do?” Harry asks. You nod regretfully. “Have you eaten?”

You shake your head.

“Alright. I’ll order dinner for both of us. The usual?”

The usual means the Lasagna della Mama Rosa from Piccola that he always gets on late nights like this.

“The usual. Thanks, Harry.”

He ignores your thanks, as always, and heads back to his office. Halfway there, still facing away from you, he asks:

“Want a ribeye? I’m about to beg for one.”

“Rare.”

You can practically hear him rolling his eyes.

“Obviously.”

Thirty minutes later, you go downstairs to pick up the food, paying with Harry’s card. When you return, you head straight into his office.

Harry is at his desk, eyes fixed on the screen. His tablet shows a few graphs, and beside it, his phone is on speaker. He’s talking to his wife, and you pretend not to hear as you walk to the lounge area in the corner of his office, where there’s a leather couch and a coffee table big enough to fit all the food he ordered.

You slip off your shoes before stepping onto the rug and kneel to unpack the takeout bags on the table.

“...because I told her we’d both go with them,” his wife says over the phone, sounding upset. “I can’t back out now.”

“The problem is that you confirmed without even asking me.”

“I thought, as your wife, I could make one tiny decision for the both of us.”

Your brows lift.

“That’s not the point,” Harry says, calm but clearly tired. “The point is you planned a two-week trip out of the country without consulting me. I can’t reschedule twenty meetings or delay fifty different deadlines tied to the 72 active builds I’m overseeing.”

You walk over to the minibar in the corner and grab two sparkling waters and a couple of glasses.

She fires back:

“You could at least try to spend more time with me.”

“You’re being irrational.”

“You drive me crazy!” she yells. “Always with your robotic tone, your charts, your stats. For God’s sake, can’t you be spontaneous for once in your life, Harry?”

You turn to Harry and start to gesture that you’ll leave him alone, but Harry points directly at the lounge area, more specifically, at the table, silently instructing you to go back and stay there.

“You knew who I was when you met me,” he says into the phone, still looking at you. “And I’m not saying that as an excuse for never changing. I’m saying that you need to think about my work before making impulsive decisions.”

She hangs up on him.

You quietly return to the seating area and sit down on the rug, feeling a bit awkward. Seconds later, Harry joins you, settling on the opposite side of the table.

“Smells good,” he says as if he hadn’t just been in a fight.

“Mhm,” you hum, staring at the lasagna in front of you. The smell of melted cheese makes your stomach grumble, but before picking up your fork, you murmur, “I should’ve asked if I could come in. Sorry for overhearing.”

Harry hands you the container with your steak and opens a bottle of water, pouring it into both glasses.

“You know the passwords to my cards and accounts, the backup clouds for the entire Castillo company. My life’s in your hands. It’s not like I have anything to hide from you.”

It’s so satisfying to hear that. Your therapist is going to have a field day.

“You don’t, but maybe your wife wouldn’t love sharing her privacy with your assistant,” you say, mostly because it’s the right thing to say — not because you believe it.

He shuts that down quickly.

“What about your boyfriend?”

“What about him?”

Harry looks up as he takes a bite of lasagna. You pick up your utensils too.

“Is he okay sharing you with me?”

Your hands freeze mid-motion.

“He…” your voice cracks, so you try again. “He knows how much I value my work.”

“Of course.”

The steak is perfectly cooked, tender and rare. To escape the sudden tension, you put on a little show, leaning back dramatically on the plush Nina Magon rug as you chew a piece of meat.

“This is the best steak in the world,” you mumble with your eyes closed. “I’d work overtime every day if this was the reward.”

Harry lets out a low, amused laugh.

“That good, huh? You’d give up sleep for it?”

You hold up a thumbs-up. His laugh grows.

“You should come in later tomorrow,” he says as you sit back up. “That’s me speaking as your boss.”

“I have an eight a.m. meeting.”

“With who?”

“The marketing team.” You already regret it just thinking about it. “Your personal branding, actually. Someone from Forbes wants another interview.”

“Again?”

“Yes, Mr. Castillo. Again. That’s what happens when you’re running one of the world’s top construction firms at forty-eight.”

“Good line. You should pitch that as the interview opener.”

“I will.”

You eat in silence for a while. You take a moment to admire the New York skyline through the huge windows behind Harry’s desk. He likes to keep the lights dim when working late, and the atmosphere feels perfect. The basil lingering in the ragu, the scent of grilled meat, the view of the sprawling city.

Harry sitting across from you. The two of you sharing dinner, like so many times before, and for a moment, it feels like this could be your actual life.

“I can take care of things if you want to go on that trip,” you say, because apparently, your brain-to-mouth filter breaks down when you’re full.

“I know you can.”

“Why not take a vacation?”

“Because I don’t want to,” he says, and you don’t flinch. You’re used to those answers. “I don’t want to travel with the people involved. She knows that. And I have responsibilities.”

“Got it,” you say, leaning back on one hand. Harry watches you. You notice his rolled-up sleeves, the open collar of his shirt, and decide to confess: “I really get it. My boyfriend wants us to go to Bora Bora at the end of the year with two other couples. I can’t stand them.”

“Really? Why?”

“They go to bed at eight. Their idea of being ‘naughty’ is drinking one glass of wine with dinner. Can you imagine that in Bora Bora?”

“Definitely not. Waste of money.”

You snap your fingers and point at him.

“Exactly what I said!”

“You’d like Bora Bora. Rum, sun, and all the shrimp you can eat,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Might be worth leaving the friends behind and going with your boyfriend.”

“My boyfriend also goes to bed at eight.”

Harry’s face says it all, and so does his smile. He finishes his last bite, scoots back on the rug with his water in hand, and leans against the couch. You do the same, sitting beside him, both of you stretched out in that familiar silence of people who’ve just eaten well.

“Do you two live together?” Harry asks. You shake your head. “How long have you been together?”

You do the math.

“Three years and two months.”

“Has he proposed?”

Straight to the point, as always. Instead of answering, you say:

“Can I grab a ginger ale?”

“You don’t have to ask.”

You walk over to the minibar, grab the can, and come back, fully aware of Harry’s eyes following you the whole time. As you crack open the can, you answer:

“He proposed at the beginning of the year, but I said no. For now.”

“Can I ask why?”

You shrug.

“I’m not really sure. I think a proposal should make you excited about the future, but I didn’t feel that. I felt trapped.”

“I see.” Harry studies your face like he’s searching for something. “I don’t think I felt excited about the future either when I proposed.”

“You love your wife.”

“Do you love your boyfriend?” he returns.

“I do.”

“Okay, but?”

“There’s no but,” you say. “I love him. I love our routine. It’s comfortable.”

Harry is silent, but his expression says he doesn’t buy it.

“Harry.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” you reply, shifting to face him. “I love him, but I don’t think I’ve ever been in love with him. No butterflies, no excitement, no stomach-flipping moments.”

“That’s anxiety, not love. Love should be calm.”

“Maybe.”

Silence again. You look out the window. He looks at you.

“I was going to file for divorce last year,” he says suddenly, and it feels like a punch in the stomach. “My therapist told me to wait six months, so I wouldn’t do it in the heat of the moment.”

You’re speechless. He unclasps his watch, slowly continuing.

“I know there’s something wrong with my marriage when I’d rather stay here than go home. I should want to get home to see her. But I don’t. And I know that’s not fair to her either.”

He sets the watch down on the coffee table, next to the empty containers, and rubs his wrist. The hands on the dial show 8:20 p.m.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Not your fault.”

As he says this, Harry crosses his left arm over his chest to press his right shoulder, wincing slightly.

“Your shoulder okay?”, you ask.

“Pulled something at the gym this morning. Been bothering me all day.”

Before you can even think through the consequences, you offer:

“Want me to press on it a bit? Maybe it’s just tension.”

“Isn’t that a bit outside your job description?”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

Harry smirks and shifts, turning his back to you and giving you space to move closer.

There’s something different about today. You’ve never touched Harry like this before. At most, there were brief handshakes or polite taps on his arm, but now you’re kneeling behind him, pressing your fingers into his shoulder in what feels like the most intimate gesture of your life.

His muscles are rock solid.

“Jesus, Harry. I’m booking you a session with your massage therapist.”

Harry leans forward slightly as you apply more pressure on the tight traps and neck tendon, and for a second, your mind slips to a criminal thought: what he must look like under that shirt.

“Please,�� he says, replying to your earlier comment. Then he grabs your hand and places it exactly where it hurts. “Harder, please.”

You press. He lets out a satisfied murmur, and without thinking, your fingers slide under his shirt where it’s already unbuttoned. Warm skin meets your touch, and you feel him stiffen just a little.

“This okay?” you ask.

“Yeah. Keep going.”

You hold one shoulder steady and massage with the other hand under the shirt for a few more minutes.

“If I gave you a raise,” Harry says, “would you become my full-time massage therapist?”

“I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

“And it still feels fucking incredible.”

He never swears around you. Or anyone. Hearing him say that makes the moment feel even more charged. Strangely, it encourages you. You press harder, still behind him, both hands now working the tension from his shoulders.

Then Harry reaches back and takes your left hand. His thumb brushes lightly over your ring finger, and your breath catches.

“There should be an engagement ring here.”

“Maybe.”

“If you get married, would you still work with me?”

“Yeah. I have Stockholm Syndrome,” you say, shifting your position and stretching one leg beside his body. He lets go of your hand, and you go back to massaging, now reaching the base of his neck. Goosebumps rise under your touch. “I could never live without you barking twenty report requests a day.”

“I’m not that bad. I’m nice to you.”

“You are.”

God. His scent is going to kill you.

“You know what the finance team says about us?” Harry starts. You hum, prompting him to go on. “They say you and I are having an affair.”

“Marketing, too. Pretty much the whole company.”

“What? Why?”

Maybe because you turn into a puddle around him.

“Because you pay me more than anyone else,” you say simply. “And I get privileges and people notice. Of course they’re going to think we’re sleeping together.”

“You don’t care?”

“Maybe I’d care if I worked on one of the lower floors. But here? Not a chance. Let them envy me.”

Harry chuckles, shoulders shaking, and rests a hand on your shin, right over the tights. That touch is new too, and, once again, you freeze.

“I know you pay me well because I’m indispensable,” you continue. “Which is very satisfying.”

“So when we stay late working together—”

“Yes,” you answer before he finishes. “They probably think I’m bent over your desk.”

Harry turns to look at his desk. For one second, you both know exactly what the other is imagining.

“Interesting,” he says slowly. “Has anyone ever said anything to you?”

“No. No one’s crazy enough to say anything to the boss’s supposed mistress,” you joke, but the line falls a bit flat, so you quickly add, “According to their little narrative, I mean.”

The awkward moment is cut short by a notification sound from Harry’s computer. You both look toward his desk, and he groans:

“I hope that’s the report from the Chinese investors. They’re three days late.”

He starts to stand, wincing again because of his shoulder, but you place a hand on his arm and get up:

“I’ll check it. Stay put, old man. Even standing up seems like a challenge for you right now.”

“You just got a 10% pay cut.”

You make a “blah blah blah” gesture with your hand and head to his desk, settling into the chair that’s more like a plush couch. On the screen, there’s an open chart, but you quickly move to his inbox.

The latest email is from someone named Yijun, and there’s an attachment.

“You got it,” you say. “Want me to reply?”

“Acknowledge receipt and say I’ll get back once I’ve reviewed the data.”

You begin typing the reply, carefully channeling your best Harry Castillo voice.

Through your peripheral vision, you catch Harry leaving the floor and settling into the leather couch with a satisfied murmur.

“Best regards,” you read aloud, finishing the email. “Harry Castillo, CEO of Castillo & Co Construction. Sent. Done.”

As you minimize the email window, another one pops up. It’s a pre-filled PDF titled “divorce agreement.” You shrink that window as if it had burned your fingers, only to reveal Harry’s personal inbox behind it.

The last message is from his lawyer. You catch a glimpse of the words “as requested,” “speak with her,” “assets,” and “properties” before closing everything immediately.

There’s a knot in your throat as you stand and silently walk back to the lounge area while Harry watches you. He’s left space beside him on the couch, and you settle there, folding your left leg underneath you.

You’re so close that your knee grazes his thigh.

“I sent it,” you say.

“Thanks. You can head home. I’ll stay a little longer.”

“Avoiding your wife?” He doesn’t answer, and honestly, silence is the wiser choice. But you’re not wise. “Can I ask you something?”

“I might not answer.”

“Fair.” You hesitate. “Swear you won’t fire me?” He still says nothing, and you let out a breath, trusting that you won’t be jobless tomorrow. “Is it true you had a thing with the finance manager?”

Harry’s response is a look of disbelief, as if you just told him the strategy department was considering investing in a country undergoing an economic collapse.

“Where’d you hear that?”

“People talk.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Right. And people also say you and I are having an affair, but that’s not true, is it?” If anyone else had used that tone, you’d probably shrink in your seat. But this is Harry. His stress never goes beyond sarcasm—at least with you. “Of course it’s not true. You really think I’m the kind of boss who sleeps with an employee?”

That silences you, and you’re not even sure where this sudden wave of disappointment comes from. It makes you painfully aware of your place in the company. Despite the trust, the passwords, the confidences, in the end, you’re the executive assistant. Nothing more.

“I don’t” you say finally.

He laughs, incredulous.

“Why do you sound disappointed?” he asks. And at this point, you don’t even know what to say, so you start putting on your heels instead, but Harry is faster. “No, no… Hold on.”

“Do you need anything else?” you ask politely, your left foot already in the shoe.

Harry freezes, eyes locked on you, and you freeze too.

“I have my morals,” he says.

“I know that,” you shake your head slightly, as if trying to hear him better. “Sorry, what do you mean by that?”

“I mean I have my morals, and that’s why I’ve never tried anything in here with the one person who makes me want to, especially because she’s my fucking assistant.”

God. You freeze, heart racing. Your mind latches onto the tense of the verb.

“Makes? Present tense?”

His quiet laugh is almost bitter.

“Unfortunately,” he says, settling back into the couch. “My father raised me right. I have morals, I respect my wife, and I care about my reputation.”

You drop the shoe again and turn to him. Your question is clear, firm:

“Even on nights like this one?”

He says your name like a prayer, rubbing his face with one hand.

“Don’t do this.”

That quiet, simple plea brings you crashing back to reality for the thousandth time. You whisper an apology just as softly, pick up your heels again, and before you can put them on, the leather cushions shift beneath you.

That’s the only warning you get before Harry is close behind you, his hand gently gathering your hair and moving it over your right shoulder to expose your neck.

“I have my morals,” he repeats, coming closer. “Don’t you?”

You think of your boyfriend, and how sweet he is to you. Your mind conjures up images of happy moments, trips, dinners, gifts, and you know you can’t just shove those into a box and lock it away for a few hours. That’s not how it works.

But the way your stomach knots with Harry’s closeness shrinks all those memories down like a sheet of paper folded over and over. They’re still there, but small. Insignificant.

“I do,” you say, because it’s true. “But I can live with that.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Harry murmurs the way he always does when something matters, as if tasting the words.

“If you’re just going to feel guilty—”

“I’m not talking about guilt,” Harry interrupts. And then his hand is on your stomach, pulling you back toward him with one decisive motion that makes you gasp. “I’m saying having you just once wouldn’t be enough.”

“Well, it’s going to have to be.”

At the very first touch of Harry’s lips on your neck, your entire body feels like it’s catching fire, every nerve alive with want, your hands clenched tightly on your thighs. It’s as if every hair on your body is standing on end.

“Did you forget I’m the one giving orders here?” he says. “Once isn’t enough.”

“Is that a command?” you challenge.

Harry’s mouth trails down to your throat, leaving open, wet kisses on your sensitive skin.

His fingers glide lightly to your breasts, the tips barely grazing your nipple through the silk of your blouse. The friction of the fabric makes you arch into his touch so slow and torturous it nearly drives you mad.

“If only you actually followed my orders,” Harry murmurs.

“Of course I do.”

“Yeah?” He kisses the corner of your mouth, pausing just to say, “Then get on your knees for me.”

You shift on the couch to face him, and suddenly, it all feels terrifyingly real. The weight of what you’re doing crashes into you like a slap across the face, because he’s right there, wedding ring on his finger and lips still flushed red.

But unfortunately, it’s not enough to make you stop.

“I want a kiss first.”

Harry parts his legs, giving you space, and you rest one knee between them on the couch, moving in closer to sit on his thigh. You run your fingers along his cheeks, his beard, the collar of his perfectly white shirt. It’s the first time you’ve touched him like this, and you’re certain your gaze gives away more than you want, because there’s a softness in the way Harry pulls you closer.

You’ve caught yourself wondering what kissing him would be like, even during office hours. You’ve seen him kiss his wife before, but it was always just polite pecks, the kind of affection acceptable under New York’s high-society scrutiny.

But nothing could have prepared you for how naturally your lips fit together, or how good it feels. It’s even better than you imagined, just like the rush of doing something so wrong, yet so irresistible, precisely because it’s forbidden, and everything you’ve secretly wanted.

Harry’s hands slide to your waist, deepening the kiss, and yours go straight to his hair, already messier now. The moment his tongue touches yours is the same moment his hands slip beneath your skirt, lifting the fabric as they go.

He finds the lace tops of your stockings, held in place by a garter belt. His hands go straight to your ass, gripping tightly as if it’s instinct.

The curse he whispers makes you smile.

“Take off the skirt and blouse. Get on your knees,” he says, cupping your face and pressing one more kiss to your lips. Then, with a whisper: “Please.”

Hearing this man plead is a dream come true, which is exactly why you nod right away and walk toward his office door.

You close it. Lock it. And as you return to him, you unzip the skirt and slip off your blouse, leaving it behind in your path. The air conditioning makes your nipples hard and sends chills across your skin, but Harry’s gaze, now seated deep into the couch with legs parted, more than makes up for the cold.

Next goes the skirt, and now you’re standing before him in just your stockings, panties, and garter belt.

His lips part as he draws in a deep, appreciative breath, eyes trailing slowly up your body. It’s almost as if he’s touching you with his stare. His hand goes to his tie, loosening it as you sink to your knees.

With your hands resting on your thighs, you watch as he pulls the tie off (the one you bought last month) and undoes the top buttons of his shirt. Next comes the belt and then the button on his pants. Harry leans forward slightly, legs still open, and pulls himself free from his boxers.

Despite the curiosity and heat flooding through you, you keep your eyes locked on his until your tongue brushes the tip of his hard cock. Harry exhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut, and there’s a quiet power in watching a man like him unravel — even just a little.

That alone is enough to make you take him fully into your mouth, lips closing around his thick shaft, sinking him deep.

It earns you a low, guttural curse.

Harry gathers your hair in one hand, holding it tight at the base of your neck. You have one hand on his thigh, the other stroking what your mouth can’t reach, and for a few minute, you lose yourself in the weight of him on your tongue, in his taste, his scent, the sounds he makes just for you.

And then just one question slices through the haze:

“What would your boyfriend think, seeing you like this?” Harry asks, his voice so polite it almost clashes with what you’re doing. He pulls your head back, letting his cock slip from your mouth, dragging the tip across your lips like he’s marking you. “On your knees for your boss. Do you suck his cock this well too?”

You narrow your eyes.

There’s probably an unspoken rule about not mentioning spouses or partners during moments like this. The act is already betrayal enough.

But if Harry wants to play that game, you won’t back down.

You rise slightly on your knees, aligning yourself so he can press his cock between your breasts, and you reach for his mouth to whisper:

“And do you get this hard when it’s your wife sucking your cock? Because if you did, you’d probably want to be home right now.”

Harry smiles against your lips and kisses you again as you climb onto his lap, and he remains silent.

“Let’s go all the way,” you say, because you’re far too wet to let this go to waste. “Right?”

“Right,” Harry answers without hesitation. “No turning back.”

“Do you want to?”

He slips his hand into your panties and finds so much wetness that his fingers glide immediately. His answer comes when he lifts the same fingers to his mouth, eyes locked on yours.

That makes you rush to unclip the garter belt and slide off your panties, tossing them aside. Harry gets the message and starts striping off his pants and shirt. And suddenly you’re on your back with Harry’s heavy and sturdy body on yours, skin on skin.

Harry rolls down your stockings in one smooth, hurried motion. You wrap your thighs around his hips.

“I don’t have a condom,” he says, and God, if eyes could beg, his would be on their knees. “It’s not like a married man needs to carry one around.”

“I printed your test results last week. And I don’t have sex without a condom…” you begin—and then add, “…with my boyfriend.”

He gets it.

“Can I?”

“You can.”

Harry doesn’t even glance down as he guides himself inside you, keeping his eyes on your face, your mouth, his own opening bit by bit while sinking into the wetness. When he’s fully buried, you have to shift your hips to adjust to his thick length.

“Just a second,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He nods, and you take the moment to ask, “Had you imagined this before?”

“I don’t know how to answer that without sounding like a pervert.”

You run your thumb across his eyebrow, studying his features in the dim light of the office.

“Would it make you feel better if I told you I’ve imagined you while fucking my boyfriend?”

Harry raises an eyebrow.

“I want details.”

“Earlier that day you and I were at a meeting. You did some absurd calculation in your head, and it made me wet. So I went home and…”

“Fucked him while thinking about me,” he finishes, smiling. “Filthy mouth.”

When you keep staring at him, silently asking for his turn, Harry sighs.

“Of course I’ve imagined it. Every time we stay late together, or when you wear that damn red dress and walk into my office, and especially when you put arrogant assholes in their place. You drive me insane.”

You reach between your bodies, your fingers trailing along where you’re joined, circling the base of Harry’s cock. He jerks his hips reflexively, breathing out a soft moan.

“And…” you press.

“And sometimes I dream about you and wake up so fucking hard that…” Harry begins to move his hips slowly when you give him a nod. The thrust is deep, slow, excruciating, and he fills you entirely. You almost miss his next words:

“…I wake my wife up and fuck her.”

“While thinking of me.”

Harry grips your hips and covers your mouth with his:

“While thinking of you.”

Your mouths open into a kiss that matches the way he fucks you: raw, urgent, drenched in tension. Every thrust hits something deep inside you, something you’re not sure anyone else ever will again. You cling to his shoulders, resisting the urge to claw at him, lifting your hips to match his rhythm.

You’re soaked, so much it’s nearly embarrassing, and you’re certain Harry’s lap is drenched with it too. As his movements grow more erratic, you slide a hand between your legs.

Harry catches your wrist, guiding it back to his shoulder.

“No, no… You’re gonna come on my mouth later.”

Well. Okay.

Harry shifts to sit back on the couch, one foot planted on the floor, the other tucked under his leg. He pulls you into his lap again, and this new angle makes him reach deeper, every little shift filling you completely. When he's about to come, he grips your waist tightly to keep you still and thrusts harder, driven by your moans, his mouth open against the space between your breasts."

“Can I come inside?” Harry asks, holding you firmly.

“Please.”

He groans, wrapping his arms around you, and just a few more thrusts later he’s pulsing inside you, breathing heavily against your skin. The warmth floods you in a way that makes you throb for your own release.

“Harry, I need to—”

“I know.”

You’re not sure how it happens so quickly, but in the next second he’s back on the couch, and you’re straddling his face. Then it’s his mouth, his lips on your aching clit.

You grip his hair and glance down, meeting his gaze. Your whimper turns into a moan as he drags his tongue along your folds, tasting both of you, and returns to sucking that overstimulated spot.

“Stick your tongue out,” you beg. “Please—”

He does, and you immediately grind against it, whispering Harry’s name over and over like a prayer.

It hits you like an earthquake. So sudden, so intense that your whole body trembles on top of him, and for a split second, it feels like you forget how to breathe. When you come back to yourself, you’re sitting on his chest, and Harry’s wiping his beard with the palm of his hand, a crooked little smirk on his red lips.

You look down at him and say:

“We’re going to hell.”

He wraps his arms around you and sits up, keeping you in his lap.

“I’m an atheist,” he says, kissing your shoulder. “So… okay.”

“Okay.”

“And now?”

“Now,” you say slowly, cupping his face and making him look at you again. “This never happened. We go back to our lives like nothing ever did.”

Harry sighs your name.

“You say a lot of smart things. That’s not one of them.”

You pinch his cheek, offering no reply, and slip off his lap to gather your clothes from the floor. Your stockings, panties, skirt, and blouse. When you return to the couch, Harry’s already pulled on his boxers and pants, so you sit next to him to do the same.

The entire process of getting dressed again is done in silence, and you’re not sure what you feel: shame, guilt, some strange sense of calm… The only thing that doesn’t hit you is regret — and that makes you feel guilty too.

As you’re slipping on your heels, Harry says:

“It’s only nine-forty.”

“Hm?”

“We still have two hours and twenty minutes before the night’s over. And I’ve got an empty apartment about twenty minutes from here.”

You look up at him, and he adds:

“If tomorrow we’re going to pretend this never happened, we might as well make the most of it tonight.”

You know it’s a terrible excuse. You know that tomorrow neither of you will be able to pretend this didn’t happen. You don’t know what comes next, and the ring on Harry’s finger sits like a weight in your gut, but you’re not a good person.

You lied to Harry. Your morals are bent, and even though you’re fully aware of the circumstances, they don’t stop you.

Nothing could stop you from getting what you want. And right now? You know exactly what you want.

“I’ll wait for you in the garage,” you tell him.

#harry castillo x reader #harry castillo #harry castillo imagine #harry castillo fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal fanfiction

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halfmoonaria · 2 days ago

Text

the cost of hate

pairing: tara carpenter & gp!fem!reader

summary: tara always knew you drove her crazy — she just never expected it to go this far

warnings: smut 18+ / NSFW content (explicit sexual content), angry sex, alcohol intoxication.

author’s note: this was a request and turned out extremely long so buckle up.

Tara wasn't sure when exactly you became her nemesis.

It could've been the time you called her "Tinkerbell with anger issues" in front of the whole group — completely unprovoked, by the way.

Or maybe it was the fact that you always showed up to group hangouts exactly eight minutes late. Not seven. Not ten. Eight. Like you were trying to be casually inconvenient on purpose.

And somehow, you always had an iced coffee in hand and sunglasses on, even if it was dark outside, looking like you were arriving for an interview you didn't need to prepare for.

Whatever the origin story was, all Tara knew was that you were insufferable. Loud, cocky, always smirking like you were the punchline to a joke only you found funny.

And worse? You flirted with everyone. Constantly. Half the time you weren't even saying anything particularly charming — just leaning too close, dragging out compliments, tilting your head like you were always three seconds from kissing someone just because you could.

And people loved you for it. Chad thought you were the funniest person alive. Mindy treated you like some chaotic little science experiment she'd adopted. Anika had actually said the words "I think she 's kinda iconic" once, and Tara had nearly choked on her drink.

She didn't get it. She didn't want to get it.

You were the kind of person who made her blood boil and her eye twitch. She'd convinced herself that every time you opened your mouth, it shaved at least a day off her lifespan. You always had to have the last word. You always pushed the exact button you knew would get a reaction.

And worst of all, you did it with that face — that smug, slow-smiling, resting-brat expression that made Tara want to throw something heavy at you. Preferably a chair.

She'd tried ignoring you. She really had. But you made it impossible. You talked too much, laughed too loud, spread out across the couch like you paid rent there, and had the nerve to act like she was the uptight one whenever she snapped at you. You acted like everything she said was just part of some game you were both playing — like you didn't even take her seriously.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because sometimes, late at night, Tara would catch herself replaying your dumb little one-liners, thinking of all the better insults she could've said. And sometimes, she'd spend way too long trying to decide whether you actually meant it when you told her she looked "surprisingly good" that one night in her new jeans.

She told herself it didn't matter.

Because you were not funny. You were not charming.

And if anyone thought otherwise, they were probably just under the influence of your freakish ability to spin basic, mediocre nonsense into something that sounded clever. It wasn't wit. It was volume control and eyebrow raises. That was your whole personality — speaking like you were narrating a scene and reacting like you knew you had an audience.

Tara hated that you always acted like you had the upper hand. Even when she was clearly, objectively winning an argument, you'd throw out some offhand line like "You're cute when you're wrong" and somehow — somehow — everyone would laugh like you were the second coming of George Carlin. It made her want to scream. Or hit you. Or both.

You always took up space without asking. You sat on counters like chairs didn't exist. You interrupted people with questions no one asked and nicknamed her things like "Captain Cranky" or "Tiny Terror," depending on your mood. There was never a day you didn't have some quip ready, like your entire goal in life was to make her feel just annoyed enough to snap in front of other people.

And the worst part was how good you were at pretending it was all harmless. Like she was the only one taking it seriously. You'd look at her with that stupid half-lidded stare, eyebrows lifted, head tilted like you were trying to figure her out. Like she was the one being weird.

God, it was infuriating. You were infuriating.

And yet, somehow, her brain had decided you deserved this much mental real estate. Which wasn't fair. Because she didn't like you. She wasn't even curious about you. She just... needed to understand why you bothered her so much.

Yeah. That was it. She was just trying to understand you.

Which is totally normal.

Totally sane.

Totally not bordering on a hyperfixation.

Tara blinked, the sun catching the edge of her vision as the sharp buzz of lunch chatter brought her back into the moment. She was sitting on one of those uncomfortable benches in the quad, elbow resting on the table, a half-eaten sandwich in front of her that she'd mostly forgotten about. The group was scattered around her — Mindy sprawled with her laptop open even though no one believed she was doing homework, Chad snacking on something loud, Anika sipping from a thermos and pretending she wasn't eavesdropping on everyone at once.

And you — of course — were across from her, leaned back like the bench was a recliner, sunglasses pushed up into your hair. Your mouth was moving, which meant Tara was already irritated.

"...I'm just saying," you were saying, mid-rant about something that had nothing to do with anything, "if I wanted to scam someone, it'd be super easy. Like, I could sell people fake concert tickets and just vanish. New name, new identity, new city. Easy."

Chad looked genuinely impressed. "Wait, you've thought about this?"

"I have a backup plan for my backup plan," you said, proud.

Tara didn't look up from her phone as she muttered, "Yeah, the plan is called 'being an idiot with too much confidence.'"

Anika pressed her lips together like she was trying not to laugh. Mindy glanced up, half-interested, just in time to see your face twist into that annoying little smirk you always pulled when Tara spoke.

You leaned forward slightly, tapping the table with your fingers. "Aw, don't be mad just 'cause your only backup plan is murder."

Tara looked up at that — slow and unamused. "If I ever do commit murder, guess who's at the top of the list?"

"Oh, I hope it's me," you said without missing a beat. "You thinking about me in your darkest hours is kind of hot."

Mindy muttered a faint Jesus Christ into her drink. Chad quietly asked Anika what the hell was happening.

Tara rolled her eyes and went back to her phone, but her ears were hot. And unfortunately, she knew you noticed that. Because you were watching her. Still.

Always.

Tara told herself she wasn't going to engage again. She had already given you one line — that was one too many. But you were still there, grinning like you'd just won something, like her irritation was a gift, and it was taking everything in her not to throw her sandwich directly at your stupid face.

God, she hated you.

She hated the way you always found a way to make the conversation about yourself — like you were the main character and everyone else was lucky to exist in your orbit. She hated your fake-deep takes on random topics, your smug little shrugs, and how you somehow got away with doing absolutely zero schoolwork but still passed everything. She hated how you never used a phone case. She hated your handwriting. She hated that you had a fanbase in school like this was a Netflix original.

And most of all, she hated that you always sat across from her.

"Okay, but if you had to pick someone in this group to survive the apocalypse with," Anika was saying, gesturing dramatically with a carrot stick, "who would it be? And you can't say me, because obviously I'd carry all of you."

Mindy snorted. "You? You panic when the WiFi goes out."

"I have emotional strength," Anika shot back.

"Emotional strength doesn't reload a crossbow," Mindy said.

"Wait, wait—" you leaned forward like you were about to say something important, which already annoyed Tara, "—do we mean zombie apocalypse or, like, nuclear winter? Because that changes everything."

Tara didn't even look up. "Why do you sound like you've practiced for both?"

You didn't miss a beat. "Why do you sound jealous?" That earned a soft laugh from Chad. Tara glared at him.

Mindy was already shaking her head. "This is why you two can't sit next to each other. It's like watching a romcom written by sociopaths."

"Excuse you," you said, hand on your chest. "I bring levity to this group. I'm the charming one."

"You're the delusional one," Tara muttered.

Chad leaned back. "Speaking of delusion — is everyone still going to that party Friday night?”

Tara finally looked up again. "You mean the one at that junior's house? Josh-something?"

"Josh Valera," Mindy supplied. "He was in that weird film class last semester. Wears too much cologne. Thinks Letterboxd is a personality."

"That's the one," Chad said. "Apparently he's got a pool and like five kegs."

Anika perked up. "Five?"

"Two of them are root beer, but still," Chad added.

You shrugged. "I'm going. I like chaos.”

Tara rolled her eyes. "Of course you do. You are chaos."

You grinned at her again. "Flirting already? Slow down, Carpenter. Buy me a drink first."

Tara didn't respond. She just reached over and stole a grape off your tray.

You blinked. "Hey."

"Shut up," she said, chewing slowly.

You didn't argue. You just gave her that look — the one that made her want to throw you into traffic. Or maybe into a wall. Hard to say.

Tara turned back to the group, pretending like the grape theft had ended the interaction, but her thoughts didn't exactly follow. Her fingers tapped absently against the table as Mindy and Chad started debating whether keg root beer was a crime or a revelation, voices blending into background noise.

She wasn't even sure she wanted to go to this party.

It wasn't her scene. Too loud, too messy, too many people trying to be seen. She'd already told herself she might flake. She had a paper she could use as an excuse. A headache she could fake. A completely made-up allergy to chlorine if anyone asked about the pool.

But now you were going — and somehow that made her want to not go even more, and also want to go twice as hard just to make sure you didn't say something so dumb no one could recover from it.

That was the thing about you. You made her feel like she had to be there. To monitor the chaos. To fact-check your nonsense in real time. And sure, yeah, maybe parties were a little more fun when you were around — but only because watching you try to dance and hit on people like a malfunctioning dating sim was basically free entertainment.

She wasn't going because of you.

Obviously not.

She was going because she was invited. Because all her friends were going. Because maybe she deserved a night out after surviving another week of your voice echoing through every goddamn group hangout like a mosquito that wouldn't die.

Totally normal reasons.

Mindy was saying something again, something about outfit coordination or theme or whatever, but Tara barely caught it. Her eyes flicked back across the table where you'd gone back to talking with Anika — animated, leaning in, saying something Tara couldn't hear but that made Anika snort.

You looked relaxed. Stupidly relaxed. Sunglasses still pushed up on your head, like you hadn't even noticed the sun or the way it bounced off your smile or how annoying it was that you smiled that much.

God, Tara hated people like you. The kind who didn't try and still got attention. The kind who didn't care and still got invited to everything. The kind who never shut up — ever — but somehow never got told to.

And now you were going to be at the party too.

Great.

Because of course you were. Of course you'd show up, talk too loud, drink too much, and somehow still end the night with everyone thinking you were fun. And Tara would have to deal with it. Like always.

Totally fine.

She could survive one night. As long as you didn't say anything too stupid.

Or try to talk to her.

Or exist within her peripheral vision.

___

Tara didn't even know why she was standing in front of her closet like that. Like she was frozen. Like any of this actually mattered.

It wasn't her first party. Wasn't even the first one this month. She knew exactly what to expect — same drinks, same music, same people. She wasn't nervous. She wasn't trying to impress anyone. She wasn't standing there for any reason at all, really.

Still, she'd been flipping through the same six hangers for almost ten minutes.

She wasn't overthinking it. She just didn't feel like hearing some dumb comment about how she wore the same shirt every time. Not that she cared what Mindy said — Mindy had zero taste and even less room to talk — but still. It wasn't about the top. It was just... the principle.

She grabbed a black crop top. Put it on. Looked at herself. Took it off.

Not because she didn't like it. She just didn't feel like dealing with it right now.

Tried something else. Looked fine. Took it off again.

God.

She tugged her hair into a loose ponytail, held it there for a second, then let it fall. Stared at herself in the mirror. Walked away. Came back. Tried on the black again. Threw it on the bed.

Her phone buzzed. Again.

The group chat was full-blown chaos now — Mindy sending voice notes nobody asked for, Chad trying to be funny and failing, Anika suggesting shots before they even left the dorm. Tara rolled her eyes. She opened the chat, typed something halfway, deleted it, then checked her lockscreen out of habit.

And of course, your name was sitting right there. With another voice note. Two, actually.

She played the first one, not because she wanted to hear it, but because it auto-played when she tapped it. That's what she told herself anyway. Not like she was listening. Not like she replayed it when it cut off halfway through because she didn't have her volume up.

She didn't even laugh. Not really. Just that weird half-smirk thing she did when she was trying not to give anyone credit for being funny.

Whatever.

She tossed her phone across the bed and sat down next to it with a dramatic flop she'd never admit was on purpose. Let her head fall back. Closed her eyes.

This wasn't her being weird. It was just her getting in the right headspace. That's all. Normal pre-party stuff. Not dread. Not anything serious. Just the kind of minor, manageable irritation that came with the territory.

People were going to be annoying. The room was going to be too hot. Someone was going to spill beer on her shoes again. And yeah, maybe you'd be there, being loud and smug and pretending like you didn't love hearing your own voice. But so what? Tara could handle that.

She always handled that.

And if she didn't, it wasn't like anyone noticed.

She'd gotten good at that — at faking it. At keeping it light. Whatever the opposite of spiraling was, that's what she did in public. Kept things casual. Played it off. Made the right faces. Said the right things. The trick was not to stop moving. Not to let people look for too long. Not to give anyone time to ask questions.

And if something slipped — if her voice cracked, if her hands shook — well, that's what alcohol was for.

It made things easier. Smoother. People didn't ask why you were acting weird if you were drinking. They just laughed and passed the bottle and told you to take another one. And Tara? Tara could always take another one.

She never had to explain anything if she was drunk.

It was a cover. A convenient excuse. And sometimes, yeah, it worked a little too well — like when she woke up still in her jeans or couldn't remember who had walked her home. But that was part of the deal. Part of the plan. She'd rather feel nothing at all than have it spill.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and rubbed her hands over her face.

Tonight wouldn't be different. It wasn't going to be some dramatic thing. Just another night where she drank enough to not think too hard. Just enough to laugh too loud and say something kind of mean and not care if you looked at her like you wanted to say something back.

Just another night. Same as always.

That's what she told herself as she pulled on her jacket and stepped out into the dark. She didn't rush. Didn't think too hard about it. The door clicked shut behind her, and for a second, she just stood there, her hands buried in her pockets, the quiet pressing in from all sides. Not a calm kind of quiet — not peaceful — more like the kind that made her feel too aware of everything. Her breath. Her pulse. The buzz in her ears that hadn't gone away since last week.

She started walking.

The streets were mostly empty. A few cars passed. Somewhere in the distance, someone was laughing way too loud, maybe already drunk. She didn't look. Just kept moving. It was muscle memory at this point — her feet knew where to go, even if her mind wasn't really in it yet.

She used to put music on for walks like this. Something loud, something fast. Something to drown things out. But now she didn't bother. Now she liked the silence better. Or maybe she just didn't want to give herself the chance to start assigning meaning to lyrics again. She hated when she did that. It made everything feel too obvious.

So she walked in silence. Past the same corner store, the same flickering streetlamp, the same crooked fence that probably still hadn't been fixed. Her fingers itched for a cigarette even though she didn't smoke. She was just used to the image — used to pretending she was the kind of person who'd do that. Careless. Detached. In control.

By the time she turned onto the right block, she could already hear the music. Not loud enough to be annoying yet. Just enough to feel like a warning. Like a reminder of what came next.

She didn't slow down.

The house wasn't far. Just a few blocks down — she could already hear the thump of music by the time she reached the corner. That same playlist they always used. That same vibrating bassline that never quite matched the beat. Someone had left the front door cracked open, and warm air hit her in the face the second she stepped inside, carrying with it a wave of voices, sweat, perfume, and cheap alcohol.

Same as always.

She didn't stop at the entrance. Didn't hesitate. She shoved her hands in her pockets and headed straight for the back — toward the kitchen, toward the glass sliding door with the broken lock, toward the corner that had somehow, over time, become theirs.

Mindy spotted her first.

"Tara!" she shouted, like they hadn't spoken that morning, already tipsy and holding a Solo cup with something suspiciously pink inside. She lunged in for a hug Tara barely returned, then immediately started talking about something she didn't really understand. Chad followed, grinning wide and already pulling her into one of those awkward side-hugs he gave everyone, like he was too big to fully aim.

And then there was you.

You leaned back against the counter like you owned it, one eyebrow raised, drink in hand. You didn't even say hi at first. Just let your gaze drag up and down her outfit — slow, deliberately unimpressed — before you spoke.

"Wow," you said. "She changed out of the hoodie. What's the occasion? You get drafted?"

Tara blinked once. "Wow," she repeated, tone deadpan. "That was almost funny. You've been practicing, huh?"

Mindy laughed. You grinned. Chad muttered something about not starting again.

But it was too late. The ritual had begun.

Tara took the drink Mindy offered, clinked it lightly against yours in some mock toast, and took a long sip without breaking eye contact. It tasted like something toxic, but she didn't flinch.

The circle closed around her again, just like it always did — warm, messy, loud, familiar. Anika slid in beside her and started complaining about the DJ. Mindy was yelling about rules for flip cup that no one asked for. Chad had already disappeared, probably looking for food. And you... you stayed exactly where you were, always within arm's reach, always with something to say.

It felt normal.

Same as every other night. Same drink in her hand. Same laughter around her. Same practiced smile on her face, tight but believable. And if she stayed moving, stayed distracted, stayed loud enough or quiet enough or just enough of something — then no one noticed anything at all. Not even you. Who noticed everything.

Anika was halfway through telling the story — apparently Chad had knocked over a whole drink onto the stereo setup earlier, and they all thought the music was going to short out and ruin the night. Mindy kept cutting in to dramatize it, claiming Chad had "shrieked like a toddler," and Chad, who was now camped out by the snacks, shouted back through a mouthful of chips that it wasn't that loud.

You half-listened, swirling the last of your drink around in the cup. Your focus kept drifting back to Tara, who had slouched into the armchair next to you without much enthusiasm, tapping the bottom of her cup against her knee like she was counting down the minutes until she could leave.

"Yeah, you missed it," you said finally, tossing it casually in her direction. "You took so long getting here we were about to send out a search party."

Tara didn't answer right away. She shifted a little in her seat, tapping her cup once more, before muttering, "Sorry people have other shit to do besides drink themselves stupid."

You smirked at the sharpness in her tone. That was the thing about Tara — she always bit back, even when it only made it worse for her.

"And here I thought you were just busy picking out an outfit," you said, resting your elbow lazily against the back of the couch. "Took you forever and you're still the worst dressed one here."

Mindy barely looked up from her phone. "Okay, but to be fair, Y/N would say that no matter what she wore."

You clicked your tongue like you were hurt, but Tara beat you to it, lifting her cup and aiming a lazy smile at Mindy.

"At least someone around here has taste," she said, clinking her drink lightly in Mindy's direction.

You eyed Tara's outfit again — black jeans, black top, black jacket. Somehow three different shades.

"Taste?" you echoed, eyebrows lifting. "You're wearing two different blacks right now. You look like a printer error."

Tara exhaled through her nose — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. "Right, because I should take fashion advice from someone who thinks jean shorts are business casual."

The reaction from the group was instant — a few low laughs, Mindy muttering something under her breath you didn't catch. Tara just shook her head like she was so done, but you could see the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth, like she was holding back a smile she didn't want to give you.

Still, she couldn't leave it alone. She never could.

"You know what?" you said, straightening up like you'd just remembered something crucial. "At least I show up on time. Not everyone's gotta wait around pretending to enjoy freshmen karaoke because someone can't figure out how to use Google Maps."

That one hit — a few more chuckles around the room. Tara narrowed her eyes, shifting forward in her seat.

"It's a five-minute walk," she said, her voice dripping with disbelief. "Even you could find your way here, and you still get lost inside a Target."

You gasped like it was an outrage, slapping a hand to your chest. "Oh my god. I got lost one time."

"Three times," Anika corrected, not even looking up from the cup she was fiddling with.

You turned your betrayal onto her with a dramatic glare. "That's because Target is a maze. They do it on purpose. Like a trap.”

Tara was already leaning back, tipping her head against the wall like she was exhausted by your stupidity. "You're just dumb," she said sweetly, smiling over the rim of her cup.

You smiled wider, teeth and all, like you had been waiting for it.

"Yeah?" you said. "You got an F in Health class, Tara. You're basically a public hazard."

It was immediate — a loud snort from Mindy, Anika covering her mouth in a poor attempt to hide her laugh. Tara, for once, didn't have anything fast enough to say back. She just gave you a look — all narrowed eyes and simmering annoyance — and took a long, deliberate sip of her drink instead.

You leaned back into the couch, pleased, letting the laughter fade around you. Tara was still glaring at you from behind her cup, and you shot her a wink just to twist the knife a little deeper.

Like always — you got the last word. And like always — she hated you for it. God, she hated you.

She hated the way you acted like you didn't care, like nothing ever touched you. She hated the way you could tear her apart without even raising your voice, how you never got rattled no matter how hard she tried to knock you off balance. How you smiled at her like you liked seeing her lose.

She hated your mouth — sharp and quick and always moving — and the way you dressed, like you didn't even try but still somehow won. Tight black tube top stretched over your chest, low-slung jeans clinging just right, a little messy, a little dangerous, a lot hotter than she could stand to admit.

Tara let her gaze slide sideways, just for a second. You were leaning back against the kitchen counter now, a red solo cup dangling carelessly from your fingers, grinning lazily, legs crossed at the ankle like you couldn't have been more at home. The hem of your jeans was frayed, the belt slung low across your hips, the sharp lines of your body slouching there like it wasn't killing her.

You looked like every bad decision she had ever barely survived. And you knew it.

Tara took another long sip of her drink, swallowing down the burn. She told herself she was just annoyed — just irritated by you — that the flush creeping up the back of her neck was from the alcohol, not from the way you kept laughing, easy and bright, with everyone except her.

Not because you looked good.

Not because you made her want something she was supposed to hate.

She tapped her cup against the edge of the counter again, harder this time, trying to shake it off.

Trying to ignore the way you shifted your weight, the way the band of your belt caught the low light, the sharp gleam in your eye every time you caught her looking.

God, she hated you. And if she didn't, she was going to have to start lying a whole lot harder.

Tara cracked an eye open at the sound, her gaze dragging over you — slow, irritated, and just a little too heavy. She could already feel the alcohol blooming hot under her skin, prickling at the back of her neck, tightening in her chest like it wanted to crawl out. Definitely more than she usually drank. Way more.

But what was she supposed to do? Stand here stone-cold sober while you — in all your smug, infuriating glory — kept shooting her that half-smile like you knew you were winning just by existing?

No chance.

She shifted her weight, letting her shoulder knock loosely against the cabinet behind her, and took another sip even though she didn't want it. The liquor was starting to taste stale. Bitter. And it still wasn't working. Still wasn't shutting off the sharp, gnawing awareness of you — standing there way too close, belt catching the light, black tube top doing absolutely nothing to not make her night worse.

She blamed the red in your eyes on the alcohol too. Had to. Because the alternative — that you were already three steps ahead of her, soft and glassy and loose-limbed and still managing to make her look like the idiot — was something she wasn't about to deal with tonight.

You caught her looking again. Of course you did. You tilted your head just slightly, a silent challenge, your fingers toying lazily with the rim of your cup.

"Just you and me then, princess," you said, smirking around the rim of your cup.

Tara scoffed, hard, eyes narrowing. "Don't call me that."

You blinked innocently. "No? What about...Pissy Missy?"

She made a face like she just swallowed something sour. "Worse."

You grinned wider, pushing off the counter to face her more fully. "Snappy?"

She shot you a look that could've cut glass. "Try again and I'm breaking your nose."

You lifted your free hand, pretending to think it over, pretending to take it seriously. "Mmm... Crankzilla?"

"Jesus Christ," she muttered under her breath, rubbing her temples like the very sound of your voice was giving her a migraine.

You pushed yourself up onto the counter with a little hop, drink sloshing slightly in your hand but somehow you didn't spill a drop. You perched there like you owned the whole damn room, legs swinging loosely, head tilted just enough to seem amused, still grinning, refusing to let up. "Tantrum Tot?"

Tara let out a short, humorless laugh. "You are the last person who's allowed to call me that."

Your smile turned sly. You leaned in just a little — enough to make it annoying, enough to make it clear you were doing it on purpose. "Mean Bean?"

Tara actually recoiled like you'd slapped her. "I will literally throw you out the window."

You laughed under your breath, couldn't help it. "So that's a no?"

She shook her head, looking half-ready to murder you, half-ready to laugh. She wasn't sure if it was the alcohol making everything feel looser around the edges — the thrum in her veins, the heat crawling up her neck — or just you being a stubborn, smug little shit, the way you always were.

You looked at her, feigning disappointment. "Guess I'll just stick to 'princess.' You seemed to like that one the best."

She let out a sharp, disbelieving breath — not quite a laugh, not quite a groan — and nudged your knee with her hand as she stepped past you to grab another drink. "God, you're insufferable."

But her mouth twitched at the corner when she said it. Just barely.

And you caught it.

Of course you did.

Your eyebrows lifted, slow and smug, and you tipped your cup toward her like a lazy kind of toast before taking a sip — dragging it out just enough to make sure she noticed.

Tara rolled her eyes, whipping her head to the side like she could physically shake you out of her sight. But it was too late — you'd already seen it.

The tiny, reluctant pull of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Like she hated you, God, she hated you — but sometimes you were just... so stupid, it scraped a laugh out of her before she could stop it.

Not a full laugh — just a quick breath through her nose, a barely-there twist of her mouth — but enough to make you catch it.

And enough to make your smirk deepen.

You leaned back against the counter a little more comfortably, soaking it in, almost like you were proud of yourself for chipping away at her.

Which, of course, you were.

The room around you buzzed louder — people laughing, shot glasses clinking together somewhere across the kitchen. You turned your head lazily toward the noise, watching as a group gathered by the kitchen island, shouting numbers and already spilling cheap liquor across the counters.

Your gaze shifted back to Tara, a lazy spark lighting behind your eyes.

"Let's take a shot," you said, voice low and smooth, like you were suggesting something way worse.

Tara blinked at you, like she genuinely thought she had misheard. "What?"

You shrugged one shoulder, your smirk never dropping.

"Scared you can't keep up?"

This time, the laugh actually escaped her — a short, incredulous sound, almost more like a scoff.

"You wish," she said, shooting you a look so sharp it could've taken your head off if you were standing any closer.

You pushed off the counter, setting your drink down without a second thought, already moving toward the mess of bottles and half-filled glasses at the island.

You didn't even have to look back — you could feel her eyes burning into your back, feel the weight of her decision hanging thick in the air.

For a second, you thought maybe she was going to be stubborn — dig her heels in and refuse, just to spite you. But when you slowed up near the table, pretending like you hadn't even noticed she hadn't followed yet, you heard her exhale sharply.

You didn't have to look to know she was giving in.

You grabbed two shot glasses from the cluttered island, ignoring how sticky the counter had gotten, and poured quickly — a lazy, messy hand on the bottle.

You very obviously tipped a little more into hers, the clear liquid sloshing closer to the rim, before sliding it across the counter toward her spot without a word.

Tara caught it, narrowing her eyes immediately — but she didn't say anything. She just adjusted her grip like she was already planning how to get you back later.

You grinned, picking up your own glass, and tilted it toward her expectantly.

"C'mon," you said, nudging the rim of yours toward hers. "Don't be rude."

She rolled her eyes but lifted hers too, clearly ready to just get this over with — but you didn't let it stay casual.

You smacked the two glasses together a little harder than you should have, enough that a splash of alcohol flew up and splattered across her hand and wrist.

"Asshole," she laughed — real this time, but quick and rough like she didn't mean to let it out — wiping her hand absently on the side of her skirt.

You shrugged, pretending like it hadn't been on purpose at all, and tipped your glass up.

Tara followed a beat later.

The tequila hit her tongue hot — too hot.

Not the smooth burn she was used to — the kind that melted into your chest and stayed there — but something sharper, harsher, like her whole mouth dried up at once and she was still somehow drowning.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she swallowed it, scrunching her nose instinctively after.

She'd taken shots a hundred times before. But right now, it felt... different.

Maybe it was the amount she'd already had tonight — more than she usually would've touched.

Or maybe it was the way the room spun a little when she tipped her head back down, how everything felt just slightly off-balance, like the floor under her feet was shifting.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that you were standing there, cocky and stupid and smirking at her like you knew she was going to keep saying yes to every little thing you dared her to do.

Maybe it was that.

Either way — she wasn't about to let you win again.

You were already reaching for the bottle again, tipping it over both your glasses without even asking.

You didn't even look at her — just poured like it was obvious she was going to stay.

Tara moved automatically at first, grabbing her glass to pull it away — but she hesitated halfway through. Her fingers tightened around the rim instead, her mouth tightening too, like she couldn't believe she was actually doing this.

She was shotting with you. Standing next to you — just you — out of her own free will.

Nobody forcing her, nobody dragging her by the wrist, nobody making a joke or daring her into it.

She could have walked away fifteen minutes ago. Hell, she could have never said yes in the first place. But here she was.

And the worst part — the part that made her want to throw the shot straight in your face — was that it didn't even feel completely insufferable.

It should have. God, it should have.

Instead, there was a lightness to it. A weird, easy kind of tension that didn't make her want to throw a punch — not really. Just... knock your stupid smirk off your face a little.

You caught her staring, of course — because you always caught everything — and shot her a look like you were already laughing at her inside your head.

You smirked wider, raised your glass, and clinked it against hers again.

"Cheers, princess," you said, all slow and mocking.

Tara narrowed her eyes — but when you both tipped your heads back and took the second shot, she was smiling.

She hated it.

But she smiled anyway.

The first shot was already starting to hum under her skin — or maybe it was the second, she didn't know. She told herself that was why she was still standing there with you. Why she hadn't already shoved past you and disappeared into the crowd.

It wasn't because it felt good — leaning there, beside you, the air crackling faintly between your arms whenever you shifted too close. It wasn't because of the way you kept glancing at her, like you were waiting for her to crack first.

It wasn't because the tiny part of her — the tiny, traitorous part — kind of liked it.

No.

It was just the alcohol.

That's what she decided as she placed her empty shot glass back down, a little too hard.

That's what she decided when her head swayed slightly, and the room tipped for a second too long before steadying.

When the blurry edges of the world made it easier not to think too hard about anything.

You were leaning your hip lazily against the edge of the folding table now, one foot hooked behind the other, like you didn't have a single worry in the world. One hand still cradling your drink, the other tapping a slow, easy rhythm against your thigh.

You were too relaxed.

Too comfortable.

Like standing next to her wasn't supposed to be the most aggravating part of your night.

It made her jaw clench — and at the same time, her stomach twist in a way she didn't really want to name.

She didn't realize she was staring until you turned your head, catching her again — always catching her — and cocked your eyebrow slightly, like you could read every thought she hadn't even figured out herself yet.

You didn't say anything for a second — just kept leaning there, easy and casual, like you didn't notice the way she was barely keeping herself upright. But then your smirk deepened a little, sharp and taunting.

"Want to dance?"you said, tipping your head toward the living room, where the music was still loud and heavy.

Tara almost laughed in your face.

Almost.

But the alcohol made the floor feel softer under her sneakers.

It made the flicker of lights around the room seem farther away, easier to ignore. And it made the idea of saying no — of staying here while you went off and smiled at someone else — feel unbearable.

So she rolled her eyes, muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like "fuck you," and shoved off the table to follow.

The bass was pounding when you reached the middle of the room, people already packed tight enough that there wasn't really much space to move properly.

You didn't seem to care. You just spun around to face her, stepping backward into the crowd and waiting, daring her, with a tilt of your head.

Tara hesitated — but only for half a second.

Because fuck it. It was just dancing.

And it was definitely just the alcohol making her heart trip when your hand brushed lightly against her wrist.

You didn't grab her. You didn't even really touch her again.

You just started moving, lazy and easy, like you knew she was going to fall in step with you eventually.

And the worst part — the part that made Tara want to rip the stupid black tube top off your body — was that she did.

The music was loud enough to drown everything else out.

The lights blurred. The people around you blurred. And suddenly it was just you.

The way you moved. The way your jeans clung low on your hips. The flash of your belt buckle when you twisted just right. The way your shirt stretched tight across your stomach, showing off every sharp line of you.

Tara's mouth went dry. And just like that, the anger was back.

Because of course this was happening. Of course the second she let her guard down for half a second, you had to go and be hot.

She blamed the alcohol. She blamed the shitty lighting. She blamed the way the air felt sticky and electric. She blamed everything — except herself.

Because there was no fucking way she was actually starting to want you.

Tara moved half a beat off from you, just enough to look casual — just enough to hide the way her eyes kept flickering up, catching on you every other second.

The lights kept shifting overhead, blurring everything in flashes of purple and red, but somehow you stayed sharp.

The slope of your neck when you tossed your head back, laughing at something someone said behind you.

The way your shirt bunched and stretched with every shift of your hips.

The way your fingers hooked lazily through your belt loops, casual, cocky, like you owned the whole fucking room.

It all felt like slow motion.

Too vivid. Too loud inside her own head.

Tara gritted her teeth and forced herself to move, let the music drag her along so she didn't freeze up completely.

Because she could not let you catch her staring. She could not give you that satisfaction.

But even as she danced — even as she made herself sway to the pounding bass — her hands curled into fists at her sides.

She wanted to slap herself across the face. Or better — slap you.

Because you weren't even doing anything. You were just existing — just breathing and smiling and moving like you didn't have a single thought in your stupid, pretty head — and it was wrecking her.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair that you could get under her skin like this without even trying.

And it made her furious.

Furious that she couldn't look away.

Furious that you looked so good under the lights, all effortless and smug and just a little wild.

Furious that her pulse stuttered every time you shifted closer.

Furious that a tiny, traitorous part of her — deep, deep down — almost didn't hate it.

Of course this was happening. Of course it was.

It wasn't like she hadn't seen it coming — not really. Not with the way you hovered around the edges of her life now, like a bad habit she couldn't kick. Not with the way the bickering had started sounding less like hatred and more like a language only the two of you spoke.

But this — this heat licking up her spine every time you so much as shifted in her direction —

This wasn't supposed to happen.

It couldn't happen.

Not when she hated you.

Not when she'd spent months convincing herself you were a mistake — a fluke — an accident she was smarter than to repeat.

You were cocky. You were smug.

You were a walking disaster, and you didn't even try to hide it.

You made her want to scream into her pillow and punch holes through walls and maybe — maybe —pull you closer by your stupid shirt and kiss you until she forgot how much she hated you.

And that was exactly the problem.

Because if there was even the smallest chance she could want you — even for a second —even with the alcohol burning through her bloodstream and the lights spinning overhead —then everything she thought she knew about you — about herself —was a lie.

And Tara Carpenter didn't lose.

She didn't fold.

She didn't want things she wasn't supposed to want.

Especially not you.

Her head buzzed — heavy and slow — like she was moving a few beats behind everything else. Every noise — every shout, every laugh, every thud of bass — felt a little too loud, rattling inside her skull like a marble in a glass jar. She blinked hard, trying to clear the static clouding her brain, but it only made the lights streak across her vision worse.

She caught herself swaying a little where she stood, the floor tilting under her feet, and scowled hard at nothing.

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides — like maybe she could squeeze the dizziness out of herself if she tried hard enough.

Great.

Exactly what she needed.

As if this wasn't already a fucking disaster.

The music thumped louder, vibrating up through the soles of her shoes, knocking against her ribs like a second heartbeat. Someone bumped into her shoulder, laughing, a drink sloshing over their hand, and Tara barely managed not to stumble sideways.

She realized she wasn't even really dancing anymore — just standing there, stuck, her pulse pounding too close to the surface, her breath coming quicker than she wanted.

Everything felt too hot. Too close. Too slow and too fast all at once. She needed to move.

She needed to get away from you — your stupid mouth and your stupid smirk and your stupid eyes.

Without thinking, she spun on her heel and pushed away from the crowd, her boots scraping hard against the sticky floor.

The bodies around her blurred together, all sweat-slick skin and flashing lights. She shoved her way through without caring, elbowing past groups hunched over drinks, sidestepping half-hearted apologies she barely heard.

The smell of cheap liquor and something burnt clung to the air, thick enough to choke on. Every step felt heavier than the last, like her boots were sinking into the floor, dragging her down.

She squinted through the chaos, trying to find somewhere — anywhere — less suffocating, her hands flexing uselessly at her sides.

Her eyes caught on a worn-out couch shoved against the wall, sagging in the middle, a mess of abandoned jackets and empty cups piled onto one side. It was barely any quieter over there — the music still thudding through the walls — but it was better than standing around like an idiot.

She stumbled her way toward it, weaving through the crowd, her shoulder clipping someone's arm without so much as a sorry. By the time she dropped onto the couch, the seat gave a tired creak under her weight, and she let herself slump back — her legs sprawling.

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, willing the dizziness to settle, the roaring in her ears to die down.

The world kept tilting anyway.

She hated this.

Hated the way the night felt like it was slipping out of her hands.

Hated the heat clinging to her skin.

Hated you for making it worse without even trying.

She didn't even hear you approach — not at first.

But she felt it — the shift in the air, the invisible pull of you stepping closer.

That same stupid electricity sparking just from you being near.

Tara gritted her teeth, dropping her hands back onto her knees like she hadn't noticed anything at all. Like you weren't already there, lingering behind her, all smug and cocky and impossible to ignore.

She barely had time to slump back before you caught up, dropping down onto the couch beside her like you belonged there.

Your voice was low and stupidly smug in her ear.

"What's wrong? Can't keep up?"

Tara flipped you off over her shoulder without even bothering to look at you.

The motion was sloppy — her middle finger wobbling a little in the air — and she hated how you immediately laughed under your breath like you thought it was cute.

She scowled harder at the wall in front of her.

God. She hated this.

You didn't let up, of course.

You just shifted lazily closer, sprawling back like you had all the time in the world, your knee knocking against hers.

"What," you teased, voice low and impossible to ignore, "not used to anything outside of Beethoven?"

Tara whipped her head toward you — or tried to — but the whole room lurched sideways and she had to slam a hand down on the seat cushion to steady herself.

You laughed — actually laughed — and it was so stupid and smug that Tara couldn't help it.

A tiny, treacherous snort escaped out of her before she could stop it.

She immediately clamped her lips together, furious at herself — but it was too late.

You'd definitely heard it.

And worse, you were already grinning like you'd just won some invisible game she didn't even realize she was playing.

Tara cracked her eyes open again — a mistake — and immediately caught you staring right back at her.

Her chest tightened, too hot under her skin, and she tried to look away — but it was already too late.

Your eyes locked.

The air between you stretched tight — tight enough to snap — and Tara felt her own gaze flicker down, stupid and uncontrollable.

Straight to your mouth.

God, your lips were glossy — pink and wet under the shitty lights — and she hated that she noticed.

Hated the way the thought hit her like a punch:

That she could just lean over and kiss you.

That she could wipe that stupid fucking smirk right off your face with her mouth.

The thought should have mortified her.

Instead, it just burned — angry and wild, crackling in her chest like static.

She didn't chase the thought away. She didn't even try. She just sat there, letting it ruin her, letting it make her crazy.

Because it wasn't like you could hear what was happening in her head.

It wasn't like you knew.

But then you spoke — low, lazy, almost bored — and she realized you absolutely knew.

"Wanna make out?" you said.

The words weren't even really a question — more like a taunt — sliding off your tongue slow and smooth, like you already knew the answer.

Tara's whole body locked up at once.

Her fists clenched hard against her thighs.

Her heart slammed against her ribs like it was trying to break out.

She stared at you, open-mouthed, furious —

Furious at you, at herself, at the alcohol humming thick under her skin.

And the worst part — the absolute worst fucking part —was that her first instinct wasn't to say no.

It was to say yes.

And that terrified her more than anything else.

Because it wasn't just the alcohol talking.

Not just the warmth in her chest or the slow spin of the room.

It was the way the air felt heavy around her, the way your knee brushed against hers on the couch and she didn't pull away. The way her eyes kept dragging to your mouth and how she couldn't, for the life of her, seem to stop.

Her thoughts were sticky and slow, crawling through her head like syrup.

Everything around her — the voices, the music, the clatter of cups and laughter from the next room — had started to melt together, one indistinct blur of sound.

But you?

You were sharp. Clear. The only thing not spinning. And that pissed her off.

Because you weren't supposed to look like that — not here, not now.

You weren't supposed to be this version of yourself.

Not flushed and grinning and leaning back on someone else's couch like it belonged to you.

Not with those fucking glossy lips and the heat in your eyes and that low, teasing voice that kept sliding under her skin like it knew how to get there.

You looked good.

Too good.

Not in the annoying, arrogant way she was used to seeing you at school — mouthing off in class, flashing smug looks from across the cafeteria like you knew everything.

Now, in this lighting — under the soft yellow bulbs and the flicker of whatever movie someone had left playing in the background — you looked warm.

Inviting.

Your shirt slightly rumpled from dancing, your lashes casting shadows on your cheeks when you blinked.

And your mouth.

God, your mouth.

Tara's eyes flicked to your lips before she could stop them, catching the faint sheen of gloss that hadn't completely worn off yet.

She wanted to blame the shot.

Both of them.

The burn still lingering in her throat, the warmth still spreading in her chest.

She felt high.

Not drunk — high.

The kind of high that made her limbs feel light and disconnected, her fingers slightly numb where they fidgeted in her lap.

She felt like if she moved too fast, her body would tip right off the edge of the world.

And you had the audacity to say it like it meant nothing — like you hadn't just thrown a live wire into her already scrambled brain.

Like it was funny.

Like it wasn't about to ruin everything.

She froze — only for a second — but it felt longer than that.

Long enough for her brain to scramble for something.

Some reason, some excuse, any explanation that didn't end with her admitting what she was actually thinking.

None of it will matter tomorrow.

You're drunk. She's drunk.

This isn't real.

You wouldn't even say something like that if you were sober.

So she didn't have to take it seriously.

She didn't have to mean it.

She let her head fall back against the couch — the real kind of surrender — and turned it lazily to the side so she could look at you without making it obvious.

You were already watching her.

Her gaze dropped again, and this time, she didn't pretend it was an accident.

Your lips looked soft.

Mocking.

Like they were daring her.

And for just a second, she imagined what it'd be like to shut you up with a kiss.

Hard.

Fast.

Just to wipe that look off your face.

The thought made her stomach flip.

It made her angry, how easily her mind went there.

But you weren't going to hear those thoughts.

So what did it matter?

Her lips curled before she could stop them — a slow, crooked smirk — and she finally gave in.

"Sure," she said, her voice low and dry.

Your eyebrows ticked up, just slightly.

And then you leaned in, already smiling like you knew.

Tara barely had a second to breathe.

Your face was suddenly so close — the heat of you, the smell of your skin, some mix of alcohol and mint gum and whatever lotion you used.

Too close.

And then your mouth touched hers.

It was hesitant at first. Just a press. A test.

But it was warm — soft — and her breath caught in her throat.

You tilted your head just slightly, and her lips followed without thinking.

They parted for yours like they knew how.

The kiss deepened.

Slower than she expected.

Sloppy, yes — but controlled.

You kissed like you were making sure she felt it.

Every inch of it.

Tara's lips moved with yours, instinct kicking in where reason had checked out.

She shifted her weight, angling closer, and felt your hand graze her knee before sliding up to her hip, anchoring her there.

You adjusted, one elbow slipping up along the back of the couch — the actual term she was too drunk to think of — your fingers brushing her shoulder as you leaned in further.

It made your bodies press together in a way that sent sparks shooting down her spine.

She kissed you harder.

Or maybe you kissed her harder.

She didn't know anymore.

All she could feel was the warmth of your mouth — wet, slow, maddeningly soft — moving against hers.

It wasn't clean or careful.

It was messy.

Unsteady.

Like neither of you really knew where the rhythm started or ended, just that you didn't want to stop.

Your lips parted again, and she followed.

Breath hitched.

Tongues touched.

Tara's fingers dug into the edge of the couch cushion, her balance swaying between you and the seat, and she didn't care.

Your lips tasted like cheap liquor and something sweeter underneath.

Your teeth grazed her bottom lip and she inhaled sharp through her nose — just enough for you to notice — before kissing you again.

It was chaotic.

Uncoordinated.

Hot.

Her heart was hammering.

You kept kissing her like it was easy. Like you weren't even thinking about it.

And she couldn't stand how badly she wanted to keep going.

How her body leaned into yours like it needed to.

Every second of it was wrong.

Every second of it felt too good.

But Tara didn't pull away.

Not yet.

Your hand was still resting at her hip, light but grounding, and her fingers curled unconsciously against your leg, needing something solid to hold onto. Her lips moved against yours again — slower this time, deeper. Like she couldn't help it. Like the heat simmering in her chest had nowhere else to go.

She didn't even try to think anymore.

Didn't care.

Her thoughts were loud — messy, tangled, barely strung together.

She shouldn't be doing this.

She shouldn't want this.

But she did.

God, she did.

She kissed you harder, angling her head to the side, and you met her without hesitation — like you'd been waiting for that exact pressure, that exact urgency.

Her legs shifted against the couch, thighs tightening involuntarily as your hand brushed up her side — not even high, not even skin — and still it sent a jolt right through her.

She was drunk.

That had to be it.

It had to be.

Because she could feel it now.

Low in her stomach. Between her legs.

A slow, pulsing heat — the kind that wouldn't go away. That never just went away.

It was ridiculous.

So fucking ridiculous.

But you tasted good.

You felt good.

And when your lips dragged slightly down to the corner of her mouth — just enough to make her breath hitch — Tara realized she didn't just want to kiss you.

She wanted more.

Her mind raced.

Images flashing too fast to stop — her hands gripping your shirt, your mouth lower, your body under hers — and she wanted to shake herself.

Yell.

Do something.

But all she did was kiss you again. Again and again and again.

She could barely think, barely breathe, could feel herself pooling between her legs — warm, aching, needy in a way that made her want to scream.

It was humiliating. It was infuriating.

And it wasn't stopping.

You shifted slightly, pulling her closer without even trying — and Tara let you.

Let you kiss her like you owned her.

Let your tongue slide against hers with that same cocky rhythm.

She wanted to push you back.

Push you down. Pull your hair. Something. Anything.

Because she needed more.

Even if she couldn't say it.

Even if it killed her.

The thought alone made her dizzy.

Not the alcohol. Not the heat.

Just you.

You, sitting there like you hadn't just lit her whole body on fire.

You, staring at her with those eyes like you knew exactly what she wanted and how badly she wanted it.

And fuck — she hated that she couldn't hide it anymore.

Not with her lips swollen from yours, not with her chest rising too fast, not with that hungry, throbbing pull between her legs that wouldn't stop gnawing at her.

Her mind twisted in circles — a thousand reasons why she should stop, why she had to stop.

This wasn't her.

She didn't do this.

She didn't want this.

But that voice was buried now — drowned under the heat, the rush, the way her thighs squeezed together like they had a mind of their own.

The only thing louder than her thoughts was the ache.

She wanted to lean back in.

Wanted to taste your lip gloss again, to bite your bottom lip and hear you gasp.

Wanted to see just how far you'd let her take it.

Instead, her body moved on instinct.

Sharp. Sudden.

She pulled away — barely — lips parting from yours with a sound too soft for how hard her heart was beating.

She sat there for a second, just breathing.

Just staring.

Your eyes locked with hers, confused but already glinting with that same smugness you always had.

And still — she couldn't look away.

Her hand twitched. Fingers curled.

"Come on," she muttered — voice low, tight, like the words cost her something.

Then she grabbed your wrist.

Not rough. Not gentle.

Just determined.

You didn't say a word.

Didn't ask where you were going.

You just followed.

She pulled you through the crowd, heat and bass and sweat pressing in from every side.

Bodies crushed together — laughing, moving, swaying — and Tara didn't look at a single one of them.

She didn't care.

Didn't slow down.

Her grip on your hand tightened as she shoved through, weaving past shoulders and spilled drinks and sticky floors.

The music was louder now, the air thicker, and she could barely breathe — but she didn't stop.

Because you were still behind her. And your hand was still in hers. And she needed more.

Wherever this was going —

Whatever happened next —

She needed more.

And oh, did she get it.

She barely registered the room as she dragged you inside — the faint whir of a ceiling fan, the messy tangle of an unmade bed in the corner, a dresser with half-open drawers.

It didn't matter. None of it did.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, Tara's hands were on you again — shoving you back against it hard enough to rattle the frame.

You let out a breathy laugh — smirking — and Tara wanted to punch it off your face.

Or kiss it.

Apparently her body decided for her.

Because the next thing she knew, her mouth was on yours again, hot and rough and starving.

She felt you grin against her lips — cocky and pleased — and it made something furious and electric twist deep inside her.

She kissed you harder.

Sloppier.

Your bodies crashed together, uncoordinated and messy.

It was all teeth and heat, lips sliding and tugging, hands scrabbling for something to hold onto.

Tara barely remembered how to breathe.

Her hands fisted in the hem of your shirt, tugging you closer, feeling the way your body molded into hers.

You were warm — too warm — and the heady smell of you, your perfume and sweat and beer, filled her lungs until she was drunk off it.

Drunker than she already was.

You tilted your head, deepening the kiss, and Tara almost whimpered — feeling it all the way down to her knees.

The way your tongue brushed against hers, teasing, coaxing.

The way you bit down gently on her bottom lip, pulling it between your teeth for just a second before letting go.

Fuck.

She pressed her whole body against you, chasing the feeling, desperate to steal more.

And all she could think — all she could fucking think — was:

More.

Her hands moved before her brain could catch up — yanking at the hem of your shirt, dragging it upward in one rough pull.

You didn't resist — you even raised your arms to make it easier — and Tara barely tossed it somewhere across the room before her eyes dropped automatically, hungrily.

You were wearing a black bandeau bra — simple, tight, strapless. It hugged your chest perfectly, the curve of your breasts pressed up and together — smooth and effortless and unfairly fucking hot.

Tara stared for a second longer than she meant to, heat punching through her chest so sharp it almost hurt.

And then she was on you again.

Her hands framed your face, grabbing you roughly, and she crashed her mouth back onto yours like she could erase the thoughts racing through her head if she just kissed you hard enough.

You made a low sound in the back of your throat — something between a laugh and a moan — and suddenly, you started walking forward, guiding her with you.

Tara stumbled a step back, caught off-guard, but didn't think, didn't care — she just followed, letting herself be pulled wherever you wanted her.

It was messy, chaotic, bumping into furniture, nearly tripping over shoes left on the floor. The floor kept tilting under her feet, the alcohol swirling through her blood like fire.

But none of it mattered.

You didn't give her time to overthink.

Before she could fully process it, the back of her legs hit the edge of the bed —

And your fingers were already at the hem of her shirt, bunching it up and over her ribs.

Tara didn't move at first.

Didn't breathe.

She just let you.

Arms raising slightly, letting you peel the fabric up and off — another piece of herself surrendered without even a second thought.

Her head spun so violently it almost made her laugh.

And then your eyes flickered down — blatantly — lingering at her chest. Tara didn't even have time to brace for it.

She was wearing a black lace bra — something strappy, barely-there, a little too much push-up if she was being honest.

The way your gaze darkened made heat lick straight down her spine. You smirked, slow and lazy, like you had all the time in the world.

"Fancy, Carpenter," you murmured, voice low and teasing.

Tara opened her mouth — maybe to tell you to shut the fuck up — but then you tilted your head, grinning even wider.

"Did you pick this out just for me?"

Your hands slid up without warning — fingers tracing lightly over her ribs before cupping her breasts through the lace.

It wasn't even that rough, but it didn't have to be.

Tara almost moaned.

Almost.

Her knees went a little weak, her body flaring hot all over — and god, it pissed her off how easily you could get to her.

Instead of giving you the satisfaction of hearing her fall apart, she grabbed your face again — rough, desperate — and pulled you back into her.

"Don't remind me that you're you,” she growled into your mouth.

And then she kissed you — hard, messy, almost feral — her hands fisting tight in your hair like she needed something to hold onto just to keep herself grounded.

Tara kissed you like she was trying to knock the smugness right off your face — open-mouthed and clumsy and a little too desperate.

Your hands stayed right where she hated them — cupping, teasing — your thumbs brushing over the lace in a way that made her hips stutter forward without meaning to.

And somewhere in the swirling, drunken haze of it all, Tara had the fleeting, stupid thought that maybe she regretted what she said. Because doing this — this — with you didn't make her hate you more.

It made it hotter.

Made her want to crawl out of her own skin.

Before she could sink too deep into that terrifying realization, your hands slid down to her waist — gripping tight — and without warning, you pushed.

Tara stumbled backward with a sharp gasp, the backs of her knees hitting the bed.

She let herself fall — dropping onto the mattress with a bounce — glaring up at you like she wanted to murder you and kiss you at the same time.

You just smirked down at her, maddeningly calm, stepping in even closer. Your knees bumped against the edge of the bed, and for half a second, neither of you moved — the air thick between you, your breathing ragged and shallow.

And then — slowly, lazily — Tara spread her legs apart, leaving just enough space for you to step between.

She tilted her head back against the bed, looking up at you with dark, furious eyes — like she was daring you to fucking do something about it. Tara could already feel herself slipping.

Her thighs tensed where they framed your hips, her chest heaving with every shallow breath.

She didn't know what it was — the alcohol, the heat, you — but she needed something.

Needed you to move, to touch her, to do something.

If that meant bending her over and fucking her until she forgot her own name, then so be it.

She didn't care. She just needed it.

Her whole body ached with it — restless, buzzing, desperate — and she barely lasted ten seconds under the weight of your stare before her patience snapped clean in half.

"Are you just going to stand there fucking stare," she snarled, her voice low and wrecked, "or are you going to fuck me?"

Tara propped herself up on her elbows like it might make her look tougher —like it might somehow hide how desperate she was underneath all the glaring.

Your mouth fell open slightly at her words, caught somewhere between a smirk and actual shock —like you hadn't expected her to say it out loud.

You let your gaze rake down her body, slow and lazy, and when you looked back up at her, your smile was downright cruel.

"Wow," you said, voice dripping with mock-sweetness. "Someone's needy, huh?"

You leaned in, one hand bracing on the bed beside her hip, your mouth just barely brushing her ear.

"Poor little princess," you whispered. "Should I help you out?"

Tara muttered a "fuck you"under her breath — something sharp and furious— but her hands were already moving.

Shaky, rushed, desperate.

She grabbed at your belt first, fumbling with the buckle like it personally offended her, her fingers clumsy with alcohol and want. She yanked it loose hard enough to make the metal clatter, then popped open the button of your jeans, dragging the zipper down in one rough pull.

And fuck, there it was — hard and heavy against the fabric, clear as fucking day.

The sight made her head spin worse, made something low and tight pull deep in her stomach, but she didn't let herself stop to think about it — not even for a second. She shoved at your jeans until you stepped out of them, until they hit the floor with a messy thud.

Her heart thundered, wild and wrecked against her ribs, but she didn't move away — not yet.

Her hands hovered there for half a second, like she was caught between hating herself and wanting you more than she'd ever wanted anything.

Tara's mouth actually watered — hot and heavy and shameful — and she clenched her jaw tight like that could somehow make it stop.

Before she could even think about it, you were already moving again — your hands sliding down her sides, gripping tight at her hips. And then you were tugging at her skirt, so much easier than the fight she'd had with your jeans.

All it took was a little lift of her hips, and the fabric slid right off, pooling somewhere forgotten at the edge of the bed.

And fuck — she was wet.

She knew it.

You probably knew it too.

The thin black lace of her panties — delicate and stretched tight over her — left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Tiny little bows sat at each hip, the material riding low enough to make her look even more wrecked than she already was.

Your eyes dragged down her body slowly, like you were memorizing every goddamn inch.

And Tara, stubborn as ever, tilted her chin up — like she wasn't seconds away from begging you to touch her already. You didn't even hesitate.

Your fingers hooked into the delicate black lace at her hips and tugged, slow and deliberate, dragging the soaked fabric down her thighs. Tara didn't move at first — didn't even breathe — but the second they were off, she let her head fall back against the bed, her elbows still propping her up, gaze tilting up toward the ceiling.

The room spun around her, thick and heavy and slow, but she didn't care.

Not when she could hear the faint shuffle of you undressing too, stripping off that last piece of clothing between you.

She didn't even have to look to know you were naked now.

She felt it — the heat rolling off your body, the slow, deliberate weight of your gaze dragging across every inch of her.

Her chest rose and fell fast, uneven.

Her thighs pressed together for just a second — instinctive — but then she forced herself to relax them again, stubborn even now.

Waiting for you to make your move.

You still weren't doing anything.

You were just standing there, hovering over her, like you had all the time in the world — and it made her insane.

Tara threw her head up from the bed, snapping in a wrecked, furious voice, "God, could you be any slower?"

But she barely had the words out before you finally pushed into her.

Her breath punched out in a strangled, desperate moan, her head falling back again, slamming lightly against the mattress.

Her bare legs immediately wrapped themselves around your waist, locking you in place, like she couldn't stand the thought of you pulling away even for a second.

"Fuck," she gasped, low and broken, her voice raspy from how much she needed this — from how much she hated how good you felt inside her.

Without thinking, she tried to grind up into you, desperate for more, desperate to chase the dizzying pleasure curling in her stomach —but your hands clamped down on her hips, hard enough to bruise, forcing her to stop.

You didn't let her set the pace. You didn't even let her move.

You held her exactly where you wanted her — then shoved her hips deeper against yours, guiding her exactly how you wanted it: hard, rough, relentless.

Pushing her into you, dragging her back, pushing her forward again — over and over, like you were using her body to fuck yourself, like she wasn't even given a choice.

And God, it was good.

Every drag, every thrust was blinding —

Tara could feel you everywhere, splitting her open, filling her until her thighs were trembling from the force of it.

She bit down on a moan, fingers clawing uselessly at the sheets beside her, barely able to breathe through how fucking good it felt —how good you felt —how much she hated it and loved it and needed more anyway.

The rhythm was brutal.

Your hips crashed into hers again and again, rough and relentless, dragging these helpless, wrecked sounds out of her throat with every thrust. The bed squeaked under the force of it, your bodies slamming together, slick and messy and perfect.

It felt fucking fantastic.

Tara couldn't stop herself — couldn't even try to stop — moaning over and over again, broken, desperate sounds ripping free of her lungs like she had no control over them anymore.

It was euphoric. It was almost too good.

Her mind was spinning so violently she swore she might black out, the pleasure building under her skin like fire.

Fuck, you were so good at this. FUCK

So fucking good it made her angry.

She squeezed her eyes shut tight, tried to ground herself — but when she opened them again, when she saw the way you were looking down at her —so cocky, so goddamn smug, so fucking hot — she had to throw her head back again, moaning even louder, because fuck, she couldn't take it.

Her body betrayed her, gave her away completely, hips bucking up to meet yours every time you snapped forward into her.

And even if her brain was screaming at her not to say it —not to admit it —every single wrecked, desperate sound coming out of her mouth was saying it for her.

You were making noises too — low, heavy grunts punched out from your chest — but Tara barely even noticed. She was too far gone, too consumed by the feeling of your cock stretching her open again and again, your body pinning her down so perfectly she never wanted you to stop.

And then, of course — you just had to fucking smirk.

"Geez, Tara," you said between rough breaths, that infuriating grin tugging at your mouth, "if I knew this would shut you up, I would've done it ages ago."

You shifted your hips with a brutal snap, driving yourself harder into her just as she opened her mouth to fire back — and the only thing that came out was a wrecked, desperate moan.

"Yeah, well— maybe you should've—" Her voice cracked, the words collapsing into a breathless whimper when you slammed deeper, grinding mercilessly against that perfect, aching spot inside her.

Tara's head fell back against the mattress, her whole body jolting with every sharp, perfect thrust. She tried to scramble for the sheets again, tried to cling to anything to ground herself, but her hands were useless, clutching nothing but air.

Every time you moved, it was overwhelming — relentless and raw and fucking perfect — and it made her legs tighten around your waist like she was scared you might pull away.

Her breath was stuttering now, spilling out in broken little gasps that only made you smirk harder. And when you pushed in again, harder, rougher, she whimpered so loudly it almost sounded like a sob.

Fuck, she hated how good it felt.

Fuck, she hated how fucking good you felt.

Her hands scrambled uselessly against the bed — grabbing fistfuls of the messy sheets, tangling in her own hair, clawing at her flushed face — but nothing grounded her, nothing eased the brutal, overwhelming way you were slamming into her.

She felt like she was going to snap.

She wanted to snap.

The bed creaked under the force of it all, the air thick with rough breaths and low grunts. Tara's entire body burned — from rage, from need, from how fucking good you felt ruining her.

And you just kept going. Kept fucking talking.

"You sound so pretty when you're desperate," you panted against her ear, smirking because you knew what you were doing to her.

Tara's jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Her whole body tensed under you — furious and humiliated and desperate all at once.

"God," she snarled, her voice low and wrecked, "shut the fuck up.”

You just chuckled darkly under your breath — and pushed even deeper, harder, like you were punishing her for even thinking she had the right to tell you what to do.

Tara threw her head back against the bed, a choked moan breaking out of her throat — furious at herself for how fucking good it felt, furious that she was the one begging now, without even needing to say a word.

And it only got worse.

Rougher.

Harder.

Better.

The slap of your bodies hitting echoed in the room, each thrust forcing little desperate sounds out of her no matter how tightly she bit her lip to hold them back. Her thighs shook where they were wrapped tight around your waist, the sheets she clawed at were useless under her hands, and fuck —that heat in her lower stomach was starting to grow.

A dangerous, simmering pit that started as a little thrum — a warning — and then kept building, sharp and dizzy and huge, way bigger than anything she was used to feeling.

She knew what it was.

She knew she was about to come — fuck, she was about to come — and it scared her how fast and hard it was coming.

It was like her whole body had turned traitor. It was like she couldn't stop it even if she wanted to.

And you must have felt it too — the way her body started tightening around you, the way her nails dug harder into the sheets — because you only fucked her rougher, dirtier, faster.

And Tara couldn't hold back anymore.

She gasped out something — something wrecked and half-broken — her head pressing back harder into the bed, her mouth falling open on a silent cry.

You were right there with her, dragging her closer and closer to the edge, like you wanted to watch her fall apart. Like you fucking needed it.

And Tara didn't stand a fucking chance.

One more thrust — brutal, rough, deep — and she was gone.

Her whole body tensed hard, legs locking tighter around your waist, her back arching sharply off the bed as a broken moan ripped straight from her chest.

It slammed into her all at once — fast, wrecking, almost violent — like something had snapped inside her. Her vision went white around the edges, her fingers clawing helplessly at the sheets, at her own hair, at anything she could grab.

Her hips bucked without her even meaning to, grinding desperately against you like she still needed more even as her orgasm ripped through her.

And you —fuck, you lost it too.

The second her body clamped down around you, tight and soaking wet and shaking, you cursed low under your breath and slammed into her one final time, burying yourself as deep as you could go.

You spilled inside her with a wrecked grunt, your hips grinding into hers, trying to ride it out as your body shuddered with the force of it.

It wasn't clean. It wasn't soft.

It was messy and hot and frantic — both of you coming so hard it almost hurt, both of you falling apart into each other like you didn't care if it fucking killed you.

Tara barely even realized she was whining until it was already out of her — high and wrecked and fucking needy, her whole body trembling as you finally, finally stilled.

And for a second, neither of you could breathe.

The only sounds were the wet, sticky slap of skin, the broken, panting breaths you both tried to catch, and the furious hammering of Tara's heart in her ears.

You pulled out of her slowly, dragging a low whimper from Tara's throat that she tried — and failed — to swallow down.

The second you were gone, she let herself collapse fully onto the bed, chest heaving, skin flushed and slick with sweat.

You hovered above her for a moment, both of you panting, just staring at each other. Tara glared up at you — or at least, she tried to.

But her anger didn't land the way it usually did; she was too fucking tired, too wrecked, too spent for her eyes to sharpen into proper daggers.

It was more of a seething, half-lidded glare now. One that didn't scare you at all.

And that was when it hit her —what had just happened.

What she'd just fucking done.

It felt like the alcohol evaporated out of her bloodstream in one horrifying instant.

Her heart hammered in a completely different way now — heavy and sick. For a second, she thought she might be sick.

What the fuck had she done?

The shame hit her first — hot and brutal — almost strong enough to drown her.

She hated herself for it. Hated you for it.

Hated how fucking good it had felt.

And that was what saved her —the memory of how good it felt. The sharp edge of her panic dulled, just a little.

The anger simmered lower, curling into something she could almost stomach.

Still — she had to get the fuck out of there. Now.

Tara shot upright so fast it made her dizzy, scrambling across the bed, snatching up her underwear and yanking it up her shaky legs.

Her skirt came next — wrinkled and inside out, but she didn't give a shit — she just needed it on.

As she struggled to tug it back into place, she looked up at you —still half-naked, still smirking like the smug piece of shit you were.

"Not a word about this to anyone," she snapped, her voice low and wrecked and shaky, "Okay?"

And you — of course — just smirked wider.

___

At first, Tara didn't think much of it.

She figured she was just still hungover — the party had been brutal, after all. She hadn't exactly treated her body well that night.

Half a bottle of vodka, God knew how many shots after, plus whatever the hell she'd eaten off some random guy's plate at three in the morning... it made sense she still felt like shit days later.

That was all it was. Hangover.

Or maybe she ate something bad.

Maybe that sketchy half-burnt pizza from the gas station.

Maybe some stomach bug going around campus.

Or maybe — worst case scenario — she was just getting sick. Some late-winter flu. Something that would pass in a few days if she just drank enough Gatorade and slept it off.

Because seriously, what else could it possibly be?

She shoved the thought away. Refused to let herself even consider anything bigger than that.

But then the days passed.

And the nausea didn't go away. It just got worse.

Creeping up on her in the middle of class — making her have to fake-cough into her sleeve just so she wouldn't gag in front of everyone.

Gnawing at her stomach late at night when she tried to sleep, making her curl tighter under the blankets, teeth clenched, trying to will the feeling away.

It felt like her body was rejecting something. Like it wasn't even hers anymore.

By day five, even the smell of coffee — something that usually got her through her worst mornings — made her stomach flip.

By day six, brushing her teeth made her gag so hard she had to sit down on the bathroom floor for ten minutes after.

Still, she told herself it was nothing.

Stress, she thought, scrubbing her face at the bathroom mirror with angry hands. College. Lack of sleep. Nerves.

Maybe her immune system was just wrecked.

Maybe it was her period coming and being a bitch about it.

It had to be something like that.

It had to be.

She kept telling herself that —over and over, louder and louder —right up until she opened her calendar app one morning and her whole body went cold.

Because she was late.

Really fucking late.

Her stomach twisted.

Not from nausea this time — from panic.

She counted again.

And again.

Counting on her fingers like a dumbass because her brain couldn't make the math make sense.

No matter how she spun it, it had been almost two months.

Tara had sat back against her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, trying not to hyperventilate.

Trying to tell herself she was wrong.

That it was still stress, still nerves, still something normal.

It's not that, she told herself, breathing through her nose, gripping the blanket so tightly her knuckles turned white. It's not that. It's not that. It's not that.

But deep down —deep, deep down —she already knew exactly what it was.

She could keep lying to herself.

She really could.

And maybe she would've kept lying, would've shoved it down and ignored it and pretended it wasn't real,

if it hadn't been for that night.

The night she ended up hunched over the toilet, sweating and shaking, the taste of acid clawing up her throat.

No warning. No time to pretend it was something else.

It hit her halfway through brushing her teeth — one second she was fine, the next she was dropping her toothbrush into the sink and bolting for the bathroom like she was being hunted.

And as she wiped her mouth, breathing hard, hands clutching uselessly at the cold tile floor —it sank in.

Cold.

Sick.

Unavoidable.

No more excuses.

She didn't remember making the decision.

Not really.

One minute she was pacing her room, hands trembling, heart crawling up her throat —

and the next, she was standing in some grimy drugstore aisle, blinking under the too-bright fluorescent lights, staring at a wall of small pink boxes like they were a firing squad.

She grabbed the first one she saw.

Didn't read the label.

Didn't check the price.

Just threw it into her basket, keeping her head down, as if someone — anyone — might see her.

Might know.

The walk to the register was a blur.

The cashier barely looked up.

She paid in cash.

She didn't even wait to get home.

She just —well.

The bathroom at the back of the store was disgusting.

The kind of disgusting that made her hover awkwardly over the toilet, chewing on her thumbnail, breathing through her mouth because the smell was so bad.

She didn't care.

She couldn't care.

The box was torn open with shaky fingers.

The instructions were left crumpled on the floor.

She didn't need to read them anyway.

Everyone knew how these things worked.

It was over before she even realized she had started.

A few minutes that felt like years.

She sat there — cold, half-numb — perched on the closed toilet lid, arms wrapped tight around herself like it could somehow keep everything from slipping out of her control.

She didn't look at it at first.

She couldn't.

Just sat there, staring at the wall, feeling the seconds bleed out slow and awful, until every heartbeat felt like it could crack her ribs wide open.

And when she finally forced herself to glance down —just a glance, nothing more —it was there.

Blunt.

Undeniable.

Positive.

Tara didn't even have time to think.

Her stomach lurched viciously, and she was barely able to twist around and yank the toilet lid up before she was gagging into the bowl, retching hard enough that her whole body trembled.

It wasn't the same kind of nausea as before.

This was something worse — something heavier.

Shock.

Terror.

Grief.

When she finished, she just stayed there — bent over, forehead resting against her forearm, the test lying on the counter behind her like some cruel, stupid joke she couldn't wake up from.

She didn't know how long she stayed there.

Five minutes? Ten? An hour?

Time didn't feel real anymore.

Eventually, she forced herself up, stumbling to her feet on shaky legs.

She paced the small bathroom, bare feet slapping against the tile, hands buried deep in her hair like she could physically tear the panic out of herself if she just pulled hard enough.

Muttering under her breath.

Cursing herself.

Cursing you.

"What the fuck," she whispered hoarsely, dragging her hands down her face. "What the fuck."

She couldn't breathe right.

Her chest felt too tight.

Her mind kept spinning in wild, useless circles.

Who the fuck was she supposed to tell?

Sam?

Absolutely not — Sam would kill her. Not even just yell — actually kill her.

Mindy?

No way. Mindy would ask a million questions. She'd want to know who. When. How.

Anika?

Same thing. Just softer. And worse.

Chad?

Tara almost laughed — a sharp, broken noise that didn't sound right at all.

Chad wouldn't even listen for more than ten seconds.

He'd probably just high-five her over the sex and completely miss the part where her whole fucking life was falling apart.

Which left you.

The last option.

The last person she wanted to talk to.

Because this?

This was your fault.

Maybe partly hers, sure — she wasn't stupid — but mostly yours.

And the thought of calling you made her stomach churn all over again.

She didn't even remember saving your number.

She didn't even remember getting it.

But there it was — staring back at her from the cracked screen of her phone, mocking her.

Her thumb hovered over the call button.

Her heart pounded so hard it hurt.

And then, before she could think better of it, she pressed it.

She pressed call.

And every second that the phone rang, her panic grew louder, shrieking inside her chest.

One ring.

Two.

Three —

You answered, your voice so casual it made her want to scream.

"Well, well," you drawled, smug and slow, like you were grinning already. "Couldn't get enough, huh? Already calling me back?"

Tara swallowed.

Hard.

The words sat like a rock in her throat.

She opened her mouth — nothing came out.

Because saying it out loud would make it real.

Saying it out loud would shatter whatever thin, desperate hope she still had that this was some sick mistake.

You didn't say anything either.

The teasing dropped into silence — just the faint crackle of the line between you, waiting.

And then you said, more cautious this time, "...Hello?"

Tara squeezed her eyes shut.

Felt her hands start to shake.

And before she could stop herself — before she could take it back — she forced it out in a broken whisper:

"I'm pregnant."

#jenna ortega x reader #tara carpenter #tara carpenter x reader #mabel x reader #vada cavell x reader #wednesday addams x reader #melissa barrera x reader #sam carpenter #ask #sam carpenter x reader #smut #tara carpenter smut #jenna ortega smut #wlw post #wlw smut #viralpost #rafe cameron x reader

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formulaonecrumbs · 15 hours ago

Note

omg what if oscar got his deadpanned nature all from his older sister and those two as they get older are always sarcastic together towards everything

my little echo

Oscar Piastri x older sister!reader

summary: oscar piastri slowly turns into a smaller, sassier version of his older sister. simply because he thinks she’s the coolest person alive.

warnings: sibling sarcasm, chaotic household, oscar being your mini-me

A/N: i love this au so much, well i love all of the older sister au’s but baby oscs got a soft spot in my heart. thank u for the request anon!! enjoy, sweet angel 🫶

༻ ❤︎︎ ༺

you’d barely gotten three steps into the kitchen before chaos greeted you like a warm, screechy welcome mat.

edie was standing on a chair yelling about how mae stole her diary. mae was yelling back that she didn’t, that she was just looking. hattie was stirring a pot of something violently on the stove, earbuds in and completely oblivious to the screaming behind her.

you just blinked. took a deep breath. leaned against the fridge and stared blankly at the wall.

“sounds peaceful,” oscar said from beside you, mirroring your stance, hands in the pockets of his hoodie like he’d been doing this for years.

you glanced at him — twelve, gangly, hair sticking up at odd angles — and raised one eyebrow. “tranquil, really. zen.”

“serene,” he added, nodding solemnly.

edie’s voice went up an octave and mae hurled a cushion across the room. it missed everyone and hit the dog.

you sighed. “we’re being punished for something.”

“you think mum cursed us for eating the good biscuits?”

“only logical explanation.”

he stood there, shoulder to shoulder with you, arms crossed and expression perfectly blank. and it hit you — not for the first time — how much he’d started to act like you. the timing. the tone. the subtle sarcasm. like he’d watched you handle the chaos a hundred times and decided, yeah. that’s how i’ll do it too.

it was kind of adorable. and also mildly terrifying.

“you know you’re turning into me, right?” you said, half a smile pulling at your mouth.

he shrugged. “there are worse people.”

“aw,” you teased. “is that love i hear?”

“don’t ruin it.”

you tousled his hair. he didn’t fight you, just scowled and smoothed it back in a very you kind of way.

he even sighed like you.

“you’re like a little clone,” you said, grinning. “my echo.”

“your taller echo,” he muttered, smug.

“barely. and watch your attitude, or i’ll make you be the one to tell edie that mae drew hearts around her crush’s name.”

he blanched. “i’ll do the dishes instead.”

“wise choice.”

nicole passed through the doorway, gave you both a look. “if you’re standing there judging everything again, go take the bins out.”

you and oscar, in perfect, practiced unison:

“wouldn’t dream of it.”

“not at all.”

she rolled her eyes. “you’re raising a monster.”

“i’m raising a legend,” you said proudly, clapping a hand on oscar’s shoulder.

he stood a little taller.

and as the house swirled with noise and crashing and the smell of something mildly burning, the two of you remained side by side — still, dry, unfazed — a matching set.

THE END :>

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theclockonthewall · 2 days ago

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Hello , could u pls do mark grayson with a tamaranean!reader girlfriend . Basically headcanons about their relationship and how he teaches her about earth .

A/n: thanks for the ask luvie😘 I'm not too well versed with tamaraneans so I hope this is good enough. This is my first time writing anything ever, so feedback is much appreciated and encouraged.

Word count: 418

Mark grayson x gn!Tamaranean!Reader

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

Mark is immediately fascinated by you—your glowing eyes, vibrant energy, and your open way of expressing emotions.

You’re curious about everything on Earth, and Mark finds your enthusiasm adorable, even if it sometimes causes chaos.

Mark becomes your personal tour guide. Museums, amusement parks, fast food joints—he takes you everywhere.

You’re baffled by Earth customs. Why do humans shake hands? Why do they wear shoes indoors? Why is pineapple on pizza a controversy?

Tamaraneans eat everything. Mark is both impressed and terrified when you drink mustard out of the bottle and burn your pancakes on purpose to make them taste better.

Mark tries one of your native Tamaranean dishes and immediately regrets it—he tried washing the taste away for hours.

After a mission almost gone wrong you confess your feelings to him in a terrified state whiteout even realizing it.

You only understand what just happened when he shuts you up with a kiss.

You go on all kinds of dates together after that. From Mark showing you around the world to silent nights on rooftops.

You both love flying together at night—zooming through clouds, racing planes, or just hovering above the city lights.

You once mistook a blimp for a sky-whale and tried to “rescue” it. Mark had to explain it was just advertising a mattress sale.

Tamaraneans feel emotions deeply, and you’re very expressive—randomly kissing Mark mid-fight because you felt proud of him.

Mark gets flustered but adores how passionate and honest you are.

When you get angry, your powers spike, and Mark learns to help you calm down—not by logic, but by matching your emotion with gentle reassurance.

You’re incredibly affectionate with Mark in front of his parents. Debbie is taken aback but finds you sweet.

Nolan is... skeptical. But he relents when he sees how happy Mark is when he's with you.

You and Mark are a terrifyingly effective duo in battle. You’re more aggressive, and he balances it with strategy.

The Guardians of the Globe are shocked when you punch an enemy through a wall, then turn to Mark with the softest smile like “Did I do well, beloved?”

You’re the fiery, chaotic sunshine, and he’s the grounded, awkard, lovable boyfriend.

#mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x you #invincible #invincible x reader #invincible x you #tamaranean!reader #gn!reader

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mixolya · 3 days ago

Text

ᓚᘏᗢ — sae itoshi: see me !

synopsis: in which you spend your life loving sae itoshi - through childhood, heartbreak and quiet devotion - until the day he finally realizes what he's about to lose.

sae itoshi x reader ⭑ fluff / childhood friends to lovers / little angst if you blink / slow burn / unrequited love likes & reblogs are appreciated <3

wc: 3184

the laughter of children echoed through the small park where you and sae itoshi had spent countless afternoons together. from the moment you both could toddle, your families had deemed it destiny for you to be inseparable.

and for you, it truly felt like fate.

your tiny legs struggled to keep up with sae’s longer strides. you were seven, and he was eight, and though he always teased you for being slow, he never let you fall too far behind.

“come on, slowpoke,” sae called over his shoulder, his signature smirk already making an appearance even at that young age. “you’ll never catch me at this rate.”

you puffed out your cheeks in determination, your heart set on proving him wrong. it had always been that way. sae had been your best friend for as long as you could remember, your constant, your challenge and the boy you were always chasing, in more ways than one.

you wanted to be as fast as him, as smart as him, as everything as him. but most of all, you wanted him to notice you.

by the time you reached him, he was sitting at the base of a tree, his face tipped up toward the sky. his eyes, those piercing teal eyes, always seemed so far away, even when he was right in front of you.

“finally,” he teased, patting the spot next to him. “what took you so long?”

you plopped down beside him, your tiny chest heaving from the effort. “one day,” you declared, pointing a finger at him, “i’m going to beat you at something.”

he snorted. “sure, y/n. keep dreaming.”

but even as he teased you, he handed you the last piece of the popsicle he’d been eating, the sticky sweetness already melting in the heat. it was small moments like these that made your heart flutter, even if you didn’t fully understand why.

⭑

the first time you confessed to sae, you were ten.

the summer sun was relentless, baking the neighborhood in a golden haze. the faint scent of freshly cut grass lingered in the air as you carried a box of cookies, your small hands gripping it tightly as if it were a treasure chest. the cookies inside were anything but ordinary to you, each one careful decorated with soccer balls, stars, and little wobbly attempts at his initials.

you’d spent hours in the kitchen, standing on a stool so you could reach the counter, your tongue peeking out in concentration as you mixed the batter and piped the designs. it was your masterpiece, your way of expressing something that words couldn’t quite capture. your mom had laughed at your determination, helping you wrap the box neatly when you refused to accept her suggestion to keep it simple.

“it’s for sae,” you explained, as if that justified everything.

“oh, it’s for sae,” she teased, her smile warm. “are you sure about this, honey?”

“yes,” you replied, your voice filled with unwavering certainty. “i’m going to tell him today.”

the park buzzed with activity when you arrived, kids shouting as they raced around, parents chatting on benches, and, most importantly, sae and his friends kicking a soccer ball back and forth on the grass. he was in his element, his teal eyes sharp and focused, his movements graceful and precise. your heart thudded loudly in your chest, but you didn’t let the nervousness stop you.

“sae!” you called out, your voice louder than usual to be heard over the noise.

he looked up, pausing mid-kick, and jogged over to you with a curious expression. his hair stuck to his forehead from sweat, but he didn’t seem to care. “y/n? what are you doing here?”

“i-” your voice faltered for a moment, and you clutched the box tighter, summoning your courage. “i made these for you. to, um, celebrate your game last week. you were really good.”

his brows furrowed slightly, and he tilted his head as he took the box from you. “you made these? for me?”

“yeah.” you nodded eagerly, watching as he opened the box to reveal the colorful cookies. his lips twitched upward in the faintest of smiles.

“these are cool,” he said, picking one up and examining it. “thanks.”

it wasn’t the reaction you’d hoped for, but it gave you just enough courage to blurt out the words you’d been rehearsing in your head all morning. “i made them because i like you, sae.”

his head snapped up, his eyes widening in surprise. for a moment, he just stared at you, as if he hadn’t heard you correctly.

“you… like me?” he repeated slowly, his voice chimed with confusion.

you nodded, your cheeks burning. “yeah. i think you’re really cool and really good at soccer, and… and i like you.”

sae blinked, then looked down at the box of cookies again. when he finally spoke, his voice was soft but distant. “that’s… nice of you, y/n. but i think we’re better as friends.”

the words hit harder than you expected, like a bucket of cold water dousing your excitement. you felt your smile falter, but you forced it back into place, nodding quickly. “right. friends. of course.”

sae gave you a small, almost apologetic smile, but it did little to soothe the sting in your chest. as you turned to walk away, your heart felt heavier with each step. you were ten- maybe kids didn't know what love was anyway.

⭑

it had been three years since your first confession, and though sae had never mentioned it again, the memory of it stayed with you, quietly shaping every interaction you had with him. you still spent every possible moment by his side, cheering him on at games, bringing him snacks during practice, and listening to him talk about his dreams of playing professionally.

but as much as you tried to be content with just being his friend, your feelings for him refused to fade. they grew instead, stronger and more complicated, until they became impossible to ignore.

that day, the school gymnasium buzzed with energy as sae’s team celebrated another victory. you stood off to the side, clutching a water bottle for him like you always did. when the team huddled together, you found yourself staring at him, your chest aching with a mix of pride and longing.

as the crowd began to disperse, sae spotted you and jogged over, his teal eyes bright with excitement. ��hey,” he said, his usual cool demeanor softened by the faint smile on his lips.

“hey,” you replied, holding out the water bottle. “you were amazing out there.”

“thanks,” he said, taking a long sip before meeting your gaze. “what’s up? you look like you want to say something.”

your heart skipped a beat. “can we talk? somewhere private?”

sae raised an eyebrow but nodded, following you out of the gym and into the quiet courtyard. the cool evening air was a welcome relief from the stuffy gym, but it did nothing to calm your nerves.

“i um…” you hesitated, your hands twisting together. “i wanted to tell you something.”

he tilted his head, waiting patiently for you to continue.

“i still like you, sae,” you said finally, your voice trembling. “i’ve liked you for a long time, and i don’t think i’ll ever stop.”

for a moment, he just stared at you, his expression unreadable. then he sighed softly, running a hand through his hair.

“y/n,” he began, his voice gentle but firm. “you’re my best friend, y/n. i don't want to risk ruining that."

your chest tightened, and you felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “you wouldn’t ruin it,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “i promise.”

he shook his head, his gaze dropping to the ground. “i don’t want to hurt you.”

the rejection stung more than you cared to admit, but you managed a small, shaky smile. “it’s okay,” you said, your voice breaking slightly. “i just needed you to know.”

as you walked away that evening, the ache in your chest felt heavier than ever.

⭑

the next time you confessed, you were 17.

the evening sky was painted in shades of fiery orange and deep purple, the kind of sunset that made everything feel like it was part of some grand story. you clutched the banner you’d made, the edges slightly crinkled from your nervous grip, and waited outside the locker room. the roar of the stadium still rang faintly in your ears, a distant echo of the game you’d just witnessed. sae had been brilliant, as always - every step, every pass, every goal, reminding you why your heart had been his for so many years.

you told yourself you’d stay quiet this time. you’d just congratulate him, maybe hand him the box of cookies you’d packed, and leave it at that. but as the door swung open and sae walked out, his hair still damp from the shower and his teal eyes scanning the crowd before landing on you, you knew you wouldn’t be able to hold it in.

“y/n,” he called out, a smile tugging at his lips as he approached. “you waited?”

“of course i did,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady despite the way your heart was hammering in your chest. “you were incredible out there. like always.”

he chuckled softly, the sound making your stomach flip. “thanks. it means a lot, you know... having you here.”

those words, simple as they were, felt like a spark of hope. your grip tightened on the banner as you took a deep breath, willing yourself to be brave. “sae,” you began, your voice barely above a whisper. “can we talk? alone?”

his brows furrowed slightly, but he nodded. “sure.”

you led him to a quieter spot, away from the lingering crowd and the celebratory noise. the air was cooler here as he leaned against a railing, his hands stuffed casually in his jacket pockets as he waited for you to speak.

you looked down at the banner in your hands, tracing the letters you’d attentively drawn earlier that day. “i’ve been thinking a lot lately,” you started, your voice trembling slightly. “about us.”

he tilted his head, a flicker of curiosity in his teal eyes. “us?”

you nodded, finally gathering the courage to meet his gaze. “i know i’ve said this before, but i… i still like you, sae. i think i always have.”

his expression didn’t change immediately. he just stared at you, his eyes unreadable, as if he were trying to process your words.

“i’ve liked you since we were kids,” you continued, your voice growing steadier despite the nervous flutter in your chest. “i've liked you through every game, every win, every moment. and i thought… maybe, by now, you might feel the same way.”

sae’s gaze softened, and for a moment, you thought he might actually say something different this time. but then he let out a quiet sigh, his eyes flickering with something that looked like guilt.

“n/n,” he said, his voice low and careful. “i don't think i'm the person you need me to be. i don’t think i can give you what you’re looking for.”

your chest tightened, the words cutting deeper than you’d expected. “why not?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

he looked away, his jaw tightening. “because i don’t see you that way. you’re… you’re my friend. my best friend. i don’t want to mess that up.”

the lump in your throat threatened to choke you, but you forced yourself to keep going, to try one last time. “you wouldn’t mess it up. i promise you wouldn’t. i just…” you took a shaky breath, your hands trembling as you gripped the banner tighter.

he hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ground. “i’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice so soft.

the apology felt like a knife to your chest, but you managed to muster a small, trembling smile. “it’s okay,” you lied, even as your heart shattered into a thousand pieces. “i just… i needed you to know.”

sae looked at you then, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite place - guilt? sadness? regret? but whatever it was, it wasn’t enough to change his answer.

you stood there for a moment longer, the weight of his rejection pressing down on you like a heavy blanket. then, without another word, you turned and walked away, your vision blurred by the tears you refused to let fall until you were out of his sight.

that night, as you lay in bed clutching the plushie he gifted you, you told yourself it was time to let go. still, some small, traitorous piece of you held onto the fantasy that maybe, one day, he'd finally look back.

⭑

the days following your third confession felt like numbness. you’d said it all, laid bare your feelings once again, and for what? the same outcome as before, a gentle rejection wrapped in an apology that felt like a dagger.

you tried to keep your distance after that, throwing yourself into anything that would distract you. schoolwork, clubs, hanging out with friends who weren’t sae. it wasn’t easy, especially when you shared the same social circles, the same routines, the same streets that seemed to echo his name wherever you went.

still, no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stop caring. you couldn’t stop showing up to his games, cheering louder than anyone else. you couldn’t stop baking his favorite cookies after every win, leaving them on his doorstep with a simple note: you did great today. i’m proud of you.

and you couldn’t stop waiting for him after school, even though you told yourself it was just a coincidence that your paths always crossed.

it wasn’t a coincidence, of course. it was you, still hoping, still holding on to the idea that someday he might look at you and see something more.

but things didn’t change. sae was polite, kind even, but he never gave you any reason to believe his feelings had shifted. he still ruffled your hair like you were a kid, still teased you about your quirks - the way you dipped fries in ice cream, or how you only ever drank water, even at parties.

to him, you were the same y/n you’d always been. and that realization, more than anything else, was what finally broke you.

it happened during his last year of high school, just after another big win that cemented his status as one of the country’s brightest soccer prodigies. you’d baked him cookies, of course, a fresh batch of his favorites, and you waited for him outside the stadium like you always did.

but as he approached, smiling that effortless smile that had always made your heart skip a beat, you felt something shift inside you.

he didn’t see you. not really. he saw the girl who’d trailed after him since childhood, the one who’d confessed three times and been turned down every time. he saw the y/n who couldn’t let go, no matter how many times he’d pushed her away.

and suddenly, you didn’t want to be that girl anymore.

“hey,” he said, his voice light as he reached you. “waiting for me again?”

you forced a smile, handing him the bag of cookies. “yeah,” you said, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside you. “here. congrats on the win.”

he took the bag, his smile widening. “thanks. you didn’t have to, you know.”

“i know,” you said, your smile faltering for just a moment. “but i wanted to.”

sae looked at you then, his eyes searching your face like he was trying to figure something out. but whatever he saw, he didn’t comment on it. instead, he just said, “thanks, y/n. you’re the best.”

the words should’ve made your heart flutter like they always did. but this time, they didn’t.

that night, as you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, you made a decision. you weren’t going to wait for sae anymore. you weren’t going to waste any more of your time or your heart on someone who didn’t see you the way you wanted to be seen.

so you stopped baking him cookies. you stopped waiting for him after school. you stopped showing up to every game.

and at first, sae didn’t seem to notice.

but then a week passed, then two, then three, and the absence of your usual gestures began to feel like a missing piece he couldn’t ignore. the cookies stopped appearing on his doorstep. the familiar sight of you waiting for him after practice was gone. even your cheers during his games were quieter, less frequent.

it wasn’t like you were avoiding him completely. you still greeted him in passing, still laughed at his jokes when you hung out with mutual friends. but there was a distance now, one he couldn’t quite explain.

it gnawed at him in ways he didn’t understand. or maybe he did, but he didn’t want to admit it.

he missed you.

it was subtle at first, a faint tug in his chest whenever he realized you weren’t there. but as the weeks turned into months, that tug grew stronger, until it became an ache he couldn’t ignore.

he thought about all the times you’d been there for him, all the little things you’d done that he’d taken for granted. the cookies, the notes, the unwavering support. the way you’d looked at him like he was the only person in the world who mattered.

and he realized he missed it.

he missed you.

sae didn’t know when it happened - when the thought of losing you became unbearable. but he knew he couldn’t let it happen. not without trying to fix things.

so one evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the sky in hues of gold and pink, he found himself standing outside your house, his heart pounding in a way it never had before.

when you opened the door and saw him standing there, your eyes widened in surprise. “sae? what are you doing here?”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he just looked at you, taking in the sight of the girl he’d known his entire life - the girl he’d been too blind to see properly until now.

“i miss you,” he said finally, his voice soft but steady. “i miss… everything.”

you stared at him, your expression unreadable. “sae, i-”

“i know i messed up,” he said quickly, cutting you off. “i know i've been an idiot. but i’m asking you to give me a chance. just one chance. please.”

for a long moment, you said nothing, your eyes searching his face for any sign that this was some kind of joke. but all you saw was sincerity, a vulnerability you’d never seen in him before.

and for the first time in a long time, hope flickered in your chest.

note: nensi submitted this hi nensi

#mixolya!#itoshi sae x reader #itoshi sae #sae #sae itoshi x reader #itoshi sae imagines #sae itoshi imagines #bllk #bllk x reader #bllk imagines #bluelock #sae x reader #sae imagines #sae itoshi fluff #itoshi sae fluff #sae fluff #bllk fluff

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fluemsiie · 3 days ago

Text

eternal prize [ d. winchester ]

synopsis. you and dean have some news for your family notes. violence, bruises, flinching, getting attacked by someone — comments & rbs appreciated. REQ

it all went so fast, Dean loved you one second and proposed the next: you were both in bed, he was propped up on one elbow, leaning down to kiss you slowly before mumbling, “marry me.”

you let out a small laugh when the words register, kissing him again. he pulls away, “i’m serious.” you furrow your eyebrows, sitting up on the bed and he does too, both his hands holding yours in your lap. just looking up into his eyes— god, you want to say yes.

“stop it, dean, this is stupid.” and it hurts just a little but he knows what you mean. he doesn’t have the money for a ring, he’s unreliable and constantly moving around for jobs, you don’t even know about hunting and he’s asking you to marry him. but he can’t help it. dean’s chest closes up when you aren’t near and yet he never wants to leave your side.

“i don’t want to wait till we’ve known each other for decades before i get the chance to ask you to marry me.” so apparently knowing you a year is more than enough time for him. to be honest, you’re more in love with dean than he can ever be with you, your heart beats for him and you know it but he’s asking you to marry him. he wants a wedding, or you’re sure he’s thinking of eloping, he wants kids, he wants the white fence.

“i love you.” he expresses, “please say something.” you break out in a smile, laughing as you pull him in for a kiss.

“yes, yes, yes,” you keep saying it in between kisses and dean’s hands don’t stop roaming around your entire body that night, like he’s taking in that you’re his wife now. that all of you is his now.

today, the morning after, you’re both at your parents house. he’s never met your dad, saw your mother once when she was staying at your place and he came to visit. he used to be glad you live alone, now it’s overwhelming meeting your entire family at once.

“baby, when you said you have a lot of siblings—”

“i meant nine.” right. because that’s what someone usually means when they say they have so many siblings. not a normal five or six. seven of your siblings are sisters, and the two boys aren’t here, you mentioned something about studying in canada and it’s the best news dean’s ever heard. he’s not sure he can handle more than six girls, your mother and your father.

the second your younger sister opens the door, you jump into her arm. “oh my god, i’ve missed you!” she’s the only one you’ve missed, all the others usually call once a week, but your younger sister is in the middle of exams so she never has the time. she hugs back, letting go to face dean. he clears his throat and extends his arm.

“dean winchester,” he’s about to say he’s your boyfriend before she pulls him into a hug.

“can’t believe you think we haven’t heard of you. it’s literally the only thing she talks about.” he laughs, hugging her back. the rest of your siblings are easy, your oldest sister flirts with him shamlessly and he learns it’s her nature to get with your boyfriends. good thing he isn’t your boyfriend— but your fiancé.

“where’s mom?” you ask when you’ve introduced him to everyone including the family dogs (sadie and lily love him). “she’s not in the kitchen, is she—” the last time your mother tried to cook it didn’t end well for any of you. thankfully, you hear her voice behind you.

“i’m right here, darling.” she says pointedly and you turn around to jump in her arms, yelling ‘mommy’. it doesn’t matter how old you are or where you go you will always be a mommy’s girl. she’s your best friend and the one person you go to with everything, so even if she and dean haven’t officially met, they know everything about each other. you talk about her constantly to him and vice versa.

he greets your mother politely and she returns it. she takes your hands in hers and you hug her again instead before letting go to look for your you dad. while you’re sure your siblings didn’t notice, your mother would feel the old family ring on your finger and ask questions. dean gave it to you last night, said it meant more to him than anything and that the second he can, he’ll buy you a real one.

but honestly, this is all you need. you want to matter enough to him that he gives you his father’s ring. you want him to talk to sam about you, his uncle bobby, you want him to love you, that’s all you care about. and you’re lucky he does— god he does.

you both walk to the garden where you father mostly works on his laptop. it was your mother’s choice because she’s always wanted a villa facing the beach but now your dad is the one who spends most of his time out here.

dean catches the strict expression on your father’s face, his heart constricting for you. he knows that look. he sees the way your dad’s clenching one of his hands, focusing on his work and he feels honest to god heartbroken. you’ve never said your dad was another john; not that you spoke about him much.

“daddy!” you say loudly, running from the back porch to his chair. he stands up and his body immediately relaxes on your touch.

dean doesn’t know much about what he wants in the future, but in that moment, seeing you and your father he knows two things: he wants to spend his life with you, and he wants to be as good a father to his kids as yours is to you. your dad let go of everything the second you called out for him, nothing mattered more than you and that’s the one thing he hopes he can give his future kids.

“dean,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. he notices he’s still planted on the porch and quickly walks over to the two of you. “dad, this is dean, my boyfriend.” you worry your bottom lip between your teeth, the way you usually do, and it takes everything in dean not to reach out to pull it away with his thumb like he always does. he faces your father.

“hello, sir.” he shakes his hand. “you have a beautiful house, and a great family.”

your father smiles, nodding appreciatively and saying a quick ‘thank you’. he’s about to sit back down but you stop him. “daddy! i, uh, we actually wanna tell you something—”

“oh i swear if you’re pregnant—”

“daddy! of course not, you know i wouldn’t,” he lets out a short sigh, “but we need to tell you something. you and mum. meet us in the kitchen?” your father seems confused but agrees.

as you and your fiancé walk back to the kitchen, your hand in his, you’re shifty. “you ready?”

“since i first met you, sweet girl.”

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aventurineswife · 1 day ago

Note

Ok I thought of something silly:

There’s an old lady NPC running a grocery stand in Okhema’s Marmoreal Market, Demetria.

Reader and Dan Heng are there to do a little shopping (they have to feed themselves, after all) and Demetria shuffles a few extra pomegranates into their bag, on the house.

Demetria: “For you and your husband.” 😉

Reader’s too stunned to correct her that, yes, they’re in a relationship with Dan Heng, but not married.

…Should I note that pomegranates are often a symbol of fertility? 😅 Nevermind that Vidyadhara are unable to reproduce—

Sweet as Pomegranate

Summary: While shopping for supplies in Okhema’s Marmoreal Market, you and Dan Heng encounter Demetria, an old woman running a grocery stand. After she mistakenly refers to you both as a married couple, you're left flustered, but Dan Heng remains his usual composed self. The encounter ends with the old woman giving you extra pomegranates, and offering her blessings for your "union." Though you're embarrassed by the misunderstanding, there's a quiet comfort in the bond you share, even without labels.

Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Fluff, Light Humor, Mild Embarrassment.

The bustling Marmoreal Market in Okhema was a mix of colors and scents—vendors calling out to passersby, fresh produce piled high, and the air thick with the chatter of travelers and locals alike. Dan Heng and you moved through the maze of stalls, your destination set but still taking in the sights. The two of you didn’t often spend much time on leisurely shopping trips, but today felt different. Perhaps it was the quiet calm between you, the sounds of the market filling in the spaces of a shared silence.

“Do we need anything specific?” you asked, glancing up at Dan Heng, whose sharp gaze had already scanned the nearby stands for anything of value.

He nodded, his tone as composed as ever. “We’re running low on supplies. I’ll leave the rest to you.”

That was Dan Heng’s way of leaving the choice to you. He didn’t care much about food selection, so long as it kept them fueled for the journey. You smiled, feeling a little more at ease in the lively chaos of the market.

You approached a stall tucked at the corner of the market, an old woman with silver hair and a warm, wrinkled face sitting behind a counter stacked high with fruits. She looked up as you approached, her bright eyes twinkling with something mischievous.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the quiet young man and his lovely companion,” she greeted, her voice carrying a touch of playfulness that immediately put you at ease. “Come to get some fresh pomegranates, I suppose?”

You blinked, your thoughts a little slower to catch up. You weren’t sure how she knew your names, but you didn’t have much time to dwell on it.

“Yes, please,” you said, nodding. “We’ll take a few pomegranates.”

The elderly woman smiled as she carefully plucked the ripe fruits, placing them into a woven bag. Her hands moved with the practiced precision of someone who had spent countless years at this task.

As she reached for a few more, she added in a voice just low enough that only you and Dan Heng could hear, “For you and your husband.”

You froze. The words hung in the air, unexpected and startling. A blush crept up your neck, and you opened your mouth to correct her, but the words caught in your throat. You were too stunned to explain the mistake that had just been made. You glanced at Dan Heng, who remained perfectly composed, his usual impassive expression unreadable.

The old woman didn’t seem to notice your hesitation as she shuffled a few more pomegranates into the bag. “For good health and good fortune, yes? A lovely couple like you deserves to have something sweet.” Her smile was warm, and her eyes sparkled with something playful—or perhaps knowing.

You blinked, not quite sure how to respond. It wasn’t that you were uncomfortable with the idea of being thought of as Dan Heng’s partner. It was just… the husband part. You weren’t married. Not that the idea hadn’t crossed your mind a few times, especially during the quiet moments you shared with him on the Astral Express. But there was a certain weight to the word, something formal and unspoken, that made you hesitant.

But Demetria was already wrapping up the pomegranates, slipping them into a bag with a wink. “On the house,” she said, her tone as light and teasing as ever.

You opened your mouth to protest, but she held up a hand. “No need to argue, dear. Consider it a gift for your lovely union. Blessings for the future, hmm?”

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, and you looked over at Dan Heng, your thoughts racing. How would he react? To your surprise, his face remained as unreadable as ever. There was no sign of discomfort, amusement, or annoyance—nothing to give away what he was thinking. He simply nodded politely, accepting the bag of pomegranates with the same quiet composure he always held.

You felt your heart race, unsure of what to say. Finally, you managed a soft, “Thank you…”

Demetria winked again, then turned to Dan Heng. “Take care of them now, won’t you? A man should always take care of his spouse.” She said it with the kind of certainty that only comes from a lifetime of experience.

Dan Heng, ever the enigma, merely gave a small nod. "I will." His voice was calm, but there was something else in it—something you couldn’t quite place.

Once you were out of earshot, your embarrassment finally broke free, and you turned to Dan Heng with a small laugh. “Well, that was… unexpected.”

Dan Heng’s response was as measured as always. “It’s not uncommon for people to assume things,” he said, his eyes catching yours for the briefest moment before he turned away. “We should head back.”

You couldn’t help but smile a little at his nonchalant attitude. His reserved nature hadn’t allowed him to clarify anything either—he’d let the old woman’s words hang there, unanswered. But despite the awkwardness of the situation, there was something comforting in the way Dan Heng remained unfazed, even in the face of a misunderstanding.

The two of you walked side by side through the market, the pomegranates quietly swaying in the bag between you, as the weight of the words settled in your mind.

Perhaps you weren't married. But that didn’t make the connection between you and Dan Heng any less meaningful. And maybe, just maybe, you both could share a quiet understanding about it, without needing to define it with labels. For now, you’d leave it as it was—like the fruits you carried, ripe with promise and yet undefined.

And as for the old woman’s blessings… you’d let them be a little joke between you, something sweet, like the pomegranates themselves.

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minyoongisnewthing · 2 days ago

Text

Han river lullaby chapter six | myg

Chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

Genre: angst, fluff, exs to lovers, eventual smut, idol!au, co parents, second chance romance.

Chapter warnings: Child injury (non graphic), parental guilt, anxiety/panic and mild swearing. Happy ending to the chapter

Word count: 7.1k approximately

Authors notes: this one also got a bit away from me in turns of word vomit, I hope you all enjoy the little bit of chaos we get in the form of uncle Hobi. As always let me know thoughts and anything i may have missed as a trigger warning in the comments thank you!

The weekend came, and like clockwork, you dropped Han off at Yoongi’s. It had become routine now—bittersweet in its familiarity. You kissed your son’s forehead, ruffled his hair, and watched the way he practically ran into Yoongi’s arms without a second thought. That part still got you. The way Han beamed when he saw his father. The way Yoongi looked at him like he was everything. Because he was.

You needed this break—not from Han, never from him—but from the whirlwind your life had become. Between balancing work, emotions you hadn’t fully processed, and the slow-burn reentry of Yoongi into your heart, your world felt like it was constantly spinning. You texted Hannah, your closest friend, suggesting a time and a quiet café you used to frequent before life became so complicated.

To your relief, she replied almost instantly. “Absolutely! I’ve missed you. I’ll be there.”

When you stepped into the cozy café later that afternoon, the scent of freshly baked pastries and espresso hit you like a warm blanket. Soft indie music played from overhead, and sunlight filtered through the windows, casting a golden glow over the polished wooden floors.

Hannah was already there, seated at a small table by the window, waving enthusiastically when she saw you. You grinned and made your way over, the familiarity of her presence instantly easing the tightness in your chest.

“Hey, stranger,” she said, pulling you into a brief hug before you both settled into your seats.

“No Han today?” She asked, her tone casual as she flipped through the menu.

You hesitated for a moment, carefully keeping your voice neutral. “No, um… he’s actually with his father today.”

her eyes widened, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Oh, wow. You didn’t tell me Han’s dad was back in the picture like that, just that you’d wanted to have them meet. This is fantastic!”

You nodded, taking a sip of your latte to stall for time. “Yeah… Well, we’re… we’re working on it, Working on us.” You paused, your tone growing serious. “You should see them, the way he loves Han, and Han loves him. That’s all that matters.”

Her expression softened, and she nodded in understanding. “I get it. I’m glad you’re both working on things, though.” She reached across the table to squeeze your hand. “I know it’s not easy, but it’s good that you’re doing it for Han.”

You offered her a small, grateful smile, your chest tightening with unspoken emotion.

The rest of your meal passed in easy conversation, laughter bubbling between bites of pastry and sips of coffee. You talked about her recent trip to Busan, your delight at finally getting some updated equipment at work, the latest show you’d binged while Han napped.

And then your phone buzzed.

You pulled it from your pocket, expecting a text. But your heart raced when you saw Yoongi’s name flash across the screen.

“Excuse me for a sec,” you said, already rising from your chair.

You answered as you stepped outside the café, heart thudding. “Hey.”

His voice was frantic, barely held together. “Y/N… fuck. It’s Han. We were playing tag in the kitchen, he slipped—he fell. He landed on his arm and it just doesn’t look right. He’s crying and I—shit, I should’ve been more careful, I—”

“Yoongi,” you interrupted gently, your voice steady despite the cold panic creeping up your spine. “Hey, listen to me. Breathe. Just breathe, okay?”

You could hear him trying, dragging in a shaky inhale, the sound of Han crying faintly in the background.

“Take him to ASAN,” you said quickly. “I’ll meet you there. It’s going to be okay, just keep breathing and get him there safe.”

“Okay,” Yoongi whispered. “I’m going now. I’ll see you soon.”

The call disconnected. You stood frozen for a beat, the weight of the moment sinking in like a stone in your stomach.

You rushed back inside, grabbing your things with shaking hands.

“Hannah, I’m so sorry—I have to go. Han’s hurt. He fell and hurt his arm.”

Her eyes widened, immediately concerned. “Oh my God—do you need me to come with you?”

You shook your head, already moving. “No, no—it’s okay. I just need to get to him.”

“Text me, please. Let me know if he's alright?”

You nodded once, then darted out the door.

The drive to the hospital was a blur of red lights and clenched fists. You gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles went white. Every second felt like an eternity. The thought of Han in pain, of Yoongi blaming himself, was unbearable. Your mind spun with worst-case scenarios—fractures, surgery, how scared Han must be.

You took deep breaths, blinking back tears as the hospital finally came into view. Your heart hammered in your chest, every instinct screaming at you to get inside, to get to your baby.

And Yoongi.

Because if you knew him at all—and you did—he’d be falling apart just as much.

When you finally reached the ER, the sterile brightness of the fluorescent lights hit your eyes as you rushed inside, your heart pounding so hard it echoed in your ears. You scanned the waiting area with frantic urgency, barely aware of the people around you until you caught sight of him—Yoongi—through the glass wall of one of the triage rooms.

His usually composed frame was in motion, pacing tight circles like a man trying to outwalk his own guilt. His black cap was pulled low, almost shielding his face, but you could still see the strain etched into it. His glasses sat crookedly on the bridge of his nose, and he looked like he hadn’t taken a full breath since calling you. His eyes—wild and glassy—lifted when he saw you approaching, and the smallest crack of relief broke across his features.

You didn’t stop walking until you reached the doorway, and as soon as your eyes landed on Han, everything else dropped away.

Your son was lying on the narrow hospital bed, his arm cradled in a pediatric sling, his face was pale, eyelids heavy with the weight of whatever medication they’d given him. He looked so small like that—fragile in a way that clawed at your heart.

“Oh, Han… baby boy…” your voice came out softer than you expected, a gentle whisper as you crossed the threshold and made your way to his bedside. You crouched down, brushing the hair from his forehead, your thumb feather-light against his temple.

Han blinked slowly, his pupils sluggish under the influence of pain relief. “It wasn’t Appa’s fault, eomma,” he mumbled, his words sticky and slurred. “I tripped.”

Your heart squeezed. Even drugged and half-asleep, he was trying to protect Yoongi.

“I know, baby,” you murmured, kissing his forehead. “I know. You were just playing, and accidents happen. You’re such a brave boy.”

You ran your fingers gently down his good arm, letting your touch remind him—and yourself—that he was here, he was safe, and he was going to be okay.

Behind you, you felt Yoongi’s presence shift. You stood slowly and turned to face him. He hadn’t moved from the spot he’d frozen in, like he didn’t know if he was allowed to come closer. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, his shoulders high with tension. His feline eyes darted to the floor as though afraid to meet yours, waiting for blame he clearly believed he deserved.

Without thinking, you stepped into him and wrapped your arms around his middle.

At first, he froze. Then, as if your touch cracked something open, his body sagged forward, his arms snapping around you like a lifeline. You felt him tremble, felt the tremor in his breath as it escaped shakily against your shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” he rasped, voice low and raw. “It happened so fast. One second we were playing tag, and the next he was on the ground, screaming, holding his arm—and I panicked, Y/N. I panicked so hard. I didn’t know what to do except call you and get him here. But I—fuck, I should’ve been watching more closely.”

You held him tighter, your fingers pressing into the soft fabric of his hoodie. “Yoongi. Look at me.”

He did—reluctantly—and the anguish in his eyes nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

“He’s okay, you’re okay, we are okay,” you said firmly, gently but without room for doubt. “You did exactly what a good parent does. You got him help. He’s here, and he’s getting care. That scream you’re beating yourself up over? That was fear, not blame. He still loves you. And so do I—for being the kind of father who panics because he cares so damn much.”

Something in Yoongi’s expression softened, his eyes blinking quickly like he couldn’t quite believe you weren’t yelling, weren’t turning away, weren’t cussing him out. He nodded faintly, like he was still trying to make himself believe it.

Han stirred behind you, his voice a sleepy slur. “Eomma… I’m sleepy.”

You turned and moved quickly to the bed, brushing your fingers through his hair again. “You can sleep, my love. We’re both right here.”

His lips parted in a soft sigh, and his body relaxed against the bed. Yoongi joined you at the bedside, hovering but not crowding. You reached out and took his hand, anchoring him again.

“Let’s sit,” you said, nodding toward the chairs. “Doctor will be back soon.”

You tugged gently until he followed you to the seat beside the bed. Even seated, his knee bounced with anxious energy, his thumb running circles into his palm. You reached over, taking his hand again, and laced your fingers through his.

“Hey, did I ever tell you the story of when Han got a really nasty stomach bug from preschool?” you asked, hoping to shift the mood, knowing that Yoongi needed a distraction.

He shook his head, eyes still flickering over to Han. “No, I don’t think you ever did.”

“Well, let me tell you,” you started, leaning back in the chair and settling in. “It was so bad, Yoon. The kid went through three pairs of undies a day minimum, his little face was so pale. And to top it all off, he projectile-vomited down my shirt. Right down my front, at least twice.”

You felt Yoongi’s body stiffen at first, before it shook with quiet laughter. The tension easing, just slightly, as you continued. “I kid you not, I’m talking some Exorcist type shit here. Right down my shirt, and the poor thing—Han was so, so sick. It was coming hard out of both ends, not a pretty picture I know. I considered just living in the shower with him for a few days, But you know what?”

Yoongi looked at you, his eyes soft with amusement, but full of that underlying worry. “What?”

“He healed,” you said, voice steady with the weight of your words. “He got better, just like he will now. Our bodies, especially kids, are more resilient than we give them credit for.”

You saw Yoongi’s shoulders relax as he listened, and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. There was still fear in his eyes, but a flicker of hope, of reassurance, began to take root. You squeezed his hand gently, your thumb brushing the back of his palm.

Yoongi looked at you again, this time holding your gaze longer, something tender flickering in his eyes. “Advice like that you, some kind of doctor or something?”

You smiled. “Something like that. But mostly, right now I’m just a mum who’s seen too much barf.”

A soft rustle from the bed made you both turn.

Han, who had been fighting sleep, mumbled groggily from his position in the bed, his little voice cracking as he blinked his heavy eyes open. “You know she is, Appa,” he mumbled, still half-asleep. His words were thick with drowsiness, and you couldn’t help but smile as he slowly curled in on himself, snuggling deeper into the blanket.

You reached out, brushing your hand through his soft hair. “Sleep, baby boy,” you murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Me and Appa will be here when you wake up.”

The room fell into a peaceful silence again, save for the soft beeping of the monitors and Han’s steady, slow breaths all mixing with the bustle of the hospital halls. You leaned back in your chair, feeling the quiet settle over you both, knowing Yoongi needed this moment to just breathe and be present with Han.

The soft knock at the door broke the quiet like a ripple across still water. You looked up, your hand still wrapped around Yoongi’s, as the doctor stepped in with a clipboard in one hand and a kind expression softening the professional lines of his face.

“Hello,” he greeted gently, voice low and warm like he was trying not to disturb the stillness of the room. His gaze shifted immediately to Han, lying pale in the hospital bed, the rhythmic beep of the monitor the only sign that time hadn’t stopped altogether. He moved toward the bed and leaned in, his brows furrowing with practiced focus as he scanned the machines and gently examined Han’s arm.

“How’s he doing?”

You offered a small smile, but your voice was even and measured, like you were holding onto your composure by the thinnest thread. “He’s resting. They gave him a low dose of morphine, judging by his chart, so he’s pretty out of it.”

The doctor nodded, carefully lifting the blanket back to inspect the temporary splint cradling Han’s arm. His movements were slow, deliberate, respectful—as if the weight of the moment wasn’t lost on him. Then he looked up, and the shift in his expression was subtle but unmistakable: a gentle seriousness, the kind that told you the news was coming, and it wasn’t the kind you ever wanted to hear.

“I’m afraid the X-rays confirm it’s a break,” he said gently, voice like silk over stone. “A clean one, thankfully—no fragmentation or damage to the growth plate. It’ll heal well with time. We’ll get a cast on him shortly. He’ll need to wear it for about six to eight weeks, and we’ll want to schedule a follow-up in a few days to monitor swelling and placement. But there’s no reason to expect any lasting complications.”

The words were meant to reassure, but you saw the way Yoongi crumbled beside you, piece by piece. His face fell like a shadow washing over him. His jaw clenched tight, the tendons in his neck taut like strings under too much pressure. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at Han—small, fragile, unmoving—and you felt his grip tighten around your fingers.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “A broken arm…” He swallowed, his throat working hard. “God. I never should’ve let him run like that. I should’ve been watching him better. I should’ve caught him.”

You turned toward him, no hesitation in the way you brought your free hand up to rest on his cheek, forcing him to look at you.

“Yoongi,” you said softly but with firm conviction. “It was an accident. A split second. You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t fail him, you hear me.”

His eyes searched yours like he was trying to find a truth he couldn’t quite believe himself, and for a moment, he looked so lost it broke something in your chest. But before he could respond, a soft sound came from the bed—a small, sleepy murmur from Han as he shifted beneath the blanket, brows twitching in dreamlike confusion. His little body stayed limp from the sedation, but the sight alone was grounding.

The doctor gave Han’s arm one last check and offered you both a smile, warmer this time. “We’ll have the cast on soon. He can go home later today. Just monitor him closely for any unusual symptoms—fever, vomiting, increased pain. You know the drill, Y/N.”

You nodded. “Thank you.”

As the doctor stepped out, the door eased shut behind him with a click that felt far too final. Silence settled in again, thick and full of everything unsaid. Yoongi slowly sank into the chair beside Han’s bed, his elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward, staring at Han like he could memorize him, preserve him exactly like this—safe, breathing, here.

His hand trembled as he reached out, brushing a dark lock of hair from Han’s forehead with delicate fingers. He lingered there, his breath shuddering in and out of his lungs. Then, in a voice so raw it barely held together:

“I just wanted to be a good father.”

You knelt beside him, sliding your hands around one of his, grounding him with the warmth of your touch.

“You are,” you said, steady and certain. “You love him. You protect him. You were there when it mattered. That’s what makes you a good father, Yoongi. Not perfection. Love.”

He stared at you, vulnerability etched into every line of his face, and for a moment, the mask he so often wore slipped entirely away. And then he pulled you into him—arms wrapping around your shoulders, his body curling toward yours like he was seeking shelter. You melted into his embrace, anchoring him with your weight, with your presence, with every quiet beat of your heart saying I’m here. I’ve got you.

The nurse came in soon after, gently waking Han and wrapping his arm in a bright blue cast at his sleepy request. Han’s dazed, slurred voice cracked the tension like a blessing, and you couldn’t help the watery chuckle that escaped you.

“Blue, huh?” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Good choice, baby. It’s strong. Just like you.”

Han smiled, woozy but proud, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks. Even in pain, even groggy, he was still your little light.

Once the discharge papers were signed and the car seat secured, you carried Han carefully through the hospital’s dim hallway, Yoongi never more than a breath away. He held the door, adjusted the blanket on Han’s lap, buckled him in as gently as if he were made of porcelain. And the entire drive home, he followed you close—his car steady in your rearview mirror, a silent guardian even in his own storm.

At home, you set Han up on the couch, cushioning him with pillows and draping a familiar blanket over his small frame. He barely stirred. The sedatives still tugged him under, but his breathing was steady, peaceful.

Yoongi entered quietly behind you, slipping off his shoes and padding into the living room like he didn’t want to disturb anything, not even the air. He knelt beside the couch, hands reaching out as if asking permission from the universe to touch his son. Then, with a whisper-soft motion, he brushed Han’s bangs aside, his thumb trailing over the curve of his cheek.

“I’m so sorry, Han baby,” Yoongi choked out, voice breaking in the middle. “Appa’s so, so sorry…”

Han’s lashes fluttered. His lips parted as he mumbled, barely above a breath, “I still love you, Appa… was ‘ccident…”

The broken, choked sound Yoongi made was half-sob, half-laugh. He caught Han’s tiny fingers in his own, bowing his head until his forehead rested against the back of Han’s hand. You could see the shudder in his shoulders, the way he clung to the only truth that mattered—Han’s love was still there. Undimmed. Unshaken.

You moved closer, resting a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder, grounding him once again.

“He doesn’t blame you,” you whispered. “You shouldn’t either.”

He nodded slowly, not trusting himself to speak. Only when you gently coaxed him to his feet did he follow you, his steps reluctant, gaze flicking back to Han every few seconds like he needed to make sure he was still breathing.

You sat him at the dining table and poured him a glass of water. He gripped it but didn’t drink, instead leaning his head back against the wall, his fingers locked tight around the cup.

“I really thought I failed him today,” he murmured, eyes distant. “That scream—I’ll never forget that sound, I never want to hear him like that again. It felt like my heart stopped. All I could think was, I let him get hurt.”

You sat down beside him, your shoulder brushing his. Without a word, you leaned your head against him, letting the silence fill in the cracks with something soft and real.

“You didn’t” you said firmly. “You were scared because you love him. And he knows that. He’s not going to remember the fall. He’s going to remember waking up and seeing you there. Holding his hand. Carrying him home.”

Yoongi exhaled slowly, like he was trying to let go of something he wasn’t quite ready to release.

“If you want you can stay the night,” you said quietly. “I know you won’t want to leave him.”

His gaze met yours, soft and weary but grateful. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “If that’s okay… I’d really like that.”

Later that night, after everything had settled into the quiet rhythm of sleep, you checked on them one last time. You paused in the doorway, heart catching at the sight before you.

Yoongi lay curled on Han’s bed, his long frame tucked in awkwardly but protectively around Han’s smaller body. One of his arms was draped gently across Han’s waist, while Han’s good hand fisted into the fabric of Yoongi’s shirt. They were both snoring—Han soft and high-pitched, Yoongi deep and rumbling, a mismatched lullaby of exhaustion and peace.

You covered your mouth to stifle a laugh, warmth blooming in your chest.

“Snores just like me, huh?” you whispered, smiling to yourself. “Liar.”

You pulled the door partway shut, leaving it just open enough to hear them if they stirred.

As you padded softly back to your room, you carried the weight of the day with you—but it was different now. The fear had ebbed, and in its place, there was love. So much love it felt like it might burst from your chest.

Han would heal. Yoongi would forgive himself, even if it took time. And in this little home, on this long, hard day, you had all held onto each other. And that—that—was what mattered most.

Two weeks into wearing his cast, Han had officially had enough. And he wasn’t afraid to let you—or anyone else for that matter—know about it.

His little pale face scrunched up in frustration, brows furrowed as he whined, his untamed hair flopping into his eyes. He wriggled in his car seat, kicking his legs in irritation, trying desperately to reach an itch he simply couldn’t get to.

“Eomma! It’s itchy!” he cried, his voice full of dramatic despair.

You sighed, sparing him a sympathetic glance as you maneuvered through the morning traffic.

“I know, baby, I know,” you cooed, reaching over to rub his good hand reassuringly. “But remember that means it’s healing. Just think about all the fun you’re going to have with Appa this weekend! And Uncle Hobi will be there today too! You guys are going to do so many fun things together.”

Han stilled at that, his pout still firmly in place but his little mind clearly weighing with the promise of excitement. Han’s head tilted slightly. You could practically hear the gears in his little brain turning. Uncle Hobi usually meant snacks, dancing. And chaos.

Eventually, you pulled into Yoongi’s apartment complex, parking in your usual spot. Grabbing Han’s weekend bag, you helped him out of his seat, taking his good hand in yours as you walked to the elevator.

As soon as the doors slid open on Yoongi’s floor, the sound of a familiar voice greeted you.

“There’s my favorite nephew!”

Before Han could even react, Hoseok scooped him up, twirling him in the air with ease, making the toddler burst into delighted giggles.

“Uncle Hoba!” Han shrieked between fits of laughter, clinging to Hoseok’s shoulders.

“How’s my little champ?” Hobi asked, settling Han onto his hip.

Han’s face scrunched up again, this time full of grievance. With a sigh, he launched into a passionate retelling of his horrible morning—the itchiness of his cast, the tragic betrayal of his own legs that led to his fall in the kitchen, and the pure injustice of having to wear the itchy cast for four more weeks.

Over the top of Han’s head, Hobi caught your gaze, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He grinned wide, mouthing, “Dramatic like his Appa.”

You bit back a laugh, nodding in agreement as you mouthed back, “trust me, You have no idea.”

Your eyes flickered to Yoongi then, and for a second, you faltered. He was dressed casually—loose black shorts and a worn-out hoodie, his black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, his bare face soft and relaxed in the warm light of his apartment. It wasn’t a look you saw often, but it suited him.

Shaking the thought away, you cleared your throat. “Han’s been having a bit of an off morning, the cast is really bugging him.” you told Yoongi, watching as his sharp eyes softened slightly when they landed on his son.

Yoongi nodded, stepping forward to brush a gentle hand over Han’s head. “That so?”

“Uh-huh,” Han nodded, laying his head against Hobi’s shoulder.

Yoongi smirked. “Well, guess I’ll just have to keep you too busy to think about it, huh?”

That seemed to do the trick. Han perked up instantly, nodding enthusiastically as he wiggled out of Hobi’s arms to stand on his own.

Satisfied that he was in good hands, you knelt in front of Han, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “Be good for Appa, okay?, I’ll see you Monday to take you to school”

“I will!” he promised eagerly, already bouncing on his feet, excitement replacing his earlier frustrations.

With one last lingering look at Yoongi, you said your goodbyes, heading out leaving Han with Yoongi for the weekend.

By the time Monday rolled around, you were already running a bit late, juggling your coffee in one hand and Han’s backpack in the other as you arrived at Yoongi’s apartment to pick him up for preschool.

Han practically bounced out the door, his tiny sneakers slapping against the pavement as he raced toward you, arms stretched wide. His little face was glowing with excitement, cheeks flushed pink from the chilly air and the endless energy only a three-year-old could summon.

“Eomma! Eomma! Appa took me to the arcade!” he cried as you knelt to scoop him into your arms. “And Uncle Hobi got me the biggest ice cream ever! It was this big!” He stretched his arms as wide as they could go for emphasis. “And we played music, and—and I beat Appa at the claw machine! Twice!”

You laughed softly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear as you buckled him into his car seat, nodding along as he rambled, his words tumbling over each other in his excitement. His little hands waved animatedly as he tried to cram every detail of his thrilling weekend into the short ride to preschool.

It wasn’t until you pulled into the preschool parking lot and unbuckled him, lifting him out of his seat, that you noticed something… different.

Your eyes narrowed, suspicion prickling at the back of your mind.

“Han… where did you get this jacket?”

Han just beamed up at you, pure innocence radiating from his face, his gummy grin—so reminiscent of his father’s—spreading wide across his cheeks.

He tugged at the soft fabric proudly, leaning forward a little so you could admire it properly.

It was new.

And not just any new—it was Louis Vuitton new.

The unmistakable monogram was stitched subtly but unmistakably into the soft, buttery fabric. Even someone with no eye for fashion would’ve recognized it. Luxury practically dripped off the jacket.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, pinching the bridge of your nose, a culprit coming to mind instantly.

Han, oblivious to your inner turmoil, cheerfully kissed your cheek and dashed inside toward his teacher, shouting over his shoulder, “Love you, Eomma!!” before disappearing into the colorful chaos of the preschool.

You stood there for a moment longer, staring after him with a mixture of helpless affection and pure, unfiltered exasperation.

Sighing heavily, you made your way back to the car, already pulling out your phone.

Hoseok picked up on the third ring, and the second you heard his voice—already thick with barely contained laughter—you knew he was guilty.

“Y/N! What a surprise!” he said, so delightedly that you nearly saw red.

“JUNG HOSEOK.” You took a steadying breath, gripping the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles turned white.

“MY THREE-YEAR-OLD TODDLER DOES NOT NEED TO BE WEARING LOUIS VUITTON TO PRESCHOOL. WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? DO YOU KNOW HE’S GOING TO COME HOME ABSOLUTELY COVERED IN GLITTER, GLUE AND PAINT?!”

There was a beat of silence—and then Hoseok completely lost it.

His laughter burst through the phone line, the kind of laughter that shook his whole body, loud and unapologetic.

“Hobi, I’m serious, he was rolling in mud last week!, MUD!” You continued

“Oh, come on!” he gasped between wheezes. “What’s the point of being a fun rich uncle if I can’t spoil my favorite little guy a tiny bit?”

“A tiny bit?!” you spluttered. “Hobi, that jacket costs more than my car insurance! Monthly!”

Still laughing, Hoseok tried—and failed—to defend himself.

“He was just so brave, Y/N! After everything with his arm… how could I not get him a little something special? He deserves to feel like a million bucks! I even let him pick the color!”

You groaned into your hand, heart melting even as your head throbbed. It was impossible to stay mad when it was clear how much Hoseok adored Han—and, honestly, Han had been through a lot lately.

“You’re lucky he’s adorable, and absolutely loves it” you muttered under your breath.

“I am lucky!” Hoseok agreed cheerfully. “He’s the best!”

Rolling your eyes, you ended the call with a grumbled, “You’re impossible,” even as a reluctant smile tugged at your lips.

Later that afternoon, after picking up Han—now wearing his designer jacket and proudly sporting dried yellow paint and glitter on both sleeves—you couldn’t resist.

You snapped a photo: Han, fast asleep in his car seat, arms slack at his sides, his little blue cast peeking out from under the ridiculously expensive jacket, face smudged with remnants of paint and joy.

You sent the photo to Yoongi with a simple caption:

Y/N: please tell that idiot best friend of yours i said i told you so!!!

Less than a minute later, Yoongi replied with a photo of his own photo of Hobi, mid-laugh, shoulders shaking, the caption simply reading:

Yoongi: Hobi said and I quote “He’s totally worth it though, right?”

And looking at Han’s peaceful, paint-smeared face and clothes in the rearview mirror, you couldn’t really argue.

He really was.

The rest of Han’s time in his cast passed in a flurry of follow-ups, checkups, and appointments, the calendar crammed with reminders written in bright marker and circled twice. Through it all, Yoongi was there—quietly present, making time between meetings and studio sessions, showing up with coffee and snacks, always crouching down beside Han’s tiny chair like he had nowhere else more important to be.

It hadn’t gone unnoticed.

The morning of Han’s final appointment arrived with an air of cautious excitement. His healing had been right on track—no complications, no setbacks—and you could tell your little boy was buzzing with energy at the idea of finally saying goodbye to his cast.

“You ready to finally get this thing off, buddy?” Yoongi asked as the three of you crossed the hospital parking lot. Han gripped his father’s hand, his little legs working hard to match Yoongi’s stride, the oversized hoodie he wore making him look even tinier.

Han nodded with vigor, his curls bouncing. “So ready.”

Yoongi laughed, squeezing his son’s hand. “Just a little longer.”

Inside the orthopedics wing, the pediatric room looked like something out of a picture book—bright blue walls adorned with cheerful cartoon sea creatures, a treasure chest full of stickers, and a small TV looping a silent episode of Sesame Street. Han’s eyes wandered everywhere, but his grip on Yoongi’s hand stayed firm.

The nurse—an efficient, overly friendly man with too much cologne and a slightly patronizing tone—walked you both through the removal and aftercare process. You stood on one side of Han, Yoongi on the other, and nodded politely as the nurse explained things you already knew by heart. It wasn’t your first rodeo. You worked here, after all.

If you hadn’t been paying attention, you might have missed it.

But you were paying attention.

The subtle way Yoongi’s shoulder shifted closer to yours when the nurse’s hand brushed just a bit too close. The low, clipped tone Yoongi used when asking a follow-up question that didn’t actually need asking. And the quick scowl he hid every time the nurse addressed you instead of him.

It hit you then.

He was jealous.

It shouldn’t have warmed your heart the way it did—but it did. The quiet, possessive edge. The casual but very intentional closeness. The way his hand rested lightly on the small of your back when you leaned over to soothe Han.

You tucked that little revelation into your pocket, deciding to call him out on it later.

Once Han’s cast was finally sawed off—his arm free at last and a little stiff—he was beaming with pride. He flexed it dramatically for Yoongi, who cheered and raised his arms for a high-five that made Han giggle so hard he snorted.

On the way back through the lobby, Han stopped at the sticker bin and carefully chose one shaped like a rocket ship.

“This one’s for Appa,” he declared.

Yoongi’s face softened as he crouched to let Han stick it proudly on his hoodie. “Thanks, bud. I’m gonna wear this to the studio.”

Out in the hospital parking lot, the sun peeked through the gray clouds, and a light breeze tugged at the hem of your coat as you helped Han into his car seat. Yoongi clipped the buckles, smoothing Han’s hair down before gently shutting the door.

You turned to him with a single raised eyebrow.

“What?” he asked, not quite playing innocent, but close enough to try.

You leaned casually against the car, arms crossed. “Not gonna talk about that smooth move in there, Min?”

Yoongi stiffened—just a little—but the way his ears turned pink gave him away.

“Smooth move?” he repeated, pretending not to know what you meant.

You tilted your head. “Uh-huh. All that sudden hovering. The oh-so-subtle glare when he called me ‘mom’ like I didn’t have a medical degree. And that very deep voice you pulled out of nowhere when you asked him about ‘compression and swelling.’” You smirked. “Anything you wanna share?”

His mouth twitched, caught. But instead of denying it, he dropped into a lazy, slightly sheepish shrug.

“It was annoying,” he admitted. “Listening to him talk down to you like that. You’re literally a doctor here. You don’t need to be told how to—” he slipped into a mocking impression of the nurse, “‘gently bathe the area and watch for signs of irritation.’”

You laughed, the sound bubbling out of you before you could stop it. He grumbled under his breath, cheeks now fully pink.

You reached up, brushing your fingers briefly across his chest—just where the rocket ship sticker sat. “You were jealous, Min?”

Yoongi glanced away, but not before you caught the flicker of a smile. “Maybe.”

“Mm.” You nodded, satisfied. “We’ll circle back to that later.”

“I’m sure we will.”

And as you both got into the car, Han was already babbling excitedly in the backseat about baths and claw machines and what sticker he’d get next time, you couldn’t help the way your smile lingered.

Maybe everything wasn’t quite fixed yet.

But some things—like this—felt like they were healing just fine.

Once home, the apartment had settled into that familiar hush that only came after a long morning out—Han’s toys were scattered across your living room floor, soft music played low from the kitchen speaker, and the smell of peanut butter hung gently in the air as you stood at the counter making Han’s lunch.

Yoongi leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, still in his jacket he was watching you—quietly, thoughtfully—his fingers drumming a slow rhythm against his elbow.

Then he said it.

“I told my eomma and appa about Han.”

You paused, your hand stalling mid-swipe across the bread. You looked up slowly.

“I told them a while ago, actually,” he added, voice casual. But the way his eyes searched yours—waiting, measuring—told you this wasn’t a small confession.

Something in your chest fluttered.

It wasn’t a surprise, not really. Of course Yoongi would eventually tell them. Of course they’d want to know. But hearing the words aloud? Feeling the weight of them? That was something else entirely.

You turned your attention back to the sandwich, steadying your hand as you set the knife down.

“They… want to meet him,” Yoongi said, voice softer now.

You took a breath. “That makes sense.” You kept your tone even, trying not to show the nervous shift in your chest. “If you want to take him to see them, that’s fine.”

But then Yoongi’s expression flickered—just for a moment—and the corner of his mouth twitched upward with something that looked suspiciously like amusement. You narrowed your eyes. You knew that look.

“What?” you asked slowly, suspicious.

“She wants Han and you to come with me for a visit,” he said, trying for nonchalance and failing spectacularly.

Your mouth dropped open just as you popped a blueberry into it, and you immediately choked.

Coughing, you reached blindly for your water. “No—no way,” you gasped. “Yoongi. You can absolutely take Han. That’s fine. But me? Why would your mum want me there?”

Yoongi shrugged one shoulder, his eyes dancing with mischief. “I may have also mentioned that we’re… working things out.”

You stared at him, utterly betrayed. “Yoongi!”

He had the decency to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “She asked if I was happy,” he said simply. “And I told her the truth, that I am.”

you groaned, turning away and pressing your hands to your face. “She’s going to hate me.”

“She’s not going to hate you.”

“She might,” you said through your hands. “She probably thinks I kept Han from her. From you. From all of you. She’d be right to be upset. Honestly, I wouldn’t even blame her.”

When you lowered your hands, Yoongi had stepped closer. His fingers brushed lightly against your hip, grounding you in that steady, quiet way of his.

“She’s not mad, Y/N,” he said gently. “She understands. She said… she said we were young. That people make hard decisions when they’re trying to protect the people they love. And that she wants to see you again.”

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed hard against the lump forming there. You weren’t sure you believed it. You weren’t sure you could. But the fact that Yoongi wasn’t standing here blaming you—that he was reassuring you, defending you, choosing you—meant more than you could say.

Still, this wasn’t a small ask. This wasn’t some polite reunion.

This was family. This was standing in the house where you’d once laughed with Yoongi’s mother in the kitchen, where his father had teased you about stealing their son’s heart. This was walking back into a version of your past and facing it with open hands, not knowing how it would be received.

“Yoongi…” you exhaled, voice wavering just slightly. “Are you sure about this?”

He nodded without hesitation. “I am. But more importantly—do you think you can do this?” His voice was gentle. “I won’t make you. If it’s too much, I’ll just take Han, make it a boy’s trip. They’ll understand.”

You turned your gaze toward the living room. Han sat cross-legged on the rug, building a wonky tower out of mismatched blocks, his tongue poking out in concentration.

Could you do this?

Could you walk back into that space, into that history, and not flinch under the weight of everything?

Yoongi’s hand slid from your waist to your hand, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. “You won’t be alone,” he said, quiet but firm. “We’ll do this together.”

That was what finally made something crack inside your chest.

You nodded, the word soft but full of quiet resolve. “Okay,” you said. “I’ll go.”

Yoongi’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile but was full of warmth. “Good,” he said. “Because eomma’s already planning the menu. She actually asked if you’d still like her galbijjim.”

You let out a groan, smacking his arm lightly. “And you call Han a little hustler, you planned this.”

He laughed, catching your wrist before you could pull away. His thumb brushed against your pulse, lingering, grounding. “She’s going to be happy to see you again, Y/N,” he murmured. “Trust me.”

And even though doubt still curled at the edge of your heart, you found yourself wanting to.

That night, after Han had been tucked into bed with his stuffed tiger and a gentle forehead kiss, you sat beside him on the rug, your fingers weaving through his hair as you told him about the upcoming trip.

“We’re going to go on a little adventure,” you said softly. “We’ll drive for a while, and then… you’ll meet your grandparents. Appa’s eomma and appa.”

Han’s eyes went round. “Like your eomma?”

“Kind of, yeah,” you smiled. “They live in Daegu. We’ll eat lots of yummy food, and they’ll be so excited to meet you.”

He sat up, suddenly energized. “Will they have kimchi pancakes? I like the crunchy kind!”

“I bet they will.” You smoothed a curl off his forehead. “You’re going to charm them, you know that?”

Han puffed out his cheeks and nodded proudly.

Later, when Yoongi casually mentioned that he’d drive the two of you in his car—“It’ll be easier, less hassle, and Han likes the playlist I made”—you tried not to read too much into it.

But you did.

Because the idea of all three of you traveling together… like a real family… stirred something in your chest, something that felt like old times and warmth. And you found yourself wrapped up in Hans enthusiasm, starting to look forward to the trip.

Taglist: @busanbby-jjk @jajabro @kam9404 @yoongiiuu93 @julseka07 @tea4sykes @marihoneywk @maryhopemei @sanarin @misschelliejeon @boraluv @wobblewobble822 @amarawayne @hyuninslutbbgirl @Granataepfelchen @mar-lo-pap @enfppuff @senaqsstuff @vainkiss @rinkud @lanyia @alessioayla @watchingover-hypegirl

#Min Yoongi x reader #Min Yoongi x you #Min Yoongi x y/n #Suga x reader #Suga x you #Suga x y/n #Bts fanfic #Bts fanfiction #Han river lullaby #Min Yoongi angst #Min Yoongi fanfic #Min Yoongi fanfiction #Yoongi #Min Yoongi #bts fanfction #BTS fanfiction #bts fic

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tangents-within-tangents · 12 hours ago

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Thank you! You're both putting so much into words about why the prevalence of this trend bothers me! And pointing out even more than I had considered.

Even if we put aside the military structure, the clones' in-universe social standing, and the real-world racial implications (which we shouldn't), it just does not make sense.

The Jedi are raised in a wholistic, supportive community; the clones are raised trained as child soldiers. The Jedi are taught to be mindful of their emotions; the clones are told they were "designed to withstand any stress." The Jedi's belief system is basically self-regulation and altruist compassion. The clones are conditioned to believe their sole purpose is to follow orders and give their lives to the war.

It's not rocket science to figure out which of those groups is more likely to be self-sacrificial and neglect their own needs! And yet the overwhelming trend in fic is the exact opposite?

I can also see how maybe the opposite, the Jedi taking care of the clones, could end up weird too if taken too far in the other direction. It could come off as infantilizing or ~white savior-esque (I recently wrote about something similar). But there are obviously ways to handle it without it going to that, too

(Side note, all of this also applies to Omega and the Bad Batch. She is a child, the mental well-being of her adult brothers should not be her responsibility, no matter how caring and insightful she is. The show had enough of that problem as it was)

I sometimes see this idea that the Jedi valuing compassion and service is where this stems from, but I disagree with that take. Like there is a way to be altruistic and selfless without ignoring your own needs, in fact that's the only sustainable way to do it, and therefore I think the Jedi would definitely have figured out that balance. I think it's odd too that often these fics will take meditation, which is literally a way to manage stress and be aware of yourself, and turn it into an avoidance behavior instead. Like idk about Jedi force meditation specifically, but that is the opposite of how meditation works lol

Anyway, I have some recommendations that came to mind along the topics of this discussion:

-imaginary root by electric_dreamer/@jaggerwockyy (799): as the tags say, 'Rex is Anakin's emotional punching bag.' This one shows a bit of the damage a 'clones babysitting their Jedi' dynamic could have, especially with a very volatile Anakin, closer to his prequels-canon characterization.

-approximate solution by electric_dreamer (750): all of their Cody & Obi-wan stuff in this series explores such an interesting dynamic between them (both bc it's so uncommon to see tense co-worker Cody and Obi-wan, and bc it's so layered and complex and mmm), often showing both of their very differing perspectives, which is really cool. This one in particular shows a good-intentioned but overstepping Obi-wan and how unhelpful help can be sometimes.

-The Value of a Life by mothweave/@myidealhousehaschickenfeet (953): delving into the clash between Jedi 'all life is sacred' and clone 'my life is for the Republic' viewpoints. Cody also expresses some frustration with Obi-wan "dispensing wisdom from on high" which I think is realistic to his pov and important to consider in this dynamic

-Food; A Reflection Thereon by mothweave (2k): a really cool (and sad) inversion of the trope, in which Cody concerning himself with Obi-wan's eating habits ends up reflecting on his own relationship with food and the clones' traumatic upbringing

-Remedial Resistance by MagicalStardust/@stardustloki (2k): speaking of traumatic upbringing... Cody has to give his new shinies interrogation resistance training, and Obi-wan understandably freaks out. I really love how they show the gap between Obi-wan and Cody's experiences and the contrast between their pov's, the confusion and hurt from both sides.

-Here we are, We've just begun by OnceUponADream_Cal (23k): Obi-wan and Cody are both de-aged as "the forces version of the get along shirt", eventually helping them to better understand each other. Again shows the contrast between their upbringings, and how it effects their communication and co-leadership. Also touches on an idea @coline7373 talked about above, of how the Jedi are responsible for their subordinates so their wellbeing affects the clones.

-In Good Company by Green_Heron_18 (80k): tackling what a more realistic idea of how the clones would turn out could look like (e.i. not well adjusted, poor mental health and even poorer views of it), with lots of interesting nuance and diversity amongst the clones. The Jedi clearly see themselves as responsible for the clones, and are currently trying to get more info about the clones' situation and figure out how to help them, also facing communication barriers. The series is ongoing (and underrated!) so idk how things will turn out, but it is a fix-it.

if anyone else has any recs I'd love to check them out!

I already wrote a similar posts on how fics of this nature annoy me, but I would like to push it further by saying that while I am fine reading it, I feel kind of weird about fics where the clones like Cody are constantly taking care of and basically babysitting their Jedi General or acting as a major emotional pillar for them.

I think the reason it makes me so uncomfortable is that not only are the clones already going through their own extremely horrific shit, but the Jedi are their superior officers and have a lot more systemic power over them. I will never stop saying that the clones are slaves, and while I don't see the Jedi as being their enslavers, I do think that they are essentially in a "master" position of power whether they like it or not. So it feels weird when the Jedi are more dependent on the clones and the clones need to basically take care of them and are always needing to look after them.

I'm a half-black American who is very passionate about African American history and anti-black systemic issues. And I can't help but be reminded of the tropes involving black characters whose are constantly forced into what is basically a caretaker role for white characters. Think of the Mammy, or the Black Best Friend, or the Magical Negro. The clones are already oppressed, already marginalized, and already forced to constantly back up and support the Jedi in charge of them. And then they are forced to be their Jedi's babysitter on top of all that.

Helping their Jedi out and generally caring about their wellbeing on places like the battlefield? Yes, that can be very sweet and often involves a lot of emotional care and trust.

Needing to force their Jedi to take care of themselves even off the battlefield and having a whole system/thing about how the Jedi "never take care of themselves and simply need the clones in order to do basic self care and not overwork themselves all the time while being oh so self-sacrificial"? Slightly weird and honestly seems to be the other way around based on both canon scenes and their respective circumstances.

I feel like perhaps part of this is just a general desire for angst and classic whump tropes, and sometimes it seems to be used as a way to showcase, "see! The Jedi do care about their troopers!" It seems like an example of the Jedi taking on the caretaker position and being the ones to protect the clones. But it almost always ends up resulting in the clones being forced into a support/caretaker role even when it seems like the Jedi is playing the role of caretaker.

Now, I don't think fics that follow this overall concept are super problematic or whatever. I also think some dynamics like this can work, such as with the Padawans and the clones (though that is for very specific reasons). I really don't want to spread too much negativity or say that anyone who writes this stuff is automatically racist or whatever. It's more of a personal discomfort/distaste than anything and people can write whatever they want, especially since I know the intent behind these tropes are often sweet in nature.

But I do think it's good for us to reflect on the parallels the clones have to real life issues and the way certain harmful tropes and mindsets can be perpetuated through metaphorical allegories (whether intentional or unintentional), and discuss the way we as a fandom treat the power dynamics between the clones and Jedi, especially in regards to things like shipping.

I don't know if I'm making any sense, but please tell me what you think, especially since I think it would be a good thing to talk about.

#i echo the sentiment above like its fic and i'm not coming after anyone you do you #but there is a significant pattern here #and its become one of my top pet peeves #right up there with aggressive medics bordering on malpractice (esp since they are often closely related)#and star trek bones is one of my all time favorite characters lol #fic recs #i read too much fanfic lmao #ao3 #fanfic #sw tcw #tbb #the jedi and the clones #fandom discourse

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trippiexlove · 2 days ago

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Daddy’s Home

Author Note: Part three to Stone Cold Sinner. Read PART 1 & PART 2 here. Soriya surprises Jey after being on the road. Based on the song Hey Daddy by Usher. If you would like to read any of my other works, here is my master list. Leave requests on this linked post.

Warning: SMUT, Fluff, Oral (M Receiving), Profanity. 18+ ONLY

Pairing: Jey Uso x Black OC (Ari Fletcher as FC)

Word Count: 2,973

Is you say, "Daddy's home, home for me" And I know you've been waiting for this loving all day You know your daddy's home and it's time to play So you ain't got to give my loving away

Josh leaned lazily on the back wall of the elevator as it ascending up to his floor. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back. It didn't seem to last long, as the familiar ding make him pop his eyes open.

He sluggishly walked down the long hallway, his muscles screaming in protest with every step. His world title, which felt 20 pounds heavier, in one hand and his gear bag in the other.

Once he got his hotel door he swiped the card, the light turning green, walking in. He threw his title and bag on the couch before falling onto the bed.

He closed his eyes for a moment, blowing out a sigh of relief. Before he drifted off to sleep he pulled out his phone.

A text from Soriya was the first one he seen.

Princess 🩵: You looked so damn good in your match baby! I can't wait for you to come home ❤️ Baby ❤️: Thank you princess, I can't wait to see you.

After he sent the text he got back up heading into the shower. Due to his tiredness he didn't take long before he was right back in bed. His eyes shut and he drifted off to sleep with no issue.

Soriya was finishing up making content when her doorbell rang. She got up, a smile already forming, knowing it would be Tiffany and Breanna. She swung the door open, pulling them both into a tight hug.

"Hey girl!" Tiffany exclaimed, stepping inside.

Breanna laughed, dropping her purse on the floor. "Hey bestie, we missed your face, Ri."

"Missed you guys too," Soriya said, leading them into the living room. "It's just been but you know." She gestured vaguely, a soft smile playing on her lips.

They settled onto the couch, and after a few minutes of catching up on work and the latest gossip, Tiffany leaned forward, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "So, spill the tea. How's it going with the champ?"

Soriya's smile widened. "It's going really well, actually. He's amazing. So supportive, always finding time to call or text even with our crazy schedule."

"Aww, that's sweet," Breanna said genuinely. "But it must be tough when he's on the road so much."

A touch of sadness flickered across Soriya's face. "It is. I miss him like crazy when he's gone." She brightened slightly. "But he's coming back soon, thankfully. Just a few more days."

Tiffany's eyebrows shot up. "Coming back soon, huh? You should totally surprise him!"

Soriya's eyes widened, a spark of intrigue igniting within her. She hadn't even considered it. "Surprise him?"

"Yeah" Tiffany continued, her enthusiasm growing. "Think about it, he's probably expecting to just come home to a quiet house. Imagine his face when you're there waiting for him"

Breanna chimed in, a playful smirk on her face. "You could even make it a whole welcome home celebration. Cook his favorite meal, wear that lingerie he loves..." She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Soriya's cheeks flushed slightly, but a genuine smile spread across her face. The idea was definitely appealing. Her mind started racing, little scenarios playing out in her head. What would his reaction be? What kind of surprise would he like the most?

"Hmm," she said slowly, tapping a finger against her chin, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I may have a few ideas"

The girls stuck around for a while. Soriya cooking them dinner and they watched movies and drunk wine until they left a little while later.

Soriya spent the next day getting herself together, buying the things she needed to surprise Josh in a couple days.

She was currently leaving her hair appointment before her phone went off. Josh's contact and their picture flashed across the screen. She connected her phone to her car before she answered.

She smiled as the call connected "Hey baby"

"Damn," Josh took a double look, "You look good as fuck ma, I'm fuckin' with the hair"

Soriya ran her fingers through the long blonde strands of her fresh install "Thank you honey. I just got it done today"

"That's unfortunate cause I'ma just pull that shit right off"

Soriya playfully rolled her eyes "Yeah no sir, you fuck up my hair then you're paying for it"

"Send me your stylist info, I'll just pay in advance" He shot her his infamous smirk as she tried to hide her blush.

She couldn't help but laugh at his antics "Bye Josh I am not bout to play with you"

"You laughin' but I'm deadass serious" Soriya playfully rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "But for real tho, I'll be back in Atlanta on Saturday, you comin' down or what?"

Soriya shrugged her shoulders playing it off, "I can't baby, I got this event this weekend" which wasn't a lie, but she was sending one of her assistants instead. She knew they would handle it just fine.

When Soriya looked down at her phone, she started pouting when she saw his face. "Baby don't look like that. What about next weekend?"

"I can't, got a house show everyday that weekend"

"I'm sorry baby," She tried to play it cool, not trying to give herself away "I'll make it up to you the next time we're together"

Josh sighed in disappointment, rubbing a hand down his face "I understand princess," he looked back in the camera, sadness all over his face, "next time I ain't taking no for an answer tho"

She laughed softly before nodding in agreement, "I'm sure you won't"

They finished their phone call before Soriya hung up, making it home. She brought in all the bags that she needed, organizing everything that she needed. Once she seen everything spread out, the excitement began to build within her. Along with the anticipation of seeing her man.

Soriya had flown into Atlanta the next day, thanks to Trinity for picking her up late last night. She was now busy decorating the living room. She didn't have much time as Josh was currently on a plane and would be landing very soon.

"How you want to set up these balloons?" Trin held the balloons by their strings.

"I was going to string the letters together and let them float over the couch," Soriya reached over grabbing the strings she needed, handing them to Trinity. "can you do that for me please?"

Trinity nodded, getting right to work "Yeah I got you". Soriya gave her a quick thank you, rushing up the stairs.

In Josh's bedroom she had it petals all laid out on the floor. A few gifts to the side she had to put into gift bags. His favorite snacks, a new iced out cuban with a matching bracelet, and a new pair of white forces because why not.

Once she got that together she heard Trin come into the room. "Damn girl you going all out, you proposing to my brother or something"

Soriya laughed shaking her head "I just missed my man that's all" she shrugged her shoulder, placing the gift bags to the side.

"Mhmm," Trin gave her a sheepish smile, "I got the balloons set up if you want to come see them" Soriya nodded before they headed downstairs.

Her eyes widen as she looked at the large balloons hanging in the living room. "They look so good, thanks Trin" She smiled, turning to give her friend a hug.

"You're welcome sis, let me take a picture for you cause we both know he about to fuck up your hair" both of them laughing.

She sat on one of little ottomans, her back facing Trin. She leaned over doing a pose as Trin snapped a few pictures, getting the balloons in the frame. "Damn, girl that ass sittin' right"

Soruya bust out laughing before snatching her phone out of Trin hand. "Girl go, you always playin'"

"Yeah, yeah let me head out, me and Jon got plans" Soriya nodded, walking her to the door and watching her as she drove off.

She walked back into the living room, looking over everything. She checked the time, seeing that Josh was probably landing as it was nearing 6pm. She cleaned up everything and quickly ran upstairs to get herself ready.

The wheels of the SUV crunched over the familiar driveway just after midnight. The Atlanta night was quiet, save for the hum of crickets and the occasional flicker of streetlight. Josh stepped out, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, cap low over his eyes. His body ached, but his heart beat a little faster as he approached the door.

It was cracked open—just a sliver.

He pushed it gently, and what greeted him on the other side took the last bit of tension out of his shoulders.

The living room was bathed in a soft, golden glow. Candles flickered along the mantle and coffee table. The faint sound of a song by Sza played low in the background. But it was the silver balloons—shining in the candlelight, big and bold, spelling out DADDY'S HOME—that brought a slow smile to his face.

And then... he saw her.

Soriya stood at the foot of the couch, framed by the balloon letters. She wore a deep sapphire-blue lingerie set, the color he always said looked real good on her skin. Her curves were wrapped in lace and silk, her blonde hair cascading down her shoulders. She didn't say a word—just let her eyes lock with his, smirking slightly as she slowly walked toward him.

Josh dropped his bag and exhaled, the weight of everything finally melting.

"Damn," he breathed, eyes never leaving her. "This what I come home to?"

Soriya's smile widened, but her eyes softened. "Welcome Home Daddy"

He stepped closer, running a rough hand down her arm, needing to touch her just to make sure this wasn't another dream. "You always know how to make a man feel like a king."

She tilted her head, fingers reaching up to trace the gold chain resting on his chest. "You are a king, baby. Out there? You showed the world. But in here..." She placed her hand over his heart. "You're just mine."

Josh leaned in, placing a soft kiss on her lips. "I missed you, baby."

"I know," she smiled and whispered. "And I missed you"

They stood there, letting the silence say what words couldn't. The beat of the music pulsed around them, slow and sultry. The air between them thickened, the pull magnetic.

"I want to take care of you tonight," Soriya murmured, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt. "Let me."

Josh smiled softly, voice low and rough. "You already are."

Soriya smiled, stepping out of his hold. Taking his hands in hers, she led him towards the stairs. "I have a few surprises for you upstairs that I want you to see."

Josh licked his bottom lip, his gaze lingering on Soriya. "That ain't the only thing I'm tryin' to see."

She glanced over her shoulder, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. "If you're good, you can get that too." Josh let out a low chuckle, allowing her to lead the way to his room.

Once they were inside, Josh's eyes widened slightly. He took in all the decorations until his gaze settled on the three gift bags by the bed. "You did all this?"

"I might've had some help," she said, smiling proudly. "Go head and open your gifts."

"Damn, it ain't even my birthday." Josh grabbed the first bag, the smallest of the three. He pulled out a medium-sized rectangular black box with ELIANTTE in bold white letters across it.

Josh immediately looked at Soriya, who wore a proud smirk. "Why you looking at me?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. "Open the box."

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. He opened the box, and his eyes widened, seeing the chain and matching bracelet. He turned the box, admiring the way the diamonds caught the light. "Baby, what the fuck?"

"You like it?"

Josh placed the box back in the bag. "I love it, mama." He picked up the next bag, pulling out a shoebox and giving her a goofy grin that made her laugh. "You just know me, huh?"

Soriya playfully rolled her eyes. "As if you needed another pair."

"Got to keep a fresh pair." He moved on to the next bag, his eyes lighting up as he saw all his favorite snacks. "You went all out, baby."

"This ain't nothin'," she shrugged. "Just love spoiling my man, that's all."

"Your man?" He teased, biting his bottom lip and tilting his head a bit.

"Damn right," she stated confidently, meeting his gaze with determination.

Josh sauntered over to Soriya, stopping directly in front of her. His impressive 6'2" frame towered over her petite stature. He pulled her closer, his lips finding hers in a slow, deliberate kiss. Soriya moaned softly at the contact, savoring every nuance of the moment.

With effortless ease, Josh lifted her into his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. He turned, gently laying her on the bed and then hovering above her.

Josh trailed kisses from her lips along the delicate curve of her jawline, continuing down the sensitive skin of her neck. The cool touch of his chain against her heated skin sent a shiver of relief through her.

His hands roamed her curves, pulling on the loose tie of the robe. He leaned up, helping her slip it off. He took a moment to admire her. Her blonde hair glowing in the low light of the room. He quickly took off his shirt, throwing it across the room

His rough hand moved up the sides of her curves, resting at the base of her neck. Lifting her up slightly, he pulled her into another kiss. This one more needy than the last.

Soriya placed her hands on his toned chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her palms. She flipped them over, her fingers splaying against the warm skin of his chest as she quickly straddled his waist, a small, satisfied sigh escaping her lips. "Mmm, this night is about you." Her gaze locked with his, a silent invitation in her eyes.

Josh didn't protest as she trailed kiss down his chest and abs, sliding down stopping at the top of his sweats. Josh watched with eagerness, waiting on her next move.

She pulled them down, his thick, girth popped up. Soriya licked her lips unconsciously. Her delicate hands wrapped around him, earning a deep groan from Josh.

She took the tip into her mouth, feeling Josh tense up. A low fuck coming from him. He wrapped his hands through her hair as he watched her take him down her throat.

Soriya kept a steady pace, taking him inch by inch. Her hand stroking the part of his shaft she couldn't get to.

"Fuck, ma," he took in a sharp inhale of breath "you're doing so good for me"

His praise fueled something in her. With the increase of her pace, Josh's grip on her hair tightened. "Right there mama, shit keep goin' just like that"

Soriya allowed him to take control, feeling the muscles in his abdomen tighten, knowing he was near his release. Josh fist her hair in his hands, guiding her through his orgasm. She immediately released him, Josh pulled her back up to him. Smashing his lips with hers.

His hand reached behind her, unlatching the clasp with ease. Tossing the bra somewhere. Soriya pushed against his chest, "I missed you so much"

"Yeah," he stated in-between kisses, "show me then."

She sat up just enough to slip off her underwear with the help of Josh. She slid down his length, gasping at the fullness she was feeling. Keeping a steady pace.

Josh trailed kisses along her jaw, down the side of her neck. Leaving love bites that she will definitely fuss about in the morning. But in this moment Soriya didn't care about that except for how Josh was making her feel.

"F-fuck baby," A breathy moan escaped from her mouth. Josh taking one of her erect nipples into his mouth. Toying with the sensitive bud.

Soriya's hands found purchase on his back, clawing deep scratches that didn't seem to faze Josh one bit.

"Fuck you look so pretty taking me," Josh gripped her waist, angling his hip, hitting against a new spot. "say it back, tell me you're pretty"

"Baby," Soriya couldn't help but to moan out desperately.

His hand came down on her backside, making her moan from the pleasure, "I said, tell me you're pretty"

Letting out a drawn out moan, she looked him in his eyes "I-I'm pretty"

He wrapped his hand around her throat, maintaining eye contact, "I'm gon' marry you one day, and you gon' have all my kids," Soriya inhaled sharply, not because of his words but the overwhelming of love she was feeling. "hmm, you gon' have my baby Soriya?"

She nodded her head, not being able to put a comprehensive reply together. Josh could feel that she was close by the way he felt her clench around him. He was close too, but he needed to hear her say it "I need words baby. Don't you fuckin' cum until you say it"

"Y-yes" The euphoric feeling starting to consume her "yes I'll have your baby" she threw her head back as her resolve began to crumble.

"That's my princess," he laid open-mouth kisses along her neck, bear-hugging her as he was nearing his eventual release "that's it mama, let it all out for me"

That was all Soriya needed as she let her orgasm her, "Oooh Fuck". Her nails digging deep into Josh's back, making him wince in pain.

As her climax washed over her, it ignited his own. Josh's grip tightened, their bodies moving as one until the euphoric high began to recede, leaving them both breathless. He peppered Soriya's lips with soft kisses. "I love you."

Her chest still rising and falling rapidly, Soriya met his gaze. "I love you too." Wrapped in each other's arms, a sense of deep comfort settled over them before sleep claimed them both.

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