#but bringing her to light... it feels impossible

[goonforgeto]

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f1 driver!nanami x perfumer!reader

SYNOPSIS — It’s your big break: a private commission from a high-profile client brings you and your small-town French perfumery to gorgeous Monaco in the middle of July, where you’ve just begun setting up your first standalone boutique. But between construction delays, holiday crowds, and the chaos of Grand Prix weekend, peace is hard to come by. And when a handsome stranger stumbles into your unfinished shop—seeking shelter from the paparazzi and asking for a chance to see you again—your careful plans start to unravel in ways you never expected.

CONTENT — mdni, age gap (nanami is 31, reader is 23), takes place in the 1950s, inaccurate f1 history/general history inaccuracies, i cannot stop talking about f1 im sorry, hotel lobby reference wink wink, loss of virginity, nanami has a HUGE dick, semi public sex, public making out, thigh riding, fingering, oral (f! receiving), cum eating, creampie, unprotected piv sex, floor sex, biting/licking, strangers to lovers, mentions of a character death, fast paced romance, angst, happy ending

PSA — this fic is 22k words, which was too long to post on tumblr, so i had to break off the end, which will be posted soon.

a/n: this fic is for @lily-bisque’s summer bash collab! i meant to have this out so much earlier but ao3 writers curse is real and i could not catch a break. i hope you enjoy my combination of jjk and f1 and i sincerely apologize for the terrible smut i feel so awk writing it.

push to pass | masterlist | divider | part 2

July, 1955

You had a sinking feeling the universe wasn’t on your side the moment you realized your business trip—thinly disguised as a much-needed vacation—coincided with Monaco’s most chaotic weekend of the year: the Grand Prix.

The city had transformed overnight. What should have been a quiet few days by the coast filled with business, dinners, and soaking up the sun was now a blur of revving engines, champagne-soaked balconies, and tourists with more money than sense. Hotels were overbooked, taxis impossible to catch, and every café table already claimed by someone wearing silk and sunglasses worth more than your rent.

Still, you tried to focus on the reason you came. A private commission from a wealthy Italian heiress: she wanted a signature perfume that smelled like danger, like lust.

Something unforgettable, she said, her voice thick with too much wine when she had visited your perfumerie at your hometown in Grasse last spring.

She was ecstatic when she heard you were planning to open your first standalone boutique, and declared that Monaco was the only place worthy of your scent.

That had been two springs ago. Now, in the heat of July, you were standing in the middle of your not-quite-finished shop on Rue de Princess, ankle-deep in linen samples and sawdust, squinting at a half-installed light fixture while your architect bickered with the electrician in rapid-fire French.

The boutique was still more bones than body, but the walls smelled of promise. You’d spent the morning sorting glass vials and raw materials you had shipped from Grasse—vetiver, jasmine, tobacco, bergamot—trying to mix something that felt like heat and adrenaline without sliding into cliché.

You were halfway through dabbing something sharp and citrusy onto your wrist when the front door burst open with a crash loud enough to startle the architect into dropping his tape measure.

A man—tall, blonde, and out of breath—stepped inside. He pushed the door shut behind him with his shoulder and locked it. Then turned around.

“Please,” he said, voice low but urgent. “Just… give me sixty seconds.”

Your first thought wasn’t who he was, or even what he was doing in your boutique. It was that he smelled like engine oil and something sweet beneath it—like burnt sugar clinging to warm skin.

“Pourquoi la porte n’était-elle pas verrouillée ?” you ask your architect in French, barely sparing the intruder a glance as you speak. Why was the door unlocked?

He blinks at you, clearly unprepared for anything other than startled compliance. However, the stranger in the doorway doesn’t move. He just watches you with a calm, measured stillness.

“I was being chased,” he says simply, in broken French with the faintest lilt of something foreign beneath it. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Your eyes flick toward the front windows. The sheer curtains ripple just enough to reveal movement outside—shadows pacing, the glint of lenses catching sunlight. You recognize the rhythm of paparazzi on a scent.

The architect mutters something under his breath, likely an excuse, and disappears into the back with the electrician, conveniently, or cowardly. You’re left alone in the room with him. The stranger. The man still standing like this is his safe house.

You cross your arms. “Are you famous?”

That gets a response. The ghost of a smile, subtle and restrained. He steps closer to the counter, eyes scanning the half-finished boutique. There’s paint on the floor, swatches tacked to the walls, and your latest trials scattered across a brass tray. He picks up a small, clear bottle with care, tipping it slightly to catch the light, then rolls it between his fingers like it might whisper secrets.

The scent clings to his skin.

“Depends who you ask,” he says, finally switching to English. “You don’t recognize me?”

You shrug, unbothered. “Should I?”

That smile again, wider now. Real. Not warm, but aware. “Not necessarily,” he says. “Though it does make this hiding place a hell of a lot more interesting.”

You watch as he unbuttons the top of his shirt, just enough to breathe, revealing the fine edge of a scar across his collarbone. There’s a twitch in his fingers, like he wants to sit, but doesn’t know where in your half-finished world he’s allowed to land.

“Do I call the police?” you murmur.

He sets the perfume bottle down with reverence, eyes meeting yours. Steady. Intent.

“I don’t plan to stay long,” he says. “Just needed somewhere to breathe for a minute.”

You hum, leaving behind your samples and making your way toward him. You’re still deciding whether he’s worth the disruption.

“I haven’t apologized,” he says, his voice softer now, stripped of the earlier confidence. “For intruding. I’m sorry, and… thank you for letting me stay.”

You stop just short of him, a careful distance between your body and his heat. Up close, he smells like sun-warmed leather, salt, and the faintest trace of engine smoke. There’s tension still clinging to his frame, like he hasn’t fully unclenched since stepping through the door.

“Don’t thank me yet,” you say lightly, though your gaze sharpens. “I still haven’t decided if I’m going to charge you.”

His mouth twitches again.

“I’m afraid my wallet’s in the car,” he murmurs.

You narrow your eyes, studying him now not as a stranger, but as a puzzle. He had the kind of face designed for magazines and tabloid spreads—angular, golden-skinned, impossibly clean-cut in a way no man really was. Except the scruff on his jaw betrayed a long day, and the fine line of a healing cut beneath his ear whispered of something sharper.

“So,” you say, voice softening but not yielding, “who exactly are you?”

He looks at you for a moment—really looks. There’s something unreadable behind his eyes, something not entirely comfortable with being recognized. But then he exhales, like he’s decided to give you something.

“Kento Nanami,” he says. “Japanese driver for Maserati.”

A beat.

Then, without a hint of ego, he adds, “I fear I’m partly the reason the streets outside sound like a wasps’ nest.”

“I see,” you say slowly, and offer the barest smile. “So you're the reason I’ve been nearly flattened crossing the street all day.”

His mouth lifts at the corner again, but he looks almost sheepish this time. “I’m truly sorry about that.”

You watch him for a beat longer. Most men with a name like his would already be sprawled across your showroom chaise, expecting champagne. But he remains standing, polite hands tucked in his jacket pockets, gaze never dropping below your eyes.

“Come on,” you sigh, and nod toward the high stool near your workbench. “Sit before you put a crease in your spine. You look like you haven’t breathed in an hour.”

He hesitates, just for a second, before crossing the room and lowering himself onto the stool with the kind of quiet control you suspect he applies to everything he does. He rests his forearms on his thighs, eyes roaming over the brass instruments, the scattered vials, the curling paper blotters that still hold ghosts of half-finished perfumes.

“So what’s this?” he asks, nodding toward the environment around him—brass tools glinting in the low light, unlabeled vials catching the sun, fabric swatches hanging like ghosts of decisions not yet made.

You follow his gaze, then glance back at him.

“This,” you say, “is the biggest risk I’ve ever taken.”

He hums, low in his throat, like he understands both possibilities intimately.

You lean back against the edge of the workbench, arms folding loosely across your chest. “My boutique. Or it will be. I signed the lease two months ago. It’s not open yet, but somehow the heiresses already know where to find me.”

A small smile tugs at your mouth, but you don’t offer the name of the woman who sent you here. He doesn’t ask.

“I make perfume,” you add. “My great-aunt had a few small shops in Grasse. One in Nice. Mostly small, quiet places. This is the first time I’m doing something on my own.”

Nanami doesn’t say anything at first. He just nods, eyes flicking briefly to the ceiling like he’s trying to picture what the space will look like when it’s finished.

“It suits you.”

You blink. “The boutique?”

He glances at you. “The ambition.”

That earns a quiet breath from you, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “You don’t even know me.”

He doesn’t look away. “No. But I’ve seen the way you hold your work.” His gaze drops briefly to the vials on the counter. “There’s care in it.”

There’s a pause long enough to shift the air between you.

Then he clears his throat, gently lifting a small bottle from the tray. He holds it between his fingers like it might crack if he moves too fast. “What’s this one?”

You reach out, take the bottle from him carefully, and unstopper it.

“It’s still in progress,” you say. “A commission. Something she wanted for race weekend.” You tilt the wand once. The scent is strong—leather, bergamot, pepper—but the softer notes still haven’t settled right. You haven’t figured out what’s missing yet.

Without thinking, you hold the wand up toward him. “Wrist?”

He hesitates for half a second, then shrugs out of one glove and extends his hand. You dab the perfume lightly on the inside of his wrist, then wait.

The silence stretches a little.

He brings his wrist to his nose slowly, breathing in once, then again.

You watch him. Not the way he moves, but the way he stills.

“…It’s sharp,” he says finally. “First. Like the start of a race.”

You nod. “It’s supposed to be.”

“But there’s heat under it. Something warmer.”

“That’s where I got stuck.”

Nanami lowers his hand. He looks at you, quiet now in a way that feels heavier than the room. “You’re close.”

You huff softly. “I don’t want close. I want the exact moment you lose control and know it.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. Just holds your gaze a little too long.

You look away first.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “That probably sounded—”

“No,” he says, gentle now. “I know what you meant.”

“So why’re you running from the paparazzi?” you ask, tucking the stopper back into the bottle and setting it aside with the others.

He exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh. “I had a crash during free practice 2,” he says simply. “Rounded a corner too fast and lost control.”

You glance over your shoulder at him. “You okay?”

“I walked away,” he says, which is neither yes nor no. “The car didn’t.”

You nod once, quietly filing that away.

“I don’t usually do interviews or anything,” he continues after a pause, tone dry. “So everyone wants a chance to be the first to shove a mic in my face. Or a camera. Doesn’t matter what they ask. Just that they’re asking it first.”

You hum, moving to your cabinet to shelve the last of the day’s test vials. “Nothing like a little blood in the water.”

“Exactly.”

You hear the scrape of the stool as he shifts, then the low creak of it settling under his weight again.

“I didn’t mean to crash,” he adds after a moment. “Didn’t mean to hide here, either. It just… looked quiet.”

You glance at him then.

He’s looking down at his wrist, where the scent still lingers.

You don’t say anything. Just lean back against the cabinet and fold your arms again, softer this time.

“You picked the right door.”

His mouth twitches—an almost-smile, subtle but real. “I’ll try to remember it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Planning on crashing again?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Not if I can help it.”

You nod toward the street. “You think they’re still out there?”

He tilts his head, listening. For a second, there’s nothing, just the faint clink of glass in the distance as someone closes up shop down the block.

“Maybe.”

You watch him for another beat. He’s not what you expected when he walked in—less polished, more… human. Tired, maybe. Or just not used to people who don’t immediately want something from him.

“You can stay until they’re gone,” you say. “But only if you promise not to knock anything over.”

He smiles properly now, low, easy, and a little surprising. “I’ll try not to.”

You move back to the workbench without another word, slipping into a rhythm that’s familiar. The room settles with you, still, but not silent. Outside, the street’s gone quieter. Inside, the soft clinks of glass and rustle of paper fill the space.

Nanami doesn’t speak, but you can feel his eyes on you, like he’s watching someone work a puzzle he doesn’t quite understand but wants to.

You pull a small ceramic palette toward you and uncap one of the vials you’d set aside earlier. The scent that rises—sharp, clean, too precise—makes your nose wrinkle.

“This isn’t usually where I mix,” you say after a while, not looking up. “In case I’m not home, I’m building a studio in the back for that. Better ventilation. Fewer distractions.”

You glance his way. His expression stays neutral, but his brows lift just enough to acknowledge the irony.

You give a small shrug. “But the bottle I sent out for the heiress—it didn’t sit right.”

Nanami leans forward slightly on the stool, elbows resting on his thighs again. “So you’re rewriting it?”

“In a way.” You swirl a drop of base oil with a citrus resin, watching it cloud the mixture. “Not from scratch. Just… nudging it toward what it was trying to be.”

He watches you for a moment longer, then nods toward the array of small vials near your right hand.

“What are those?”

“Modifiers. Accents. Most people wouldn’t notice them directly, but they change everything underneath.” You pause. “Wanna help?”

His eyes flick to yours. “Help?”

You gesture to the tray. “Pick one, any one. First instinct. We’ll see what happens.”

He seems skeptical. “You’re letting a stranger play with your formula?”

“Only because you’ve got a good nose,” you say, not entirely teasing. “And I’m curious.”

He leans in slightly, scanning the labels of tiny handwriting in faded ink. He hovers over a few, then finally reaches for one near the back. He holds it up between two fingers.

“Hinoki,” he says.

Your eyes flick to the bottle, then back to him. “…Interesting choice.”

“Good interesting?” he asks, and it sounds sincere.

You smile, just a little. “Let’s find out.”

You draw a small pipette and carefully add a drop to your mixture. The shift is immediate—cooler, woodier. Something cleaner than what was there before, but grounded. You lean in, closing your eyes.

The imbalance that was bothering you? Gone.

You blink, glance at him. “That was… actually good.”

He huffs. “Surprised?”

You tilt your head. “Impressed.”

He looks away, but the edge of his mouth pulls just slightly upward. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

The scent hovers between you, sharp citrus softened by something quiet and green.

“I think you just solved my problems, Kento Nanami,” you smile, glancing at him over the rim of the mixing palette.

He lifts a brow, but there's a quiet satisfaction in his expression—subtle, like everything about him. “Glad to be of use.”

You reach for a clean blotter strip, dip the end into the blend, and wave it gently in the air between you.

“This is it,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. “It finally… settled.”

Nanami leans forward slightly as you offer the strip, careful not to touch. He inhales once, slow and thoughtful, eyes flicking closed for just a moment.

“It smells… sexy?,” he says softly.

Your chest tightens, just for a second. You blink, caught off guard by the way he said it. 

“That’s exactly what it’s supposed to be,” you say after a beat.

He nods, like he understands.

You tuck the blotter away, labeling it neatly in pencil. “You want to name it too, or should I not give you that much power?”

Nanami chuckles under his breath, the sound low and warm. “No,” he says. “That part belongs to you.”

You glance toward the windows. The light’s shifted again—softer now, tinged with late afternoon gold. The street outside looks quiet. Whatever crowd had been chasing him earlier seems to have moved on.

You turn back to the bench, reaching for a clean bottle from the box beneath it. The glass is simple. You hold it in one hand while pouring the mixture with the other, steady and precise.

When the vial’s empty, you stoppered the bottle and ran your thumb over the top.

“Formule 11,” you say quietly. “I’ll write the label later.”

Nanami watches you as you cross the room, ducking into the back to grab your bag and coat. When you return, you’re pulling on your gloves, bottle tucked carefully in your side satchel.

“I have to go deliver this,” you say, voice light but not apologetic. “Client’s expecting it before dinner.”

He nods once, sitting up straighter on the stool, like the moment’s shifting and he can feel it too.

You pause at the workbench, then reach across and grab something from a hook by the door—your architect’s hat, soft cotton, well-worn. You step toward him and place it gently in his hands.

“If you sneak out the back,” you murmur, “go straight to the next block and turn right. That’ll take you back to the main road without anyone noticing.”

He looks down at the hat, then up at you again. “You’ve done this before.”

You smile faintly. “Not with race car drivers.”

He holds the hat a little tighter in his lap. “Will I see you again?”

You meet his gaze, quiet for a beat. “Probably not.”

He watches you carefully. Not disappointed exactly, but thoughtful, like he’s working through something he’s not sure he’ll say aloud.

“I’m free tomorrow,” he says, “after noon. Qualifying starts around one. I could get you in. Quietly.”

You blink. “Really?”

He nods. “I just want to say thank you. I don’t know what else I have to offer.”

That earns a quiet laugh from you, soft and surprised. You glance at the door, then back at him.

“…I’ll think about it.”

Nanami gives a small nod, like he knows better than to press.

You adjust your coat and put on your sunglasses, hand on the doorknob now.

“Don’t let him see you leave,” you call gently. “He’ll kill me if he finds out I gave you his hat.”

Nanami lifts it in a half-salute. “I won’t.”

You disappear into the dusk, the bell over the door chiming softly behind you.

“KENTO NANAMI WALKS AWAY FROM CRASH, WALKS STRAIGHT INTO RUMORS — AGAIN.” Crowd-favorite refuses interviews for fifth year running as speculation grows ahead of Monaco GP.

Your black coffee has long gone cold, abandoned on the edge of the café table as you scan the paper, fingers leaving faint smudges on the corner of the page. You’ve read the same paragraph three times now—not because it’s well-written, but because your brain keeps circling the same thought like a drain.

How did you not recognize him yesterday?

His face is everywhere. Above the fold, below it. Different expressions, same intensity. Even when caught in motion, mid-step or mid-turn, his gaze is sharp, grounded—impossible to look past. And yet you did. You talked to him like he was just some stranger ducking the press. Let him wear your architect’s hat. Let him touch your work.

The bell above the café door chimes behind you, a burst of cold air brushing against your back as someone steps in. You don’t turn around.

Instead, you flip the page, eyes catching the headline from the day before:

“NANAMI: SILENT BUT DEADLY.” Japan’s golden ghost chases third straight title while giving press the cold shoulder.

You huff, folding the paper in half, trying not to overthink it. But since last night—since a surprise dinner you hadn’t planned to attend (or really been invited to, not that the heiress cared)—you’ve learned three things about Kento Nanami:

 He was serious about the no interviews. He doesn’t speak to the press, doesn’t pose for cameras, doesn’t play the game. Every headline printed about him is mostly stitched together from guesswork, gossip, and grainy photos taken when he’s not looking.

He's a three-time world champion. Five years in Formula 1, four of them with Maserati. Two back-to-back wins in the last two seasons. And if he wins this week, it’ll be his third in a row—four in total. That kind of record makes people obsessive.

 He's thirty-one, and started racing at six on a dusty little track outside Tokyo. Took a two-year detour through law school, then came back like he had something to prove. And maybe he did. Maybe he still does.

You set the paper down, letting out a slow breath.

The part that gets you most isn’t the stats or the headlines.

It’s that he looked at you like none of it mattered, like he wasn’t the Nanami Kento.

You rub at the corner of your mouth, unsure if you’re smiling or grimacing.

Somewhere in the street behind you, an engine growls to life, unmistakably expensive. You sip your now-cold coffee, eyes lingering on the newspaper one last time, reminded that Qualifying starts in less than two hours.

You stand, brushing down the front of your long dress before placing your fascinator carefully back atop your head. The satchel slips easily across your shoulder, the glass bottle inside tucked snug between a silk scarf and your wallet.

“Merci, Sylvie,” you call toward the barista as you pass the counter.

“À bientôt,” she replies with a smile, already clearing your cup. See you soon.

The café door swings shut behind you, and the city air rushes in, carrying the faint scent of salt from the nearby water. The streets are still buzzing, though not as loud as they’ll be by race time. You tuck your chin deeper into your scarf and raise a hand for a taxi.

It pulls up within minutes and you slide into the backseat, instructing the driver to drop you off at the marina.

As the car pulls away from the curb, you glance once over your shoulder, back toward the café window where you’d been sitting. The paper’s still on the table, folded and forgotten.

You don’t regret leaving it behind.

The familiar scenery of yachts and sailboats quickly replaces the narrow, sun-worn buildings as you near the marina. Sleek white hulls line the docks like teeth, flags fluttering softly in the breeze. The water glints under the late morning sun, a gentle sway rolling through the harbor.

You thank the driver, stepping out with a quiet merci, your heels clicking lightly against the wooden planks as you make your way down the dock. A few workers are already out—coiling ropes, polishing chrome, moving like it’s just another Saturday, even though the city’s thrumming with the pulse of race week.

The docks look nothing like they did the last time you were in Monte-Carlo.

Now, the roads are blocked off with metal barricades and brightly colored signage. Police in vests line the intersections, directing foot traffic while trying not to be bowled over by the swarm of vendors, staff, and spectators crowding the sidewalks.

Where calm seaside paths once stretched quiet and open, now scaffolding rises above the pavement, draped in banners of team logos, tire brands, and champagne ads printed larger than life. Grandstands have been erected where cafes used to spill out onto the street, their tables cleared to make room for race marshals and media crews. The air buzzes with energy and the distant hum of engines tuning in the background.

You pass a section of fencing wrapped in black netting, just opaque enough to keep the view partially obscured. Behind it, glimpses of activity: mechanics moving like clockwork, crew members wheeling carts stacked with equipment, someone in a fire suit stretching quietly against a wall.

Even the sea seems different today, choppier somehow, like it’s reacting to the weight of the city’s breath holding tight in anticipation.

You clutch the strap of your satchel in one hand.

The last time you walked this route in spring, it was lined with yachts and morning joggers. Now it feels like the entire world has been invited to watch something happen. For some reason, you’ve decided to step straight into the middle of it.

You follow the signs toward the entrance checkpoint, your steps slower now, the weight of what you’re doing catching up to you in the space between footfalls.

A security guard stands at the gate, arms crossed over his chest, eyes scanning everyone who approaches. You offer a small smile as you near.

“Salut, I’m here to see Kento Nanami.”

The man lifts a brow. “Do you have a paddock pass?”

You hesitate. “No. He invited me yesterday, said—he said he’d leave something but…” You trail off, realizing how thin it sounds.

The guard’s expression flattens a little. “I can’t let anyone in without clearance, mademoiselle.”

“It’s not—look, he told me to come. It was last minute. I wasn’t exactly—” You sigh, frustration catching at the back of your throat.

“Name?” he asks, unimpressed.

You’re just about to answer when you catch the flicker of movement beyond the barrier. Kento Nanami, walking out from behind one of the garages, head turned slightly as he listens to something being said beside him.

He’s dressed in a white fire-resistant undershirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows, the top of his racing overalls tied loosely around his waist. There’s a smudge of something near his jaw—grease, maybe—and a glint of sweat at his collarbone that hasn’t quite dried yet.

The moment he sees you, his steps slow.

The guy beside him says something else but Nanami doesn’t answer. He holds up a hand, eyes locked on you now.

Then he’s moving toward the gate.

“Is she with you?” the guard asks, tone shifting instantly.

“She is,” Nanami replies, not looking at him. “Let her through.”

You exhale, relief blooming in your chest as the gate swings open. He waits just on the other side, arms crossed loosely now, a towel slung over one shoulder, gaze steady as you approach.

“You came,” he says simply.

You try not to look too pleased by the surprise in his voice.

“Well,” you say, tucking a loose strand of hair beneath your fascinator, “you did owe me a thank you.”

That gets the faintest pull of a smile from him. Almost too small to catch—but there.

“Come on,” he says, nodding for you to follow. “I’ll show you the paddock.”

And just like that, you're walking beside him.

The air inside the paddock is hotter, tighter, filled with the scent of oil, rubber, and that distinct metallic tang that clings to machines running just a little too close to their limits. The garage is alive with movement—engineers moving with practiced ease, radios crackling, fans humming low in the background.

Nanami walks just ahead of you, offering the occasional nod or clipped instruction to someone passing by. He doesn’t introduce you to anyone until you reach the far side of the garage—where another man is perched half-sideways on a folding chair, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, race suit unzipped to his waist like Nanami’s, but far less neatly.

You know who he is before Nanami even opens his mouth.

Satoru Gojo—Formula 1’s reigning legend, its most magnetic headline, the youngest to ever win a championship, and the only one in history to hold six.

He's lounging like the paddock was built for him. Which, in a way, it probably was.

“Gojo,” Nanami says, voice low but firm. “This is—”

“The perfumer,” Gojo cuts in, turning toward you with a slow grin that’s far too pleased with itself. “From the boutique. Finally.”

You blink. “How do you—?”

“He told me,” Gojo waves vaguely at Nanami. “Which, by the way, is basically the loudest thing he’s ever said about anyone that wasn’t tire pressure or lap data.”

Nanami exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t listen to him.”

“I always listen to me,” Gojo replies, then leans toward you slightly, conspiratorial. “We met once, didn’t we? No—wait. You look like someone I bumped into in a hotel lobby in Tokyo. Summer of ’52?”

You stare at him. “I… don’t think that was me.”

“Shame,” he sighs, settling back with a wink. “That woman smelled amazing.”

Nanami levels him with a look.

Gojo just shrugs. “Anyway. Welcome to the circus.”

He offers a hand, and despite yourself, you take it. His grip is firm, warm. 

“She’s staying for the rest of qualifying,” Nanami says, not quite a question.

You glance at him, then back at the chaos of the garage, the speed of everything moving around you.

And then back at him.

“I suppose I am.”

Nanami gestures for you to follow him as Gojo is swept up by a mechanic calling out lap times from a clipboard. You catch Gojo’s parting wave over his shoulder, sunglasses slipping back down his nose.

“Don’t let him scare you,” Nanami says, his voice low as he walks beside you again.

You glance over at him. “He doesn’t scare me.”

“Good,” he replies, eyes flicking ahead. “That’s half the problem with him. Too many people act like he’s untouchable.”

You walk in step with him through the maze of garages, wires coiled along the walls, tires stacked chest-high, crew members brushing past with focused urgency. Every space buzzes with energy, but there’s something methodical in the chaos—every movement part of a larger rhythm.

“Where does all of this go when the race is over?” you ask, sidestepping a cart full of tools.

“Crated up and shipped out. We’re in Spain next week,” he says, barely needing to raise his voice over the din. “Every week, a new city. A new setup. Then we do it all again.”

You nod slowly, trying to imagine the weight of that repetition. “It’s a lot.”

“It is.” A pause. “But it doesn’t feel like much when you’re the one in the car.”

You glance at him, curious. “What does it feel like then?”

Nanami’s quiet for a beat. The sounds of the paddock move around the two of you but he doesn’t rush his answer.

“Still,” he says finally. “Everything else gets very quiet.”

You let that settle for a moment as he leads you toward one of the support trucks—open on one side to reveal rows of spare parts, stacks of helmets, and a row of posters outlining engine diagnostics.

Someone calls his name as you step inside—an engineer, tall and lanky, clipboard in hand.

“This is Ino,” Nanami says. “He keeps the car alive.”

Ino nods in greeting, then glances at you with faint curiosity. “You’re not press.”

“No,” you say. “Perfumer.”

He smiles slightly. “Weirdly, that makes more sense.”

Nanami shows you the tire wall next, different compounds lined up in rows, all marked with coded paint. He explains the differences simply, clearly, the way someone does when they’re used to being misunderstood but still want you to get it.

Then it’s on to the telemetry station, the broadcast trailers, a corner of the paddock where someone’s quietly eating lunch beneath a fan. It’s a strange, moving village of its own, temporary, but entirely self-contained.

When he finally circles you back to his garage, the quiet between you has settled into something softer. Familiar, even if it shouldn’t be.

He checks his watch, then glances at you.

“You have about ten minutes before we’re called for briefing,” he says. “You want to stay?”

You lift a brow. “Would it be strange if I did?”

He considers this.

“No,” he says. “But it would be rare.”

You smile, just a little. “I’m not here to be common.”

That earns the barest flicker of something at the corner of his mouth—close to a smile, but not quite.

He nods toward the back of the garage, where a spare stool sits tucked near the wall.

“You can wait there,” he says.

You settle onto the stool, your bag tucked against your side, the sounds of the paddock humming around you. Nanami moves a few steps away to speak with one of his engineers, his posture instinctively straightening the closer he gets to the car.

And as you sit there—watching him shift from man to machine, you realize you’re not just seeing him differently now.

You’re seeing the whole world he lives in. And you’re not sure yet if you belong in it.

He returns fifteen minutes later, his undershirt now slung casually over one shoulder, his upper body bare beneath the suspenders of his racing overalls.

His skin gleams faintly under the garage lights—golden, lean, traced with the kind of strength built over years, not months. There’s a scar low on his left rib, pale against the skin, and a thin trail of oil smudged near his collarbone, like he’d wiped his hand without thinking.

You look up as he approaches, and he doesn’t say anything right away and just runs a towel across the back of his neck and tosses it over a nearby crate.

“You alright?” he asks, voice quieter now, the edge of work still clinging to him.

You nod. “Warmer here than I expected.”

“Heat’s worse inside the suit,” he mutters, half to himself. “You forget how heavy it is until it’s already on.”

He reaches for a bottle of water, twists the cap off, and takes a long drink. His throat moves with the motion, and for a moment, the rest of the garage noise dulls around you.

There’s something oddly private about it all, this glimpse into a world just behind the curtain. 

He catches you looking and offers a small, wry smile. “You’re staring.”

You raise a brow. “You walked in half clothed.”

“I didn’t realize it was a problem.”

“It’s not,” you say simply, and his smile deepens just slightly.

Then someone calls his name again and he sets the bottle down.

“I have about twenty minutes before I’m in the car,” he says, glancing toward the pit lane. “You want to stay and watch?”

Your fingers brush the edge of your satchel.

“Wouldn’t have come if I didn’t.”

Nanami nods once, then starts pulling his sleeves up.

And you sit back, quietly, as the man becomes the machine again.

“So what’s this race about?” you ask, your voice low beneath the hum of the garage. “If it’s not the official thing.”

“Qualifiers,” he says, adjusting the strap on his glove without looking up. “We run laps. Fastest time gets pole position for the main race.”

You nod slowly, watching the way his hands move—calm, practiced, every gesture deliberate.

“And you… want to be in front?”

He glances up at that, something flickering behind his eyes. “You always want to be in front. It means clean air. No one kicking dirt up in your face.”

You study him for a beat. “You sound like you’ve done this a few times.”

That earns you a look. Not annoyed—more like amused that you’re still pretending not to know.

“I read the papers,” you admit, softly. “After you left.”

Nanami’s mouth twitches at the corner. “And?”

“And now I know who you are.”

He pauses. “Do you?”

The question lingers between you, but you don't answer. Not right away.

Then someone calls five minutes, sharp and clipped. Nanami gives a short nod in return, then looks back to you.

“You’ll hear the engine before you see anything,” he says. “It’s loud. Stand near the monitors if you want to see times come through.”

“What’s a monitor?” you ask, brows lifting slightly. “Is that like a… television?”

He pauses mid-step, glancing back at you over his shoulder. There’s a brief flicker of something in his expression—half amusement, half recognition that yes, you’re definitely not from this world.

“Sort of,” he says. “It’s a screen that shows lap times and sector data. Mostly numbers. Nothing exciting unless you know what you’re looking at.”

You nod slowly, trying to picture it. “Right. Numbers on a screen. Riveting.”

That earns the smallest twitch of a smile from him. “I’ll explain after.”

He turns back toward the car, and you watch as he steps into the flurry of activity—crew moving in sync, tools being passed, someone crouched near the front wing checking tire pressure. There’s an energy that builds as he gets closer to the machine, like the whole space subtly shifts to meet him.

Someone helps him zip up the rest of his suit. He pulls on his gloves, then his helmet, and his goggles go over his eyes. And just like that, the man you’ve been getting to know is replaced by something sharper.

And then the engine starts.

The sound rolls through the garage in a low, thunderous growl. It’s not just loud—it’s alive, rumbling through your ribs, climbing the walls, spilling into your chest like heat.

You take a step back, instinctively.

A mechanic gestures for you to stand near a small viewing station along the wall—a curved screen behind glass, the numbers already flickering in and out as the first cars begin their laps.

You find your spot, heart racing, eyes flicking between the screen and the blur of motion as Nanami’s car pulls out of the garage.

The moment Nanami’s car slips onto the track, something changes.

The garage doesn’t go silent, but the energy shifts. People move with more purpose, eyes fixed on equipment, radios crackling with clipped phrases and calm urgency. One of the engineers stands near the viewing station, arms crossed tight, murmuring lap times under his breath as they roll in.

You stay near the edge, just far enough not to be in the way, watching the monitor like you’re learning a new language in real time.

Sector one: green. Sector two: yellow. Final: green.

You’d asked someone what the sectors meant. They’d explained it simply enough: the course is divided into three parts—sector one, sector two, sector three. Each car is timed in each section. Green means faster than their last run. Purple, fastest overall. Yellow means slower. 

“Clean run,” someone mutters. “Grip’s holding better than yesterday.”

You don’t really know what that means, but you watch the screen anyway, Nanami’s name appearing third on the timing list after his first flying lap. Cars continue to cycle through, all streaking past the garage entrance with a high, sharp whine that cuts clean through the air.

Nanami’s back into the pits quickly. The crew swarms the car—adjusting tire pressure, checking suspension, brushing dust from the body with gloved hands. You don’t see his face again, not under the helmet, but you can tell he’s speaking to the team lead—his gestures are quick but calm, head tilted just slightly as he listens.

Then he’s back out again.

The next run is faster.

Sector one: green. Sector two: green. Final: green.

The board updates. He’s holding at P4 now—provisional fourth on the grid. Two tenths off the lead. Half a tenth behind Gojo, who he manages to overtake at the next corner.

“Car’s tighter through the chicane,” the engineer murmurs beside you. “Still losing time on the back straight.”

You squint at the monitor. “That’s… bad?”

“Not bad,” he replies. “Just not pole.”

You glance toward the track again, watching Nanami slice through a corner at full speed, barely a whisper of tire screech. Everything about his driving looks effortless—fluid, precise, like he’s threading a needle at 150 miles an hour.

He finishes his final lap with just two minutes left in the session. The board doesn’t change—still P3.

Someone exhales beside you. “That’s probably it.”

The engine sound fades as Nanami pulls back into the garage. The moment the car rolls to a stop, the team moves in again, but it’s calmer now. More routine. The kind of silence that follows a job well done—even if it wasn’t perfect.

He removes his helmet a beat later, raking a hand back through damp hair before he steps down from the car.

His eyes find you immediately.

You don’t say anything—just offer a small nod, not quite a smile.

And he nods back, a quiet kind of understanding passing between you.

Gojo’s name flashes up on the board a few minutes after Nanami’s final lap—P8.

You don’t know much, but even you can tell that’s not where he’s supposed to be.

The garage doors roll open again and Gojo storms in before the car fully stops, tearing off his gloves and helmet in one motion. The second his boots hit the floor, he throws the helmet with a sharp thud across the cement, where it bounces once before spinning to a stop near the tire racks.

“No way Fushiguro got pole,” he snaps, voice loud and sharp, echoing off the concrete. “I was two tenths up before that last sector—two tenths!”

No one responds right away. The air in the garage has shifted again, but not like before. This time it’s thick with heat, frustration hanging like humidity in summer.

Gojo paces in a tight circle, running a hand through his hair, eyes wild behind his sweat-slicked fringe.

Nanami doesn’t flinch. Still suited up, still standing beside his car, he watches Gojo calmly, like this is just part of it. Like he’s seen worse.

“Maybe next time don’t overcook turn six,” Nanami says, evenly.

Gojo whirls around. “I didn’t overcook turn six.”

Nanami raises a brow.

Gojo exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay. I slightly overcooked turn six.”

One of the engineers edges over, muttering something about cooling down the car. Another crew member discreetly retrieves the helmet and sets it back on the bench like it never happened.

You stay quiet in the corner, watching. It’s not tense, not really. Just charged. Like everyone here knows this is what it means to want to win badly enough that losing stings even in practice.

Eventually, Gojo turns and catches your eye, as if just now remembering you’re still there.

He points a finger at you. “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy.”

You blink. “I wasn’t.”

“You were. That was a judgmental blink.”

Nanami sighs. “Satoru.”

Gojo throws his hands up. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” Then, grinning despite himself, “I’ll just crash his car tomorrow and sleep better at night.”

Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Ino, the engineer from earlier, walks over to the two of them, clipboard tucked under one arm, a streak of grease smudged near his jaw like he hadn’t noticed or didn’t care.

He nods at Nanami first. “Your second run was tighter. You’re still dropping a little time on the straight, but sector one’s clean now. You hold P3 unless someone pulls something stupid in the next three minutes.”

Nanami gives a small nod, already half-aware.

Ino turns to Gojo next, raising a brow. “You want the good news or the bad news?”

Gojo groans. “Is there any good news?”

“You didn’t blow the engine,” Ino offers dryly.

“Comforting.”

“And the telemetry’s clean. Your brakes were cooking, but not catastrophic. You need to ease off.”

Gojo snatches a water bottle off the table behind him and takes a long drink. “I hate this track.”

“You said that about Imola.”

“And Spa.”

Ino doesn’t even blink. “And Monza.”

“Don’t act like Monaco isn’t cursed,” Gojo snaps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That kid getting pole? That’s not talent, it’s voodoo.”

“Fushiguro is fast,” Nanami says simply, checking his gloves before slipping them off. “He always has been.”

Gojo looks like he wants to argue, but doesn’t. He just slumps back onto the nearest chair like he’s aged ten years since stepping out of the car.

Ino gives you a brief glance, like he’s reminding himself again that there’s a civilian here, then gestures to the side of the garage. “They’re clearing the lane. Both your cars will be inspected in ten.”

Nanami nods, and Ino disappears back into the chaos, already flipping through the pages on his clipboard.

Gojo leans his head back, eyes shut now, voice low.

“You’re not going to be insufferable if you finish ahead of me again, right?”

Nanami doesn’t answer.

You glance at him. “Is he usually insufferable?”

“Without trying,” Nanami replies, calm as ever.

Gojo lifts a hand and flips him off without opening his eyes.

“We have to go get weighed,” Gojo says after a beat, still sprawled in his chair. “Then we’ve got that fan event on the south side of the track.”

“I’m not going,” Nanami announces, without looking up from where he’s unfastening the top of his suit.

Gojo lifts his head. “You have to. It’s in the contract.”

“I’ll take the fine.”

“You always take the fine.”

Nanami doesn’t respond.

Gojo swings his legs down, sitting upright now, like he’s actually considering arguing. “Nanamin. Come on. Just an hour. You stand there, you sign a few things, you pretend to smile. That’s it.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Nanami finally looks up, then glances briefly in your direction. “I have other plans.”

You blink, unsure whether that was for your benefit or Gojo’s.

Gojo raises a brow, follows the look, then slowly leans back again, smirking like he’s solved a puzzle no one else was playing.

“Ah,” he says, dragging the word out. “Other plans.”

Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“Fine,” Gojo says, standing up and brushing off his pants. “I’ll just tell the team their golden boy’s brooding in the garage with his perfume girl.”

You open your mouth to say something but Nanami speaks first.

“They already know.”

Gojo grins. “Of course they do. They know everything.”

He points at you as he walks off. “Try not to ruin him. He’s delicate under all that quiet.”

Then he’s gone, whistling to himself as he disappears toward the weighing station.

The garage is quieter now, less crowded. Most of the crew has scattered, radio chatter fading into static, the sharp edge of the session giving way to a lull that feels oddly intimate.

Nanami glances at you again, his suit still half-open at the collar, hair damp, posture loose in a way it hadn’t been when you arrived.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says, voice lower now, not quite private, but close to it. “Wait for me?”

You nod. “Alright.”

He watches you for a beat longer, as if making sure you mean it, then gives a quiet nod and turns, heading toward the far end of the garage, where the weigh-in area sits just beyond the barriers.

You watch him go until he’s out of view. Then you settle back on the stool, the noise around you muted now, the space oddly warm despite the open structure of the paddock. The smell of fuel and rubber still clings to the air, but it’s familiar now. Like the room’s adjusting to you as much as you’re adjusting to it.

Outside, the sun is starting to dip, casting long shadows across the asphalt.

He returns when the sky’s gone pink and orange. The energy of the paddock has dipped with the light. There’s less urgency now, more clean-up and conversations echoing faintly from somewhere down the row of garages.

You spot him before he says anything.

His hair is damp, pushed back neatly, still drying at the temples. He’s changed, traded the fireproof suit for a loose linen shirt and khakis, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. A pair of worn-in Sperrys on his feet. It’s the most relaxed you’ve seen him look, and somehow, the quiet suits him just as much as the control.

He stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly.

“My apologies. Medicals took longer than expected.”

You glance up at him, letting your smile show this time. “It’s okay. I told you I would wait.”

He shifts his weight slightly, glancing around the now-sleepy garage. “You’ve been sitting here all afternoon. You hungry?”

You blink. “Are you… asking me to dinner?”

“I’m asking if you’ve eaten,” he corrects, but there’s something dry and just barely amused in his tone. “There’s a place across the water a local recommended to me last summer.”

You pause like you’re considering it, even though you already know your answer.

“Alright,” you say, pushing up from the stool. “But only if you tell me what it felt like out there, while you were driving.”

He looks at you for a moment, unreadable. “Dinner first.”

You fall into step beside him as he leads the way out of the garage, the last of the sunset slipping across the marina, and the rest of Monaco humming quietly in the distance.

He walks you down a narrow path past the quieter edge of the paddock, the fading light stretching long across the concrete. A few lingering crew members nod at him in passing, but no one stops him. He moves like someone used to being observed, but not interrupted.

At the edge of the lot, he unlocks the door to a sleek, low-slung car and drops a duffle bag into the small trunk.

It’s a Maserati A6G/54 Spyder Zagato—all smooth curves and polished chrome, deep navy blue with cream leather seats. Even idle, it looks fast. 

You blink at it, then glance at him. “Courtesy of the team?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Technically.”

You trail your fingers lightly along the passenger door before he opens it for you. “It’s beautiful.”

You settle into the seat, the leather soft and warm from the sun, and watch as he slides into the driver’s side—steady hands, relaxed shoulders. He starts the engine, and it purrs to life.

The car winds through Monaco’s narrow streets with a grace that feels effortless, the engine low and smooth beneath the hum of the evening. Streetlights flicker to life as you pass beneath them, casting soft, golden glows across shuttered windows and balconies dripping with summer flowers.

You don’t talk much on the drive, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Nanami drives like he lives: measured, focused, never wasting more than he has to. Every so often, you catch him glancing toward you at red lights, like he’s still not entirely sure you’re real.

You arrive at a small restaurant tucked into the hillside just past the marina, a little hidden terrace overlooking the curve of the coast. No sign out front. Just warm yellow lights strung low and the scent of wood smoke and garlic wafting into the street.

“This doesn’t look like the kind of place they put the drivers,” you murmur as he helps you out of the car.

“That’s the point,” he says simply.

The hostess greets him by name, not even surprised to see him. No fanfare. Just familiarity. You’re shown to a small table near the edge of the terrace, the kind with worn wooden chairs and a view that makes you sit back a little slower. The sea stretches wide and dark below, the harbor glittering quietly behind you.

Nanami orders without looking at the menu, something in practiced French. A bottle of wine, too, and water without ice. You watch him as he leans back slightly in his chair, fingers resting on the rim of his glass. The linen shirt clings slightly to his arms now, still damp from the heat of the day, his collar open just enough to soften the edge of him.

The server disappears, and the quiet settles again.

“So,” you say after a beat. “Is this your idea of recovery?”

His mouth lifts slightly. “Better than the fan event.”

You take a sip of wine. “Still sounds like a fine to me.”

“I’ve paid worse.”

You smile, letting the moment breathe. The food arrives not long after—simple dishes, local and warm, the kind that taste better outside under fading light with someone who isn’t pretending to be anyone else.

For a while, you talk about everything but racing. And perfume. The things in between. Where you grew up. The first time he crashed a kart. How you used to try and match scents to people you passed on the street.

“You still do that?” he asks, eyes flicking toward you over the rim of his glass.

“Sometimes.”

“And me?”

You pause, considering. “Something sharp, like cut stone. On the cleaner side of things.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That sounds... impersonal.”

You shake your head. “It’s not. You don’t budge for anyone, but you don’t need to.”

He doesn’t answer, not right away. But he doesn’t look away either.

And under the soft clatter of dishes and the far-off hum of the city below, something between you begins to settle into place.

“So,” you ask, taking a bite of your food, letting the wine smooth out the edges of your nerves, “how’d you get into racing in the first place?”

Nanami exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate. “You’re not going to sell me to the press, are you?” he says. It’s meant to be a joke, but it lands a little flat, like even he knows it’s just a deflection.

You offer a small smile. “I make no promises,” you joke back. “With the kind of money I’d make from that I wouldn’t need to sell another bottle of perfume for years.”

He chuckles, then he reaches for his glass and finally says, “I didn’t mean to. Not really.”

You look at him, waiting.

“My best friend growing up, Yu, he was the one who was obsessed. We started at this little track near his family’s house. Mostly on weekends and summer breaks. He was the one who read all the specs, memorized every pole position, begged his parents for a secondhand kart.”

A faint smile tugs at his mouth, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“When we got older, he wanted to go pro, but I went to law school. Thought I’d grow out of it, eventually. And there’s no guarantees in motorsport, I needed something stable.”

You don’t say anything. Just let the space fill in with the hush of cutlery, the low murmur of other tables.

“He was hit by a car,” Nanami says quietly. “Week before his twentieth birthday. Didn’t make it. I wasn’t even in town for his funeral.”

You mouth hangs open, just a bit.

“I dropped out after that. Took every yen I had, moved to Europe, started over. Didn’t really care about the politics or the sponsors. Still don’t. I just… liked the feeling of being behind the wheel. It was the only thing that made sense.”

You set your fork down, gently.

“And the interviews?” you ask, softer now.

He shakes his head. “They never asked about him. Just about me. And I never had anything worth saying if it wasn’t about him.”

You watch him for a long moment, the lights from the harbor casting soft golden arcs across his features.

“You could’ve walked away,” you murmur. “And you didn’t.”

He looks at you, really looks at you then, and there’s something quiet and raw in his expression. Not grief, exactly—but something that lives just beside it.

“I think,” you say carefully, “he’d be proud.”

He doesn’t reply right away. But then he lifts his glass slightly, toward you.

“Thank you,” he says, voice low.

Your hand finds his across the table, your delicate fingers resting atop his larger ones. The touch is light at first, but he doesn’t move. Just lets your warmth settle there, grounding him.

Nanami glances down at the contact, then back at you. His hand shifts, not to pull away, but to turn beneath yours so your palms meet. His fingers curl gently around yours, like he needed that touch just as much.

The noise around you fades into something distant. The clink of glasses, laughter from a nearby table, the sound of the sea brushing against the marina wall—all of it softened beneath the weight of the moment.

“You didn’t have to tell me any of that,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“But I’m glad you did.”

He doesn’t speak. There’s a kind of peace in his stillness now. A quiet that feels less like restraint, and more like understanding.

Outside, the sky is deepening into navy blue, the last hints of color giving way to the shimmer of early night.

Nanami gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “You want to go for a walk?”

You nod.

And this time, when you rise from the table, it’s with your fingers still threaded through his.

He walks beside you down the narrow path that winds along the edge of the hill, the restaurant fading behind into soft music and clinking cutlery. The air smells like salt and warm stone, the city lights flickering gently across the bay below.

“How about you?” he asks after a minute. “Why become a perfumer?”

You glance at him, then out toward the water. “My dad was one,” you say delicately. “My dad and my great-aunt. They ran a small lab together in Grasse. I grew up in it. I helped stack blotters in jars, labeled things in terrible handwriting, and got scolded for messing up the oils.”

Nanami doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, eyes on the cobblestone ahead, but tuned completely to your voice.

You pause before continuing.

“But when I was ten, my dad left. Cheated on my mom. Moved to America with his new family.” You exhale, slow and controlled, like you’ve said it before but it still costs you something. “He took the name with him. My mom didn’t want to fight over it. She and my great-aunt started over with what was left.”

His hand tightens around yours—not sharply, just enough that you feel it. Like a presence rather than a reaction.

“They raised me,” you say. “And I guess I always wanted to prove something. That we didn’t need him to keep doing what we loved. That our name wasn’t the only one that meant something in a bottle.”

You look at him then, half expecting pity, but he offers none.

Just understanding.

“You did,” he says softly. “You are.”

For a moment, you’re quiet again, the path ahead lit in gold from a streetlamp clinging to the curve of the road.

Then he adds, a little drier, “Though I’m biased. I helped with your last one.”

That pulls a quiet laugh from you.

“Don’t let it go to your head, Nanami.”

He glances down at you, that same subtle pull at the corner of his mouth.

“Too late.”

You’re mid-laugh, brushing his shoulder as you say something teasing, when the sound of wheels suddenly cuts through the air.

A child rockets down the hill on a bicycle, his laughter echoing off the walls as he barrels past, too unbothered by the curve ahead.

Nanami reacts before you do.

One hand wraps around your waist, the other steadies the small of your back as he pulls you in, tight against him. The bike zips past, barely missing you, the gust of it brushing your skirt.

Your breath catches from the nearness of him.

His chest is firm under your palms, his shirt still faintly warm from the restaurant, smelling of clean linen and the barest trace of something woodsy, something sharp. His hand lingers at your hip, fingers splayed wide like he forgot to let go.

You tilt your head back, eyes meeting his.

He’s close. Closer than before. His brow still slightly furrowed from the reflex, his jaw tight. But it’s his eyes that give him away.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

“I should’ve pulled you sooner,” he says, voice low. “You almost got hurt.”

You shake your head slightly. “No harm done.”

Except your pulse is doing a slow, traitorous thrum beneath your skin. And he still hasn’t let go.

Nanami’s gaze drops, not far. Just to your mouth. Then back up again.

A breath passes between you.

And then, slowly, he steps back. Releases you with the same care he took holding you. His hand brushes along your waist as it slips away, a ghost of contact that lingers longer than it should.

The moment’s over.

“Shall we?” he asks, voice perfectly even.

You nod, heart still a little too loud in your chest. “Yeah. Let’s keep walking.”

You walk for a while without speaking, your footsteps falling in sync as the road curves lower along the coast. The air smells of sea salt and something faintly sweet—maybe someone baking, or citrus trees behind gated villas. The city is quieter now, softened under twilight, Monaco’s usual shine turned more golden than blinding.

You don’t reach for him again, but you’re aware of every inch between your bodies. A distance that feels deliberate. Measured. Like you’re both pretending not to feel the gravity tugging you closer.

“I don’t usually do this,” you say eventually, voice barely above the hush of the waves below.

Nanami glances sideways. “Walks?”

Your mouth quirks. “No. Let strangers pull me into their garages. Let them buy me dinner. Tell them about my father.”

A beat. Then, softly: “I don’t usually tell people about Yu.”

You glance up at him. “So we’re even.”

His eyes catch yours, the quiet understanding still there, but something warmer now underneath it. He nods once.

“I’m glad you came,” he says.

You don’t answer right away. The truth is, you’re not sure why you did—at least not in any way that makes sense. You just know that when he looked at you in the garage, oil-smudged and serious, asking if you’d wait… you wanted to.

“I wasn’t planning to,” you admit. “But then I read the papers. Saw your face everywhere.”

He raises a brow. “Recognized me then?”

“No,” you say, teasing. “Still don’t really know who you are.”

That gets a rare smile—something softer, not as carefully managed as the others. “Good.”

You walk in silence again, your shoulder brushing his once, then twice, before either of you adjusts your pace.

“Come on,” he says suddenly, cutting left onto a narrow path that veers uphill. “I want to show you something.”

You hesitate only a second before following. The path is steeper here, lined with ivy-covered stone walls and shuttered doors. You climb higher, the sounds of the street fading below.

When you reach the top, the view opens like a secret—Monaco spread out beneath you, lights glittering against the dark, the sea stretching endless and black beyond the bay.

You breathe in, quiet awe catching in your throat.

“It’s not a podium,” Nanami says beside you. “But it’s close.”

You turn to look at him, but he’s already watching you.

“Step up on that rock,” he says, nodding to a flat stone nestled against the overlook’s edge. “You get a better view.”

You glance at it, then at him.

“You just want an excuse to look at me from below.”

A faint smile pulls at his mouth. “I am nothing but a gentleman.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s heat crawling up your neck as you step up anyway, the stone cool under your heels. He was right—the extra height shifts the whole scene, widening the scope. The harbor glows below like a spilled string of lights, the sea calm and endless beyond it.

But it’s not the view that keeps your attention.

It’s the way Nanami’s watching you.

His hands are in his pockets now, but his shoulders are relaxed, chin tilted slightly back to keep you in frame. There's something unguarded about the way he looks at you now, like he’s not pretending not to want you anymore.

“You were right,” you murmur, gaze flicking back toward the bay. “It’s beautiful.”

He steps closer, just enough that you can feel the heat of him through the soft night air.

“So are you,” he says.

Your eyes meet his again, and this time, neither of you looks away.

The silence stretches.

Then his hands are at your waist, steady and warm, guiding you gently back down from the rock like you’re something fragile, like you’re precious.

And when your feet touch the ground, you don’t let go.

His hands are still at your waist, and yours have found their way to the front of his shirt, fingertips brushing the fabric like they’ve been meaning to settle there all evening.

“Forgive me if I’m reading into this wrong,” he murmurs. His face is mere inches from yours, breath warm against your cheek. “But I can think of nothing else other than kissing you.”

Your pulse flickers, your breath catching.

You don’t pull away.

Instead, your thumb brushes lightly against the collar of his shirt, just above the first button. “You’re not wrong.”

He leans in slowly, giving you space to change your mind.

You don’t.

When his mouth meets yours, it’s careful at first, like he’s still unsure if he’s allowed to want this.

But you kiss him back, softly at first, then deeper, until the quiet restraint that’s defined every shared glance, every half-smile, finally gives way.

His hand slides up your back, fingers anchoring at your nape, while your body leans into his, instinctive and natural.

The city glitters on, indifferent to your moment.

The kiss deepens with a slow, deliberate ache.

He tilts his head slightly, lips moving against yours with a patience that only makes you want him more. There’s nothing rushed about it—just quiet, measured hunger, like he’s been holding back all day and only now letting it show.

You curl your fingers into the front of his shirt, his chest warm and solid beneath your palm. One of his hands slides to your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your cheek as he coaxes your mouth open, like he’s memorizing the way you taste.

A soft sound escapes you, too quiet to echo, but enough that he hears it.

His mouth lingers just a second longer, before pulling back—barely.

And then: “Ahem!”

The sound snaps you both apart like you’ve been caught stealing something.

You glance to your right. 

An older man, walking his tiny dog along the path, gives you both a disapproving squint as he continues past, muttering something in French about “young people” and “no shame.”

Nanami clears his throat, one hand falling from your waist, the other smoothing his shirt like it might help him recover the last minute of composure he just lost.

You stifle a laugh behind your fingers, cheeks flushed.

He looks at you again, jaw ticking, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Well,” he murmurs. “That was… untimely.”

You nod, still trying not to laugh. “Very.”

But even as you start walking again, your shoulder brushing his—you know neither of you has forgotten the kiss. Or the way you’ll be thinking about it all night.

By the time you make it back to the car, the night has settled in fully—quiet and warm, the scent of the sea curling in through the open passenger window. Nanami opens the door for you without a word, the gentleman in him never missing a beat, and you slide into the passenger seat with a sigh that’s softer than it should be.

He circles around, settling behind the wheel. The engine hums to life beneath his hands, low and sleek, and the Maserati rolls forward like it’s barely touching the ground.

“Where can I drop you?” he asks after a few quiet blocks, his eyes flicking over to you before returning to the road.

You glance at him, then out at the empty streetlights glinting off shuttered windows and balconies. It feels too early to say goodnight, and too late to pretend this was just dinner.

“My boutique,” you say at last, voice gentle. 

He nods, shifting gears like he already knew you’d say that.

“I want to know more about you,” he says, eyes still on the road.

The words aren’t dramatic. They don’t land with a crash. But there’s something about the way he says them—calm, intentional—that makes your breath catch a little.

You glance over at him, finding only sincerity in his profile. The strong line of his jaw. The slight furrow between his brows, like he’s thinking too hard about something that matters more than he’s willing to admit.

“Like what?” you ask, your voice softer now, quieter with the windows rolled down and the wind lifting strands of your hair.

He takes a beat.

“What your favorite scent is,” he says. “What you dreamed about when you were twelve. If you like mornings or if you hate them. If you’re planning on staying in Monaco after this commission’s done.”

You smile—slow, surprised.

“That’s a lot of questions.”

“I have time.”

“Okay,” you say, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Ask me one by one. But you have to answer too.”

Nanami hums in approval, turning onto a quieter street, where the lamplight stretches long across the pavement. “Let’s start simple.”

You glance over at him, waiting.

“How old are you?” he asks.

“Twenty-three,” you reply.

He nods once. There’s a pause, brief but noticeable.

You tilt your head. “Your turn.”

“Thirty-one,” he says, eyes still on the road.

The numbers settle between you like a quiet marker. Not alarming, not awkward—just honest.

You glance at him again, thoughtfully. “That’s not so bad.”

He raises an eyebrow, just enough for you to catch it. “Were you expecting it to be?”

“No,” you murmur, smile curling at the edges. “Just… not surprised.”

He doesn’t answer right away. But the corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s holding back something wry or self-deprecating.

“Your turn,” he says.

You think for a second.

“What did you want to be when you were little?”

He exhales a short laugh, like the memory surprises him. “I think I wanted to be a writer,” he says. “Or maybe a detective. Something quiet.”

You glance at him, slightly amused. “And instead, you chose the fastest, loudest job imaginable.”

His smile finally breaks through. “I was six.”

The car slows as he nears your street, engine humming low beneath your feet.

“Your turn,” he says again, voice quieter now. “What scent do you love most?”

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you look out the window, eyes tracing the familiar turn toward your boutique.

“Ambergris,” you say eventually. “It’s rare and very expensive, but it smells exactly like the ocean. It just lingers without asking for attention.”

He pulls up in front of the boutique, shifting the car into park. Then looks at you—really looks.

“That makes sense,” he says.

You glance over. “Why?”

He studies you for a moment longer, his voice soft.

“Because you linger, too.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy and neither of you moves to open the door.

"Do you want to come in?" you ask, fingers resting lightly on the strap of your satchel. "I have work to do, but it's only six… and I think I have a bottle of champagne left from when I signed the lease."

His gaze lifts to the windows of your boutique, still dark behind the shutters. Then back to you.

“You’re offering me cheap champagne and the scent of plaster dust,” he says, the faintest trace of a smile at his lips.

You arch a brow. “That’s the offer, yes.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“I’d be an idiot to say no.”

You slide out of the car, footsteps quiet against the cobblestone as you move toward the door. He follows without a word, hands tucked into the pockets of his linen slacks, the evening light soft on his face.

When you unlock the door and step inside, the familiar scent of wood, resin, and unfinished plaster greets you. You flick on the light—just one lamp near the counter—and the space glows with a quiet, golden warmth.

He steps in behind you, gaze drifting across the shelves still half-stacked, the walls still bare.

“It’s different at night,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You slip off your hat by the door, already moving toward the back room, calling over your shoulder, “Make yourself at home. I’ll find the champagne.”

You find the bottle tucked away behind a box of sample vials—still wrapped in the tissue paper the landlord had given you when you signed the lease. A single champagne flute sits in the cabinet above, and you pull out a second, mismatched one from a crate marked “to unpack.”

When you return to the front, Nanami is standing by your workbench again, one hand resting lightly on its edge, eyes scanning the scattered bottles and handwritten notes you’d left from earlier in the day. He hasn’t touched anything, but you can tell he’s paying attention.

You set the glasses down and start working the cork loose.

“It’s not cold,” you warn, tilting the bottle.

“I won’t hold it against you,” he says.

The cork pops a little louder than you meant it to, echoing in the quiet of the boutique. You pour, handing him the less-chipped glass before settling on the stool you’ve claimed as your own over the past few weeks.

Nanami remains standing, sipping carefully, then nods once in approval.

“Not bad.”

You smirk. “You expected worse.”

“I expected something flat. This is… charmingly mediocre.”

You raise your glass. “To mediocrity, then.”

He clinks his against yours.

A quiet stretches between you. He takes another slow sip, then glances around the space again.

“It suits you,” he says.

You swirl your champagne once, letting the bubbles settle. “It’s still a work in progress.”

“So are most things worth doing.”

Your eyes flick up to meet his, and for a moment, neither of you looks away.

Outside, the street is quiet, the world soft with the hush of early night. But in here, there’s something warm building between you—measured, patient, but undeniable.

You take a slow sip and set your glass down. “Do you want to see what I was working on earlier?”

He sets his drink beside yours, stepping closer. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Show me.”

You walk him toward the back of the boutique—past boxes of hand-labeled vials, scattered strips of scent blotters, and an old drafting table repurposed into your mixing station. There’s a small amber bottle sitting near the edge, uncapped, waiting.

“I started reworking an old formula after you left,” you explain, reaching for a clean blotter. “I want something I can put on shelves that everyone knows about.”

You hand him the strip, freshly dipped.

He doesn’t move right away. Just watches you, like you’ve offered him something more intimate than a piece of paper.

Then, he brings it to his nose.

The reaction is small, just the soft lift of his brows, the almost imperceptible way his eyes narrow, like the scent has caught him off guard.

“It’s familiar,” he murmurs.

“It should be,” you say, offering a small smile. “You inspire finish it.”

You move beside him, shoulders almost touching as you lean forward to adjust the proportions on a handwritten note. “The base is the different, but I added more of what you picked yesterday. I think it finally feels… real.”

He looks down at the bottle again, but then his eyes are on you.

“And what will you call it?”

You pause.

“I haven’t decided,” you admit. “Names come last.”

He studies you for a long moment, the air between you thick with something that isn’t just perfume.

“I think,” he says, voice quiet now, “you’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

You blink, unsure how to respond.

“You have a talent for making things feel like they’ve always existed, like they’ve just been waiting to be found.”

You don’t look at him right away. You can’t. Your throat is too tight, your pulse too loud.

Instead, you move to cap the bottle, fingers steady despite the warmth rising in your chest.

And when you do finally turn back, he’s still watching you, like he’s not in a hurry for you to say anything at all. 

“I haven’t known you very long,” he says, voice low, the kind of quiet that draws your attention even before the words fully register. “But I really like you.”

You look up at him, caught between surprise and something warmer that’s been building slowly since the night began. His expression is steady, unreadable in that maddeningly calm way of his—but there’s something in the set of his jaw, the way his hand flexes against the edge of the workbench, that gives him away.

You set the capped bottle down between you. “That’s… honest,” you murmur.

“I don’t see the point in anything less.”

His gaze drops briefly—first to your mouth, then lower, to the exposed sliver of collarbone just visible beneath your blouse. When his eyes rise to meet yours again, they’re darker. Focused.

It sends a subtle wave of heat up the back of your neck.

You don’t step away. Neither does he.

The air between you tightens, thrums.

“What is it you like?” you ask quietly, almost a challenge.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes a single step closer, close enough now that the scent of your work mixes with the crisp linen of his shirt, the faint trace of his skin beneath it.

“I like that you don’t fawn over me,” he says, his voice lower now. “That you looked me in the eye before you knew who I was.”

You tilt your chin, breath catching. “And now that you know I know?”

His hand lifts—slowly, deliberately—brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger, feather-light against your jaw.

“I like that you still look at me the same way.”

Your pulse flutters beneath his touch. You’re sure he can feel it.

Neither of you moves for a long, suspended second.

Then, barely a whisper, “Do you want me to stop?”

Your breath slips out shakily.

“No,” you say, almost too quickly. “I don’t.”

His hand slides fully to the side of your face now, fingers curling behind your neck—not rough, but sure. His thumb brushes along your jaw as he leans in, eyes flicking to your mouth just before his lips meet yours.

The kiss is warm at first. Controlled.

Measured.

Like everything else he does, it starts with intention.

But then you respond.

Your hand lifts, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt just over his heart, and something in him shifts. The restraint breaks.

He kisses you deeper—his other hand bracing against the workbench behind you, caging you in. His body presses in closer, firm and solid against yours, and you gasp softly into his mouth when his lips part yours with a heat that steals the breath from your lungs.

His mouth moves with purpose like he’s been waiting for permission and now refuses to waste a second.

You pull him in harder, your side hitting the wall. His hands slip to your waist, fingers splayed, gripping you like he needs the anchor, like the scent of your skin is something he’s desperate to memorize.

You’re not sure how long it lasts.

Time loses shape.

There’s only the brush of his mouth, the soft catch of your breath, the quiet sigh that escapes you when his tongue strokes against yours—and the low groan that rumbles from his chest in response.

By the time you break apart, your lips are kiss-swollen and your breath comes in shallow pulls.

His forehead rests lightly against yours, breath still uneven, but his hands steady now—one still on your waist, the other resting just beside you on the bench, giving you space even as he stays close.

“I won’t go farther if you don’t want me to,” he says, voice low, nearly a whisper against your lips. “I really do like you. And I am a patient man. I can wait.”

Your fingers are still curled in his shirt, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palm. He hasn’t pulled away. But he doesn’t press in either.

Just waits.

Your gaze lifts to meet his, and what you find there makes your pulse trip all over again—want, yes, but tempered with something gentler. Something careful.

“I won’t make you wait,” you say, pressing a peck against his jaw. “Not when I want you just as badly.”

You feel the way his breath hitches slightly at your words. His hand at your waist tightens, fingers flexing as if he's grounding himself, resisting the urge to close the space between you again too quickly.

He turns his head, brushing his nose against your cheek, lips ghosting over your skin. “Say it again.”

You tilt your chin, letting your mouth find his ear.

“I want you, Kento.”

This time, he doesn’t hold back.

His mouth finds yours, hungrily, with none of the earlier restraint. His hand slides up your spine as his tongue slips past your lips, tasting, claiming, like he’s been waiting all day for this—like he’d kept it bottled somewhere deep behind his calm exterior until now.

You gasp softly against him, your back arching as his body presses flush to yours, the heat of him making your head spin. The scent of him floods your senses, grounding you even as everything tilts.

His hand cradles the back of your neck, holding you there as he deepens the kiss, slow but intense, lips moving against yours like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Your fingers clutch at his shirt, desperate to pull him closer, to feel more.

When he finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, your lips are tingling, your chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he murmurs, voice rough against your skin, “since the moment I walked into your shop.”

You smile, dizzy and breathless.

“I knew you were trouble the second you touched that bottle,” you whisper.

His mouth brushes your cheek, your jaw, your throat—hungry again already. “Then it’s mutual.”

He works his way down, peppering slow, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your jaw, then lower, down the column of your throat, to the soft slope of your collarbone. You tilt your head back to give him space, your breath catching each time his lips meet skin.

His hands are patient, practiced. They find the buttons of your blouse, undoing them one by one, with the kind of care that feels more intimate than haste. When the last button gives, he eases the fabric from your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind you.

What’s left is your slip—a delicate, lace-trimmed undergarment in soft ivory, the kind worn beneath dresses in the summer, structured yet feminine. It hugs your figure in all the ways that matter, the satin catching the low light of the workbench lamp.

He exhales like he’s just seen something sacred.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, not in awe, but reverence like the word was made for you.

You reach for him again, tugging him closer by a belt loop on his pants.

“Come here,” you whisper.

His mouth finds yours again. You respond in kind, hands fisting in the linen of his shirt as your back hits the edge of an unfinished cabinet behind you. It’s half-constructed, shelves still bare, wood unpainted, the scent of sawdust lingering in the corners of the boutique.

You stumble back together, tangled in each other, laughter catching in your throat before it’s swallowed by another kiss. His hands slide to your hips, gripping firmly, guiding you up as you shift—half-sitting, half-leaning—against the wooden structure, your legs parting instinctively to let him settle between them.

The hard edge of the shelf presses into your thigh, but the only thing you feel is the heat of him, his palms skating over your sides, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your slip. His lips drag along your jaw, your neck, the place just below your ear where your breath stutters.

You cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in the room.

“I need to sit,” he murmurs, breaking the kiss just long enough to catch his breath. His voice is warm with affection, but there’s a touch of gravel in it now—strained, uneven. “Forgive me… my knees are going to give out.”

You smile against his mouth, breathless, lips tingling. “I thought race car drivers had stamina.”

“I do,” he says, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “But I also crashed yesterday.”

Fair enough.

He lowers himself onto the stool again, settling with a soft exhale as his back meets the wall. You follow without a word, slipping sideways into his lap, your knees bracketing his thigh, one arm looping around the back of his neck.

He lets out the faintest groan when you settle against him, hands instinctively coming to rest on your hips. His palm slides up, slow and steady, until it rests just beneath your ribs, anchoring you in place.

For a moment, you just look at each other, your breath mingling in the space between you, your fingers toying with the buttons near his collar, his eyes dark and unreadable beneath heavy lashes.

“I could stay like this,” he says quietly, voice close to your ear now, rougher with honesty than heat.

“So stay,” you whisper, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “No one’s asking you to go.”

You nip gently at the soft skin of his earlobe, and he exhales sharply through his nose. Your mouth trails from there, slow and unhurried, pressing wet kisses along the strong curve of his jaw.

His skin is warm, still carrying the faint trace of whatever cologne clung to the collar of his shirt.

Your hand slides up into his hair, fingers curling tight for a moment, before you loosen your grip, moving down to the buttons of his linen shirt. One by one, you undo them with quiet precision, the fabric parting beneath your fingers to reveal the hard lines of his chest and the soft rise and fall of his breath.

He watches you closely the entire time, eyes dark, jaw set, but not stopping you.

When the last button gives, you push the shirt open, your hands resting lightly against his chest, feeling the steady drum of his heartbeat under your palms.

“You’re very quiet,” you murmur, pressing a kiss just below his ear.

He swallows, voice rough when it finally comes. “I’m trying not to lose my mind.”

His hand lifts gently to your chin, fingers warm beneath your jaw as he coaxes your gaze away from his chest and back up to his eyes.

“Hey,” he murmurs—low, steady. There’s a softness in the way he looks at you, like he wants you to feel everything, not just rush past it.

And then his mouth is on yours again.

His lips move against yours with a kind of quiet urgency, like he’s afraid of forgetting how you taste if he stops for even a second.

His hand stays on your jaw, thumb brushing the hinge gently as your mouth parts for him again, and you feel him sigh—into you, through you—as if kissing you is the only thing anchoring him right now.

You shift in his lap, drawn closer by instinct, and his other hand slides down to grip your thigh, grounding both of you in the middle of the barely-finished boutique, between scent bottles and blueprints and dust.

Your legs bracket his, one tucked between his thighs, the other hooked snugly over his left leg. The position draws you closer, chest to chest, your breath mingling as the kiss deepens.

“Need more,” you murmur, the words slipping out between kisses, barely coherent.

Your hips shift on instinct, a slow, investigative roll against him, and his grip on your waist tightens in response. His breath catches, a stifled sound that makes your stomach twist, and when he breaks the kiss, his forehead drops to yours.

“You’re going to ruin me,” Nanami whispers, voice ragged.

His hands slide down to your hips, fingers firm, guiding your movements as you rock against him. Even through layers of fabric, the friction is electric, every shift sending sparks up your spine. Nanami’s eyes are half-lidded, gaze fixed on you with a hunger that makes your pulse race.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “Just like that. Let me feel you.” His voice is low, rough with restraint, and the way he holds you makes you feel cherished and wanted all at once.

Your breaths come faster, mingling with his as you move together, the press of your bodies and the heat building between you. His thigh flexes beneath you and you can’t help the soft sound that escapes you as the coil tightens in your belly.

Nanami’s hand slips up your back, drawing you closer still. “You’re incredible,” he whispers, and the sincerity in his voice makes your heart flutter. 

As pleasure finally begins to rip through you, Nanami’s hands move gently. He brushes his lips along your jaw, then trails them down to your shoulder once again. With a soft question in his eyes, he slides his fingers to the straps of your slip, giving you a moment to nod your consent.

Slowly, he eases the fabric from your shoulders, letting it fall away and leave your upper body bare to the cool air and his admiring gaze. His breath catches, his eyes drinking you in. His hands trace lightly over your skin, his touch feather-light, as if committing every detail to memory.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I have had the privilege of seeing,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. He presses a gentle kiss to your collarbone, then another to your heart, holding you close as you come down from your high. 

His lips find their way back to yours, each kiss a gentle promise. “Let me taste you,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice deep and intent. With surprising strength, he rises, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. He lowers you to the floor with careful precision, his movements both protective and yearning.

As you settle beneath him, Nanami pauses, a rueful smile touching his lips. He brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek.

“I must confess,” he says softly, a hint of dry humor threading through his words, “this isn’t quite how I imagined our first time—on the floor, of all places.”

He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, then meets your gaze.

His eyes flash with something you haven’t seen before.

“But I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.”

His hands roam delicately over your skin, exploring as if memorizing every detail. The floor may be hard and the moment unexpected, but the warmth between you is undeniable. He lowers himself, lips trailing along the outline of your breasts.

“Tell me if you’re uncomfortable,” he whispers, his voice a gentle invitation. “I want you to feel safe with me, always.”

You nod, your hands coming up to his face, bringing him back down toward you.

Your legs fold under you, allowing space for Nanami’s larger body to fit atop of yours.

Nanami’s gaze searches yours, patient and attentive, as if he’s reading every unspoken word. He leans in, his forehead resting gently against yours, and you feel the steady, reassuring rhythm of his breath.

“I trust you,” you whisper, your voice soft but certain.

His hand lifts off of the ground, cupping your breast, and delicately massaging the underside.

His lips curve into a gentle smile, and he brushes a stray strand of hair from your face. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his fingers lingering with care.

Your head tips back, feeling a warmth blossom in your chest. With every touch, every look, Nanami makes it clear that your comfort comes first. The world outside seems to fade away, replaced by the quiet intimacy you share.

His mouth finds your nipple, latching on and suckling on the bud gently. Your hands are tangled in his hair. Around his neck. On his shoulders, your nails digging into him slightly.

And when he licks his way down your body—your dress and slip discarded somewhere in your boutique—your back arches off of the ground, trying to find more friction. Any friction.

“Lift,” he whispers, a roughness in his voice you haven’t heard before. Two of his fingers tap at your hips, and you comply, pushing your feet into the ground as you raise your hips.

Nanami’s index fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down to pool at your ankles. His lips, now wet and swollen, make contact with the skin at your pelvis, trailing open mouthed kisses down toward where you need him most.

Your hand moves slowly, from the ground up toward his head, pushing him down more aggressively than you had initially meant to.

He breaks contact, sitting upright on his knees, and his eyes meeting yours.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he says. “Good things come to girls who wait.”

You groan at the loss of contact. “Please, Kento. I can’t wait much longer.”

Your hips lift again, this time wiggling upward toward him, begging for him to touch you anywhere.

Nanami’s eyes darken with desire as he watches your pleading movements, the air between you thick with anticipation. Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his gaze back to your exposed skin, his breath warm against your sensitive flesh. His fingers trail lightly along your inner thigh, sending shivers through you, before he finally leans in again.

His thumb glides gently along your center, gathering your arousal with a slow, deliberate touch that sends a shiver through your whole body. He brings his fingers to his lips, tasting you with a quiet, appreciative hum before letting them slip free, glistening in the low light.

His gaze meets yours before he lowers his hand again. With exquisite care, he slips a finger inside you, the movement unhurried and attentive, as if he’s savoring every reaction you give him. He sets a steady rhythm, his touch both patient and purposeful, coaxing pleasure from you with every gentle thrust.

His free hand rests on your hip, grounding you, his thumb tracing soothing circles on your skin. Each sensation is heightened by the way he watches you, utterly focused, as if you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“So wet,” he murmurs.

His lips linger on your skin, each kiss a gentle promise that leaves your nerves tingling. The teasing is exquisite—every touch, every press of his mouth against your knee, stoking the fire building inside you. When his tongue finally traces a slow, deliberate path up your inner thigh, your breath catches.

He pauses, teeth grazing the soft curve of your thigh in a playful bite, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. The warmth of his breath fans over your most sensitive skin as he peppers kisses closer to where you need him most, each one drawing out a fresh wave of longing.

When his mouth finally finds you, the sensation is overwhelming. He takes his time, savoring every reaction, every gasp and shiver. The world narrows to the press of his lips, the slow, deliberate movements of his tongue, and the way his hands anchor you.

With every caress, he’s not just exploring your body—he’s worshipping it, making you feel cherished and seen. The pleasure builds in slow, steady waves, each one higher than the last, until you’re lost in the rhythm of his devotion, the world beyond the two of you fading away completely

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as waves of pleasure build. The world narrows to the two of you, your breaths mingling, hearts pounding in sync. He’s now three fingers deep, stretching out your cunt, showing you just how much he’s captivated by you.

His name tumbles from your lips as you come undone.

Nanami slows, grounding you with gentle touches as you ride out your orgasm.

He withdraws his hand with care, then shifts back, reaching for his belt. The sound of his zipper is quiet but electric, anticipation humming between you as he slides his pants down and off.

His cock springs free— long and thick and angry at the tip. It slaps against his lower stomach with a vulgar noise, precum leaking down his length slowly.

You catch your breath, eyes widening as you take him in. He notices your hesitation, pausing to search your face. “Is this your first time?” he asks quietly.

You nod, cheeks flushed. “I want to… I just— I’ve never—” Your gaze drops, lingering on the space between you.

He moves closer, cupping your cheek. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” he murmurs, voice low and reassuring. “But if you want this, I’ll go slow. I promise.”

You glance down, nerves fluttering in your stomach. “You’re… bigger than I expected,” you admit, a nervous laugh escaping you.

Nanami smiles, gentle and understanding, a soft laugh escaping his mouth. “We’ll take our time,” he assures you, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Tell me if anything hurts, and I’ll stop. I want this to be good for you—only if you’re ready.”

He leans in, kissing you softly, letting you feel his patience and care with every touch, making sure you know you’re safe, wanted, and never rushed.

Nanami’s hands cradle your thighs, spreading them. He settles between you, his gaze searching yours for any sign of hesitation. You nod, giving him silent permission, and he positions himself at your entrance, the anticipation making your heart race.

You feel the gentle pressure as his tip begins to enter you, your breath catching at the unfamiliar stretch. Instinctively, you tense, a soft wince escaping your lips. Nanami immediately stills, his hands soothing over your hips, his voice calming.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing a reassuring kiss to your forehead. “We’ll go as slow as you need.”

You bite your lip, nerves and anticipation mingling. “Is it in yet?” you whisper, glancing up at him.

He lets out a low, shaky breath, his restraint evident. “We’re about halfway,” he admits, his voice thick with both concern and desire. “You’re so tight… it’s almost too much.”

A flicker of doubt crosses your face. “It won’t fit,” you say, your nails digging into his arms as you try to anchor yourself.

He meets your gaze, his eyes full of warmth and encouragement. “You can take it,” he assures you, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “Just relax for me, yeah? I’ll take care of everything.”

He moves slowly, his hands never leaving your skin, grounding you as he begins to press forward. The stretch is intense, and you tense instinctively, a small gasp escaping you. Nanami pauses, brushing your cheek with his thumb, his voice a soothing anchor. “Breathe with me,” he murmurs, waiting for you to relax, his patience unwavering.

You focus on his touch, the warmth of his body, and the trust in his eyes. Gradually, you adjust, your body yielding to him. The discomfort fades, replaced by a new, overwhelming sensation—pleasure blooming where there was once tension.

He moves with care, watching your reactions, letting you set the pace. Soon, the pain is a distant memory, replaced by a deep, rolling pleasure that makes you cling to him, your breaths mingling as you move together.

“That’s it,” he whispers, awe in his voice. “You’re perfect. Just like this.”

Nanami’s head rests near your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin. You cling to him, your nails digging into his back, grounding yourself in the overwhelming sensations. The room is filled with the sounds of his grunts and your screams. The world outside fades away and your vision goes white.

If anyone were to look through the window, they’d find you an unclothed, cock-drunk mess on the floor— courtesy of Nanami thrusting deep in places you didn’t know existed inside of you.

“It’s too much,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you shift beneath him, overwhelmed by the intensity of sensation.

Nanami’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he steadies you. “Shh, it’s okay,” he soothes, his tone gentle and encouraging. “You’re doing so well for me.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin. When you instinctively tighten around him, he lets out a shaky laugh, his control wavering. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint. “If you keep that up, I won’t last much longer.”

You meet his gaze, a flush rising to your cheeks at the vulnerability in his eyes. He slows his movements, giving you time to adjust, his thumb tracing comforting circles on your hip.

“Just focus on me,” he says softly.

Your breath comes in short, desperate gasps as the pleasure builds, overwhelming and all-consuming. “I’m close,” you manage, voice trembling. “I think—I don’t know, it just feels so good.”

Nanami’s grip tightens on your hand, his own restraint slipping as he meets your gaze, eyes dark with longing. “Me too,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Just hold onto me.”

The rhythm between you grows frantic, both of you chasing that final, shattering release. His words—soft, encouraging, reverent—anchor you as the sensation crests, your bodies moving in perfect sync. In one breathless moment, the world falls away, and you both come undone together— his name on your lips, your on his, his arms holding you close as you ride out the aftermath side by side.

He pulls out of you, the sensation leaving you feeling empty. With gentle care, his hand moves between your thighs, rubbing once more at your clit, his touch lingering as he traces the evidence of your shared release. He brings his fingers to your lips, his gaze locked on yours, warm and intent.

“Open for me,” he murmurs, his voice low and coaxing, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Taste the mess you’ve made.”

You part your lips, letting him press his fingers gently to your tongue. Afterward, the room is quiet but for the sound of your mingled heartbeats and gentle, contented breaths. Nanami presses a tender kiss to your forehead, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your back.

“You were perfect,” he whispers, awe and affection in every word. 

You rest against him, cheek pressed to his shoulder, limbs boneless and warm. He wraps an arm around you carefully, protective without being possessive, the pads of his fingers tracing idle shapes along your spine as your breathing slows.

After a beat, he leans back just enough to look at you, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek.

“Are there any towels in the back?” he asks softly, voice low, grounding. “I’ll get you cleaned up.”

You nod sleepily, pointing toward the curtained hallway near the rear storage room. “Stack in the cabinet beside the sink.”

He kisses your forehead, then slips away with quiet efficiency, disappearing into the shadows. You hear drawers opening, a tap running briefly, and when he returns, it’s with warm water and soft linen.

He kneels in front of you without a word, gentle and unhurried as he helps you feel like yourself again—caring for you in a way that says more than any compliment ever could.

When it’s done, he helps you slip back into your clothes, fastens the buttons with surprising care, and reaches for the bottle of champagne you’d been drinking earlier.

“You still want that toast?” he asks, raising the bottle slightly, a rare glint of playfulness in his eyes.

You nod, smiling as he pops the cork. He hands you your cup and sits beside you, your bare knees brushing.

“To your boutique,” he says softly, raising his glass.

“To your first place finish tomorrow,” you counter, clinking it against his.

The champagne is warm and flat, but neither of you seem to mind.

You lean your head against his shoulder, and he tips his glass back, his free hand finding yours again.

“Come tomorrow,” he says, quiet but sure, the way everything he says is. “To my race.”

You take a sip of the warm champagne, eyes still on the rim of your glass as you reply, “Can’t,” a faint smile tugging at your lips. “You’ve distracted me far too much, Mr. Nanami.”

He lets out a soft laugh, low and almost private, as if he’s not used to being told no—but is strangely delighted by it when it comes from you.

“Is that what I’ve done?” he asks, turning slightly to face you better. “Distracted you?”

You finally meet his gaze. “Completely. And I do have a boutique to finish setting up, you know.”

“Right,” he nods, but the glimmer in his eyes betrays him. “Don’t let me get in the way.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, the gentle clink of glass against wood filling the silence as you tidy up the space around you—folding a stray cloth, straightening a few scattered bottles. Your hands move on autopilot, but your mind’s already slipping ahead, out of this room, out of this night.

He watches you, then breaks the stillness with a question that lands heavier than you expect.

“When do you leave?”

You pause, your fingers brushing over the rim of a glass before curling into your palm.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Soon, I think.”

Nanami shifts on the stool, his eyes following you as you move. “I can extend my stay,” he says, steady and certain in the way only he can be. “I want to see you again.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“That’s not the best idea,” you say softly.

His brows furrow, not in anger, but confusion. Maybe even hurt.

“Why not?”

You exhale through your nose, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Because you’ll be gone again in a week. And I’ll be back in Grasse.”

He opens his mouth, like he wants to argue, but you hold up a hand.

“I’ve seen how this works,” you continue. “You live on tracks and in hotel rooms and in front of cameras. I’m simple, and we’re both busy, and you live this fancy life, and we… We don’t exactly… fit.”

There’s a long pause.

“But it felt like we did,” he says, and it’s so quiet, you almost miss it.

You turn away, suddenly too aware of how close he still is. “It’s not that simple, Nanami. You and me—it’s not real. Our lives are too different.”

You hear the stool scrape against the wood floor, then the soft hush of his footsteps crossing the boutique. They stop just a breath away.

“Why won’t you at least try?” he asks, voice low but unmistakably strained. “We can make it work. I can write letters, send postcards. I’ll fly you out for all the European races. Hell, I’ll take the train if you hate flying. Just—don’t walk away from this before it even starts.”

You turn to face him, your mouth already drawn tight with the ache you’ve been trying to swallow since he kissed you the first time.

“It’s not about trains or flights, Nanami,” you snap, sharper than intended. “It’s about reality.”

His brows crease. “Reality is whatever we decide to make of it.”

“No,” you cut in, shaking your head, “reality is that you’ll be gone again in two days, and I’ll be here, sweeping dust off the floor and trying to get this place to open before summer ends. While you’re on podiums and avoiding magazine covers, and getting asked to dinner in every country you visit.”

“You think I care about any of that?” he says, incredulous now, frustration bleeding into his voice. “Do you think I want champagne parties and interviews and—being chased down the street? I hate that part of this.”

“Then why do you do it?” you fire back. “If you hate it so much, why not just leave?”

“Because I love racing,” he says, like it costs him something to admit it. “Because I made a promise to someone who never got the chance to chase this dream. And because it’s the only thing that makes sense most days.”

You stare at him, and something inside you twists.

“And I love what I do,” you whisper. “But I don’t expect anyone to wait around while I chase it.”

He steps closer, jaw clenched. “I’m not asking you to wait. I’m asking you to try. That’s all. We met a few days ago, and I already know I’ll regret it if I don’t fight for this.”

Your voice is quiet now, but no less sharp. “And I already know it’ll hurt more if I let myself believe you mean that.”

The silence that follows is thick like the whole room is holding its breath.

Finally, he says, softer, “So that’s it?”

You look at him, and for a moment, it feels like your heart might break under the weight of his gaze.

“I don’t know,” you say. “But I need space to think. And you… you have a really big day tomorrow, so you should go.”

He nods, jaw tight, the muscle ticking as he turns slightly—like he might leave. But then he looks at you one last time.

“I meant it,” he says. “All of it.”

And then, without waiting for a reply, he walks toward the door.

Nanami’s hands are sweaty, his gloves damp despite the leather’s grip. The temperature in the car is really hot.

He rounds turn eleven during Q3, the tires screaming just a little too loud as they catch the edge of the curbing. His jaw tightens.

The engine roars in his ears, but his mind is sharp, steady. There’s only one lap left. One shot. 

He calculates it in a heartbeat—Gojo, Fushiguro, and Zenin are ahead. Barely.

He’s P4.

Just tenths of a second separate them, and he knows their driving styles as intimately as his own. Gojo overdrives the straights, Fushiguro’s quick through tight corners but burns tires fast, and Zenin is ruthless, but predictable.

If he plays his cards right—tightens his line through the chicane, keeps the throttle steady through the tunnel, shaves time off in sector three—he can catch up. Maybe not all of them. But at least one.

Maybe two.

And maybe, if the universe doesn’t hate him today, all three.

He exhales once, eyes narrowing beneath the visor. The blur of Monaco’s cityscape whips past him, but all he sees are his marks. His gaps. His openings.

Turn twelve—tight, downhill, dangerous.

He brakes later than he should, later than anyone else would dare. The tires scream, the rear twitches under him, but he holds it. Just enough grip to slip past Zenin, who’s forced wide and loses the line.

P3.

He doesn’t celebrate. No time. He’s already recalculating.

Gojo is ahead, quick as ever, but messy under pressure. Nanami takes the tunnel clean, narrows the gap by half a second. Gojo swings wide, Nanami takes the inside.

P2.

His heart hammers, sweat trailing along his spine. He doesn’t blink.

Sector three now.

Fushiguro’s precise. Even though it’s his first season, he’s almost too perfect. But perfection is brittle under heat.

Nanami pushes the engine harder, clips the apex like muscle memory, tires barely grazing the barrier. He knows this car and it listens to him now like it was made for this moment.

The final corner comes and goes in a blink.

He’s inside. Fushiguro tries to defend, but there’s no room. Not unless he wants contact. Not unless he wants to lose everything.

He lifts.

Nanami’s through.

P1.

The straight opens ahead. The crowd is a blur—flashes of white gloves and waving flags. The checkered flag rises into view.

The engine’s screaming at redline, and Nanami crosses the line with a full car length to spare.

First.

The radios burst to life—his engineer yelling, the garage roaring, someone laughing through static.

But Nanami says nothing.

He exhales again, slower this time.

Under the helmet, a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

He won.

Mechanics swarm the car before the engine even cools, team radios barking, photographers he’s trying to avoid already jostling for angles. 

He unclips the wheel, hands trembling slightly. He’s soaked through, suit clinging to his spine, chest rising and falling under the weight of it all.

He climbs out slowly, methodically—no fist-pumping, no yelling. Just the quiet stillness of a man who doesn’t need to scream to know he earned this.

The cheers roll down from the stands like thunder. But he doesn’t really hear them.

His helmet comes off.

His blond hair is flattened with sweat, face streaked with grit, but his eyes sharp— looking for you.

“Nanami!” a team member shouts, clapping him hard on the back. “You fucking did it!”

He barely nods before being pulled away.

First stop: the weigh-in station. Every driver is weighed post-race to ensure minimum weight requirements. He steps onto the scale, tired but upright, and a steward records the number before waving him off.

Then the media zone. Bright lights, too many microphones. A blur of questions he half-hears, and avoids.

“Nanami, how does it feel—?”

“Three back-to-back wins—what changed this weekend?”

“Talk us through that pass on Fushiguro—”

He waves them off, refusing to answer.

And then he’s moving again—past the cameras, through the tunnel of crew members offering slaps on the back, hugs, champagne flutes shoved into his hands.

There’s a podium ceremony to prep for.

The white Maserati race suit is peeled off and replaced with a clean one, zipped halfway as he walks out into the golden hour light of Monte Carlo, sun dipping toward the sea.

Gojo’s already on the second step, grinning like a lunatic. Fushiguro stands on the third, jaw tight, refusing to look anyone in the eye.

Nanami takes the top step.

The anthem plays. The flags rise. He doesn’t blink.

When the champagne sprays, he lifts the bottle, but barely raises his arm.

The moment protocol lets him breathe, he’s gone, pushing through the maze of garages and crew tents, pace urgent but composed.

He only stops once—at a little flower stall tucked beside the marina. The woman behind the cart recognizes him immediately, mouth agape, but says nothing as he gestures toward the simplest bouquet she has: cream roses, lavender sprigs, something fragrant and soft.

“For someone special?” she asks, eyes twinkling.

He only nods.

He drives fast—quieter roads now, the Grand Prix chaos receding behind him, the Maserati gleaming under the falling sun as it winds through the narrow city streets toward your boutique.

The windows are dark when he gets there. Still half-built, still quiet. But the door is unlocked—just slightly ajar—and that’s when he sees him.

The architect. The same one from that first day. He looks up from a blueprint, blinking at the sound of the bell.

Nanami steps inside, bouquet still in hand.

Your name falls from his lips when he walks in, posed more as a question.

“She’s not here,” the man says gently. “She left this morning. Said she had to return to Grasse to finalize something.”

Nanami’s lips part. “She didn’t—she didn’t say goodbye.”

“She said she’ll be back next weekend,” the man adds, scratching behind his ear. “Didn’t mention much else.”

Nanami stands still for a long beat. The bouquet hangs loosely at his side, the scent of the flowers mixing with faint traces of dust and wood glue still lingering in the air.

Next weekend.

He nods once, quietly and then he leaves, the door closing softly behind him.

By morning, he’s already on a plane to his next race—another country, another city, another track.

But the bouquet?

He leaves it behind on your workbench. 

TO BE CONTINUED...

taglist: @bluukive @callme-naomi @seellove @southrasiansandas @roresgf @bxnfire @seokjinfairy @araveticazx @mylilsodapop @nanasrambelingsons @dilfkentolover @papoiyu @hannibuttered @cherryredkissez @tqrxi @angelkiyo @caffine-exe @meikstv @crustyaintdusty

[menaceanon]

I think like. The thing I keep coming back to about the Murderbot show is that I cannot remember ever seeing another tv show give an “Oh” moment to platonic love.

But my god, when Murderbot shows Mensah Sanctuary Moon to help with her panic attack. You see her look at it, and you see her realize…

Yes, she has been thinking of Murderbot as a person, that’s why she went back for it at the DeltFall habitat. But it’s all been very theoretical—the way you might help a stranger up if they fall, but that doesn’t mean you want to get to know them. It doesn’t mean you’ve reckoned with their interiority.

But as Murderbot murmurs, “Breathe, breathe, breathe the crystal light” to itself, you see it all click into place for Ayda Mensah.

This terror she’s experiencing? All-consuming and confusing and soul-crushing? SecUnit has felt this. And it had to face it alone—not just in the sense that there has never been anyone to offer it comfort, but in the sense that no one even thought that it—it as an entity, it as a being capable of fear—exists.

So it found this show. And Mensah has been so pissed at it for potentially getting them all killed because it thought a stupid fucking soap opera mattered, but oh, oh, oh fuck, this show is the only thing in the universe that has ever given it comfort. This show has offered it context and escapism and asked for nothing in return. It absolutely is critical matériel.

And that brings her to now, to herself, to herself and Murderbot. This person next to her, who she is technically in possession of, who has had to claw and scrape for even a thimbleful of peace, who was only able to protect that peace by never ever ever letting anyone know it existed. She and her team have ripped away its impossibly precious privacy, exposed its secrets… and here it is handing her part of its soul anyway, because in this moment she needs it.

Because it knows what it’s like to be scared and alone, and does not want her to feel that way.

And so she falls in love, and you get to watch it happen.

My ace ass has a lot of messy feelings about love and the way it appears on screen. Few things have hit me as hard as getting to witness the exact moment Dr. Ayda Mensah’s soul met Murderbot’s and decided it was home.

[annlyticalarchive]

CHAPTER ELEVEN: When the Light is Running Low

”You will be different, sometimes you’ll feel like an outcast, but you’ll never be alone”

Mark Grayson X Kryptonian/Clark Kent! Reader

Prologue|Chapter 10|Chapter 11 (Here)| Chapter 12

w/c: 6.3k

You always prided yourself on being smart.

Even before you could talk, you’d help Ma and Pa fix things around the farm. Holding flashlights, handing over tools, quietly watching and learning. As you got older, as your powers developed, it got easier. Being able to literally see what was wrong inside a piece of machinery saved your family hundreds on repair bills. Something rattled? You knew where. Something sparked? You saw it happen.

You’d rebuilt engines before. Welded a broken plow. Repaired old wiring from a solar inverter.

But this printer was your mortal enemy.

It had jammed, flashed three different error messages, and somehow managed to chew up paper like it had a personal vendetta against everyone in the Daily Planet. You were convinced if anyone else had tried to fix it, they’d have sliced their hand open on the exposed internals at least five times by now.

You sat on your knees in front of it, sleeves rolled up, jaw clenched tight. You were trying, truly trying, not to snap the entire housing in half. One good squeeze and you’d be free of this misery forever.

You were elbow-deep in the open side panel when a soft knock came at the office door, followed immediately by it opening.

“Hello? I was told this was where I’d find…” a woman said your name.

You startled upright, banging your shoulder on the inside of the machine as you turned to face her, and then froze.

Because standing in the doorway was her.

Atom Eve.

Undeniably. Absolutely. Atom Eve.

Even in casual clothes, she looked the exact same as she did in costume. Her hair was styled the same way. Same impossible confidence with perfect posture. Nothing was different.

You stared.

So did she.

And now you finally understood why Mark had always insisted you should wear a mask.

Eve blinked first. “Oh. Uh…”

You scrambled to stand up straighter. “Hi. Sorry. Printer problems.”

“I’m Samantha. Samantha Wilkins,” she said, stepping forward while you awkwardly stayed still.

“Uh— I would, Miss Wilkins, but…” You held your hands up, palms outward. Ink smeared across your fingers and wrists, the result of an exploded cartridge, one of many reasons this printer was a nightmare.

She smiled, unbothered, and reached for your hand anyway. A soft buzz filled the air as her fingertips glowed pink, and suddenly, the ink vanished.

“Call me Eve,” she said, shaking your now-clean hand. Her voice dropped just slightly as she added, “He couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. Didn’t help that we’d already met.”

She didn’t say his name, but she didn’t have to.

“Oh, trust me, I know,” you said with a dry laugh. “Well, it’s nice to properly meet you. But, uh… what brings you here? For me-me, I mean?”

Eve gave you a quick look, something between amusement and curiosity, before continuing, “I’ve actually been following your articles since you covered that playground sinkhole collapse.”

“Oh yeah,” you nodded, a bit surprised. “That one was tough. I’m just glad no one was seriously injured. I wrote a follow-up a few days later, everyone was set to recover nicely.”

Eve nodded slightly, her demeanor noticeably more reserved now than when she first walked in.

“Thats good, but not the reason I wanted to talk.”

“I figured.” You pushed your glasses up and gestured toward the door. “I’m scheduled for my break anyway. Mind if we talk more at the café a block down?”

She nodded and followed you out of the Daily Planet building. She didn’t fully relax until you reached the café, and only seemed to settle once you handed her a coffee alongside your own.

You took a sip, then glanced at her. “So… what did you want to talk about?”

“I’ve been following your work. You’ve been writing a lot about reconstruction efforts lately, right?”

“Mhm.” You nodded again, more firmly this time. “With how often state and local property gets destroyed, the infrastructure support just isn’t keeping up. The systems in place are overwhelmed, and honestly? Neglected.”

Eve tapped her fingernail lightly against her coffee cup. “I want to help,” she said bluntly. “But every time I try... it never ends well.”

“I can get you in contact with some nonprofits and charity orgs,” you quickly offered, already digging into your bag. You tore out a page from your notebook and quickly jotted down names and contact info you remembered from recent interviews. “They’re always looking for extra hands. Powered or not.”

Eve took the list, staring at the page with something unreadable flickering in her expression.

“Last time I helped...” she said, more quietly this time. “I thought I was doing the right thing, but it was the opposite.”

“Last time, you ran in blind,” you corrected bluntly but tried to be gentle about it. “These folks? They’ll point you in the right direction with a proper plan. They want help, they just need it to be organized. And if these don’t work out, I’ll find more. There’s always a way to make a difference. One way or another.”

Eve looked at you for a long moment before letting out a breath, like something had finally eased in her shoulders. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

She extended her hand. “Thanks. Really.”

You shook it, offering a small smile of your own. “Anytime, and hey, you’re always free to stop by.”

Eve gave you a soft smile, and the two of you parted ways with a quiet goodbye, maybe not friends, not yet, but something close enough to make you feel like it was the start of a good week.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Oh, wrong you were. Laughably so.

If you had to put a finger on why you felt so awful, you’d have an entire list.

It had been rainy and gloomy for nearly five days straight, and while you’d always been hit with weather and seasonal depression quicker and harder than most, it didn’t help that you couldn’t sleep either.

There was this ringing.

Just loud enough to be annoying.

Pulsing enough that you couldn’t get used to it.

Just enough to keep you up for days, and give you a headache.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The first day had been mostly normal.

You woke up with your alarm, hit snooze, panicked when you heard the plastic crack beneath your hand, lay in bed for a while with your palms pressed over your ears as you adjusted to the pounding of rain against the windows, and finally forced yourself to get up.

It wasn’t until after your shower, when the apartment settled into a semi-quiet hum, that you noticed it.

A ringing, high-pitched and pulsing.

You chalked it up to the alarm or maybe the rain. Sometimes loud sounds near your ears left a residual tone behind. Your hearing was sensitive.

It’d stop soon.

“Let’s go, Kansas!” Jimmy called from his spot by the door.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, grabbed the umbrella you two kept by the door, and headed out with him into the rain.

“Okay, what do you think is going to happen today?” Jimmy asked as you two walked into the café, just like always, picking up the order of coffees and pastries one of the other reporters had preordered.

“What do you mean?” You frowned as you stacked all the boxes of pastries, plus one drink carrier, into your arms.

“There’s always something. Aliens, freaky technology, or magic.” Jimmy shook his head as he held the door open for you, then repeated, “So, what do you think is going to happen today?”

“I don’t want anything like that to happen today,” you answered, offering a quick “thank you” as he opened the Planet’s doors for you.

“Well, no one wants it,” he said, “but it always does. So, which is it?”

You sighed. “…Technology.”

Jimmy frowned as you set the boxes and drink carrier down on the break room table, letting the other workers grab their coffees and donuts.

“Boring,” he declared, placing his hands on his hips. “I bet it’ll be aliens.”

You tried to roll your eyes at him, but the motion tugged at the throbbing in your skull. That ringing, still there. Still constant. Not growing louder, but not fading either.

“You alright?” Jimmy asked, noticing the wince you didn’t mean to let show.

“Yeah. Just… didn’t sleep great,” you muttered, grabbing your own coffee and taking a sip that burned your tongue.

Jimmy hummed skeptically but let it go. He was already halfway across the bullpen, camera slung over his shoulder, trading jabs with Steve Lombard by the copier.

You moved slower than usual. Everything felt slightly off. Conversations blurred together. Phones rang too sharply. Every click of a keyboard grated at your ears.

You rubbed your temples and sat down at your desk, pulling up the files you needed to review before the afternoon meeting.

Interns were rotated between departments each month to get experience writing about a variety of events.

You just really hoped you didn’t get paired with Cat or Steve.

You didn’t think you could handle Cat’s laughter or Steve’s jabs today, and as mean as that felt, it was true.

You didn’t realize everyone had started gathering until Lois patted your shoulder on her way out of the tiny office you two shared.

Perry was already rattling off names by the time you and Lois reached the main bullpen. Jimmy was sulking next to Cat Grant, who was patting his head like he was some sad puppy.

You were confused as to why he looked more distraught than usual, until you remembered the gala coming up.

He’d probably be dragged by the ear to take photos of Cat posing with celebrities for hours on end.

And you’d never felt more sympathetic.

“Lane and Troupe, you're covering the trade summit at the Embassy,” Perry barked.

“Kent, you're with Lombard,” he added, and you blinked.

Steve let out a triumphant whoop and threw an arm around your shoulders, giving you a jostling shake.

“About time we got paired together, Little League!”

“Please don’t call me that—”

“Perfect timing, too. We’re covering the Major League! Tell me, Kansas, who you rooting for?”

“Well, I’ve always liked the New York Gia—”

“Ah, course you did. Lemme guess, your old man told you they were good? Shame they lost the first series.”

You honestly couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or just trashing your team for fun. “Yeah, shame. Good thing the Metropolis Meteors are still in.”

“So you do have taste!” He clapped you hard on the shoulder.

At least now you knew for sure he was being passive-aggressive.

You were about to give him a pointed look when Lois leaned over and muttered, “Remember, he peaks early in the day. He’ll crash by lunchtime.”

“Like a toddler,” you murmured back.

Lombard glanced between the two of you. “What was that?”

“Nothin’.”you said quickly, smiling in that practiced innocence. You needed it, especially if you were working with Steve.

“Good. 'Cause you're gonna need all your energy to keep up. We’ve got player interviews, press box access, pre-game walkthroughs, and if we’re lucky, free hot dogs.”

He grinned like he’d just described paradise.

You blinked. “Wait, we’re actually going to the game? Tonight? That game? It isn’t canceled due to the weather?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, the stadium got an upgrade when it had to be reconstructed. They added retractable roofs. Plus, Perry finally realized I’m the only one around here who knows a pop fly from a foul tip. And you,” he pointed, “get to learn from the best.”

Lois raised a brow with a scoff as she passes the two of you with Troupe by her side. “Oh, please. You’re mentoring now?”

Lombard waggled his eyebrows as he pats your shoulder. “The kids are our future, Lane.”

“I’m nineteen.”

“Exactly. Practically in diapers.”

You sighed and rubbed the bridge of your nose under your glasses. This was going to be a long day.

From across the bullpen, Jimmy shot you a pitying look as Cat fluffed her hair in a compact mirror while Steve took your wrist and dragged you away.

Mark texted you halfway through the afternoon as Steve was going through a pre-game walkthrough with the head coach.

My Marker: gonna be out of reach for a while. dont worry, ill update you once i get back

You: Be safe, Invinci-Boy.

My Marker: youll regret that when i get back

You: Can’t wait to see you try. But seriously, be safe.

My Marker: yes maam

You rolled your eyes, unable to stop the smile that pulled at your lips despite your increasingly growing headache.

Slipping your phone back into your pocket, you take a breath, and get ready to continue to follow and deal with Steve for the rest of your day.

By the time you made it to the stadium proper, the sun was low and casting a gold haze over everything. You didn’t have time to appreciate it, though Steve was already halfway up the tunnel.

A security guard stopped the two of you briefly at the media entrance.

“Press credentials?” the guard asked, skeptical.

Steve confidently whipped his out of his coat pocket and held it up with a grin. “Lombard. Daily Planet. This here’s my intern.”

You handed yours over clumsily, a beat too late. The guard gave you a once-over, then nodded you through.

Instead, you followed him, eyes scanning the stadium, not out of journalistic curiosity this time, but habit. You always looked for exits. Always looking for potential dangers.

But for now, everything was calm. As calm as the rapidly filling stands could be.

No collapsing beams. No explosions. No sounds of gunfire that had gotten way to common.

Just Steve Lombard yelling over his shoulder, “You taking notes or sightseeing?”

You caught up to him, notebook in hand and headache pulsing behind your eyes like a low drumbeat.

“Both,” you said. “I multitask.”

By the time you made it to where Steve was leading you, your feet ached and the fluorescent lighting overhead was starting to feel more like a personal attack.

Steve, however, was thriving.

“This,” he announced grandly, spreading his arms as you stepped into field, “is where the magic happens. The adrenaline, the atmosphere, the smell of the grass, it’s electric!”

“It’s AstroTurf,” you deadpanned.

He either didn’t hear you or chose to ignore it. “C’mon, Little League, we’ve got a few interviews lined up. The catcher’s a rookie: cute, polite, probably terrified of cameras. Should be easy.”

You followed him to the dugout, scribbling notes in your pocket-sized notepad more to keep your hands busy than anything else.

The first interview went smoothly enough. The rookie was nervous, as expected, and Steve was surprisingly professional when the recorder was on. You didn’t quite know what to make of that.

But as the sun dipped lower and the pre-game music started blaring through the stadium speakers, a flicker of something strange caught your attention.

The jumbotron glitched.

Just for a second. Barely long enough to register. A flicker of static, a brief distortion in the logo display, and then, normal again.

You frowned, brows pulling together behind your glasses.

“Problem?” Steve asked, glancing up.

You shook your head. “No… Just thought I saw something.”

“Probably heat shimmer. Happens all the time.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

It was your headache. You didn’t get them often, if at all. That’s all that was.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The second day was worse.

You’d gotten no sleep, thanks to the unyielding headache and that ever-present ringing you just couldn’t tune out.

The rain still persisted, maybe even harder than the day before.

At least you had the day off. You should’ve been curled up in the dark, headphones on, trying to soothe the hurt.

But it seemed like everyone who didn’t need help yesterday suddenly needed help today.

You were running purely on the most caffeinated drinks you could find at the corner store, downing them in quick succession in the hopes of pushing past your annoyingly strong resistance to, well, anything.

Since morning, you’d been zipping across the city in the rain, helping out where you could. Lending a hand here. Lifting something heavy there.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“Momma! Momma!”

That’s what your ears picked up just as you were finishing your second energy drink in five minutes.

You didn’t hesitate. Suit on in an instant, you abandoned the half-full can on the corner store counter and flew toward the voice.

It was a little boy, standing on the corner of a busy street in the pouring rain. Swallowed in a bright green frog rain jacket.

“Hello,” you greeted softly as you landed and knelt down on the wet pavement, smiling despite the chill. You held out your hand. “I’m Superwoman.”

“Ryan,” the boy sniffled, shaking your hand before clinging to it. “I can’t find my momma.”

“I think I know where she is,” you told him gently, tuning your hearing outward, just in time to catch the panicked cries of a woman calling for her son. “C’mon. Let’s go find her.”

With your back slightly bent so you could keep hold of his tiny hand, the two of you walked slowly through the rain. Down the street. A few blocks over.

Until a woman spotted you.

She broke into a run, calling Ryan’s name before scooping him into her arms. He held her tightly, frog hood slipping back, his face pressed into her neck.

The mother looked at you through tears, mouthing a breathless, "Thank you," before hugging him close and turning to join someone who was waiting at the corner, arms open wide for both of them.

You gave a small wave, your smile faltering just slightly as the pounding in your skull resumed its rhythm, louder now. Agitated. Almost like it was angry that you’d dared to focus on something else.

You used the moment to just breathe. The air was cool thanks to the rain, and you tried to let it anchor you, tried to decompress.

Until you heard gunshots.

Followed by screaming.

Your body reacted before your brain finished registering. Adrenaline pushed the tiredness back. Muscles coiled tight. You launched off the pavement and into the air, heading toward the chaos.

You flew past police cruisers stuck in traffic, sirens wailing uselessly in the gridlock. No one would get there in time but you.

The sound was coming from a tech store, sleek and unassuming, all glass walls for display and chrome signage. Or what had been glass walls. One was now shattered completely, jagged edges glinting in the rain as you landed softly, boots crunching on the broken shards.

The inside was a mess of toppled displays and terrified civilians pressed against walls. And four men, armed and armored, stood in the center, guns raised.

They turned toward you the second your shadow fell through the opening.

No warning. No shout. Just open fire.

Bullets tore through the air, lighting up the dim space like strobes. You didn’t flinch as they hit, sharp cracks against your suit, slamming into your chest and shoulders with enough force to pierce most things.

You didn’t fall. You didn’t even sway.

Because you were bulletproof.

And more importantly, everyone else wasn’t.

You stood your ground, letting the gunfire ricochet off your body as you stared the men down.

“Guns down,” you said, voice calm but unyielding. “You’re not walking out of here with that.”

One of them swore under his breath, reloading with shaky hands. Another—, the one closest to the counter, grabbed something small and sleek from a display case and shoved it into a duffel.

You narrowed your eyes.

It wasn’t just phones or computers. This place had tech that was too high-end for a street robbery. Had to be something worth all of this. One of the labels on the counter was still visible, the letters glowing faintly under the emergency lighting:

NEW! LexTek Interface Module.

You let out a sigh, cause of course it was LexTek.

In the blur of motion that followed, you disarmed the first two before they even registered you’d crossed the space. You crushed the guns in your hands like soda cans, metal groaning under your grip. The third tried to swing a duffel bag like a weapon, but you caught it mid-air and yanked it from his grasp, setting it gently on the ground.

The last man was already bolting for the back exit.

You hesitated, just long enough to turn to the terrified employees and say, “Stay here. You’re safe now. First responders are on their way.”

Then you took off after him.

You zipped around the corner into the alley he’d ducked into and he vanished in a flash of light.

You let out an annoyed sigh, dragging both hands down your face. If it had been any other day, you would’ve caught him. You knew that. But you were tired. Sluggish. Sloppy.

Two out of three meant one was still free to hurt someone else.

You turned skyward and pushed off the pavement, slower than usual. Slower than you liked.

Flying used to feel like weightlessness. Like pure lo freedom.

Right now, it felt like dragging yourself through thick syrup.

You just wanted to go home. Take a hot shower. Put an ice pack on your forehead. Sleep for twelve hours and maybe reassess your entire life.

But the city didn’t care.

A deep, low rumble shook the air. It started in your chest, even while airborne. Then came the sound of earth cracking, jarring, like pavement snapping under pressure.

You groaned softly.

“Of course.”

Turning toward the sound, you zipped off in that direction, crossing city after city. The setting sun bled orange and purple across the horizon as you flew, smearing light across your vision like bruises.

It led you to New York.

And then you saw him.

A man on Liberty Island. Screams echoed from the crowds below, tourists scattering, ferries grinding to reverse as chunks of concrete crumbled away from the main body of the island. Machinery on his wrists sparked with energy, drowning out even his own shouting.

You landed hard enough to crack the ground beneath you.

“Doctor Seismic,” you muttered under your breath.

You frowned, hands planted firmly on your hips.

“I’ve got to give it to you, Lady Liberty is definitely a choice. I mean, I understood the sentiment behind your other attacks, not that I agree,” you added quickly, “but Lady Liberty? Really?”

Doctor Seismic turned toward you, face contorting with both rage and glee. The gauntlets built into his lab coat whirred louder.

“You dare mock the symbol of our nation’s collapse?” he bellowed.

“Buddy, she’s literally a symbol of hope.”

“And yet she stands on the ruins of stolen land and false promises!”

He pointed a fist down, the gauntlet fired, and the pedestal cracked, a fracture crawling up the base of the statue like a lightning bolt. A tremor hit hard enough that you staggered a step before bracing.

Normally, this would be when you snapped back with a quip. Flew at him with confidence. Neutralized the threat in under a minute.

But your head pulsed like it was being split open from the inside.

You shot forward, grabbing one of his arms just as he charged a blast and twisted it upward. The shockwave arced harmlessly into the sky.

“Can we not destroy national landmarks today?” you snapped, ducking a wild swing of his other fist.

“You don’t understand! The earth remembers! The lies we build on top of it must be broken down!”

“Okay, I’m taking these off.”

You hovered in front of him, reaching to grab hold of the gauntlets, intent on crushing and ripping them off.

But you hesitated. Just for a second. You’re not even sure why.

And in that second, he raised his arms.

The gauntlets whirred, and a shockwave of air hit you square in the chest.

It launched you backward like a missile, and suddenly, you were crashing into the harbor.

Water swallowed you whole.

Instead of air reflexively after the air was knocked out of you, you sucked in brine and filth and the cold sting of salt.

You thrashed. Reflexes warred with reason. Your body wanted to cough, your lungs wanted to breathe, and the rest of you just wanted this day to be over.

Panic surged as your limbs moved sluggishly, kicking upward in desperate bursts. Kicking hard, you broke the surface with a loud gasp, sputtering and coughing as you moved to hover just above the waves.

The waves churned around you, chaotic from the aftershock of Seismic’s blast.

You hovered just above the waterline, dripping, shivering.

Soaked hair clung to your face. The pounding in your skull now matched the thudding of your heart.

You took another breath. Forced yourself to steady it.

You’d survived worse.

Didn’t mean this didn’t suck.

A tremor rippled through the air again, vibrating up from the island and echoing through your bones.

You grit your teeth.

Okay. Enough, you’re too tired to deal with all of this for this long.

As you flew, the salt spraying off you as you soared back into the storm-colored sky. You spotted Seismic still on the pedestal, fists raised in a dramatic, utterly ridiculous pose.

You didn’t announce yourself this time.

Just grabbing his arm to pull him off his feet and push him elsewhere, away from Lady Liberty.

He staggered, grunted, and nearly lost his footing. One gauntlet sparked under the force of your grip on him.

“I tried being polite,” you growled, grabbing one of his gauntlets and twisting hard. “But I’m done letting you play demolition derby with American landmarks.”

He tried to raise the other arm, but you grabbed it too crushing it in your grip before he could fire again.

And then you ripped the first one clean off.

He screamed, more in fury than pain, you tried to make sure your frustration didn’t cloud how much force you were using.

“You can yell about historical injustice all you want,” you panted, your voice hoarse from coughing, “but hurting people doesn’t make your point stronger. It just makes you the villain and the loser.”

With one shove into his chest, you knocked him backward, sending him skidding across the cracked platform until he hit the base of the statue with a thud.

Sirens echoed faintly in the distance.

You stood there, soaked, exhausted, and still gasping between each word.

You hovered in place over Doctor Seismic’s crumpled form until you saw the Coast Guard land on the island and rush toward him.

Once you were sure they had him, you shot through the air one more time.

Even your flight home took longer than it should’ve.

A cat in a tree here. A kid running into traffic there.

You couldn’t ignore them. Not even now.

By the time you finally made it back to the city, your still gloomy, rain-soaked city, it was late. The streetlights cast long reflections in puddles. The windows of your building were mostly dark.

Jimmy had to be asleep by now.

You slipped in through the window of your apartment, dripping onto the hardwood floor, and moved on autopilot. You changed quickly, no energy left for a shower, and collapsed onto your bed still damp, the ache in your muscles finally catching up to you.

Tomorrow would be better.

The headache would go away.

The ringing would stop.

And everything would go back to normal.

You told yourself that as you curled in on your side, the room quiet except for the soft hum of the rain against the glass.

No suit. No cape. Just a tired girl in a hoodie, curled up in the dark.

The pillow was cold against your cheek, and for once, you were too tired to feel how tense your body had been all day. Even your breathing slowed, each exhale quiet, measured.

Somewhere down the hall, the apartment heater kicked on with a familiar groan.

Normal.

You closed your eyes.

Sleep didn’t come right away, but you didn’t move. You couldn’t.

You were done for the night.

And tomorrow you’d be okay.

You had to be.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You shouldn’t have jinxed yourself.

Second night in a row you couldn’t sleep.

You managed short bursts of ten, maybe twenty minutes at a time, before the ringing returned. And around two in the morning, your chest started to feel… off.

It felt like what happens when you overextend a limb. Sore, but in a way you weren’t familiar with. Dizzy too, like you’d gone one too many rounds on the Scrambler at the fair. And short of breath, which, if you were being honest, kind of worried you.

But you chalked it up to paranoia from too little sleep. You couldn’t get hurt. Why would it happen now?

You kept your eyes closed throughout the night, pleading for sleep to take you. You only gave up when Jimmy knocked on your door to let you know he was leaving for work in the morning.

Finally, you trudged out of your bedroom, glared at the gray, rainy city through the living room window, and went to take a shower.

Lights off. Earplugs in. The pounding in your head was too much to deal with the sound of rain and the water at once.

You got dressed sleepily, half-certain you were going to stay home unless an emergency called you out. Everything felt like it was running on autopilot now.

You shuffled into the kitchen and opened the fridge, hoping for an energy drink you vaguely remembered buying yesterday. You grabbed one and turned on your heel to head back into the dark comfort of your room, until you spotted a face in the window.

Tapping.

You nearly dropped the can.

“Oh— goodness, Mark!” you hissed, the shock waking you quickly, rushing across the room to open the window. “Get in here before someone sees you!”

He slipped inside quickly, rainwater dripping from his hair. He gave it a rough shake before running a hand through it to push it back into place.

“Hey, baby,” he greeted with a grin, arms outstretched as he moved in for a hug, soaked to the bone.

“Hello, Mark.” You held out an arm to stop him. “Let’s get you a towel before that.”

“You didn’t miss me?” he pouted, following you, reaching toward you again, like he wanted to get you soaked too.

“Of course I missed you. But you scared the living daylights out of me, and you’re dripping.” You tossed a towel at him after pulling one from the hallway closet.

“You okay?” he asked as he ruffled the towel through his hair. “You look pale.”

“It’s been raining for, like, a week straight. Everyone’s paler,” you said, waving off the concern as you walked into your bedroom.

You grabbed a set of old, comfortable clothes, an old oversized Smallville High tee and sweats, and brought them back for him.

Mark frowned at you, but took the clothes and changed in the bathroom without a word.

While he did that, you scavenged through the cupboards, eventually sliding a toaster pastry into the toaster. And you heard him before you felt him, Mark had never been particularly subtle. Or quiet.

His arms wrapped around your waist as you stared at the toaster. His face pressed into the side of your neck, nose cold from the rain. You could feel the soft movement of his lips against your skin as he murmured, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you said softly, tilting your head to rest it against his. “Everything go well?”

He didn’t respond right away. From what you could feel, and glimpse in the corner of your eye, he just tilted his head a little.

“Mhm…” he hummed, seemingly absentminded. “Empty ship in Mercury’s orbit. Cecil sent me to clear it and bring it back.”

You frowned slightly. “That sounds… ominous.”

“Wasn’t,” he said, voice muffled into your shoulder. “Just empty. Nothing to report.” He shifted slightly and added with a quieter, gentler voice.

You snorted, brushing your fingers lightly along his forearm where it wrapped around you.

The toaster popped.

You didn’t move to grab it right away.

Instead, you stayed there in the silence of your kitchen. The soft hum of the fridge. The rain tapping steadily at the windows. Mark’s breathing warming your shoulder.

For the first time in hours, maybe days, you weren’t working or chasing after disasters.

You just stood still.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, barely above a whisper now.

You thought about lying.

You considered the usual I’m fine or Just tired.

But it was Mark.

And your whole body still ached like your bones were made of lead.

“I’ve had a headache for two days straight,” you said finally, your voice quiet. “I can’t sleep, so I’m dead tired. My chest hurts. And… I just feel off.”

Mark straightened behind you, his hands tightening slightly.

“Did you get hurt?”

You shook your head. “Can’t get hurt, remember? It’s probably just the no-sleep thing.”

You reached out and plucked the pastry from the toaster, forcing yourself to take a bite, even though it suddenly felt too dry, too heavy in your mouth. You struggled to swallow it down.

“Insomnia?” Mark asked gently, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your side through your shirt.

“No,” you muttered, shaking your head as you reached down to cover his hands with yours. “I’ve been hearing this— huh…”

You paused.

Because as soon as you tried to explain it, you noticed.

“What?” Mark asked, concern creeping into his voice.

“I don’t hear it anymore. It was like a ringing. That’s what kept me up. But now it’s just… gone.”

“That’s good, right?” He rested his chin lightly on your shoulder, as he starts swaying the two of you side to side.

“Very.” You smiled a little, reaching up to cup his face and pull him close, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. You whispered, “Now, as much as I’d love to catch up, I’m ready to knock out for, like, forty-six hours.”

“But I just got back,” Mark groaned, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you in until there was barely an inch of space left between you. “I just got here.”

“I know,” you murmured as he nuzzled his cold nose into your neck again. “But I really need to sleep off this monstrous headache while I can.”

He hummed dramatically against your skin. “What if I make it better by being here?”

“That’s not how migraines work,” you said dryly, but you didn’t pull away.

He grinned and kissed your neck once, then again, slower this time. His hands slipped beneath your shirt, cool fingers brushing over the skin at your waist before sliding higher.

You let out a breathy laugh. “Seriously?”

“Missed you,” he murmured, voice low and sweet. “And you’re warm. Let me have this.”

His hands traveled up your sides, fingertips trailing lightly over your ribs. You leaned into the touch at first, just grateful for the closeness, the quiet comfort of having him home.

Then, as he gave you a gentle squeeze—

You flinched.

A sharp intake of breath. Your whole body recoiled before you could stop it.

Mark froze instantly.

“Hey, wait— did I hurt you?” His hands dropped back as his face shifted from teasing to alarm. “I didn’t mean to— I didn’t know you could—“

“No, no, I’m fine,” you said quickly, forcing a short laugh. “Your hands are ice cubes. Go warm up on the couch. I’ll be over in a minute.”

He hesitated, eyes still on you.

You bumped your shoulder lightly into his. “Go.”

Only then did Mark huff and step back, reluctantly heading toward the living room.

You turned away, walking quietly into your bedroom and shutting the door behind you. The lock clicked louder than expected in the silence.

Crossing the room, you flipped on the light and stepped in front of the mirror hanging on the back of your closet door.

You slowly lifted your shirt.

And froze.

“Oh… shoot,” you whispered.

Your eyes went wide.

Spreading across your ribs and stomach, almost your entire torso, was a deep, mottled discoloration. Faint purple shading at the edges, yellow-greenish in the center. A bruise.

A massive one.

You reached out, almost without thinking, and pressed your fingertips gently to the edge of the bruise.

You flinched again.

You felt it.

Not just the pressure, but the ache. A hot, throbbing tenderness beneath the skin. The kind of pain you’d only ever read or heard about. The kind that meant something inside you was wrong.

You dropped your shirt quickly, heart pounding in your ears.

What the hell was happening to you?

You stared at your reflection, trying to calm your breathing. Slow inhales, long exhales. But everything inside you felt scrambled.

You’d been hit harder than that before. Blown through buildings. Crushed under falling debris. You’d walked away from it all without a scratch.

But the gunfire from yesterday… Doc Seismic’s blast…

You hadn’t even thought twice about it. Not really. You’d gotten up. Kept fighting. And now—

Now your body felt like it should belong to someone else.

You moved toward the bed and sat down slowly on the edge, elbows on your knees, hands trembling in your lap.

It wasn’t just the headache. Or the ringing. Or the dizziness.

You were hurt.

And for the first time in your life… you didn’t know what that meant.

From the other room, you heard the rustling of fabric. Mark’s voice, muffled, talking to himself as he turned on the TV.

You thought about calling him in.

You thought about telling him.

But instead, you sat there in silence, staring down at your hands.

You needed a minute.

Just one.

TAG LIST: @mightymeick , @dandelion-delusion

[a-kind-of-merry-war]

Unbalanced pt. 2

It was the way Henry’s hands had roamed across his body, the urgency with which they’d undressed. It was the way his heart had squeezed in his chest when Henry had taken him apart more gently than he deserved on the shitty bed. It was in Hans’s words - begging for a kiss - and in the way Henry had complied, kissing him like—

Like it was real. Like he meant it. But he didn’t. It was just another job to be done, fixing another one of Lord Capon’s messes.

Henry and Hans accidentally drink a love potion. But the only way to save themselves from a horrible end is to rebalance their bodies, and the only way they can do that is with each other. Chapter 2, in Hans's POV!

Medieval fuck-or-die by way of a love potion. Chapter 2/2, 4.9k words. Rated E.

Read Chapter One here on Tumblr, or here on AO3.

⚔️ ⚔️ ⚔️

It was dark outside. The embers of the fire glowed uselessly, throwing out barely any heat or light. Hans knew he should toss another couple of logs into the hearth to keep it burning, but he couldn’t bring himself to move.

He’d stormed into his rooms that morning, bolted the door, and hidden. He’d moved listlessly around the room from bed to table to fireplace to bed again, unable to focus. He’d considered leaving several times, but couldn’t risk running into someone who would demand to know what was wrong with him, or worse, running into Henry himself. He’d tried to sleep, tried to read, tried to play dice against himself, but had found them all impossible.

Every time he sat still for more than a few moments, he could feel the ghost of Henry’s touch on his skin. His hands on his thighs, his lips on his mouth.

It had felt so good. And worse than that: it had felt real - like Henry cared for him, like he wanted him.

The love potion had felt real, too - the hot sing of his blood, the desperation to grab and hold. But in the cool darkness of Hans’s room he now recognised that feeling as something else entirely. It was the same feeling that dogged his footsteps whenever he was with Henry, the one that had him counting the boards in the wall to stop himself from launching himself across the table at him wherever they drank together.

It was the rest that hurt most. It was the way Henry’s hands had roamed across his body, the urgency with which they’d undressed. It was the way his heart had squeezed in his chest when Henry had taken him apart more gently than he deserved on the shitty bed. It was in Hans’s words - begging for a kiss - and in the way Henry had complied, kissing him like—

Like it was real. Like he meant it.

But he didn’t. It was just another job to be done, fixing another one of Lord Capon’s messes. Henry saving the day after yet another fuck up. It was Hans’s fuck up, too, as it always was. It was him who had taken that bastard's drink, and it was him who had first suggested that their ale could have been laced with a love potion.

He had been the one to suggest they fuck, even though he’d not used so many words.

Henry, noble and true and dedicated, had agreed. Of course he had. He’d said it himself before: how could I refuse you anything?

Hans had realised he was in love with Henry some time ago. It had been a revelation - a shock, which he’d tried to deny for as long as he could. He had failed in that, as he failed in most things: Henry was Henry. There was no denying that. 

Lust, Hans could deal with. Lust was wieldable. He could make lust his companion and take it to the nearest bathhouse or brothel and close his eyes and imagine the wench with her lips around his cock was someone else. He’d done it before, after all.

But love? And a love like this - that came wreathed in blades and shining armour and fierce dedication? That was something else entirely. He’d heard of knights who pledged themselves to each other, their unending devotion, their feelings bigger than themselves with promises made on the edge of a sword. Loving Henry felt like that, like something grander than himself. Something he was not worthy to have.

But it was complicated, too: a complication he didn’t need. Aside from the somewhat pressing legal and spiritual concerns of loving another man, it was too fucking messy. Henry was his best friend, possibly his only friend, and this new, embarrassing feeling had the strength to ruin everything. 

And now, after all that time - after barricading himself against the force of his own feelings - it wasn’t even that tricky bastard called love that had brought him down. It was his own lust-addled brain grabbing onto the first excuse to fuck.

He was staring into the fire, wondering if he could possibly escape through the window, when there was a thud on the door. Probably a guard sent for him, maybe even Hanush himself. He ignored the knocking; they’d go away eventually.

“Hans!”

The sound of Henry’s voice made him jerk his head around. Shit.

“Hanush said he’s not seen you since—” 

Henry’s voice faltered. Hans watched the door, wondering what he would say next.

“Since this morning,” Henry managed. “I wanted to see if you’re… if you’re alright.”

Hans held back a laugh. He didn’t respond. Henry would give up and leave, eventually.

“Look, I know it was… it was a lot, alright? But we have to talk about it!”

No we don’t. Hans kept his mouth shut. There was a long pause. Long enough that Hans assumed Henry had given up. Then:

“We both know I can pick the lock.”

“Go away.” 

Hans’s voice felt raw through underuse, the words cracked. There was another long silence.

“Please, Hans.” Henry’s voice sounded muffled. Was he leaning against the door? “Please just let me in.”

Fuck. 

He couldn’t go on like this. And Henry was right, damn him directly to Hell: if he wanted, he would easily be able to pick the lock and see himself in. Typically, Hans would feel confident that he’d never disrupt his privacy like that, but now, with all this new uncertainty between them - all those unspoken words - he wasn’t so sure.

He relented, swiftly crossing the room and unbolting the door before he could change his mind. Henry stepped in quickly, shutting the door behind him. He had a cloth sack in one hand and a jug of wine in the other.

“What do you want?” Hans snapped.

“We need to talk, Hans.”

“No we don’t.”

Henry looked… tired. Nervous. Nervous and a little sad; his eyes wide and soulful. Hans forced himself to look away so he wouldn’t be tempted to ease the pain he saw in them.

“Everyone is worried about you,” Henry said, as he placed his things on the nearest table. “No one has seen you all day. Please, Hans, can we—”

“No, we can’t!”

“But—”

“Look, Henry,” Hans rounded on him. His blood was screaming. His heart felt like it was going to burst. “I don’t know what you think there is to talk about, but there is nothing to discuss. Do you want to go through the whole mess? The whole fucking mess of it?”

“Hans—”

He had to get him to leave. He had to for both their sakes. What was better, he wondered: For Henry to think he was a bastard, or for him to know that Hans was wretchedly, pathetically in love with him?

“Just fuck off, will you? I’m sorry if you came here to brag about the noble Lord Capon wanking you off but I’m not in the fucking mood, alright? We both knew that this—” he gestured between them, hand waving wildly— “wasn’t going to last, whatever this friendship is. You’re a blacksmith’s boy. So best you go now, go back to wherever the fuck it is you came from, and leave me be.”

Henry stared at him. He didn’t move. His eyes shimmered in the dark. Hans steeled himself. Each word was a punch to the gut, each one coming harder, costing him more.

“Do you think anyone will thank you for what you did?” he spat. “Your father? Your real father or your dead one? What would they think of their precious, perfect lad getting off with another man? Or the other nobles? This is done, Henry, it’s done, so fucking leave! Go!”

Henry stared at him. “No.”

“I am demanding you leave!”

Henry took a step forward. “No!”

Why now? Why now, of all the times, had Henry chosen to refuse him? His ever-obedient page, squire, friend, was only choosing to disobey when it mattered most. His throat was hoarse, his words spent. He closed the gap between them and shoved Henry back towards the door.

“Just go.”

Trying to move Henry was like trying to move a fucking wall. He shook his head.

“Why are you acting like this?” Henry said, voice crackling a little around the edges. “Hans, why are you—”

“Because it wasn’t real,” Hans cried, all his energy spent. “It wasn’t fucking real, Henry!”

The ensuing silence was louder than the shouting. Hans couldn't be this close to him. He backed away quickly, stumbling over his own feet. This was it, he knew. This was truly it. He didn’t even want to look at Henry any more: didn’t want to see the shock and pain and disgust he knew would be on his face. Or worse, pity, pity for the poor little lord who tricked himself into believing he could be loved by someone like Henry.

He heard Henry move. Felt his hand on his shoulder.

“Hans… Hans, look at me.”

For once, Hans obeyed. Henry’s expression was shuttered. His eyes roamed desperately back and forth across Hans’s face. His lips twitched with a thousand unsaid words.

Finally, Henry spoke. “It felt real.”

Henry kissed him. It was soft, and slow, and gentle: a million miles removed from the hungry kisses they had shared in the woodcutter’s hut. Hans’s chest squeezed, his heart bound in red-hot chains. Henry placed a cautious hand around Hans’s waist, holding him close. Hans held him back, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, mirroring his careful movements, his tender kisses.

“I’m sorry, Hal,” Hans mumbled against his lips. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“I know.”

They stood wrapped around each other for what could have been an age. There was no urgency, no speed: just them, locked in the dark. When Hans finally pulled back, there was only one thing he could say.

“Fuck.”

Henry chuckled, his arms still around Hans’s waist. “Yeah.”

“I thought…” Hans dug his fingers into Henry’s back, clinging to him. “I thought I’d fucked it all up again.”

“How? We both thought we’d taken that potion.”

“But I was the one who suggested it! I was the one who took it from that bastard in the first place. And I was the one who suggested we— we fix it ourselves.”

Henry gave him a sly look. “Well, yes,” he said. “But I was going to suggest it too. You just got there first.”

Hans couldn’t believe him. “What?” he demanded. “You were?”

“Of course I was!” Henry said, now laughing. “Why do you think I was so keen to go along with it?”

“I just thought you were being you,” Hans said. “Saving my noble arse once again.”

Henry raised his eyebrows. “Well if it’s your noble arse we’re talking about…”

“Henry!”

“What?”

“This is serious.” Hans took a breath, determined to say it. “I was scared I’d lost you,” he whispered, at last. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“It’d take more than that to lose me,” Henry said, shaking his head.

Hans huffed incredulously. “Don’t be stupid,” he said.

“We did think we were going to die.”

“I don’t think that makes me feel any better. Either we’re both so foolish that we were tricked by our own bloody minds, or you’d only fuck me when it’s a life or death situation.”

“I don’t think it was foolishness,” Henry said, brow furrowed. “It was… well, no, assuming we’d taken it and not actually making sure we really had was foolish, but I’m not surprised we did think that. At least, I’m not surprised I did.” He looked at Hans from the corner of his eye. “I’m not sure about you.”

Hans took a moment. “No,” he said at last. “I… I can’t say I’m too surprised at myself. I’ve wanted to— well.” He swallowed, looking up. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while. And it made sense, after all. It doesn’t make me feel any less stupid, mind.”

Henry chucked, shuffling closer. “Well I shan’t tell anyone. Wouldn’t want anyone to think the noble Lord Capon is a fool.”

“You best not,” Hans said, aware of how close Henry was getting, how dark and inviting his lips looked. 

“And—” Henry said, voice scarcely more than a whisper, “I wouldn’t only fuck you in a life or death situation. Far from it.”

They were kissing again; Hans didn’t know who leaned first, who closed that gap. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to think about the mistake, about their shared stupidity. He only wanted this. Henry tangled his hand in Hans’s hair, pulling him closer. They slid down onto the bed, the mattress sagging beneath them. Hans threw himself forwards, nearly fully into Henry’s lap, opening his mouth against—

His stomach made a wretched rumbling sound. Henry burst out laughing, extracting himself from Hans’s grip and releasing his hair.

“Was that your stomach?” 

Hans gave him a playful shove. “I haven't eaten since yesterday evening,” he sniffed haughtily. “What do you expect?”

“Not anything?” Henry leaned back fully now, looking shocked. Hans didn’t appreciate that expression.

“What?” he said, stiffly. “I wasn’t about to go out there and risk running into someone who would demand I talk to them, or to— to you, and realise how badly I’d fucked up. Besides,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “I haven’t felt particularly hungry. Just sick.”

Henry sighed, shaking his head, then got up from the bed. “Good thing I brought this then…”

Henry reached for the sack he’d brought, left abandoned on the table with the jug beside it. Hans hadn’t paid too much attention when he’d barged in - more concerned with the world ending around him - but now he realised it was full.

“And ‘this’ is…?”

Henry pulled a soft, fresh bread roll from the sack. “Supper,” he grinned.

He chucked the roll at Hans, who managed to catch it before it hit his head, then came to sit back beside him on the bed. He pulled out a flaky pastry, and was about to take a bite of it when Hans grabbed his wrist.

“Not on my bed, you oaf,” he said. “I don’t want crumbs everywhere…”

Henry rolled his eyes at him - a tad dramatically for Hans’s taste - but was easily enough corralled to move himself from the fine sheets. In the end, they found themselves sitting on the floor with their backs leaning against the bed, the threadbare rug providing very little comfort from the hard floorboards beneath.

Hans couldn’t find it in him to care. He was famished, so wrapped up in his own fears that he hadn’t realised how hungry he was until Henry had presented him with bread and cheese and God, what tasted like the sweetest kolach in all of Bohemia. With his mouth coated in slick-sweet honey and his stomach full and Henry at his side, he was finally able to relax.

“So they really sent you to find me, then?” He asked, filling his mug with wine from the jug he had brought. 

“Hanush did,” Henry said. “But I wanted to find you anyway. Hanush asking me made a convenient excuse.”

“And what will you tell him?”

Henry looked thoughtful.

“We can tell him you’re sick, if you like,” he suggested, sipping his wine. “Say you drank something funny yesterday night and it laid you up all day.”

“Hah!” Hans barked. “I admit, I’d rather him assume I was in here all day shitting my guts out than— than the truth.”

“There you go, then. Easy. And I’ll tell him that I stayed with you all night because you were so unwell that I didn’t want to leave you, in case you got worse.”

Hans paused, his cup to his lips. “Stayed all night?” he repeated, slowly.

“Oh—” Henry looked abashed, rubbing at the back of his head. “Only if you want me to stay, I just— I thought—”

“You want to stay?”

Henry’s expression flickered. “Of course I do,” he said. “Hans, after this… of course I want to stay.”

It shouldn’t have been surprising. Henry was so loyal, so dedicated. Henry was his friend, always by his side, or determined to be by his side. Yet something had changed between them, and no matter how much Hans knew Henry had wanted it all - had wanted the soft sweetness they had shared the previous night - that didn’t mean he wished to stay.

Hans’s lovers never stayed.

Or he never stayed.

For the first time, he wanted to. Needed to, the urge more than simple lust, as strong as hunger or thirst or the need for air.

“Oh,” he said again, his wine still untouched. “Then— yes. Stay. Please—” he took a breath. He was on the edge of dangerous sentimentality. It would not do. “Even if you must tell Hanush I’m violently shitting.”

Henry burst out laughing, spluttering crumbs. The spell broke, and Hans could breathe again.

They finished their sparse meal in companionable silence, sitting close on the floor, until both food and wine was spent. The air was close and warm, the cloying, clinging leftover of the summer heat, but it was no longer the oppressive choke that it had been the previous day. 

Combined with the food, simple as it was, and fine wine, the roiling desire Hans felt when Henry had kissed him was giving over to sleepiness. He’d spent the day in tight anxiety, waiting for the world to crumble around him. He hadn’t realised how much energy it had sapped from him; waging a war against himself rather than a true assailant. He let himself bend, giving into it, flopping bonelessly against Henry’s side and resting his head on his shoulder with an unstifled yawn.

“Tired, Sire?” Henry said teasingly, wiggling his shoulder.

“Shut your mouth,” Hans demanded, shuffling closer. “I have had—” his words were broken by another yawn. “A very long day.”

Henry laughed. “A long day sulking and hiding?”

“I have not been—” he snapped his mouth shut. He had been hiding, certainly. “I was not sulking,” he said. “I was merely… grieving the life and relationship I thought I had ruined.”

“That’s a fancy way of saying ‘sulking’,” Henry said.

“I could have you removed, you know. Or put in the stocks. I could come and throw vegetables at you.”

“Only after you’ve woken up,” Henry said. “Come on, up you get…”

Hans grumbled at him as Henry picked up the empty sack, jug and cups and placed them back on the table, dislodging Hans from his comfortable spot against his arm. He stood with a grumble before falling backwards onto the bed. He could hear but not see Henry moving around the room, opening the shutters of the window, banking the fire.

“Hans?”

“Mmm?”

“I was worried you’d fallen asleep, there.”

Hans sniffed. “Not quite.”

“Shove over, then.”

Hans did as Henry bid, barely even registering the demand, just giving into it. He nearly crawled up the bed as Henry shucked off his outer clothes and slotted in beside him. The bed really wasn’t made for two people - certainly not two full-grown men, and especially not knights. But it was miles away from the little pallet they’d been forced to share the previous night, and besides, Hans would have willingly laid to sleep upon a bed of rocks and nails had it meant he got to lie with Henry next to him.

Hans wriggled onto his side, attempting to make more room, his nose a scant few inches from the wall. Henry shuffled behind him, pressing his stomach to Hans’s back, holding him close. And he was very close. Even through two layers of linen, Hans could feel him, feel all of him, as he moved his hips. It could have been an entirely innocent gesture - an attempt to get more comfortable, to move away from the edge of the too-small bed. Yet Hans was sure, quite sure, that it wasn’t. He shuffled back, wriggling against Henry’s lap, shifting, pressing…

Henry hissed, burying his head between Hans’s shoulder blades. He was unmistakably hard. Hans pushed back again, grinding down upon him.

“I thought…” Henry said, muffled against Hans’s back, “that you were tired?”

Hans shrugged. “I can be many things. I am exceptionally talented.”

He heard Henry laugh, felt his breath play against his back, his cock nestling against his arse. Hans was warm all over - not hot, not stifling - not like he had been yesterday. But still warm enough that the layers of fabric between them were far too much.

Henry slid a slow, deliberate hand up Hans’s side, beneath his undershirt, stilling just above his heart. Hans wondered if he could feel the way his heartbeat had picked up, the way his skin had prickled into gooseflesh at the merest whisper of his touch. He made a quiet, soft noise, and for a moment thought Henry hadn’t heard.

“Is this—”

“Yes.”

God, that was needy. He was begging like a maid. But Henry only laughed, that familiar chuckle that Hans was so fond of, a huff of breath that sent shudders down Hans’s spine. He was desperate for more, for the touch to turn into something more heated. He pressed himself back against Henry's chest, frustrated that he couldn't reach him more fully. He attempted to move - to roll over, to rest their chests together so he could kiss him - but Henry held firm, keeping him in place.

Not for the first time, Hans was forcibly reminded of the strength of Henry's arms; blacksmith turned fighter turned knight, all muscle and power. He wriggled again, more of a test than truly trying to break free. Henry made a soft noise, pressing his lips to Hans's neck, his mouth brushing his nape.

“Can I—” Henry moved minutely behind him. “Can I try something?”

At this moment, Hans would have agreed to anything he suggested. “Of course.”

Henry reached around for the tie of Hans’s braies. It was already loose, and it took no effort at all on his part to undo the knot and slide the fabric down, exposing Hans entirely. Hans had expected him to reach for his cock, but Henry didn’t, pulling down the braies with a little wriggle until they were bunching around Hans’s thighs.

“Henry?”

Henry slid his hand lower, down Hans's exposed thigh then around to cup his arse. Hans stuttered out a breath as Henry moved his hand to the cleft of his cheeks and then, to Hans's surprise, lower, teasing between his thighs. Hans made a curious sound, moving his legs a little to grant Henry better access. Henry made a sound like a purr against his neck, and then his hand was gone. Hans could have cried out for missing his touch, until he realised what Henry was doing: removing his own braies, shoving them down. 

Hans could feel Henry’s prick against his arse completely, now, no longer bound. It nudged hotly against his cleft, eager and stiff, ready for... for whatever Henry had planned. Hans was no idiot - he knew precisely what men like this - what men like him - could do with a hard cock and a willing entrance. But he knew Henry, too, and knew that he would have prepared him, first. 

"What are you—"

"Just—"

Henry nudged his nose against Hans's back, nuzzling against him. He made a displeased little noise, and for a brief moment Hans was worried that he had been the one to displease him, and then a strong hand was bunching in his undershirt and tossing it aside. Henry kissed his back with a hungry fervor, licking up the arch of his spine. Hans shuddered.

Finally, Henry returned his hand to that place between Hans's thighs, sliding warm fingers between them. Lightning flickered up and down Hans's back, igniting his skin, his stomach a tight, hot ball of desire. Henry's fingers roamed, close - yet not touching - Hans's balls, the soft and hidden place between his balls and his arse.

And then, at last, Henry seemed satisfied. He maneuvered himself, Hans entirely unsure what he was doing, and then pressed his cock between Hans's thighs.

He gasped, squeezing instinctively, which in turn made Henry gasp behind him, low and raspy into his ear.

"O—Oh," Hans managed. "Oh. I see. Have you done this before?"

Henry's breathing was slow. "Once or twice," he muttered. "But not— not like this."

Hans wondered if that meant not with a man. He didn't ask. He didn't want to know, either. Henry's prick trapped between his legs was all he could focus on, the firmness of it, the heat. He squeezed again, and Henry whispered out a curse.

Apparently settled, Henry's hand slid back around, seeking—

He wrapped his fingers around Hans's cock. Hans made a low noise, rumbling out of his chest like thunder. He was so fucking hard, so fucking ready.

"Henry—"

"Yes?"

"Fucking Hell, Henry—"

Henry laughed again, the bastard. And then began to move. He thrust into the space between Hans's thighs slowly and deliberately, matching his pace and speed with his fist around Hans's cock. Hans tried to move back to match his rhythm, shuffling together like a dance, like a coordinated fight. Push and pull, thrust and parry, Henry to the hilt between his thighs, Hans sheathed in his hand.

Christ, but it was good. It was better than it had been last night - lacking the intensity and the desperation, but imbued with something else, something better. There was no fear, no rush, no lustful panic: just them, beneath the covers, all but joined. He could have stayed like this forever, trapped on the cusp of release, Henry wrapped around him in every way that mattered.

He flexed his thighs as he pushed back against Henry's cock, the movement nearly instinctual. He was barely in control of his body, and certainly not in control of his tongue as filthy, lustful words dripped from it the further Henry pushed him.

"Henry— fuck— yes— your prick, I need— I want— Shit—"

Henry said nothing, but the sounds he was making, lips pressed against Hans's neck, were enough for Hans to see how affected he was. Short little moans, cut-off grunts, breaths that came too short and peppered with the occasional gasp or curse. He was losing rhythm, they both were, unable to maintain pace against the growing tide within him. 

"Henry, bloody hell, Henry, I—"

And then he couldn't speak any more, only breathe out ragged gasps as he spent fully and irrevocably over the sheet and the bed and Henry's hand. As he did, he clenched his thighs, and behind him Henry made a little noise - somewhere between pleasure and pain - and he, too, was coming hot and wet and sticky between Hans's thighs.

He floated on it, lost in the rush for a long while, feeling his heart begin to slow. Henry moved his hand back to Hans's chest, holding him. Now Hans knew he could feel his heartbeat; there was no way he couldn't, not with how much it was thundering. They lay together, their breaths coming out at odds with each other as they both drifted back, slowly, to reality.

It was Henry who let go first, easing back. His cock slid out from between Hans's thighs. The sensation was a little odd, making Hans shiver. He rolled over as Henry leaned back, eager to see if he had been left feeling as raw and ragged as Hans had.

Henry smiled at him as he twisted around. He looked tired, his skin sheened with sweat, his eyes lidded.

"Fuck," Henry rasped, looking pleased with himself.

"That's what I was about to say," Hans agreed. "Christ alive..."

He took Henry's hand, damp with sweat and a little sticky with Hans's own seed. He rubbed his thumb across the back of Henry's fingers, then raised them to a kiss; gentle and breathy. He wasn't sure he was capable of much else.

He needed to get up. He needed to wipe them both down, to clean them both up. To take charge and look after Henry as Henry had looked after him. But he was utterly spent, body limp and boneless. It was all he could do to shuffle back into his braies, let alone anything more strenuous. The sheets, he knew, could wait. The sweat could wait. The dream of a bath in his near future was one that he was content to leave where it was; in the future.

He edged forwards. "Henry—"

He kissed him. He tried to pack it with meaning, with the words he was too tired to say; the confessions he was too proud and too afraid to make. He kissed him with slow reverence, the sort of kiss Henry deserved. One which Hans didn’t feel qualified to bestow.

When they parted, Henry’s eyes were wide, his lips pink and shining.

“You…” Hans took a breath. His heart felt full, and frightened. “Henry, I…” his breath caught. His nerves gave out, too frayed and exhausted to do otherwise. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “With me.”

Henry’s answering smile was gentle and soft; as if he’d known, somehow, the truth Hans had buried in those words.

“Me too.”

Hans fell asleep with Henry wrapped in his arms, their bodies sticky and hot and too large for the tiny bed. The world beyond the room - beyond the keep, beyond Rattay, beyond Bohemia and away - twirled on, centred and spinning around the man pressed against his chest.

[ruebossanova]

professor o'connell: the mini series - 28

college prof!billie x student!reader

word count: 2.1k

warnings: older!billie x younger!reader, slowslowslow burn, college life, hella tension, quiet/shy reader

masterlist

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

liora lingered after class. it wasn't planned. not really. it just sort of... happened. the way the air emptied after everyone else left. the way billie's pen stopped moving when she realized they were alone.

"you staying for a reason," billie asked, not looking up, "or just feel like haunting me?"

liora sat back in her chair, fingers grazing the corner of her notebook. "you always this dramatic?"

"only when encouraged."

liora smiled. looked down. tapped her pen twice against the page.

billie finally looked up. "what's on your mind, pretty girl?"

liora's breath caught just slightly. that one was new. her eyes met billie's, cautious, curious.

"nothing. just... didn't feel like leaving yet."

billie's expression softened. "then don't."

it was that simple. it always was, with her. simple and impossible at once.

billie leaned back in her chair, stretching long legs out in front of her. her boots scuffed the edge of the desk.

"you free tonight?" she asked after a beat.

liora blinked. "tonight?"

"i mean, i assume you're always in high demand—parties, ragers, secret violin raves..."

"obviously," liora said dryly. "but i could reschedule my candlelit cello duel."

billie grinned. "you should come over. bring your notebook. maybe your bow, if you're feeling dangerous."

liora's pulse thumped. "okay."

"okay," billie repeated, and there was something so warm in the way she said it. like she meant more than just the plan. like she meant, good. stay in my life a little longer.

they left together a few minutes later, walking side by side down the narrow hallways of westburn's music building. their arms didn't touch, but they swayed just close enough to almost.

outside, the sky had that pale lavender tint it got right before dusk. a soft wind tugged at the edges of liora's coat.

"you cold?" billie asked.

"i'm fine."

billie reached over anyway. adjusted liora's scarf where it had come loose at the collar. her fingers brushed against liora's throat, featherlight.

"now you are," she said.

liora didn't breathe for a full second. then, softly: "thanks."

billie smiled. the kind that didn't show teeth. the kind that made you feel like you'd been seen and kept.

they walked the rest of the way in silence. but it wasn't empty.

it buzzed.

like the space between one note and the next. where all the feeling lives.

billie's apartment was warm in a different way.

it wasn't the heat—though that was there, low and humming from the old radiator under the window. it was something else. the smell of cedar and coffee. the soft static of a record playing in the corner. the low lighting, golden and quiet, like it knew how to hold secrets.

liora stood just inside the door, fingers still curled around the strap of her bag.

billie kicked off her boots near the couch and turned toward her, tugging her own sweatshirt sleeve up over her palm.

"you okay?"

liora nodded. "yeah. just... haven't been here in a while."

billie stepped closer. not touching, just near. "you want tea or anything?"

"whatever you're having."

billie walked toward the kitchen, and liora followed her gaze across the small space—the stacked books on the floor, the guitar propped against the wall, the tangled charger cords like a nest near the power strip. it was all very her. undone in a way that felt lived in, not messy.

"mint okay?" billie called.

"perfect."

liora moved toward the couch, set her bag down gently, and sat. the cushions dipped under her weight, and she felt herself settle—shoulders, jaw, breath.

billie came back with two mugs, handing one to her with careful fingers. "careful. it bites."

"so do i," liora murmured, then flushed. she hadn't meant to say that aloud.

billie blinked at her. then—slow, deliberate—smiled. "noted."

they sipped in quiet for a moment, the record spinning something low and old and scratchy in the background.

liora turned the mug in her hands. "it's weird, how this place smells familiar now."

billie sat beside her, their knees brushing. "i like that it does."

liora glanced at her. "why?"

"because it means you've been here enough for it to matter."

a beat passed. then another.

billie tilted her head slightly, studying her. "what are you thinking?"

liora met her eyes. "that i don't know how we got here."

"you mean tonight?"

"i mean all of it."

billie's hand found the couch between them, fingers just barely grazing liora's. "do you wish we hadn't?"

liora shook her head. "i just keep waiting for something to make it stop."

"me too," billie said. then added, softer, "but it hasn't."

their hands didn't move. but the space between them did. narrowed. shifted.

liora looked down. then back up.

"can i stay tonight?" she asked.

billie didn't answer right away. but her thumb moved—slow, deliberate—brushing over liora's knuckle.

"yeah, baby," she said. quiet. steady. "you can stay."

billie didn't rush.

she stood and held out her hand, gentle and sure. liora took it without hesitation, letting herself be pulled up from the couch, her tea left behind, forgotten. the room felt quieter than before, but full—like something had already started and was just waiting to finish its sentence.

billie led her toward the bedroom with a glance over her shoulder. "come here, pretty girl."

the words went straight to liora's knees.

the bedroom was small. the bed unmade, a soft mess of dark sheets and two mismatched pillows. the air held the same cedar warmth, touched now with the faintest perfume of whatever billie had worn that morning—familiar and a little dizzying.

billie turned to face her once they were inside. close now. fingertips brushing liora's hips like they weren't sure if they were allowed yet.

"you sure?" she asked, voice low.

liora nodded. "are you?"

billie leaned in, forehead to hers. "so fucking sure."

then—finally—she kissed her.

it started careful. mouths just barely moving. the kind of kiss that tasted like breath and nerves and a hundred unsaid things. but then liora's hands slid into billie's hair, and billie made a low sound in the back of her throat—like she'd been holding it in for too long—and the whole thing shifted.

heat bloomed.

billie kissed like she wrote—deliberate, slow, a little rough around the edges. her hands moved to liora's waist, then up, under the hem of her sweater. her touch was warm and steady, fingers skating over skin like a promise.

liora tugged billie's sweatshirt up and off, their lips parting only long enough to breathe. billie grinned against her mouth. "eager, huh?"

"shut up," liora whispered, laughing breathlessly.

"make me."

liora kissed her harder.

clothes disappeared by instinct. one piece, then another. each second a layer peeled back. when billie pressed her to the bed, she moved slowly, like she was memorizing the way liora's body curved, the way her chest rose and fell.

"you're so fucking beautiful," billie murmured, kissing just below her collarbone. "my sweet girl."

liora's breath hitched.

"say it again," she whispered.

billie kissed lower. "sweet girl."

her hand slid down, brushing the inside of liora's thigh. "my love."

liora's fingers tangled in the sheets. "billie—"

"i've got you," billie murmured, voice warm against her skin. "always."

everything slowed after that. the room turned to soft breath, tangled limbs, the hush of night wrapping around them. they moved like music—like a song they both already knew but were learning how to play in real time.

and when it was over, when the air had stilled again, and billie had pulled her into her chest, holding her close with one hand splayed across her back, liora pressed her face into the space between billie's shoulder and neck and whispered, "i don't want to go home."

billie kissed her hair. "you are home."

they didn't say anything else for a long time.

they didn't need to.

the first thing liora felt was the weight of an arm around her waist. warm. real. the kind of weight that grounded you, even before your brain caught up.

then came the scent—billie's skin, something faintly floral and musky, wrapped in the ghost of last night. her sheets. her breath.

liora blinked her eyes open.

billie was still asleep, barely. her lips parted just slightly. one curl of hair stuck to her cheek, and her brow was smooth in the quiet way only sleep allowed. she looked younger like this. not softer, exactly. just less guarded.

liora didn't move.

she didn't want to wake her. didn't want to change anything.

she watched the way billie's chest rose and fell, slow and even, the rhythm syncing with her own. outside the window, pale morning light touched the edges of the room. no alarms. no class. just the stillness of a saturday without consequence.

she hadn't meant to stay. not the whole night. but now that she had... she didn't want to leave.

billie stirred, breath catching, then shifted slightly—pulling liora closer without opening her eyes.

"mm," she murmured, voice sleep-heavy. "you're still here."

"should i not be?"

billie's eyes opened just enough to meet hers. "if you weren't, i'd have to find you and drag you back."

liora smiled. "aggressive."

"mm. possessive."

"dangerous combination."

"sweet girl," billie said, her voice a rasp, lips brushing liora's temple. "you have no idea."

they lay there like that for a while. not talking. not doing anything but breathing each other in. limbs tangled. the room slow with morning.

finally, billie nudged her nose against liora's cheek. "are you hungry?"

"maybe."

"wanna stay in bed anyway?"

liora nodded. "definitely."

billie grinned, eyes still closed. "lazy."

"spoiled," liora countered.

"mine."

the word hung there.

liora felt it in her ribs, in her stomach, in her teeth.

she looked up at her. "yeah," she whispered. "yours."

billie kissed her. not urgently. not like last night. this was different—warmer, deeper, like it meant something that couldn't be said out loud yet.

and maybe didn't need to be.

they didn't leave the apartment that day.

they stayed wrapped in fleece blankets, bare legs tangled on the couch. they ate cereal out of the box and watched terrible movies on mute. at some point, liora fell asleep with her head in billie's lap, and billie just kept tracing slow circles on her back, humming whatever song had gotten stuck in her head.

it wasn't a confession.

it didn't need to be.

it was the beginning of something that didn't ask for permission anymore.

the apartment was still, wrapped in the soft hush that only came from two people knowing exactly where the other was. liora stood at the counter barefoot, one of billie's sweatshirts swallowing her frame, sleeves pushed up awkwardly to her elbows as she made coffee.

billie leaned against the doorframe, watching her without saying anything.

"you're staring," liora said, not turning around.

"you're in my sweatshirt," billie said, like that explained everything.

liora looked over her shoulder, hair messy and falling in pieces. "you gave it to me."

"i know." billie pushed off the doorframe, padded over. "just didn't expect to like it this much."

liora passed her a mug. their fingers brushed. billie didn't move hers away.

instead, she stepped in close. eyes on hers. voice low. "so... are we gonna talk about it?"

liora took a sip. "which part?"

"all of it. last night. this morning. you in my bed, baby."

liora's throat caught. "it felt like... i don't know. something new. but not scary."

billie nodded slowly. "good. 'cause i don't want it to be scary. i want it to be something we don't have to tiptoe around anymore."

a pause.

"you sure?" liora asked.

"absolutely." billie's thumb grazed liora's jaw, light and reverent. "you're not a secret. not to me."

liora's breath hitched. "what now?"

billie smiled. "whatever you want, pretty girl."

that afternoon, they curled up on the couch again, tangled in each other, a record humming softly in the background. finneas called once—billie ignored it. liora started to say she should probably leave soon, go back to campus.

billie only said, "or you could stay one more night."

liora pretended to think about it. "tempting."

"i can be very persuasive."

"prove it."

billie's eyes darkened, playful. "later."

and liora's heart thudded at the promise in that.

it wasn't official. it wasn't labeled.

but in every glance, every kiss, every lazy laugh over popcorn and stolen hoodies—there was a knowing.

they were already theirs.

the walk back to campus was quiet. the snow hadn't started yet, but the air carried that heavy hush, like it was waiting. liora's hand brushed billie's once. billie caught it.

they didn't talk about the weekend. not really. they didn't need to. the silence between them now wasn't the sharp, wondering kind—it was soft, lived-in. full.

billie dropped her off two blocks from the dorm. just in case.

"text me when you get inside," she said.

liora nodded, already stepping backward. "you still okay with wednesday?"

"of course i am." a pause. "liora?"

she stopped. "yeah?"

billie leaned out the window. her hair was a little messy. her voice quieter now.

"you're my favorite song."

liora's breath caught.

then she smiled. small, sure. "i'll text you."

inside, the dorm felt colder. smaller. her roommate wasn't back yet, and everything looked exactly as she left it. but she wasn't the same.

she dropped her bag, sat on the edge of the bed, pulled out her notebook.

a blank page.

she started slow.

"she kissed me like she'd known my quiet all her life.

like i wasn't a secret.

like i was already home."

when she finished, she didn't close the book.

she left it open. let it breathe.

because for the first time, she wasn't scared of what she'd written.

and that felt like everything.

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

tags; @bxllxebxtch, @st0nerlesb0, @dousleepanymore, @mxmsuki, @billiescation, @angellvk, @bilswifee, @ilomilobabyy @hopingforgoodblogs

[there-will-be-a-way]

05. September - Bathtub Girl

A lot of different triggers that I need to process and document.

I had very graphic nightmares last night. It started with me having to get married to my sister - which was so wrong. Then I dreamed of him. Being kept in a small, dark room. Being abused and something about the bathtub girl too.

Then, later today, I accompanied my roommate to the hospital. On our way there, during the bus ride, we had a conversation that reminded me of the bathtub girl too. I felt like crying. I was so close to having a full blown PTSD panic attack in the bus but managed to keep my calm. It made it feel like what I remember is real. At least it affects me.

Then later in the evening I watched a movie with my other roommate. Something about it triggered me too. The way the wallpaper looked in this hotel room. The dead people that were shown in the bathtub. I felt like I got so close to remembering the missing puzzle pieces. I felt scared I would have one of these bad movie like flashbacks that make me scream and cry in fear. I had to repeat to myself, I am safe. It is 2024. I am with R. and he is a safe person to be around. I am in his room. It is 2024. I am safe.

Then I went outside to smoke my last cigarette of the day and when I looked at the stars in the darkness, I was suddenly on that street again. In front of his house and I saw her face again. For a second. I saw it so clearly. When I went to my room again, I had to chant I am safe. I am safe. It is 2024. I am safe.

I'm scared to go to bed tonight. Scared of sleeping, scared of the dark. Scared of having nightmares, of having flashbacks. Scared of the missing puzzle pieces and of seeing her again. Of all of my memories, I fear her the most. I fear what he did to her, what he was capable of. I fear what he forced me to watch. And that he is still out there, that she is still out there and no one knows what was done to her. That no one ever found her.

[xoxochb]

soft/girl dad! rafe I love you this will cure my baby fever

——— ౨ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

“give her your finger back!”

“what— no, she bit me!”

you throw a pointed look towards rafe and scoop your baby into your arms. she had begun to let out soft, barely audible cries after he had taken his finger out of her mouth. she did not like that very much.

“here, my love.”

you seat the baby on your tummy with her back against your thighs. from here, you let her gnaw on your finger now to soothe her cries. they turn into quiet hiccups gradually. you exhale when she is content.

“she’s dramatic.” rafe pokes her tiny head. you slap his hand lightly.

“she’s not dramatic, she has big feelings,” you correct. you place a kiss to the spot he had poked.

“she’s six months old how big could her feelings possibly be?”

“well—” you ponder. “well she’s only a baby and you have to be nice.”

rafe smirks and lays back against the bed, hands behind his head. “I am nice.”

“you upset her. say sorry to her.”

you remove your finger from the infant’s mouth and hold her out to her father. he takes her from your hold and lays her along his torso. his mouth finds her head in a feather-light kiss.

the baby’s tiny hands reach for his face as she babbles incoherently, a smile wide gracing her lips.

“look, she’s smiling, I am nice.”

your face is unamused. “okay.”

rafe brings the baby’s head back to his lips twice more. she begins to giggle at the affection.

“don’t get her too riled up, she has to take a nap soon.”

“she’ll be fine.” he ignores your words and continues playing with the child.

you sigh and slide downwards to rest on your side. you tuck your hands beneath the side of your head and admire the scene unfolding before you. a smile appears over your mouth. you bite down on your bottom lip.

you slide in closer to your husband and your child until deemed physically impossibly to go any farther. you allow your head to rest upon rafe’s shoulder. the baby squeals when you reach her line of sight, one of her tiny hands finding your face as well. you place a kiss to her little fist.

and not much to your surprise, with the stimulation of both her father and mother playing with her she was unable to nap that afternoon.

[littledykeblue]

──𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄-𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐄;

(college roommates! vi x reader): vi gets a little frisky at the drive in

READ THE SEQUEL HERE!

wc: 3k | cw: kinda enemies to lovers, but like not really enemies, heavy petting, fingering (r!receiving), light degradation, car sex (in the bed of a truck) MINORS DNI.

note: vi, my beloved, simply had to be next up! also thank you guys for all the love on my first post!! kissing each and everyone of u telepathically <3

You wouldn’t exactly say you’re friends with your dorm mate.

Vi is loud, popular, and constantly flitting around campus like the social butterfly she was clearly born to be. Half the time, she's crashing at a friend’s—or a hookup’s—place, so it’s already pretty rare to see her on the regular.

If anything, you’d say life is easier when Vi’s not around. It’s nearly impossible to get any studying or homework done in her presence. And it’s not just the videos she insists on watching at what feels like full blast or the endless stream of calls she takes on speakerphone for reasons you still can’t comprehend.

It’s the doing push-ups shirtless in the middle of the room. It’s the rare (but no less horrifying) occasions she brings a girl back and thinks she’s being subtle about it. Worse than both? When she decides to talk to you.

She never picks a time when you’re actually free. Never cares if you're neck-deep in coursework. She’ll plop herself into your desk chair (or your bed, whichever’s unoccupied) and lob the most inane questions at you.

"You studying?" she asks, despite the open laptop in front of you and the mess of notes scattered across your comforter.

You glance up with a withering look, irritation already prickling at the edges of your patience. It’s not entirely her fault, but she’s definitely not helping.

"No, I just keep all this out for the fun of it." Your tone is dry, bordering on rude. Vi, as always, takes it in stride.

The corner of her mouth lifts, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Woah, firecracker. Somebody’s in a mood."

You hum noncommittally, trying to drag your focus back to the same damn paragraph you've been stuck on since she barged in. Vi, unsurprisingly, isn’t content to be ignored.

“Know what you need?” she says, standing and casually closing your laptop with two fingers. For one dark moment, you genuinely consider the logistics of getting away with murder.

“I seriously doubt you have any idea,” you snap, prying your laptop back open. “Don’t you have, like, a million other girls you could go bother?”

Vi shrugs, grinning like the question only flatters her. “Yeah, but none of them are you.”

A traitorous flutter sparks low in your stomach. Fuck her.

“Wow. That line usually work for you?”

“You think I’m using a line? I’m wounded.”

“Vi.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Hmm?”

“What do I have to do to get you to leave me alone?” you ask, folding your arms across your chest. The question only seems to delight her.

She pauses, pretending to think it over, longer than necessary, just to be annoying. “I was gonna catch a movie with my friend, but she bailed. Come with me.”

You consider, once again, pointing out that she has no shortage of people she could drag along. But something tells you it’d be an exercise in futility.

“Fine. If it gets you out of my face.”

“Wonderful. Catch ya later, roomie!” Vi hops to her feet, pretending like she’s going to shut your laptop again—laughing when you scramble to keep it open.

You watch her leave, resisting the urge to throw something at the door after it clicks shut. Once the whirlwind that is Vi is gone, the silence feels almost sacred. You manage to actually focus, knocking out a good chunk of your work during the blessed hours of reprieve.

It’s nearing seven when you get a text from Vi telling you to start getting ready.

You’d exchanged numbers strictly for practical reasons—shared dorm emergencies, class reminders, the occasional “come let me in.” Definitely not for this.

Still, you don’t argue. You’re not about to dress up either; it’s just a movie. The theater will be dark, and more importantly, this outing is purely transactional. You're earning yourself some peace. That’s the story you’re sticking to.

You stuff your phone, wallet, and keys into the pockets of your sweatpants and head out to meet her out front, just like she told you to.

Vi’s there, leaning against her truck, scrolling through her phone. You walk up and swat at the device—not hard enough to knock it from her hand, but just enough to make her fumble it.

“You’re so funny,” she says dryly, slipping it into her pocket. She opens the car door for you with an exaggerated flourish.

"I learned from the best."

"Aw, you think I'm the best?" Vi holds a hand to her chest and smiles wide.

You narrow your eyes at her. "The best at being annoying."

“I love this little back-and-forth we’ve got going,” she says as she closes the door behind you.

Vi rounds the car and slides into the driver’s seat like she’s done it a hundred times. Her grin flashes sideways.

“You ready?”

You buckle in, side-eyeing her with suspicion. “Yep.”

When Vi said “catch a movie,” you, perhaps foolishly, assumed she meant a regular theater. Popcorn. Reclining seats. A sticky floor or two.

Instead, she pulls into a drive-in.

The truck eases into a spot with the bed facing the massive screen. A few other cars are scattered around, but Vi finds a space tucked away from the nearest cluster.

She’s out of the driver’s seat in a flash, and before you can even reach for the handle, she’s at your side, swinging your door open. Weirdly date-like.

The two of you make your way to the back of the truck, and before you can climb in on your own, Vi’s hands settle at your waist. With little warning, she lifts you easily into the bed of the truck like it’s nothing.

Now you’re seated beside her, knees brushing, thighs nearly touching. You're close enough to feel the radiant warmth rolling off her body. The whole thing suddenly feels incredibly intimate. You’re not sure if Vi means for it to feel that way…and that’s maybe the worst part.

You barely have time to untangle the knot in your stomach before a breeze cuts through your sweatshirt, making you shiver. Of course, you hadn’t thought to bring a jacket.

Vi notices immediately. Without saying a word, she grabs a blanket from beside her and tosses it over your lap, casual as ever. You shift under it, trying to find a comfortable position—and in doing so, end up pressed flush against her.

It’s awkward, kind of. Your shoulders don’t sit quite right, and there’s only so much blanket. Vi adjusts first, lifting an arm and curling it around your shoulders. You follow instinctively, arm sliding behind her back so you can rest your head on her chest.

She’s warm. Unfairly so. You soak it in, entirely greedy.

You are trying to watch the movie. Honestly. But Vi’s fingertips are now tracing lazy, featherlight shapes along your shoulder, and it’s impossible to focus. Your heart taps out an anxious rhythm against your ribs.

Vi makes a comment about something on-screen—funny, probably—but you don’t catch it. You tilt your head, intending to ask her to repeat herself, only to realize her face is right there.

Close. Too close.

She’s beautiful, obviously. You’ve known that. But it’s a different kind of dangerous seeing her like this: soft smile on her lips, eyes dipping to your mouth, like she’s already halfway to deciding.

You quickly avert your gaze, suddenly and profoundly invested in the movie. The screen blurs slightly, but you commit yourself to pretending it’s the most riveting film you've ever seen. Still, you're sitting noticeably more tense than before, shoulders stiff, muscles locked, for the next thirty minutes.

“My arm’s falling asleep,” Vi murmurs. “Here, uh, sit like this.”

She doesn't wait for a response. Of course she doesn't. She starts manhandling you like it’s just a normal, everyday activity—like rearranging throw pillows. Within seconds, you’re guided to sit snugly between her legs, her hands steering you as though you belong there.

You sit up ramrod straight, carefully avoiding any real contact with her front because that would be insane. That would probably be the final nail in the coffin, so to speak.

Vi, apparently, did not get that memo.

Because it’s not long before her arms are curling around your waist, slow and deliberate, pulling you gently back until your spine meets her chest. “Sit back,” she says, voice a low hum in your ear, something warm and unplaceable blooming in your chest. "Can't see the screen past your giant head."

"You're one to talk," you bite back with none of your usual heat.

You let yourself relax, just a little. Her hands don’t leave your waist. They start tracing lazy, absentminded shapes, drifting higher in barely-there passes. One finger skims across your sternum, then lingers at the edge of something more. Brushing, just once, beneath the swell of your breast.

“Hey, Vi,” you murmur, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

“Yeah?”

“What are we doing?”

“I don’t know about you,” she replies, deadpan, her breath warm against the shell of your ear, “but I’m trying to touch your boobs, if I’m honest.” You feel her shrug behind you.

“Can I?”

“That usually work for you?” you ask, arching a brow even though she can’t see it.

Vi chuckles, low and smug, and you feel it vibrate right through your spine. God, of course that laugh is working on you right now.

“Works better when they can see me,” she says, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt. “Puppy dog eyes’ll get you pretty far.”

You roll your eyes and reach down, placing your hands on top of hers. “I don’t think you’re supposed to admit you have puppy dog eyes. Takes away the charm.”

“You asked,” she says, laughing again. She sucks in a sharp breath as you guide her hands under your shirt. “Guess I don’t really need ‘em now.”

“Guess not,” you breathe, relaxing fully into her as her palms slide up, rough and warm.

She pushes under your bra with slow, sure hands, and you can feel her exhale against your neck.

Her fingers curve around your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples in teasing little circles before she rolls them between her fingers, slow and deliberate.

You suck in a breath, shifting in her lap.

Her mouth finds your neck, lips brushing the skin just below your ear. She kisses you there, soft and warm, then again, a little lower, with just the ghost of teeth. Her hands are everywhere now — one pinching lightly, the other kneading and groping, and it’s taking everything in you to stay quiet under the thin blanket.

Then you feel her hand begin to drift, trailing down your stomach with aching patience, fingers brushing the waistband of your sweatpants.

She pulls her mouth away from your neck just long enough to ask, voice husky and careful: “This okay? I'd like a real answer, this time.”

You nod, a little too quickly, arching your back slightly into her hand. “Yeah. Yeah, you can.”

Vi presses a kiss to your jaw, a quiet thank you, before her hand slides past the waistband. Her other hand doesn’t stop working your nipple, thumb flicking it with practiced ease as her fingers dip lower.

You gasp softly, shifting your hips as her hand finds its way between your legs.

Vi exhales like she’s been waiting for this forever. “Gotta be quiet, baby. We don't wanna get caught,” she whispers, mouth back on your throat.

Vi’s fingers slide lower, finally dipping between your legs — but she doesn’t go deep. Just runs a single finger slowly through your folds, dragging slick up and down with maddening patience.

You twitch in her lap, breath catching. “Vi,” you whine.

“Shhh,” she hums, pressing a kiss to the underside of your jaw. Her finger brushes your clit barely and then circles it. Lazy, light, not nearly enough pressure to do anything but tease.

“God, come on—”

She laughs softly, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Begging already?” she murmurs, lips ghosting over your ear. “Thought you liked acting like you hate me.”

You scoff, shifting your hips again, trying to chase more pressure. Her hand doesn’t budge. “You’re infuriating.”

Vi clicks her tongue, still circling, still maddeningly soft. “You’re always so mean to me, you know that?” she says, voice low and calm, like she’s not slowly unraveling you in the back of a truck. “Always rolling your eyes when I talk to you. Never smile when I say hi. Always got that nasty little attitude.”

Your jaw clenches. “You’re always interrupting my work—”

“Seriously? You still complaining?” Vi cuts in, and then she presses down on your clit, two fingers now moving in firm, tight circles.

Your breath stutters. Words die in your throat.

Vi grins, satisfied. “That shut you up.”

Your hands fly to her thighs, gripping tight, trying to ground yourself as she keeps the pace steady and devastating. Your head tips back against her shoulder, mouth open, eyes wide at the sudden rush of sensation.

She kisses your neck again. The pressure is firmer this time, tongue dragging over the skin before she sinks her teeth in just enough to leave a mark. She sucks there, slow and dark, her free hand sliding up to your chest again, palm curling around your breast as her other hand stays merciless on your clit.

“Lot of complaints,” she says against your throat, lips brushing over the new bruise. “For someone who clearly wants me to make them come.”

You gasp, legs trembling under the blanket. She’s right and she knows it. You hate how much she knows it.

But you’re past the point of arguing now. "That'd be nice," you say through clenched teeth, keeping down the sounds that threaten to spill from your mouth.

Vi keeps her fingers moving in those devastating, tight circles—not too fast, not too slow. Just enough to keep you on the edge, just enough to keep your thighs twitching and your breathing shallow.

"I bet it pisses you off that I've got you this wet," she murmurs, her voice thick with smug satisfaction. "And you act like you can't stand me. What's that about, huh?"

You groan under your breath, hips twitching again as she dips just low enough to press at your entrance, teasing it without pushing in.

She laughs softly, low in your ear. “Bet you were getting wet the second I touched you. Just too proud to admit it.”

You bite your lip and say nothing. You shift, lifting your legs and hooking them around the outside of Vi’s, knees wide, body fully open for her. Thank god she parked far enough away from any potential prying eyes.

Vi's breath stutters as her hand slips back between your legs, now with nothing in her way.

“Oh,” she whispers, a grin curling into her voice. “Look at you. Finally acting like you want it.”

You squirm, half in protest, half in need, and Vi presses two fingers inside in one smooth thrust. You gasp, body tightening, walls fluttering around her.

"Do you ever shut up?" You manage to say in spite of your wobbly voice.

She groans in your ear. “I think you like it when I talk. This pussy does, at least.”

You don’t mean to moan (not that loud, at least) but it punches out of you anyway, high and helpless.

Vi’s hand shoots up to the back of your neck, turning your face toward hers in the same second her mouth crashes over yours. Her kiss swallows the sound, all teeth and tongue and filthy satisfaction.

She fucks you with her fingers harder now, thrusts quick and precise, of her palm grinding against your clit. Her mouth stays on yours, swallowing every broken gasp, every hitched breath, every moan you can’t keep down.

“Yeah, that’s right,” she murmurs against your lips, her pace relentless. “So desperate for it. Can’t even pretend anymore, can you?”

All you can manage is a broken moan that vaguely resembles her name. Over and over again, breathless against her lips.

Your hands dig into her thighs for something to hold onto, nails biting through the fabric of her pants. Your hips lift into her, chasing every stroke, every drag of her palm. You’re close. So close your whole body is taut with the anticipation.

Vi feels it—has to—because her voice drops again, filthy and sweet at the same time. “C’mon, baby. I got you. Make a mess all over my fingers. You wanna come for me?”

You nod frantically into her mouth, legs trembling, body pulsing around her fingers. "Yes. Fuck. Please."

“That’s it,” she says, voice low and hot. “You're being so sweet for me. Go ahead, come.”

And you do.

It crashes through you, thighs quaking with the urge to press together, mouth going slack as your orgasm rips out of you. Vi keeps her hand moving through it, fingers working you through to the end while her mouth swallows the sound of your release.

When you finally go still, breathing hard, body limp, sweat cooling on your neck, Vi presses a final kiss to your lips and pulls back just enough to grin down at you.

“You gonna be nice to me now?” she asks, voice smug and breathless.

"Probably not."

Vi laughs as she eases her fingers out of you slowly, deliberately, dragging every last shiver from your overstimmed body.

She sucks her fingers clean, totally unbothered, and leans back against the bed of the truck like she didn’t just finger-fuck you in public.

You’re still catching your breath, chest rising and falling under the blanket, when Vi leans in and murmurs, “When we get back to the dorm, I’m gonna take my time with you.”

You blink, dazed, half-laughing. “Oh? You're thinking this wasn't the first and last time?”

She grins. “Nah. That was a warm-up. When we get back, I’m gonna have you naked and on your stomach, legs spread, begging. And I’m not gonna stop until I hear every pretty little sound you can make. Gonna keep going ‘til you’re sobbing into the pillow.”

You exhale sharply, lips twitching as you try not to let the flush crawl up your neck. “That so?”

“Mhm.” She nips at your jaw, just a little. “Might even let you come twice.”

You snort, leaning your head back against her shoulder. “And this is assuming I just lay there and let you do all those things?"

Vi tilts her head mockingly. “You literally just did.”

You glare at her, and she grins wider.

“Well,” you say, still breathless but trying to reclaim some ground, “you’ll have to earn your second chance. I can't be out here rewarding bad behavior, after all.”

Vi scoffs and shakes her head, laughing under her breath. “Unbelievable. You were just coming and whining on my fingers like a slut, and you’re still talking shit?”

You shrug, biting back a smile. “Guess you’ll have to do a better job if you want to shut me up.”

Vi leans in close, lips brushing your ear. “Clearly. Don't worry, we'll fuck that attitude out of you yet.”

You shiver, despite the warmth of her hoodie and her body at your back.

“Can’t wait to see you try,” you murmur.

[coriihanniee]

TELL ME, WILL WE SURVIVE? ⋆˚࿔ (part 1)

۶ৎ SYNOPSIS : you're the 4th member of Huntrix, tasked to eliminate the Saja Boys, five powerful demons disguised as idols. However, encountering them face to face brings an achingly familiar pain to your chest.

۶ৎ PAIRING : reincarnated 4th member huntrix!reader x saja boys ۶ৎ GENRE(S) : romance, reincarnation, angst ۶ৎ WARNING(S) : mentions of death, use of weapons, slight emotional manipulation, sexy hot fictional men

۶ৎ A/N : asked if I should write this fic with a poll and 434 votes is crazy... so here it is! This will probably be my only kpdh fic 🥹 I hope this satisfies you~ It was tough to come up what to write apart from Jinu's considering the fact we don't have more information about the others T^T

WE COULD BE FREE ⋆˚࿔ (part 2)

The tension in the Huntrix dorm was thick enough to cut with a knife.

"I still can't believe it," Zoey muttered, pacing back and forth across the living room while clutching her notebook. "A new boy group that just debuted... and they're actual demons."

Mira sat cross-legged on the floor. Her usually perfect hair was tied back in a messy bun. "The way everyone was completely fascinated by them..." She shuddered. "Like they couldn't look away or think of anything else."

"Five guys who came out of nowhere and had everyone mesmerized on their very first performance," Rumi said grimly, her voice still hoarse from the throat issues that had sent them to the doctor in the first place. "That's not normal idol talent, that's demonic influence."

You looked up from lacing your combat boots, feeling a strange mix of anticipation and dread. While your three groupmates had discovered the Saja Boys' true nature during their trip to the clinic, you'd been stuck in back-to-back variety show recordings. Part of you felt guilty for missing such a crucial moment, but another part was almost grateful. Something about facing demons, especially these particular demons, made your chest tight with an emotion you couldn't name.

"So what's the plan?" you asked, trying to push away the odd nervousness in your stomach.

Rumi stood up, her leader instincts taking over despite her vocal strain. "Intelligence suggests they're operating out of several locations around the city. We need to track them down and neutralize the threat before their next public appearance."

"Five of them, four of us," Mira noted. "Not impossible odds, but we'll need to be smart about this."

Zoey stopped pacing and looked at you with concerned eyes. "Are you sure you're ready for this? I mean, this is our first time facing demons this powerful. The Saja Boys aren't like the lower-level creatures we usually hunt."

You nodded, though your heart was racing for reasons you couldn't explain. "I've trained for this. We all have."

"We don't know much about their individual abilities yet," Rumi warned, her voice dropping to a serious tone. "But we know they're organized and powerful enough to steal our fans and mess with the Honmoon. They've been systematically targeting our fans, hypnotising them with some kind of influence we don't understand yet.”

"We split up," Rumi continued. "Cover more ground that way. But nobody engages alone unless absolutely necessary. These aren't ordinary demons, they're organized, intelligent, and extremely dangerous."

As your groupmates continued planning, you found yourself staring out the window at the Seoul skyline, a dozen city lights twinkling like stars. Somewhere out there, five demons who had quickly become the nation's beloved idol group in less than a day were hiding, planning, hunting.

So why did the thought of facing them feel less like preparing for battle and more like... coming home?

"Ready?" Rumi's voice snapped you back to reality.

You grabbed your weapon and stood up, pushing down the strange emotions swirling in your chest. You were a member of Huntrix. You had a job to do.

Even if something deep inside you whispered that this mission would change everything.

JINU ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Three hours after the briefing, you crouched behind a concrete pillar in an abandoned office building, your heart hammering against your ribs for reasons that had nothing to do with the mission. You had tracked Jinu here alone, separated from his group members, conducting what appeared to be private business on the fifteenth floor.

The elevator had been deliberately disabled, forcing you to climb the emergency stairwell. Each step upwards felt heavier than the last, as if your body fought against an invisible current. When you finally reached the target floor, the silence was deafening.

You pressed your ear to the stairwell door, listening for voices, footsteps, any sign of demonic activity. Your weapon felt foreign in your grip, a silver-blessed blade that had never failed you in past hunts, yet now trembled with your uncertainty.

The hallway beyond stretched like a mouth waiting to swallow you whole. Fluorescent lights flickered sporadically, casting dancing shadows that made your vision blur. You moved silently, checking each empty office as you passed, until you reached the corner suite at the end of the corridor.

The door stood ajar.

Through the gap, you could see him.

Jinu sat behind a massive mahogany desk, his profile illuminated by the pale glow of Seoul's skyline through the windows. Even in the dim light, his features were sharp and aristocratic, high cheekbones, a strong jawline, dark hair that fell perfectly across his forehead. 

"The contract is simple," his voice carried through the crack in the door, smooth as silk yet cold as steel. "Your daughter's medical bills disappear. Her surgery is guaranteed successful. All I ask in return is a small favour down the line."

"What kind of favour?" The other voice was desperate, broken, a father's voice.

"Nothing that will harm your family directly. You have my word."

You should have burst through that door immediately and struck while Jinu was distracted, before he could complete whatever twisted bargain he was weaving. But the moment your eyes found his face, your entire world tilted off its axis.

Inexplicable pain lanced through your chest. Your vision blurred from the tears suddenly sliding down your cheeks. Images surged and vanished too quickly to grasp : a child's laugh, the strum of a bipa, a soft voice humming, arms wrapping around you beneath a threadbare blanket.

"I'll take care of everything. You'll never have to worry again."

You gasped, stumbling backwards and nearly dropping your weapon. The sound echoed in the empty hallway like a gunshot.

The conversation inside the office stopped abruptly.

"I believe our business here is concluded," Jinu's voice had changed, taking on an edge that made your spine stiffen. "You know how to contact me when you've made your decision."

The desperate father's voice slowly faded as he was presumably escorted out through another exit.

You pressed yourself against the wall, mind racing. You had lost the element of surprise, but the mission remained the same. Jinu was alone now. This was your chance to strike before he could reunite with the other Saja Boys.

You kicked the door open and rushed inside, blade raised and ready.

Jinu stood by the window with his back to you, hands clasped behind him as if he had been expecting your arrival. The moonlight turned his silhouette into an ethereal and angelic vision, a cruel irony given what you knew him to be.

"You're faster than I anticipated," he said without turning around. "Though not as quiet as you think."

"Turn around." Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

He complied slowly. However, when his eyes met yours, your soul cracked down the middle.

You could see a brief flicker of recognition cross his face, perhaps even mourning, or maybe grief worn thin over centuries.

You raised your blade higher, just enough to hide how much your hands were shaking.

"You've grown beautiful," he said softly.

Your breath caught in your throat, forcing down a wave of emotions that threatened to break free. You gritted your teeth. "Don't."

He stepped forward. 

"I said don't."

He moved closer.

You slashed by reflex. Jinu blocked it with his arm. He didn't exactly attack back. But he parried, blocked, dodged with the ease of someone who'd trained lifetimes for this.

It happened before you could think. Your body moved, like it already knew what to do. Your chest rose and fell too fast, ears buzzing with the rush of your heartbeat. Jinu barely fought back, annoyingly and effortlessly dodging your attacks. However, you refused to stop until the hurt had somewhere to land.

Until he disarmed you, your blade clattering across the floor.

Jinu didn't press the advantage or move to strike.

Instead, he stepped back. 

You froze for half a second. Why isn't he fighting back? Was this pity? Mercy? Did he think you couldn’t handle it?

"You don't remember." It wasn't a question.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Four hundred years ago," he said quietly, "I had a mother and a sister. We were starving. I played the bipa on street corners, until I found you, you were the only light we had left. You kept us together, even when everything fell apart."

Images tore at your mind again : your hands mending a child's robe. Jinu's fingers brushing yours. The bipa's music cutting through the dark.

"You were there," you whispered, not understanding why you knew it was true.

"I was." His voice cracked. "And I failed all of you."

"But… you're a demon now. You manipulate people. Steal their souls."

"I offer what they ask for. I offered it then, too. I was desperate and hungry. My family and you were dying in front of my eyes. Gwi-Ma found me and promised me a life of comfort and power. I thought if I accepted it, I could bring you all with me."

Your heart pounded against your ribs.

"But the gates closed behind me," he said, barely audible. "I turned around and they wouldn't let you through. I left you in the cold while I slept on silk."

You shook your head, but the memories were surfacing now,

"I searched for you after. But you died, didn't you? Alone. Like the rest of them. While I lived in luxury with blood on my hands."

The truth settled like ice in your lungs. Your memories were fractured, broken by time and pain, but you remembered enough. Remembered waiting put in the cold and the hunger that ate you alive while he feasted in hell.

"I waited for you," you whispered.

Jinu closed his eyes as if the words were a blade through his chest. "I know."

The admission ignited a fury so pure it burned through your veins like poison. He knew. While you were wasted away in that freezing hovel, praying for his return until your throat was raw. While you'd begged strangers for scraps, sold every precious thing you owned just to buy another day of life, he was feasting in warmth and safety. He knew, and he'd done nothing.

"You knew," you snarled, and the rage in your voice made him flinch. "You knew we were dying and you left us there to rot."

Your hands clenched into fists. Every cell in your body screamed for violence, for justice, for him to feel even a fraction of the agony he'd caused.

You lunged for your weapon again. He didn't stop you.

"I'm going to kill you," you said, raising it with trembling hands.

"Then do it."

However, you hesitated, the blade wavering above his heart. Tears blurred your vision as you stared down at him, this man who had once been your entire world. Your arm shook with the effort of holding the weapon steady, but your body refused to obey. Every instinct screamed at you to drive the silver through his chest, to end his suffering and yours, but your heart betrayed you.

Even after everything, you couldn't bring yourself to destroy him. The realization broke you more than his abandonment ever had.

"Why aren't you fighting back?"

"Because I loved you more than my own soul. And letting you end it is the only way I can repent for what I've done."

Your eyes widened at his words, the blade slipping from your nerveless fingers. It hit the floor with a sharp clang that echoed through the empty office.

Jinu's breath caught in his throat. He stared at the fallen weapon, in disbelief at what had just happened. His composure finally cracked, and tears spilled down his cheeks, the first real emotion you'd seen from him since you'd entered this room.

Why?" he whispered. "After everything I've done to you... why can't you do it?”

"I-I don't know…’ you said, voice cracking. “But… this doesn't mean I forgive you…”

"I wouldn't dare ask."

"And I'm not letting you walk away."

He nodded, tears tracking down his cheeks.

You stepped closer, your heart shattering with every breath.

"This time, we need to talk, about the four hundred years you stole from us."

ABBY ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The underground fight club pulsed with sweat, blood, and money changing hands. You pressed your earpiece, static crackling back at you as you tried to reach Rumi. 

"Rumi, do you copy? I lost visual on the target."

Nothing but interference.

Intel had tracked two Saja Boys to this district, Abby and Mystery had split from the main group. Following a thorough discussion, you and the other girls decided to split into duos to ensure greater safety. You and Rumi were supposed to stay together, but the crowds and maze-like underground tunnels had separated you. Now you were alone in the bowels of Seoul's illegal fighting scene.

The roar of the crowd guided you deeper into the complex. Through a doorway marked with graffiti, you found the main arena, a concrete pit surrounded by screaming spectators waving fistfuls of cash. 

In the center of the ring stood Abby.

He moved like violence incarnate, all muscle and controlled fury as he circled his opponent. Abby was shirtless, his body a map of scars and fresh bruises, sweat making his skin gleam under the harsh lights. 

The expression that you caught on his face made your breath catch. Pure, undiluted joy. He was having the time of his life.

His opponent lunged. Abby sidestepped with fluid grace, then drove his fist into the man's ribs with a wet crack that echoed over the crowd's cheers as the man fell to the ground hard. 

"Next!" Abby called out, not even breathing heavily. His grin was sharp enough to cut glass. "Who else wants to dance?"

Three men climbed into the ring together as the crowd grew wild.

You should have taken the shot then, but watching him move was hypnotic. Every punch and dodge was precise and calculated. 

Two opponents were quickly taken down, and the third hesitated to swing.

"Come on," Abby taunted, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Don't tell me you're scared now."

The man reluctantly charged. Abby caught him mid-lunge and slammed him into the concrete so hard the ground cracked.

The crowd erupted as money flew. Abby raised his arms in victory, basking in the adoration.

You waited until the chaos died down, until the crowd dispersed and the arena emptied. Abby was collecting his winnings from the promoter when you finally made your move.

"Good fights tonight," you said, stepping out of the shadows.

He went completely still for a second, so brief you almost missed it. Then he turned around with that cocky grin already sliding into place. 

"Well, well. What do we have here?" He looked you up and down, but it wasn't the casual appreciation of a stranger. It was recognition wrapped in careful performance. "You don't look like the usual groupies. Too pretty. Too dangerous."

"I'm not a groupie."

"No kidding." He stuffed the money in his back pocket and grabbed his shirt from where he'd thrown it, but didn't put it on. Still showing off, but his movements were more deliberate now, as if he was buying time to think.

 "So what are you? Reporter? Cop? Or just someone who likes watching sweaty men beat the hell out of each other?"

"I'm here for you."

His grin widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Well, that's direct. Though I gotta say, most people who want me specifically don't usually start with small talk."

The arena was empty now except for the two of you and the lingering smell of violence.

Perfect.

"You're coming with me," you said, hand moving to your weapon.

"Am I?" He stepped closer, and the playful mask slipped just slightly. "And here I was thinking you might be here for something else entirely."

"This isn't a game."

"Everything's a game, sweetheart. The trick is figuring out if we're playing by the same rules." He was circling you now, but it felt less predatory and more like he was trying to get a different angle, trying to see something in your face. "Though I gotta ask, do you even know who I am?"

You drew your blade. His expression shifted, resignation mixed with anticipation.

"There it is," he said quietly, flexing his fingers. "Was wondering when we'd get to this part."

He moved faster than you'd expected, still testing you. Every move of his was calculated, like he was trying to figure out how much you remembered about fighting. 

About fighting him specifically.

"Come on," he said, dodging your blade with familiar ease. "I know you're better than this. You always were."

The words slipped out before he could catch them. You saw the moment he realized his mistake, saw him try to cover it with that cocky grin.

"Always were what?" you demanded, pressing your attack.

"Always were too careful," he said, but his voice was strained now. "Stop holding back."

"I'm trying not to kill you."

"How thoughtful." His voice was softer now, almost fond. "Always looking out for everyone else."

Before you could ask what he meant by that, he caught your wrist and pulled you against his chest. For a moment, you were close enough to see the conflict in his eyes.

"Got you," he said, but it sounded more like a prayer than a taunt.

You drove your elbow back into his ribs and spun free. He let you go reluctantly.

"There we go," he said, rubbing his side. "That's more like it."

You came at him again, blade swinging through the air. This time when he grabbed your wrist and twisted until you had to drop the weapon, his grip was careful, like he'd done this exact move with you before.

"How do you know how I fight?" you asked.

The question made him freeze. His grip loosened just enough for you to break free, but instead of reaching for another weapon, you just stared at him.

"Have we met before?" you asked.

All the pretense drained out of his expression at your question, replaced by rawness and desperation.

"Every day for a hundred and twenty three years," he whispered.

"What are you talking about?"

His hands came up to frame your face, thumbs tracing your cheekbones like he was memorizing them all over again.

"You really don't remember," he said, and his voice cracked on the words. "God, I hoped... I thought maybe..."

His touch was so gentle, and his voice was softer now. 

"How do you know my name?" you whispered.

"Because I've been saying it every day for over a century." He laughed bitterly "Because it was the last thing you heard before you died."

Images flashed through your mind : rain-soaked streets, a thin boy with kind eyes, the sound of your own scream echoing off alley walls.

You stumbled backward, hand pressed to your temple. "What's happening to me?"

"Hey." He reached for you, movements careful now, gentle. "Hey, it's okay. You're okay."

"I'm not okay. I'm seeing things that aren't real."

"What kind of things?"

"A boy. Someone I loved." The words came out before you could stop them. "Someone who died because of me."

Abby went very still. "How did he die?"

"I don't know. I can't—the memories aren't mine." You looked up at him desperately. "This is crazy. I don't even know you."

"Yes you do." His voice was barely above a whisper. "You do know me. You just can't remember because dying screws with your head."

"I didn't die."

"Yeah, you did." He was close enough to touch now, hands hovering just shy of your skin. "Hundred and twenty three years ago. In an alley. They put a knife in your back while I watched, too weak to do anything about it."

The memories hit like a tsunami : cobblestones slick with rain, rough hands dragging you away from a thin boy who was calling your name, the burn of steel between your ribs.

"Oh god," you whispered.

"I made you a promise," Abby continued, his voice thick with a century's worth of grief. "On your grave. That if I ever got the chance to see you again, I'd be strong enough to protect you."

You looked at him, and saw past the muscle and scars to the boy underneath. The boy who'd loved you. The boy who'd become a monster for the chance to keep you safe.

"You became a demon for me?"

"I became whatever I had to become." His hands finally made contact, cupping your face gently, as if any more pressure might shatter you into a million pieces. "I don't care what that makes me. I care about keeping you alive."

Footsteps echoed from the tunnel behind you. Rumi's voice called out your name, worried.

"Shit," you whispered. "My partner's coming."

Abby's expression hardened instantly, all the vulnerability vanishing behind that familiar cocky mask. "Right. Back to reality."

"Abby, wait—"

"No, it's fine." He stepped back, putting distance between you, but his eyes never left your face. "You've got a job to do. I get it."

"I can't just—"

"What? Kill me? We both know you're not going to do that." He grinned. "So what's the play here, sweetheart? You gonna tell your partner you found me and just... let me walk away?”

The footsteps were getting closer. You had maybe thirty seconds before Rumi found you.

"I don't know," you admitted.

"Well, you better figure it out fast." Despite his words, he wasn't moving towards the exits. He was just standing there, waiting for you to decide his fate again.

"There's another exit through the back," you said quickly. "Behind the equipment room."

His eyebrows shot up. "You're letting me go?"

"I'm giving you a head start."

"Why?"

Because somewhere in your fractured memories, you remembered loving him. Because he'd spent over a century becoming strong enough to protect you, and maybe you could be strong enough to protect him too.

"Because I remember enough," you said simply.

His mask cracked just for a moment. "This isn't over."

"I know."

"I'll find you again."

"I know."

He started towards the back exit, then paused. "Hey, sweetheart?"

"Yeah?"

"Try not to die before I see you again. I'm getting really tired of that particular tragedy."

In a blink of an eye, he was gone, vanishing into the shadows just as Rumi's voice echoed closer.

ROMANCE ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The rooftop overlooked the glittering chaos of Seoul's entertainment district, where neon signs blazed advertisements for idol groups and concert venues stretched towards the horizon. You crouched behind the air conditioning unit, silver blade steady in your grip as you surveyed the empty space. 

Wind carried the distant sound of traffic and late-night revelers, but here, twenty stories above the city's pulse, silence reigned.

"Beautiful view, isn't it?"

You tensed, weapon raised when you heard his voice, achingly familiar despite being impossible to place. It wrapped around your ribs like phantom fingers, squeezing until your chest felt tight with inexplicable longing.

Romance emerged from behind the rooftop access door with fluid grace, hands tucked casually into his pockets. Under the city's electric glow, his features appeared sharp and ethereal, pink hair catching the wind as he regarded you with calm amusement.

"Though I suspect you're not here for sightseeing," he continued, taking measured steps forward. "Hello, hunter."

Your blade remained steady despite the tremor in your voice. "You know what I am."

"Of course I know exactly what you are." His smile held no malice, only a strange sadness that made your throat constrict. "The question is, do you know what I am?"

Without warning, you lunged.

Romance flowed backwards like water, your strike cutting through empty air as he spun away from your advance. He moved with practiced precision, dodging rather than retaliating, speaking in that same measured tone even as you pressed your attack.

"You fight beautifully," he observed, sidestepping another slash. "Trained well. Committed."

You snarled in frustration, spinning to catch him with a backhand strike that he avoided by millimeters. "Shut up and fight back."

"Why would I want to hurt you?"

The question threw off your rhythm, long enough for Romance to close the distance between you. His hand found your wrist with gentle firmness, and your weapon clattered across the concrete.

You struck out with your free hand, but he caught that too, holding both your wrists as you struggled against his grip. His touch burned with unnatural warmth, sending sparks up your arms that had nothing to do with his demonic nature.

"Let me go," you hissed.

"In a moment." Romance's eyes searched your face with desperate intensity. "I need you to see—"

He shifted, a small and bright object tumbled from his pocket, a ring that caught the neon light as it fell. Simple silver band, modest stone, nothing extraordinary except for the way it made your heart stop.

Pain lanced through your chest. Your knees buckled as emotion crashed over you in waves, grief so profound it stole your breath, love so pure it felt like drowning, loss that cut deeper than any blade. You didn't understand where these feelings originated, only that they threatened to tear you apart from the inside.

Romance released you immediately, crouching to retrieve the ring with reverent care. "You feel it too," he whispered.

"I don't—" You stumbled backward, pressing a hand to your chest where the ache pulsed with each heartbeat. "What did you do to me?"

"Nothing. This is yours." He held up the ring, and the sight of it made tears spring to your eyes without explanation. "It was meant for you."

"What—that's impossible."

"You taught me what love felt like, centuries ago." Romance said quietly, his mask of casual amusement finally cracking. "Before you, I was nothing. A shadow in my own house, invisible to parents who saw only disappointment when they looked at me. You were the first person to show me kindness, love me without expecting anything in return."

He cradled the ring like it held his entire world. "I saved for months to buy this. Worked every odd job I could find, skipped meals. I practiced the proposal speech until I could recite it in my sleep."

His confession struck a place you didn’t know could still hurt. Your eyes flickered back to the ring again, breath hitching.

"You fell ill a few weeks before I planned to propose." His voice cracked, centuries of grief pouring through the fractures. "I held your hand for seventy two hours straight. I didn't eat or sleep, just sat there begging you to stay with me."

"Y-You're lying." But your voice had no strength behind it.

"Your last coherent words were asking me to promise I'd love someone else after you were gone. You were so worried about me being alone." Tears tracked down his perfect cheeks, and seeing them made your own eyes burn. "I lied and said yes because I thought it would help you let go peacefully."

The pain in your chest intensified, spreading through your ribs like poison. "That's not—"

"I tried to keep that promise as a human. I spent years searching for someone who could make me feel what you had.” Romance's voice dropped to a whisper. “But no one came close to you.”

"You became a demon because you couldn't move on..."

"I made a pact with Gwi-Ma after years of failing to love anyone else. I became something that could create love, manufacture and distribute it to anyone desperate enough to want it." His smile was self-loathing incarnate. "If I couldn't feel real love, at least I could give others a taste of what you gave me."

"You're feeding on people and hurting them."

"I'm keeping my promise to you." His eyes blazed with centuries of accumulated pain and twisted devotion. "Every heart I touch and every moment of artificial bliss I create is all for you. You asked me to love someone else, and this is the only way I know how."

The logic was twisted, but the raw anguish in his voice made your chest tighten with sympathy you couldn't afford. "You're manipulating innocent people."

"I give them what they desperately need. The feeling of being cherished, desired, worthy of devotion. When the illusion breaks, yes, they're disappointed. But at least they got to experience something transcendent." Romance stood slowly, the ring disappearing back into his coat. "Tell me that's not better than the emptiness they had before."

"It's a love built on lies."

"All love is lies in the end." His smile returned, but it held no warmth. "The difference is I'm honest about the illusion I create."

You backed towards the rooftop edge, every instinct screaming at you to flee. The mission was clear, eliminate the demon. However, your hands shook as you reached for a backup blade, and the pain in your chest made it difficult to breathe. Each word he'd spoken felt like a knife twisting deeper.

"This isn't over," you managed, but the words came out weak.

"I know." Romance made no move to stop you as you retreated. "But I won't fight you anymore. I've caused enough damage to someone I—"

He cut himself off, the unfinished words hung in the air between you.

"Someone you what?" The question escaped before you could stop it.

"Someone I loved more than my own existence." His voice was barely audible above the wind. "Someone I'm still failing, even now."

The words crashed over you like a tidal wave. Ring. Proposal. Seventy two hours. Promise. Death. Demon. Love. The pieces swirled in your mind, too many fragments to assemble together, each one cutting deeper than the last. Your training screamed at you to stay, but your heart couldn't bear another second of his confessions.

You turned and ran.

The fire escape blurred past as you descended, taking stairs three at a time until your legs gave out two floors from the bottom. You collapsed on the landing, gasping for air that wouldn't come, pressing your palms against your eyes as if you could physically force back the tears threatening to spill.

His voice echoed in your mind : I practiced the proposal speech until I could recite it in my sleep.

Why did that hurt? You were a hunter trained to kill demons, not sympathize with their tragic backstories.

You forced yourself to continue down the fire escape, your movements mechanical and disconnected. 

Seventy two hours straight. I didn't eat or sleep, just sat there begging you to stay.

Your back hit the alley wall and you slid down until you were sitting on the cold concrete, arms wrapped around your knees. Hot tears streamed down your face as you grieved for reasons you couldn't name.

This couldn't have happened before. You would remember dying. You would remember being loved with that kind of desperate devotion. You would remember someone saving money for months to buy you a ring.

...

Wouldn't you?

MYSTERY ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You lean against the Huntrix dorm balcony railing, watching Seoul pulse beneath you like a neon heartbeat. The city sprawls endless and electric, towers of glass catching streetlight, traffic threading through concrete arteries. Behind you, voices clash over mission prep.

"We should split up and handle each demon individually," Rumi insisted. "Pick them off one by one."

"That's suicide," Mira counters. "We stick together, overwhelm them with combined firepower. Safety in numbers."

"Okay, okay!" Zoey jumps between them with enthusiastic gestures. "What if we compromise? Split into pairs? Best of both worlds, right? Right?"

There are weak spots in the Honmoon barrier scattered across Seoul like broken bones. You've memorized their coordinates, trained for this until your muscles know the patterns by heart. So why won't your pulse settle tonight? 

The argument behind you fades to background noise as you stare at the skyline. 

Suddenly, a soft and delicate melody drifts across the night air.

It felt like a tune you hum when your hands are full of flowers, when you're dizzy with new love. It shouldn't reach you from this height. Seoul's chaos should swallow such fragile notes whole, but the song finds you anyway.

Your breathing stops. You've heard this melody before in dreams that leave you gasping at dawn. 

Across the urban maze, movement flickers near a crumbling rooftop. A shadow that doesn't belong.

You don't hesitate one second. 

The balcony railing becomes your launching point. Rooftop to rooftop, your feet find purchase on surfaces that shouldn't hold human weight. The melody grows stronger with each leap, pulling you forward like a current.

Seoul blurs beneath you, kaleidoscope light and shadow, lives stacked in vertical towers. You follow the song through this maze, breath controlled, heart pounding against your ribs.

The tune leads you to an abandoned building that time forgot. Dark windows, cracked facade, studio spaces that once housed art but now hold only dust. You slip through a broken skylight, landing silent on debris-covered floors.

The music comes to a stop.

Mystery stands beside a shattered mirror, fingers turning over what looks like an old locket. He doesn't startle when you drop in. Instead, his mouth curves into a smile that holds too many secrets.

"You've always been good at finding me."

Your weapon clears its holster, barrel trained on his chest, and his smile deepens.

Ice floods your veins. Your grip tightens on the weapon. "Who are you?"

He laughs softly, like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. "I would tell you now, but where's the fun in that?"

"This isn't a game." Your voice comes out sharper than intended.

“Are you sure?” He tilts his head, studying you with eyes that hold starlight and shadows. "You followed my song across half the city. Left your friends mid-mission. That sounds like playing to me."

Heat rises in your cheeks. He's right, and you hate that he's right. "Answer me. Why do you know me?"

He steps closer curiously, like he's watching a flower bloom in real time. "You really don't remember, do you?"

"Remember what?"

"All those summer nights when you'd sneak out just to hear me play." His voice drops to a whisper. "The way you'd fall asleep in my arms while I hummed that exact melody."

Your heart stutters. The exact melody that's been haunting your dreams for months. "That's impossible. I would remember—"

"You would remember me, wouldn’t you?" He reaches out, fingers barely grazing your cheek. 

You should pull away, you know you should put distance between you and this stranger who claims to know your past. But his touch feels familiar, like coming home after a long journey.

"You haven't changed. Well, except for the blade." His gaze drops to the weapon still trained on him. "You never needed those before."

"Before what? Before when?" Desperation creeps into your voice.

He smiles again, stepping back. "Don't remember me yet. It's more fun this way."

"Fun?" The word explodes from you. "You think this is fun? I'm losing my mind trying to figure out who you are, and you think it's entertaining?"

"I think," he says, moving towards the broken window, "that some things are worth waiting for. Some mysteries are sweeter when they unfold slowly."

Moonlight catches in his dark hair as he pauses at the window's edge. "Besides, you always did love puzzles. You used to spend hours on them when you couldn't sleep."

Another piece of impossible knowledge. Another fragment that feels true but shouldn't exist. "How do you know that?"

"I know lots of things about you." His grin turns wicked. "You bite your lip when you're thinking too hard. You always eat the corners of sandwiches first. You used to trace constellations on my back with your fingertips."

Your weapon wavers. "Stop."

"Why? Does it hurt to remember what you've forgotten?"

"I haven't forgotten anything. I don't even know who you are." But even as you say it, phantom sensations ghost across your fingertips.

"Liar." He says it fondly. "You remember pieces. Little fragments that visit you in dreams. That's why you followed the melody tonight."

He's right again. You hate that he's right again.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he says, preparing to slip through the window.

"Wait—" The word tears from your throat. "At least tell me your name."

He pauses, half-silhouetted against the night sky. "You'll remember it when you're ready."

"What if I'm never ready? What if I never remember?"

For a moment, his smile falters. Vulnerability flickers across his features. "You will. You have to."

He turns to leave, but moonlight catches his profile at just the right angle. Your breath hitches. Along his temple, barely visible unless you know what to look for, the faint outline of demonic markings. Intricate patterns that shimmer like oil on water, there one second and gone the next.

Your training kicks in before your heart can catch up. The weapon in your hands shifts, finger finding the trigger. He's a demon. You're a hunter. The math is simple.

His hair shifts slightly, and for just a moment, you catch a glimpse of his eyes through the strands.

"You see it now," he says quietly. "The monster I am.”

Your finger hovers over the trigger. This is what you've trained for. What you've dedicated your life to. But something deep inside you hesitates.

Your hand trembles. The weapon feels impossibly heavy.

"Tomorrow," he says again, stepping towards the window. "When you remember who we were, you'll understand why I can't fight you. Why I'll never fight you."

In the blink of an eye, he's gone, leaving you alone with the echo of his voice, that phantom melody, and the terrible knowledge that you just let a demon walk away.

You land back on the balcony, chest heaving. The sliding door opens before you can compose yourself. Rumi, Mira, and Zoey spill out, eyes wide with panic.

"Where were you?! We've been searching everywhere—"

"Can we go tomorrow instead?" Your voice sounds foreign. "I don't feel great."

They exchange loaded glances. Eventually Rumi nods. "Of course. Rest is part of prep too."

You turn away before they can see the cracks spreading across your composure and witness how your hands shake.

That night, your bed feels like a battleground. The melody plays on repeat behind your closed eyes. Each note carries weight you can't name and memories you can't quite grasp.

The mystery of it all pressed against your mind. What past did you share? Why couldn't you remember? 

Mystery himself seemed to revel in the unknowing, content to watch you struggle with fragments of what you'd once been to each other. 

BABY ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Something was wrong with your hands.

They'd been trembling since you left the dorm, and no amount of clenching your fists or pressing them against your thighs could make it stop. Rumi's words echoed in your head like a mantra you couldn't shake, "Don't let his face fool you. They're still dangerous demons working for Gwi-Ma nevertheless."

Pictures of the Saja Boys were already circulating online in less than a day. Five demons who'd seemingly appeared overnight, stealing the hearts and souls of your fans.

"Ugh, I’m going to beat their stupid pretty little faces," Zoey had said, tapping the images with her pen. "Seriously, look at them! Acting all mysterious and brooding like they're in some kind of boy band. I mean—they are… but look! The internet's already making fan edits—fan edits! Of demons!" She'd gestured wildly at her tablet, where countless social media posts were flooding in by the minute. "Half the comments are people asking where they can meet them. It's insane!”

You'd barely heard her. Your eyes had been drawn to one face among the five, sharp features that still held traces of boyish softness.

His face had made your chest tighten with recognition, like looking at a stranger who wore the face of someone from a half-remembered dream.

Why did he feel familiar?

The neighbourhood around you was a study in urban decay, half the buildings scheduled for demolition, the other half already hollow shells. You decided to turn a corner and came across an abandoned playground.

You knew this place.

You stopped mid-step at the chain-link gate. The monkey bars where someone had scraped their knee. The slide with the chip in the yellow paint. The bike rack, now empty and listing to one side like a broken rib.

This was from your dreams. Or maybe...

"Didn't expect you to come."

The voice drifted from somewhere behind the playground equipment with an edge that made your hand move instinctively to your weapon. You'd heard that voice before, in fragments that scattered whenever you tried to grasp them.

"Show yourself," you called, stepping through the gate. The metal squealed in protest, the sound echoing off empty buildings like a warning.

He laughed mockingly. "Still giving orders, I see."

He emerged from behind the slide, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the chill of the night. He looked barely out of his teens, with features that still held traces of boyish softness despite the hard set of his jaw.

"You always had a thing for chasing monsters," he said, tilting his head as he studied you with uncomfortable intensity. Those dark eyes flickered, darting away from your face as if looking directly at you caused him physical pain.

"How do you know me?"

Baby shrugged with affected indifference. "Lucky guess."

The way he held himself like he was trying very hard not to care, made anger flare in your chest. "That's not an answer."

He kicked at a piece of broken glass, sending it skittering across the asphalt. "Maybe you're just forgettable."

The casual cruelty in his voice should have stung. You drew your blade, silver gleaming in the late afternoon light.

"Are you going to come quietly, or do we have to do this the hard way?"

Baby looked at the weapon, then back at your face. For a moment, vulnerability flickered across his features before he crushed it down.

"Do what the hard way?" He stepped closer, invading your personal space with  reckless confidence. "Fight me? Kill me?" His voice dropped, a hint of intimacy laced inside, bitter amusement threading through each word. "You wouldn't be the first to try."

You raised the blade between you, but instead of stopping, he knocked it aside with casual violence, the metal ringing as it struck the nearby swing set. Before you could recover, he was on you, crowding you back against the chain-link fence with predatory grace.

"I waited for you, you know," he said, one hand braced against the fence beside your head, effectively trapping you. "Stupid thing to do when you're a kid."

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. "What?"

His free hand came up to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. The touch was rough, but not enough to hurt.

"You really don't remember," he said, his laugh sharp enough to cut. "How convenient."

"Remember what?" The desperation in your voice made you flinch, but you couldn't take it back.

"Us." The single word fell between you, sending ripples through memories you couldn't quite grasp. "This place. The promises you made."

You tried to push him away, but he caught your wrists, pinning them against the fence. His grip was careful despite his aggression, strong enough to hold you, gentle enough not to bruise.

"You died," he said, voice flat and matter-of-fact. "And I had to grow up. Happy now?"

The world tilted sideways. Images flashed through your mind like broken film, a boy with tears streaming down his face, small hands clutching yours, a voice promising forever, all turned into ashes now.

"I'll never leave you."

The words rose from deep in your throat. Baby's eyes snapped to yours, wide with… hope, if hope weren't such a dangerous thing for creatures like him to carry.

"You broke your promise first," he whispered, and the accusation send a chill down your spine. 

You stumbled when he finally released you, pressing a hand to your chest where the ache was spreading like cracks in ice. Baby stepped back, flexing his fingers, trying to forget the feel of your skin.

"I don't—" You shook your head, struggling to make sense of the fragments flashing through your mind. "I don't understand."

"No," Baby said, his mask completely slipping. "You never did understand. You were always too good for this world."

He kicked your fallen blade across the asphalt, the metal scraping against concrete. "That's why you had to die, isn't it? Pure things don't last in places like this."

The words were bitter, but his voice cracked on the last syllable. He turned away quickly, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Next time we meet, I won't be nice," he said without looking back.

"Please, wait—"

He froze at the sound of your plea, shoulders going rigid. You thought he might turn around. Instead, he let out a short and humourless laugh.

"Begging now? Huh, pathetic."

H walked away, each step deliberate and final. Just as he reached the edge of the playground, he stopped.

"The songs," he said quietly, not turning around. "Those stupid lullabies you used to sing when I had nightmares. I still—"

He cut himself off with a sharp shake of his head.

"Forget it. Forget everything."

He simply walked away down the empty street like any other person with anywhere else to be. You watched until he turned the corner and vanished from sight, leaving you alone with your forgotten blade and the sound of wind through rusted swings.

You picked up your weapon with trembling hands, but the silver felt cold and foreign now, it now felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.

@coriihanniee 💌

˖➴ reblogs are appreciated! ty for reading! <3

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[slowdrawl]

Third Sunday of June | Husband!Joel x Wife!reader | one-shot | 18+ minors DNI

| Jackson!Joel | established relationship | canon divergent | ~3.8k words |

Summary:Father’s Day comes quietly this year. Your daughter is asleep on Joel’s chest. The world is still. There’s no fanfare, no gifts—just softness and the weight of what you’ve built. He’s not sure he deserves it. You spend the day reminding him he does.

A/N: Spent my morning thinking about Jackson!Joel with a newborn on Fathers Day. So I made this. It’s grief, healing, memory, devotion. And Joel Miller saying “mama” in a way that will stick to your ribs. if you like to get horny and cry at the same time this one is for you. ps. i wrote and edited this real quick, sorry if its a mess

Warnings: 18+ MDNI , grief (Sarah mentioned), BREEDING KINK,SMUT, ITS ALL SMUT,baby in established relationship, domestic softness, emotional intimacy, smut (fingering, oral f receiving, piv, creampie, praise kink, use of “mama,” slight dom!Joel, tooth rotting.

You wake up slowly. Sunlight filtering through the little gaps in the curtains, painting the room with streaks of gold and pink. You reach over beside the bed, arm searching. You find nothing When you roll over, you feel him, solid and warm against you. Joel is lying there, pillow propped up behind his head, awake. His eyes are puffy, you can’t tell if he’s even slept at all. Your daughter is sleeping on his chest, he’s got one arm wrapped below her, cradling her. He makes her look so impossibly small. “Good morning, lover,” you whisper, voice barely awake. He rolls his head toward you, looks down, and smiles softly. “‘Mornin', darlin’,” he mumbles, his voice too rough with sleep, maybe something more. His throat sounds a little tight, eyes are wet. “Did you sleep alright?” you ask. He just nods once, slow, looks down at her in his arms. “She woke up for a while an hour or so ago, got her back down quick,” he whispers. “You always do, think your voice makes her feel safe,” you say, “probably all that talkin' n’ singing to her you did before she was born.” He smiles again, just barely. Doesn’t say anything. He just curls his hand a little tighter around her back. You watch his thumb start to move, rubbing tiny absent-minded circles—like he’s grounding himself. His face is set in soft worry, as if he’s scared that if he stops touching her, one of them will drift away. You shift closer to him, tucking into his side, resting a hand over his. “She’s perfect,” you murmur. His jaw shifts some, and he closes his eyes. You feel it in the way his breath catches in his throat. The way his hand stills. “She looks just like her sister,” he says. You nod. “Yeah, I see it too.” The words, the room, the light. It all hangs there. Fragile. You don’t try to patch it, just listen, just let him speak if he wants. “I keep thinkin’—“ he starts, then shakes his head. “Hell. I don’t know what I’m thinkin’”

You press your lips to his shoulder.

“It’s okay if it’s everything all at once.”

You hear him swallow hard.

“Feels like I’m cheating. Lovin’ her like this. Havin’ her at all.”

You sit up slowly, shift so you can take the baby gently from his chest, and lay her down in the bassinet beside you. She stirs once, just for a moment, then settles.

Joel watches you the whole time, eyes fixed and glassy, throat working around something he can’t quite say.

Once she’s settled, you turn back to him, knees tucked at his sides, your hands bracing on his chest.

“Joel,” you say, voice gentle, but firm. “You never stopped loving Sarah.”

He stays silent.

“You just… didn’t let the world stop forever. Didn’t stop living. And that’s okay.” You bring your hand up to his face, caressing his jaw. “You’re allowed to keep moving forward, she’d want you to, baby.”

“I don’t know how to do this.” He exhales something shaky from his chest, “It’s been so long, I feel like I forgot how.”

You’re scratching the nape of his neck now, both hands on him, reminding him you’re here, you’re real. 

“You don’t have to know everything. That’s why we have each other.” 

You prop yourself up on an elbow, kiss the corner of his mouth. “Why don’t I make somethin’ for you to eat?” you offer, “pancakes?” 

He looks at you, caught off guard. Like he wasn’t expecting kindness today.

“You don’t need to do that.” He says.

“Let me take care of you.” You whisper, kissing him again, on his lips now.

 He doesn’t keep protesting, just looks at you with his big brown eyes as you slip out of bed and walk out of the room.

The light in the kitchen is still gentle, golden.

You move through it quietly, just to let him have the stillness.

You cook, shape the pancakes into little hearts.

It's simple, but it's the simple things that take you back to before this. Before everything got dark.

You go into your pack and pull out the gift you've been holding onto for a few weeks.

You put the card on the table. The one you scrawled in crayon. The one you spent an hour trying to get just right while he was on patrol.

Paint everywhere, from her head all the way into every nook of her toes. She'd fussed the whole time.

Her little footprint was perfectly stamped in the middle of the paper in blue.

You set the table, and plate the food. Put the card on his seat.

You know he'll come out as soon as he smells it.

You boil the water and take it out. Coffee.

You traded one of the gentlemen who came through town a few weeks ago. Joel didn't know. He thought you were at Tommy and Maria's, but you were really with that man's family, painting them a portrait. He gave you a tin of coffee beans, you thanked him, and thanked him, and thanked him. He didn't know.

You grind them up, and as soon as it hits the hot water, you hear his feet hit the ground.

After a few minutes, he rounds the corner with your baby in his arms, both of their hair messy from sleep.

He doesn't speak, just walks up to you and leans his forehead against yours, holding her between you like she's the most precious thing in the world. Like she's everything. Because she is.

You eat in silence. Nothing but the sound of birds outside, the sound of cutlery scraping, and her cooing every so often.

When he opens the card, his eyes go glassy all over again. He picks it up and turns it over in his hands like it might crumble. Or maybe he will.

"You're too good to me," he murmurs as he sips the coffee. 

"Not possible," you say, sitting right next to him, resting your hand over his on the table.

"You are my heart, Joel. You always have been, always will."

You squeeze his hand, he lifts it and kisses the back of it, looking right into your eyes. His gloss over with something too soft to name, no edges today.

The rest of the day passed like a dream.

But not in the way where it felt unreal—no. In a way where everything blurred at the edges. Where the light felt like it stayed warm a little too long, the breeze was too gentle to be anything but divine.

You sat on a blanket in the grass while Joel strummed the guitar, back leaning against the old porch post, your daughter nestled in his lap.

She kicked her feet, babbled. He stared at her, listening like she was preaching scripture. She swatted at the strings, and he just smiled, letting her. Didn't even try to stop her when she slapped the frets and giggled like she'd invented the very concept of music herself. He just kept strumming, singing something soft and low, the melody familiar and broken in, like an old t-shirt.

You watched them like that for hours, something deep in your chest, something you couldn't speak either. Something much too big for just love.

When the sun sank low behind the horizon, and the bugs came out, you cooked again. Something simple, warm. Pasta. You stood in the kitchen together, and he kissed your shoulder as you cut herbs. The baby giggled at every sizzle of the pan.

Later, you both bathed her. Joel held her like she was made of porcelain, crooning quietly under his breath while you rubbed soap through her soft little curls.

Eventually, when you put her down, he read to her. The same dog-eared books he always chose. Sesame Street, Robert Munsch… His voice was steady and soothing. Her little hands clung to his finger even as she nodded off.

You played cards, sitting cross-legged at the coffee table. You let him beat you at rummy. Twice. Then you teased him, accused him of cheating. He looked smug as hell, happy. After, you told him that if he was gonna hustle you, he'd better be the one doing dishes. He said, "Yes, ma'am," in what was still left of that lazy southern drawl you loved so damn much. It made your stomach flutter.

Now you’re in the bathroom, running the shower. You make him get in, reluctant as he is, you convince him. He trusts you. He loves you. You pour shampoo into your palms and lather it, scrubbing his hair with all the tender care in the world. He sighs into your chest as you scratch at his nape. Tipping his head down so you have easier access. He does the same for you. When the soap is rinsed and the water begins to cool, you press your body to his, arms wrapped and wet around his shoulders. You kiss him. Not hard, not desperate, or fueled. You just let your bodies melt together while the water runs over you like rain. When you break the kiss, you look up at him, water cascading through his curls, over his face. His lips are red and a bit swollen, his eyes aren’t glassy anymore, they’re dark. Hungry. The water seems to have been able to wash away some of the weight of today. He leads you out of the shower, wraps your hair up in one towel, and takes a second to dry off your body, paying perfect detail to every inch. You do the same for him. There is something so special about days like these. Where everything feels slow, comfortable, connected. They don’t come often anymore, not since the baby. You both get dressed in pajamas, he puts on pants, you just a shirt. Trying your very best to be quiet as you open drawers so the baby stays sound. He stands behind you as you stand at the end of the bed and watch her for a while. He wraps his arms around your middle, palms flat on your belly. He  leans his head onto your shoulder, mouth beside your ear, whispers, “Thank you for giving me her.” You turn your head, look him in his eyes for a minute, and respond. “No, Joel.” You kiss him again, “Thank you. Thank you for making me a mama.” “I love you.” is all he responds, mumbling it into the curve of your neck, kissing the soft skin there, sending static waves all the way through you. He wraps his big hands tighter around your belly, kissing up from your shoulder to your jaw as he slowly walks you backward toward the bedroom door. As soon as you let the door softly click closed, the air in the house changes. It charges. He doesn't say anything when you guide him toward the couch—no. He just follows, like you're tethered to each other. His hands are still locked on you as you make your way to the couch in the dark.

He pushes you down onto it, then drops down to his knees. You reach forward and run your fingers over his bare shoulders, digging them into the tension that's there, today, every day. You massage him, cradle his face, and touch everything you can reach. He kisses you like he means to undo you. Slow at first, like he's still not quite convinced this is what he deserves. Like every inch of you is prayer, and he's scared to speak it too loud. His hands trail up beneath the shirt you're wearing. His shirt. Callused fingers palming gently at your sides, up and down like he's relearning the shape of you. He leans in and kisses you, harder this time. Still not demanding, it's like he's just claiming you as his. It's the kind of kiss that breathes in you like he's starving for oxygen and tastes like memory. Like every version of him that's ever loved you is all showing up at once.

You moan into his mouth when he slides his hand down from your jaw, over you collarbone, down lower. He stops to cup your breast, circling his fingers so gently over your nipple. His mouth moves down your body and replaces his hand. He sucks and flicks at your skin through your shirt, rolling his tongue over and over.

You can feel his restraint start to slowly slip. Feel it leaving him through short, little panting breaths.

The way he touches you is slow, full of that all-familiar ache. His hands find your thighs, your waist, and finally up under your shirt. When he pulls it over your head he pauses like he's seeing you for the first damn time.

Your hands reach for his face, thumbs brushing the sides of his jaw, rough with stubble.

You watch his eyes darken as they make their way over your body, traveling, lingering at the softest parts. Your belly, your chest. All of the places that bore witness to what you built together

He lays his palms flat against your stomach and stops.

"She was right here," he says, voice quiet. "You carried her right there."

You cover his hand with yours, pressing it tighter into your skin. "She was," you whisper. "And you loved me through every second of it."

His other hand slips down, cupping between your thighs—you feel him shudder when he finds you already wet, needy.

"Still love you like that. More, even."

You breathe out something shaky. "Then take me there again, Joel."

You watch his throat as he struggles to swallow, his brows twitch into the smallest furrow for a moment. He leans into you, rests his head against your bare thigh.

"I've been feeling like the word was gonna end again," he murmurs. "Like this peace...this quiet...this thing we built is just borrowed." he keeps his head down, "I don't wanna waste it. I wanna remember everything."

You slide your fingers into his hair and tug. Not hard, just enough to make his eyes flick up to you, glinting in the low light.

"The world isn't ending again, Joel, we're gonna keep building ours, together. Everyone's safe," you say.

He kisses the inside of your thigh, then higher, then higher, then higher.

He hooks a finger underneath the waistband of your panties and then looks up at you, like he's asking for permission.

You nod, and when he peels them down, he doesn't just look—he stares.

"Fuck, so wet already" he says, voice dripping in awe "You miss me too mama?"

That word—oh god, that word. Mama. It hits you like a chord strummed right through your ribs, makes you pussy clench, has your whole body aching. It wrecks you every time. The way he says it is like praise. Like a god damn title.

"Think I'm not always like this for you?"

He grins, its soft, not cocky, but maybe proud.

Pleased.

"You ruin me so easily," he says, voice low and worn. "Every fuckin' time."

"Joel," you whine, grinding your hips down toward his face.

He chuckles against you, then flattens his tongue, licking a long stripe right down your center, groaning when he tastes you. His lips wrap tight around your clit and he sucks, gentle at first—then firmer. He works you until your back arches and your hands are fisting the cusions.

He eats you like it's the first time, maybe like it might be the last. Like this is the only way he knows how to say thank you for staying.

You whimper, tilting your hips, thighs tightening around his neck.

"Baby, fuck--"

"Yeah, that's it," he murmurs against you. "Give it to me. Let me take care of you."

Your whole body arches when he slips two fingers inside, curling them just right. It's too much, it's not enough. It's perfect.

"God damn, I love the way you sound when I got my mouth on you," he says. "Wanna feel you, c'mon, wanna feel you fall apart for me."

You come, mouth parted in a soundless cry, legs trembling, until his name pours out of your mouth like a broken hymn.

His pace doesn't falter; he doesn't stop. Just licks you through it, lets you ride it out on his tongue. Holding you still, taking everything you give.

When he finally rises from your thighs, his beard is glistening, his eyes are dark.

He kisses your belly, then higher. Then your lips, like he's giving it back to you. Your taste, your need, your surrender.

"Gonna let me love you right?" he asks, voice rasped. "Let me give you everything?"

"Yes, please, Joel--need it. Need you."

"Been thinkin' about this all night. You. The way you looked this morning with her in your arms." He crawls over top of you. "You were made to be a mama."

Your breath stutters, heart kicking.

"You know, you're real mean when you talk like that," you whisper.

He looks down at you, grinning as he tugs down his sweats. You watch as his cock springs free, thick, flushed and leaking.

"You sayin' it's a turn on?"

You nod, biting your lip.

He groans low in his throat, wrecked, and lines himself up. The head of his cock drags through your slick.

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time. Eyes wide, mouth open in awe.

A moan is torn from you, loud, head falling back. He sinks in all the way, hips flush to yours now.

He stays still once he’s buried deep. His hands frame your face.

“I’ve never loved anything like I love this,” he says. “You. Her. Us.”

Your eyes sting. Your chest cracks open.

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

He starts to move—slow, deep thrusts that drag along every inch of you, rolling his hips into yours.

He grabs your hand and puts it over your belly with his. Pressing down right where you’re full of him.

“Wanna give you another one” he breathes. “Wanna keep fillin' our life with good things”

“Joel—”

He grabs your hips tighter, ruts harder, deeper. It doesn't feel like fucking. It feels like this is carving. This is memory. This is making something.

“You want that?” he asks, voice breaking. “You wanna give me another?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Fuck, yes.”

He slows down some, shallower, grinding against you, the head of his cock catching on your opening over and over driving you insane.

“Turn around,” Joel murmurs, he growls. “On your hands and knees, baby.”

You don’t argue. You don’t ask. You feel it in his voice—that threadbare edge, the way he’s holding back like it’s costing him something. And you want to take the leash off.

So you nod. Slow. Wordless.

And roll.

Every limb feels loose, useless, boneless from how hard he just made you come with his mouth, but you shift, dragging your trembling body onto your stomach, then pushing up to your knees.

Your arms buckle a little under you. Joel’s hands are there instantly, one bracing your hip, the other gliding up your spine.

“Easy, sweetheart. I got you.”

You arch for him, shuddering, and you hear the crack in his breath. The way he exhales, like it hurts. Like the sight of you like this just knocked the wind out of him.

“Goddamn. Look at you,” he whispers. “Still fuckin’ cryin’ for me.”

You whimper when his hand spreads you open, thumb brushing through your folds. You’re slick everywhere. Down your thighs. Pooling between them. The contact makes you gasp.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he says, almost like it’s a prayer. “All over my fuckin’ couch. That from me, mama?”

Your voice is ragged. “It’s all from you.”

That earns you a moan.

You hear the soft slap of him stroking himself, the wet sound of his cock in his palm. You arch a little deeper, offer him everything.

And then he’s there.

The head of his cock presses back to your entrance and you both gasp as he slides inside.

The stretch hits different from this angle. Sharper, meaner, fucking heavenly. He presses in all the way, to the hilt, hands locked tight on your waist.

“Jesus Christ,” he hisses. “You feel like you’re fuckin’ made for me.”

You drop your head between your arms, mouth falling open. “I am, Joel.”

That makes him grunt. Low and rough.

He pulls back and thrusts in again, and it makes your knees slide an inch forward on the couch. Makes your voice break on a gasp.

The rhythm he sets is brutal—faster, deeper now. Dragging, grinding thrusts that punch the air from your lungs. “Still got more in you?” he pants, hand sliding up your back. You nod, forehead to the cushion. “As much as you want.”

His hand slides down again. Palms your ass. Spreads you wider.

“You said you wanted to feel it,” he murmurs. “Want me to make it count this time?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, Joel.”

He leans in over your back, one hand dragging up your belly now, wet with sweat, with slick, with heat.

“Then take it, mama,” he growls in your ear. “Take all of it.”

The sound you make is wrecked. Raw, wordless.

The filth from his mouth has your head swimming.

“You feel that? That’s me. All of me. Still fuckin’ hard for you. You’re wringin’ me out, baby. You want another one so bad? I’ll give it to you. I’ll fuckin’ give it to you.”

You don’t even recognize your own voice when you sob, “Please—please don’t stop—I need you—”

He grabs your hips, both hands now, and drives into you so deep it’s like he’s trying to break you.

You cry out. Eyes wet. Skin burning.

He moans, broken.

“Gonna come—fuck, baby.”

“Do it,” you whisper. “I want it, Joel, I want all of it.”

That’s it. He breaks.

He slams in once, twice. Then groans loud, slurred and filthy as he buries himself deep and pours into you.

You feel it. Warm and thick. A slow bloom of heat that makes your whole body tremble.

He stays there, cock still pulsing, his breath ragged, his hands bruising your hips like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

You both collapse on the couch, spent, wrecked. Happy Neither of you moves for a long, long moment.

He lays a kiss between your shoulder blades. “I hope it sticks,” he breathes. You turn your head to look at him, eyes glassy but glowing. “It will,” you murmur. You guide his hand to your belly, covering it with yours. Anchor to anchor.

“Happy Father’s Day, baby.” Then,  from down the hall, soft and sudden. A cry.

Tiny, insistent, familiar.

Joel’s breath catches in his throat. He presses his forehead to your back. You feel his shoulders shake.

You whisper, “She knows.”

And he laughs, choked up and tear-wet. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, she does.”

[ellieputellas]

guilty as charged | a.putellas

— Alexia was the perfect roommate. Well, except for one fatal flaw: she always lost your chargers. Fed up, you searched her room, only to find something you definitely weren’t supposed to see.

Tags: 18+, mdni, roommate!Alexia, dom!Alexia (kinda), strap r!receiving, fingering r!receiving, biting, impliedfuckboy!Alexia, slightly long build up before the smut content, tldr: finding Alexia’s strap and not being able to get it out of your mind, not proofread | wc: 6k+

masterlist | do not repost or plagiarize!

"Alexia!" You shouted at your roommate who was taking too long in the bathroom. "Where's my charger? I thought I told you to buy your own already."

"Espera!" The Catalan called back out to your frustration, still taking her sweet time in the showers.

"Rich as fuck but can't afford to buy her own charger," you muttered under your breath.

Alexia had developed a habit of leaving her chargers in the locker room or lending them out to her teammates, forgetting to get them back. And, instead of buying her own replacement, she had been relying on your generosity and kindness.

At first, you were cool with it. After all, Alexia has always been a generous roommate — buying you new shampoo whenever you were running low, ordering dinner for your weekly movie nights, and always buying wine for you two to share. So, naturally, you had no problem sharing your charger once in a while. You even decided to buy Alexia her own charger — the fancy kind that charged ultra fast. It cost you a bit more than the average phone charger would but you figured it was just your way of saying thanks for her generosity.

She lost that too. Within just a few days.

So, she resorted back to borrowing yours. And while it was just mildly irritating at first, it only got fully annoying when she started walking into your room while you weren't there, taking your charger and even bringing it with her to training. Without even asking. She just assumed you’d be fine with her borrowing it.

It was always a different excuse every time she lost it. 

"Oh sorry, I left it at my locker."

"It's somewhere in the car… I think."

"I think I already returned it."

You tried not to let it get to you, thinking that getting pissed over something so shallow was too petty and childish.  But you needed your iPad to do your work, and for that iPad to function, it needed to be charged… which was impossible to do if Alexia kept treating your chargers like they were disposable. 

"God," you groaned as you stared at the wall clock, feeling antsy about a deadline. "Alexia! Can't you just tell me where it is?"

"Espera! I'm still washing my hair." She said with an annoyed tone which just annoyed you even more. How is she the one getting annoyed? She’s the one who lost it again.

"Fuck it, I'll get it myself." You groaned under your breath before rifling through her stuff with zero patience. “Where the fuck did she put it?”  

Annoyed, you yanked open the drawer built into the side of her bed frame. Unlike the other drawers with things haphazardly thrown in, this one had its contents neatly folded beneath a thin blanket. Without thinking about why the blanket was there in the first place, you pulled it back and froze.  

That’s when you saw it right in front of you: a massive, light pink dildo strapped to a harness Your brain short-circuited. You weren’t exactly prudish or conservative; you had your own vibrator tucked away in your panty drawer. But this? This was… a lot.  

Your eyes darted over the rest of the drawer. Bottles of flavored lube. Handcuffs. A ball gag. A various selection of dildos and vibrators. On top of it rested the huge pink strap-on you first saw, the cherry on top to this kinky mix. Who knew your polite, friendly roommate was this —

“What are you doing?”  

Your soul left your body as soon as you heard Alexia calmly inquire behind you. You spun around, heart hammering. Alexia stood in the doorway, fresh from the shower. She was clad in nothing but a sports bra and a towel slung low on her hips. Her hair was damp from the shower, hanging by the side of her face, dropping beads of water down her wide shoulders and further down her glistening abdomen.

“I—I was looking for my charger,” you stammered nervously, standing up from your crouched-over position. You straightened yourself, wiping the beads of sweat on your forehead and straightening your shirt. “I couldn’t find it and I’ve got a deadline today and... and you know how much I need it.”

You stumbled upon your words, causing Alexia to raise an eyebrow in amusement. You cleared your throat, trying to seem unbothered by what you just saw. “This is just like… the sixth or seventh charger that you haven’t returned.” You said, trying to steady your voice.

Alexia’s lips curled into a knowing smirk as her gaze flicked to the cabinet you’d so carelessly left open. She didn’t look embarrassed or pissed. Not even remotely phased. Just… amused. “Right,” she said, crossing her arms. “It’s literally right there.”  

She nodded toward the direction of the chair in front of her work desk placed at the corner of the room. Sitting on top of her iPad, plain as day, was your charger.  Heat rushed to your face. How had you missed something so obvious? You could have just swept the room first. Instead, you’d snooped immediately through her drawer and discovered she was some kind of sexual deviant. 

“Oh,” you squeaked.  Without another word, you lunged for the charger, swiftly grabbing it. You gave a tight-lipped smile to Alexia before holding it up just to show her you got it.  It took everything in you to only look at your roommate from the head up, not allowing your gaze to lower down to her bare torso. You were never flustered like this around Alexia. She was often sauntering around the house in just a sports bra and workout shorts; it never bothered you… until now. “I guess I just missed it.”

You spun on your heel and bolted for your room, shutting the door behind you. Pressing your back against it, you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.  “What the fuck did I just see?”  

Alexia found it cute how flustered you acted after the incident.

She had always been careful about her intimate life. When living with roommates, she never brought girls home, never let her personal indulgences spill beyond the walls of her bedroom. It was a part of her life she preferred to keep discreet and private. Though, at times, it wasn’t easy.

She briefly recalled the short period when she roomed with Marta during the pre-CGH days, when her co-captain was still single. Keeping that side of herself hidden had been a challenge, especially when they were sleeping just a few feet apart, separated by non-soundproof walls. Bringing girls home had become a strategic endeavor, timed around Marta’s schedule, because Alexia was very aware that her extracurricular activities weren’t exactly… quiet.

After years of having roommates, Alexia thought maybe it was time she stopped sharing her space. She was earning enough to live alone, and most of her teammates no longer needed to split rent either. It had seemed like a natural step forward.

Then you came along.

You were the team’s new graphic designer, originally working for the men’s team until the club restructured and brought in a new agency to replace your old role. That shift had introduced you to the women’s squad, and Alexia had taken an interest in your work almost immediately. At first, you chalked up her attentiveness to her captain’s duties; it was something you presumed was to be expected of Alexia. 

But then she did something you never saw coming.  

When the team heard you might have to quit — your apartment was full of black mold, and finding an affordable place nearby on short notice was impossible — Alexia made you an unexpected offer. She had a spacious place with two bedrooms and didn’t mind charging you below market value, making it the perfect solution.

You had understood what a big gesture that was for her. What you hadn’t known was just how much she had given up by letting you move in.

Her newfound freedom was gone. She could no longer bring girls home on a whim, given your unpredictable work modality schedule. Late-night hookups were practically impossible when you were always up until ungodly hours, hunched over your iPad in the living room, working on some random side gig. 

Alexia knew that you two were old enough to understand that sex was a part of life and that bringing home girls shouldn’t be a thing to be ashamed of. But she knew that her situation was different. It wasn’t that simple

Still, she didn’t mind. She liked having you around far more than she missed fucking around.

Though you having found her stash did have her thinking that probably she treated it far more taboo than what it was. So what if she liked loud, unrestrained sex that could last for hours? It wasn’t like it happened every night. And surely, you had a few toys of your own tucked away in your room.

Maybe this could be an opportunity — a way for you to start accepting that your roommate simply… enjoyed being active.

So, she tried opening up the subject. While you two were cooking your respective dinners, Alexia tried casually asking you if you remembered what you had seen in her cabinet. You were so startled you nearly cut your finger instead of a potato.

While you two were on the drive back from work, Alexia tried to engage you in a conversation about sex but you pretended to have a bad stomach, making fake groaning sounds to pretend you couldn’t hear what you were saying.

Honestly, Alexia should have been frustrated by your immaturity, by your outright refusal to discuss something so simple like an adult. But she couldn't fully get annoyed with you ever... and it was because of the massive crush she had on you.

Alexia always found you cute. She liked your quirky mannerisms and the way you made her laugh even if you didn’t intend to. She liked your work ethic; she always valued people who took their job seriously. It didn’t help that you were always walking around the house in very tiny shorts with silly cartoon designs that always caught her eye. 

Her attraction to you had only grown the closer you became. You were naturally affectionate with her, always touching her in small ways — a hand on her arm, leaning against her shoulder, sitting on her lap whenever the squad was around and there weren’t any seats. You never seemed to mind being touchy with her.

A part of her knew that maybe she didn’t mind not bringing girls home because… well, she had you. Your company and presence meant more to her than casual sex ever could. That didn’t mean, of course, that she wouldn’t have you if you let her.

There were nights when she had to physically stop herself from suggesting a friends-with-benefits arrangement. She valued your friendship too much to risk it over something so fleeting; she wasn’t about to fumble a great friendship just because she couldn’t keep her hands to herself. Besides, after seeing how you squirmed at the mere mention of sex, she knew you'd never go for something like that.

…Or would you?

You were hunched over your iPad, rushing to finalize a mock-up for new merch designs. The design head thought that since you managed social media, you might as well help out with merch design too. It made no sense to you but she had drilled into you that it was crucial you got it done by today. You wouldn't have been so annoyed by a task outside your job description, if only the assignment wasn't given a day before the deadline.

Hence, why you were stressed-out and aggressively illustrative design mock-ups on your iPad. It was already midnight and you were expected to report to work at 9 in the morning. It was just too little time.

And then, just as you were adding the final details, your iPad screen went black. The device shut off.  When you tried pressing the power button, hoping it was just an accidental press that put the device to sleep, it displayed the dreaded low battery logo. 

“Fuck!” you cursed, slamming your Apple Pencil onto the desk. You let a frustrated groan rip through your chest. You knew the battery had been low, but you had been so deep in the work that you ignored all the low battery notifications. 

Great, now the momentum is gone, you thought. 

Fine, whatever, you said to yourself. You just needed your charger. You pushed back from your desk and marched to your room, heading straight for the spot where you knew you had left it, which was right on top of your makeup bag.  

Except… it wasn’t there.  

Frowning, you checked your drawers. Nothing. Your bag? Not there. You even looked under your bed, as if it had somehow magically fallen and rolled into hiding.  And then it hit you. Alexia had borrowed it again earlier this morning with the promise that she'd return it instantly.

You grew frustrated. In the past days, you haven’t really been angry or emotional around Alexia and it was mostly because you felt awkward about the drawer incident. But now, all you could think of was how fucking annoying it was that this happened again. 

She knew how important your charger was, how often you needed it for work. And yet, she had forgotten to return it again on deadline night of all nights. Adrenaline pumping, you stormed toward her room, fists clenched. Without hesitation, you pushed the door open.  

“Alexia, where the hell—”  

Your words caught in your throat.  

Alexia stood in the middle of her room, dressed in nothing but a sports bra and a pair of loose shorts that showed off the top of her Calvin Klein underwear, mid-stretch, her toned stomach and arms on full display.  

You blinked, caught completely off guard.  

For a moment, you forgot why you were even there. Then, you shook your head, snapping yourself out of it. “Alexia, give me back my charger.”  

She didn’t even flinch at your tone. Instead, she raised an eyebrow, a smirk growing on her face. “Oh? Someone seems mad.”  

You groaned. "I'm not just mad, okay?" You corrected. "I'm fucking stressed. I have a deadline for a task that isn't even part of my job's jurisdiction and I've been working all night on Blender and Procreate and —"

You paused to take a breath. "I just had enough, okay?" You said more calmly. “I just need to finish this right now but I can't cause you took—"

Alexia tilted her head. “I took your charger?”  

“Yes?" You said incredulously. 

Her brow lifted slightly. “I returned it earlier today.”  She said. "Remember? At breakfast? I even fixed you a bowl of chocolate oatmeal as a thank you?"

You frowned, momentarily thrown off. “What?”  

“I borrowed it this morning, but I gave it back before you left to work at that café.”  

And just like that, it clicked.  

Fuck. 

You probably didn't notice Alexia returning it cause you were too busy working. Suddenly, you remember you had taken it with you. You had plugged it in at the café, worked there for hours, and then… left without it.  

Your anger deflated instantly, replaced by embarrassment. You opened your mouth, then closed it again, feeling your face heat up.  

“Oh.”  

Alexia let the silence stretch just long enough to watch you squirm, then let out a soft chuckle. “I’ll let that one slide.”  

You sighed, rubbing your face. “Sorry, Alexia. I’m just—”  

“Stressed,” she finished for you. Then, her voice softened. “Cariño, don’t be. I’ll talk to your boss tomorrow and make sure you get another day. I’ll just put the blame on me.”

She smiled, stepping forward. "They can't say no to me."

Before you could react, Alexia stepped forward and wrapped her arms around you, pulling you closer to her by the waist, offering a small hug to comfort you. You exhaled, tension still buzzing in your body.  

“Okay,” you mumbled, leaning into her. “I'm sorry for storming all mad and accusatory like that.”  

“I know,” she murmured. “Why don’t I give you a back rub?”  

You hesitated, but your muscles did ache from hours of work, hunched over a table and stressed beyond belief. Your shoulders were practically begging to be rubbed. “…Fine.”  

Alexia guided you toward the bed, settling herself against the headboard while she sat you in between her legs with your back resting against her. The second her hands found your shoulders, thumbs pressing firmly into the knots of tension, you exhaled a slow breath.  

“Oh,” you muttered, eyes fluttering shut. “Alexia, yeah, that feels good.”  

She hummed in response, continuing to knead the stiffness from your shoulders. Her hands were firm yet gentle, and before you knew it, your body melted into her touch.  She rubbed into your shoulders at the perfect firmness, finding where the knots were on your upper back and shoulders before massaging them away. 

“Mmm,” you murmured. "Fuck, that's so good."

Alexia’s hands moved lower, moving from your upper back and shoulders area to something more in the middle of your back. Alexia's hands kneaded the tension from your back, her fingers expertly working under the shoulder blades. You let out a slow exhale, sinking into the warmth of her body behind you.  

“Let’s take off your cardigan,” she murmured, her voice smooth, low. “It's getting in the way.”  

You nodded absentmindedly, already half-lost in the sensation of her touch. You were practically floating in the sensation, only to be snapped out by the sensation of her arms grazing your chest as she unbuttoned your cardigan. You bit your lip as her fingertips grazed against your nipples as she helped you shrug off the cardigan. The contact was fleeting— perhaps, accidental — but it was enough to send a sharp jolt through you. 

Your breath hitched, and you hummed, trying to brush off the growing heat in your core. 

Alexia continued the massage, but this time, as one hand stayed firm on your shoulder, the other drifted lower, her fingers ghosting over your left nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt. The touch was light, almost imperceptible, but your body reacted instantly. You jumped slightly at the sensation.

Alexia leaned in, her lips grazing your ear. “Relax,” she whispered in a low voice, her breath warm against your skin. "This is gonna help you release all tension. Trust me."

You hesitated, pulse quickening, but you didn’t stop her. You let yourself sink back against her, allowing it to happen. Her touch grew bolder. Soon, both hands were on your chest, the pads of her fingertips rubbing slow, teasing circles over your hardened nipples, the friction from the fabric of your shirt only heightening the sensation. A quiet moan slipped past your lips before you could stop it.  

Alexia smirked at your reaction. "Yeah, just relax and let go." She cooed in an innocent tone as if she was still massaging your back. Now, Alexia's fingers moved deliberately, alternating between rolling your nipples between her fingertips and slightly pinching at them, coaxing more breathy sounds from you. Your head soon rested back against her shoulder, and she took the opportunity to press a slow, lingering kiss to the side of your neck.  

A soft hum vibrated against your skin. “That feels good, doesn’t it?”  

You swallowed hard, your body answering for you as you let out another shaky moan. Alexia's mouth was on you again, gently kissing and nipping at the delicate skin of your neck as you felt her hands slowly move under your shirt. 

You whimpered her name as you felt her fingers against your bare skin, running against them. Alexia smirked at the way you were reacting and quickly agreed to letting her touch you like this.

Before you could even realize, Alexia was reaching under a nearby pillow. Under it, she had a toy she left from her own masturbation session last night. If your eyes were opened, you would have probably chickened out at the sight of the neon pink massage wand but you were too busy enjoying Alexia's playful, little massages. 

Soon, Alexia had slotted in the head of the toy in between your legs, pressed against your soaked pajama shorts. She clicked the on button and you practically moaned out instantly. Your eyes opened but before you could say anything in protest, Alexia shushed you. "It's just a massage wand. It'll help you loosen up."

You were a smart girl. You knew what Alexia was doing and normally, you would have called her out but tonight… Tonight, you were exhausted. You were tense. And with the way her hands had been working over your body, the way the vibrations of the wand had begun to hum softly against your core, the fact that you've spent the past few days fantasizing about what it would be like to experience the Alexia Putellas…

You found no reason to stop her.

“…Okay.”

Your voice was soft, almost breathy, and it sent a visible shiver through Alexia. She loved hearing you like this: so obedient and pliant, so willing, so cute when you agreed to let her touch you.

She pressed a slow, lingering kiss just below your ear before murmuring, “Now, be a good girl and take off your bottoms for me, okay?”

You didn't hesitate, swiftly lifting your hips to push your bottoms off of you, kicking them off with your legs. Alexia put a hand firmly under your left thigh, pulling you closer to her. With her right hand, she put the toy back against your core, sending a wave of vibrations that had your legs trembling.

Alexia's left hand was back in your left breast, pinching at them to elicit tiny and cute moans that she loved so much. You unconsciously rocked your hips against the toy, seeking to chase out the pleasure, praying Alexia would turn up the speed so you could arrive at your orgasm sooner.

As you whimpered, gripping the sheets beneath you, Alexia carefully removed the toy from between you. “W-what?” you stammered, your mind foggy from the pleasure coursing through your body.

Alexia’s hand on your waist tightened slightly. “Last night… when you fell asleep on the couch…" she paused, teasingly. "You were whimpering.”

Your eyes snapped open, embarrassment crashing over you like cold water.

Shit. You had dreamed about her again.

Before you could even attempt to defend yourself, Alexia chuckled, her breath warm against your skin. “That’s not even the best part.” She leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss just beneath your jaw. “You dropped your phone on the floor — probably right before you dozed off." She murmured. “So, naturally… I picked it up.”

Your stomach twisted in mortification, and you didn’t even have to ask to know where this was going. Alexia hummed, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Imagine my surprise when I saw what you were searching for.” Another soft kiss, this time against your shoulder. “How to ride a strap.”

A whimper escaped your throat as she increased the speed suddenly. At this point, your legs were shaking.

Alexia let out a quiet laugh. “I thought it was cute.” Her fingers were now teasing circles against your inner thigh, making you twitch. “And I know you’ve been stressed. High-strung. So instead of just teasing you…”

She suddenly pressed the vibrator against you again with more pressure, turning up the speed without warning. A loud, broken moan spilt from your lips as pleasure began to build inside you. Your head tilted back, resting your weight onto the Catalan, body arching into the sensation as Alexia guided the toy against you.

“There you go,” she murmured, watching in amusement as you squirmed, your thighs trembling against hers. She subconsciously licked her lips as she saw your wetness completely cover your core and inner thighs. “You’re making such a mess, cariño.”

You barely heard her, too lost in the overwhelming pleasure. It was too much, too good. It felt like at any moment, you were going to explode with pleasure. 

And then, just as you were about to orgasm, Alexia pulled the wand away again.

Your eyes flew open, a frustrated whine escaping your lips. “Alexia, what the fuck.”

“Shh,” she interrupted smoothly, putting aside the toy. “We’re just getting started.”

The next moments went by so quickly that you could not process how you managed to end up completely naked on top of Alexia who was now wearing the pink strap you saw from the other day around her waist, on top of her Calvin Klein underwear. You bit your lip as you straddled her upper thighs. It seemed like you were gaining consciousness now as you stared at the silicone member. It was long and girthy, shining slightly with the lube Alexia poured on it.

Alexia’s hands traced lazily on your legs and thighs. “Come on, show me what google told you to do,” she teased.

You bit your lip as you stared at the obscene size of the silicone, hesitating. “Alexia, I don’t think…”

Alexia sat up, grabbing your waist as she pressed a kiss on your mouth. “Shh, of course you can,” she reassured in between kisses. Her mouth felt so soft and warm against yours. The sensation of her mouth on yours was hypnotizing you again, making you feel soft and needy. It’s like her lips make me dumber, you thought to yourself.

Alexia shifted the position so you’d be laying on your back and she’d be slotted in between your spread legs, she continued to kiss you, knowing it was what you needed to not feel intimidated and hesitant. Soon, you could feel her hands stroke your inner thighs. “Why don’t I help you out,” she whispered. “Just so you wouldn’t be so shy, hmm?”

You nodded, obedient and docile under your roommate. Alexia locked eyes with you, breaking the kiss. A sigh escaped your lips as her warm hazel eyes met yours. It felt like you could melt into those beautiful, honey-colored pools.

You were so captivated by Alexia’s eyes that you didn’t notice that she had two fingers playing around your entrance, desperate to enter you.

You opened your mouth and let out a gasp as soon as two of her fingers thrust into you, deliberately with a careful firmness to them. Alexia smiled, eyes still fixed on yours, as she carefully curled them into you. The Catalan practically moaned at the feeling of you tightly clenched around her long and thick fingers.

“Fuck,” your voice came out softly as you felt yourself clench around her, soaking her fingers with your slick arousal. “I want more… please.”

That was all Alexia needed to hear. It was enough to send her over the edge. She started thrusting in and out of you with a faster, harder pace to it. You moaned out loud as you felt her fingers slam into you, curling every time into your sweet spot, causing you to arch your hips and grip onto her shoulders.

“Just like that,” Alexia muttered against your ear, her breath hot and uneven. “Let me hear you, cariño.”

Any sort of restraint you had left was gone. Your moans spilled freely as her fingers drove into you mercilessly, stretching you open, coaxing you toward the edge. You felt delirious, drowning in sensation, the heat between your legs unbearable.

Alexia couldn’t count the number of times she had touched herself to the thought of you like this — writhing, moaning, begging for her. But even her filthiest fantasies paled in comparison to the reality of you falling apart in her hands. You were so much more unbelievably stunning, intoxicating, and wrecked beneath her. No girl she's ever fucked before has gotten her this worked up. It was taking everything in her not to ruin you completely. She didn't want your first time to be too intense.

Her fingers worked you open with ease, curling inside you as her mouth traced a path of heat across your skin. She kissed and sucked at your neck, her tongue dragging along your collarbones before moving up to your jaw, nipping just enough to make you whimper.

But her favourite spot was the crook of your neck, right above your right collarbone, where she latched on and sucked hard, marking you. The second she did, you dug your nails into her back, moaning her name so loudly she knew the whole floor would hear but you were completely fucked out of your brains to even care.

You could feel Alexia’s smirk against your skin as she heard you moan out loud. She positioned her hand differently now so not only was she thrusting into you with two fingers, she was also rubbing your clit with her thumb. It was driving you insane.

Your thighs instinctively clenched around her hand, trying to slow her down as the pleasure was getting intense and you were growing sensitive. But Alexia wouldn’t let you control the pace or her movement. She pinned your hips down, forcing you to take everything exactly how she wanted.

“Take it,” she gritted, lips brushing against your ear. “If you try to press your legs together again. I swear to god I’ll stop right now.”

You acquiesced, trying to not fight the urge to clamp around her, desperate to get that orgasm. Alexia smiled as she pumped her fingers faster, readjusting her position and pressing her palm flush against your clit. Each thrust of her hand sent waves of pleasure crashing all throughout your body. The knot in your stomach coiled tighter, unbearable now, your entire body tensing.

Your roommate knew you were close, judging by your stuttered breathing and the way you were clenching tightly around her, but she knew she couldn’t let you cum yet. Not while she’s had the pleasure of letting you live out your fantasy.

Alexia pulled her fingers out of you, leaving you throbbing and empty and before you could even think to complain, she hooked her arms around your back and lifted you effortlessly. A small gasp escaped your lips as she shifted you back onto her lap, holding you steady against her hips, exactly where she wanted you.

“Ride me,” she said, her voice low and commanding. Her hands settled on your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin, grounding you. “Show me what you want to do to me.”

With your desperation to cum, there was no hesitation left in you. You nodded eagerly, obediently, as you squatted above the strap, your thighs trembling with anticipation. You hovered just above it, adjusting your position, but even as you took control of the movement, Alexia never relinquished her dominance. Her fingers tightened around you, her presence overpowering, making it clear that even though you were on top, she was still in charge.

You bit your lip, carefully making sure that you were lined up, but Alexia was growing impatient. With a strong grip, she held you steady and thrust upward, burying herself inside you with one smooth motion. The sudden intrusion knocked the breath from your lungs, your balance wavering as you instinctively grabbed onto the headboard for support. The head of the dildo pressed deep, almost kissing your cervix, causing you to curse and shut your eyes at the sensation.

You took a deep breath before lifting yourself slowly, feeling every inch of her slide against your walls, then sinking back down, your movements cautious at first.

Alexia watched you, her eyes dark and hooded, her grip possessive as she guided your pace. But it wasn’t long before her restraint wavered. As soon as she saw you settle into a rhythm, she met you halfway, thrusting up in perfect sync, pushing deeper, filling you more completely.

Your moans spilled freely from your lips as your body surrendered to her, the stretch overwhelming but intoxicating. “Fuck,” you gasped between gritted teeth, your nails digging into her skin as you kept balance. “You’re so big.”

Alexia smirked, dragging her hands up your sides before pulling you down harder onto her length. “Yeah?” she taunted, her voice thick with amusement and desire. “Too big for you?”

You could only nod, barely able to think, barely able to breathe, as she took back every ounce of control you thought you had. “Yeah, but it feels so good.” You said breathily. Even if you were already getting a bit winded, you knew you couldn’t stop now. Not while your orgasm was slowly building up inside you again.

Alexia moved one of her hands from your waist up to your breast, squeezing your plump breast firmly. She squeezed again at the sensitive bud of your nipple causing you to moan out again. She moved her hands back to settle behind you before she quickly sat up so that she could suck on your breasts while you continued to ride her.

The shift in her position caused the silicone member to curve into you, now pressing and grazing your sensitive spot with every bounce and thrust. Paired with the sensation of Alexia’s tongue skillfully playing and flicking against your nipples, it was surely sending you closer and closer over the edge.

You moved your hands to Alexia’s shoulders, giving you better mobility to ride her, breasts practically bouncing in front of Alexia’s face. She chuckled, sensing your desperation. She sat back up again, holding you upwards to keep your balance.

“Fuck, Ale,” you said, voice whimpery and erotic. You sounded almost obscene. “I’m so fucking close.”

Alexia moaned at the sound of your broken plea, her own arousal spiking as she felt the way you moved against her, grinding down harder, chasing your release with reckless abandon. “I know, baby,” she husked, her voice thick, hands tightening on your hips. “Just a bit more. Be good for me.”

You obeyed, but it was barely conscious — your body was on autopilot, instinct taking over as you rode her with increasing urgency. You felt yourself clench around her, your hips stuttering as the orgasm was slowly building up, causing you to clench. Thankfully, Alexia never loosened her grip. Even as your strength wavered, she held you firm, guiding you through it, her own body rising to meet yours. The shift in control was subtle but absolute; your arms wrapped around her tightly, your forehead pressing against her shoulder as you let her take the lead, her strong hands dictating your pace, her hips rolling upward, filling you over and over until you were unravelling completely in her hold.

Your moans grew louder, almost obscene and pornographic, echoing off the walls in a way that made Alexia smirk. If you kept this up, you’d both be getting a formal complaint from the condo association by morning. Alexia shushed you. “Cariño, I know it feels good but you need to quiet down.”

“Can’t–” you muster to say out, still moaning. Alexia groaned, torn between wanting to hear every filthy sound you made and knowing she had to shut you up before the neighbors got an earful. Thankfully, she got an idea.

“Baby,” she murmured between gritted teeth, punctuating her words with a sharp thrust that made you jolt. “Why don’t you bite my shoulder?”

You shivered at the suggestion, barely processing her words but nodding anyway, too far gone to argue.

“So no one gets mad at you for being such a good girl and riding me, yeah?”

That was all it took. You latched onto her shoulder, hesitant at first, lips parting against her sweat-slicked skin. But then she snapped her hips up harder, gripping your waist and bouncing you with ease, using her strength to fuck you onto her strap. The sudden onslaught made you lose control. Your teeth sank into her skin, muffling your moans into the muscle of her shoulder.

Alexia groaned out but the sting of your teeth pressing against her skin didn’t stop her or slowed down her pace. The pain felt like a motivation to get you where you needed to be. It didn’t take long. Alexia could feel by your shaking legs and the tightness of your grasp and the breathy moans you were exhaling into her skin.

“Come on, baby,” she rasped, voice strained as she pushed you closer and closer to the edge. “Give it to me.”

With only a couple more deliberate thrusts that pressed against your sensitive spot, you came undone, practically melting into Alexia’s arms.

It was a great idea for you to be biting against her or else your moan would have been heard throughout the whole building. Alexia held you through it, her hands steady, her grip firm, prolonging your pleasure as she slowed her thrusts, letting you ride it out. When your body finally sagged against her, she stopped the slow thrusting and wrapped her hands around you to form a hug, rubbing your back as she allowed you to breathe heavily against her skin.

You unlatched your mouth, a string of saliva forming from her shoulder to your mouth. You wiped at it sluggishly, still breathless, still full of her as she had not pulled out of you. Your forehead pressed against hers, the intimacy of the moment settling between you both.

“I forgive you,” you murmured, your voice hoarse, breath still uneven.

Alexia blinked, still coming down from the high. “Huh?”

“For stealing my charger.”

There was a beat of silence before Alexia burst into laughter, her breath mingling with yours as she shook her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

You hushed her, planting your lips on hers. "You still gotta make up for the seven or eight more you lost." You teased.

"I'll make it up a hundred times over if I have to." Alexia responded, a smirk toying on her face. "Just make sure you can take it."

It was gonna be a long night.

a/n: i feel like this is identical to all the other strap fics i've written but idgaf at least im writing again!!! anyway, still working on the longer fic and working on other ideas for shorter Alexia fics. i hope you guys still liked this AAAAAAA pls be nice

masterlist

[dearlenore]

BED CHEM • S.REID • PT2

SUMMARY: despite spencer’s better judgement, he takes you up on your offer to bring the team to a concert. In return they have to promise to stop teasing him, however you definitely made no promises.

PAIRING: singer!fem!reader x spencer

tags: fluff, reader is hyper feminine, reader wears revealing clothing reader wears makeup, sabrina carpenter inspired, mentions of pregnancy (Juno) dirty jokes, flustered spence for you, use of song lyrics, sexual implications

a/n: yall r THIRSTY so i had to deliver💋

w/c: 1.8k

TAGLIST: @cherryblossomfairyy @spct0r @3sriracha

Despite every logical instinct telling him otherwise, Spencer found himself leading the BAU team into the bustling concert venue, their seats front and center. The energy of the arena was electric, anticipation buzzing in the air as fans eagerly waited for you to take the stage after intermission. The show hadn’t even fully started yet, but the team was already acting like this was the biggest case of their careers.

“I can’t believe you actually caved,” Morgan teased, clapping Spencer on the back as they settled into their seats.

“I had to,” Spencer muttered, crossing his arms. “It was the only way to get you all to stop teasing me.”

Emily smirked, settling into her chair. “Correction: you got us to stop teasing you. I don’t recall your girlfriend making any such promises.”

Spencer sighed, rubbing his temples. He should’ve known better.

Penelope was practically vibrating as they walked in, already decked out in your tour merch, including a custom-made FBI jacket with your lyrics bedazzled on the back. “Oh, my God, we are so close to the stage! I can’t breathe! Reid, if I pass out, you are responsible!”

“I feel like you’d pass out even if we were in the nosebleeds,” Rossi commented, amused.

JJ leaned toward Spencer, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know, I always imagined you as a theater or classical music kind of guy, but here we are.”

“I am,” Spencer said pointedly. “But someone insisted I ‘let loose’ and ‘enjoy life’ for once.”

Morgan grinned. “America’s sweetheart got you wrapped around her finger, huh?”

Spencer rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

Suddenly, the overhead lights dimmed slightly, signaling the concert was about to start. The arena erupted into cheers, and Penelope let out a high-pitched squeal.

Emily elbowed Spencer. “So, what do you think? Is she gonna call you out again?”

“Hope not..” Spencer mumbled quietly, tucking his hands into his pockets.

The team all watched as you stood on stage, the instrumental faded from your song ‘decode’ to ‘Juno.’

The moment Spencer settled into the noise, the stage lights burst into golden brilliance. A hush of anticipation pulsed through the crowd before the opening notes of Juno rang through the arena. The energy shifted instantly—excited screams rippling across the venue, a beat so deep it reverberated in his chest.

And then, there you were.

The stage belonged to you. Every inch of it.

Spencer knew you like this—saw you like this—a thousand times over. But it never failed to knock the air from his lungs.

You moved effortlessly, confidence woven into every step, every roll of your shoulders, every teasing smirk as the first lyric spilled from your lips.

Your voice was smooth, sultry, slipping into the air like honey, thick with flirtation and playfulness. The bodysuit you wore glittered with every shift of your hips, catching the light, the curves of your body accentuated as if the universe conspired to make you impossibly radiant.

Spencer wasn’t sure how long he’d been holding his breath.

“Oh yeah, you just get it… Whole package, babe, I like the way you fit… God bless your dad’s genetics.”

He felt those words settle into his bones

The way you delivered them—cheeky, deliberate, filled with that signature teasing lilt—made his pulse quicken. But beyond the playful seduction was something deeper. Something real.

It was the way your eyes gleamed when you sang, like you meant every word. Like you weren’t just performing for an audience.

The chorus hit, and you twirled with a grace that made it look effortless, but Spencer knew better. He knew how much work went into every movement, every transition, how meticulously you crafted each moment to be perfect.

And, God, it was perfect.

“I know you want my touch for life… If you love me right, then who knows?

I might let you make me Juno…”

His stomach tightened.

He wasn’t blind to the implications. Not to the way you leaned into the lyric, not to the subtle smirk playing on your lips as you brushed a hand along your body, as if the idea of forever was something tangible—something you’d thought about.

Something in Spencer’s chest ached.

Because even though this was a show, even though it was part of your craft, he knew you. He knew the way your mind worked, the way you wrote songs like little secrets, tucked between the chords and melodies.

This wasn’t just about fantasy.

This was about him.

Then—your gaze flickered downward. Past the sea of screaming fans. Past the blinding lights.

And you found him.

For a second, Spencer forgot how to breathe.

You didn’t break eye contact, your voice dipping into something lower, more intimate, waving hello to his co workers.

“Oh, I hear you knockin’, baby…”

Then—you pointed at him.

“Come on up.”

The arena erupted, but Spencer barely registered it.

All he could see was you—your grin, the knowing glint in your eyes, the way you sang that line like a private joke between lovers.

Heat crawled up his neck, his heartbeat thrumming wildly in his ears.

And then, as if to completely destroy him—

“Have you ever tried this one?”

You sat on the stage, mimicking a cowboy position.

Spencer swallowed hard.

He’d seen you perform countless times before, watched you in awe from side stage, traced the setlist with his fingers while waiting for you to return to him after a show. But something about this—about seeing you, right here, surrounded by thousands, yet somehow making him feel like the only one in the room—was intoxicating.

He barely noticed the song transitioning, barely heard the crowd still screaming, still living for every move you made.

All he knew was that no matter how many times he watched you on stage, it would never be enough.

THE FIRST THING the BAU saw when they entered the dressing room wasn’t the glamorous, larger-than-life pop star they had just watched dominate an entire arena.

It was you, sitting up on a counter, barefoot, lipgloss slightly smudged, eating a box of macarons.

Not delicately. Not with the grace of America’s sweetheart.

No.

You were shoving an entire pistachio macaron into your mouth as if you hadn’t eaten in days.

The team froze.

“…Are you okay?” JJ asked cautiously.

You glanced up mid-chew, looking way too innocent for someone who had just given that performance. “Starving,” you mumbled through the cookie, eyes teary. “I haven’t eaten since noon.”

Penelope gasped, scandalized. “Noon? My poor baby.”

“I know.” You pouted dramatically before shoving another macaron in your mouth.

The room remained silent for a second, as if they were all still processing the contrast between the powerhouse performer they’d just watched and the girl devouring overpriced pastries in front of them.

Emily was the first to crack.

She snorted. “Wow. I gotta say, this is not how I expected our first meeting to go.”

You grinned, still chewing. “Better or worse?”

“Honestly? Better.”

Morgan shook his head, grinning. “Damn, I really thought you’d be all glamorous and intimidating backstage. But nah—you’re just a person.”

You swallowed and smirked. “Disappointed?”

“Oh, not at all,” he said, laughing. “I much prefer this version.”

Penelope was still staring, utterly enamored. “I cannot believe you’re real.”

You tilted your head. “What do you mean?”

Penelope gestured wildly. “I mean, I have worshiped you since forever, and I’ve imagined a million ways this moment could go, but never once did I think it would involve macarons and counter slouching.”

You gasped in mock offense. “I’ll have you know I am exceptionally glamorous when I slouch.”

JJ laughed. “You really are just a normal person, huh?”

You shrugged. “Shh. Don’t tell Twitter.”

Emily grinned. “Too late. You do know your entire fanbase is losing their minds over that performance, right?”

You smirked. “As they should.”

Spencer, who had been leaning against the doorway, watching you with quiet fondness, finally spoke. “They’re also analyzing every single lyric of Juno again.”

You groaned dramatically, slumping further into the couch. “I know. And I know they’re going to start another FBI boyfriend theory thread.”

Emily raised an eyebrow. “I mean… are they wrong?”

You smiled but didn’t answer, popping another macaron into your mouth.

Penelope gasped suddenly. “Wait! Before you pass out from exhaustion, can you sign this?” She practically shoved a vinyl record at you, eyes wide with hope. “I brought my favorite album just in case, and now that you’re here, I—”

“Of course.” You took the pen and grinned as you scrawled your signature across the cover. “Do you want me to write ‘To my best friend Penelope’?”

She gasped. “Oh my God, yes.”

Morgan rolled his eyes, smirking. “Girl, you just met her.”

“She’s America’s sweetheart. We are spiritually connected.”

You handed her the signed record, smiling. “Happy to make it official.”

Penelope squealed, clutching it to her chest like it was the most precious thing in the world.

JJ, watching the interaction, shook her head in amusement. “Okay, yeah. I get it now. You’re dangerously likable.”

You smirked. “It’s part of the brand.”

Emily grinned. “I respect the hustle.”

They watched as you put the box aside and flipped your hair, immediately reverting back to who you were on stage.

Morgan nudged Spencer with an exaggerated look. “Alright, genius, I take it back. Now I understand why you’ve been keeping her all to yourself.”

Spencer just sighed. “I knew this was going to happen.”

You giggled but then suddenly let out a long, exhausted sigh, your body sinking deeper as you sat on the counter. Your limbs felt heavy, the adrenaline finally wearing off. You rubbed your eyes sleepily before looking up at Spencer with a tired expression.

“My love, can you take me home now?”

Spencer’s expression softened instantly.

He walked over without hesitation, offering his hand. You took it, letting him pull you to your feet—only to immediately stumble forward.

Spencer caught you with ease, arms wrapping around your waist as you practically melted into him, pressing your cheek against his chest.

“Whoa,” he murmured, steadying you. “You okay?”

You hummed sleepily. “Mhm. Just so tired.”

Spencer smiled softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I know. Let’s get you home.”

The team watched, and oh, they were definitely going to have a field day with this.

Morgan grinned. “So, what what spell did you cast on her?”

Spencer groaned. “Can one of you be normal about this?”

“Not a chance,” JJ said, laughing.

You giggled against Spencer’s chest, as he picked you up with ease.

“You guys are worse than my fans.”

Penelope gasped. “That is the highest compliment you could ever give me.”

You laughed softly before closing your eyes again, completely content in Spencer’s arms.

“Alright,” Spencer said, adjusting his grip. “We’re leaving before you all make this worse.”

Morgan smirked. “Don’t act like you’re not enjoying this, lover boy.”

Spencer shot him a glare before guiding you toward the door.

You barely registered anything else, too warm, too tired, too safe in Spencer’s arms.

The last thing you heard before the door closed behind you was Emily’s amused voice.

“God, they’re disgustingly cute.”

[vunblr]

Toy Soldier (part 1)

Bit by bit, torn apart. We never win, but the battle wages on for toy soldiers.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings:Warnings: 18+ only. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Eventual Smut. Dark Content: Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Canon-Typical Violence. Mentions and depictions of Non-Con (both characters as victims).

Summary: She had been the tool Hydra used to keep him operational; he, the weapon manipulated by their tendrils to execute their ambitions. Years after breaking free, fate Sam Wilson brings them together once more. Now, they must navigate the challenges of forging a connection beyond the twisted dynamic that once bound them in the past.

Word Count: 5.6.k.

notes: Even though this fic will include the tone I usually maintain in my stories, there will be flashbacks to unpleasant events that might be triggering. Please read the warnings carefully, and if I’ve missed any, feel free to let me know. More tags will be added in the future.

Masterlist

The cell reeked of bleach and iron, a suffocating blend of sterility and blood. She sat huddled in a corner with her knees drawn to her chest, shaking from the lingering aftershocks of what they had made her do mere hours ago. A steel table in the center of the room bore the evidence: blood-soaked rags, reinforced restraints, and instruments that glinted menacingly under the harsh light.

The door creaked open, and she flinched instinctively. Her pulse quickened as they rolled him in on a gurney, his body was impossibly broken again, but somehow, still alive. The Winter Soldier. His mask was cracked, exposing a bruised cheekbone, his metallic arm hung at an unnatural angle, wires sparking like dying fireflies. His tactic suit was shredded, revealing deep gashes that glistened with dark blood.

"Fix him," the handler barked, void of empathy. He tossed a clipboard onto the table, detailing every injury, every broken bone, every expectation to her work. "We need him ready by morning."

She didn’t move at first. She never did. But the familiar press of a gun muzzle against her temple jolted her into action. They didn’t tolerate hesitation.

Her bare feet slapped against the cold tiles as she approached the table. Soldat’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his blue eyes were half-lidded and glassy, staring past her into the abyss. She wondered, briefly, if he even felt the pain anymore, or if the agony had simply become a part of him, stitched into his body like the scars of the wounds she was forced to erase.

She laid her trembling hands over his chest, cutting the remnants of the suit and rushing her power forward like a tide, knitting sinew, mending fractures, restoring what should have been allowed to rest. His body convulsed as the healing process awakened raw nerve endings. He groaned low in his throat, a sound of both relief and torment and her eyes burned with unshed tears.

"Good pet," the handler sneered, patting her head, "Keep going."

As the minutes dragged into hours, her hands moved mechanically, weaving muscle and bone back into place. Every touch drew more from her, siphoning her strength to pour life into a body that shouldn’t be able to withstand such brutality. The process left her light-headed, and her vision started blurring at the edges, but she didn’t dare falter. They would notice. They always noticed.

As her hands pressed over a jagged wound on his side, a faint tremor ran through his body. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, and his eyes fluttered open. Glassy and unfocused at first, they slowly, impossibly, found her. A vacant gaze, yet somehow piercing, locked onto her face as if trying to understand who she was and what she was doing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words spilling out before she could stop them. She kept her voice low, trembling, her fingers brushing the edge of the wound as she worked. “I don’t want to do this. I’m sorry.”

His gaze didn’t falter, even as she murmured the apology again, with a cracking voice. He didn’t speak -he probably couldn’t- but the weight of his stare felt like an answer. He knew. Somehow, he knew.

More time passed, and the room emptied. The guards left her alone with him, trusting her to finish her work under the ever-present cameras. The sterile silence closed in around them. She wiped the sweat from her brow and whispered again, “I’m sorry,” her voice breaking completely now. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

Soldat blinked slowly, almost as if acknowledging her words, but his body remained still. Her fingers lingered over his shoulder where fresh skin covered what had been a deep gash, and couldn’t stop herself from caressing his bloodied temple before going back to mend him.

By the time she finished, her legs felt like water, barely holding her upright. The Soldat’s breathing had evened, the jagged cuts on his skin replaced by fresh, pale scars. His metal arm still hung limp, but it wasn’t her area of expertise. He looked human again, or as close to human as Hydra would ever allow him to be. She allowed herself to caress him again as if that gentle touch could make up for what her actions on his body entailed, his endless torment.

When the door creaked open, the spell was broken. The handler barked a question she didn’t hear over the roaring in her ears. Then he stepped forward, inspecting her work with a critical eye. He tugged at Soldat’s extremities and poked his body, then he turned to her with a smile that chilled her blood.

“Well done,” he said, sickeningly sweet. “See? You’re still useful. You’ve earned yourself another day.”

The words felt like a slap, a grim reminder of her reality. She wasn’t a person to them. She was a tool, an extension of their will, just as much a prisoner as the man she had just saved. Her power was her curse, chaining her to a life of servitude. And for what? To keep the Winter Soldier standing. To ensure he could carry out their dirty work, kill their enemies, and endure whatever horrors they deemed necessary for him to endure.

The handler gestured to the guards. “Take her back. She’ll need her strength for tomorrow.”

They grabbed her arms, dragging her toward the door. Soldat's eyes shifted for a moment, trailing her as they walked her out, his gaze still glazing but faintly flickering with awareness. Then the door slammed behind her, sealing them both back into their respective hells.

----

The cryopreservation always left her disoriented, the passage of time reduced to a murky void of nothingness. Days, months, years, they blurred together into a haze she couldn’t untangle. Based on the count of the meager breakfasts slid through the cell door, it had been two days since they’d pulled her from the tube. Her body still ached from the cold, and the numbness clung stubbornly to her limbs.

When the metallic clank of the cell door jolted her from her thoughts, she instinctively tensed. Two guards stood there, gesturing sharply for her to follow. 

The halls they guided her through were unfamiliar. These weren’t the sterile corridors leading to the medical bay. These walls were darker and the air was heavier, and the faint hum of machinery was replaced by an unsettling silence. Confused, she knit her brows but swallowed the urge to ask.

When they descended a narrow staircase, her stomach sank. The flickering lights cast long shadows against concrete walls. They passed rows of heavy metal doors, each marked with faint rust and grime. No cells with bars, no windows, just solid slabs of steel.

Her breath hitched when they stopped in front of a door near the end of the corridor. One guard yanked it open with a screech that set her teeth on edge. The other shoved her forward, barking a single command: “Fix it.”

The door slammed shut behind her, and the sound echoed in the cramped room. She stood frozen, since the stench hit her like a physical blow: blood, sweat, semen, and something else she couldn’t place.

Her gaze darted around the sparse room. A cot pushed against one wall. A table cluttered with ominous instruments. And in the corner, barely illuminated by the flickering overhead bulb, the Soldat.

Her breath left her in a shaky exhale as she took him in. He was curled into himself, naked, trembling despite the heat radiating from his abused flesh. Blood and cum stained his thighs, while bruises painted his skin in grotesque patterns. His wrists and ankles bore the raw marks of restraints, and burns and welts layered over old scars, turning his body into a tapestry of pain.

But it was his face that shattered her. A blank mask with hollow and distant wet eyes, haunted by whatever horrors had left him in this state.

She forced herself to move. When her shadow fell over him, his head snapped up and his vacant blue eyes locked onto hers. The movement was sharp and instinctive, but he didn’t lash out, didn’t flinch. He simply stared, as though he were looking through her rather than at her.

She paused for a moment, crouching to his level, resting her hands lightly on her knees. “It’s okay,” she murmured, her voice steady. “I’m here to help you.”

He didn’t respond. The haunted emptiness in his expression pierced her chest. He didn’t deserve this. “I know,” she said softly, inching closer. “I know it hurts. I’ll do what I can.”

She reached for him carefully, brushing his arm. His muscles tensed under her touch, but he didn’t pull away. Gently, she guided his arm away from where he’d been clutching his side, revealing the bruises and burns scattered across his flesh. Her stomach churned, but her hands remained steady. She had no room for hesitation, no time to falter.

As she worked, she whispered to him, not apologies this time, but reassurances. “I’m with you now, I’ll make this right, even if it’s only for now.”

As expected, he didn’t speak, didn’t move beyond the involuntary twitches of his battered body. But his eyes stayed on her, betraying a silent acknowledgment, a fragile thread of trust.

She tried to focus on the burns on his chest, the raw welts along his ribs, anything but the bruises and blood marking his inner thighs. But eventually, she had no choice. The damage there couldn’t be ignored. Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she shifted closer, and her hands trembled for the first time that day.

She couldn’t comprehend it. Couldn’t understand how anyone could twist a man into this, into something pliable, stripped of will, used like a puppet for their every vile whim. The red book and the chair had shattered his mind, and then they’d wielded that power not only to carry out their heinous crimes but also to satiate their carnal perversions. 

“Soldat,” she said softly as she crouched closer. “I need to see the rest.”

His chest started to rise and fall in shallow breaths. His lip was caught between his teeth, bitten hard enough to draw blood. The distant, vacant expression he’d worn before had given way to something else now, resignation, or shame.

“I know,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “I know it's private -should it be-, and it hurts a lot… but I promise I’ll make it better, yes?”

Her tone was as soft as she could make it, the kind someone might use with a frightened child. For a moment, there was nothing. Then he exhaled and shifted ever so slightly, granting her access. The movement wasn’t much, but it spoke volumes. He didn’t fight her. He didn’t resist. Even now, after everything, he complied.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Her hands moved carefully, brushing his battered flesh with as much gentleness as she could muster. She swallowed hard, trying to keep her focus on the healing, not on the tears threatening to spill over. Every touch she had to make felt like another betrayal of his dignity, but she couldn’t leave him like this, they wouldn’t leave him like this.

“It’s not fair,” she said under her breath “Fuck, it’s not fair.”

Every so often, her gaze flicked to his face, but he didn’t look at her this time. His eyes were closed, and his body was eerily still except for the faint shudder of his breathing.

—-

Some days, she wondered if he resented her. If he was even capable of that. She wasn’t the one inflicting the pain, wasn’t the one abusing him, but she was the one who ensured he survived it. She pieced him together, over and over, a cruel kind of mercy that prolonged his torment. Without her, they wouldn’t have been able to keep breaking him the way they did.

It haunted her.

Sometimes, it seemed like he remembered her. On the rare occasions when his body was whole and he wasn’t immediately dragged back out for another mission or another “session,” his vacant gaze would linger on her. Just a flicker of recognition in those haunted blue eyes, something that made her wonder if, somewhere beneath the chaos they’d inflicted on his mind, a part of him knew who she was.

Other times, he didn’t seem to know her at all. He would stare past her like she wasn’t even there. She didn’t know which was worse: the possibility that he hated her or the possibility that he didn’t think of her at all.

-----

Nine years had passed since her escape from their clutches. Nine years since Captain America and his team put down Pierce and dismantled Hydra’s plans,  the Soldat went missing and she got away in the chaos of the fight.

In the early days, survival had been a constant struggle. She’d wandered aimlessly at first, her coarse, prison-like clothes drawing stares from strangers who gave her a wide berth. The world was unrecognizable: a kaleidoscope of flashing screens, roaring cars, and people glued to strange, glowing devices. Everything felt faster, louder, and infinitely more confusing than the world she remembered.

For a couple of days, she kept to the shadows, but the hunger and desperation eventually pushed her to the edge. One night, trembling and exhausted, she walked into a police station. The officer at the front desk glanced at her with a mixture of suspicion and concern, likely wondering if she had escaped from a mental institution. And maybe, in a way, she had. She tried to explain, spilling out her words in a garbled mess of decades-old trauma. She told them about being taken, about Hydra, about the years spent in cryo. The officer raised a skeptical eyebrow and asked her to sit while he "sorted things out."

She knew they didn’t believe her. Not until one of the younger officers, fresh off patrol, walked in with a nasty road burn on his arm. She didn’t think, just acted. In seconds, the wound knitted itself back together under her glowing hands. The room fell silent, every set of eyes fixed on her in a mix of fear and awe.

From there, things moved quickly. The police dug into her story, and to everyone’s shock, her name and photo flagged a cold case from October 1962, a missing person report filed by her family. A woman who had disappeared without a trace, and presumed dead after two years of fruitless searching.

But what the police uncovered was too big for them to handle alone. They passed her case to federal authorities, and soon, she found herself in the hands of people who promised her a fresh start, though she quickly learned that nothing came without strings attached.

The feds helped her establish a new identity, gave her a place to live, and taught her how to navigate the modern world. In exchange, she worked for them using her mutant powers to heal injuries, aid covert operations, and clean up the messes no one else could. 

Still, the past lingered in her mind, haunting her in the quiet moments. She often wondered what had become of the Winter Soldier, since freedom, she realized, was not the same as peace.

In the years that followed, she began piecing the fragments of her past into the puzzle of the present. The world had changed in ways she struggled to comprehend, yet she adapted, carving out a relatively ‘normal’ existence.

Then, one day, she heard his name.

James Buchanan Barnes.

She learned about him in bits and pieces from news reports and whispered conversations among the people she worked with. Steve Rogers' best friend. The Winter Soldier.

The details unfolded like a tragic epic: framed in a terrorist attack, slipping under the radar, fighting in Wakanda, only to vanish in the Blip. And then, five years later, he returned. His face, no longer the blank mask of the Soldat, appeared on screens everywhere as the government pardoned him under strict conditions: mandatory therapy and restricted accommodations, a leash that kept him just shy of true freedom.

She watched every news segment, every interview. He wasn’t the weapon she remembered. There was something different in his eyes. Half-masked pain, certainly, but also humanity. He was trying, struggling to reclaim himself, to exist in a world that only knew him as a ghost or a monster.

It wasn’t an obsession. At least, that’s what she told herself. It was curiosity, concern, a connection she couldn’t sever no matter how hard she tried. Because no one else could understand what they’d been through. No one else had seen the depths of his torment, or felt the same chains biting into their skin.

She hadn’t planned to ever contact him. The idea terrified her. For all she knew, his fractured mind might not even remember her. Worse, maybe he did and resented her for the role she’d played, for the way she’d prolonged his torment under Hydra’s commands. Those thoughts were enough to keep her at a distance, safely watching from the shadows of her new life.

But life and destiny had their ways of unraveling carefully laid plans.

-----

Her work with Sam Wilson had started as another government assignment, one of many designed to keep her powers useful and her secrets buried. Yet, somewhere along the way, it had turned into something more. A friendship. He didn’t know about her past -no one did, actually-. He only knew the version of her life the government had scripted, a fabricated identity polished to perfection.

Leaving that aside, she liked him. He had a way of making her feel less like a displaced ghost and more like a person. Sometimes, they hung out after missions, sharing laughs over beers or stories about the ridiculous situations they found themselves in. And when he came back from a mission bruised or limping, she always tried to help.

That friendship had led her here, to a bustling backyard party, with warm laughter and music filling the air. Sam’s birthday celebration. She had accepted his invitation without thinking much of it, expecting a relaxed evening with a few familiar faces. What she hadn’t expected was to see him.

Standing at the drinks table, not the Winter Soldier, not the cold, empty Soldat she remembered, but James. His shoulders were relaxed, his hair shorter, and his blue eyes clearer than she’d ever seen them. He looked... alive in a way that left her breathless. For a moment, she froze, and her stomach twisted into knots. But there was no turning back now.

Not when he lifted his face after grabbing a glass of soda, only to find her mere inches away, rooted in place and staring at him like a rabbit in the middle of the road.

Her breath caught, and the world around them seemed to fade into a blur of laughter and music as his piercing blue eyes locked onto hers. 

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. The faintest flicker of something -recognition? confusion?- crossed his face. The glass in her hand suddenly felt heavy, and she tightened her grip around it as her heart raced.

“H-hi,” she managed to mutter, almost lost beneath the hum of the party.

He tilted his head slightly, deliberately, as if weighing her. For a long, agonizing moment, he simply looked at her with an unreadable expression. Then his lips parted, and a single word escaped from them, low and hoarse.

“You.”

Her stomach dropped while her mind scrambled for a response. Did he remember her? Or was it just the way her face stirred a distant and fractured memory?

“I-” she started, but the words tangled in her throat.

His gaze darted over her, taking her in: the way she clutched the glass like a lifeline, the way her shoulders tensed, the way she made one step back as though retreating was an option.

Sam’s voice cut through the moment, cheerful and oblivious. “Hey, Buck! Flirting already with one of my girls?”

Bucky flinched, the spell breaking as he snapped his gaze toward Sam, stiffening his posture. “I’m not f-”

“Don’t be a dick with her,” Sam interrupted, grinning as if he were the greatest matchmaker alive. “She’s good people. Y/n, this is Bucky, a pain in the ass but a good friend. Bucky, this is Y/n.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his expression still unreadable as his eyes flicked back to her. He didn’t speak, didn’t offer a hand or a smile, just narrowed his eyes slightly, like he was trying to solve a riddle only he could see.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her instincts screamed at her to move, to flee, to escape his scrutiny before his fractured memories pieced her together.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she squared her shoulders and forced her lips into what she hoped was a polite and not-too-awkward smile. “Nice to meet you,” she said, her voice much steadier than she felt.

Bucky studied her for a moment longer. Finally, he gave a slight nod, stepping back as though he’d decided she wasn’t worth the effort of figuring out. “Yeah. Same,” he muttered before turning to leave.

As he moved away, she exhaled, a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her grip on the glass trembled, the adrenaline coursing through her leaving her both relieved and strangely disappointed.

“Don’t take it personally,” Sam intervened, leaning in with a knowing smirk. “He specializes in a heterogeneous game of staring, brooding, and groaning. Dry comments here and there, too.”

She let out a soft, nervous laugh, grateful for the break in tension. “Good to know,” she murmured, still gripping the glass tightly.

Sam patted her shoulder with the easy camaraderie of someone who had no idea the weight of the moment that had just passed. “He’s not so bad once you get past all the walls. Might take a while to crack that nut, but hey, who knows?”

-----

Two months later, Sam called her for a job.

“It’s a simple mission,” he’d explained. “Poland. The higher-ups want you to stay at the safehouse most of the time in case something goes wrong, but if we need someone to move unnoticed -play tourist, fetch intel- they figured you’re our best bet.”

She hesitated for a beat, her instincts screaming at her to say no this time. But she had never ditched a mission before and Sam will be there, so she agreed.

When she climbed aboard the military plane early the next morning, with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, she almost turned around and fled.

Bucky was already sitting there, strapped into his seat, with his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was as closed off as ever, and his gaze was fixed somewhere on the cabin wall. Her stomach dropped, and before her brain could process what she was doing, she turned sharply on her heel and headed straight for the cockpit.

The pilots greeted her with raised brows, clearly surprised to see her there before takeoff. She forced a nervous smile, chatting with them about flight logistics, weather conditions, anything to stretch the time and delay the inevitable.

“Shouldn’t you be back in the cabin?” one of them asked eventually, glancing at her curiously.

“Just thought I’d keep you company,” she replied, slightly strained.

The hum of the plane’s engines growing louder reminded her she couldn’t hide forever. She exhaled deeply, gripping the doorframe. Maybe, she could slip into some corner, unnoticed once the plane was in the air.

But life wasn’t so kind.

“Sam’s voice came loud and clear, calling her. “C’mon, you’re holding us up!”

Bucky’s head turned, locking his sharp gaze onto her the moment she entered. His expression didn’t shift -no frown, no surprise- but what she saw in those blue eyes made her knees threaten to buckle.

She forced herself to take a steadying breath. “Hi,” she greeted the two men quickly, her voice barely above a murmur, before moving to the furthest seat she could find.

Her hands fumbled as she pulled a book from her bag, flipping it open without even checking the page. She pretended to read, scanning the same line over and over as if the words might somehow shield her from the weight of Bucky’s stare.

Sam furrowed his brows, glancing between them with a mix of confusion and curiosity. He’d been prepared for the usual brooding and disagreements from Bucky -his default settings on most missions- but he’d expected her to be more engaged. She’d always been sharp and chatty, quick to offer solutions or crack a joke, but now she seemed... distant.

He leaned toward Bucky, “Did you scare her off already before I got here?”

Bucky shot him an unimpressed sidelong glance. “I didn’t say a word.”

Sam, determined to break the awkward silence, leaned back in his seat and raised his voice. “Alright, we’re stuck in this tin can for the next few hours. Someone better start talking, or I’m gonna make us all play twenty questions.”

She forced a small smile, though her eyes remained glued to the book. “You win. I’m reading.”

He huffed dramatically, shaking his head. “Tough crowd.” Then he turned back to Bucky. “Guess it’s just you and me, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t respond, his gaze flicking toward her briefly before settling on the wall ahead. His expression remained impassive, but his metal fingers tapped against his thigh, the only sign of some internal debate.

-----

After a while, Sam, ever persistent, leaned forward, and turned to her “So,” he started, casually but probing, “you ever been to Poland in other mission before? Got any recommendations for pierogi spots or are we flying blind here?”

She hesitated, tightening slightly her fingers on the edge of her book. Avoiding interaction had been her plan, but the pointed look Sam sent her way made it clear he wasn’t going to let her off the hook.

Finally, she closed the book with a soft sigh, forcing herself to meet his expectant gaze. “No, never been,” she replied, cautious. “Though I think I read somewhere Kraków’s old town is nice.”

Sam grinned, seizing the opportunity. “Kraków, huh? I’ll take that as a vote to play tourist if we get the chance. “Maybe you can even guide us, seeing as you’re good at blending in.”

“I doubt we’ll have time, Sammy,” she said quickly, trying to deflect.

“Oh, come on,” Sam teased, leaning back in his seat with an exaggerated grin. “You’re one of the friendliest people I know. You’ll probably charm us into some exclusive spots. Earn your keep!”

She let out a soft, nervous laugh, shaking her head. “I think you’ve mistaken ‘friendly’ for ‘quiet enough not to get in trouble.’”

Sam smirked, undeterred. “Nah, you’ve got that vibe. People trust you, and open up to you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how often you walk away with more intel than anyone else.”

Her fingers tensed slightly on the edge of her book, but she forced herself to smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment... I think.”

“It is,” Sam replied, his tone warm and easy. “And I’m just saying, if we do get downtime, we’re counting on you to find the good spots.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she managed to say, though her stomach churned under Bucky’s relentless stare.

He hadn’t said a word, but the weight of his gaze made every exchange feel heavier like he was dissecting her responses, searching for cracks in her calm facade. She refused to look at him, focusing instead on Sam’s cheerful grin.

Sam clapped his hands together. “That’s the spirit. See, Buck? She’s already proving more useful than you.”

Bucky huffed, the barest flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before disappearing. “Yeah, well, let’s see if she’s still useful when things go south.”

Her stomach tightened at his words, though she kept her face carefully neutral. It wasn’t outright hostility, but the skepticism in his tone felt like a challenge, a warning wrapped in a dry comment.

Sam rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Man, you’ve gotta work on your people skills. Not everyone you meet is gonna double-cross you, you know.”

Bucky didn’t respond and bit his lower lip as he looked away, clearly done with the conversation.

She forced a small smile, trying to defuse the tension. “I think he’s just saying I should prove myself first.”

Sam shot her an encouraging look. “You don’t need to prove anything to him. Trust me, you’re good-”

“Sam,” Bucky intervened almost dryly. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. This isn’t sightseeing. It’s a mission. If she’s not-”

“I can handle myself,” she interrupted, managing to keep her voice steady despite the sudden rush of heat to her face.

The fact that she addressed directly to him got Bucky’s attention. He turned, locking his gaze onto hers, and for a moment, the silence between them felt heavier than the thrum of the plane’s engines.

“Guess we’ll find out,” he murmured, leaning back slightly in his seat. He kept staring at her sharply and unyielding. After a beat of silence, he added, “And, actually, what exactly do you do?”

Fuck.

The question wasn’t casual, she could see it in the way his eyes stayed fixed on her, a glint of something just beneath the surface. He knew. He was waiting for her to say it, to confirm what he already remembered but was pretending not to.

Sam raised an eyebrow, looking between them. “Bucky, come on. She’s solid, alright? I wouldn’t bring her along if she wasn’t.”

Bucky didn’t even glance at him. His attention stayed locked on her. “I didn’t say she wasn’t solid. Just curious what her... specialty is.”

She forced herself to take a steadying breath. If he wanted to play coy, fine. Two could play that game.

“I’m good at staying unnoticed,” she said, feigning a casual tone “Recon, blending in, getting intel…” She shrugged lightly, as though explaining her skill set was just a routine part of the job.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in faint amusement. “That it?”

She gave him a polite smile, curling her fingers around the edge of the book on her lap. “Well, I’ve been told I’m handy in a pinch. Let’s just say I’ve got a knack for fixing things.”

His lips quirked, but the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fixing things, huh?”

“Yeah,” she replied smoothly, ignoring the way her heart raced under his scrutiny. “Little cuts, scrapes, that kind of thing. Nothing too fancy.”

Sam, oblivious to the subtle tension between them, chuckled. “Don’t let her undersell it. She devours. Saved my ass more than once, you wouldn’t believe the absolute carnage I've seen her mend.”

“Good to know,” Bucky commented, with his gaze still locked on her. There was something in his eyes -something sharp-, almost daring her to break first, but she didn’t flinch.

“Just doing my job.” She added, her eyes still glued to the unreadable baby blues.

Bucky leaned back, the corner of his mouth twitched as if he wanted to say more but decided against it.

Sam glanced between them. “It's pretty early for a staring contest.”

She didn’t answer; she just smiled at him and returned her focus to the book. He remembered, she was sure of it.

Still, if he wanted her to confirm it outright, he’d have to try harder. For now, she’d play his game, and she was determined to win.

-----

The safehouse was a two-bedroom apartment in an old building that groaned with every step. It was cramped but functional, the kind of place that wouldn’t draw attention. As they settled in, Sam tossed his bag onto one of the worn couches and stretched like a cat.

“Alright,” he said, grinning at her. “Do us all a favor and work your magic in the kitchen. I haven’t had a proper meal in weeks, and I can’t survive on takeout and those protein bars Bucky packs.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Cooking would give her something to focus on, and it was the perfect excuse to isolate for a couple of hours.

“Fine, let’s see what I can do,” she muttered, scurrying inside the kitchen.

“You’re the best!” Sam called, grabbing his jacket. “I’ll be back soon, gotta meet a contact nearby. You two... play nice.”

The sound of the door closing made her grimace. She exhaled slowly, tying an old apron on her waist as she dug through the sparse pantry and fridge. Within minutes, she was chopping some potatoes, humming Animals while she was at it, because fuck it all.

She felt the weight of his gaze pressed against her back like a physical thing before she heard him. He stood in the kitchen doorway, quiet and unmoving, a presence impossible to ignore.

Her grip on the knife tightened, but she didn’t turn around. “Need something?”

“No.” The simple word carried so much weight that it made her pause mid-cut.

She exhaled slowly and resumed her task. “Then why are you standing there?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and the silence stretched until it became almost unbearable.

“You’re good at it.”

Her hand froze. “At what?”

“Pretending.”

She forced herself to keep chopping, while her pulse hammered in her ears. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” His tone didn’t carry malice, but the words felt heavier than any accusation. He leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms. “I remember you.”

Her chest tightened, and the room suddenly felt smaller. “You’re mistaken,” she said flatly.

“I’m not.” He took another step forward. His tone was soft, but the words were unrelenting. “You were there. Hydra.”

Next Chapter ->

[glamourscat]

attractive things they do while dating

TIM, JASON, DICK, STEPH

TIM

takes notice of the little things you like. You mention an obscure author that only has published three books and are impossible to find? He will find them for you.

tim doesn’t just pay attention, he catalogs the little details about you as naturally as breathing.

he notices when you always take your coffee with an extra splash of cream or when your knee bounces whenever you’re nervous. Without saying a word, he adjusts.

one day, as you work late, you find a steaming cup of your favorite drink on your desk with a note: thought you’d need this.

JASON

reads to you. It starts small, Jason offhandedly mentions some book he loves, and you express interest. Or maybe you are also a fan.

one day, he comes over, pulls out a battered copy and starts reading aloud. His voice is deep, smooth, and surprisingly gentle as he brings the story to life.

eventually, it becomes a ritual. Curling up together with him flipping pages, his voice filling the silence. You end up falling in love with the stories because they remind you of him.

annotates passage in his books that remind him of you. He has sticky notes, tabs and pen smudges all around the book as he marks down his favourite line that remind him of you.

line that he might, or might not, use it on you while shamelessly flirting.

DICK

Playfully spins you around. Dick’s touch is light and effortless, as if he never truly left behind the circus. Whenever he sees you, his smile lights up the room, and without fail, he grabs your hand and spins you like you’re the star of his act

And when he’s feeling extra playful, he’ll dip you dramatically like in some cheesy romance movie, his grin wide and teasing as he leans in to kiss you.

STEPH

leaves little doodles and notes for you everywhere. Stephanie is pure sunshine in human form and her love language is written in colourful markers, sparkling stickers and sticky notes. You’ll find them everywhere, tucked in your jacket pocket, stuck to your laptop screen or even hidden behind cupboards doors. 

some notes are silly. Others are sweet, like: You’re the best thing about my day, my sun to my moon. My air for my lungs.

sometimes, she even draws little cartoons of the two of you. Sometimes as two vigilantes. Others as characters from your guys favourite show. 

© GLAMOURSCAT (all rights reserved. do not share, modify, translate and re-upload my work outside of tumblr)

[verdantchan]

Always You

Pairing: Best friend! Bangchan x Afab! Reader

Summary: It’s hard to enjoy a party when your best friend who you’ve been in love with for years turns up with his girlfriend…

Warnings: MDNI, dom!chan, sub!reader, possessive!chan, unprotected sex (don’t be like them) dirty talk, cum eating, multiple orgasms (f!rec) fingering (f!rec) mentions of mastubation, spitting (chan spits on it yk..) tummy bulge, creampie

Wc: 2.7k

a/n: did I write and edit it this in one sitting? yes I did,,, is this also my return to writing fics after 5 years bc I’m so attracted to chan idk what to do?? Also yes 🤪

‘‘Lixieee watch my drink, I nearly dropped it’’ You roll your eyes and smile at Felix as he practically jumps on you. His parties were always rowdy, especially when Jisung wormed his way into the planning. Colourful lights strewn around every pillar and doorway, countless bottles and cheesy red cups littering the granite countertops in the dorm kitchen, the air thick with smoke and the sickly sweet scent of liquor.

Part of you loved how committed the boys were to throwing the most stereotypical frat parties, the perfect way to unwind from the stress of uni life. You scan the room for that all too familiar face but find no sign of him, your shoulders dropping slightly, the disappointment in your chest too strong to ignore.

You and Chan had been best friends since you were 12, your parents pushing you together as an unlikely duo. You'd immediately become inseparable,spending every second with each other. People had always questioned your relationship, everyone thought you must be dating if you were so close, but you and Chan were just friends, at least that's what you convinced yourself it had to be.

You first started having feelings for Chan at 18, you were university freshmen starting the next big chapter of your lives together and you couldn't get him out of your head. His deep brown eyes that sparkled when he spoke about the things he loved, his soft curly black hair that you loved ruffling to annoy him and his dimples that became impossibly deep when he smiled. Being around him was both torture and comfort. Three years later and you were still completely in love with someone who views you as his best friend, nothing more. In other words, you're utterly fucked.

‘’Lix, have you seen Chan tonight? I thought he was coming’’  Felix still clinging to you in his tipsy state. His messy blonde hair slightly covering his eyes and freckle-dotted cheeks, a pink blush dusting his skin thanks to the many drinks he’d already knocked back.

‘’Nah not yet, he said he's coming later after his date’’ he slurs his words a little, all giggly and happy, not knowing the ache his words cause you. You hum in response, suddenly feeling less sociable than a few minutes ago.

‘’Ahhhhh speak of the devil’’ Felix laughs and nods toward the doorway, Chan's broad shoulders making it look tiny. His hand interlocked with hers, observing the room and briefly locking eyes with you before looking away.

Chan had been dating Euna for a few months, but it never got easier seeing them together. 

They'd met in one of your classes, Euna was sweet, pretty  and very popular with both the students and teachers. It hadn’t taken Chan too long to fall for her and spend less and less time with you. He swore nothing had changed between you two but you knew better. It wasn't long after they started dating that Chan began cancelling your plans because ‘Euna planned something’ or he ‘just couldn't make it that day’ You wanted to believe that it would all go back to the way it was soon enough but that day never came, Chan drifting further as time passed. 

You missed his smile, the way he would make you laugh, the way he would bring you your favourite food when you were tired or upset. You thought that maybe one day you would be together, that Chan would see you as more than just his best friend. Sometimes it felt like more between you two. 

He and Euna weave their way through the crowd, her trailing slightly behind, Chan looking back at her every so often with a smile, the sight of them making you nauseous though you wish it didn't. Chan lets go of her to pull Felix into a hug, Euna eyeing you awkwardly as the two of them catch up. Euna had never been rude to you, never made a snarky comment about you being friends with Chan, but she never really said much around you if you were honest. 

‘’Your dress is super pretty’’ you squeak out attempting to break the silence between you two, She offers up a small thank you and a tight smile and turns to Chan as he pulls her into his side, his attention now on the two of you instead of the tipsy blonde Aussie

 ‘’Hey y/n’’ Chan smiles as he lets go of Euna and pulls you into a quick side hug, letting go as quickly as he’d pulled you in, his soft musky scent filling your senses. The four of you make small talk, Chan's eyes catching your own as Felix rambles to Euna about his current pc build. The air starts to feel suffocating, his glances making you feel trapped. You quickly make an excuse to leave, Chan's smile faltering as you excuse yourself from their conversation and disappear into the crowd of bodies. 

It was impossible to think while Chan was standing there, his arms wrapped around Euna unapologetically. The jealousy burning more than the straight tequila sloshing around in your cup, you start to sway to the music begging yourself to forget about him and enjoy your night. You feel a pair of eyes follow your silhouette but you continue to drink and dance, the alcohol making its way through your system and drowning out every thought.

 You feel a figure behind you grabbing your hips and swaying with you, turning your head to see the blurred outline of Hyunjin, his hair in his eyes, a pair of red sunglasses perched on his nose. You let yourself melt into him, you'd always found him attractive anyway. You and Hyunjin move together perfectly, his smooth movements guiding your own as he whispers the lyrics to the song in your ear, his plump lips catching your skin slightly. You finally move your eyes to Chan still feeling someone watching you, secretly wishing it was him. You’re met with a sharp glare, his eyes never leaving you and Hyunjin, his jaw locked in annoyance, you roll your eyes at him and turn around to face Hyunjin winding your arms around his slender neck. 

You turn back to glance at Chan to find him charging your way, ripping you from your dance partner's embrace and towards the stairwell. 

‘’Chan what the fuck are you doing?’’ you yell, trying to wriggle your wrist from his strong grip as he pulls you upstairs and into one of the empty bedrooms.

‘’What the fuck am I doing? What the fuck are YOU doing y/n? Grinding all over Hyunjin like that’’

‘’We are not doing this right now, why does it have anything to do with you, Chan? Why do you even care?’’ venom coating your words, attempting to open the door and leave but being stopped short when he stands in the way, eyes burning into yours. Chan had never been like this with you, what had gotten into him?

‘’What? Are you suddenly into Hyunjin?? We both know he's not right for you y/n’’  his eyebrows knitted in annoyance.

‘’And how would you know what's best for me Chan? We hardly talk anymore!’’ you run your fingers through your hair, easing the tension building up behind your eyes. 

‘’Of course we still talk, you know i've been busy’’ he fires back, disregarding how much space really had built up between the two of you. 

’Give it up Chan and go back to Euna, what I do with Hyunjin has fuck all to do with you’’ you can't deal with the confusion, why is he acting like he's jealous of you and Hyunjin? Why does it matter to him? 

‘’’I’m your best friend y/n of course it has something to do with me, he's not right for you’’ 

‘’Oh my god get your head out of your ass chan, just like you said, you're my best friend not my boyfriend. You can date but I can't? I'm not gonna wait on you to notice me for the rest of my life’’ You turn your face away from him, your confidence and fire slipping as Chan studies you intensely, the room silent apart from your breathing. 

‘’My god you’re an idiot’’ Chan mumbles before grabbing your chin and smashing his lips onto yours, you melt into the kiss at first before snapping out of it and pushing him away

Chan what are you doing?’’ You feel dizzy as you maintain your balance, your hands still pressed against his toned chest. your lungs heaving in time with the thud of the music coming from below. 

‘’You really have no idea, do you? I’m fucking in love with you y/n, why do you think I even started dating Euna in the first place, I wanted to get over you, why else would I jump into a relationship with a girl I hardly knew??’’ The annoyance in his voice evident as he goes on, he runs his hand through his hair repeatedly,  messy waves falling in his face. 

You stare up at him stunned, your lips parted in surprise, he pulls you back in, his lips covering yours as he presses you into him with fervour. He deepens the kiss and walks you backwards, his hands pressing into your hips, his hold nothing like hyunjins. He pulls away his eyes searching yours for something, anything. 

“Tell me to stop, if you don't want this I’ll walk away” his voice is breathy and pained, evident that the last thing he wanted was for you to say now.

You've waited too long for this, for him to need you, touch you. You know it's wrong, his girlfriend just a floor below but you’ve wanted and waited too much to stop and walk away, you can deal with your moral shortcomings tomorrow. 

‘’Please, Chan’’ you whisper, desperate for him to touch you again, clenching your thighs together as heat pools in your lower stomach, your insides on fire for him. He watches how desperate you are for him, your answer clear.

‘’Fuck you’re perfect’’ you look at him pleadingly and he can't hold back anymore, he’d thought about you like this too many times to count, in dreams and when awake. When he can't sleep and he fucks his fist wishing it was you, how pretty your moans would sound as he rocked into you, how tight you'd be around him, how his cum would leak out of your fluttering hole. He was too far gone, a man possessed. 

You gasp as he pushes you back on the bed, his weight pressing you into the mattress perfectly, he licks and nips at your jaw, his hand finding your soaked underwear under your skirt, circling your puffy clit through the slick fabric. 

“You’re so wet for me baby, bet Hyunjin could never have this effect on you. Gonna fuck you so good you'll forget he exists’’ his words making you tingle, his fingers exactly where you need them.

‘’Only want you’’ Your voice comes out breathy and fucked out even though he’s barely touched you and it sends a rush of blood to Chan's already rock-solid cock, straining against the tight fabric of his black jeans.

He sinks two fingers into your tight pussy and you scream in pleasure and pain at the intrusion, his fingers so much thicker and longer than yours, the stretch taking your breath away 

‘’Yeah be a good girl and take my fingers in that tight little cunt, I know you can’’ The way he whispers as your pussy stretches around his fingers and wet squelches echo through the room has you throwing your head back, Chans other hand finding your tits as he stretches you out for him. You shake as he moves his fingers in and out of you, the stretch now dissolved into intense pleasure. He can tell you're close, your eyes closed in pleasure as you sigh out his name.

‘’cum for me pretty, cum around my fingers’’ You moan his name over and over as he rubs your soaking clit and plunges his fingers into your sopping hole,  your back arching in pleasure as he works you through your high. Shouting his name as you cum on his fingers. He pulls his fingers out, bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean. The sight alone already making you needy for more 

‘’Need you so bad baby, need to feel you milk my cock’’ he breathes out as he undoes his belt, desperate to be inside of you. You spread your sticky thighs, your glistening pussy on full display for him. His cock springs free from its confines, his pink tip leaking down onto the rest of his thick veiny length. It was no surprise he had the prettiest cock you'd ever seen. He gives it a few pumps, slapping your clit with his bulbous tip, and you moan in pleasure at the sting. 

‘’Take it, baby. Gonna stretch you out so good, gonna make you mine’’ his voice shaky as he presses into you, your pussy spasming around his hard length splitting you open, he slowly bottoms out with a moan stilling inside you. His cock making your stomach bulge with his size 

‘’Fuckfuckfuckkkk you're still so tight, such a perfect pussy’’ his words coming out more like a mantra, the feeling of you around him making him pussydrunk. He fucks in and out of you grabbing your thighs, spreading you wider for him, watching where you’re joined as he takes you. 

 ‘’talk to me baby girl, tell me how I make you feel’’ 

‘’Love it when you fuck me Channie, love your cock so much’’ your voice strained and whiny, writhing against the sheets as he sets a rough pace. He spits on your pussy, the liquid dripping down to where you meet, the sight only aiding his pleasure. 

‘’Bet you thought about this huh? Thought about how good it would feel when I ruin you, hmm baby? Bet you’d touch this little clit thinking about how good I would fuck you?’’ His thrusts become sloppy as he nears his orgasm, his fingers coming to circle your clit. Your moans getting louder as you get close for the second time.

‘’Cum with me baby, wanna cum in this pussy, fill you up with my cum’’ his thrusts getting more erratic and desperate as you orgasm together. You scream his name, your nails digging into his toned back muscles. Chan stills as he spurts his hot release into you, his cum painting your insides a milky white. He collapses onto you, his muscled chest pressed against your fucked out form, both of you breathing heavily. 

‘’Fuck you're mine, just mine’’ he whispers, his cock still inside you, both your release leaking out around his still hard dick.. 

‘’Yeah just yours, Channie’’ you breathe out dreamily, still coming down from your high  

You both lay like that for a while, Chan's face tucked into your neck, leaving gentle kisses, his cock stiffening again inside of you, the party coming to an end downstairs. Things had happened so fast you hadn't realised Chan brought you to his own room, the purple lights giving his skin a lilac hue. 

‘’Chan. What happens now?” You hesitate not wanting to ruin the moment, praying you didn't just fuck everything up with him with a simple question.

He sighs into your skin snuggling closer ‘’I meant it when I said you're mine y/n, Euna knows she and I are done, she knew I was in love with you. I want this, I want you’’ his voice soft and sleepy. 

Your heart nearly explodes, ‘’I love you too Chan, I want you too’’ you kiss him passionately, his tongue fighting yours for dominance, smiling into the kiss as he begins moving inside you again. It feels like a dream and you can't believe he's in love with you too, that he wants you like you want him. Now you have him you'll never let him go, you have always been his, even if he didn't know it. 

‘’It's always been you y/n’’

-ty for reading!! Alr working on more hehe

[bless-my-demons]

Scared Of Losing You

Paul Lahote x Reader

Summary: It was just an accident, what is the infamous big bad Paul Lahote afraid of?

Losing his imprint, that’s what.

Warnings: hurt/comfort followed by fluff of course and curse words - PG-13.

Notes: This is literally just a one-shot that would not leave me alone so I had to get it out! It’s all in reader’s pov with no physical description and gender neutral for the most part I think. I also listened to The Wire by the Vancouver Sleep Clinic while I was writing this, if you want the right vibes✨ enjoy my first Paul fic!

Word count: 1700

Masterlist

Reader

Beep… beep… beep…

The constant tone is almost soothing, almost, but not quite - there’s too much pain.

The hospital sheets crinkle as I try to shift to find a more comfortable position, but a soft inhale has my eyes snapping open against the bright light above my bed to search for the source of the sound.

“Sam?” I try to keep my voice low, but it comes out as more of a dry croak.

Sam leans forward in his chair to reach for the cup of ice on the tray near my bed, “Yeah, kid.” He keeps his own voice quiet, but I can hear the tiredness in the deep rumble.

It’s after my first sip of cold water that I take in everyone piled in my room. Embry, Quil, Jared, even Jacob - the boys are sprawled out on various chairs and couches, all completely knocked out and some of them even snoring lightly.

But there’s another, Paul. And my heart beats a little faster taking him in, the heart monitor giving me away.

“He’s been here the whole time, hasn’t even left to shower.” Sam shifts back into his chair positioned next to the foot of my bed, directly across from his best friend on the other side, his eyes worrying over said man. “To be fair, none of us have been able to leave.”

“Sam-” I’m speechless for a few seconds, “what happened?”

He loosens a sigh so deep, it pulls something in my chest. God, how long have I been here? Looking over Paul’s sleeping form, I try to put the pieces together - his head is buried face-down in his crossed arms, leaning on the end of my bed near my left leg, one of his warm hands wrapped around my ankle-my uninjured ankle. His shirt is rumbled, but I can see stubble on his cheek peeking out from where his face is hidden. If it weren’t for the pain, I’d be an absolute hot mess at the physical contact; the way his large hand easily wraps around my ankle, how warm my side is due to the heat emanating from this mountain of a man despite the cold of the hospital room.

“You were in a car accident leaving the reservation after your dinner with Emily. You didn’t text her when she expected you to be home, you didn’t answer your phone and it went straight to voicemail…” I can see the genuine concern on his face as he recalls it, “When we got there, Chief Swan was already on scene.”

“How bad? How long have I been here?” I can feel my throat starting to constrict, my heart rate starting to tick a little faster.

Sam’s eyes flick to the monitor, brotherly worry written all over the creases in between his eyebrows and the hard press of his lips.

“Three days.” This time it’s not Sam that answers, it’s the deep tenor that invades my dreams as well as damn near every waking thought of mine, Paul Lahote.

My head whips to meet his intense gaze so fast that it makes me slightly nauseous, his hand lightly squeezing my ankle in a way that tugs at another string in my chest.

“Going for coffee, I’ll bring you back one.” Sam rises from his seat and I panic slightly, he’s leaving me with Paul. Paul Lahote, the guy I have an insanely intense crush on, the guy that doesn’t do feelings. The panic subsides quickly though, I giggle slightly at Sam trying to wake up and usher the boys still half-asleep out of my room.

The door clicks behind them, silencing their grumbles and their absence echos in the room. Sucking all the air out with their departure, it’s damn near impossible to meet his eyes again.

“Sweetheart.” The tenderness and hush in his voice is unfair, coupled with the gentle swipe of his thumb over the skin of my ankle. Damn, he doesn’t fight fair.

It’s like a magnet, the way my eyes draw back to his. They look so fucking tired and it hurts.

“Three cracked ribs, a fractured orbital bone, a nicked lung, and a broken tibia. Not to mention all the cuts-” he cuts himself off, hands and gaze running over my uninjured leg like he’s trying to reinforce something inside himself.

“Paul-” He stills at his name, eyes closing, inhaling deep. “Paul.”

Finally he turns to me, eyes opening and showing the slightest bit of tears pooling at the edges and its another pang to the center of my chest.

“I’m still here, what are you so scared of?” My voice is small, not sure how to tread this tense situation.

A wet laugh tumbles out as his hands abandon my leg to rub at his temples. “You.” It’s quiet and I almost don’t catch it over the beeping of monitors.

“What?” I ask, my voice taking on an incredulous tone. Surely I didn’t hear him right, right?

“You.” His eyes lock onto mine with full force, face set. “You’ve… you’ve wormed your way in here-” he rubs at his chest like it hurts and my breath hitches, “and I was scared. Am scared.” The pause hitching his breath, the tension is thick, “your car, seeing it flipped… it’s like the world stopped and I couldn’t hear anything-couldn’t think straight, but watching you getting pulled out, I-” his groan of frustration slides over my skin and lodges in my throat with the rest of my guilt. “I-I-”

His stuttering renders me absolutely speechless, Paul Lahote showing feelings? Feelings for me? Is this real life?

“So I haven’t left. Can’t. I can’t even think of leaving this room let alone going home and just being useless-”

“Paul, I’m fine.” I try to reach for his hands, but a stabbing pain in my side stops me, right - the ribs.

“Please don’t do that, don’t say that, you weren’t awake then they brought you in with that fucking tube down your throat-” The tremble in his hands stop his rant, drawing his attention somewhere else. His next words are a whisper, “You weren’t fine and nothing-nothing else matters.”

The conviction in his statement makes my chin wobble.

“Sweetheart,” he rises from his chair and cups my cheeks, mindful of the scratches and bandages. “Sweetheart, please…” the strong thumb swiping over my cheekbone only weakens my thin resolve and a tear spills over.

“I’m so sorry.” My voice wobbles, damn me for not being stronger, but everything hurts and he’s being so vulnerable and-and-and it’s so scary.

He leans down further, forehead pressing to my own, his nose barely brushing mine. My heart rate monitor picks up its cadence once again and that smirk I’ve always loved crinkles the side of his stupid, perfect mouth.

“I’m the one that’s sorry.” His admission confuses me, he’s sorry? “I’m sorry I haven’t told you sooner how I’ve felt.”

My heart fully stops functioning and my mouth drops open at this new bit of information.

His lips brush my cheek as they whisper into my ear, “breathe.” My entire body is a live wire as I gulp oxygen down.

“You don’t have to say anything-” his immediate insecurity about his confession is too much.

I cut him off before I lose my resolve, “kiss me?”

His eyes widen comically for a second, as if he didn’t picture the possibility I could return his affections. Silly man.

His fingers gently glide under my chin to tilt it upwards, his eyes searching every inch of my face, like he’s looking for something.

“If you-” his turn to cut me off, his warm lips seal over mine.

Surely I’m dead. I must be, it’s the only logical reason. Either that or this is a really, really nice dream. The immersive kind, where it’s too good to be true. It’s a crime really, for lips to be so full and soft and just right-

The barely audible whimper that leaves my mouth when he pulls away a fraction of an inch is embarrassing. What’s even more embarrassing is the way I reach to chase those lips, but once again my ribs decide to protest the action, goddamnit.

Paul takes pity on me with a chuckle, resealing his lips over mine, thank god. No one should have a mouth this delicious, lips this full and warm. I’m a goner - go ahead and wheel me to the morgue, I can die happy now that I’ve finally found out what it’s like to kiss Paul Lahote.

His hands gently slide into my hair, causing a gasp to punch through from the goosebumps the warm caress pours down my spine. His tongue seizes the opportunity to lick past my lips and I happily swallow the moan he elicits right before he peels himself away.

Backing up and taking a lap around the end of the bed, I catch the flush in his cheeks as he blows out a long breath and grin to myself self-satisfied. I made the Paul Lahote flustered.

“Too much?” I ask, unable to contain myself.

For once he looks like a fish out of water, but before she could scramble a response together, a gentle knock at the door draws both our attention as Emily peeks her head around the edge, “knock, knock.”

Relief at seeing my best friend soothes the burning heat in my cheeks almost immediately.

“Come in.” Paul pushes the chair closer so that he can take my much smaller hand in his, careful of the IV taped to the back of my hand. I can’t contain the butterflies that erupt at the satisfied grin his mouth is set in, eyes glued to our joined hands.

“I’m so glad you’re awake and alright!” Her concerned ramblings fading off as the boys file back in. Sam clapping a hand on Paul’s shoulder and suspiciously empty handed with no promised coffee in sight, but I can’t look away. Not from the man that just flipped my word upside down with a couple words and a kiss.

Part Two