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buckysleftbicep · 16 days ago

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for better or for worse (6) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, heavy angst, mentions of torture, mentions of injuries, bucky breaking down, flashbacks

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 5.1k

author's note: hi darlings! it's insane how we have reached chapter 6 of this series! i have had the best time writing it 💓, i have so much to be grateful for and the support and love from you guys is one of it 💌 i love you guys, and please stay safe out there!!

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You didn’t know how many hours it had been. The light hadn’t changed, just the slow, steady drip of water somewhere behind you and the pulse of your own blood ringing in your ears.

Your head ached, dull, slow, like the aftermath of being slammed too hard into a wall. Which, frankly, wasn’t far from the truth.

Your arm was the worst of it. A jagged gash tore down the outside of your forearm, raw and throbbing, dried blood cracked in thick, rust-colored streaks across your skin.

Your lip had split too, probably from the backhand that sent you sprawling earlier, and it kept bleeding every time you swallowed.

Every blink felt like your body was reminding you of something new that hurt, bruised ribs, a stiff shoulder or a swollen ankle from being dragged across the concrete floor.

But it wasn’t the pain that scared you. It was the silence.

No voices, zero footfalls. Just the occasional creak of metal above, the shift of the building settling like a creature breathing heavy in its sleep. It left too much room for your mind to wander. And it wandered exactly where you didn’t want it to.

To him.

It was stupid, really. He wasn’t here. And you couldn’t afford to be sentimental right now, couldn’t afford to lean into memory like it might bring him back. But the quiet made it impossible to stop the flood.

You thought about Madripoor, the alley where the rain had slicked the pavement, mixing with the sharp scent of neon-lit rot and the metallic tang of blood lingering in your mouth.

Sam’s voice had echoed in the background as you and Bucky locked into another one of those fierce arguments.

He’d been so damn close that night, angrier than usual, and it rattled you, because beneath the fury, beneath the sarcasm and snarl, there was something else flickering in his eyes.

You closed your eyes for just a second, just long enough to stop seeing the rust-stained floor pressing against your vision.

And then your mind betrayed you, drifting back to that night—the heavy downpour swallowing sirens whole and leaving the streets slick with oil and neon reflections.

The alley behind the bar smelled of cigarettes, rot, and far too many secrets, the ones that the city-state. And it didn’t help that you were pissed, furious in that sharp, fiery way that didn’t quite reach your voice.

“You didn’t need to show up,” you snapped, voice low but sharp, pacing toward the exit. “I had it handled.”

Bucky’s boots echoed behind you, steady and sure. “You think sitting in a snake pit with three armed super soldiers and no backup counts as ‘handled’?”

You whirled around. “I was buying time. And I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

He didn’t flinch. Just stared with that flat, tight-lipped expression—arms crossed like he was holding himself back from snapping.

Maybe from strangling you. Or perhaps himself.

“You went in with no weapon, no eyes, no exit plan. That’s a fucking death wish.”

“You don’t get to lecture me on suicidal choices,” you shot back. “You were seconds from throwing yourself off a rooftop last mission.”

“That was different.”

“Why? Because you decided it was?”

Sam finally caught up, muttering as he pulled off his comms. “I swear, if I have to break you two up again—”

“Stay out of it,” you and Bucky said in unison.

Sam threw his hands up. “Fine. Die mad.”

He stalked off, clearly done.

You turned back to Bucky, whose jaw was ticking like a timer.

“Why are you even here?” you asked, bitterness thick in your throat. “You don’t trust me. You don’t even like working with me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” You laughed, dry and bitter. “I see the way you look at me Bucky, like I’m some ticking time bomb, waiting to blow up and ruin your perfect mission.”

His eyes darkened. “I don’t think you’re a time bomb.”

“Then what am I?”

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it again, swallowing hard.

You stepped closer, reckless fire rising before you could stop it.

“You hate that I don’t take orders. You hate that I talk back. You hate that I make my own calls. But most of all—” you paused, catching the flicker in his eyes “—I think you hate that you care what happens to me.”

He said nothing. Denied nothing.

Just stood there, rain dripping from his hair, his chest rising slow beneath that worn black jacket.

The silence between you stretched tight—like a wire waiting to snap.

Then, as if the universe needed a release valve, Sam called out from down the alley.

“You’re either about to fuck or kill each other, and either way, I’m not gonna be here when it happens.”

You looked away first.

Back then, you always looked away first.

You shouldn’t be this cold.

The room wasn’t freezing, but your body had long since stopped registering temperature. Hours ago, maybe. Or maybe it was the steady drain of blood, or the dull ache crawling through your bones like a warning. Or perhaps it was what happens when adrenaline finally fades, and fear slips in to claim its place like a shadow that won’t let go.

You pressed your back hard against the cold, unyielding wall, trying to will yourself to breathe.

One slow breath in. One measured breath out. Again.

Your arm throbbed with each heartbeat, a relentless pulse of pain and warning. Your throat felt like sandpaper. Your lip cracked every time you moved it, raw and bleeding beneath your teeth.

Still, you bit down.

Just to remind yourself you were still here.

You didn’t cry. You never cried.

But your vision blurred, edges wavering, not just from the pain, but from something darker. Something that seeped into the spaces between your thoughts. You told yourself it was temporary. That it would pass, that someone would come.

That he would come.

And yet, the silence stretched, long and merciless, like a taunt.

You tried not to think about him. You really did. But your mind had other plans, a cruel reflex it had learned to torture you with.

Bucky. The walking contradiction. Callused hands, haunted eyes. The man who never gave you straight answers—god, you hated that—but somehow always had your back in a firefight. The man who fought like he had no intention of surviving, but looked at you like maybe you were the reason he wanted to.

You hated him, sometimes.

Hated the way he made you feel. Hated that even now, bruised, bloodied, tied up like some corpse no one would mourn, you weren’t thinking about escape.

You were thinking about him. And Madripoor.

And that look in his eyes when you told him you hated that he cared—like you’d cut past the walls he built, like you’d found a part of him he never meant to show.

You were never supposed to let it get this far.

This complicated.

You were soldiers. Operatives. Hell, maybe even tools, some days. You didn’t get to feel. Didn’t get to long for things, or people.

And if you did, you certainly didn’t get to hold on.

But something in you had always pulled toward him.

The glances that lingered just a second too long. The arguments that dragged on for hours, always burning hotter than they should have. The way your hands brushed once during a stakeout—and how you both froze, like it meant something only the two of you understood.

Maybe it did.

But that night at the club, the one you never let yourself think about—was proof enough you were wrong. That maybe he had wanted you once, but only like a man wants something he can’t afford to keep.

A complication.

That’s all you were.

And complications always get left behind.

You curled your knees up, or tried to, but the chains held you tight. Your wrists ached. Your ankle swelled again. The cold metal bit into your skin like it was reminding you of a cruel truth.

He’s not coming.

You flinched as if someone had spoken the words aloud.

But even through the bitterness, the fear, the half-buried rage—there was a stubborn, foolish part of you that refused to die.

A quiet voice whispering: He will.

He’d find you, he had to. Because if he didn’t, if this was the end, then all those stolen looks, those late-night talks, every time his voice softened when he said your name… they would mean nothing.

You couldn’t accept that. You wouldn’t.

So you sat there. Bleeding. Shaking. Not knowing how much longer you could hold on. And you whispered into the silence, just once:

“Please.”

Not loud enough for anyone else to hear.

Just enough for your own breaking heart.

The silence had wrapped itself around you like a second skin.

Not a balm, but a fucking shroud, smoke curling in your lungs, seeping into your thoughts, pressing down hard and too close. You barely registered the sound at first.

The low creak of boots scraping against cold concrete. Heavy and measured, slower than the usual rhythm of the guards. Not lazy, deliberate. Hunting.

You didn’t look up.

Not until the voice came, slicing through the dark like a blade.

“Well, well. Still going strong, sweetheart?”

Your jaw clenched until your teeth ached.

Andrei.

You didn’t need to see his face to feel the cruel smirk twisting every word like a noose tightening around your throat. But you lifted your head anyway, because you wanted him to see you—bruised, bleeding, but unbroken.

“Don’t call me that,” you rasped, your voice raw and ragged.

He clicked his tongue, stepping closer.

The overhead light buzzed faintly, catching the glint of the blade at his hip—just decoration now. But a promise all the same.

“Why not?” he mused, voice cold. “Is that what Barnes calls you?”

Your breath hitched, just for a moment, a stutter in your defenses.

But that was all it took.

His eyes sparked, grin widening like he’d just found your pulse under his thumb.

“Oh,” he drawled slowly. “I hit a nerve.”

You said nothing.

“Shut the fuck up,” you ground out, voice low and trembling.

He crouched before you, settling on his haunches with lazy menace, as if time was his to waste. His gaze roamed your battered face, tracing every cut, every bruise, every flinch like a collector admiring his prized possession.

“I knew it,” he whispered, dark and certain. “There’s something going on between you two. Saw the way he looked at you.”

He leaned closer, and your skin crawled.

“Men don’t look at women like that unless they’ve fucked them,” he murmured. “Or they want to.”

“You know nothing,” you spat.

Andrei chuckled low and ugly. “Don’t I?”

He leaned in further, close enough for you to smell the sour rot on his breath—thick with blood and decay.

“I know exactly how men like him fall apart. Silent types. Repressed. Loaded with guilt, nowhere to put it, until you walk in, and suddenly, they’ve got something to hope for. A reason to live.”

You didn’t move.

“I know he’s coming,” Andrei said softly, voice almost cruelly gentle—as if delivering a death sentence. “Right now, he’s probably tearing through half the fucking island to find you. But it won’t matter.”

He tilted his head, smile sharp and dangerous.

“Because by the time he gets here, you’ll be nothing but pieces.”

Your stomach twisted cold.

“I’ll send him your hand,” he said, voice low and hungry. “Maybe your face. Something personal. A reminder. And when he breaks, I want to be there to watch.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came. You choked on the horror, on the truth. The part that scared you most was that he was right.

He saw it. He knew.

“That’s the thing about men like him,” Andrei murmured, brushing his knuckles along your cheek, cold as death.

“It’s not the blood that ruins them. It’s the love. One taste and they’re finished. And you?” His fingers trailed down your jaw, slow and deliberate. “You’re the one thing that still feels human to him.”

You flinched. Couldn’t stop it.

He smiled wider, satisfied.

“He’ll fall apart for you. We all do fall apart for someone, eventually.”

Your eyes burned. Salt stung your cracked lips.

Your hands trembled—was it pain, fury, or pure fear? God, you didn’t know.

“Sit tight, princess,” he said, pushing himself up with a grunt. “We’ve got time. And when you beg, I’ll make sure he hears it.”

He turned away, boots clicking steady and cold as he walked toward the door. You didn’t realise your wrists were shaking until the chain rattled harshly against the floor.

Didn’t notice the tears slipping down your cheeks until they smeared red across your jaw. You pressed your head back against the wall and closed your eyes.

Tried to steady your ragged breath. Tried to forget his words. Tried to forget how terrifyingly close they had landed to the truth.

And somewhere, quiet, a faint crackle sparked beside you.

The room was dark, the only light a cold, steady glow from the mission monitors. The comms had been dead for hours. Static. Nothing but endless white noise choking every channel.

Until suddenly it wasn’t.

A faint crackle flickered through the feed. Then the signal surged, sharp, raw.

And a voice came through.

Not yours. His.

“Well, well. Still going strong, sweetheart?”

The air in the command center snapped taut, like a wire pulled taut.

Yelena’s spine straightened, eyes narrowing. John’s hand froze, gripping his weapon so hard his knuckles blanched.

Then your voice—weak, fractured, barely there.

“Don’t call me that.”

What followed unravelled like a nightmare they couldn’t wake from. Andrei’s voice slithered through the silence, every word soaked in venom. Cruelty dripping like acid, threats laced with dark promises, taunts sharp as knives.

Your breath hitching in the void. And then that suffocating silence—when you couldn’t speak, couldn’t fight back, couldn’t bear the weight of it all.

The room held its breath.

Not a single soul dared to make a sound.

Until the line cut—sudden, final—like a door slammed shut on hope.

And then—

“Bucky.” Walker’s voice cracked, low and uncertain. “What the hell just—”

“Not now.”

Bucky’s voice sliced through the room like a blade—cold, hard, utterly dangerous. A sound so stripped bare of humanity it sent a chill down every spine.

He didn’t meet their eyes.

His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white as bone.

“I need to find her.”

Time had stopped making sense.

You weren’t sure if it had been minutes or hours or longer. The pain had dulled around the edges, but not in a way that felt like healing, more like your body was giving up on trying to warn you.

Your arm had gone numb, the gash now sticky and crusted, and your ankle throbbed with a rhythm that made your teeth grind. The cuffs had dug in so deep you were starting to forget where your skin ended and the metal began.

Your head lolled forward, neck too weak to hold it upright. Everything was slow, too slow. You knew your body wanted to sleep, to shut down. You could feel it in the way your thoughts came slower, heavier, like each one had to fight through sludge just to surface.

You didn’t let it. Not yet. Not until you knew whether anyone was coming.

Then—something changed.

It was small at first. A shift in the air, a pressure drop. Then sound. Distant. Muffled. Not like before, not the bored shuffle of guards or the occasional metallic clang of a pipe. A thud.

A yell, fast, panicked, in Russian.

Then chaos broke loose.

Gunfire sounded out.The staccato burst of automatic fire ricocheted off the concrete walls, each shot a heartbeat too close. Screams followed. The sound of boots pounding, frantic shouting. Someone was giving orders and someone else was begging not to die.

Another blast, louder this time. Close enough that the ceiling dust rained down over your shoulders in pale, choking clouds as smoke curled under the door.

You coughed, blinked against it, tried to focus.

A body slammed into the wall outside with a sickening crunch. The whole frame shook. You barely flinched.

Then silence. Just for a breath.

Two.

BANG.

The door exploded inward. It didn’t open — it shattered, splintering off its hinges, crashing against the wall like it had been blown in by sheer force of rage. The smoke parted.

And then—

A grunt followed. Then the wet crunch of bone, maybe a nose, maybe a rib, before another body hit the floor with a shriek.

Andrei.

He was still conscious when she grabbed him by the hair, dragging him back with a snarl in her throat, screaming curses.

But you didn’t see her.

You saw him. Bucky.

His silhouette filled the ruined doorway, broad shoulders heaving, blood soaking his knuckles. His eyes found yours instantly, like they’d been looking for nothing else. Something in your chest gave out.

He moved before you could blink. Dropped to his knees beside you with a force that rattled the floor, his breath hitching as he saw the cuffs, the blood, the state of you. His fingers reached out, not shaking, but fast.

Desperate.

“You came,” you whispered. It was barely a sound. Your throat couldn’t manage more.

He didn’t answer. Not at first.

Just took the chain in his vibranium hand and snapped it in a single twist. Like it offended him. Like it had dared to touch you.

His other hand cupped your cheek. Rough palm, stained in blood, but careful. Too careful.

“I would never leave you,” he said. His voice sounded destroyed. “You hear me?”

You nodded — or tried to. The motion sent fresh pain shooting down your spine, and you winced when his thumb brushed too close to the gash on your arm.

“Shit,” he muttered, pulling back, his expression twisting. “You’re hurt—god, you’re bleeding—”

You pushed yourself upright instinctively, but your legs crumpled beneath you.

He caught you before your body could even register the fall. One strong arm under your knees, the other braced at your back, pulling you in against the solid heat of him.

You sagged into it. Couldn’t fight it. Didn’t want to.

He held you like you were made of glass and grief.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, his mouth pressed to your temple. “Sweetheart. Please. Just—stay with me, okay?”

His voice cracked on the last word.

Your eyes were already sliding shut. It felt good. Too good.

But you heard him. Somewhere in the thick, dark fog, you heard him.

A voice echoed down the hall you vaguely recognised as Alexei’s.

“Medics coming! Bob sent them, they on their way!”

You heard movement, footsteps, the clatter of gear being thrown open.

But none of it touched you.

Just him.

Just his arms—iron around you, just the sound of his voice, low and unsteady, raw with something that sounded like pleading, vulnerable in a way that didn’t belong to him.

Bucky didn’t beg.

Not for anything, not until now.

Andrei didn’t land so much as collapse.

Yelena dragged him by the hair, his boots scuffing uselessly behind him, his mouth leaking blood and broken teeth. He was whimpering now, his face a wreck, nose bent sideways, one eye already sealed shut, his jaw swelling beneath fresh bruises.

She kicked a chair into place with a metallic screech.

Then she shoved him into it, still gripping his hair, the other hand already reaching for her blade.

“Sit,” she said, almost gently. “Or I’ll start with the knees.”

He spat something in broken Russian, garbled, half-conscious.

Yelena crouched beside him, tilting her head like a curious animal.

“You want to speak my language?” she murmured. “Good. Let’s begin.”

John stepped through the busted doorway, sleeves rolled to the elbows, kevlar stained with blood and dust.

“Well,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. ��Didn’t think you’d save me a seat.”

Yelena didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed locked on the man trembling before her.

“Do you know what they say about us Russians, Andrei?” she asked, voice low and smooth. “We don’t bluff. And we don’t rush.”

She twirled the knife between her fingers. The blade caught the light like a smile.

“We enjoy this part.”

Andrei was shaking now, hands twitching against the arms of the chair.

“Please,” he stammered. “You don’t have to—”

“Don’t have to?” John echoed, tone flat. “You talked about cutting her up. Mailing bits of her like fucking party favours.”

“I didn’t touch her—” Andrei gasped, shrinking back as the blade kissed his cheekbone.

“You talked,” Yelena snapped. “That’s enough.”

“Please—please—I'll give you anything! Names! Locations! Passwords! Just—don’t.”

Yelena stood.

“You’ll scream a lot more before I believe you.”

The hallway still echoed with the aftermath—the stench of smoke and blood, the groans of men who wouldn’t be getting up again. But Bucky didn’t hear any of it. All his attention was on you, unconscious and limp in his arms, your breathing shallow and fragile, barely there at all.

Your blood soaked through his shirt, warm and wet and unbearably real in a way that made it impossible for him to let go. He’d seen a hundred bodies in his life, carried them, buried them, mourned them even, but this was different.

This was you.

“Hey,” he whispered, gently brushing the hair back from your face. “I’ve got you. You’re okay now, alright?” But there was no response. Only the faintest rise and fall of your chest. His heart clenched tighter.

Then, footsteps came, fast and urgent, breaking through the quiet. The medics burst through the broken doorway, gear strapped to their backs, already pulling gloves on in practiced motion.

Bob had sent them, air-dropped in as soon as the comms had flickered back to life.

“Where is she?” one shouted, spotting the blood staining Bucky’s shirt. Another knelt down hard beside him, voice sharp and commanding: “We need to lay her flat. Sir, you need to let go.”

Bucky didn’t move.

“She’s losing too much,” the medic said, unzipping his pack. “If we don’t start now—”

“I said I’ve got her,” Bucky snapped, but the crack in his voice betrayed how close he was to breaking. “I’ve got her.”

“Sergeant Barnes.” A third medic stepped forward, calmer, firmer, more steady. “We’re here to help her but you need to let us do our job.”

His jaw clenched. He looked down at your face, eyes closed and skin pale, almost translucent in the harsh light.

He could still feel your heartbeat against his chest, faint, distant, as if it belonged to someone else. Slowly, painfully, he eased you down, as if touching you might shatter something fragile inside him.

He stayed by your side as they worked, one hand still curled protectively around yours. His fingers trembled, but he didn’t let go. “Blood pressure’s dropping,” one medic called. “Tourniquet, now. Apply pressure on that arm.”

“Start an IV line,” another added urgently. “We need fluids in her, fast.”

The voices blurred into static, fading at the edges of his awareness. He couldn’t focus on anything except you. His eyes locked on your face, trying to imprint every detail. And suddenly, memories flooded in, sharp and vivid.

It was late, Madripoor again, somewhere between missions, you had found a rooftop no one else knew about, and he’d followed you there without thinking.

You were sitting on the ledge, legs dangling over the edge like you weren’t afraid of falling. Like the world couldn’t hurt you unless you let it.

He hated it. And envied it.

“I ever tell you what scares me?” he asked quietly, voice low and unexpected.

You looked at him, that little tilt of your head full of curiosity. “No.”

He paused, searching for the words. Then said softly, “That Steve was wrong about me.”

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t comfort him, you just looked at him, steady and unflinching.

“Steve was wrong about a lot of things Buck,” you said simply. “But not you.”

That was it, no dramatic pause, no grand gesture. Just that, and it lodged somewhere deep inside him, deeper than he knew what to do with.

Back in the present, one of the medics spoke again, snapping him back. “We’ve stopped the bleeding. She’s stable, for now. But we need to move her.”

The brunette nodded, barely.

He still hadn’t let go of your hand.

Bucky remembered that night.

You had been drinking something awful, street vendor liquor in some unlabelled bottle, still warm from the sticky heat of Madripoor.

He didn’t drink much, his enhanced body processing alcohol faster than most—but you were already halfway through your second when you shoved the bottle into his hand and teased, “You’re brooding again.”

“I don’t brood,” he muttered, taking a casual sip, unfazed by the burn that would have floored most people. You laughed harder.

You were sitting across from him on the rooftop ledge, your boots swinging lazily over the edge, the city flickering like a living thing beneath your feet. The humid air smelled of exhaust and ocean salt, thick and heavy, buzzing softly with neon hums from the streets below.

You looked at home there, unbothered, untouchable, moonlight casting silver across your skin, lighting the sharp planes of your cheekbones, the slow, easy curl of your smile.

He couldn’t stop watching you. It struck him then, suddenly, how long that had been happening. How his eyes found you in crowded rooms before he realised, how his footsteps began matching yours without thought, how your voice, even when teasing or mocking, cut through the noise in a way no one else’s ever had.

It hadn’t hit him all at once. It crept in.

A glance that lingered too long. A silence too full.

The way his chest tightened when someone else touched you, when someone else smiled at you.

But that night was different. That night was when it finally clicked. When he could no longer deny it.

You asked him a question, one of those late-night things you tossed at him when the city was quiet and you felt like neither of you were more than ghosts sharing space.

“If you hadn’t gone to war,” you said, chin resting in your palm, “what do you think your life would’ve been like?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Before Hydra. Before everything. What would it have been?” you asked softly. “A normal life. What would you have done?”

He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t know how. It was like asking a shadow what it would do if it had a body. You didn’t fill the silence. You let it hang. You gave him space to sit with it.

Finally, he said, “I think I would’ve married someone.”

Your brows rose, not in surprise at the thought but maybe at the fact he’d said it at all.

He swallowed, thickly. “I used to want that, a family. Something quiet, someone who looked at me like I was enough.”

You nodded. “You still want that?”

He hesitated.

“I don’t know if I get to.”

That was the truth, the brutal, naked truth. Deep down, beneath the soldier, beneath the missions, beneath the man who’d learned to live without wanting—he didn’t believe he deserved anything soft.

Then you said it. “You do.”

Two words, soft and certain, no hesitation.

You weren’t trying to comfort him, you weren’t trying to fix anything, you were just telling him something you believed.

He looked at you.

The shape of you, perched so close. The tilt of your mouth, the stubborn glint in your eyes. You were always so sharp, so reckless, so much—and yet here you were—quietly offering him something no one else ever had.

Not pity. Not forgiveness.

Belief.

And in that moment, something split open in him.

He didn’t say anything. Of course he didn’t, he couldn’t.

But the thought slammed into him like a punch to the ribs.

It’s you. It had always been you.

You were the one who made him believe there was still something good buried beneath all the wreckage, something, someone worth saving, even after everything.

The only person who could see him clearly, scars and sins, silence and violence—and not turn away. You didn’t flinch at the soldier. You didn’t fear the monster everyone ran from.

And somehow, impossibly, you still saw the man, you saw him. He’d fallen in love with you long before he admitted it to himself.

But that was the moment he knew, and it scared the hell out of him.

Because love wasn’t safe. It wasn’t calculated.

It didn’t fit in mission reports or debriefings or the kind of life that came with blood on your hands and a kill count longer than your memory.

Love meant losing. Risk. Vulnerability.

And yet— When you looked at him that night, just a glance across the rooftop, city lights burning behind you, he thought, If she asked me to run, I’d go.

No hesitation, no questions.

Just go.

But you didn’t ask, you just leaned back on your hands, looked up at the sky, and let the silence stretch again.

Comfortable. Easy.

And he stayed beside you. He always would.

Even now, with blood on your skin and too many wounds to count, even now, he was right here.

Because there was never a world where he wouldn’t be.

Not for you.

Bucky sat there beside you, watching your chest rise and fall under the thin hospital blankets. Each breath came a little steadier than the last, a fragile rhythm in the quiet room. The dim light cast soft shadows across your face, revealing the faintest hint of color returning to your cheeks.

Despite the stillness, every tiny movement felt like a victory, a quiet reassurance that you were still here, still fighting. He didn’t take his eyes off you, as if letting his gaze linger could somehow keep you tethered to the world.

And quietly, almost without realising it, as if the words slipped out on their own, he whispered it aloud for the first time.

It wasn’t an attempt to draw you back or demand a response. It was something raw, something vulnerable, carried on a breath that felt too fragile to hold inside any longer.

“I love you.”

You didn’t stir.

No flicker of recognition, no small smile to answer him. Just the steady rise and fall of your chest, the shallow rhythm of your breathing. But he stayed anyway. He remained rooted beside you, unwilling to leave or break the fragile connection you and him shared in that moment.

Just in case you heard him.

a/n: i am also proof reading chapter 7 and i am so so excited for you guys to read it! i am kinda sad this series is coming to an end :") and i hope you guys have enjoyed it so far!

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multi-fandom-imagine · 10 days ago

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Hello! I got a request for you. Sense you've got few k-pop demon hunters fanfics, can you do a smut fanfic about Mira x FemReader? It's okay if you can't do it :) (I also read one of your FD fanfics and they're really good!)

A/n: MIRA YESSSSS , also thank you! You're so sweet.

Reader is Mira’s soft, golden-retriever girlfriend — warm, loyal, and adoring. Mira is cool, intense, and protective — but secretly just as needy for her girlfriend as demons are for chaos.

The hotel room was dim, lit only by the neon sign bleeding in from the balcony. Mira stood near the window, still in her outfit from what was supposed to be a show, you could see just enough to reveal the sheen of sweat at her throat. You watched her silently from the bed, wrapped in a towel after your shower, hair still damp and clinging to your cheeks.

She hadn’t said much since the mission,the chaos of the 'show'. Just a quiet nod to the rest of the team and a tug on your wrist as she led you up here, alone.

You padded over to her without a word, resting your chin on her shoulder from behind. “Hey,” you murmured, arms slipping gently around her waist. “I’m proud of you.”

Mira let out a breath through her nose, but didn’t answer. You could feel the tension in her muscles — taut, like a bowstring about to snap.

Your lips brushed against her neck. “Let me help you come down…”

That did it.

In one sudden, fluid motion, Mira turned, backing you toward the bed, hands at your waist like she needed to feel that you were still here — warm, soft, real. Her mouth found yours with urgency, all teeth and tongue at first, before it melted into something deeper. Hungrier.

You gasped softly when she pushed you down onto the mattress, straddling your hips, her thighs pressing tight against yours. You looked up at her with wide, devoted eyes — golden retriever gaze shining — and Mira’s control nearly snapped.

“You’re too good to me,” she rasped, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

“I know,” you whispered, tilting your head up for another kiss. “I want you to show me.”

She groaned low in her throat.

Her mouth trailed down your jaw, over your collarbone, while her fingers slowly undid the knot of your towel, letting it fall open to reveal the smooth warmth of your skin. You shivered beneath her, more from anticipation than the cool air.

Mira’s hand slid between your thighs, fingertips stroking you gently, deliberately — and you were already soaked.

“Fuck…” she whispered, voice rough against your neck. “You’re always so ready for me.”

Your breath hitched. “Only for you, Mira…”

That was all it took. She slid two fingers into you, slow but deep, her thumb circling your clit with practiced precision. You moaned, hips bucking slightly, but Mira pressed her body over yours, keeping you grounded — her weight, her strength, her scent — all of it surrounding you like armor.

“You’re so sweet when you’re like this,” she murmured, curling her fingers just right, drawing another whimper from you. “My soft girl. My good girl.”

You couldn’t think, couldn’t speak — just nodded desperately, thighs trembling around her hand.

Mira kissed you again, slower this time. As if tasting your soul.

She never rushed it. Not with you. Not when you looked at her like she hung the moon and forgave every demon that clung to her shadow.

Your hands tangled in her hair as the pressure built — heat curling tighter and tighter in your belly.

“Mira—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” she murmured, fingers speeding up just enough, her voice the only anchor you needed. “Come for me, baby.”

You shattered with a cry, back arching beneath her, your release pulsing around her fingers. Mira held you through every second of it, her lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

When your breathing slowed, she pulled her hand away and gently licked her fingers clean, eyes never leaving yours.

You flushed. “You’re such a menace.”

She smirked. “And you love it.”

You did. With your whole stupid, loyal heart.

And as she pulled you into her arms and whispered that she needed you — only you — you knew you’d follow her through heaven, hell, or another demon hunt. Wherever she needed you to be

#drabbles #drabble #smut #f/f #fxf smut #yuri #mira x reader #Mira x you #Mira x y/n #kpop demon hunters #kpop demon hunters x reader #kpop demon hunters x y/n

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ddejavvu · 2 months ago

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hiccup casual dominance haddock gently chastising reader who cannot stop biting the skin around their fingers……. (i love ur blog and ur writing btw<3)

the way he grabs astrid's arms and shakes her in the second movie. mhm mhm.

It's something mindless, the gnawing of your teeth at the sharp edge of your finger. You have a habit of biting the skin around your nails, and this one seems to have regrown from the last time you'd severed it. It's something you'd felt with the pad of your thumb and raised to your mouth without thinking, but Hiccup notices it like it's a lit neon sign.

"Hey!" He snaps, still bent over his workbench but no longer focused on the patches of leather he's sewing together. He says nothing more, and your hand lowers unconsciously from your mouth when you raise your head to look at him. You're semi-alarmed: there's really no good reason to be yelling in a forge, it usually means something is on fire. But Grump is very much asleep in the corner, and the flames have gone out.

"What?" You ask, truly stumped. You're not trying to be obtuse, your arm halfway raised to your mouth simply doesn't register.

Hiccup raises one eyebrow- you wonder whether he's gotten his sass from Stoick or Valka, because he's got buckets of it, and he flicks his eyes pointedly downwards towards your hand, then back up at your face, unimpressed.

You mirror his gaze, realizing that your eyes fall upon the mangled skin around your ring finger's nail.

"Oh. Shit," You mumble, shame heating your cheeks. You always feel like such a baby when someone points out your bad habit, but you know Hiccup isn't trying to tease you, so you jam your hand into your lap, smearing away saliva on your pants.

"You're gonna make yourself bleed." Hiccup's voice is gentle but pointed, "Again."

You neglect to tell him that the one time he'd witnessed your teeth grind too far into the meat of your finger- enough to draw blood, hadn't been the first nor the last time you'd bled. It's not the norm, but it's not the outlier either. You merely bite your tongue, waiting for further reprimands, or for gracious silence.

He's a kind man, so he grants you the latter. But as soon as the embarrassment clears from your head, you forget all about the incident, and you become immersed in the pages of your book once more.

Off-kilter stomping, one-part boot and one-part metal peg, is all the warning you get before your hands are snatched away from you, one pulled from your lap and the other from your mouth.

You're already rushing out a, 'Sorry, sorry, sorry!' but he won't let your hand go when you tug at it. He holds it firmly in his own, his brow set in a stern frown. He looks like his father's namesake, and you foresee him being a very intimidating chief one day- if perhaps he can pile on some meat to his bones.

"Stop biting your fingers." He says, shaking your arms gently with each word, "I have eagle eyes. You forget, I have to watch Toothless constantly to make sure he doesn't steal my leg right out from under me."

Toothless's great head raises from where it had been sleepily resting on the wood floor, and he presents his disdain for Hiccup's terrible accusations in the form of a testy huff.

"I notice everything." Hiccup promises, his eyes boring into yours, "You're never gonna be able to sneak it past me."

"I'm not trying to sneak it past you!" You swear, shame once again licking at the inside of your chest. You try not to whine, but your voice takes on a hint of hopelessness, "I'm- it just happens, I don't know! I don't think about doing it, and I don't do it on purpose, it just happens! It's like breathing! How am I supposed to stop doing it when I don't even do it on purpose?"

"I will help you stop." Hiccup decides, the frown on his features softening as your desperation bleeds through, "It's okay, I'll- we'll figure something out. Like gloves!" He brightens, "Leather gloves, I can make them, that way they'll stop you from biting at your actual finger. And then it'll force you to think about it, and slowly you'll stop doing it altogether. Or something that tastes bad on your fingers. I could ask Astrid to make some of her yaknog- that stuff's thick enough to be a paste. I can spread it on your fingertips and then you'll be deterred by just the smell. Or- or a restraint! I could chain some cuffs to the bench," Hiccup gestures at the slab of wood you're sitting on, "And you can have just enough give to read your book, but not to reach for your face."

"Hold on," You stop him, knowing his mind is filling with glorious, terrible ideas, "You want to handcuff me and chain me to the bench?"

Hiccup's face shifts, clarity dawning on his bright features and dimming them, "Okay, that one- you're right, that's not my best idea."

"I don't want yaknog on my hands either," You grimace, "Can we just- try the gloves?"

"Yeah. The gloves." Hiccup nods, squeezing your hands with finality, but only releasing one- the one you'd spared. He keeps the freshly-bitten fingers in his own hand, peering worriedly at the skin to spot any blood. When he finds none, he drags your hand to his mouth, kissing gently over the side of your finger before finally letting you have it back.

"I'll start on your gloves right away," He goes back to his workbench, sliding his previous project to the side, "Snotlout is just gonna have to wait for his new saddle. As long as Hookfang doesn't burn through the one he's got, he'll be fine for a few more days. But you need those gloves now." Hiccup stares pointedly at you from across the room, "For now, please try not to bite your fingers. Or I'll sick Toothless on you."

Big green eyes stare at you with interest from across the room, but the dragon won't pounce without Hiccup's command. You'd rather like to keep breathing clean air and not fish breath, so you tuck your hands beneath your thighs on the bench, electing to only remove one to turn a page of your book.

"Perfect," Hiccup grins, a hint of pride in his smile as he grabs for a fresh panel of leather, "I'll have your gloves done in no time."

#hiccup haddock x reader #hiccup haddock imagine #hiccup haddock fanfiction #hiccup haddock oneshot #hiccup haddock fluff #hiccup haddock blurb #hiccup haddock x you

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dazevi · 3 months ago

Text

CHAPTER FIVE: TELL HER

heart to heart series | vi x fem!reader

synopsis: vi doesn’t take your response well, falling back into the one thing that always drags her down even further—alcohol. meanwhile, you’re left to reflect on your own reaction, struggling to figure out what it is you truly want. when jayce decides to give vi a reality check, she decides to pull herself together and sets her mind on planning something special.

content warnings: MDNI. slightly suggestive content, more angst, some fluff, hurt/comfort??, rockstar!vi, bookshop owner/writer!reader, exes to lovers, friends with benefits dynamic (kinda), so exes to fwb to lovers, alcohol/drinking, smoking, bestfriend!jayce, kissing, vi is sooooo in love … if im missing anything else please lmk!

wc: 20,080 (slightly inaccurate since i made some edits)

notes: ok ok ok im so so so so sorry for the long wait when i kept saying that i was gonna upload this chapter soon. i have gotten so busy these past couple weeks with work plus taking care of my grandma, so i’ve been struggling to write for a bit, but i finally got this chapter done! it’s also currently the longest chapter of the series, i hope i didn’t stretch it out too long to the point it gets boring, but i hope you all enjoy it :) ty for ur patience! also lovely fanart by bunimint_ on IG !

navigation | series masterlist | previous chapter

Her head fucking hurts. She’s lost count of how many drinks she’s had—whiskey, mostly, the sharp burn of it sliding down her throat, but never really reaching that part of her that needs numbing the most. Besides that, the club is too loud. Music pounding through the speakers, some deep, bass heavy track that makes the floor vibrate beneath her boots. It was full of shouts, laughter, the clink of glasses—but it’s all just noise.

Vi sits slouched in the corner of the bar, a cigarette tucked behind her ear, the smoke of someone else’s drifting too close, burning her nose. The lights are dim, neon flickers bleeding red and blue across the bottles lined up behind the bar. She rubs at her temple, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the liquid swirling in her glass.

It’s been weeks since she last saw you. Since she watched you pull away from her, watched you cry, watched you remind her of the rules she stupidly agreed to.

Your words ring inside her head.

Then, she takes another slow sip. It doesn’t help.

Vi’s phone buzzes against the surface of the bar, but she doesn’t look at it right away. It’s probably Ekko or Loris wondering where the hell she is, why she’s ghosted them for the past few days. Or maybe it’s Steb sending her some dumb meme to make her laugh, like that’s gonna fix the massive fucking hole in her chest.

It could even be her manager. She’s gotten too many calls from him this week—all of them she ignored.

She swallows the thought down with the rest of her drink, signaling the bartender for another. She just sits there, drowning in the noise, wishing it was enough to make her forget you.

Her phone buzzes again. The screen lights up on the bar, her manager’s name glowing and flashing across the top of the screen. She watches it ring, until it goes silent.

That’s the fourth call tonight. The tenth this week. She doesn’t bother listening to the voicemails—she already knows what he wants. She can already hear him over the phone, telling her that her time’s up, and that it’s time to get back to work.

She used to jump into the thought of work.

But now, she doesn’t even want to think about. All of it feels too big, too exhausting.

And, she’d rather think about you.

And it’s fucked up—she knows that—but you’re the only thing her mind keeps circling back to. She replays that night in her head—the way you looked at her that night, standing there in your apartment, eyes glistening with tears, the way your voice cracked… the way you didn’t say I love you back.

Vi knocks back the rest of her drink and taps the bar for another.

She’s drunk. She knows it. She drags a hand down her face, her and leans back forward against the counter.

She’s so fucking drunk, and still, the ache in her chest is sharper than ever.

“Holy shit… it’s Vi!”

Oh, for fucks sake.

“Vi! From The Lanes!”

She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t move. Just grips the glass a little harder, teeth pressing into her bottom lip.

Of course. Of fucking course.

“Guys! It’s Vi! Right over here—come look!”

A few heads turn. The man—some guy she doesn’t recognize, drunk off his ass—waves his arms like he’s discovered some kind of rare fucking animal.

“No way.”

“Vi? Like—Like, Violet Lanes?”

“Shit, get a picture—”

Her head is pounding. The music is too loud, the lights too bright, and now there are people inching closer, whispering and grinning, phones already coming out.

She shoves her glass away from her, ice clinking too loud against the counter.

“Not tonight,” she mutters under her breath, voice rough, but the guy doesn’t get the hint. He’s still calling people over, still beaming like this is some fan meet-and-greet she didn’t agree to.

“Vi, man—you gotta let me buy you a drink,” he says, his hand reaching out, like he might actually touch her shoulder.

Vi flinches back. “Don’t.”

Her head is fucking killing her.

“Fuck off,” she says, louder this time, not even bothering to look at them. “I’m not in the mood.”

The guy laughs, like she’s kidding—like this is all part of the show.

But it’s not. It’s really fucking not.

And he still doesn’t take the hint. He’s still grinning, still too close, and Vi can feel the heat creeping up her neck. It’s the alcohol—making her blood too hot, her patience too thin—but it’s also everything else.

“Come on, Vi,” he says. “Just one picture—”

He touches her arm.

She shoves him back, not hard enough to send him flying, but hard enough to make a point.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me.”

The guy stumbles a little and his friends go quiet.

“Vi, chill—” someone mutters.

She stands, the bar stool scraping back with an ugly screech. Her jaw locks, and she’s already picturing how it would feel. Just one hit. Just to make him back off.

Her knuckles twitch.

But she doesn’t.

She doesn’t—because she knows what happens if she does. Knows the headlines that’ll follow. Vi from The Lanes Punches Fan in Nightclub. Knows her manager will tear her apart the second she picks up her phone. Knows this asshole isn’t worth the trouble.

“Fuck,” Vi mutters.

She pushes past them—shoulders stiff, teeth grinding—ignoring the half-hearted apologies, the drunken protests, the phones still aimed at her.

She doesn’t stop until she’s outside.

The air hits her—cold and wet—and Vi realizes it must’ve just rained. The pavement glistens under the glow of a flickering streetlamp, puddles pooling along the alleyway. The club’s bass still thuds behind her, muffled now, but it’s better for her head.

Vi leans against the wall, bracing her palms against the rough brick, head hanging low.

And all she can think about—all she ever seems to think about these days—is you.

Vi squats down, her back against the brick wall, the damp chill seeping through her jeans. She rakes a hand through her hair, then presses the heel of her palm against her temple. Her head tips back, hitting the wall with a soft and dull thud.

She’s not sure how long she stays like that—seconds, minutes—but then she hears the scuff of shoes against wet pavement, footsteps coming closer. She doesn’t move, doesn’t look up at first. Just stares at the ground, at the smear of neon reflected in a puddle a few inches from her boot.

Then the shoes stop.

Right next to her.

Dark brown leather, a little worn at the toes but still clean. Familiar.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Vi knows that voice.

She lets out a long breath through her nose, her jaw clenching once before she finally looks up.

Jayce stands there, hands in the pockets of his coat, his brows drawn tight in that way they always do when he’s about to give her a lecture. His tie’s a little loose, like he came from some fancy dinner or meeting, but he’s still all crisp lines and polished shoes, the perfect picture of a man who’s got his shit together.

It pisses Vi off more than it should.

“How did you find me?” she mutters.

Jayce lets out a sigh. It’s not the kind of sigh that means he’s annoyed, though.

“Checked Vander’s first,” he starts. “But you weren’t there. Then checked a few of the nightclubs in town… there’s not that many, so…”

“Just leave me alone, Jayce,” she huffs.

“Can’t. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

Vi doesn’t move at first. She can feel his eyes on her, like he’s waiting for her to push him away again. She lets out a frustrated breath and drops her head back against the wall again. The throbbing in her skull hasn’t stopped and her fingers itch for a cigarette

“I don’t want to go home yet.”

Jayce sighs and thinks for a moment, weighing the options in his head. When he’s done deciding, he moves to stand next to her, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his gaze lingering on the city lights in the distance, even though he’s not really looking at them.

Vi pulls out a cigarette, and lights it with her lighter, a cheap one, yellow and plastic, she bought at one when she stopped to get gas, the soft flare of the flame briefly illuminating her face before the smoke curls into the cool air.

Jayce doesn’t say anything, just watches her. He knows she’s not okay, knows that she hasn’t been for a while now. But he doesn’t push.

Vi exhales a long, slow breath of smoke, watching it twist and fade in the air. She wants to scream, wants to throw something, anything. She’s so damn tired of feeling like she’s losing everything.

She glances over at Jayce from the corner of her eye. There’s concern in his gaze, but no judgment.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispers.

She’s not sure why she says it. Maybe it’s because she’s drunk, maybe because Jayce is the only one who hasn’t looked at her like she’s already gone. Maybe because she needs to say it out loud for someone to hear.

Jayce doesn’t respond right away. The alleyway smells like wet concrete and stale smoke, and Vi’s head still pounds as she rolls the cig between her teeth, the taste of tobacco bitter on her tongue.

She hear Jayce shift beside her, leaning against the wall with a quiet sigh, “Mel says that… ____’s mad at you.”

Vi’s lips curl into a smirk, slow and humorless. She lets out a sharp breath through her nose, shaking her head softly.

“Understatement of the century,” she says roughly.

She keeps her gaze fixed on the slick ground in front of her, a single puddle catching the glow of a distant streetlamp. Anything to keep from looking at Jayce. Anything to keep from seeing the pity that’s probably written all over his face.

She can still hear you—your voice, the way you said her name like it was a weapon.

I told you what this was, Violet.

She shakes her head at the thought of Jayce even being here. She doesn’t need a lecture. She doesn’t need a pep talk. She doesn’t need someone else telling her how badly she fucked up—she already knows.

“Have you talked to her at all?”

“Jayce.” Vi furrows her brows, throwing her unfinished cig into the puddle she was staring at before standing and turning towards him, “What the fuck is this?”

Jayce doesn’t flinch at her sharp tone, but he exhales through his nose and watches the cigarette fizzle out in the puddle, a tiny hiss of smoke rising and disappearing into air.

“I’m just asking,” he says softly.

Vi scrubs a hand over her face, her palm dragging down the length of her scarred cheek before she plants it firmly on her hip, the other hand raking through her already-messy hair.

“No, what the fuck is this?” she repeats, louder this time. “Did Mel put you up to this? Did she tell you to come track me down and play therapist? Huh?”

Jayce tilts his head, his jaw flexing. “No one put me up to anything, Vi.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not.” His voice is firm when he speaks. “Believe it or not, I care about you, Vi. I care about you and I care about ____. And, clearly, you’re spiraling.”

Vi lets out a bitter laugh, pacing two steps back and then forward again, like she can’t stand still, like the walls of the alley are pressing in on her.

“You don’t know shit,” she snaps.

“Don’t I?” Jayce’s voice hardens. “I know you’re drunk right now. I know that everyone’s wondering where you are. I know that they’re worried about you. I’m worried about you. Just because you haven’t been here for a while doesn’t mean we don’t care.”

Vi looks away.

“And everyone knows it’s because you’re still in love with her.”

“Don’t,” she warns.

Jayce watches her carefully. “Vi…”

She looks up at him then, eyes bloodshot and glassy, her throat bobbing as she swallows hard.

“Just leave it,” she mutters. “Please.”

“Talk to her,” he says softly.

Vi lets out a bitter laugh, “She won’t even fucking listen to me!”

Jayce clenches his jaw, but he doesn’t move from where he’s leaning against the wall, watching Vi pace around right in front of him—something she recognizes her doing every time she was feeling hot headed.

“She doesn’t even love me anymore, so what’s the fucking point?” Vi says again.

Jayce exhales through his nose, “You don’t know that.”

“Trust me, I do.”

She’s pacing again, boots scuffing against the wet pavement. Her hand twitches toward her pocket—probably for another cigarette—but she stops herself.

“You didn’t see the way she looked at me,” Vi mutters, more to herself than to Jayce now. “Like I was a mistake. Like she regretted ever—”

Her voice breaks off, and she presses the heel of her palm to her eye, like she can shove the tears back in before they even have the chance to fall.

Jayce watches her quietly for a moment, “Vi…”

But Vi’s already shaking her head, blinking hard.

“She told me—” she pauses, swallowing hard. “She told me she didn’t want anything more with me.”

She lets out a shaky breath.

“And I said okay. I said fucking okay because I thought… I thought maybe if I just stuck around long enough, she’d change her mind. That she’d see that I still—”

She cuts herself off again, biting down on the words before they can fully slip out. Her shoulders sag, head tipping back against the brick wall as she stares up.

“She doesn’t love me anymore,” Vi whispers, so quiet now that Jayce almost doesn’t hear it.

He shakes his head, his brows pulling together. “You really believe that?”

Vi’s gaze moves away—down the alley, anywhere but him.

“Vi,” Jayce says again, “If she really didn’t love you, you think any of this would hurt her so much?”

Her throat bobs. “She doesn’t even want to talk to me.”

“Maybe because it’s easier than admitting what she actually still feels for you.”

Vi lets out a shaky breath, running both hands through her hair now, tugging at the roots like it might pull the thoughts straight out of her head.

“Look… people don’t get that angry—don’t get that hurt—unless they still care,” he says quietly.

Jayce’s voice softens as he steps closer.

“She’s just scared, Vi.”

Vi opens her mouth to argue, to push back, but nothing comes out. She knows it’s true.

“She’s not gonna let anything else happen unless she believes you’re really here to stay.”

Her heart beats heavy in her chest, and she feels Jayce’s words on her shoulders. And to be honest, she’s scared, too. Scared to face everything she’s fucked up. Scared of making another stupid mistake. Like asking for more with you, telling you she loves you, when you weren’t even ready for it yet.

And maybe, just maybe, Jayce is right. Maybe she hasn’t lost you completely. Maybe she still has a chance.

Vi leans her head back against the wall, her eyes closing for a moment as she lets out a long, shaky breath.

“Just get your shit together, Vi. You can talk to her whenever you’re ready,” Jayce says, kicking himself off of the wall, dusting his jacket off. “And be honest. If you just give her some time, she’ll think it through… And I’m sure she’ll wanna talk to you about it… with whatever she decides.”

And for a moment, Vi looks at him, raising a curious eyebrow.

“You got all this from Mel, didn’t you?”

“Fuck you.”

Vi smirk and shakes her head, turning away to think for a moment.

Minutes of silence pass between them and Jayce begins to think about what might be going on in that head of hers. Vi can be reckless sometimes, for sure, but…

“I think… there’s something I wanna do first.”

Lately, your phone has been more like dead weight in your pocket than anything else. It vibrates, it chimes but you don’t check it. Not right away. Sometimes not at all. It’s easier that way. You just can’t. The screen lights up on the counter now, another message coming through, but you keep your eyes on the open book in front of you. You haven’t turned a page in ten minutes. The words blur together, the sentences dissolving into meaningless shapes, but you keep staring anyway.

You already know what’s waiting for you if you look.

Mel’s worried messages. Your mom’s reminders about dinner this weekend. And Vi—you don’t even want to see her name glowing on the screen.

Now you’re staring right at it. And you don’t even remember picking up your phone. But here you are.

The last message from her is still there: can we talk?

You never answered. It’s been days. Probably weeks. Time feels weird lately—slipping by too fast and too slow all at once. But that message lingers. Just like she always does. And fuck, you wish it didn’t. You wish Vi didn’t still take up so much space in your mind but she does.

And you know exactly why.

Because you still love her.

And that’s what makes all of this so much worse.

But what would you even say? That it still hurts? That you still think about her? That no matter how much you try to push her away, she’s still there in your mind, even when you told yourself time and time again that you’d forget about her.

Now, the days have started to blur together.

You wake up to the sound of your alarm, the same sound every morning but it still feels like a knife to your brain when your eyes flutter open. Just another day starting, just another reminder that you have to get up, have to keep moving. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, the sheets start to feel cold all over again—because there’s never anyone there to warm the other side.

You don’t think about it too much. Or at least, you tell yourself you don’t.

Then it’s the bookshop.

The same key turning in the lock, the same creak of the door as it opens, the same scent of pages and worn leather covers. You used to love it—still do, in a way—but the magic has dulled a little. Maybe it’s because you’re reminded of the way you started, when Vi was here to keep you company and help you out when the shop was just opening.

You water the plants by the front window, straighten the stacks of books people left behind in the wrong spots, flip the sign to Open. Some customers trickle in—a few regulars who smile politely, some who don’t even make eye contact—and you help them find what they need, ring them up, thank them for coming.

And then it’s quiet again.

You check the time too often. Tell yourself not to, but you do. And it’s always slower than you expect.

By the time you flip the sign again and lock the door, the sky is a dark. Streetlights buzz faintly above you as you walk home every evening, your bag slung over your shoulder, your thoughts too loud.

And then it’s back to your apartment.

The place is too still when you walk in. You kick off your shoes, drop your bag by the door, and stand there for a second too long like you’re waiting for something. But nothing happens.

You shower. Eat something—usually whatever takes the least effort. And then you crawl into bed, the sheets still cold. Your phone sits on the nightstand. You don’t look at it.

Then, you sleep.

And wake up.

And do it all over again.

And no matter how hard you try not to, you think about Vi.

It sneaks up on you, when the shop is quiet and the only sound is the soft flutter of a page turning, or when you’re lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, the space next to you too empty.

What is she doing? The question echoes in your head more often than you’d like.

Maybe she’s packing her things right now. Shoving worn tees and jeans into a duffel bag, zipping it up without a second glance, like it’s easy. Like it’s nothing. Maybe she’s already left—got on a bus or a plane, disappearing to some other big, fancy city.

She could. Vi could leave.

Maybe this time, though, it’s not about chasing a dream or a career. And maybe she’s finally too defeated to fight for you anymore. Maybe this was the moment she realized there’s nothing left to fight for. That she lost. That you’re gone.

But you were just protecting yourself, right? Weren’t you?

Sometimes, you’d think about asking Mel for some more advice.

You love her. You really do. She’s always been the voice of reason. But tonight, even though you know she’d pick up on the first ring, you don’t call her.

Because you already know what she’d say.

She’d sigh, probably a little exasperated but mostly concerned, and she’d tell you that you need to talk to Vi—really talk to her—because this silence, this distance, is only making it worse. She’d remind you that you still love Vi, that it’s obvious to everyone, that pushing her away hasn’t stopped that hurt in your chest or the way your thoughts circle back to her every damn night. She’d tell you that Vi is a mess without you.

You saw, peeking at one of her messages, that Jayce found her flat out drunk outside of a club one night.

And most of all, she’d tell you that you’re scared.

But, you know all of this already.

So you don’t call Mel.

You can lie to yourself about a lot of things. You can tell yourself that this distance is what you wanted. That you were the one who pushed her away, the one who set the rules, the one who told her no commitment—and that Vi was only ever following your lead.

But what you can’t lie about—not to yourself, not to anyone—is how much you miss her.

It’s a hard thing to admit, even when there’s no one around to hear it.

It means that no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise… you still love her.

The truth might be hardest part.

Because, deep down… all you’ve ever wanted was for Vi to be with you. Not just in pieces, not just in passing—but wholly, fully.

Maybe it’s time to be honest with yourself.

You’ve spent so long hiding behind the walls you built, pretending that the space between you and Vi was what you wanted. You told yourself it was for the best, that it was easier this way—no complications, no expectations, no getting hurt again. But you know for a fact that it’s all been a lie.

Because every time you push it away, every time you convince yourself it’s better to stay away, it only gets harder to ignore what you’re really feeling.

So, maybe it’s time to stop running from it. Maybe it’s time to stop pretending that you can move on when all your heart wants is to turn back, to let her back in.

Maybe you should be honest with Vi.

You owe it to yourself. You owe it to her. No matter how much you try to tell yourself otherwise, you know you can’t keep living like this… can’t keep hiding behind you r feelings. You’ve already spent years hurting yourself trying to ignore it.

And it might be terrifying. But for the first time in a long while, you wonder if maybe that’s the way forward—not hiding, not pretending, but facing what’s been there all along.

And maybe that’s why you’re standing outside of this club in the middle of the night, the cool air biting at your skin.

You didn’t even realize how you ended up here. It almost felt like an out-of-body experience. Your feet carried you here on their own. You didn’t plan it—hell, you didn’t even really want to come.

You called Jayce earlier, your voice shaky even though you tried to hide it. Just a simple question. Where’s Vi?

His response was almost too quick. He didn’t even seem surprised you were asking.

And now, here you are. Outside the club, standing out in the open, feeling like a fool.

What the hell are you doing here?

You don’t know if it’s courage or madness that brought you to this here, but now that you’re here, you feel a little paralyzed. There’s a lump in your throat, your hands cold as you wrap them around your arms for warmth. Your thoughts are racing, but they’re all tangled up. Should you go in? What if she’s not here? What if she sees you and walks away?

You could turn around and go home. You could pretend none of this ever happened, that you never came searching for her.

But, before you could even take a step forward towards the door, Vi stumbles out.

You freeze in place, your breath catching in your throat as you watch her. A cigarette dangles loosely between her lips, the smoke trailing behind her as she stumbles just a little. She’s not looking where she’s going, lost in whatever space she’s in, completely unaware of you standing there.

For a second, it almost feels like you shouldn’t be here. Like you shouldn’t even be watching her like this, as if you’ve caught some part of her that wasn’t meant for you to see. She looks… tired. Defeated, almost. And you’re left standing there, staring at her, your heart pounding in your chest like it’s going to break through your ribs.

Vi stops a few feet away, her hand fumbling with the cigarette, eyes still unfocused as she exhales a cloud of smoke. Then, finally, she looks up, and when her eyes meet yours, it’s like everything comes crashing back.

Her face softens just slightly. She doesn’t say anything right away, but the look in her eyes makes your heart race. She opens her mouth, as if to say something, but the words seem to die before they can leave her lips.

Vi takes a step toward you, then stops herself, like she’s unsure if she should. Her eyes flicker between you and the ground, her fingers twitching at her side as if she wants to reach out but can’t bring herself to. The cigarette is still hanging from her lips, now forgotten, burning down to nothing. She takes a long, slow drag from it and then finally tosses it to the ground, grinding it out beneath her boot with a soft sigh.

“Why are you here?”

She didn’t say it in a mean way… just… curious. And confused.

You look at her and answer honestly, quietly, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” she repeats.

You shake your head slowly, “I don’t.”

It’s true, though. You don’t really know why you’re here. Maybe it’s because you missed her. Maybe it’s because you don’t want to lose what little of her you still have left. Maybe it’s just the way your heart aches every time you think about her, every time you let yourself wonder if there’s a chance to make things right again.

Vi stares at you for a moment, her eyes searching, like she’s looking for something in your face that might give her an answer. And just when you think she’s about to pull away, retreating back into the walls she’s built around herself, she steps closer. Her hand rubs the back of her neck, that nervous habit of hers. She looks at you, then away, and you can tell she’s trying to figure out whether this is real or just a dream in her mind, watching it like it’s in front of her.

“I… don’t know what you want from me,” she says quietly.

You open your mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. Instead, you study her face. Her eyes look tired, a steady frown on her lips as she looks at you, dazed.

“Maybe, we should talk about this later…” you murmur softly. “When you’re sober.”

“I’m not drunk,” she says too quickly.

She opens her mouth again, but her words falter, as if she’s trying to convince herself more than you.

“I’m not—” she starts again, but her voice sounds quieter than before, and she trails off.

You sigh and take a step back, keeping the distance between you just enough to give her space, but not too far away to make her feel abandoned. For a brief moment, she looks like she wants to protest all over again, like she wants to tell you she’s fine, that she’s been through worse and this doesn’t bother her.

But instead, her eyes soften, just slightly. Her lips tighten, and she simply nods, though it’s a reluctant one.

You take a late bus ride home with her—back to that old neighborhood you both used to live in.

The bus ride felt like it stretched on forever, the city lights flickering past the window in flashes of neon and fading streetlamps but none of it mattered.

Not when Vi couldn’t take her eyes off of you.

She hadn’t said anything in the last few minutes. She didn’t know what to say. But her eyes were glued to you, tracing the soft curve of your profile as the light hit your face. She wanted to reach out, to touch you—her fingers aching for soft feel of your skin. She wanted to press her cheek against your shoulder, close her eyes, and breathe you in like she used to. The simple, familiar warmth of you against her. She wanted to hold your hand, to intertwine her fingers with yours, but the fear of rejection all over again kept her frozen in place.

So instead, she just stared.

Her eyes lingered on you, taking in every small detail, from the way your hair fell softly around your face to the way you absentmindedly tapped your fingers against your knee, to the way your lips press together tightly for a quick second whenever you were lost in thought. Everything about you felt so familiar, so desperately close, but so far out of reach.

When the bus finally pulled to a stop and you both got off, Vi still didn’t say anything.

The neighborhood looked the same as it always had, the houses standing like quiet sentinels on either side of the street, the trees lining the road, long shadows just beneath them.

She walked beside you, close, her steps almost too quiet. She couldn’t help herself—her eyes kept darting to you, taking in the way you held yourself, the way your shoulders shifted ever so slightly when you took each step.

And when you reach Vander’s house, Vi’s childhood home standing just in front of your mother’s, Vi felt her heart race again. She wanted to ask if you were okay, wanted to say something, to close the gap between the two of you.

But then you stop walking, just as your reach the end of Vi’s driveway, turning to look at her. Her eyes meet your immediately and you know for a fact that Vi didn’t want you or her to go anywhere.

“You should go,” you say politely, nodding your head towards the house behind her.

It wasn’t meant to push her away, not exactly, but you both knew how fragile things were between you at the moment, and you weren’t really sure what else to say. What else could you say?

But Vi didn’t move, didn’t take the step toward her front door like you had expected. She just stood there, staring at you, her face unreadable as she fidgeted with her hands, unsure of herself.

Finally, her voice cuts through, “Do you wanna come in?”

Vi’s voice trembled, just a little, as if she wasn’t sure whether she should have said it at all. Her eyes searched yours, looking for something—permission, maybe reassurance. It was so different from the confident, stubborn woman you’d once known.

A hundred things flashed through your mind in an instant: the memories of Vi in this house, her old bedroom—laughing, arguing, falling asleep on her couch, her bed with her arm around your shoulders, the sound of her voice soft in the dark.

But all those thoughts felt so far away now, like a dream you could barely reach.

“Maybe not tonight,” you whispered.

She nods.

Not tonight. Vi tries to study your face, like she wasn’t sure what your words meant. But her gaze softened, and the slight tremble in her hand betrayed how much this moment mattered to her, how much she needed something—anything—from you.

She take a breath before muttering, “I miss you.”

Those three words were almost enough to knock the breath out of you.

Vi waited, her eyes never leaving yours. She stood there offering something you still weren’t sure you could take—or something you weren’t sure you should take.

You shook your head, the concern rising again, but your heart already knew the answer.

“You’re drunk, Violet,” you whisper softly, not wanting to be harsh, but—

“Just because I’m drunk doesn’t mean I don’t miss you,” she said.

Your breath hitched in your throat, the distance between you closing with every word she spoke. Maybe it was the way she looked at you. Maybe it was the fact that you missed her too.

But still, you hesitated, unsure of what to say back.

“Vi…” you started, but the words didn’t come easily, and you could see the way she stiffened, like she was bracing for the rejection she expected.

Her eyes softened and she sighed, before taking a step back, giving you some space.

She nods again.

“When I’m sober,” she says.

“Yeah…” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Vi’s looking at you, waiting, her breath uneven, her hands twitching at her sides like she wants to grab you, pull you in, make you understand. But all you can do is swallow the lump in your throat and try to call yourself, even though your heart seems to be pounding so loudly in your chest.

You nod your head towards her house again. “You should go in—”

“You first.”

You sigh, already knowing Vi won’t budge. It was familiar.

Back in high school, after nights when she’d take you out on a date, take you home after some school dance or game, whatever it was, she always made sure you got home safely, watching you outside of her own house as you stepped into yours. And it’s only when she sees the door shut after you when she finally turns on her heel and goes home.

“Can I call you?” she asks, just as you turn to walk away.

You stop. Your heart skips, and you let out a soft breath before turning halfway, catching the way she’s already bracing herself for a no.

Buy you look back at her and smile softly, “When you’re sober?”

The corner of Vi’s mouth twitches, but the smile never really makes it, “Yeah.”

Your game lingers on her for a moment, watching as she stuffs her hands into the pocket a off her jacket.

“Goodnight, Violet.”

You don’t look back this time. You just keep walking, the night quiet except for the soft scuff of your shoes against the pavement as you head towards the house a cross the street.

Vi stays frozen at the edge of her driveway, watching your silhouette disappear behind the front door of your old house.

Three days pass since you same her that night. Watching her stand there, half-dazed from the alcohol, eyes tracing, trying to memorize each and every detail of you.

You wondered if she remembered. Did she? Or did she wake up, head pounding, wondering how she even got home?

You try not to think about it, but you really can’t help it. You can’t stop the thoughts that slip into your mind. You wonder if she’s forgotten about it. If she’s forgotten about you.

But a big part of your heart doesn’t let you believe that.

You know it’s a foolish thought, it’s hard not to think about. You wish she’d call. Just to hear her voice, even if it’s only for a minute.

Then, she does.

It’s late when your phone buzzes, and the sound startles you. You’ve been lying in bed for what feels like hours. You’re not sure what you were expecting tonight, but it certainly wasn’t this. Not at this hour.

When you glance at the screen, your heart skips a beat.

You stare at the name for a moment.

It’s been three days. Three silent days. Your thumb hovers over the screen, uncertain, as if maybe it’s some mistake. Maybe it’s just some fluke, a wrong number or a dream.

But it’s her name.

Your thumb is already swiping across the screen, and before you know it, you’re answering, “Hello?”

It’s quiet for a moment on the other end, and you wonder if she’s second-guessing this, if she’s having the same hesitations you did before she called. You can almost hear her breathing, like she’s trying to find the right thing to say.

“Hey,” she says.

You sit up in bed, your eyes closing as you press the phone closer to your ear.

“Sorry, I know it’s late…”

You swallow, your mouth dry. “It’s okay.”

“I… I’m sober,” she lets out a shaky breath.

You can’t help but smile softly. She remembered.

“That’s good, Vi.”

She sighs on the other end.

“I’ve been thinking about you a lot… but…” She hesitates, “I… I want to talk about it in person.”

In person.

“When?” you say nervously.

“Uh, can you come by Vander’s tomorrow? After work? I-If you’re working, I mean. Or whichever day you’re free.” Her voice is soft, nervous, like she’s afraid you’d say no.

You nod to yourself, though she can’t see you. Your heart races as you say quietly, “I’ll go after I close the shop.”

“Yeah… okay.”

There’s another pause, and then Vi’s voice comes through again, quieter than before.

“I miss you.”

You probably shouldn’t say it, but you do anyway.

“Me too.”

On the other end of the line, Vi lies flat on her back in her childhood bedroom, the phone pressed tight against her ear, her free hand draped over her face as if that could somehow hide the flush creeping up her neck. She’s staring at the ceiling—at the faint cracks in the paint, the old band posters she put up when she was seventeen, the ones she never bothered to take down. It smells the same in here, but now with the faint scent of the cigarettes she now smokes outside but somehow still manages to drag in with her.

Her heart is racing and it almost feels stupid, how nervous she is, how her whole body feels like it’s buzzing, like she’s back in high school, lying in this exact room, talking to you on the phone late into the night, whispering so Vander wouldn’t hear that she’s awake past midnight.

And Vi swears her heart stumbles in her chest when she hears your voice, her hand dragging down her face. She’s blushing—full-on red as a damn tomato—and it’s so ridiculous that she actually closes her eyes, biting back a smile, because it’s you. It’s always been you.

Her voice is quieter now, rough but tender, the words slipping out before she can think too hard about them.

“Really?” She asks softly, the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Your cheeks instantly get hot and your clear your throat before quickly saying, “See you tomorrow.”

The line goes dead before she can even get a word out.

And then, Vi smiles.

The soft beep of the call ending echoes through her room, and for a second, she just lies there, blinking at the ceiling, the phone still in her hand. Then, she drops the phone onto her chest. You blushed. She heard it in your voice, before you hung up so quick.

She’s nervous. And she can only hope everything she planned, goes well.

The sky is a deep orange when you close up shop and start your walk towards Vander’s bar. The air is warm but it was cooling fast, a breeze slipping beneath your jacket and brushes against your bare legs.

You don’t know how long you’ve been standing here when you arrive, outside of The Last Drop, just staring at the worn sign hanging above the door, just like you did the time Vi asked you to come on Benzo’s birthday. The neon letters are bright against the brick wall, hanging just above the door.

You tug your jacket a little tighter around your shoulders, the simple dress beneath it fluttering lightly with the wind. It’s nothing fancy—you told yourself you didn’t dress up for this. Didn’t want to. That you wouldn’t. But there’s still a small part of you that combed through your closet this morning for something just nice, pretty enough—something Vi might notice anyway.

The street is mostly empty, just a few people lingering further down, the occasional sound of a car passing by. The bar’s windows glow dimly from the inside, soft lights spilling out onto the sidewalk, but it’s quiet—just a bit early for the late night crowd.

And from where you’re standing, you can’t tell if Vi is even here.

You swallow, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, biting the inside of your cheek as your eyes stay fixed on the door. It would be so easy to turn around, walk back the way you came, head home to your apartment and pretend you never came here at all.

But your feet don’t move. You promised yourself that you’d be brave. And honest.

So, you step in.

The door creaks softly as you push it open, and the scent of old wood and faint cigarette smoke wafts over you. The bar is quieter than you expected—just a few regulars hunched over their drinks, the clink of glasses and the low hum of some rock song playing through the crackling speakers filling the room.

Vander’s behind the bar, wiping down a glass with a rag, his broad frame taking up space behind the counter just as you remember. His beard’s a little grayer now, but his eyes still looked the same—the kind that always made you feel welcome, even on the nights when you and Vi would stumble in after one of your countless fights after school, both of you pretending you hadn’t just spent the walk here arguing, bantering, even though he knew that you’d make up an hour later.

The door swings shut behind you with a soft thud, and Vander’s head lifts at the sound.

“Hi, Vander,” you greet.

“Welcome back,” he says with a smile. “Vi’s out back. Had her help with some of the new supplies that came in today.”

You manage a small smile, tugging your jacket a little closer around yourself, unsure what to say. But you don’t have to, because before you can even open your mouth, Vander’s already turning, peeking his head into the small kitchen behind the bar.

“Vi!” he calls out.

Your heart jumps.

A clatter sounds from the back; a faint curse, something heavy being set down and then there’s the sound of footsteps, slow at first, then quicker, like she was rushing.

And all you can do is stand there, staring at the kitchen door, bracing yourself for the moment she walks through it.

The kitchen door swings open just enough for Vi to peek out, her shoulder braced against the frame, and the moment her gaze lands on you, standing there, soft and still and backlit by the dim glow of the bar lights—her heart skips.

Her hair is a mess, unruly and half-falling out of the loose, low, short ponytail she must’ve tied back hours ago. There’s a smear of flour or maybe grease across her forearm, and her knuckles are dusted with something dark—soot from the ancient stove, probabl—and for a second, Vi’s painfully aware of how she must look. Like she just climbed out of a fight with the kitchen itself.

And then there’s you.

Vi’s lips part—not because she knows what to say, but because she doesn’t. She just stares for a beat too long, her chest rising and falling a little too fast, her fingers tightening around the edge of the doorframe.

“Uh…” She finally says, like it had to fight its way out of her throat.

Her brain’s moving too slow—still caught somewhere between how pretty you look and how completely unprepared she suddenly feels.

You don’t say anything yet. Just look at her with those wide, unreadable eyes—the ones that always made her feel like you could see right through her. Vi swallows. Her free hand rakes through her hair, trying to smooth it down, but it only makes the strands stick up more, and she curses softly under her breath. You smile just a little and it’s enough to knock the air right out of her lungs.

Vi’s voice cracks just a little when she stammers, “O-One sec. Let me get my things.”

Then, before you can respond, she disappears back into the kitchen like she’s running from a fire.

You hear a clatter again—something metal hitting the floor. There’s a shuffle of movement, the sound of a zipper being yanked too hard, and then Vi’s voice again, muffled: “Shit—where the hell—”

You stand there, still, your fingers idly brushing the hem of your jacket as Vander watches from behind the bar with an amused smirk, wiping down another glass. The warm hum of the bar seems distant—the soft chatter of conversations, the scrape of a chair against the floor but all you can really focus on is the faint noise of Vi scrambling around in the back.

She’s nervous. You’ve known her long enough to tell.

And you are too.

When Vi reappears, she’s breathless—hair still a little disheveled, but free from they messy, low pony she had on earlier, cheeks a little flushed—but she’s shed the dirty apron, now holding a leather jacket in one hand and shoving her phone into her back pocket with the other. Her boots scuff against the floor as she stops just short of you, swallowing hard.

“Okay,” she says, like she’s still catching up to the moment. Then, with a quick glance down at herself—like she’s realizing, too late, that she still smells faintly of smoke and whatever the hell she was cooking back there—Vi clears her throat. “Uh… ready.”

You blink at her, tilting your head slightly. “Are we going somewhere?”

Vi’s eyes widen and for a split second, she looks like a deer caught in headlights.

“Oh, right! Y-Yeah,” she stutters, the words tripping over themselves. Her gaze darts to the window, like she’s only just noticing how the sky outside has deepened from soft orange to dusky purple, the last light of the sun slipping away. “I… I wanted to show you something.”

She doesn’t elaborate.

Your lips part slightly, a question at the tip of your tongue—but you don’t ask. Not yet.

Instead, you watch as Vi fiddles with the zipper of her leather jacket, her fingers twitchy and restless. She keeps stealing glances at you when she thinks you’re not looking and then drop to the way your dress falls around your legs, soft and simple, before she hastily looks away again like she’s scolding herself.

She’s nervous. It’s endearing.

You smile gently, adjusting your jacket over your shoulders, and let the silence stretch just a little longer—enough to make Vi’s throat bob as she swallows hard.

“Is it far?” you ask softly, finally breaking the silence.

Vi’s gaze snaps back to yours. “Its, uh, a bit of a drive… but not too far. Promise.”

You give her another small smile and nod. “Okay.”

Relief flashes across Vi’s face so quickly you almost miss it. She steps back, motioning toward the door with a jerk of her chin.

“Come on,” she says. “It’s better if I just show you.”

Vi leads you through the back door of the bar, her hand hovering near the small of your back but never quite touching, like she wants to guide you but thinks better of it at the last second. It’s a bit colder outside now, the heat slipping away into a soft breeze.

Her truck is parked there, a beat-up thing that looks like it’s seen better days—faded red paint, a dent in the front bumper, a sticker peeling off the back window. Just like you remember. And without a word, Vi steps ahead, pulling open the passenger side door for you. You climb in, the worn leather seat creaking softly under you, and Vi closes the door carefully, before roundjng the truck and jogging over to the driver’s side.

There’s a beat of silence got a moment—just the two of you sitting there. Then Vi reaches forward, twisting the key in the ignition. The truck starts, and the radio clicks on—low music filtering through her old speakers, some soft, indie song you don’t recognize. And it’s quiet enough that you can still hear Vi’s shaky breath as she shifts into gear and pulls out of the lot.

The drive is silent, for the most part.

You steal a glance at Vi, the way her fingers flex around the steering wheel, her thumb tapping against it. Her jaw is tight, her left knee bouncing ever so slightly.

She’s nervous. Extremely.

She hasn’t looked at you once since you got in the truck. Not directly. But her knuckles are white where they grip the wheel, and you can tell—she’s thinking about you.

“You okay?” you ask softly, not because you don’t know the answer, but because you want to hear her say something.

Vi’s fingers tighten around the wheel.

“Yeah,” she says too quickly. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

Thinking.

You don’t ask about what.

Instead, you just turn your gaze back to the road ahead, watching as the lights of the town blur past. The road twists and turns as Vi drives, the town slowly fading behind, buildings growing fewer. The truck hums along, the music still playing softly through the speakers, though neither of you has said much since you left the bar.

You glance at Vi again, at the way her fingers grip the wheel, her jaw working like she’s chewing on a thousand words but swallowing every last one. She’s tense, sure, but there’s something kind of bright in her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching like she’s holding back a smile.

You begin to wonder now—Where are we going?

But then… you start to notice the way the road curves just so. The familiar slope of the hill you know all too well. The buildings growing further and further now in the rearview mirror, until there’s nothing left but open sky and that long, winding road that stretches upward on the hill.

There’s no way, you think.

But… you can see it from here now.

That old drive-in movie theater at the top of the hill, long abandoned but still standing. The massive, weathered screen towers above the lot, cracked and peeling but somehow still proud. Rows of broken, overgrown parking spaces stretch out before it, grass pushing through the cracks in the ground.

It’s exactly the same. Older. But the same.

And suddenly, you remember the nights spent here, years ago—sneaking in after hours when the place had already shut down, lying on the hood of Vi’s old car, watching the stars instead of whatever movie was playing, because Vi could never really sit still long enough to actually watch anything… especially with you there next to her.

It was the first date she took you on, after years of growing up together, secretly crushing on each other, after finally confessing to you when sophomore year had barely started. She took you here, soon after Vander had gifted her the truck on her sixteenth birthday. She saved up for weeks, trying to make it all perfect, grabbing dinner at that pizza place you like, picking flowers in some random field after band practice and giving it to you when she finally mustered up the courage to ask you out. You remember the way she’d steal glances at you instead of the screen—the way her fingers would twitch like she wanted to touch you but didn’t know if she should. The way she’d finally work up the courage, lacing her pinky with yours, cheeks flushed even in the dark. You kissed her here for the first time, surprising her, and not only did Vi fall more in love with you, she fell in love with kissing you.

And now—here you are again.

Vi pulls the truck into the middle of the lot, the perfect spot for a good view of the screen, before cutting the engine.

Silence.

The sound of the radio dies, leaning only the distant chirp of crickets and the faint whisper of the wind through the grass.

Vi’s fingers are still curled around the steering wheel, like she’s gathering the courage to let go.

Finally, she clears her throat.

“I, uh… I thought we could—” She stops, shakes her head, then tries again. “I just… I used to bring you here all the time, remember?”

Her voice is quiet. Tentative.

You swallow hard, your fingers tightening around the edge of your jacket.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I remember.”

Vi lets out a shaky breath, her thumb still tapping nervously against the steering wheel.

“I thought this place shut down a couple years ago,” you say, looking out the window.

In fact, you knew it did. You came here from time to time, while you and Vi were still dating—while you were here, and she was off far away chasing her dream. You’d come here alone from time to time when you were missing her, maybe in between months to watch a movie to pretend she was with you. You liked doing that.

But, the people who ran this place decided to shut it down, you heard. Bad business. Less and a less people coming. Not enough money coming in to keep this place running.

Your heart broke with it.

“It looks clean,” you say, eyes scanning what looked liked freshly cut grass and no sight of trash littered across the field.

Vi clears her throat before speaking again.

“I… I actually spent a few weeks getting this place fixed up,” she says quietly, glancing at you nervously.

Your heart skip another beat.

“You… What?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

She shifts in her seat, her thumb still twitching against the wheel, a nervous habit you recognize all too well. Her other hand scrubs at the back of her neck, and you catch the faintest hint of red creeping up from her collar, disappearing beneath the jacket she’s wearing.

“I, uh… yeah,” she mumbles, eyes darting to the dark screen towering above you both, the massive structure still cracked and weathered but now oddly… clean. Cleared of the overgrown vines and layers of grime that once clung to it like a second skin.

Vi lifts her gaze back to you, “I figured I could fix it up.”

You blink at her.

And she clears her throat again.

“Ekko, Steb, Loris… even Jayce. They all helped. Took a couple weeks to clean the place up. Three days just this week to make sure everything was working—” She stops herself, clears her throat. “The projector, I mean. It’s old, but… we got it running again.”

Your mouth opens—then closes.

Because suddenly, it’s so clear.

The smudges of grease on Vi’s fingers when she rushed out of the kitchen earlier tonight. The faint streak of dirt on her shirt. The way she kept checking the sky, the time—so desperate to get you here after the sun completely set.

She’d been working on this for you.

Your throat feels tight.

“You did all of this?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” she breathes, nodding nervously. “I just… I wanted to bring you back here. I thought maybe… we could talk here. And it’s quiet, so...”

She laughs softly—bitterly, almost.

“Or, y’know… we don’t have to talk, if you want. We could just sit here. Stare at the screen. Like we used to.”

Your chest aches.

Because Vi isn’t just showing you this place—this isn’t just about an old drive-in movie theater. It’s about all the time she lost, all the ways she’s trying to piece something back together. She’s standing in the ruins of what you once had, and instead of walking away… she’s trying to build something new.

For you.

You swallow hard, fingers tightening around the edge of your jacket as you glance back at the screen, the rows of parking spots, the cleared out grass—everything Vi touched, cleaned, and fixed looking back at her.

“Vi…” you whisper, but you don’t know what to say.

The smile tugs at your lips before you can stop it.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been staring at each other until you quietly say, “Can you put a movie on?”

It takes Vi a second to notice—like she wasn’t expecting it—but when she finally turns her head and really looks at you, her own smile creeps up slow. It’s tentative at first, like she’s afraid to let herself feel too much, but then it grows brighter and wider, spreading across her face until her dimples flash like she’s suddenly seventeen again, sitting in front of you with a heart too full to control.

“Y-Yeah,” she stammers, the excitement in her voice is clear—impossible to hide. “Yeah—uh, just gimme a sec.”

And then she’s moving—quickly, almost tripping over her own feet in her rush to get out of the truck. She doesn’t even bother closing the door properly, leaving it cracked open as she jogs across the lot, her jacket nearly slipping off one shoulder as she reaches the small booth tucked at the back of the theater—the projector room.

You watch her climb up the short set of metal stairs—two at a time—before fumbling with the old lock on the door, muttering something to herself when it sticks for a moment. She manages to shove it open with a rough push of her shoulder, disappearing inside.

For a moment, it’s quiet.

Then, after a few seconds, a faint flicker of light appears on the blank screen in front of you.

You lean back in the seat, your heart still beating a little too fast, watching as the screen brightens as the picture starts to settle. A movie starts—and you smile, shaking your head as the music fills your ears before anything else. Star Wars: A New Hope.

And a few seconds later, Vi comes sprinting back—slightly breathless, a wide grin plastered across her face as she throws herself back into the driver’s seat.

The iconic opening is already rolling, those bold yellow letters floating through the starry sky, the score blasting through the old speakers Vi must’ve rigged back to life.

You remember the way she used to kiss you during the this movie. How she’d slip her hand into yours when Leia appeared, saying something cheesy like, “You’re prettier than her,” and you’d roll your eyes, laughing—but your heart would race, and you’d kiss her in the cheek anyway.

You smile again.

And Vi notices.

“What?” she asks, a little shy, like she’s bracing herself for you to tease her.

You shake your head, still smiling, eyes glued to the screen. “Nothing.”

But Vi doesn’t look away—not right away.

She keeps watching you, like you’re the only thing worth watching tonight.

The movie plays on, echoing softly through the speakers Vi must’ve dragged out here, though the sound’s a little scratchy, like it’s crackling at the edges. But it doesn’t really matter. Neither of you are really watching it anyway.

You can feel Vi’s gaze drift toward you every few minutes—like she’s checking, like she’s still waiting, like she’s terrified this might all be too much, too soon. But she doesn’t say anything.

It really is quiet up here, like she said—no passing cars, no city noise—just the wind brushing through the grass and the soft hum of the projector behind you.

You pull your jacket a little tighter around yourself.

And then you glance at Vi.

She’s watching the screen—or at least pretending to—but her jaw is tight, her lips pressed together, like she’s biting back words. You can tell she wants to say something, the way her knee won’t stop bouncing, the way her hand keeps flexing against her thigh, like she’s thinking about reaching for yours but doesn’t dare.

So you speak first.

“Why’d you fix this place up?” you ask softly.

Vi blinks. She looks at you for a long moment, mouth parting—but nothing comes out at first.

“I… I don’t know,” she admits, running a hand through her hair—messing it up even more, if that’s possible. “I just… I remembered you saying you used to come here.”

She glances away for a moment.

“I know I wasn’t always… there. Back then.” Her jaw clenches, struggling to find the right words. “But I remembered you telling me how you’d come here sometimes—when I was on the road. After we broke up, I was on a call with dad and heard that it got shut down.”

You swallow, hard.

“I guess… I just wanted to fix it. Make it… I don’t know. Make it something good again. For you.”

You remember those nights. The ones where Vi wouldn’t call, or would miss your texts—too busy chasing the dream you told her you were proud of, even if it meant you were left behind.

You clear your throat, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “Vi…”

She shakes her head quickly, like she doesn’t want you to say anything.

“I know it doesn’t fix anything,” she mumbles.

Her gaze drops to her lap.

Silence again.

But before you can stop yourself, your hand moves until your fingers brush against Vi’s on the seat between you. Just a light touch. Just enough to let her know you heard her.

Vi’s breath hitches in her throat. She doesn’t look at you—but she doesn’t move her hand away either.

The movie rolls on, the light flickering on the screen softly, and uneven shadows dance across Vi’s face. Your fingers are still there, resting lightly against hers—not quite holding her hand, but not pulling away either.

Vi hasn’t moved. Hasn’t even dared to breathe too loud.

She’s still nervous. You can feel it in the way her knee keeps bouncing, in the way her thumb twitches, like she wants so badly to close the distance and link her fingers with yours.

But she doesn’t. She stays there, still as a statue, letting you set the pace.

You glance at her out of the corner of your eye.

She’s not watching the movie anymore—hasn’t been for a while. Her gaze is fixed on the screen, sure, but you can tell by the way her eyebrows twitch slightly, by the way her lips press into a thin line, that her head is somewhere else entirely.

She’s thinking about you. You know her too well. She’s overthinking, pulling herself apart, wondering if all of this was too much.

She thinks you might pull away any second now.

So you don’t.

You shift slightly in your seat, letting your pinky finger loop gently around hers. It’s barely anything but Vi notices immediately. Her body goes stiff for a second. Then, slowly, she moves her hand—just enough to let her pinky hook back around yours.

It’s almost nothing.

But to Vi, it’s everything.

She lets out a shaky breath, like she’s been holding it in for too long, and finally dares to look at you.

“I wasn’t sure if you were gonna show up today,” she admits, “After… the other night.”

You hear the words inside of your head again. I love you.

You swallow the lump in your throat and speak softly, your finger still hooked with hers.

“I told you I’d see you tomorrow,” you say.

Vi’s lips twitch once more, but there’s still a question in her eyes, like she’s waiting for you to reject her all over again.

Like she’s still afraid you’re going to run.

And maybe a part of you is still afraid too.

The movie continued to fade into the background. You shift a little, the leather seat creaking softly as you move. Your pinky was still hooked around hers, but the rest of your hand stayed still. Waiting for something from her.

It was too quiet now. Neither of you looked at each other. Vi’s chest tightened with the silence. Her fingers fidgeted where they rested against the seat as she thought about how much she wanted to say but didn’t know how. She wasn’t sure if it was too late, or if you’d even believe her if she told you how much she still loved you, how much she regretted everything that had happened between you both.

Then, the words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them. Vi’s heart skipped a beat as soon as she said it, and she immediately regretted the rush.

“I’m leaving the record label,” she blurted out.

You stopped and turned your head to look at her.

“What?”

She couldn’t bring herself to look at you, her eyes glued to the screen ahead, even though she was barely watching. Her other hand curled into a fist over her lap. She hadn’t planned on telling you this way. She wanted to ease into it more. And she wasn’t ready for this conversation—hell, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be ready—but now that it was out, it was impossible to ignore.

Vi sighs, her mind racing. It had been a decision she’d been turning over for the past year, before coming back here, before seeing you again, something she’d thought about while staring at the ceiling of her hotel room, when the loneliness finally sank in. She was done with it. The constant demands, the fake smiles, the busy schedules. She was done pretending. Done with the things that had pulled her away from everything that had once mattered.

And that included you.

“It’s just… it’s not what I thought it was.” She says, voice shaking as she spoke.

Vi finally turns her head, just enough to catch a glimpse of you, though she wasn’t sure if she could hold your gaze yet.

“I’m tired of it,” she breathes.

She was tired of being someone she wasn’t sure she recognized anymore. The pressure. The distance. The mistakes. The demands. Constantly touring. Strict deadlines for recording and making music. Promotions. Events. She was tired of pretending she was fine with drowning in the endless work, tired of feeling like she was losing herself more every day, when all she ever wanted was to make music and play it with her best friends.

Her knuckles whitened, clenching her fist hard.

“I didn’t realize how much I was… letting go of until it was too late,” Vi continued, her voice dropping, vulnerable in a way she wasn’t used to. “I let everything else slip through my fingers. And you—”

Her throat tightened, and she cut herself off, shaking her head, her breath catching in the back of her throat.

“I was so focused on everything else, I didn’t even notice… I didn’t even notice how far I was from you.”

She wasn’t sure what she expected, if anything. Maybe she was just hoping to get it out, to let you know she wasn’t the same person anymore, that she was ready to change. Ready to fight for what really mattered. For you.

“Violet,” you say softly. “You love the band…”

Vi’s smile was soft as she looked over at you. She let out a breath, shaking her head.

“I do, yeah… but…” She trailed off, her eyes flitting to the dashboard as if the answers were hiding somewhere in the worn leather seats.

“I’m not quitting the band… I don’t want to do that any time soon and I didn’t think you’d want me to do that either,” she added, running a hand through her hair. “But I’m tired of the way things are going. The stuff we have to do… It’s not fun anymore.”

She let out another deep breath, her eyes briefly meeting yours again.

“I want a place where we’re not being told what to do, where we can just… make music and play what we want,” Vi smiled a little again, more to herself than to you, as if she was starting to believe it herself. “I guess… I just need to find a label that’s willing to let us have more freedom, you know?”

“What does the band think?” you ask her. After all, they did sign to a major label—you know it won’t be smooth sailing if they quit. But a part of you also knows how popular the band is, how big they’ve gotten, how successful they are, and that if this happens, people are still going to want to listen to them anyway.

“Yeah, they’re on board,” Vi smiles.

She was scared, her heart pounding loudly in her chest. Her eyes found their way back to the screen, the flashing lights of the movie scenes dancing across her face, but… she couldnt think about anything else.

“And I also… I wanna be closer to you,” Vi whispered, almost as if she wasn’t sure she even had the right to say it.

Her lips pressed together. She was nervous again.

The truth was, she didn’t know how to make you believe her. How to make you see that she wasn’t the same person who had let you go before.

That this time, she wanted you. All of you.

She cleared her throat awkwardly, “I-I mean… T-There’s a record label I’ve been looking at. I-It’s independent, and it’s just several hours away, but it’s closer than New York and Ekko and I were already thinking about setting up a studio here at home so—I-If it works out, we’ll just finish our contract and move right after… Besides—”

She’s rambling.

After a minute of talking out of her nerves, her gaze flickered toward you again, against her better judgment, and for a split second, her heart stuttered in her chest.

You looked… perfect. Beautiful. So much more than she remembered, and yet so familiar, like she was coming home.

Fuck, she thought. You look so pretty.

Vi immediately turned her head back to the screen, suddenly feeling the heat spreading across her cheeks. She wanted to look at you again, to let herself drink you in, but she was scared. It was easier to look away, to focus on the movie in front of her. But she couldn’t stop thinking about you. Every little thing about you—your laugh, you smile, the feeling of your hand against hers—was driving her crazy.

She sneaked another glance anyway, this time a little longer, though she quickly darted her eyes away again when she realized how easily her breath hitched. You weren’t even doing anything, just sitting there, your gaze soft on the screen, yet everything about you felt so magnetic to her. It was hard to ignore, harder still to pretend that she wasn’t still in love with you.

“I spent a lot of time trying to forget about you, you know.”

For a second, Vi wasn’t sure if she had heard you correctly.

But she could hear the honesty in your voice. And suddenly, she wished more than anything that she could take all of that pain away. That she could erase the hurt she had caused, make it right. She wanted to apologize, wanted to explain everything she had never said, but the words felt stuck in her throat.

You turned your head slowly, and though she couldn’t see your face clearly, she knows that tears were threatening to spill.

“I spent so long convincing myself I was okay without you,” you continued. “I told myself I was fine… and for a while, I believed it. I really did.”

Vi’s heart twisted painfully as you spoke. It was hard to hear, but at the same time, she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

“But no matter how much I tried to push it all down, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Sometimes, I wondered if we could ever go back to the way we were.”

You turned your head away, trying to hide the tears that found their way down your cheeks.

“I figured you’d forget about me too… that you were out there living your dream already… and that you didnt need me anymore.”

“You’re wrong.”

Vi’s heart raced as she quickly scooted closer to you, the long seat in her truck creaking slightly, like she couldn’t wait another second to close the distance between you.

Her hand hovered over yours for a split second, then laced her fingers with yours. She pulled your hand into her lap, her hands big, warm and rough—the same way they’ve always felt before. Vi stared down at your intertwined hands, her thumb tracing the soft curve of your knuckles, over and over again, as though she was trying to memorize the feeling of your skin. She couldn’t look at you just yet; her gaze was fixed on your joined hands, touching you, holding you.

“You’re wrong,” she repeated, her words spilling out, desperate for you to hear her, to believe her. “I never stopped needing you. Never stopped wanting you.”

She swallowed hard, shaking her head.

“I thought about you every day,” she whispered.

Vi didn’t look at you as she spoke—her eyes still fixed on your hands, her thumb continuing to trace small circles over your skin.

“I thought about all the things I’d do right the next time… if I got the chance. All the ways I’d be better for you.”

Her fingers tightened just slightly around yours, pulling you a little closer. Her side was pressed against yours, but even then, she wanted to be closer.

“I also wondered if you found someone else. Someone who’d be there for you the way I wasn’t,” she said, smiling sadly at the thought. “It’s been three years since I saw you so… I don’t know. That’s a long time and I…”

Always thought it was too late.

Her head dropped, chin tilting slightly downward, as she let out a shaky breath, trying to keep herself from falling apart. There was so much regret, so much pain for the time she had wasted, for the distance that had grown between the two of you.

“When I saw you at the wedding… All the bullshit I’ve been running through my head, all the walls I’ve put up… they just… disappeared,” she said, eyes shifting to meet yours for just a moment. “And all I could think was, ‘I’ve wasted so much time. I’ve been so stupid.’”

Her breath was shallow, unsteady, as she ran her thumb back and forth over your skin. She wanted to make you feel safe, wanted you to feel the sincerity in her touch, the way she wanted to be close to you.

“You deserve more than… than everything I gave you,” Vi sniffles quietly. “I wasn’t ready then, but I’m ready now.”

She squeezed your hand slightly, to reassure herself that you were here, that you hadn’t let go, that you were still holding onto her.

Her thumb continued its slow path over your knuckles.

“You’re my dream, too.”

Her chest feels tight as she says it.

“And if you don’t want this with me… that’s okay,” Vi says softly, though her voice cracks at the end.

She stares straight ahead, at the flickering lights of the drive-in screen now, though she’s still not really watching the movie.

“I just… I want you to know it’s not about what I want. It’s about what you want. If being close to me again—if it hurts too much… then I get it. I swear, I do.”

Vi’s grip on your hand loosens, hesitant, like she’s preparing herself to let go. Her heart is racing, her stomach twisting. She’s trying to be strong, to give you space, but the truth is, the thought of losing you again—this time for good—is tearing her apart piece by piece.

“I want to be happy… and if you think you can’t be that with me, I’ll understand.”

And finally, Vi turns her head just enough to look at you, her eyes glassy. But she doesn’t push. She doesn’t beg.

She waits.

Tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them.

It hurts. God, it hurts.

Without thinking, you move closer and lean your head against Vi’s shoulder, tucking your face near the curve of her neck. You feel her go still beneath you, afraid to move, afraid to even breathe, as if one wrong move might br the reason you pull away from her again.

“You’re an idiot,” you mumble against her neck, your voice breaking somewhere in the middle.

And then the tears come harder. Your shoulders tremble, and you try to keep it together, but it’s useless.

Vi’s heart is pounding—you can feel it beneath the fabric of her t-shirt. She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t shift or fidget. She doesn’t want to. She just stays frozen, her fingers still loosely laced with yours in her lap, her thumb still now, resting against your knuckles like she’s forgotten how to do anything but sit there and let herself feel you this close.

She stares straight ahead at the drive-in screen, but it only blurred in her vision. All she can think about is you. Your head against her shoulder. The brush of your hair against her neck. The way your arm grazes hers, how your hand is still in hers, even as your shoulders tremble with silent tears.

Vi closes her hand a little more firmly around yours. Your soft, broken sobs are barely more than a whisper against her shoulder, but to her, they’re louder than the movie, louder than her own heart pounding in her chest.

Slowly, her gaze drifts down to your tangled hand resting in her lap, to the way your knuckles look small in her rough, calloused palm.

She remembers how many times she’s held your hand like this before—when you were both younger, when things were simpler. She remembers pulling you through the halls in school, in her house, on dates, lacing your fingers together on long drives with the windows down, slipping her hand into yours just because she could—because back then, she didn’t have to wonder if you’d let her.

Her thumb brushes over your knuckles again before she squeezes your hand softly. And then, hesitantly, Vi lifts your hand from her lap, her fingers trembling ever so slightly as she brings it closer. Her lips graze the back of your hand as she kisses you there, just barely. Her mouth stays for a moment longer than it should, her breath warm against your skin, and when she finally pulls away, her hand still holds yours, cradling it carefully like its something she’s scared of breaking.

“Violet,” you whisper again.

Vi’s head snaps up instantly in a panic, worried you’ll pull away from her soon.

But you don’t.

You’re still there, still leaning into her, your face close enough that she can see the faint trail of tears drying on your cheeks, the way your lips tremble, the way your eyes are focused on her, and only her.

“Yeah?” She breathes.

You don’t say anything right away.

But carefully, you let your other hand move upwards, your fingertips brush along her jaw, so softly, and Vi swears she forgets how to breathe. Her skin is warm beneath your hand as your thumb gently ghosts over the scar that cuts through her the tattoo on her cheek—the one that spells out her name. She leans into it instinctively, like she’s starved for the feeling of you, like she’s afraid this might be the last time you’ll ever touch her like this.

Her eyes flutter shut for just a second before they open again, and now she’s not staring at the screen or at your hands.

She’s staring at you.

Vi’s breath hitches. Her eyes fall shut for a moment, the feeling of your soft skin against hers comforting her in a way she hasn’t felt in years.

“I think I’ve forgiven you a long time ago,” you say.

Vi feels the walls she’s been building around herself start to crack, just a little. She’s so close to breaking, but she’s scared. Scared of what this means, scared of how much she still needs you, how much she’s missed you.

You continue, quietly. Nervously. “I panicked because I… I was scared of repeating the same things that happened in the past… I was scared of wanting more with you… not knowing if anything would actually change.”

She opens her eyes, her gaze darting over to yours immediately. And she could lose you again, she knows that. But what scares her most is that she’s not sure she’s strong enough to let you go, even if she wanted to.

“I don’t want you to be scared,” she whispers, almost desperately. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re scared anymore. I just…”

Her voice cracks as she continues.

“This… This is the one thing I wanna get right.”

Vi can see the shimmer of your tears in the faint glow from the screen, and it makes chest ache.

“I will get it right,” she promises.

Her eyes search yours, trying desperately to figure out what you’re thinking.

But soon, you’re crying again.

Vi watches helplessly as tears begin to fall again. The sight makes her feel like she’s breaking all over again. She feels her own eyes welling up, but she blinks back the tears, trying to hold it together, trying to be strong for you. Her eyes trace your face, and her hand still tangled with yours, thumb brushing gentle circles against your skin. Her heart is pounding so loudly she’s sure you can hear it, but she doesn’t say a word. She’s too scared. Scared that this might be the moment you pull away from her all over again—that despite everything she’s said, you’ll decide it’s too late, that she’s too late.

But then, in a voice so soft that Vi barely hears, you mutter quietly.

“Okay.”

Vi freezes. Her mind stumbles over the word, running it back over and over again like she misheard it, like it couldn’t possibly mean what she thinks it does. Did you mean it? Did you really mean it?

She blinks down at you, your tear-streaked face still pressed to her shoulder, and she feels like her heart just forgot how to beat.

And then, like the air’s been knocked out of her, she sighs. She couldn’t believe it.

“Okay?” she echoes softly.

“Okay,” you nod against her, sniffling softly. “I think… we should take it slow, at least—”

It feels like the air has been knocked out of Vi’s lungs. She’s still staring at you, eyes wide, like she can’t fully process what you just said.

“Wait, wait—” She swallows hard. “You… you mean it?”

You lift your head just enough to look at her, and the sight of your tear-stained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes almost undoes her entirely.

“Yeah,” you whisper, nodding your head.

Holy shit. Vi stares at you. It doesn’t feel real.

The word echoes in her head, over and over, her brain still trying to convince itself that you really said it. That you really meant it. Her chest feels tight, and for a second, she wonders if she’s forgotten how to breathe.

And yet, Vi doesn’t move. She doesn’t blink. She doesn’t speak.

Honestly, a part of her is still bracing for you to take it back like this is just a dream she’s about to wake up from, or a cruel joke the universe decided to play on her—that any second now, you’ll realize you made a mistake, pull your hand away, and tell her you can’t do this.

But you don’t.

You sniffle instead, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand before tilting your head slightly to look at her. Vi is still frozen, staring at you like you just spoke in another language.

A slow, bittersweet smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

“Vi…?”

Vi blinks rapidly, mouth opening slightly, but no words come out and—shit.

You tilt your head slightly, eyes still glossy, still searching her face, and Vi swears she’s about to pass out because fuck, you’re beautiful. Even after all that crying, the way you’re looking at her, like you’re really seeing her for the first time in years, like she’s something worth looking at—

Vi feels her entire body go up in flames.

She’s red.

Like, really red—cheeks burning, ears practically glowing, and the moment your eyes meet, she panics. Her face heats up so fucking fast she’s sure she’s about to combust, the tips of her ears burning, and before she can stop herself, her forehead drops against your shoulder in pure mortification, and she groans.

“Fuck,” she mutters, muffled against your jacket. “I—just—gimme a second.”

She can feel you shaking slightly, and for a second, she thinks you’re crying again, but—it’s the quietest little laugh that falls past your lips and into her ears.

And despite the fact that she’d do anything and more to make you laugh forever, out of pure embarrassment, she groans quietly, “Don’t laugh at me.”

You sniff again. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

And you don’t say anything else after that. Neither does Vi.

She just stays there, forehead resting against your shoulder, breathing slow. Her fingers are still tangled with yours, her thumb absently running along your knuckles like she needs the reassurance that you’re still here with her. Then, slowly, almost hesitantly, she moves her face closer—nuzzling in closer, her nose brushing the curve of your neck. You feel her breathe you in, sighing softly against your skin.

She smells like cigarettes and the faded remnants of whatever cologne she’s been using since she’s got back home, but underneath all of that… she smells they same as she did before. She smelled like thr girl who used to hold your hand and kiss you under the bleachers after school, who used to sneak through your bedroom window at midnight just to fall asleep beside you. The girl who kissed you like she meant it every single day. The girl you thought you lost.

You swallow the lump in your throat, blinking against the sting behind your eyes, and Vi must’ve noticed—must’ve felt the way your breath hitches because her grip on your hand tightens just slightly.

She lifts her head carefully a moment later, afraid to pull away and when she finally does, her face is close. And maybe it’s because she had already scooted over on the bench seat earlier, maybe it’s because the space between you has been shrinking all night, but suddenly, she’s no longer in front of the steering wheel—she’s right there, so close that her jeans are brushing against your legs, so close that you can feel the warmth of her body against your side, boxing you in against the truck door.

You don’t know if she planned it, if she even realized what she was doing, or if her body just naturally moved toward you the way it always used to. But she’s so close now.

And she’s looking right at you, like she’s trying to memorize every inch of your face—like she’s scared you’ll slip through her fingers if she so much as blinks.

Her eyes drop to your lips, just for a second.

Then back up, meeting your gaze.

Vi searches your face, her thumb absently brushing over the back of your hand.

“Are you sure about this?” Her voice is barely above a whisper now. “Because if you’re not, if you need time, I—I’ll wait. I swear, I’ll—”

“Vi.”

She shuts up instantly.

And then, she just looks at you. You’re so fucking pretty, it’s practically driving her insane.

Her eyes keep dropping to your lips, no matter how hard she tries not to. Soft. She knows how they feel, knows the way they move against hers, the way they part just slightly when you sigh into a kiss. She’s addicted to it, the memory of it burned into her mind, something she’s thought about every time she’d think about you.

And now you’re here, looking at her like that, so close, your breath warm against her cheek, and Vi is losing her goddamn mind trying to hold herself back.

Her fingers twitch against yours, grip tightening for just a second before she forces herself to loosen it.

You exhale softly, and Vi feels it against her lips.

She doesn’t even realize she’s leaned in this close until she sees the way your lashes flutter, the way your breath hitches just slightly. Her grip on your hand tightens again.

Fuck… Should she ask? Is she allowed to ask? Well… Its too late now, becuase her mouth is moving even before she could even think.

“Does… taking it slow… mean that I can’t kiss you right now?” Vi asks quietly.

She watches you, searching, waiting for any sign of hesitation, of doubt on your face that might tell her to back off.

But you don’t pull away.

You just look at her, eyes soft, lips parted, so heartbreakingly close that Vi swears she can feel your warmth pulling her in like a moth to a flame.

She’s drowning in it.

And she wants to kiss you so badly it hurts.

You don’t say anything right away. She watches your eyes, how they linger on her mouth for a beat too long. It sends a shiver down her spine, a spark of hope that she tries to smother, but you’re already under her skin.

“I…” you trail off.

Fuck. Maybe she should’ve kept her mouth shut. Maybe this was too much. Maybe you’re not ready—maybe she’s already ruined this before it even started. Maybe—

Your free hand moves. Just barely. Fingers brushing against her knee.

It’s the lightest touch, but Vi feels it anyway. You’re looking at her like you’re thinking, like you’re considering it. And she’s desperate, holding her breath, waiting for anything—any sign that it’s okay to close the distance between you, to let her feel those warm, delicious lips of yours against hers.

“I didn’t say that,” you whisper, heat spreading across your cheeks.

But that’s all it takes for Vi to lean in, forehead brushing against yours first, slowly, like she’s giving you one last chance to pull away. You don’t. You stay, your eyes half-lidded, waiting. She leans in slowly, so slowly it’s almost agonizing. Then, her nose nudges softly against yours, the faintest graze of skin on skin, and she shivers. She can feel the warmth of your breath, smell the faint trace of your perfume, fingers lace tighter with yours. Her other hand lifts, trembling just slightly as she cups your cheek, her thumb grazing over your tear stained skin.

You feel her lips brush against yours. Gentle. And careful. Giving you every opportunity to change your mind.

Still, you don’t.

You lean into it, soft and sweet, your hand tugging around the front of her jacket. She kisses you slowly, savoring the warmth of your mouth, the way you taste, the way your lips part just enough for her to deepen it.

And for the first time in years, Vi doesn’t feel lost. She doesn’t feel empty.

She can’t breathe. She doesn’t want to breathe.

She just feels you.

All she wants is you.

The second your lips move against hers, Vi completely melts into you, helpless against that need that’s always been there. Her thumb smooths over your cheek, hand moving down to pull you closer by your neck, the other still clinging to yours, but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. She kisses you as if she’s afraid she’ll never get to again.

There’s no hesitation now. No fear. Just you. Every sensation sinks into her, overwhelming and intoxicating.

She tilts her head, chasing more. The kiss gets desperate, messy, and Vi doesn’t care. She’s starved for this… for you. You sigh softly against her mouth, and Vi feels it everywhere. It makes her kiss you deeper, hungrier, like she could devour every sound you make. She tugs you closer, her body instinctively leaning into yours. The truck’s old leather seat creaks beneath you, but neither of you pay it any mind.

God, she’d kiss you forever if you’d let her.

She’s always been like this—hopelessly addicted to the way you fit against her, the way you always responded to her touch. Her thumb brushes over your cheek again, and Vi can feel the warmth of your skin beneath her calloused fingers, the slight dampness of the tears you’d cried moments ago. It only makes her hold you tighter, to keep you closer, thinking about never ever letting you go again—doesn’t even give it a second thought.

You pull away first, your breathing ragged, soft as you try to catch your breath. Vi’s eyes stay closed for a moment, like she’s trying to hold on to the feeling, imagining what your lips feel like even though you’re just right there, mere centimeters away from her.

When she finally opens them, she looks completely dazed. Her pupils are blown wide, her lips parted, still tinged with the lingering heat of yours. She looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

And maybe, to her, you are.

It takes her a second to realize how close she’s gotten. Her arm is resting along the back of the seat, her body practically caging you in. You’re pressed up against the cool leather of the truck door, your legs tangled with hers, her hand still clutching your, afraid to let go.

Vi blinks, then quickly leans back, her cheeks burning. “Shit, sorry.”

She doesn’t go far. She couldn’t, even if she wanted to. Her hand stays in yours, her thumb absently tracing over your knuckles, but she forces herself to give you some room. Barely.

“Didn’t mean to…” She trails off, shaking her head with a huff of a laugh.

You don’t say anything yet, your chest still rising and falling as you catch your breath. Vi can’t help but stare at the flush dusting over your cheeks, at your slightly swollen lips.

She wants to kiss you again. God, she wants to kiss you a thousand times over.

But somehow, she finds the strength to stay put.

“I didn’t mind,” you say softly.

Vi’s heart stutters. She swears it stops entirely.

You’re so beautiful. More than beautiful. And she’s pretty sure she could stare at you like this forever.

Vi tears her gaze away from you, her eyes drifting toward the glowing screen past the window. Her breath hitches, a shaky sigh falling from her lips. Barely a second later, her eyes move again, looking down at your intertwined hands resting on her lap. Her thumb brushes over your skin slowly.

She knows what’s coming, and she’s terrified of how it’ll feel, how you’ll react… if you’ll pull away from her again, like you did before.

But she can’t stop herself from saying it.

Slowly, Vi lifts your hand to her lips, pressing a soft, tender kiss to the back of it all over again. When she pulls away, her eyes meet yours. And before you can speak, before the words even leave your mouth, Vi swallows hard, and opens her mouth.

“I love you,” she whispers.

You don’t respond immediately, but she isn’t expecting you to. But she needs you to know. She needs you to hear it. She looks down again, her grip tightening around your hand, and her voice cracks slightly when she continues.

“Y-You don’t have to say it back… I just… I wanna remind you that I do… and I always will.”

Vi’s heart is pounding in her chest, and she looks away again, unable to hold your gaze any longer. Her eyes fall to your hands once more, still clasped together in her lap, tracing the lines of your hand with her fingers, her thumb lightly brushing the back of your palm. It’s automatic, almost like her body knows how to do it without thinking.

She thought she was prepared for this, for the possibility that you might not be ready to say it back. How could she expect you to feel the same way, right this second, after years of not being there for you—with you?

She smiles weakly, more to herself than anything.

And yet, it’s hard to ignore. She loves you, so deeply. And the thought of not having you in her life again—it’s unbearable. She’s willing to do whatever it takes.

Her eyes stay locked on your hand in hers, still unable to look up at your face, scared that she might see something she doesn’t want to. Maybe you’ll change your mind about her. Maybe you’ll tell her that this can’t happen again—that this shouldn’t happen again… Maybe, you don’t love her as much as you used to… Maybe—

“I love you.”

Wait, did she say that? Vi blinks, her heart skipping a beat. The words echo in her mind, like she’s misheard them—like they can’t possibly be real. It takes her a moment to register that it wasn’t her voice that said it. It was yours.

Her eyes lift slowly, hesitantly. But when she finally looks at you, she sees the truth written all over your face. The way you’re biting your lip, the way your gaze moves away from her, your cheeks flushed. You’re nervous.

“I…” She can’t find the words.

And then, so softly, you speak again.

“That part’s never changed, Vi.”

She can’t tear her eyes away. She studies every inch of your face, trying to convince herself it’s real.

Because you said that you love her.

The lump in her throat grows, and for a second, she’s sure she’s going to cry. She wants to say something, to respond, but all that comes out is a shaky breath.

“God,” Vi whispers, barely able to get the word out. “You—”

She shakes her head, her lips parting as if to try again, but nothing comes. And then she’s smiling. It’s small at first, soft and disbelieving, like she can’t believe how lucky she is.

“I thought I’d never hear you say that again,” she finally says.

Vi feels the sting in her eyes, the tears threatening to spill. She hates it. Hates how overwhelmed she feels, how her chest feels tight, like her heart’s too full, and for a second, it’s all too much.

She tips her head back, resting it against the worn leather of the truck’s seat. The ceiling stares back at her, cracked in places from the years that passed. Her throat works around a shaky breath, and then she sighs.

“Fuck.”

It slips out before she can stop it, the word practically laced with everything she couldn’t put into words, knowing how badly she’s wanted this, how afraid she still is that it could be gone agin. She feels you move slightly beside her, your hand still tucked firmly in hers. But Vi can’t bring herself to look at you just yet. If she does, she knows she won’t be able to hide the way her eyes are glossing over. She’s always wanted to look brave and tough around you… but, it’s getting harder and harder to hide with each second that passes.

She bites her lip, forcing down the sob that threatens to crawl up her throat.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, though she’s not even sure what she’s apologizing for.

Your thumb brushes lightly against her hand, and it’s enough to make shut her eyes tight, like she can will the tears away. But it doesn’t work. One slips free, trailing hot down her cheek anyway…

Vi barely makes a sound. She just sits there, head tilted back against the seat, her chest rising and falling in shaky breaths. The tears slip down her face but she doesn’t even bother wiping them away.

She sniffles softly, her jaw clenched as another tear slips past her lashes. God, she hates crying. She hates how vulnerable it makes her feel. But with you, it’s different. She feels warm with you.

Vi finally brings a hand up, swiping roughly at her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket. It doesn’t do much. But when she drops her arm and finally dares to glance at you, there’s nothing but softness in your eyes.

“Sorry,” she whispers again, cracking at the end, betraying just how much she’s holding back.

But you just shake your head, squeezing her hand. “Don’t.”

She sighs in response, her chest rising and falling as she tries to keep it together. Her thumb continues to trace slow, absentminded circles against your skin, and suddenly, the truck feels too small.

You don’t rush her. You never have.

Vi doesn’t say anything at first. She can’t remember the last time she felt this bare. It’s terrifying. But with you, it’s also… safe.

She lowers her head, her forehead brushing against your shoulder again. For a moment, neither of you move. The sound of the movie in the background drifts through the truck’s open windows, but neither of you are paying attention.

“I missed you,” she whispers against your shoulder. “I missed you so fucking much.”

“I missed you, too,” you reply just as softly.

Vi squeezes her eyes shut. She wants to say more. She wants to tell you how every city, every stage, every goddamn after party felt hollow without you. How she’d check her phone after every show, hoping for a text that never came. How she’d lie awake in hotel rooms, thinking about you, about being with you, about how much she missed you, about how much she wanted to turn back the time and do everything differently.

But instead, she just presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder, her lips trembling against the soft fabric of your shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers again. “For everything.”

“I know,” you say. “Me too.”

Her eyes search yours, her brows furrowing like she can’t believe what she just heard.

She shakes her head, “Why are you sorry? You don’t have to—”

“I could’ve tried harder too, Vi.”

Your voice trembles, as Vi stares at you. She looks like she wants to argue, to tell you that none of this was your fault. That she’s the one who let you down. That she’s the one who made you feel like an afterthought while she chased a dream that didn’t feel half as good without you in it.

But you keep going.

“I could’ve said more. I could’ve told you how much it hurt when you didn’t call back, how lonely it was waiting for you to come home,” you whisper. “But I didn’t. I just… I convinced myself it was easier to pretend I was fine. To act like I didn’t care as much as I did… I assumed that you had bigger things to worry about than me… and I got scared to tell you. I-I should’ve told you—“

“You don’t have to apologize,” Vi cuts in. “I’m the one who made you feel that way and—”

“Vi,” you interrupt softly, your thumb brushing over her hand. “You don’t have to take all the blame… It wasn’t just you… It was me, too. I let myself think that I was the one who had to adjust, to accept whatever you gave me. I pushed away my own feelings so I could make sense of the distance… and I left when all I wanted was to be close to you.”

She stares at you, chest heavy with guilt, but she’s not interrupting now. She’s listening—really listening.

“I just wanted to matter to you,” you muttered.

Her eyes soften, her lips trembling, “You do matter to me. You’ve always mattered.”

Vi pauses, her gaze always seems to fall to your hands, the way her fingers are wrapped around yours.

“I was stupid… and selfish back then. I didn’t realize how much you needed me—how much I needed you.” She reaches up to gently tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, “I never stopped thinking about you. Even when I was out there… none of it was ever as important as you. Not even close… And I’ll keep showing you. Everyday. Until you’re sure… And even after that, I’ll keep showing you anyway.”

After a quiet pause, Vi watches you, her heart beating fast as you shake your head, that small, tired smile tugging at your lips. And then, without a second thought, you lean into her, your head finding its place on her shoulder all over again.

“I already said okay,” you say softly, muffled slightly against her jacket, tears threatening to spill again.

Vi lets out a shaky breath, the corner of her mouth twitching into the smallest smile.

“I know,” she smiles.

Her eyes dart down again, catching the sight of your hands resting in her lap, smilimg at the way your fingers fit so easily with hers.

Truthfully, she wants to say more. Tell you how much she loves you. How sorry she still is. How she’s going to spend the rest of her life making sure she never breaks your heart again.

But all she does is run the pad of the thumb along your knuckles as she dips her head just slightly, brushing her lips against the crown of your hair. The smell of your shampoo is sweet and soft, and Vi only holds on to your hands tighter, determined to be the best version of herself that you deserve.

It’s quiet now. You both stay like that for a while. And all Vi can focus on is the feeling of you beside her.

“Thank you,” she says after a while, you almost didn’t hear it.

For giving her a chance she wasn’t sure she deserved.

Vi drives back into town when the movie ends. And in truth, she wished the movie lasted forever if it meant being able to sit beside you like that for the rest of the night.

The ride back was quiet… but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Every so often, Vi’s knuckles would brush against yours on the bench seat, the way they used to when she’d drive you around town. And every time it happened, she’d swallow that lump in her though and grip the steering wheel a little tighter, afraid to push her luck.

She brought you to that same old pizza place near the edge of town—the one you two used to hit up on late nights like these—Vi had pulled over without thinking. It was late and, in her mind, it wouldn’t be a proper date if she didn’t take you to get food.

“Still open,” she’d said, half-relieved, half-nervous. “You feel like splitting a pizza?”

You nodded when she asked.

And now, with the lingering scent of melted cheese and warm dough filling the truck, you both sit parked in the lot. The pizza box is cracked open between you, the last couple of slices mostly forgotten. Vi’s trying not to make it obvious, but she’s been eating slow. Suspiciously slow. Every bite takes twice as long as it probably should—not because she’s savoring it, but because she’s trying to stretch the her time with you, desperate for it not to end.

She glances at you for what must be the hundredth time. You seemed relaxed enough, though maybe a little bit tired, soft light from the streetlamp beside her truck glowing slightly on your face. Vi thinks you’re beautiful like this. She always has. But now that you’re here, it’s all she can do not to stare.

“Pizza’s still good,” she tries, something to fill the silence. “Tastes the same.”

You hum in agreement, chewing thoughtfully. “I think they changed the sauce a little.”

Vi blinks, looking back at her half-eaten slice. “Really?”

You shrug. “Just a little sweeter. Or maybe I’m imagining it.”

A beat passes. Vi’s lips twitch into a small smile. “Still better than that place in New York.”

You laugh softly, and god, the sound of it has Vi’s stomach doing flips.

“That place was awful,” you agree. “Why’d we even go there?”

“Because I swore it’d be authentic.” Vi chuckles, as she throws in finger quotes. “I think I hyped it up for, like, a week.”

“Well, I think it’s impressive that you found a bad pizza place in New York,” you tease.

Vi huffs a laugh, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel. “Never living that one down, huh?”

You shake your head softly.

It gets quiet again. Vi risks another glance your way, only to find you already looking at her. She quickly looks down, her fingers fidgeting with a stray napkin in her lap.

“I, uh… I could take the long way back,” she offers, trying to sound casual. “If you’re not in a rush.”

You hesitate for just a moment bedore shaking your head. “I-It’s late. I should probably get home.”

Vi nods quickly, forcing a smile. “Right. Yeah, of course.”

The words are easy enough to say, but they taste bitter. She doesn’t want this night to end. Not when things feel… good. Almost like before.

Still, she doesn’t argue.

It’s a silent ride on the way back to your apartment. Vi’s fingers drum softly against the steering wheel, her other hand gripping it a little too tightly. Occasionally, she sneaks a glance at you, but you’re gazing out the window, lost in your own thoughts.

She likes it better than nothing.

After all, it wasn’t too long ago when silence meant something worse.

But now you’re here. Right next to her. And even though her heart aches a little from how much she still wants, Vi wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

Her truck rolls to a stop in front of your apartment building. She lingers for a moment, trying to think of something clever or easy to say, but...

You beat her to it. “Thanks for the ride.”

Vi swallows. “Yeah. Anytime.”

You reach for the door handle, but her voice stops you.

“I’ll walk you up.” It comes out quickly, afraid you might say no if she hesitates.

You blink, surprised. “Vi, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Her eyes soften as they meet yours, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “I mean, if that’s okay.”

It takes a second, but then you nod.

Vi’s out of the truck before she can second guess herself. She jogs around to your side, and even though you’re perfectly capable, she still opens the door for you, just like she used to. She doesn’t say anything about it, and neither do you. But the corner of your mouth twitches, and Vi catches it.

The building is quiet as you both step inside. You lead the way to the elevator, Vi trailing just half a step behind. It’s strange, how familiar this all feels. She knew this place so well now—the smell of some faint lemon cleaner, the creak of the old elevator doors, even the way the number buttons lit up. She’d spent countless nights walking these same halls, on her way up to see you… to kiss you… to make love to you—well… that’s what she always thought of it… And, even the same as before, it feels like she’s holding her breath with every step.

The elevator ride is short, but the silence makes it feel longer, really. Vi shifts on her feet, hands stuffed into her jacket pockets as she sneaks another glance at you, catching the way your teeth tug at your bottom lip—a habit she knows all too well. You’re nervous.

She wants to say something. Something to make you feel at ease… comfortable… to make you smile, maybe. But her throat feels tight, and by the time she thinks of anything, the elevator dings, and the doors slide open.

You make your way down the hall, and Vi follows closely. She can’t help but notice how her palms are starting to sweat. Fuck, it’s so ridiculous.

Eventually, you stop in front of your door. For a moment, neither of you speak. You pull your keys from your bag, fidgeting with them, and Vi watches you turn.

“Thank you for tonight, Vi,” you say softly. “And the drive-in… It was really nice.”

“Y-Yeah.” She nods, then rubs the back of her neck. “Of course.”

“Really,” You smile, though it’s small. “I had a really good time.”

“I’m glad,” Vi returns your smile, feeling a bit proud. “We, uh… should go again some time… I mean, i-if there’s another movie you wanna watch, I could… I could figure out something.”

And then it’s quiet again. She almost hates it. Because she knows this is where you’re supposed to say goodnight. She’s supposed to turn around, head back to her truck, and let the night end.

But god, she doesn’t want to.

Vi’s voice is softer when she speaks next. “Can I see you again soon?”

Your fingers tighten around your keys, but you don’t look away.

“Yeah,” you say simply, unable to fight the way your lips curved upwards. “Soon.”

She nods, and despite the nerves eating away at her, she smiles. “Okay.”

And just when she’s about to take a step back, to let you go, you surprise her.

It’s soft. And gentle. And before she can even think, you lean in, just enough for your lips to brush her cheek. It’s quick, barely there, but Vi freezes. Her eyes widen slightly, heat rushing to her face. You pull back and turn around, your own cheeks warm, too nervous to look at her again. Vi stands there, staring at you like a complete idiot. Her fingertips brush over the spot where your lips had been, and she can still feel the ghost of it.

And although you don’t see it, a grin slowly spreads across her face.

Your fingers barely brush against the keys in the lock before you hear Vi sigh behind you, like she’s been holding her breath. And before you can turn the key, her hands are on yours. And now, it’s your turn to freeze. Her palms against your skin is nothing but warm as she pulls you away from the door. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just turns you toward her, slowly and carefully.

Her thumbs brushing over your knuckles and you don’t meet her eyes right away. But you feel her looking at you, staring hard. And when you finally lift your head, her gaze meets yours immediately.

“I…” Vi starts, but the words disappear in her throat.

She opens her mouth again, then closes it, clenching her jaw—maybe in frustration.

And then she tries again.

“I didn’t want to leave without—” Vi pauses, her brows knitting together. “I mean… I know I should, but…”

Her voice drops, trembling only slightly as she looks down at your hands.

“I don’t want to… just yet.”

She’s so close. Close enough that the scent of her—smoke and some of her cologne—is all you can focus on.

“Vi…” you whisper, her name barely leaving your lips.

“I’m sorry.” She shakes her head, her grip on your hands tightening just a little. “I just—”

She stops, exhaling sharply like she’s frustrated with herself again. Her hands twitch, and for a moment, you think she’s about to let go, but she doesn’t.

“I missed you,” she says softly.

“I missed you too, Vi,” you admit.

Deep in her mind, she feels like this isn’t real… that she’s dreaming and that she’ll wake up soon. Fuck, please…

“I… I really wanna kiss you again, ” She whispers, stepping closer. “Can I?”

You don’t answer right away. Not because you don’t know, but because you feel a little overwhelmed… in a good way, really. Vi waits, her breath warm against your skin, her hands still cradling yours.

And with the softest nod, you give her the answer she’s been waiting for.

Vi doesn’t waste a second. She leans in, her lips brushing against yours so gently and when you kiss her back, just as softly—she fucking melts.

A shaky breath falls past her lips, hands tightening around your own as she kisses you like she’s memorizing the shape of your mouth all over again. And god, she’s so close. Her forehead brushes against yours, and her breath mingles with yours. You can feel the cool metal of her nose ring brush against the side of your nostrol as she pulls you in closer. And as your fingers trail up, your hands finding their way to her neck, Vi feels herself lean in even closer. You cup the strong curve of her jaw, your thumbs brushing along the sharp line of it, and the touch sends a shiver down her spine.

Vi kisses you deeper. Her big hands, rough and calloused, move carefully from your hands, sliding down to your waist. Her fingers curl against your sides and the way you tilt your head, the way your body instinctively presses just a little closer, makes her feel dizzy. She can’t stop the soft groan, that desperate little noise muffled by your lips. And your fingers thread gently into the hair at the nape of her neck.

She’s not sure how long you stay like that, and even as her lungs beg for air, Vi doesn’t want to stop.

But eventually, she pulls away slowly, her forehead lingering against yours as she tries to catch her breath. Her chest rises and falls, lips still parted, tingling from the kiss—from you.

She blinks, trying to set her mind straight, but it’s impossible when you’re so close.

Her thumb brushes absently over your waist where her hands still rest, rough fingertips trailing the hem of your shirt. She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it, like touching you is second nature, a habit she never really broke. She doesn’t want to stop touching you. She doesn’t think she could if she tried.

But then she lifts her head just enough to meet your eyes, and whatever she was about to say dies in her throat. You’re staring at her, cheeks flushed, lips parted like you’re just as overwhelmed as she is.

Fuck, you look so pretty.

“I…” She starts, but the rest of her words never make it out. She shakes her head slightly, letting out a breathless laugh. “I didn’t mean to…”

Get carried away? But that’s a lie. She did mean to. She’s been thinking about kissing you like this again since you left the drive-in.

Her hand tightens just slightly against your waist as she opens her mouth again, “I-I mean… I did mean to. I just—Fuck, sorry—I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

She searches your face briefly, desperate for any sign that she hasn’t just ruined everything. When she catches the faintest smile tugging at the corner of your lips, her heart trips over itself.

“You okay?” She asks softly.

You don’t answer right away, but you don’t pull away either. Vi can still feel your hands on her neck, your fingertips brushing against the strands of her pink hair. She swears she could stand here forever if you let her—just holding you, breathing you in, memorizing the way you feel pressed against her.

“I’m okay,” you finally whisper so softly.

Relief washes over the girl in front of you. Her lips twitch, almost forming into a smile.

“Good,” she breathes, her hands lingering at your waist. “That’s good.”

And it’s quiet again… but this time, Vi doesn’t mind it. Her eyes flicker down to your lips without meaning to, and her fingers flex slightly against your waist. She doesn’t really know how the hell she’s supposed to walk away from this now—from you.

But she knows she should. She already kissed you multiple times tonight, and it was more than she ever thought she’d get. She can’t push her luck.

“I should… probably let you get inside,” Vi says, although it’s clear even she doesn’t believe it. Her grip loosens just enough, her hands still hovering close to your hips. “It’s late.”

You nod shyly, barely meeting her eyes. “Yeah,” you reply, but you don’t sound all that sure either.

Vi forces herself to move, her hands dropping to her sides even though every nerve in her body screams to stay. She takes a step back, putting some space between the two of you that she instantly hates. She shifts on her feet, awkward now, her heart still beating a mile a minute.

“Goodnight,” you say.

Vi nods quickly.

“Night.” Her voice cracks slightly, and she winces. “Uh… goodnight. Sleep good. I mean, well. Sleep well.”

“Thank you, Vi,” you say again.

“Mhm.”

You smile, small but amused, and Vi thinks she might just die right there on your doorstep.

Her cheeks are burning. She can feel the heat crawling up the sides of her neck to the tips of her ears. She’s pretty sure her cheeks are just as red, and hell, she probably looks like a mess, but she doesn’t dare cover her face. Not when you’re still standing there.

She watches as you turn toward the door, your keys jingling softly in your hand.

You glance back at her one last time, eyes falling to her neck where her skin meets that tiny glint of her silver necklace—a peice of jewelry you know all too well—and then you’re gone, the door clicking shut behind you.

Vi lets out a long breath, dragging a hand down her face.

“Fuck,” she mumbles to herself.

She doesn’t exactly know how long she stands there, staring at your front door. To some stranger, she might look like some creep standing in front of some random apartment, but all she can think about in her head is replaying the way your lips felt against hers, the taste of your mouth, your hands on her neck, how soft you felt under her fingertips—she misses all of it.

But eventually, she turns, heading down the hallway, her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets.

And even though she’d wanted nothing more than to stay,to press her forehead against yours and ask for just one more kiss, one more minute, Vi couldn’t bring herself to feel anything but grateful.

Because for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t drive away from your apartment feeling empty.

God. She is so screwed.

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noredemptionhere · 3 months ago

Text

𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𓍯𓂃𓂃𓂃

pair: 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚔𝚊 𝚡 𝚖𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚌!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

tags: fluff. so much fluff, mention of blood, reader is shorter than sevika—neither of them has a specified height.

life was a pain in the ass.

not always—but most of the time. and this week? this week seemed determined to chew her up and spit her out.

as if getting her ass handed to her by a dead, pink-haired brat wasn’t humiliating enough, an enforcer had to go and bust the shimmer tank in her prosthetic.

now here she was—one arm barely functioning, the other gripping a screwdriver so tightly she might snap it in half.

sevika wasn’t the kind of woman who whined. she didn’t believe in asking for help—asking for anything, really. taking matters into her own hands always got the job done. it took time, sure, but it spared her the headache of relying on anyone else.

but—

this little piece of shit wasn’t fixing itself.

no matter how hard she studied the intricate network of screws and gears, no matter how carefully she pressed the screwdriver against the bolts, no matter how many hours she wasted at her desk trying to crack the goddamn riddle of it all…

nothing. nothing.

the prosthetic arm remained sluggish, unresponsive—mocking her.

and sevika? sevika could not afford that.

she was the right hand of a man who held zaun in his palm. silco’s enforcer, his blade. when he gave an order, she was expected to execute it—swiftly, cleanly, with all the force necessary. she was his shield in the undercity’s shadows, his muscle behind closed-door negotiations.

and she was ‘useless’ without this arm.

the anger coiled in her gut wasn’t the kind she could drown in liquor—not tonight. it wasn’t the sharp, cutting kind that had her picking fights just to bleed out her frustration. no, this was the slow-burning kind. the kind that settled deep in her chest, thick and suffocating, turning over and over.

silco noticed—took him long enough.

“you’re getting too pissy.”

his voice was as smooth as ever, carrying that infuriating calm as he stood near the window of his office, gaze set on the city below.

sevika didn’t look up. instead, she rolled her jaw, pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek, and traced idle circles against the rim of her glass.

“i’m fine,” she muttered.

a tired excuse. a lie neither of them bothered to acknowledge.

“you have more important things to handle than some ludicrous gadget.”

his voice was flat—nearly bored. but there was something else beneath it.

disappointment, maybe. or amusement.

she wasn’t sure which one pissed her off more.

“you could’ve just asked.”

sevika exhaled sharply through her nose, gaze flicking up to him at last.

she didn’t ask. she never asked.

and yet, she waited—silent, expectant—for him to finally say something useful.

silco sighed, dragging his fingers through his hair before finally giving her what she was waiting for.

“sugar & sparks.”

sevika squinted. “you’re fucking with me.”

he didn’t even smirk. “i wouldn’t waste my breath.”

sevika rolled her eyes, tossing back the last of her drink. sugar & sparks. what kind of mechanic named their workshop like it was a damn bakery?

she scoffed, setting her glass down with an audible clink.

“what even is that?” she crossed her arms, unimpressed.

silco didn’t turn from the window. “the place where your prosthetic was made.”

for a moment, sevika just stared.

the workshop that built this—the metal monstrosity fused to her shoulder, the thing that made her more machine than woman—was called sugar & sparks?

her fingers tightened around the ruined prosthetic.

“sir.”

the word was flat, edged with a cut the bullshit tone.

“get ran to set up a meeting with her. she knows her.”

her.

sevika didn’t react, but the detail lodged itself in her mind. if silco was involved, this wasn’t just help anymore—this was an order.

𓍯𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃 𓈒𓏸

the city pulsed around her, a mess of flickering neon and distant shouts. deckard’s directions had been clear enough, leading her to a quieter part of zaun—quiet by its standards, anyway.

she found it easily.

and she really needed this done.

the entrance to the workshop was… tidy. almost out of place.

sevika stepped inside.

a bell chimed overhead.

cute.

adorable, even.

the thought hit before she could stop it, an uninvited flicker of pink in an ink-black world.

her gaze swept across the shop. everything was too neat, too soft. tools hung in perfect rows, the air smelled faintly of metal and something sweet, and the workbench was cluttered—but not in the usual, careless way. this was rather a careful, lived-in kind of mess.

it was the kind of place that didn’t belong in zaun.

and there you were—the pink dot.

sevika nearly whistled, watching as you swept the floor, head twitching just slightly at the sound of the door. a quick glance, a flicker of recognition—just a girl in her little shop, unaware she was about to fix more than just a prosthetic.

the bell above the door jingled, and you didn’t think much of it at first. another customer, another repair—same as always.

then you looked up.

sevika.

you almost dropped the broom.

sevika, the sevika, was standing in the doorway of your workshop, broad, scowling, much taller and bigger than you imagined. her sharp eyes flicked over the space, unimpressed, before landing on you.

you knew her. not just knew her—you made that. that poor, disfigured work of art clamped to her shoulder. it was one of—if not the best—pieces of your opus.

you could recall the entire day silco—the silco—sent one of his gang members to your workshop. you still remembered your conversation with ran, her reaction to your shocked face when she informed you about sevika’s incident. how your eyes almost spilled a few tears from the intensity.

you had also seen sevika in real life once—at the last drop, when you went out for drinks with your friends. she hadn’t acknowledged you that night. too busy getting her dopamine fix from poker, collecting chips under the whining of grown-ass men.

were you fangirling? fuck yeah. your eyes had practically sparkled with red hearts like a lovesick idiot when you first saw her.

were you intimidated? still fuck yeah.

and now? now she was standing here. in your shop. with you.

who knew—maybe she was here to tell you how much of a shit job you did on her metal limb. except you knew you were a pro at your job and she already had that arm for years now, so… maybe there was still hope she wouldn’t get your workshop shut down.

you forced yourself to blink, to breathe, to not stare at the way the dim light caught on the sharp angles of her jaw or how her arms—one flesh, one metal—looked like they could snap your spine in half. not that you would complain.

your voice wobbled when you spoke. “uh… hi?”

brilliant. amazing. that was definitely the way to greet a terrifying crime lord’s right-hand woman.

she didn’t react, just strode further in like she owned the place.

up close, she was even worse.

her presence practically swallowed the room, bringing with it the scent of smoke and metal and something vaguely like whiskey. the prosthetic—the one you built—was in bad shape, the shimmer tank cracked and gears struggling to turn.

your mind screamed at you to focus.

this is a job. you’re a professional. get it together.

“what happened to it?” you forced your hands to stay steady as you gestured toward her arm.

“got into a fight.” she said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

‘i’d pay to see that.’ the words almost slipped out of your mouth.

“right.” you nodded, as if this was normal. as if your stomach wasn’t flipping over itself like an idiot. “i, um, i can fix it. just—sit?”

she gave you a long look before sighing and dropping into the chair beside your workbench. the metal groaned under her weight.

you got this. you’ve literally made this arm. you sure as hell can fix it.

but the moment you reached for her prosthetic, her gaze flicked up—sharp, calculating.

and suddenly, touching her felt like a very big deal.

your fingers hovered over the damaged plates. “i, uh… is it okay if i…?”

sevika raised an eyebrow.

you wanted to melt into the floor.

“i mean—you came here for this, so obviously it’s okay, just umm—” you shut up immediately when you saw the corner of her mouth curl up.

she knew.

she knew how flustered you were, and she was amused.

you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to focus on the task instead of the heat creeping up your neck. carefully, you pressed your fingers against the damaged joint, testing its movement. sevika barely reacted, but you could feel her watching you.

you were going to die. this was it. cause of death: overwhelming gay panic.

you kept scolding yourself. fix the arm. stop thinking about how ridiculously attractive she is.

sevika rolled her shoulder, exhaling as the weight of the prosthetic lifted. she was used to the process—clamps unlatching, metal shifting, the familiar dull ache left behind. what she wasn’t used to was this.

the girl—you—were practically vibrating with nervous energy.

she didn’t miss the way your breath hitched when you looked up at her. how your fingers stilled for just a second too long before you yanked your gaze away, gripping the prosthetic like it was a lifeline.

pretty.

so damn pretty.

she leaned back in the chair, stretching out her flesh arm as you turned your back to her, moving to your workstation like a skittish little thing trying to escape a predator’s gaze.

sevika smirked.

she wasn’t trying to intimidate you. but she wasn’t exactly trying not to, either.

her eyes trailed over the workshop—cleaner than she expected, with little tools and scrap parts neatly lined up. it smelled like metal, like oil and faint traces of something sweet. there was a little lamp flickering beside the workbench, casting warm light over your hunched shoulders.

there was nothing remarkable about the place. but somehow, it felt different from the usual grime of zaun. quieter. softer.

sevika rolled her jaw, exhaling through her nose.

what a weird fucking day.

she should’ve been more annoyed about coming here at all— but she wasn’t.

not really.

her gaze flicked back to you.

you were already at work, delicate hands moving with practiced ease, eyes sharp and focused. the nervous stammering was gone now, replaced by quiet concentration.

sevika tilted her head slightly, watching.

maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

she watched as you turned the prosthetic over in your hands, lips pressed together in quiet focus. a muttered string of words slipped past them—barely loud enough to catch.

“…some of the glass shards fell into the gears…”

your voice was soft, almost thoughtful, but sevika caught the way you winced slightly, shaking your head like you were scolding yourself.

she still found you so fucking cute.

she didn’t bother responding—just watched as you worked, fingers quick but careful. you were so damn delicate with it, like the thing wasn’t a weapon built for splitting skulls open.

the silence stretched, thick with something unspoken, before sevika finally broke it.

“this your place?”

you flinched, just barely, before nodding. “mhm. my father started it. i, uh… took over after he passed.”

sevika hummed, gaze dragging over the workshop again.

that explained the neatness. the warmth in the way things were arranged. it wasn’t just a place for work—it was yours.

didn’t quite fit in zaun.

didn’t quite fit her.

she leaned forward, resting her forearm on the workbench, the sheer size of her making the space feel even smaller. “and you fix up scum like me for a living?”

your breath hitched.

she smirked.

“i… i don’t see it like that,” you muttered, eyes fixed on your work. “i just… fix things.”

sevika chuckled lowly, the sound deep and full of something unreadable.

fix things.

interesting.

you were squirming now—so easy to unravel. so easy to toy with.

she tilted her head, voice smooth, mocking. “what, you got some soft spot for criminals?”

you didn’t answer right away. probably too busy trying to figure out whether she was fucking with you or testing you.

smart girl.

“i don’t pick sides,” you finally said, tweezers plucking a small sliver of glass from the prosthetic’s inner mechanisms. “i just… i like helping people.”

sevika watched the way your fingers trembled, just slightly. the way your throat bobbed when you swallowed.

you liked helping people.

and yet, you looked like a rabbit cornered by a wolf.

“a thing like you won’t last long with that mindset.”

you swallowed again, shoulders tensing.

sevika leaned in a little more, voice dropping.

“…and you look like you don’t last long.”

you swore your heart stopped—maybe it had, maybe you were already floating.

her presence was suffocating in the softest, most deliberate way. the knot coiled in your stomach from the moment she walked in wasn’t enough. the heat rising in your cheeks wasn’t enough either.

the faint prickle behind your eyes—the humiliating threat of tears—had to be the cherry on top.

you dropped your gaze, fingers tightening around the plucker in your hand, grasping at whatever was left of your composure. anything to ground yourself—to not crumble under the weight pressing against you.

you weren’t crying. not really. you just… wanted to melt. to fold in on yourself, small and soft, and disappear into the floorboards before she could see what she was doing to you.

the worst part was—

she saw.

every. damn. thing.

and she was quiet about it. not a chuckle, not a hum—just stillness, watching, waiting. then she saw your eyes.

glistening. soft.

her smirk widened, eyes dark with something far too pleased. this was going to be so good.

“are you fucking crying?”

your breath hitched. your eyes widened. stupid—so ridiculously stupid—because now she had a perfect view of your ruined, trembling self.

ignore her. just ignore her. you were about to finish—her arm. just say it.

“th-the glass is out…”

“yeah?” she cooed, pushing up from her seat.

she got up.

fuck. fuck. abort.

your body moved before your mind—bolting upright, searching for an escape route.

sevika followed.

slow. deliberate. a predator, savoring the chase.

“what… are you doing?” you whispered, as if she’d answer with mercy.

she didn’t.

your back met the corner.

and she was still coming.

amused. patient. towering.

trapping you in this unbearable, suffocating heat—until there was nothing left of you but shivers and surrender.

melting.

sevika watched you for a second longer, amused, before lifting her hand—slow, deliberate—until her fingers brushed your cheek.

you froze.

rough fingertips swiped just beneath your eye, catching the heat of your skin, the lingering dampness that betrayed you. and her smirk—god, her smirk—only deepened.

“didn’t know you were this soft.”

the words curled around you, thick and mocking, a lazy amusement laced beneath them like she was enjoying this. like she was studying you—memorizing the way you squirmed under her touch.

and you did. you squirmed.

a sharp inhale, a panicked jerk away from the warmth of her palm—your back hit the wall first, then you shoved off it, slipping past her as quickly as your legs would allow.

she let you go.

didn’t move. didn’t chase.

just turned, leaning back onto the table with her usual lazy confidence as she watched you scramble to finish the job.

you could feel her gaze on you the entire time—steady, knowing, hungry.

and if your hands shook while working, well…

she definitely noticed.

you worked faster than ever, fingers fumbling over metal, tightening bolts, securing plates—all under the weight of her gaze.

finally, you stepped back. done.

your lips parted, the price tumbling out before you could think—before you could breathe.

“seven brasses.”

it was embarrassingly low.

sevika noticed.

but more than that, she noticed something else.

the quiet. the ease.

for the first time in what felt like years, there were no gnawing thoughts, no simmering rage pressing at the back of her skull. just this—this small, quiet space, the hum of old machinery, the scent of oil and metal, and you moving carefully around her, buckling the joints against her shoulder with hands that still trembled slightly.

it felt almost… nice.

like stepping into a warm room after a cold night. like that first slow inhale of a cigarette after a long fight.

she flexed her fingers, rolled her wrist, tested the weight.

perfect.

her lips twitched as she snapped the glowing red knife out of her palm, watching the way your breath hitched ever so slightly at the sound.

she pushed off the table, clenched her metal digits for the last time, and tossed ten brasses onto your desk.

three more than you asked for. just because she could.

then, as if the moment had never settled in her chest, she strode for the door.

no teasing remark. no parting words.

but before stepping out, she did pause—just briefly—to glance back at you, eyes flickering over your form, before disappearing into the night.

after she left, everything felt quiet—except for the little pumping piece of shit caged between your ribs, refusing to let you pretend this was just a normal interaction.

it wasn’t. the ‘piece of shit’ was right.

you could still feel her hand lingering on your cheek, the warmth of it sinking into your skin like an ember refusing to die out. it felt even better than it looked, so soft, so warm. almost like a hug to your heart after the enervating events of the day.

you exhaled slowly, pressing your lips together as if you could somehow trap the feeling inside you before it disappeared completely. but it was already fading, slipping through your fingers like smoke, leaving behind only the ghost of her touch and the mess she made of your head.

her presence lingered in your workshop even after she was gone, in the air, in the heavy silence, in the spaces she had occupied without effort. you felt her in the rest of your body even when she hadn’t touched it. felt her in the places she looked at. like she left something behind, something you couldn’t name but couldn’t shake off, either.

but it was gone now.

and you really shouldn’t get your hopes high—especially when it came to people.

so when she returned, the first time, then the second, then the third, you told yourself it meant nothing. that it was just a coincidence. that she was only here for the repairs, for convenience, because you knew her arm better than anyone else and didn’t ask too many questions.

and yet—she always came back too soon.

the first time, her excuse was simple: a bad fight, a rough night, nothing out of the ordinary. you believed her.

the second time, she grumbled something about a shitty enforcer nearly breaking her wrist. you weren’t sure if it was true, but you let it go.

by the third, the fourth, the fifth—you knew better.

the damage was never anything catastrophic. a loosened joint, rusted gears, wiring that had been fine the last time you saw her. always just enough to warrant another visit, to keep her in your orbit a little longer.

and she lingered.

at first, she would hover by the doorway, arms crossed, watching as you worked in silence. but then she started staying longer. sitting on your workbench, exhaling cigarette smoke into the warm air of the workshop, commenting on things that had nothing to do with her arm. you ever sleep? she’d asked once, her gaze flicking to the dark circles under your eyes.

you had laughed—soft, surprised. “you ever take care of this thing properly?” you had shot back, tapping the side of her prosthetic.

she had only smirked. “that’s your job, isn’t it?”

you should’ve known then.

but it wasn’t until her latest visit—when you unscrewed the panel on her forearm, pushed back the plating, and saw the state of her gears—that it really hit you.

they were rusted. neglected on purpose.

your fingers stilled, eyes narrowing slightly as you studied the damage. not enough to completely disable her arm, but enough to slow her down, to make sure she had to return before it got worse.

slowly, your gaze lifted to her.

sevika was already watching you, unreadable, jaw tight.

“shut your mouth,” she muttered.

you didn’t say anything. just smiled—warm, understanding. the kind of smile that softened the edges of the moment, made it something else entirely.

sevika felt something lurch in her chest.

the workshop, the heat, the scent of oil and metal—it all faded into the background. the only thing left was you.

and that damn smile.

she had been coming back for the repairs.

that was what she told herself.

but now, she wasn’t so sure.

you leaned in slightly, still holding her arm in your hands, and whispered—so gently it nearly undid her:

“i didn’t say anything.”

the ache in her chest settled deep, smoldering. for a split second, she considered what it would mean to have you… not just as someone who fixed her, but as something unchangeable, something always with her. the thought curled through her like smoke, slow and insidious, sinking into her bones.

sevika’s gaze never left you, her eyes darkening as they followed the smooth, practiced movements of your hands. you weren’t asking for anything. you weren’t pleading, weren’t demanding. no, you were just there. with her.

she wanted you. god, she wanted you in a way that shook her, made her pulse race with the raw need to have you.

but wanting meant needing. and needing meant surrendering control.

so she did—but in her own damn way.

at first, you didn’t think much of it.

a slow week wasn’t unusual, and business in the lanes had always been unpredictable. maybe people found a cheaper place. maybe they were just busy.

but then the silence stretched. days passed. the usual faces—the old man with his busted radio, the kids with their broken toys, the regulars who came in just to tinker with their own gear under your watch—never showed.

the only person who did?

sevika.

she came in like nothing was different, like she hadn’t bled your business dry with nothing but presence and intimidation. and worse? she acted like she was doing you a favor for keeping you occupied.

and for some reason—you knew exactly why—customers stopped coming.

men, women, kids with their tiny gadgets, elderly folks with their busted radios. all of them. gone.

now, you just sat there, waiting. working. for one customer who paid too much for fixes that took too little time.

you weren’t sure what to feel about it. stay neutral? drill her eye with your screwdriver? wipe that ridiculous—gorgeous—smirk off her stupid, gorgeous face?

…fuck.

“you seriously need to start oiling these… i’m so done with you”

you growled, hands greasy and covered in rust. at this point, you were starting to believe she’d cursed the damn thing—like some kind of spell that kept her prosthetic in a constant state of disrepair.

“how did you even do that?” you scowled, digging into the mess of loosened joints and worn-out gears.

the funniest part? she didn’t even bother hiding it anymore.

sevika was shamelessly, blatantly fucking up her own arm just to have an excuse to see you.

you don’t know how long it’s been since the first time she walked in—two months, maybe three.

and yet, those months had been full. oddly full, despite your shop being emptier than ever.

she had made something here. filled a gap you didn’t even know existed.

she made your stomach knot, your heart dance, your fists clench in frustration.

and somehow, all of it felt good.

“you’ll do it for me,” she murmured, smug.

you shot her a deadpan glare. “i will kill you in your sleep.”

“bet.”

fuck this woman. for real.

despite all your grumbling, you never actually told her to leave. never kicked her out, never set any real boundaries—not when she lingered in your workshop long after her arm had been fixed, not when she started treating the space like her own. at some point, she stopped hovering near the door and just stayed. sat on the worn-out couch like it belonged to her, took slow drags of her cigarette, let herself be comfortable.

and maybe you should’ve minded. maybe you should’ve told her to take her arrogance, her constant smirking, her ridiculous way of worming herself into your life, and get the hell out.

but then there were moments like this.

where the rain drummed against the window, where the scent of warm tea curled in the air, where she was settled deep into the cushions, her prosthetic resting on the armrest, her real hand gesturing lazily as she ranted about something that had pissed her off today.

and you? you sat on the floor in front of her, legs crossed, fingers curled around your mug, watching her talk like she wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the room.

“fucking nightmare of a day,” she muttered, rubbing a hand over her face.

you hummed, amused, taking a slow sip of your tea. “that bad?”

she exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “you have no idea.”

you stretched your legs out, letting the heat from the mug seep into your fingers. “alright, let’s hear it. what ruined your day this time?”

sevika exhaled a long, irritated breath, tilting her head back against the couch. “some idiot decided to run his mouth at the bar. you’d think grown men would know when to shut the fuck up.”

you raised a brow. “and you, of course, handled the situation with patience and restraint.”

she snorted. “obviously.”

you gave her a look.

“…okay, i might’ve broken a chair over his head.”

you nearly choked on your tea. “sevika!”

she grinned, shameless. “it wasn’t that bad. he hit the ground before the chair even fully broke.”

you groaned, pressing your fingers to your temples. “damn.”

sevika just shrugged, like yeah, and? before propping her prosthetic up on the armrest. “what about you? your day any less of a shitshow?”

you huffed, blowing at the steam curling from your mug. “dunno, my only customer is an impossible woman who keeps ruining her own arm on purpose.”

her lips twitched. “sounds like a real pain in the ass.”

“oh, you have no idea.”

there was a beat of silence. the kind that wasn’t heavy or thick, just… easy.

then—

“you ever think about getting out of here?” she asked, voice quieter, more thoughtful.

you blinked, caught off guard by the shift. “what, the shop?”

she nodded, gaze unreadable. “zaun. this whole… life.”

your fingers tightened slightly around your mug. “…i don’t know,” you admitted. “maybe.”

sevika hummed, studying you for a long moment. then, just as smoothly as she’d brought it up, she let the conversation drift again.

“so, this tea any good?”

you rolled your eyes, grateful for the change in subject. “it’s amazing, actually.”

she held out her hand. “lemme try.”

you narrowed your eyes, lifting the mug just out of reach. “no.”

“why?”

“because you don’t appreciate flavored tea.”

sevika scoffed. “the hell does that mean?”

“it means i saw you down three shots of double whiskey earlier. you’ve lost all credibility.”

she actually laughed at that, a low, warm sound that settled deep in your chest.

and for some reason, despite all the trouble she caused, despite the way she took up more space in your life than she probably should have—

you let her stay a little longer.

on an unremarkable wednesday, you were lost in the kind of mindless routine that existed only to fill the time. you didn’t care much for what you were doing—shuffling through old tools, wiping nonexistent dust off the counter—but it was something.

something to keep your mind occupied until she showed up.

you were expecting her soon. it had been a few days since she last dropped by, and she never stayed away for long.

the bell above the door jingled, breaking the quiet.

without looking up, you exhaled through your nose, amused. “you want some tea? i’ve been begging for anything to distract me these days, thanks to yo—”

you glanced up—

and wished you hadn’t.

sevika was bloody.

not just scraped-up, not just roughed-up—bloody. her shirt was torn in places, her knuckles cracked and caked with dried red, her cheekbone split open just beneath her eye.

but still, she moved like nothing had happened.

already half-sunken into the couch, she wrestled with the lighter in her back pocket, hand trembling with the effort.

your stomach dropped. “sevika!”

her fingers twitched—like she was deciding whether or not to wave you off—but she didn’t look at you. just kept digging for that damn lighter.

you were at her side in an instant, hands hovering uselessly. you wanted to touch her, check her, do something, but she was so tense, so unreadable, you weren’t sure if she’d let you.

“what happened?” your voice was quieter now, tight with concern.

she exhaled sharply through her nose, head tilting back against the couch. “shit night.”

“that’s not an answer.”

she finally looked at you then, lips twitching up in something almost like her usual smirk—but it didn’t reach her eyes. “it’s the only one i got.”

your heart twisted.

for all her arrogance, her sharp-tongued bravado, this wasn’t the first time she’d shown up like this. but something about tonight—about the silence, the barely-there tremor in her fingers—felt different.

felt worse.

wordlessly, you moved. crossed the room to grab some water from the sink in the back room, dampened a clean cloth with the warm water.

when you came back, you knelt in front of her, settling onto the floor between her legs, legs crossed beneath you.

sevika watched you, unreadable, as you reached out. your fingers barely ghosted over her jaw before she closed her eyes and let out a slow breath.

not a word.

just… acceptance.

you swallowed thickly, then pressed the cloth to her cheek, wiping away the blood.

“i don’t have anything to help you with…” you whispered, your tone almost scolding yourself.

the cloth in your hand felt useless. like no amount of warm water could fix this. like you were just wiping away evidence instead of easing the pain.

your fingers trembled against her skin. maybe from nerves, maybe from something deeper. either way, sevika noticed.

she reached out—not with metal, not with something cold and unfeeling, but with her real hand.

rough fingers found your cheek, thumb brushing over the skin in slow, absentminded strokes. like she was memorizing the feeling. like she was claiming it.

your breath hitched, your body going soft before you could stop it. without thinking, you leaned forward, resting your head against her knee.

and then—she smiled.

not a smirk. not something sharp and teasing. just… real.

the warmth of it settled in her voice as she spoke.

“you help.”

simple. certain. like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

sevika exhaled, slow. her hand stayed where it was, cradling your cheek like she needed it there. like she was grounding herself.

“i never had anything of my own—never.”

“no one belonged to me. i never held feelings in my grasp.”

she exhaled softly, something like a chuckle slipping out, but it held no real humor. more of an exhausted amusement, like she was laughing at herself.

“not even my arm.”

she let the silence stretch for a moment, let the weight of her words settle. and then, softer—more certain.

“but you…”

“something about you—something about you is mine.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. you weren’t sure if you were supposed to say anything at all.

so you let it be. let it settle. let it breathe.

let her have it.

𓍯𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃 𓈒𓏸

it was an ordinary day.

a quiet one.

not wintry, not summery—just soft. the kind of day where the air smelled like something in between, where the breeze carried warmth but the sun wasn’t overbearing, where the light filtered in through the windows just enough to make the dust motes dance.

the kind of day that should’ve gone unnoticed.

you sat at your workbench, tools scattered around you, hands busy with the kind of mindless repair work that didn’t require much thought. the shop was empty, save for the hum of your favorite song spilling from the radio, filling the space with a low, dreamy melody.

“𝕚 𝕨𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕞𝕪 𝕨𝕙𝕚𝕤𝕜𝕖𝕪—𝕟𝕖𝕒𝕥”

your fingers tapped against the desk absently, matching the rhythm.

“𝕞𝕪 𝕔𝕠𝕗𝕗𝕖𝕖 𝕓𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕜 𝕚𝕟 𝕞𝕪 𝕓𝕖𝕕— 𝕒𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕖𝕖”

it was one of those songs—the kind you didn’t just hear, but felt, settling into your bones, sinking beneath your skin. you swayed in your seat slightly, shimmying your shoulders to the beat, lost in the music.

so lost, in fact, that you didn’t notice the door creak open.

didn’t notice her step inside.

didn’t notice the way she stopped—just for a second—to watch you.

sevika leaned against the frame, arms crossed, lips twitching in quiet amusement as she took in the sight of you, completely oblivious to her presence.

she had gotten used to this.

but she still smiled, just because she saw you.

she smiled whenever she saw you.

“didn’t know you danced for an audience, mechanic.”

the sound of her voice startled you so hard you nearly knocked over your drink.

you whirled around, heat already creeping up your neck. “sevika!”

she smirked, pushing off the doorframe. “go on, don’t let me stop you.”

you shot her a glare, heart still hammering. “how long were you standing there?”

“long enough,” she said, walking over to your workbench.

your lips parted, ready to fire back something deeply unflattering, but—

then she did it.

that thing.

that fucking thing she always did—where she got too close, where she took up too much space, where she looked at you with that knowing glint in her eye, like she was waiting to see how long it would take before you went putty in her hands.

you clenched your jaw. “you’re impossible.”

she grinned. “i know.”

you exhaled sharply through your nose, shoving your tools aside. “alright, are you coming in here just to bother me, or do you actually want me to fix your gears for the—what is it now? god knows how many times?”

sevika hummed, as if considering. “depends. what do i get out of it?”

you scoffed, shaking your head. “unbelievable.”

but still, you didn’t push her away.

instead, you let her linger.

let her steal your space, let her smirk, let her lean against your workbench like she belonged there.

like she belonged here.

the song shifted. a softer one.

the kind that wrapped around you, quiet and warm, settling between the spaces left unspoken.

“𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈ℯ 𝓂𝓎 𝓁ℴ𝓋ℯ 𝒾𝓈 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ, 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ…”

your fingers curled against the wood.

“𝓂𝓎 𝓁ℴ𝓋ℯ, 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ, 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ, 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ…”

without thinking, you moved.

got up, stepped toward her, reached out.

and she let you.

your hand wrapped around her waist, fingertips brushing over the hem of her cloak, barely there. you tilted your chin up, resting it lightly against the pulse point of her neck, the steady thrum beneath your skin.

and she—

sevika almost growled.

not loud. not harsh. just a low, barely-there sound in the back of her throat, as if caught off guard by the touch, by the warmth, by you.

slowly, she took your wrists.

slid her fingers over your skin, guiding them behind your back—so deliberate, so slow.

your breath hitched.

you squirmed slightly. “oh come on,” you muttered, playful, pressing against her just a little more.

her grip tightened.

you exhaled, heart hammering.

then, with a quiet chuckle, you let your hands slip behind her neck instead, fingers tangling in the short strands at her nape. “dance with me a little,” you whispered, barely audible. your face burned, but you still tried, still wanted.

you needed this moment.

she was silent.

drinking you in.

slowly, intensely—like she was trying to memorize you.

and then—

without a word, she pulled you closer.

wrapped both arms around you. flesh and metal. warm and cold. human and not.

but she let you see both.

by choice.

for once, without hesitation.

for once, without regret.

you two moved.

let the music fill the air, let the rhythm guide you, let the moment stretch.

“𝓃ℴ𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃ℊ 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽ℯ 𝓌ℴ𝓇𝓁𝒹 𝒷ℯ𝓁ℴ𝓃ℊ𝓈 𝓉ℴ 𝓂ℯ… 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓂𝓎 𝓁ℴ𝓋ℯ..”

sevika exhaled, slow and deliberate, before her hand—her real hand—drifted up.

fingers grazing your throat.

pointer finger brushing against your jaw.

“…𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ, 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ, 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ.”

her voice, when she finally spoke, was low, deliberate.

“be mine.”

her eyes poured into yours.

your eyes, already hazy, already melting, flickered up to hers.

she was looking at you like you were something to be kept.

to be always there.

to be the only thing she ever wanted to have. the only and the last.

and when you nodded—

when your lips parted—when you finally dared to move—

she kissed you.

everything else faded away.

the world came back to her in pieces.

first, the feeling—warmth, unfamiliar but real, sinking into her bones. the weight of blankets tangled around her waist. the scent of something soft, something clean.

then, the quiet—no city noise, no distant shouts, no clanking gears or drunken brawls. just the steady hush of breathing.

and then—

the sight of you.

sevika blinked once, slow, letting the haze of sleep clear from her vision.

you sat in front of her, perched on your knees at the edge of the bed, watching her with a quiet sort of focus. you didn’t fidget, didn’t look away, just smiled.

soft. like morning light. like something easy and untouched.

something hers.

sevika didn’t move right away.

didn’t speak, either.

she just let herself have this. let herself wake up to something other than aching joints and an empty bed. let herself feel the way her chest tightened—not with panic, not with grief, but with something terrifying in its own right.

something she didn’t name.

you tilted your head, amusement flickering in your gaze. “you’re awake.”

sevika exhaled through her nose, slow, measured. “you were watching me.”

a quiet laugh, barely there. “maybe.”

she should’ve made some sharp remark—should’ve teased, should’ve scoffed, should’ve pulled the moment apart before it had the chance to settle.

but she didn’t.

instead, she reached out.

didn’t think, didn’t hesitate—just moved.

fingers curling around your wrist, tracing absently over your pulse. feeling the proof of you, steady and real.

she kissed the soft skin of your wrist, slowly dragging her tongue over your pulse.

you didn’t pull away.

didn’t shift, didn’t falter. just let sevika hold you.

and for the first time in a long time, sevika let herself believe. believe that this—this warmth, this weight, this having—wasn’t something she’d wake from.

warmth was a thing.

and it was all hers now.

#sevika #sevika x you #sevika x reader #sevika arcane #arcane

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bokutoko · 4 months ago

Text

SAKUSA always hated the color yellow.

one would never guess it since he practically lived in his former high school’s volleyball uniform. from going to different camps, he was either wearing his putrid neon yellow and green jacket, or a yellow t-shirt. hell, even now, there was yellow in his msby uniform. though, it was a little more bearable now.

just a little.

he was a walking highlighter in high school, and looked similar to a bumblebee upon going pro. all in all, yellow didn’t signify anything except being too bright and too difficult to match many things with. and nothing could really change his mind.

that was before you, of course.

it wasn’t really until you begged for the aux—saying, “please, kiyo…” with those soft puppy dog eyes that he could never withstand—that his mind began to slowly change.

as he listened to the song, you mentioned it was a favorite of yours, softly humming along to it as he drove to dinner.

the lyrics were relatively simple, with a good beat.

but suddenly, things began to change right before his eyes. he looked to the stars as they walked, noticing how they shone a little brighter when you were around. oh, how they shone so pretty, just for you.

however, their little sparkles in the sky had nothing on the glint of happiness in your eyes—absolutely breathtaking. sakusa found himself wishing to stare into your beautiful eyes for the rest of his days. and the thought of looking at the gold reflected off your skin from the dusk sun—god, you were perfect.

he noticed how everything around him reminded him of the song, how everything reminded him of you.

you lived in everything he did, in everything he is.

for you, he’d bleed himself dry.

“you’re my yellow,” he quietly admitted one evening when the song finished playing. as you cooked a quick little dinner for the two of you, it was first on your shuffled playlist.

your head practically snapped around to see him standing a few feet behind you. he looked… nervous? the sakusa kiyoomi, nervous to say something as simple as that?

but it was never that simple with him. as a man who struggled with articulating his deepest feelings, you knew exactly what his words meant.

“i love you too, kiyo.”

a/n: i love coldplay and sakusa kiyoomi… sigh

inspired by coldplay’s “yellow”

masterlist | navigation

please do not copy, alter, or repost my work. ©bokutoko 2025

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luvbinnies · 5 months ago

Text

i made a promise, to distance myself

A boy who kept his feelings locked away and someone who wore their heart on their sleeve. When he walked away, it was without warning, without reason. And they refused to wait for an explanation. Now few months later, forced to work together on a project neither can escape, old wounds resurface. Silence turns into stolen glances, resentments bleeds into something dangerously familiar, and the past refuses to stay buried.

Genre: fluff, angst, exs to lovers, el oh el.

warnings: swearing, isaac newton mentioned, could be sad ig (?), i can't think of anything else

a/n: im back from the dead, recently fell under a moving car and got dumped el oh el, some parts in here are inspo by like my actual life, i have a list of all the similarities if anyone is curiosu at the end of the story. basically wake up from a dream where me and my ex got back together and wrote this.

wc: 9.6k (longest fic ever el oh el)

Jumping off a flight of stairs was probably not the best idea, but it was the only thing you could think of at the moment.

Reluctantly moving down the stairs and following the loud clunk sounds of your stupid bright neon green water bottle. Books and papers of drawings and blueprints that won't fit into your messenger bag without getting damaged. Maybe you should’ve listened to when people said getting a regular backpack was much more convenient than the bag you had now, but it was much more fashionable.

Landing at the bottom of the staircase, take a moment to breathe and prepare yourself for having to go back up five flights of stairs to get to class. Because even though the school is one of the prestigious in the country, they refuse to have any sort of elevators to ruin their “dark academic” aesthetic of the building.

Eyes traveling on the old cobbled stoned flooring, trying to locate a neo-coded water bottle, your mother insisted on getting since she read somewhere green is this year's lucky colour. Probably found in some ridiculous article, really got to get her off social media.

Bright neon green slipped through your peripheral vision, turning to face the still rolling bottle and walking towards it before it makes you late for your next class. It stops in front of a pair of solid black shoes, one that looks all too familiar. The figure stops at the feeling of the ratchet bottle that wants to ruin your day even more than it already has.

A recognizable pale hand, with a silver ring on the index, hesitantly drops down to pick up the bottle that led you down a path to the literal pits of hell for you. Eyes not dare looking up from the ground, taking your somewhat free hand and extending out your pinky to the now stranger you have a bitter taste in your mouth everytime you come near. Once the feeling of your pinky is weighted down by the feeling of the water bottle’s hook, you take off up the stairs with energy that you didn’t think you had anymore left of, as it’s your third time climbing these stairs in the past ten minutes.

Not a care in the world if a stranger walks by and deem you as a rude bastard who can’t even say thank you, because you can;t even say a word to the “nice stranger” who handed you your water bottle. All you can do around him now is just run and avoid. That’s what you continue to do until you reach your class, probably looking a little weird as you were also cursing at your bottle and gravity, mainly isaac newton, he’s usually the bane of all your problems lately, besides the man you used to call yours.

—

His friends would sometimes joke to him that the world is too fast for him at times, usually when he doesn’t get a joke right away or for him zoning out, especially as it has been worse in these past few months.

But that happened so fast, he has no idea what to do, or how to react but just to stare at your figure rushing up the stairs. Sunghoon’s jaw tightens as you fade away up the many flights of stairs. Acting like he is some contagious virus, even afraid to touch him, much less look at him.

He would remember when their friend group was still intact and when they would all hang out, how sometimes the gang would get too overwhelming, even from the other side of the room you would catch his eye and always give him a comforting smile. And the simple eye contact with one another, while the world moves along around them.

But he had lost that with you and it’s all his fault.

—

Taking a little break from the assignment in front of you to angrily tap on your phone so the ads on your music app stop, knowing you aren’t really actually doing anything to get rid of them unless you become one of the apps victims and pay for music. But your stubbornness and being broke, so aggressively hitting your phone is your next best solution.

The little silence after the ad is finally done and the next song is about to start, you can hear a mechanical pencil roll off of a desk. A quiet clatter could barely be noticed in the slight hum of the library. You didn’t hear it at first, the angry high you had because of the ad made you lock out of concentrating from your work— until you noticed the hand reaching for it making you pause.

Long pale fingers. A silver ring on the index.

You know those hands, it's your second time seeing them in… you weren’t too sure the last time you saw those hands when they were wrapped around your water bottle. All you knew was that you were seeing those hands much sooner than you needed to.

Those hands, you remember the weight of those hands in yours, the way they used to hold your face and caress your cheek, the way they tug at your sleeves on your sweater absentmindedly.

And you recognize the pencil.

It’s yours.

Not exactly, but you did buy that pencil.

Something in you starts feeling nauseous, or light-headed, you couldn’t really figure out in the moment because without thinking, you reach out and yank that pencil right out of his grip.

Maybe you shouldn’t have done that, because now that gross boy opened his mouth, but you didn’t care.

Sunghoon blinks. “Hey did you just—”

Whenever you were bored in class you would always do fun pencil tricks and even taught him how to do some with this said pencil in your hands.

Spinning the pencil around, inspecting it with feigned interest, not caring about the boy next to you with his mouth open like a fish staring at you. “Huh. I forgot how nice this pencil was.”

Now his mouth is close as he clenches his jaw, his stare sharpening. “You can’t be serious.”

Finally turning your head to look at him, trying to maintain the emotions on your face. Instead of saying something you might end up regretting, in the fear of sounding cringe, you just shrug.

“Give it back.”

“Why?” Resting your chin on your hand. “It’s mine.”

He exhales sharply, the kind of exasperated breath he used to let out when you teased for taking things too seriously. Except now there’s a little bit of an edge to everything.

“You gave it to me.”

You tilt your head “Did I?”

You weren’t sure if he could clench his jaw any harder, but somehow he does. “Yeah. You did.”

Your grip on the pencil tightens. You can’t say you remember everything that was said the night of the break up, but you remember the way you felt, the way he left without explanation— like he couldn’t bear to stay with you any second longer. As if he couldn’t stand to hold on to something that was already slipping away.

He didn’t even let you have a say, you didn’t get the chance to do anything, not even fight for what was yours then.

So now you hold on to that damn pencil.

“Well,” you say, voice light, “technically, it was mine first.”

Sunghoon lets out a humorless laugh, one you don’t recognize in this fever dream daze of nostalgia. Leaning against the table, he’s close now, closer than you could've prepared for. You hate the way your heart stumbles over itself at the lack of distance, at the way he still smells the same— like something clean and sharp, a little cologne you had bought him about a year ago for his birthday.

His voice drops an octave. “You’re seriously pulling this shit?”

Shrugging again, simply just pulling a stare you hope doesn’t reveal how fast your heart is beating stupidly like it used to.

He watches you for a long second, his brown eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to figure out what type of game you were playing. But then, not arguing, instead of pushing back, he just exhales softly.

“Fine,” he mutters, “Keep it.”

And then, right before he turns away— so quiet you almost think you had imagined it—

“It suits you better anyways.”

You blink.

Before you could say anything, maybe asking what the fuck he meant by what he said, he’s already walking off. Leaving you with a mechanical pencil in your hands and this time you watching him as he walks away, with a taste of words you don’t quite understand.

—

Two year ago

Rain pitter patters against the windows, a dull hum in the background in the near-empty classroom. It’s late— too late for anyone to be here— you didn’t care, you were too stubborn. Chewing on your nail, brows furrowed in concentration as you glare at your notebook, completely oblivious to the fact that Sunghoon hasn’t turned a page in the last ten minutes.

He should be focusing. He should be running through formulas in his head, thinking about the test tomorrow, or at the very least be pretending to be studying. Instead, he’s watching you— watching the way you puff out your cheeks when you stop understanding what you were just doing, the way you spin the pencil in your hand absentmindedly, the way you whisper to yourself while doing each exercise when you think no one’s listening.

You’re always like this– loud without meaning to be, pulling attention without even trying.

He should’ve known sooner. That you were dangerous in the kind of way that crept up on him, slipping past his defenses before he had the chance to stop it.

“Sunghoon.”

Your voice snaps him back to reality, he straightens, forcing his face into something neutral. “What?”

Pushing your notebook towards him, sighing dramatically. “Did you do this one yet? I don’t know if I did it correctly.”

He glances at your notebook, eyes widening a little, as to the most he could see on the page was a bunch of scribbles and some incoherent formulas and calculation. Having a hard time reading it , before shifting his chair closer. You don’t think twice about it when your shoulders brush. You never do.

But he does.

He always does.

“Is this your answer, at the corner?” he asks, taking your pencil without thinking, to circle the little number at the bottom of the page. Your fingers graze for a second, and he wonders if you feel the static the way he does. Probably not. You’d pull away if you did.

He attempted to go over your work, commenting on what you have written in a voice that’s much steadier than he feels. You nod along, resting your chin on your hand, eye flickering between his face and page.

“I hate Isaac Newton and that stupid apple.” you grumble.

Sunghoon huffs a quiet laugh shaking his head. “You just overthink everything.”

You groan. “I wish that apple killed that stupid white man.”

He watches as you bury your head in your arms on the table, tapping your forehead lightly with the end of the pencil before setting it back down. “Just stop overthinking and wishing death upon an already dead man.”

Lifting your head, you blink at him, lips parting like you want to argue, but for a brief moment, something passes between the two of you— something neither of you have a name for yet.

And then you roll your eyes, reaching for your notebook. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever, idiot.”

Sunghoon watches as you turn your pages to start a new question, completely unaware of the way his fingers twitch against his knee, resisting the urge to brush a stray strand of hair from your face.

Yeah.

He’s in trouble.

—

A few months ago

The night air is cold, but not as cold as the space between you.

Your arms are crossed. His hands are shoved into his pockets.

A street light flickers overhead. A car passes in the distance.

Sunghoon exhales, steadying himself.

Then. before he can stop it— before he can think too hard about what he’s about to lose—

“I think we should break up.”

Silence.

The kind that swallows everything whole.

Your lips part, but no words come out.

The look in your eyes— confusion, disbelief, then something else, something that burns—

“What-Why?”

He doesn’t answer. Or maybe he does, but it’s not the right thing.

It’s never the right thing.

The air is heavy, thick with things neither of you are saying.

Then, finally— your voice, quieter this time.

“Okay.”

A single step back. Then another.

And then—

Nothing.

—

The classroom hums with chatter, students moving around and the teacher speaking about some project, but you were barely listening. Your attention is elsewhere— on your notebook, on the scratches of pen against paper, literally anything but him.

He was two rows ahead, resting his chin on his hand, half-focused on his laptop. Almost similar to you right now. Too similar.

You don’t look at him. You don’t let yourself.

But then—

“For the project, you’ll be working in pairs.”

There is a ripple of movement through the room, students glancing around already choosing their partners.

“I’ve assigned them to you.”

Your stomach twists.

You sit a little straighter. Your fingers tighten around your pen.

The professor starts listing off names. One by one, students find their partner. You’re holding your breath, waiting for—

And then—

Your name.

And then, immediately after—

His.

You freeze.

The room suddenly feels too small, the air too thick.

Someone nudges your arm, murmuring something about how lucky you are since you get to work with the “hottest guy on campus”, but their voice is distant, muffled by the sound of blood rushing in your ears.

Slowly, hesitantly, you lift your gaze.

Sunghoon had turned in his seat.

For the first time in months, you’re looking at each other.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even look surprised.

—

Sunghoon doesn’t hear from you for the rest of the day.

Not a text, not a call— nothing.

And the, at exactly 11:51 pm., an email lands in his inbox.

Subject: Project Task

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Attached is the project outline. I’ve divided the tasks. I’ll handle the structural analysis and concept sketches. You can do the mechanical components. Tell me when you are done.

Sent from my phone

That’s it. No greeting. No unnecessary words. Not even your name.

Sunghoon exhales through his nose, clicking open the file. You’ve already set up everything— titles, labels, even deadlines. You’ve practically built a wall of professionalism between you, as if you were never anything but classmates.

And it pisses him off.

Fine. two can play this game.

He types a reply, short and to the point.

Subject: Re: Project Tasks

Got it.

He doesn’t hit send.

His fingers hover over the keyboard. His jaw clenches.

Then, in a moment of stubborn impulse, he types—

You can’t avoid me forever.

And hits send before he can take it back.

—

“You know, he’s right.”

You shoot a glare over at Sunoo. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, kicking his feet up on the bench. “You can’t ignore him forever.”

“I can, actually.” you sip your matcha pointedly. “It’s called email.”

He snorts. “You sound like a middle-aged professor.”

“Good. Maybe he’ll leave me alone then.”

Sunoo raises an eyebrow. “He literally told you, ‘You can’t avoid me forever.’”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and? I don’t care.”

The words are barely out of your mouth when Sunoo suddenly stiffens, eyes darting over your shoulder.

“Uh—”

You don’t even have to ask. You just know.

There’s a familiar shift to the air, an awareness pressing down on your skin.

And then, just to confirm it—

“Shit,” Sunoo mutters. “He’s down the hall.”

You don’t think. You just move.

Your hands shoot out, gripping his sleeve as you drag them down the corridor.

“Are you serious?!” he hiss between stumbling steps.

“Shut up, shut up , shut up—”

“Please can we stop running, I don’t think he would be chasing us down for sport.”

You don’t care. You don’t turn around because you know if you do, you’ll see Sunghoon standing there, staring after you, that unreadable look on his face.

And you are not giving him that satisfaction.

Not today.

—

Staring at your laptop screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, the flashing cursor blinking back at you in defiance. You’ve been avoiding this email for days— every time you think about it your stomach churns, and you mind races with excuses.

You don’t want to deal with him. Not now. Not ever again.

The project, the meeting, the unavoidable tension. You had hoped, foolishly, that you could really just avoid Sunghoon completely— keep everything strictly professional, send email, handle the assignment without having to face him in person. But that plan was crushed the moment the email landed in your inbox, his name in bold.

“Let’s meet in person tomorrow to go over the project. I’ll bring the drafts.”

Of course, Sunghoon had to take the initiative. You had a suspicion he’d never let you hide behind your screen forever. He was stubborn, too, in a way that always seemed to get under your skin.

You arrived at the library, dragging your feet, already feeling the weight of the situation settle in your chest. The project was an assignment, but the real challenge was having to sit across from him, pretending that nothing had happened, pretending that the last year— no, the last months— hadn’t been a whirlwind of frustration and heartache.

But here you were, faced with reality. You walked into the library, hoping to avoid eye contact, but you couldn’t escape the familiar sight of him sitting at a table with all his papers neatly organized, a slight form on his face as he scanned the documents.

His eyes flicked up when he saw you enter, and for a second, your heart skipped a beat. But you force yourself to remain calm. He was just a classmate now, just another part of your academic routine. Nothing more.

You set your things down at the table across from him, pulling your laptop out with the practiced motions of someone who had done this a thousand times before. You weren;t going to make this more personal than it had to be. No small talk. No catching up. Just the project.

“Hey,” Sunghoon greeted, his voice neutral but carrying the weight of something unsaid. He glanced at the papers in front of you and then back to you. “Are you okay with everything so far? I made some revisions to the outline.”

You didn;t look at him. Instead, you glanced at the project papers and began sorting through them, avoiding his gaze entirely. “I’ll read them over later. Just… let’s focus on getting it done.”

You felt his eyes on you, the tension palpable in the air, but you refused to acknowledge it. You had your own part to do, your own work to focus on. Nothing else mattered right now. The project was the only thing that mattered.

—

Sunghoon sighed, and you could hear the edge of frustration creeping into his voice. “Look, I know this isn;t easy for either of us, but we’re stuck with each other for this project. We might as well get it done right.”

“I’m not here to talk,” you snapped back, the words sharp and defensive. “Just focus on your part. I’ll handle mine.”

His expression hardened , but he didn’t push it any further. He opened up his own laptop and began typing, the sound of the keyboard tapping filling the silence between the both of you.

For a while, it was quiet— just the sound of typing, rustling of papers. But no matter how hard you tried to focus, you couldn;’t shake the nagging feeling that he was watching you. His presence was like a shadow that followed your every move you made, and you hated how it made your chest tighten. You shouldn’t feel like this. You had no reason to. This wasn’t supposed to be personal. It was just a project.

But then, suddenly, Sunghoon spoke again, his voice quieter, almost reluctant.

“You know,” he said, voice low but insistent, “we used to work well together. Back in high school. Why are you making this harder than it has to be?”

You froze, your fingers still on the keyboard. You could feel the old pain creep up your throat, but you swallowed it down, shoving it away. No. Don’t go there.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, your voice steady but with a hint of something you don’t want to put a name to. And then, with a sigh, he turned his attention back to his laptop, typing in silence for a long time.

—

Two year ago

It had been a late night at the library, the kind where the air felt thick with concentration and the promise of deadlines hanging over every student in the building. You were sitting at the same table as Sunghoon, both of you buried in textbooks, trying to get ahead before the weekend.

It was supposed to be just another study session, but something felt different. Maybe it was the way the soft overhead lights cast shadows over his features or how the silence between you two wasn’t awkward but comfortable. You couldn’t help it— his face was so focused, his lips slightly pursed in concentration, and for some reason, the sight of him studying like that made your heart skip.

“Is there something on my face?” he asked, his voice teasing but gentle.

You blinked and quickly looked away, flustered. “No … it’s just, you look… nice when you study.”

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. He leaned forward slightly, his voice lower than usual. “Nice, huh? That’s a first.”

You wanted to curl up and die from embarrassment, but instead you found yourself smiling despite the heat in your cheeks. Something about being with him felt so easy, so natural.

And then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out. “You look… pretty. When you study.”

There was a long pause, and then Sunghoon chuckled, his smile widening. “Pretty, huh? Well, that’s new.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed too, the awkwardness melting away in the warmth of his gaze. That moment— when you both realized that maybe there was something more there— was when it all started.

—

The silence in the library stretches again. You go back to your laptop, trying to focus on the work in front of you. But the memory of that moment, of those words you’d said so long ago, hangs in the air like a ghost.

Sunghoon’s presence is undeniable now. Every time his shoulder brushes against yours as he reaches for his drink, it feels like a jolt of electricity. You grit your teeth, forcing yourself to keep working, to ignore the way his proximity makes your heart race.

“You know, if we just worked together instead of pretending we’re strangers, this would be a lot easier,” Sunghoon says again, his voice a little more insistent now, but still carrying that gentle tone.

You refuse to look up, clenching your jaw. “Just finish your part. I’ll finish mine.”

“I’ve always liked how stubborn you are,” he mutters, but there’s a soft fondness behind the words. “But you’re going to make this harder than it has to be, aren’t you?”

You bite your lip, fighting the urge to snap back. But the reality is that he’s right. You are making this harder. You’re making everything harder by refusing to acknowledge how much you still feel for him.

But you can’t admit that, not now, not when the walls between you two are so high, so insurmountable.

—

It’s late—too late for anyone to be at the library anymore. The harsh overhead lights flicker in the empty room, casting long shadows on the tables where students usually sat, buried in their books. But not you. You’re still here, alone, a stack of textbooks and papers spread out before you. The hum of the fluorescent lights fills the air, broken only by the soft tapping of your fingers on the keyboard.

You’ve been here for hours, the deadline looming closer with every passing second. Your mind is tired, but you won’t leave until you finish. It’s like a race against time. A way to distract yourself from everything else.

But then, you feel it. A presence.

You look up, and there’s Sunghoon, standing by the entrance, his gaze scanning the room. You immediately look away, pretending you hadn’t seen him. Why is he here? You weren’t supposed to see him, not tonight.

He walks toward you slowly, his footsteps soft but deliberate. You keep your eyes down, focused on the papers in front of you, but you can feel him getting closer.

“You’re still here?” Sunghoon says, his voice low, like he’s not sure what to make of the situation.

You sigh, unwilling to make this a conversation. “I’m working. Is that a problem?”

“No,” he answers quickly, but there’s a softness to his tone now. Something gentler. “Just... thought you’d left by now.”

You don’t look up, but you hear him pull out the chair opposite you. He sits down, but doesn’t speak immediately. You don’t say anything either. It’s awkward. You try to focus on the work in front of you, trying to ignore the feeling of his presence, so close but still so far away.

You keep your head down, but the longer you stay in the silence, the more you feel the walls you’ve built start to crumble, piece by piece. He doesn’t push you. Doesn’t force a conversation. He just... stays.

You try not to think too much about it. It’s just Sunghoon. Just a classmate.

But then, hours later, you’re blinking, your head feeling heavy as you try to focus on the screen in front of you. You hadn’t realized how tired you were until your eyelids started to flutter. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but the exhaustion catches up with you.

You don’t even realize you’ve nodded off until you’re suddenly jerked awake, your head jerking up from the desk. The library is quiet, almost too quiet, and the light from the desk lamp casts a soft glow around the room. That’s when you notice it.

A jacket—dark, heavy, and familiar—draped over your shoulders.

You blink, still groggy from sleep, and turn to see that Sunghoon is gone, his chair empty. You try to shake the fogginess from your mind, but there’s no denying it: He left his jacket with you.

You didn’t hear him come back. Didn’t feel him approaching. But somehow, he’d slipped it onto you while you were asleep, without a sound.

You sit there for a moment, the jacket still warm against your skin. His scent clings to it, and you find yourself unable to take it off. It feels wrong to just leave it behind, but you’re not sure why it feels so important to keep it on.

You look down at your own hands, your fingers grazing the sleeve, feeling the weight of the jacket, both literally and emotionally. You’re not sure if it’s the jacket that’s weighing on you or the memories that come with it. But it’s there. And so is he.

You stay there for a few more minutes, just sitting in the quiet, knowing that it would be impossible to get anything more done tonight. You pack up your things, but you don’t take off the jacket. Instead, you walk out of the library with it on, your heart a little heavier than when you came in.

—

It was dark outside, and the bus was filled with the soft chatter of your classmates. You and Sunghoon were sitting in the same seat, your shoulders brushing as you both leaned against the window, tired from the day’s activities.

You’d always been close, never quite aware of how it felt to have someone just be there with you. But that day, there was something different about it. It was like you both had settled into this quiet rhythm—comfortable, easy.

You leaned your head against the window, gazing out at the passing lights. The bus was warm, and your eyes were starting to grow heavy from the day’s exhaustion. Without realizing it, you drifted off, your head slipping onto Sunghoon’s shoulder.

He didn’t immediately pull away, didn’t complain. He just let you sleep, his body slightly tensing at the sudden closeness, but not enough to push you away.

And when you woke up, it wasn’t awkward. You just rubbed your eyes, looked up at him, and smiled.

“You’re comfy,” you murmured.

Sunghoon chuckled softly. “You really just fell asleep on me, huh?”

You laughed, feeling a warmth in your chest. “It’s not like I did it on purpose. I didn’t even realize.”

And even though it had only been a few seconds, you both lingered in that moment, your eyes meeting briefly before he gave you a smile that made your heart flutter.

You’d brushed it off as nothing—just a friendly gesture.

—

You’re still sitting in your room, the jacket still on your shoulders. It feels like a weight, not because it’s heavy, but because of the memories it brings. The warmth lingers on your skin, but so does the uncertainty. You can’t figure out why this is bothering you so much.

Your phone buzzes on the table, pulling you from your thoughts. A new email. You don’t need to look at it to know it’s from him. Sunghoon.

The message is simple: “Still need help with the project. Let me know if you want to meet up.”

You close your eyes and let out a slow breath. You want to ignore it. Pretend you didn’t see it. But you can’t. Because part of you wants him to be there. Part of you wants him to still be the one to help you, even if you don’t want to admit it.

You stand up, pacing around the room, the jacket slipping slightly off your shoulders as you move. You pull it tighter around you, almost subconsciously.

You know you’ll have to face him again. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe sooner. Hopefully later. But right now, with his jacket still draped over you, you’re not sure if you're ready.

But for some reason, you know you’re going to have to take it off.

—

You walk into the classroom, clutching the jacket in your hands. It’s been a couple of days since you woke up to find it draped over your shoulders, Sunghoon’s jacket—a silent gesture that spoke more than words ever could. He hadn’t said anything when you first found it. It had simply been there. At first, you thought it was an accident, but the longer you held onto it, the more it felt like something else. You hadn’t returned it immediately, unsure why you kept it. But now, with the fact the two of you share a class together, it felt like the right time.

You spot him sitting by the window, alone, lost in whatever thoughts occupy his mind. He doesn’t notice you as you approach, and the moment feels strangely... intimate, even though you're still far from the comfort you once shared.

You stand in front of him, holding out the jacket, but he doesn’t immediately take it. His eyes flicker up, and for a split second, something unreadable passes between you. He reaches for the jacket, but as his fingers brush yours, it’s more of a reflex than any real desire to touch.

Before you can pull away, a voice from behind you cuts through the moment.

"Are you two... together or just friends?"

You glance over to find a couple of classmates watching you both curiously. It’s a casual question, but the curiosity in their eyes is unmistakable. Sunghoon’s hand freezes mid-motion, his fingers still hovering over the jacket. He looks back at them briefly, his gaze faltering, not quite meeting yours.

For a moment, you’re not sure what to say. You notice how Sunghoon looks at the ground, avoiding any real response. His lips press together, his hand still unsure of whether to take the jacket back or not. He’s hesitant, as always.

You, on the other hand, feel the weight of the question, but you don’t shy away from it. Not this time. You stand tall, glancing over at your classmates and meeting their gaze.

“We’re just friends,” you say, your voice steady and clear. “Nothing more.”

Sunghoon doesn’t say anything. He just takes the jacket from your hand, his fingers brushing yours again, but this time it’s almost mechanical. You turn away quickly, the moment lingering behind you like an unspoken tension.

Your classmates exchange glances, their curiosity piqued, but they don’t push further. They turn their attention to the front of the room as class starts, but the question still lingers in the air.

You sit down at your desk, feeling the eyes of your classmates on you for a moment longer than usual. You force yourself to focus, pretending it doesn’t matter, but the thought of that brief interaction, the way Sunghoon avoided the question, settles heavily in your chest.

The class continues, but your mind drifts, back to that jacket and the weight of unspoken words. You can’t help but wonder what he might’ve said if you hadn’t answered for both of you.

No, that’s what he should’ve said because you guys were not dating, he broke up with you, and now the two of you were simply forced to work together. That’s it.

—

The autumn air was crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves as the two of you walked side by side down the quiet street. The school festival had just ended, and the distant hum of laughter and music still echoed behind you. Groups of students were lingering back at the event, but somehow, the two of you ended up here, together, away from it all.

It wasn’t planned. It never was with him. It was just how things always seemed to happen.

You hugged your arms around yourself because of the cold, cursing at yourself for not bringing a bigger jacket knowing the weather but wanting to look good for the event. He walked a little ahead, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jackets, his head tilted slightly towards you as if he was waiting for you to say something.

You had always been the talker between the both of you. The one who made friends easily, the one who never hesitated. But right now, the words sat heavy on your tongue, unspoken.

He let out a small sigh, looking up at the sky. “It’s late.”

“You should’ve left earlier then.”

He huffed, a tiny, almost-smile tugging at his lips before he looked back ahead. “You didn’t have to leave, you know.”

You shrugged. “Didn’t feel like staying.”

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the full truth either. The festival had been fine, fun even. But then you’d seen him standing by himself, lingering near the edges of the crowd, not quite a part of it. And suddenly, the excitement of it all had dimmed.

He kicked a small rock with the tip of his shoe, watching it tumble along the pavement. “Didn’t think you were the type to leave a party early.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

A breeze picked up, and instinctively, you crossed your arms tighter over yourself. Without a word, Sunghoon shrugged off his jacket and held it out to you.

You blinked at him. “What are you doing?”

“You’re cold.”

You scoffed. “I’m not cold.”

He didn’t say anything, just kept holding the jacket out with that blank expression of his— the one that meant he wasn;t going to argue. You hesitated for a second too long, and then, as if deciding for you, he draped it over your shoulders himself.

You looked up at him, a retort on the tip of your tongue, but then you caught the way his fingers lingered just a second longer against your shoulder, the way he swallowed, like he wanted to say something but thought better of it.

It was nothing.

It was everything.

Your heart did something stranger in your chest, a quiet stutter. But then he pulled away, shoving his hands back into his pockets, eyes flickering elsewhere like it was no big deal.

Like he didn’t just leave you standing there in the middle of the empty street, drowning in the scent of his cologne, trying not to overthink what had just happened.

“Let’s go.” he said, his voice calm, steady. Like always.

You didn’t move right away. You just watched him, this boy who always seemed out of reach.

Then you exhaled and started walking again, side by side, your steps falling in sync.

And if your hands brushed once— just once— neither of you said a word about it.

—

After class, you head out of the room, your mind still lingering on the awkward exchange. As you walk down the hallway, you notice Sunghoon a few paces behind you, his expression neutral. You don’t turn around, but you can feel his presence. It;s the same as always, but somehow it’s different.

The hallway stretches ahead of you both, and you find yourself wondering if it’s the same for him, if he’s feeling the same weight of the unsaid words hanging in the air between you. But then you push the thought away. You can’t keep thinking about it. Not now. Not like this.

The day continues, but it doesn’t feel the same. Something has shifted again. Not a big thing, just the subtle change in the air whenever Sunghoon is around. But for now, you focus on the present. The project. The work. There’s no room for anything else. At least not yet.

—

Sunghoon hated studying in public places. He hated the noise, the crowded spaces, the way it was impossible to concentrate. But for some reason, he was here.

With you.

The library was dimly lit, the only sounds coming from the occasional turning of pages and the soft clicking of keyboards. It was nearly empty at this hour, just the two of you tucked away in a corner, buried under textbooks and notes.

You sighed dramatically, stretching your arms over your head before slumping onto the desk. “I’m going to die here.”

Sunghoon didn’t look up from his notes. “You say that every time we study.”

“Yeah, and one day it’ll be true. And when that day comes, I hope you feel bad about it.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Dramatic.”

You turned your head to look at him, resting your cheek against your arm. The lamplight softened his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the curve of his nose, the way his lashes cast faint shadows on his skin.

He was so pretty.

Unfairly so.

You frowned, furrowing your brows. “Do you know you’re pretty?”

That finally made him look up. He blinked at you, pen pausing mid-air. “What?”

“What?”

There was a flicker of something in his expression— surprise, amusement, something unreadable. He tilted his head slightly. “I don’t think about that kind of stuff.”

You scoff. “Oh shut up.”

Sunghoon shook his head, turning back to his notes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“Because it’s a weird question.”

“It’s not weird.” You sighed, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. “I just think it’s unfair that some people get to be smart and pretty.”

His lips twitched, like he was trying not to smile. “You’re calling me smart too?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

You hadn’t meant anything by it. It was just a passing thought, casual observation. But for some reason. Sunghoon kept stealing glances at you for the rest of the night, his fingers tapping idly against his notebook, like he was trying to figure something out.

—

The library is quieter than usual tonight. The steady hum of air conditioning fills the space, and the dim, golden glow of the desk lamps casts long shadows on the wooden tables. It’s late— too late to still be working— but neither of you have left.

At first, you barely acknowledged each other. The project was the only thing keeping you here and even then, you refused to speak unless absolutely necessary. You typed your sections. He worked on his. Simple.

But at some point, between the furious clicking of keys and the scratching of his pen against paper, something shifted.

The silence wasn’t as sharpe anymore. The air between you wasn’t quite so cold.

You were still stubborn, still keeping your distance, but Sunghoon had started to slip through the cracks.

It was in the way he quietly slid your match closer when he noticed you reaching for it absentmindedly. In the way his eyes lingered a second longer than necessary whenever you furrowed your brows at the screen, lost in thought. In the way he wordlessly handed you a new pen when yours ran out of ink, his fingers brushing yours just for a second.

Little things.

Things you didn’t want to acknowledge.

Things that made it harder to pretend that you hadn’t missed this— missed him.

You force yourself to focus on the words in front of you, but your mind is elsewhere. On him. On the past.

—

It had been a long night.

You weren’t supposed to stay out this late, but somehow, time slipped away. It was just the two of you, walking home after an evening study session, the sky stretched out in a blanket of deep navy blue. The air was crisp, autumn settling in with a quiet chill, and your footsteps echoed against the empty sidewalk.

“I can’t feel my fingers,” you muttered, shoving your hands into your hoodie pockets.

Sunghoon glanced at you, amused. “Then why didn’t you bring gloves?”

“Because I didn’t know it’d be this cold.”

“You say that every year.”

You huffed, nudging him with your shoulder. “And every year, I am caught off guard.”

He rolled his eyes but reached for your sleeve, tugging your arm towards him. Before you could react, he took one of your hands in his, tucking it into the pocket of his jacket along with his own.

The warmth of his palm against yours sent a shiver up your spine— not from the cold, but from something else.

Something you hadn’t quite named yet.

Neither of you said anything about it. You just kept walkin, the streelights casting soft golden halos around you.

You reached your doorstep too soon.

Sunghoon stood there, shifting on his feet, his fingers still loosely curled around yours.

You should’ve pulled away. You should’ve said goodnight. But instead, you just stood there staring at him.

The light from the porch illuminated the sharp angles of his face, the way his dark eyes softened when they met yours. His gaze flickered down— just for a second— before he quickly looked away.

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you were. “Are you gonna keep standing there, or—”

“Shut up,” he muttered.

And then—-

He kissed you.

It was hesitant, barely a whisper of contact. But it sent your heart into a frenzy, your breath hitching, fingers tightening around him without thinking.

When he pulled away, his ears were red, and he wouldn’t meet your eyes. “I— I wasn’t planning to do that.”

You blinked at him, mind still catching up. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeated, this time smiling.

Sunghoon exhaled, sometimes easing his shoulders.

“You;re still holding my hand.” you pointed out.

He let go immediately, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Shut up.”

But you could see the way the corners of his lips twitched upwards.

—

You stare at the screen in front of you, but the words are a blur. The memory lingers, making your chest feel tight.

Sunghoon shifts besides you stretching out his arms. His sleeves push up slightly, revealing the faint outline of veins along his forearms. You look away quickly, annoyed with yourself.

This is ridiculous.

You don’t care. You don’t.

“Take a break,” he says, voice low.

You exhale, rubbing at your temples. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

You shoot him a glare, but he’s already looking back at his screen, unaffected. Typical.

Silence settles between you again, but it’s different now. He’s too close, the air between you too charged.

And then—

“Do you still hate me?”

Your breath catches. The question is quiet, but it feels deafening.

You turn to him, meeting his gaze for the first time in what feels like hours. His eyes are steady, but there’s something else there— something raw, something careful.

You open your mouth, but no words come out.

He swallows. “ you won’t even look at me.”

You force yourself to scoff, to roll your eyes. “I look at you all the time.”

“Not like before.”

That makes you freeze.

Because he’s right.

Before— before everything— you had looked at him like he held the universe in his hands. And maybe, in some ways, he had.

But that was then.

And now—

Now you don’t know what to do with this version of him, this version of you.

The air is thick with something you don’t want to name.

And before you can think better of it, before you can stop yourself—

You kiss him.

It's reckless, desperate, a collision of past and present, of things left unsaid and things you don’t want to admit.

His lips part slightly in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in, his fingers grazing your jaw, like he’s afraid to break the moment.

And maybe you are too.

But then—

Reality crashed back in.

Your eyes widen, and you pull away abruptly, breathless, heart hammering.

Sunghoon blinks, still processing, “Wait—”

But you’re already pushing away from the table, standing up too quickly, your chair scraping against the floor.

“I have to go,” you say, voice unsteady.

And before he can stop you, before he can say anything else—

You turn and walk away.

Leaving him sitting there, watching you go.

Again.

—

Avoidance has always been your best defense.

You mastered it after the breakup, convincing yourself that if you could just stay out of Sunghoon’s orbit, then none of it— none of the pain, none of the unanswered questions, none of him— could touch you.

But ever since that kiss, it’s been impossible to keep up the act.

You stop sitting in your usual spots in the library. You change your walking routes between classes. You leave early to avoid any chance of running into him. Your emails about the project become even shorter, even more detached.

And still— it doesn’t feel like enough

Because the problem isn’t just him.

It’s you.

It’s the way your mind keeps replaying that night in the library, the way your lips still burn with the memory of his, the way your chest aches everytime you think about how you didn’t pull away immediately.

You shouldn’t have let it happen.

You shouldn’t have wanted it to.

But worst of all— you shouldn’t still want it now.

You tell yourself this over and over again. But nine of it matters when you turn the corner one evening, only to find yourself face-to-face with the one person you’ve been trying so hard to avoid.

Sunghoon.

Waiting for you.

Like he knew.

“You’re avoiding me again,” he says, his voice eerily calm.

You grip your bag tighter and look away. “I’m busy.”

“Liar.”

The word lands heavier than it should.

You take a step back, but he matches it, blocking your way. His eyes search yours, and you can feel how tired he is— tired of the silence, of the pretending, of whatever this is.

“Do you hate me that much?” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it, something sharp and desperate.

You exhale hardly. “Sunghoon—”

“Just answer me,” he pressed, jaw clenched. “Do you hate me?”

The words catch in your throat.

You should say yes. You should give him the finality he seems to be looking for.

But you can’t.

And maybe he sees it— maybe he sees the way you falter, the way your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag— because his expression shifts.

And then—

The door beside you suddenly swings open. A group of students spills out, laughing and chatting, shoving past both of you.

You barely register it before someone crashes into you from behind, sending you stumbling backwards—

Right into the supply closet.

And of course— because the universe must hate you— the force of it slams Sunghoon into the tiny space as well.

And before either of you can react— click.

The door locks

Silence.

Then—

“You have got to be kidding me,” you hiss.

Sunghoon tries the handle, but it doesn’t budge. He exhales sharply, resting his forehead against the door for a second before turning back to you.

“Great.”

You let out a bitter laugh, crossing your arms. “What, you think I planned this?”

“No, but it’s convenient, isn’t it?” He glares at you, frustration bleeding into every word. “You’re always running away, and now you can’t.”

Your pulse spikes. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he mutters. “You left the night. You’ve been avoiding me ever since. You won’t even talk to me—”

“Because there’s nothing to say!” you snap.

“Bullshit!” His voice rises, his patience unraveling. “Don’t act like you don’t care. You kissed me, and then you ran away like it meant nothing.”

You freeze.

Because he’s right.

It wasn’t nothing.

But admitting that? Giving him that satisfaction? You can’t.

So you do what you do best.

You push back

“You don’t get to act like you’re the victim here, Sunghoon,” you say, voice colder now. “Not when you broke up with me.”

Something flickers across his face.

“And not just that,” you continue, the weight of everything you’ve bottled up finally breaking through. “You left me without any warning. You didn’t talk to me about what was wrong. You didn’t even try. You just decided one day that it was over and that was it.”

—

It had been an ordinary afternoon. You remember it oo well— how he wouldn’t look at you, how his hands trembled slightly as he shoved them into his pockets.

And then—

“I think we should break up.”

The words hit you like a slap.

You laughed at first, thinking it was some sort of joke. But then you saw the way he avoided your gaze. The way his fingers curled into fists.

“Why?” Your voice had cracked. “What happened? Did I do something?”

He had only shaken his head. “It’s just…. I don’t think this is going to work.”

“What—”

“I am not sure I am what you really need.”

It was the last thing you expected to hear.

But it was the only explanation he ever gave you.

That's what started it, why you just started running away from him.

—

“You thought it wouldn’t work?” you glare at him now, eye burning. “What the hell does that even mean?”

Sunghoon pressed his lips together, like he regretted saying it. But it’s too late.

“You didn’t even give us a chance,” you continue, voice rising. “You just decided that it wasn’t going to work out for the both of us.”

“I wasn’t sure if I was what you really needed.”

Your breath catches. “Sunghoon—”

“You’re always surrounded by people. You make friends so easily. I wasn’t like that, I am not like that.” His voice is quiet now. “I feel like I was always holding you back.”

You shake your head, feeling something sharp and painful twist in your chest. “That’s what you thought?” You let out another bitter laugh. “You know, I thought that’s what brought us together. That we were so different. That worked because of that.”

Sunghoon looks at you then, something unreadable in his expression.

“There were two people in our relationship, you and me. You made that decision that we don’t work well, for the both of us.” you say, voice shaking. “And now you think it’s going to work now just because you want it to?”

He doesn’t answer.

And you hate how much that silence still hurts.

You exhale shakily, turning away. “I don’t trust you., Sunghoon.”

His jaw clenches. “I know.”

“And I don’t trust myself to let this happen again. Because if you could leave that easily once, what makes you think I believe you won’t do it again?”

This time, he doesn’t try to deny it.

Because he knows.

Because he did leave.

And you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to forgive him for that. You hated yourself for never being able to hate him at all.

The only sound in the tiny space is the faint buzz of the overhead light—

And the deafening weight of everything left unsaid.

The supply closet is cold, but the tension in the air is suffocating. When the door finally swings open, neither of you move right away. Sunghoon steps back first, his jaw clenched, like he’s holding back something he’ll never say. You follow a second later, not looking at him as you walk away.

After that, things are different.

You don’t avoid him anymore. Not really. You still exchange emails about the project, still sit across from each other in the library, still in the same space without outright hostility. But the sharpness between you dulls— replaced by something softer, something sadder.

One night, long after the library should’ve closed, you look up from your notes to see Sunghoon staring at you. He doesn’t look away this time. Neither do you. For a moment, the world stills.

Then you blink, and the moment is gone.

—

The project ends.

So does your reason to stay in each other’s orbits.

You expect things to go back to normal, whether normal is supposed to be. You expect distance to creep back in, the silence to settle.

But somehow, Sunghoon lingers.

He doesn’t force conversation, doesn’t push. But you catch him in the corners of your vision— watching, waiting, hesitation. As if he’s waiting for you to decide what happens next.

—

Then one evening, you run into him.

It’s late. The air is cold, thick with the scent of winter. Sunghoon is standing outside the campus gates, hands shoved into his pockets, the street lights casting long shadows around him. He notices you before you can turn away.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.

You hesitate. Then, “Hey.”

There’s so much unsaid between you, so much left unfinished.

A part of you wonders— is this it? The last conversation before you both fade from each other’s lives completely?

Sunghoon opens his mouth, like he wants to say something more, but you shake your head, stopping him.

“It’s okay.” you say. “You don’t have to.”

His throat bobs as he swallows. He nods.

The streetlamps flicker above you. A car passes, its headlights flashing between you like a border, a final dividing line.

You should say something else. You should tell him you’ll see him around, that you’ll stay in touch, that you’ll find your way back to him someday.

But you don’t.

Instead you step back, offering a small, almost imperceptible smile.

“Take care, okay?”

For a second, you think he won’t respond. But then, finally— softly— he nods.

“You too.”

You turn around first. You don’t look back.

Sunghoon watches you walk away, his hands still in his pockets, his lips parts like he wants to stop you— but he never does.

The night swallows the both of you whole.

And just like that, it’s over.

—

The city hums in silence in the distance, but here, on the rooftop, it’s quiet/ the two of you sit side by side, legs dangling over the edge, the skyline stretching endlessly before you. The night is warm, the stars barely visible through the glow of streetlights.

“You’re gonna fall,” Sunghoon murmurs, eyeing the way you lean forwards slightly, hands bracing against the ledge.

You grin, tilting your head towards him. “You’d catch me.”

He doesn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitches, like he wants to smile but won’t let himself.

A soft breeze ruffles his hair. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing through the strand, smoothing them down. Sunghoon stills at the touch, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You do that a lot,” he says after a moment.

“What?”

“Touch my hair.”

You blink, your hand dropping back to your lap. “Does it bother you?”

He exhales, looking away, down at the glittering streets below. “No.”

That’s all he says. But in the way his fingers clench slightly against his knee, in the way his shoulders stay tense even as the night air cools his skin— you realize something.

Sunghoon likes it.

He likes being close to you.

The thought makes your chest feel warm, something soft and fluttering settling behind your ribs. You don’t say anything about it, don’t tease or push. Instead, you lean back on your palms staring up at the sky.

“Feels like we could stay here forever,” you murmur.

Sunghoon glances at you, his expression unreadable.

Then, so quietly you almost don’t hear it—

“Yeah.”

author's note: basically everything in here thats inpso from irl with my actaully ex. the water bottle incident but it was in a classroom. us actually having fucking class with each other the next semester. me running away constantly every time i see him now. me buying him a pencil as a present and him still using it (i really want to steal it back). him asking me if i hate him cuz i keep running away and even dragged a friend as i run away from him. him saying "i dont think it's going to work out" and thinking becuase im very outgoing and him being a big introvert was something that would lead to us breaking up, haha but it was just him and him not communicating with me about his feelings. el oh el.

#enhypen fanfiction #enhypen scenarios #enhypen #enhypen x reader #enhypen imagines #enhypen fluff #sunghoon #park sunghoon #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon enhypen #sunghoon fluff #sunghoon imagines #park sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon x you #enhypen sunghoon #enha fluff #enha x reader #enha imagines #enha

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delilahsturniolo · 4 months ago

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— ୨୧ signs . . . c.s

in which . . . you and chris’s relationship is hanging on it’s last thread, you struggle to find a sign of love and sincerity within your relationship with chris.

warnings . . . angst, relationship tension, kissing scene and description, straddling, emotional conflict, slightlyyyy suggestive.

written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

SO CLOSE TO WHAT WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #8

the city hums around you, neon lights bleeding into the wet pavement as rain taps against the windshield. the car is warm, but there’s a chill between you and chris—one that’s been lingering for weeks, maybe even longer. you sit in the passenger seat, arms wrapped around yourself, staring at the red light ahead even though you’re not moving. chris is gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles pale, frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

“you’re shutting me out again,” chris says, voice quieter than you expected. you swallow, eyes still fixed ahead. “i’m not.” he exhales, a rough, tired sound. “you do this every time. the second something feels too real, you pull away.” that makes you turn to him. his jaw is tight, brows furrowed, eyes dark with something that looks too much like pain. you hate that you put it there. “it’s not that simple,” you whisper.

“it is.” he looks at you then, really looks at you. “i love you.” your stomach clenches, because you want to believe him. you do. but there’s something inside you that keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. for him to wake up one day and realize you’re too much. “then why,” you whisper, voice shaking, “does it feel like i’m constantly waiting for a sign?” chris’s fingers flex against the wheel. “a sign for what?”

“a sign that this is real. that you won’t leave.”

the air in the car shifts, heavier now, thicker with words left unsaid. he reaches for your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. warmth floods through you at the touch, familiar yet still electric. “you don’t need a sign,” he murmurs. “i’m right here. i’ve always been here.”

your eyes burn, but you blink hard. “for how long?”

his breath stutters, his grip on your hand tightening. “i don’t know what else to do,” chris admits, and there’s something so raw in his voice it nearly undoes you. “i tell you i love you. i show up. i choose you every single day. what more do you need?” your heart is a chaotic mess inside your chest, because he’s right. he’s always been right. it’s not him you’re afraid of. it’s yourself.

“i need to believe it, chris.” you whisper. chris cups your face then, tilting your chin so you have no choice but to meet his eyes. “then believe it, y/n.” and just like that, something inside you breaks. not in a painful way, but in the way a storm finally breaks after days of tension in the air.

you surge forward, closing the space between you, crashing your lips against his. chris inhales sharply, surprised, but only for a second before he’s kissing you back, like he’s been waiting for this, like he’s been waiting for you, yearning for you. chris’s hands tangle in your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he deepens the kiss, pulling you closer. your seatbelt is still on, a frustrating barrier, but his hands fumble for it, unbuckling it in one swift motion before pulling you effortlessly onto his lap, as if he’s done this before.

you straddle chris, your hands finding his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw as his lips move with yours—urgent, desperate, like he’s trying to kiss away every doubt you’ve ever had. his tongue swipes against your bottom lip, and you part for him, letting him in, melting against him as his hands slide down your back, gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

the rain pounds harder against the car, but neither of you care. the windows fog up, the air thick with heat and want. your fingers trail down his neck, his chest, feeling the way his heart races beneath your touch. chris groans softly into your mouth, and the sound sends a shiver down your spine, pooling heat low in your stomach.

his hands explore your body desperately, sliding under your sweater, fingertips grazing your bare skin, setting fire to every nerve they touch. you gasp against his lips, and he takes the opportunity to tilt your head, kissing you deeper, slower, making you feel every second of it.

time blurs, minutes slipping away as you get lost in him, in the way he holds you, kisses you, worships you with his hands and lips. it’s only when you both pull away, breathless, foreheads pressed together, that reality settles back in. chris’s thumb traces your bottom lip, swollen from kissing, and his eyes search yours, dark and full of something you can’t quite name. “don’t run from this,” he murmurs. “don’t run from me, from us. please.”

you exhale shakily, resting your forehead against his, running your hands along his chest. and for the first time, you don’t think you will. maybe, just maybe, this was the sign you’d been waiting for all along.

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💌: if this flops i might just cry

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waterisnotreal0 · 1 month ago

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danish dazed

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

c/w: none. oscar overthinking/yearning despite this being their first meeting.

summary: oscar meets you at a quiet boba café, stumbling through the interaction, flustered by your quiet confidence. he swears he’s only coming back for the danishes—but even he doesn’t believe it.

a/n: a little drabble cuz i don’t think im gonna be very active this summer. i’ll add a moodboard/cover photos for this later. i don’t really like this bc it was really rushed lol.

word count: 1.2k

oscar, is a clean-polite-calm-organized time of person. you, on the other hand, is the complete opposite. messy handwriting, dirt on your baggy jeans, scuffed converse, always with a bleeding nose and chipped nail polish.

you had just turned 15, and he was 15 and a half when you both had first met, in a boba café out of all places. hattie had begged oscar to take her to it (she had exclaimed that her friends gave her a sip of the drink they got it, and it was “to die for. like literally it was so good.”) and he just got so annoyed at her nagging that he finally caved in & took her.

the café was quiet, and empty. probably cause it was a Thursday night, and everyone is always busy on summer Thursday nights. you were sweeping up the floor, despite it looking clean. and when you heard them enter, you looked up, smiling at hattie.

“wait a sec guys, i’ll be right with you.” you had announced to them, sound cutting through the silence. your voice hoarse as if you had a screaming match last night.

he looks at you, with grey sweatpants and a black top that fits your build a little too perfectly.

he frowns to himself, why is he thinking about that? he’s better than that.

you quickly put the broom away, and went to the back to wash your hands (the manager had made it clear that customers loved when you wash your hands before taking their order) and sang the alphabet hurriedly while scrubbing your hands.

5 minutes later, you’re at the cash register. looking down at hattie, who you assumed was going to take the order.

“what would you like to order?” you smile at her, and even though it wasn’t directed at him, oscar swears his heart just stopped.

and as hattie loudly reads offers her order, probably the same drink her friend had told her about, he can’t help but notice things about you.

like the way your fingers are tapping into the counter (although he can’t tell if it’s out of anxiousness or annoyance or or hyperactivity or or or something else.)

he also notices the way your nails are painted with all sorts of colors — neon pink, dark green, baby blue, vibrant yellow — and he wonders if they have meanings or if there was just a buy one get one free discount at the store.

he slowly traces up from your fingers to your face, but not very subtly he figures because your eyes meet him when he finally reaches them. you’re smiling, like you know something he doesn’t. or maybe there’s something on his face.

“would you like something?” you ask him, in the same loud hoarse voice — and even if it isn’t the most elegant, it makes oscar’s heart melt a little. — tilting your head a bit.

he’s caught off guard. he was so busy noticing you that he didn’t even notice you were talking to him, and now he’s left mouth-open, scratching his neck. standing there, awkwardly.

it seems that hattie notices, so she steps in for him.

“he would like a danish tart.” she says, in between giggles. as if she knows what he’s thinking. or maybe, oscar thinks, that he’s not as subtle as he hoped.

“alright.” and you chuckle. a low chuckle, — like it’s just so funny but you don’t wanna be caught laughing. — and he smiles at the fact that he’s the one that caused it.

but just as suddenly as it came, it quickly disappeared. turned into dust. like how a magician pulls a rabbit out of his hat, except it’s the opposite.

you’re reading the total cost of the order, but it’s all a haze to him because he can’t stop thinking about laughter. how it slipped from your mouth like honey, like a secret that he wants to keep locked up in a heart necklace. how easy it was to make you smile, how he would love to only hear that sound for the rest of his life.

he feels hattie nudge him, looking up at him smiling, like a ‘kick me’ sticky note is glued to his back.

he’s pulled out of his gaze, and quickly gives you two 30 dollar bills. that is double the actual price. and you don’t fail to point it out.

“uhh — the actual price is A$31. you just handed me two of ‘em.” you look up at him, smiling in disbelief.

at the sight of your smile, oscar can’t help but stutter a bit, “oh — yes, yes. my apologies.” and he feels heat creep up his neck as he grabs the extra note.

you look down back to hattie, “your order will take 16 minutes, go ahead and take a seat while you wait.” shaking your head smiling, as you turn towards the kitchen to make the drink.

it’s 13 minutes later when you call their order, and oscar can’t help but tell himself that maybe you rushed to finish the order just for them. maybe she sees him as more than an awkward customer.

you hand the drink to hattie, exclaiming “here’s the drink for the missus.” smiling softly at her, hand wrapped around the plastic see through cup.

and then you turn to oscar, that stupid grin that he’s already come to love on your face again.

“and a danish for the mute” you remark, passing the pastry that’s wrapped with a soft tissue.

and for a brief moment, your hand brushes against his. his heart stutters, his breath hitches and his finger twitches a bit. but then it’s gone. slipping through his fingers, both literally speaking and figuratively.

he gazes up towards you, but he doesn’t notice anything different in your expression. your eyes are looking towards his sister instead, looking curiously. and he starts to wonder if he imagined the whole ordeal, or maybe you just don’t care to notice something as trivial as fingers sliding past each other. he hopes to god or whatever that is up there that you just didn’t notice out of the same of it and not that you don’t care.

hattie leads the way out of the store, grabbing him by his sleeve as he lazily (and totally not because he doesn’t wanna not see you. totally because he doesn’t want to get to know you more, what school you go to. totally 100% definitely not.)

and when he looks up briefly, he trips up just a bit because he finds that you're smiling at him, waving goodbye to him, to him.

when hattie and him are walking home, the sun casts a ray of orange and pink light across the sky as it sets. and he’s slowly biting at the danish, thinking about you when hattie stops sipping her drink and declares, “you like her.” no hint of uncertainty in her voice.

“i do not. i was nice to her, and she was kind to me.” he faux defends, although it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than hattie.

for the rest of the walk home, hattie teases him relentlessly about it.

but he’s not paying attention to her, or the words she’s saying.

he’s instead thinking about how this summer he’s definitely going to go to the café to buy more danishes and totally not to just see you.

#oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri fluff #oscar piastri fic #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #f1 imagine #f1 x you #formula one x you #not beta read sorry:( if u wanna be a beta reader DM me !!#also I haven’t written fics since 2022 please excuse the bad writing #op81 #gi’s fics

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lady-luckk · 3 months ago

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ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ the starlit streets of gotham

# pairing: yandere batfam x magical girl reader

# synopsis: after meeting a strange cat you suddenly gain magical powers. now gotham has a new hero.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession and possessiveness. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.

# notes: reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!

the rain came down hard, soaking the city in cold filth. it pooled in potholes, ran in oily rivers down the streets, and dripped from rusted fire escapes like the city itself was bleeding out. somewhere below, a scream cut through the night—sharp, desperate.

from the rooftop, a figure watched. a pink ruffle fluttered in the wind, its lining stitched with constellations that shimmered when the light hit just right. a silver staff rested in gloved hands, pulsing faintly, sensing the wrongness in the air.

magic wasn’t supposed to exist in Gotham. the city belonged to shadows and fists, to monsters that grinned too wide and men who broke their own bones to prove a point. but you had awakened anyway, flooding the senses with truths no one else could see—sickness festering beneath the pavement, the way darkness slithered between the cracks.

and tonight, that darkness had its hands around a woman’s throat.

in the alley below, three figures in clown masks had backed their prey against a brick wall. one had a knife. Another was laughing, a shrill, jittery sound that bounced between the buildings. the third just stood there, waiting, the way a wolf waits when it knows the fight is already over.

a breath. a shift in weight.

the silver staff raised, and a single whispered command slipped into the night. “moonlight bind”

the air crackled. silver chains of light erupted from nothing, coiling around the three like glowing roots. the laughter died. the knife clattered to the pavement. one of them tried to run, but the bindings yanked tight, pinning all three in place.

up on a distant rooftop, hidden behind the curtain of rain, nightwing watched.

his white eyes followed the way the figure landed lightly in the alley, boots touching down in the spreading neon puddles. the way they tilted their head, inspecting your work—not cruel, not hesitant. just making sure it held.

magic.

gotham had never been kind to the supernatural. It had its monsters, sure, but they bled when you hit them hard enough. magic was something else. something unpredictable. something dangerous.

And yet, here it was.

dick’s jaw slightly dropped in awe. he watched as the figure twirled the staff again, then leapt—up, out, into the storm—leaving only the dying glow of silver chains in the alley below.

for a long moment, he stood there, listening to the rain, watching the place where the light had been. his mind drifting your pink frilly outfit and one thought could only pop in his mind, “so cute.”

then he turned and disappeared into the night.

it was raining again.

not the dramatic kind of gotham rain that lashed against windows and turned the city into a blur of neon and shadow—just a slow, miserable drizzle that seeped into your bones and made everything smell like wet pavement.

you sat at your desk, tapping your pen against your notebook, only half-listening as the teacher droned on about something historical and probably tragic. the words blurred together. the clock above the whiteboard ticked too loud.

next to you, tim drake nudged my arm with his elbow.

“you look like you’re about to drop dead at any moment,” he whispered.

you sighed. “i wish.”

tim chuckled under his breath. “long night?”

he said it like he was joking, but with tim, you could never be sure. he had this way of looking at people—really looking, like he was piecing together a puzzle you didn’t even know you were part of.

“just tired,” you said. not a lie. not the whole truth, either.

tim nodded like he understood anyway. his foot tapped against the floor—he was always moving, always thinking. his notes were perfect—bullet points, underlined dates, little side comments in the margins. yours were a half-finished doodle of a cat and a blank space where information should have been.

“you take notes like you’re writing a novel,” I muttered, eyeing the neat bullet points.

tim smirked, twirling his pen between his fingers. “some of us actually want to pass.”

you scoffed. “i do want to pass. I just think history should be more… optional.”

tim huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “yeah, that sounds like something you’d say.” He hesitated for half a second, then glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “i could help you study, y’know.”

you blinked.

for a moment, he looked like he wanted to take it back—ducking his head slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. his ears had gone a little pink.

you ignored the way my stomach twisted at that.

the teacher said something about an upcoming project. tim scribbled something down, and you let your gaze drift toward the window. the city stretched out past the glass, rain-slicked and endless, a dull orange glow swallowed by low-hanging clouds.

something felt off.

you didn’t know how to explain it.

like the air was heavier. like something in the city had shifted, just slightly, just enough that you could feel it in my teeth.

you shook the thought away and turned back toward tim. he was still writing, lost in whatever thought had taken hold of him.

you opened your mouth—maybe to ask if he felt it too, maybe just to say something stupid—but the bell rang before you could.

tim sighed, stuffing his notes into his bag. “you heading straight home?”

you hesitated. you should have said yes. should have made up an excuse. instead, you shifted in your seat.

“…dunno.”

tim’s gaze lingered, eyes deep and searching, like in this moment, i was the only thing in his world. his expression softened, the usual sharp focus melting into something quieter, something warmer.

then, barely above a whisper, like he wasn’t sure he wanted me to hear it—

“be careful, okay?”

the feeling in your stomach returned, but you forced a grin. “what, worried about me?”

he rolled his eyes but didn’t quite meet mine. “just—text me later, alright?”

“yeah, yeah.” you waved him off, grabbing my bag. “see you tomorrow, Drake.”

he huffed a laugh. “see you.”

you left before he could say anything else.

tim’s words stuck with you longer than they should have.

even as you left the school, even as you walked through the rain-slicked streets, you kept hearing them—soft, careful, like he was saying more than just be careful. like he knew something I didn’t.

you shook the thought away. gotham makes people paranoid. it gets under your skin, curls around your ribs, makes you see things in shadows that aren’t there. you weren't about to let it get to you.

but the feeling lingered.

the weight in the air, the way the city felt different, like something was shifting just beneath the surface. the streetlights buzzed too loud. the shadows stretched just a little too far. the drizzle had turned into a thin mist, blurring the edges of buildings, turning the world into something unreal.

you turned down the alley behind your apartment, pulling your hood up, ready to shake off the weirdness of the day—

and then you saw the cat.

small. black as the alley it sat in. watching you.

completely dry.

you stopped.

the feeling in your ribs tightened.

you should have ignored it. you really should have.

but the cat blinked—silver eyes, too bright in the dark, too big for its face—and suddenly, you couldn’t move.

you couldn’t look away.

and then—

it spoke.

not out loud, not like a cartoon. the voice was in my head, curling around your thoughts like smoke. "you can hear me."

you took a step back. the cat followed. its eyes were silver, too bright in the dark, too big for its face.

you wanted to run. every instinct in you screamed to leave, to pretend this never happened. but something in your chest burned, something you didn’t recognize, and your feet stayed planted where they were.

the cat took another step forward. the shadows stretched with it, bending wrong, twisting around its paws like they wanted to pull it back.

"gotham is sick," the cat said, and you felt the words more than heard them. "and you can fix it."

what the actual fuck—

you opened your mouth, but no sound came out.

the cat’s eyes widened, and suddenly your head was full of light. your vision blurred—flashes of the city, of darkness curling under its skin, of something old and rotten stirring beneath its streets. your chest tightened. your heart pounded too fast, too loud. the cat came closer, its fur brushing your leg, and the second it touched you—

everything exploded.

not fire. not heat. light.

silver, cold, endless. it rushed through you, into you, twisting itself around your bones, threading itself through your veins. your skin burned, but you didn’t scream. your head was full of knowing—of power, of purpose, of the city whispering secrets you had never wanted to hear.

you dropped to your knees in the alley, gasping, hands shaking.

the cat sat in front of me, tail curled neatly around its paws, watching.

"What… what did you do to me?"

the cat blinked. the rain didn’t touch it. "i gave you a choice."

you didn’t remember choosing.

but when you looked down at your hands, they weren’t empty anymore. a silver staff lay across your palms, glowing faintly in the dark. The rain turned to steam when it touched me. your breath came out in clouds.

and somehow, you knew—if you reached out, if you let it, you could pull the light into your hands and turn it into something real.

you could fight.

the cat stood, stretching lazily. "fix it," it said again, voice curling into the back of your skull. "or let it rot. the power is yours now."

then it turned and walked into the dark, swallowed by the city before you could ask anything else.

you sat there, rain pooling around me, heart still hammering.

the light inside me hadn’t faded.

and somehow, you knew it never would.

#yandere batfam #yandere x you #male yandere #yandere x reader #platonic yandere #yandere x darling #yandere #yandere dc #yandere dick grayson #yandere bruce wayne #yandere damian wayne #yandere tim drake #yandere jason todd #magical girl reader #yandere batman #yandere scenarios #yandere headcanons #yandere batboys

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loganficsonly · 2 months ago

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an independent woman

˚₊‧⁺˖✮ ch 0: prologue ✮ ˖⁺‧₊˚

worst!logan x fem!reader, 2k SUMMARY: As Logan learns to live instead of survive, he finds himself in the extremely dangerous position of sharing an apartment with you—Wade's friend. Extremely dangerous because Lord knows he can't keep his feelings a secret forever... not when your room is five steps away from his. WARNINGS/TAGS: SMUT MDNI, no use of y/n, reader is a working adult, friends to lovers, crushes, swearing, anus jokes, wade wilson (he's a warning), fingering, 1 (one) mention of "good girl", slight personification for reader AUTHOR'S NOTE: nobody asked for this series but i hope you like reading it as much as i liked writing it. more chapters to come <3

“How’d you meet your roommate?”

A common question you get asked these days. You just moved into a new place, and you aren’t alone. If that isn’t a surprise, little else is.

“Oh, he’s a friend,” you’d say with a smile.

Is he? A little voice whispers.

You’ve only known Logan for a little over three months now.

When your neighbor Hurricane Wilson brought a handsome but tired-looking older man from “the greatest 137 minutes of cinematic bromance”, you were confused. You were at his birthday party. Clearly he went missing for longer than that.

Everybody was confused, really. Until Wade, in his signature verbosity, outlined the sequence of events. How in the third act, Deadpool and his “honey badger” Logan—the handsome but tired-looking older man—with the help of badass outcasts, took down a bald villainess who was this close to ripping the entire multiverse apart. He also mentioned an organization called the Time Variance Authority allowing Logan to make this timeline his new home to replace an “anchor being”…

In any case, it was extremely complicated and hard to wrap your head around. But you managed to get the gist. A skill you picked up working in corporate.

Some things in corporate made less sense than the concept of a metaphysical junkyard at the end of Time.

How you got into this superheroic social circle is best described as a coincidence. A weird series of coincidences, rather.

You’d planned on moving to Manhattan to break away from life’s crushing monotony, despite your loved ones’ concerns. The city has seen more than extraterrestrial attacks, for god’s sake. And yet, New York City’s pulsing energy and vibrant lights make you feel alive and excited, a rare emotion, despite seemingly being a huge neon sign that says ‘INVADE HERE’ to aliens.

So when that desire for more tipped to an unbearable edge, you took that job offer and packed your bags.

And now you live in the same building as Deadpool.

The two of you quickly got on talking terms after you shot him a dry remark at the laundromat, eyeing the pile of bloody clothes in his hamper.

“Use cold water and hydrogen peroxide,” you said then, not even sparing a second glance. He thought you had to be a little crazy to strike up a conversation with someone who could be a killer. And let’s be honest, he is a killer.

He asked if you’re in the business—of being mercenary, he meant. You told him you were in the business of bleeding between your legs every month since you were thirteen. He laughed.

Wade doesn’t need a long time to figure out the kind of person you are.

“You’re a straight arrow,” he once told you, and he wasn’t referring to your sexuality. Doesn’t take an observant pair of eyes to understand that, despite your authenticity, you like to keep your distance in the beginning of things.

Which is why getting you to warm up to him was a delicate matter, one he treaded carefully. Instead of throwing you into a deep end of intimate dinners and movie nights with his friends, who can be a lot, his approach was a lot more discreet. As discreet as Wade Wilson can be, at least.

Borrowing your Tupperwares. Begging for sugar and baking soda. Asking questions about taxes or advice for his ‘career switch’. Things you gladly helped him out with, bless your heart.

Little by little, you grew closer to the merc. Consoled him when the Avengers rejected his application. Watched sad movies with him when he and Vanessa fell apart. You offered support in your own way: no grand speeches to try and get him to win her back, but quiet gestures to make sure he didn’t give up his own happiness, whether that involves romantic love or otherwise.

Then and only then, he slowly and joyfully inserted you into his larger social circle, like a rectal suppository. And before he knew it, it worked. Smooth as butter—also like a rectal suppository. A pleasurable feat he finds triumph in.

“My little people-pleaser,” he often calls you. An affectionate nickname within the group. You’d laugh wryly in response. He’s right, but the two of you knew that you never were just trying to be accommodating. You care deeper than you let on.

So yes, as of today, you are the most normal person in that precious universe-saving polaroid, now framed in Wade’s living room. Well, maybe you and Peter.

Although between the two of you, he has a red skin-tight superhero suit in his closet, and you don’t.

Then again, you gave a potential murderer advice on how to get rid of bloodstains, so are you really normal?

It’s only been three months since Logan first saw you, but it feels like a long time. Maybe because so much has happened in those three months, stretching it into something infinite.

A lifetime has passed since—because the life he’s living now is not at all the life he had before.

Twelve weeks into this new universe, here are some of the things he’s done so far:

Accidentally discovered Weird Al’s coke stash twice—there were more than one. Got one too many whiffs of Wade’s damp socks and soiled boxers. Bought a second-hand phone from Dopinder. Found a contract-based job in a construction company that’s flexible enough for him to heed the TVA’s calls when needed.

Moved out of Wade’s place to move in with you.

He first saw you in the Void. You were once just a face in a photograph, one of the few people that made up Wade’s entire world. Your features weren’t rendered clearly thanks to the lighting, but even then Logan thought you looked sweet. Perhaps a little tired, as well, but that didn’t seem to dim your smile.

When he met you, though, it was different.

His perfect vision allowed him to take in every inch of you as you walked through the apartment door, carrying a Trader Joe’s bag filled with snacks as your tribute to movie night. The blurry image of the polaroid became clear, and there was a second where he had to collect himself.

Pretty, he thought. Especially in that button-down shirt that revealed just the right amount of collarbone and a flattering pair of slacks. You just got out of the office.

Real pretty. And young. Almost enough to make him scold himself for being attracted to you. The guilt didn’t lessen even when he learned you were well into your twenties.

For all your initial politeness when meeting someone new, he discovers that you have your own brand of charm. Not like Yukio’s pep, or Nega-something’s cool demeanor, or Vanessa’s allure.

It’s your curiosity and kindness. Something he learns while watching you interact with others, and from interacting with you. There’s a reason why you were at Wade’s birthday party—that manchild may be nine-circles-of-Hell-unhinged, but he doesn’t misjudge character.

You’re an amazing listener, and as a result, a great conversation partner without being as wordy as Wade. Always quick to offer a helping hand, too. He’s seen you quietly slip into the kitchen to clean some dishes when you think no one’s looking. Offer drinks. Bring up details of your friends’ lives that make them go “oh, you remembered?”

When Laura came along, the two of you became fast friends. That was another signal to him.

A dangerous one that spells trouble for his beat-up heart.

One fateful day, you drop by Wade’s place—and his—and Al’s, but she was out for poker—with a box of Krispy Kremes, confessing your troubles while you all munched on donuts.

Both men were all ears.

You don’t often go into detail when sharing your problems with others, so when you did, it felt like you were quietly telling them you needed help. You spoke in measured, calm sentences. Issues with your current landlord, which they knew from before, were no longer manageable. Coupled with the fact that your lease was ending soon, you admitted to thinking of moving out.

“Where?” he grunted almost instinctively in response, ahead of Wade who was undoubtedly going to protest about having to source his own baking soda.

“A building just a couple blocks away,” you answer, “there’s this corner unit, much better sunlight. Good neighborhood. The landlord seems really nice.”

They peered into your phone screen as you flicked through the photos. It looked great. Just the right amount of space with plenty of natural light, like you said. And then there was silence, waiting for the other shoe to drop. You bit your cheek.

“It’s… a little too expensive for me.”

“Really? I know it’s much better than my love shack, but with Marvel scriptwriters constantly fucking over this city with world-ending threats, rent can’t be the Ritz!” Wade scoffed in disbelief.

“It’s a two-bedder,” you replied, shrugging. “I’ve negotiated, but with two bedrooms, there’s no way that unit’s going to cost the same as my current one.”

“You need help dealing with your shitty landlord instead?” Logan offered, eyebrows furrowed. He didn’t mean to sound overprotective, but thankfully you shook your head instead of pointing that out.

“Logan, I appreciate it, but it’s not worth it. Don’t want to get you in trouble.” You said with a sheepish smile, leaning down to pet Mary Puppins who greeted you with a rough lick on your leg. “I just need to get a roommate. It only makes sense.”

Wade’s eyes quickly glanced at Logan. The solution was standing right next to him.

As much as he’d hate not waking up to the sight of Logan’s crotch splayed on his couch, he’d love to gain some semblance of privacy back in his life. Or as much as he can get with Althea around, at least. Wouldn’t hurt. He could finally bring Vanessa over, play that George Michael record and woo her properly…

Okay, okay. Maybe he saw the way the two of you danced around each other one too many times. Clearly there was something going on, potent enough to propel someone on Tumblr to write a series with the two of them as the central characters. Friends to lovers, that kind of bullshit.

He wanted to see where this fic goes.

And Logan, that motherfucker’s got a job now! Truly a cause for celebration in this economy. From what Wade knows, the salary is not bad at all. Perks of being a self-healing mutant who can risk a limb doing the more dangerous parts of construction.

“You know, peanut, your snores are getting a little too loud these days—”

That basically explains how Logan Howlett ended up as your roommate.

But that doesn’t really explain how you find yourself trapped underneath his solid body, in your room, on your bed.

Doesn’t explain your t-shirt in his fist as he yanks it low enough to latch his lips onto your exposed collarbone. Body between your legs forcing them to part to accommodate his frame. One big hand pinning your wrists together above your head, the other on the apex of your thighs, pushing your panties aside as a finger toys with you. Your hips buck.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he whispers, lips moving right next to your ear. A shiver racks your spine at the low timbre of his voice, mixed with a tinge of embarrassment at just how worked up you are, evidence of it effortlessly coating the rough pad of his finger.

Doesn’t explain why he takes off your top in one smooth movement, hand releasing your wrists in favor of cupping your jaw when he crashes his lips into yours like a desperate man.

And he is, though you sound just as desperate—if not more—when he slowly, easily plunges his middle finger into your wet cunt, your strangled moan against his mouth.

Doesn’t explain the glazed look in his darkened eyes when he pulls away, only a breath apart, just to stare at the face you’re making. Eyes as dark as his, a little hazy, a little surprised. But nothing about you is fighting this.

His blood sings.

“Be a good girl and let me take care of you,” he rasps before thrusting a second finger in, then curling them deep inside of you.

“A-ah—”

So how did you get here?

The answer isn’t nearly as complicated as Wade’s multiversal adventure.

You just need to outline the sequence of events in your head.

next chapter

#logan x reader #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #wolverine #deadpool and wolverine #wolverine smut #logan howlett fanfiction #x men #logan howlett smut #wolverine x you #an independent woman

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yandere-wishes · 6 months ago

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｡ ₊°༺ Pink Pony Club ༻°₊ ｡

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆Yandere! Dr Phosphorus x Reader ⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

⋆.𝄞𝓟𝓲𝓷𝓴 𝓟𝓸𝓷𝔂 𝓒𝓵𝓾𝓫 𝓑𝔂 𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓡𝓸𝓪𝓷𝄞˚.⋆

✮★✮ Oh Mama, I'm just having fun, on the stage in my heels it's where I belong, down at the Pink Pony Club, I'm gonna keep on dancing at the Pink Pony Club. ✮★✮

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He lets the music roll over him, allowing the drums to melt over his flames and bleed into the marrow of his black bones. When you dance, you have to focus on the turn out of each step, on the wave of your arms, when to stiffen when to loosen. It makes it all so easy to forget the pain of being constantly on fire. To forget the melancholy that festers inside you. When the adrenaline is this high, you can only make out the strobing neon lights and the dazed amusement of the crowd.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ It's hard to hate the music and the lights, to shy away from a crowd so easily fascinated by the gleeful macabre. It's really the most sanity-inducing thing you can cling to when your body has turned into the thing you once loved. When you've become your research after watching your old self die in a furnace at the hands of those who once wielded all the power in the world. Funny how we make our own monsters, funny how the thing that kills us, is nothing more than the very man we once tried to kill, now engulfed by his own invention. Phosphorus spins, left leg, right leg, jump, and twirl.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ The dancing, the music, the clapping, the lights, it's all so perfect for melting away the terrible things that slither inside him, to burn away all those good memories until the kill and the luxury are all the remains. It's getting just too easy to forget his son's face, to forget the smile his wife gave him on their wedding day.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ There's a moment between moments when the world seems to stop. It's only then that he notices you, or rather notices what you're wearing. It's the dress he thinks, pink like the mushroom clouds he'd once adored, like the sunset framing devastation. Or maybe it's the way you have your hair so cruelly tied. Tight circle above your head like an atom waiting to explode. In a flash it's over, someone is handing him a drink. Another sitting on his lap. And he's thrust harshly back into reality, back to a world of trying to forget.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ Phosphorus is and always will be a man of logic. A man of science. He lets his fingers glide over the stack of pristine hundred-dollar bills. To think he'd spent his whole life begging for a quarter of all of this. Begging for scraps of funding to save the lives of thousands. It had all been so important once. Still, he can't help but let his mind wonder, what could he build with all of this? What could he solve, discover, create? He tells his men to lock it up in the safe, he's not ready to go back to all of that just yet.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ The next time Phosphorus sees you, he's half sunken into the plush couch of the VIP lounge. It's been a long day, a long tough day. Everything had gone wrong and all so right in the same breath. This time your dress is the shade of clouds marred by the blood of a dying sun. He should know this shade from the history books he'd used to read, the shade of skylines behind ancient temples. Back then he'd been trying to understand. Understand what he's not quite sure, he'd been so desperate to pry every little answer from the world. To chew their solutions, breaking them with his teeth and spitting out his own variation, his own thesis. He'd been so utterly convinced of his own intellect, convinced that reading Saadi at the same time as the latest research paper on Nuclear decay meant understanding the world.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He watched with staunch fascination as you tried to dance. Following your friend's steps, heels stepping awkwardly completely out of tune. You bend your knees, sinking to the floor. And Phosphorus can't think of any excuses for why his cheeks feel hotter than usual. Why his eyes are permanently affixed to the sway of your arms.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He thinks you look just like nuclear fission dancing in the limelight with your friends. Like you've split your own body to create them. Little atomic nucleus dancing under his microscope. You look perfect, your toned legs amplified by the radioactive pink of your heels. Long neck he'd love to kiss decorated with a thin string of gold. You don't look a thing like the other girls at the lounge, you look like an experiment beckoning him, seducing him into cutting you open, and observing how you explode.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He's been following you keenly, trying to see what happens next. It's the fourth week in a row that he's forgotten about dancing for the crowd, about the girls who used to hang off his arms. He's too devoted to this experiment. "Nuclear scientist finds atomic bomb inside ancient temple from the bronze age". Phosphorus examines the sway of your hips, the bob of your head, and the crude kicks of your legs. There's something wrong with those heels, they're too thin, too high, inviting everyone to stare at you. But he's quick to shove them away, circling you from afar. He can't let anyone tamper with his experimentation. Certain matter performs differently when it knows it's being observed. So he allows the notion of invisibility, making you feel unobserved, safe in your own ignorance.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He hasn't felt this alive in years. This ecstasy tastes utterly sweet, pure saccharine. It's the same thrill as watching your particles stabilize after days of trying to find the right frequency. Watching them organize into the right motion. And isn't that what you are? An ionized atom. After all, what is dancing if not ionization, if not trying to lose a part of yourself you can no longer bear?

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He's late tonight, rivals had somehow bled in and were after the safe from Phosphorus' newest heist. He'd burned them to a crisp and danced on their ashes until they flew away. But that doesn't change the fact that he's late, too late in fact. When he rushes through the door, men nervously run behind him. His eyeless sockets fall upon an uttermost dreary sight...

⋆☠︎︎⋆ The problem with people is that they never truly appreciate beauty. They treat it as if it's something to conquer something to tame. They never bother to understand it, to study it from afar whispering prayers of gratitude for bearing witness to this new discipline. The man's body is too close to yours, head following your lips, as you awkwardly try to sidestep. The moment you try to flee he grabs your wrist. You scream, no one ever hears screaming through the bass and the rhythm.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ There's smoke in your eyes, sickly-sweet honey in the back of your throat. It's all too acrid but at least the hand assaulting your wrist subsides. The thing in front of you glows green, an acidic neon green that feels too familiar in shade. You watch as the skeleton seizes your shoulders, such a warm touch hearthlike in every way. He pulls you closer till all you can smell is null and all you can feel is smothering warmth.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ You never quite quiver under his touch, never fully shy away when he cups your jaw and tilts your head. It's like you want the radiation, want to feel his nuclear essence bleeding into you. Maybe then you'll be whole. Maybe then neither of you will need the music, and the lights, and the crowd to feel whole.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ You never belonged in the clubs, it was painfully obvious you could never mold to their dances, their music. Your heels never fit right. Phosphorous knows he's been trying to do the very same for all so long. Neither of you needed to kill off your electrons, to throw them away to ignorant nobodies who would sooner hurt you for their own voracious motivations. "Give me your electrons and I'll give you mine." Phosphorus tucks your head into the crux of his shoulder, "I'll fuse with you so you'll never need anyone else."

⋆☠︎︎⋆ Phosphorus' hands mirror yours, swaying overhead before falling lower like the cascade of a wave. Side step, side step, stop, and bend. He thinks this is better than any club, any choreography he could do by himself. He feels so whole dancing only for your eyes. He feels so happy having you dance only for his eyes. Your palms touch as you circle slowly. Dancing like the airy rotation of electrons. There's no more dancing at the Pink Pony Club.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ What do you call a dance that feels like merging two atoms? What do you call it when your heart feels like the denotation of a bomb? He presses his lips to yours slowly, feeling the nuclei crash, a nuclear reaction, his tongue hum between your teeth endeavoring to melt away your fear. His fingers, dance across your hips heating up, leaving burning hearts and hand prints, claiming you as his, making you death just like him.

Lost the request for this but thank you so so much to the sender!! 💞💋💞💋

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littlelovelunette · 3 months ago

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simp!femme!r with vi and sevika? like usually its the masculine one who is the appreciator but r is a total simp and licks the ground they walk on (smutty too please!!)

You And I (Ft. Sevika and Violet)

Sevika

Sevika had never quite met someone like you. Someone who was so obsessed with the thought of just having her by their side.

You pined over her quite openly even before Sevika decided on giving the "weird drunken lady across the bar who gives me the creeps" a chance. The lady being you, of course.

No, you didn't give her the creeps, Sevika just said that. And it didn't bother you, you just wanted to be in her vicinity 24/7. You could lick the ground she walked on if you wanted.

You even had a little corkboard of Sevika's favourite things and pictures with heart shaped drawn with a neon pink highlighter. One might call you unhealthily obsessed...

But were you?

You both hooked up eventually and you had to admit the sex was even more amazing than you'd anticipated. You thought it would be bland and Sevika would be too concerned chasing her own relief considering she was a regular at Babette's.

"Sevika, you're huge." Your jaw hung open.

"It's a strap, you idiot."

It was a very pretty purple veiny strap to be exact, it was huge and girthy. The type to split you open considering this was the first dick you would get.

The night was all just you screaming her name and squirting non stop on her and her sheets. You made sure all of Zaun knew Sevika was fucking you. You of all people.

You didn't remember the teeny tiny detail that this was your first time, your first time was with Sevika! You were too drunken with pleasure.

Sevika, on the other hand, took you for a casual fling at the start. Simply to get you to stop glaring at her from across the bar while she tried to focus on her poker game. As harsh as it sounded, that's the truth.

But that was only until...

"Sevika."

"Yeah?"

Sevika looked at you, pulling out of you slowly after she saw your teary eyes. She knew those were tears of pleasure but she wanted to let you speak without interruptions.

"I'm bleeding." You said looking down at the strap covered in blood.

Sevika hadn't noticed because the strap was dark in color. She looked down, testing the liquid off the silicone toy onto her finger. Her eyebrows furrowed as she rubbed the pads of her thumb and forefinger together as if to convince herself that it was real blood.

"What?" Sevika mumbled. "You a virgin?"

"Mhm... I was a virgin."

"You should've told me." Sevika said, her voice suddenly softer now. "I would've been more... Careful."

It was quite obvious Sevika had never been someone's first. But that was expected from her, it made your heart break a little when you acknowledged it but she did get plenty of sex, however she never got the kind of sex that was termed "love making".

You were sure of that.

"Are you suddenly soft on me?" You teased.

"Don't get used to it." Sevika huffed.

There she was trying to hide it behind her dismissive behaviour but you wouldn't let it slide this time.

You rubbed your lower abdomen with a little giggle, looking at the messed up sheets. You hadn't even realised the pain of your hymen breaking. Suddenly, now you could feel the lingering dull pain.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" Sevika noticed your little wince and asked in that same soft tone.

"It's okay." You pulled her closer using your legs around her waist. "Because I lost it to you."

Sevika's cheeks blushed. She'd never really had something to herself. Nothing had ever before belonged to her but when you said that, it felt like you did. She raised a hand to hold your face, gently tilting it to the side.

As if she was seeing you for the first time in her life, Sevika rubbed your cheek. She stared at you with her slightly confused grey eyes. Oh, those pretty eyes.

"You mean everything to me, Sevi..."

Sevika pulled you closer to herself until her breasts were easily pressed against yours. Maybe she misunderstood the relationship you both had. Perhaps, you were more than a fling.

"I won't leave you." Sevika reassured in a quiet voice and kissed your forehead. "I promise."

"You better not. You're so pretty." You giggled and rubbed your nose with hers.

Sevika chuckled, peppering kisses across your face as the strap sunk back inside. "And you're mine now."

Violet

Vi and you met during her pitfighting era, you found her attractive but didn't bomb her with compliments because you knew she needed time to move on from her breakup with Caitlyn. That didn't mean you couldn't be there for her emotionally. And you did.

Almost everyday before her pitfights started, you were there. You stood by the doorway as you watched Vi do her shady, emo makeup. A frown carved onto her scarred face.

"This again?"

You walked upto her and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"I get it you look hot like this but..." Words failed you.

Vi looked at you, shrugging your hand off.

"M'fine." Vi walked past you and into the fighting arena, ignoring your concern for her.

"Vi..." You called after her, following by stopping by the barricade with a sigh. You watched as she fought yet another man twice her size.

"Please, be safe..." You whispered more to yourself than anything. The fight was rough, bloody and dirty. All you could do was stand by the sidelines and pray for Vi's wellness. "Dear Janna, let this idiot be okay."

From time to time, Vi would get knocked down but she got right back up with her lethal punches and dodges. You watched as Vi finished the first round, applause filling the entire arena. You sighed a breath of relief, watching as she made her way down the stage.

"I got so scared..!"

"Why?" Vi asked as she walked to the backroom, you followed.

"Thought you'd... Get injured bad and end up bedridden or something." Your voice was mumbled, hands fiddling with one another as you stared down.

"You're an idiot."

You were used to it. But you didn't care. You wanted to be there for Vi even if she didn't exactly want you there wholeheartedly.

"You shouldn't stick around like this."

Vi tightened the bandages around her arm, muscular flesh seeping out of the corner.

"Dont make it too tight. You'll hurt yourself." You grabbed the edge of the bandage, tugging at it slightly.

Vi looked at you, not saying anything but she obliged. As she finished binding her arms, she finally turned to face you.

"Why do you stick around? Y'know I'm not exactly giving into the whole 'you have a crush on me and I'm gonna give you a chance at us' thing." Vi crossed her arms.

"That's where you're wrong." You grinned. "I'm not just here because I need a quick fuck." You paused. "I'm here because I really do love you."

Vi didn't say anything but you noticed the small hint of red on her pale cheeks.

"I'm sorry i—" Vi began but you cut her out.

"I know. I'm not telling you to make decide instantly."

You paused, looking away shyly before hurriedly pressed your torso against hers, planting a very soft kiss on the corner of her lips. Not quite right on the lips, just on the curve of it.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

And like that, you left her there, gawking after you as if she'd just been told she was pregnant.

The next day when you showed up, you had a little box full of fruits. You always made sure Vi was as well fed as a person in Zaun could be, so you brought little fruits and veggies for her every now and then.

"Here."

You set the basket down next to the counter where Vi was at, surprisingly she wasn't inking down her face. Instead, she looked sane for once.

"Are you okay?" You asked.

No reply.

"Are you drunk?"

Vi stared at the ground for atleast a good ten minutes before she finally looked up at you.

"I'm done missing Caitlyn. I think."

"Vi..."

"No, really." Vi insisted, trying to grab your hands but you pulled them away.

"No, Vi, you're not ready yet. You said 'you think' and it clearly means you need more time."

Silence fell between the both of you before Vi finally decided to break it.

"I'm sorry. I don't want to leave you hanging. It's cruel."

"Vi, I'm a big girl. I can handle a heartbreak if you ever do end up giving me one." You sighed. "Just eat."

You left the room and didn't really return. Not until you heard the whistles of the match beginning. You went back into her room, getting the empty fruit basket and leaving the pitfighting arena.

You needed to give Vi some space. And more so, you needed space yourself. But you couldn't help how much deep in love you were with her.

The next few days were a blur until finally after a week you decided to show up at one of her matches.

"You came." Vi said, voice a hoarse whisper.

"You look like shit." You walked upto her and couldn't help but pull her closer to yourself. Vi didn't resist, letting her hands wander on your hips as she pressed her lips against yours.

It was wrong. So wrong.

Her breath reeked of tequila but you didn't care, you kissed her back with the same ferociousness that had once befriends you and her.

"Fuck, Vi." You moaned against her lips.

That's how you ended up on your knees in front of the fighter, mouth hung open and awaiting as Vi unbuttoned her pants just enough so you could push her panties to the side and gaze at her slick covered pussy.

"So wet."

You mumbled to yourself before looking up at her, silently seeking permission.

"Go ahead." Vi breathed out.

You leaned in closer, instantly being hit by the musky scent of her sex but that only fueled you to suck more.

Your lips wrapped around her clit and you gave it a powerful suck, a moan following soon by due to the taste of her pussy. You'd never imagined she'd taste so damn well.

It didn't take a lot for Vi to start rutting her hips at your mouth, fingers tangled up in your hair. "Oh my goodness, I think— fuck." She cussed loudly as she continued her mindless grinding against your face.

Your lips felt sore but you never ceased sucking her as if your life depended on it. "C'mon, Vi, cum for me." You whispered making Vi whine in a timid tone.

"Y-Yes, so close." She stuttered before you felt the creamy discharge touch your lips.

"There you go..." you ate her out eagerly, sucking and slurping her orgasm down before planting a firm kiss to her clit.

Vi jumped a little but then let out a shuddering sigh. "I think I am ready now."

316 notes · View notes

inkykeiji · 2 years ago

Text

you can always take more than nothing

character: bonten!mikey x fem!reader

genre: smut

notes: here’s my halloween piece, only half a month late! still, i hope you can enjoy it! as always, please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title cred: alice in wonderland

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, public sex/exhibitionism, dom/sub dynamics, daddy kink, size difference, biting/marking, blood, minimal prep, rough sex, teasing, begging, dacryphilia, humiliation, a lil bit of degradation, drugs, toxic relationship

words: 8.6k

synopsis:

Those few remaining scraps of decency you’d both been clinging to have been devoured by Mikey’s growing selfishness, no longer caring about what others might see or think or say—it’s not like anyone’s dumb enough to do anything about it anyway; it’s not like anyone has enough of a death-wish to try. He’s the motherfucking Boss. And the Boss gets what he wants, where he wants, when he wants, always.

The music is loud, so loud the walls seem to be breathing with it, bleeding with it, flashes of neon pouring over the frosted mosaics of glass and marble.

A party, thinly veiled as a corporate event.

There are people everywhere, scattered across every surface, crystal glasses filled with expensive liqour and cocktail concoctions glittering in their palms. You barely know any of them.

They’re all supposed business partners, allies and associates, ‘friends’ of your Daddy. Not that it matters all that much to you; they aren’t allowed to say a word to you anyway.

Your eyes scan the expanse of the club, on the hunt for a familiar face. Takeomi is in the corner, obnoxiously blowing smoke into some of the higher end girls’ faces. He’s really taking his role of The Caterpillar earnestly.

Good. You told him it suited him.

At your request (AKA at Mikey’s demand), the top members of Bonten have dressed up as Alice in Wonderland characters, donning an impressive group costume. You’ve been taking the whole thing pretty seriously—beginning your extensive planning in August, drafting up designs and taking everyone’s precise measurements to have each outfit custom made to their exact frames—which means the rest of Bonten has been taking the whole thing pretty seriously, too.

Not that any of them mind.

What Mikey’s little angel wants, Mikey’s little angel gets. It’s standard protocol, really; you’re merely an extension of the Boss and thus must be treated as an extension of the Boss, and Mikey’s best men have no issues complying.

Sighing, you rest your chin in your palms, sombreness souring your features. An ache, dull and dense, settles in the pit of your chest. It’s a desolate sort of longing, a gentle but constant gnawing that cannot be sated by anyone or anything other than it’s creator, something that weights your lungs and heavies your heart and stalls your breath, a vital part missing.

You miss Mikey.

You miss Mikey, but you know this ‘event’ really does have some sort of business significance; that, while it’s mostly an excuse to get drunk and high on Halloween night, it also serves as the grounds for some sort of meeting or negotiation or proposition—you can never be sure which, with Bonten.

You aren’t allowed to know. You’re lucky to be here at all.

But you miss Mikey.

You shouldn’t be selfish. You know you shouldn’t be selfish; he’s already stretched so thin between so many obligations and obituaries, and you shouldn’t add to that strain. You won’t add to that strain. You’ll sit here, pretty and perfect like his precious little princess should be, and you’ll wait, patiently, until Daddy has a moment to spare you.

He always finds a moment to spare, no matter how many duties and commitments he has. He always finds a space for you in his day, even if he has to carve it out with his bare hands.

So you mustn’t be greedy. You will be good. For him, you’ll do anything, no matter how difficult.

“No frowning, miss Alice,” Sanzu chastises through a stretched grin, wide and carved into his cheeks—a smile so sharp, so sinister it puts the true Cheshire Cat to disgrace.

He swims into your vision, teeth glinting with teals and fuchsias, an intricately wrapped box in his palms. Tugging on the ribbon a little, he unboxes it to reveal a wealth of small confections, individually wrapped in colourful foils.

“Look, your favourite kitty brought you some chocolate.”

That brightens your mood a little—a sugar fiend, just like your Daddy is—and your mouth drops open expectantly, cute tongue unfurling in invitation.

Sanzu rolls his eyes but places a truffle on your tongue anyway, pressing it down on the slick muscle and forcing your lips to close around his first knuckle to suck the treat free from him, laughing at the way your face twists.

Pervert.

His nails taste like blood—not that you’ve come to expect any less—but the rusty copper is quickly eradicated by sugar, a content little hum vibrating around the melting chocolate.

“Good, huh?” Sanzu asks around his own chocolate, shuffling a gold box of expensive Italian truffles in his palm as he picks through them, confections jumping perilously with the motion, shimmering wrappers catching in the flashing neon strobes. “They’re imported.”

“Where’d you get those?” you ask through strings of caramel and cocoa, welding to your molars.

“A little Halloween treat courtesy of Mikey,” he says dutifully, jostling the box in emphasis. “And an apology, for taking longer than expected.”

Warmth blooms in your chest, swelling with your heart and stretching your ribs. The last few remnants of displeasure fade from your face, giving way to a small smile.

How very Mikey of him, to send his second in command armed with artisan chocolates and a short, sweet explanation; something he knew would make you smile, something he knew would alleviate some of your impatience, a reassurance that he misses you too, that he’ll be back soon, that he’s thinking of you.

“There’s our pretty girl,” Sanzu teases, but his own grin has softened a little, the glint in his eyes dulled to a twinkle. “No more pouting, ‘kay? Your trusty Cheshire Cat will be by your side until your Hatter returns.”

Ah. A polite way of saying that you’re stuck with him until Mikey’s finished his work, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

That takes longer than either of you expect, though, Sanzu’s plan of entertaining you by leading you, hand-in-hand, around the club to assess each Bonten member’s costume not nearly as lengthy as he had anticipated.

Because it only takes a mere twenty minutes or so to examine all of them, with you near instantaneously deciding that the Haitanis have won the make-believe costume contest you and Sanzu had been holding between yourselves.

Sanzu had agreed—everyone looks impeccable in their custom-made costumes, tailored specifically to them at your behest, but no one had any hope of eclipsing the Haitanis in their form-fitted pinstriped suits, each stitch and thread molded flawlessly to their frames, perfectly pressed collars embroidered with Dee and Dum in shimmery purple thread, powder blue bowties immaculately symmetrical around their tattooed necks.

Now you’re back at the bar, Sanzu’s shaky fingers sifting through the box of truffles as he searches for something, anything, to distract him from the way the blood in his veins is beginning to dry up, the way his capillaries are withering, brittle and thirsty, the way his skin is beginning to itch.

Because he can’t do a goddamn thing about it. Not yet, anyway.

No narcotics when he’s chaperoning you; that’s a hard rule. That’s a rule that’s been sewn into the tissues of his brain so tightly it’s interwoven with his synapses. That’s an execution rule; a one time only rule—breaking that rule will get him fucking killed.

But you’re both starting to become a little bit restless.

“Come on,” you’re begging, word dragged across your tongue in a petulant whine. “Just one more chocolate?”

“I said no,” Sanzu snaps, eyes hard. “Mikey said three. Mikey’s the Boss. Whatever Mikey says goes; Mikey’s girl, Mikey’s rules!”

“You’re no fun,” you huff, forehead scrunching with a pout.

“Yeah, and that’s why he sticks me with you,” Sanzu says, though he sounds almost proud, as if it’s an honour to babysit you, a title of high esteem. “Because I can resist your tricks.”

“My charms,” you correct.

“Whatever,” he waves a hand. “It’s all semantics. Point is, I know how to say no to you, unlike a few certain someones.”

Unimpressed ice blue eyes sweep across the venue, hovering pointedly on the faces of his colleagues—Kakucho, the Dormouse; Kokonoi, the White Rabbit; Rindou, Tweedle-Dum.

Your eyes follow his, and you smirk to yourself. Kakucho is the easiest out of those three; Kokonoi sometimes deceives you, allowing you to do as you please only to tattle to Mikey later, and Rindou always demands some sort of payment, claiming it’s only fair that you give him something he wants in return.

Turning back, you’re about to respond, something bratty and bitter simmering on your tongue, when a pair of hands and a smooth voice cuts you off.

You’d know that touch, that tone, anywhere.

“Pray, tell me, Miss Alice,” Mikey murmurs in your ear as he slinks up behind you, palms curling around your hips and pulling you back toward his chest. “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

“Because it can produce a few notes,” you answer dutifully, head tipping back against his shoulder to glance at him through the corner of your eye. “Though they are very flat.”

“Correct,” he responds. “My, what a smart little girl you are.”

It’s soaked in condescension, compliment drawled out through a supercilious smirk, breath wafting across your face sweltering and saccharine.

“Do I get a reward, Mister Hatter?” you ask, sweeter than sugarcane, batting eyelashes framing hopeful, dewy eyes.

A hum vibrates on his tongue, onyx gaze apathetic and appraising as it glides across your features slowly, thoroughly, pulling each of your thoughts apart and putting them back together again.

Your head rolls to the side, over his protruding collarbone, to stare at him more resolutely. And God, it’s the way you’re looking up at him, eyes glazed with dedication, with devoutness, like you want to fucking devour him.

Like you want him to devour you.

Hips pushing back, you rub your ass into his cock in inconspicuous little motions, lashes fluttering a little, back arched in a perfect curve and tits on full display.

From this angle, there’s no way he can’t see right down your dress; there’s no way he can’t see the red lace of your bra straining against supple skin as your chest rises and falls with gentle breaths, no way he doesn’t notice the very tips of your nipples, cheekily peeking out from beneath the delicate material with each swell of your breasts.

Bony fingers flex on your waist, and he huffs out a smirk.

His ebony pupils are enormous, blown wide and gaping, gnawing away at the whites of his eyes.

He’s high.

It’s evident in the milky film of artificial ecstasy lacquering his gaze, doped up and hazy, but it does nothing to dilute the potent love he has for you, melting his stare to something soft and sticky, pouring past his lashes.

He’s feeling good tonight.

“I think I know what my little girl wants,” one hand flattens against your stomach, holding you flush to his body as the other slides up your ribs to cup your breast, filling his palm with it and kneading, slow and deliberate, simply enjoying the feeling of you. “And it is very naughty of her.”

“Oh, really?”

“Mm,” he hums, head drooping to nose along the curve of your neck. “Really.”

His lips brush along your skin as he speaks, his voice barely more than a gentle vibration along the column of your throat, and you whimper a little, fingers curling around his wrist and pressing him closer.

“A-And what’s that?”

“Aw, can’t you guess?” he tuts his tongue. “And I thought you were smart. Must’ve been mistaken. Where’s my smart little girl gone now?”

Grip firm on your waist, his hips rut forward, hard cock prodding at you through the layers of tulle. A discontented little sound vibrates in your throat as you squirm a little—and oh, he knows what you’re whining about, greedy girl, knows that you can barely feel his cock through the thick petticoat, knows you want more—and he presses his hips further forward, grinding harder into your ass.

“Daddy—Da-Daddy, it’s—”

“What?” he shoves again, stronger this time, teeth nipping at the skin below your ear. “Hm?”

“Your cock is hard,” you nearly whine, pushing back against him in a pitiful little wiggle, desperate for more friction.

“And who’s fault is that, huh?”

The hand massaging your breast gives a final squeeze before his fingers find your nipple, pinching it through the material of your dress and bra, then rubbing the heel of his thumb over it in hard, rhythmic motions.

“Is your pussy wet?” he huffs the question into your ear, his hot breath procuring shivers. “I bet it is, naughty girl. Daddy wants to feel it.”

“Please, please,” your hips buck a little, punctuating your pleads, chest pressing into his touch.

“Please? Please what?”

“Touch me, Daddy, touch me, touch me.”

Slender hands slip beneath the puffy layers of lace, calloused fingertips rough as they skim up your smooth thighs, outlining the silk ruffles of the bloomers he bought you specifically for this costume.

Your hips twitch slightly, legs spreading instinctively as his fingers trail along the scrunched hem to the apex of your thighs, pressing two into the rapidly dampening material. Pensively, they caress your slit through the material, prodding your hole just a little before rubbing two slow, hard circles into your clit.

“Christ,” he breathes out, curse splintering at the end. “You’re so fucking wet baby, and I’ve barely done anything yet.”

His palm flattens against you, all four fingers dipping into your core nearly to the first knuckle and then curling, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit, and your pelvis cants reflexively, almost as if you’re attempting to draw his fingertips further in.

“How are you this wet already, huh?” he keens, voice straining beneath his own desire. “Been thinking naughty thoughts?”

“Jus’want your cock,” you slur out honestly, hips gyrating in pathetic little circles, an embarrassing attempt to follow his touch.

“Oh, yeah? That’s all it takes, eh?” he rolls your clit between his thumb and his forefinger, nonchalantly toying with it as he mulls. “Just my cock?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod blearily. “Uh-huh, uh-huh.”

“Cute,” Mikey spits, the compliment sheathed in venom, “how utterly stupid just the thought of my cock makes you.”

His fingers clamp down on the swollen nub and tug, your whole body jolting with the pain, a yelp hitching in your chest.

The arm wrapped around your waist tightens in response, holding you close, holding you still as he humps away at you, sloppy and uneven.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, fingers tweaking your clit in rhythmic motions, sparks of pleasure chased by shocks of pain. “You’re so fucking easy for your Daddy, aren’t you? So quick to get soaked for him, so quick to get ready for him, such a good little slut for him, yeah?”

His voice is gravelly, letters wispy around the edges despite fact that he’s nearly shouting over music. Another rush of heat surges between your thighs, and he laughs, dark and dangerous.

Your clit throbs in his touch, the silk of your panties drenched all the way through, aiding his fingers in their slippery motions—several small, fast S gestures, followed by a few firm strokes of your slit, fingertips gliding over your folds with ease. You’re so soaked, whole cunt now outlined by the shimmery material, molding to your folds and enabling him to feel every dip, every bump, every crevice, another chuckle dripping from his lips as your little hole clenches around nothing.

“Daddy,” you whimper, thighs squeezing together tightly as you attempt to fuck his fingers. “Daddy, I—I can’t—I need—”

“Shh,” he hushes you, lips caressing the curve of your ear. “I know, baby. Daddy knows what you need.”

A palm wraps around your wrist as Mikey mutters something about going somewhere a little more private, pulling you along behind him and leading you toward those purple velvet VIP couches, empty and roped off in a darkened corner.

“What are we—” you begin as Mikey collapses heavily on the couch, knees spread wide open, hips shifting up slightly as he forces his feet even further apart, getting comfortable.

C’mere, his lips mime, voice drowning in heavy bass, his chin jutting in the general direction of his straining cock, yearning against pin-striped pants.

Strong hands curl around your hips and yank you backward, the abrupt motion punching a sound of surprise from your chest as you tumble into his lap, spine pressed tight to his sternum.

The hinges of his jaw hook over your shoulder, a crude way of keeping you from squirming as he manhandles you into straddling his thighs, hard cock pressing into your core.

“Holy fuck,” he pants out, the curse damp against your skin. “You’re so wet I can feel you leaking through my pants.”

“Daddy,” you say, and although it’s meant to be a warning, it comes out as a whine, stringy and petulant.

Because it already feels so good, and he’s already so hard, and you just can’t help but rock your hips back, slow and firm, whimpering a bit as the head of his cock glides over your clit, teasing as the slick, swollen little nub jumps beneath the dull pressure.

He laughs a little, nothing more than a deep, dark rumbling within his ribs, reverberating against your back.

“You’re so fucking nasty, baby,” he chides lowly, though you can hear the self-satisfied smirk sewn into his voice, tinged with sadism, as he rolls his hips up twice, grinding his cock into your drenched core. “You’re so fucking needy, baby, trying to get yourself off in the middle of this crowded club.”

You are, you are, another little sound escaping your lips as you rut back against him, already beginning to speed up, rubbing the head of his cock over your clit in quick little strokes.

“It’s really precious, y’know, how pathetically eager you are for me,” he murmurs, notes of fondness negating the sting the insult should bring, words gone melty and sweet. “But you gotta stop humping Daddy for a moment, so he can get his cock out and give you what you really want.”

A disgruntled little whine sounds in your throat, motions stuttering a little as you attempt to stop moving. But it all feels so incredible, greedily unable to quell your hips completely as they rotate in messy little circles, tummy starting to ripple with each graze of his blunt head against your clit.

“Hey,” he warns, sharp and stern, a palm colliding with your bare thigh and leaving a burning handprint seared in its wake, the impact of the slap loud enough to draw a few pairs of eyes. “Don’t get bratty with me, or you won’t get anything at all, you understand?”

Your head’s nodding before the words are even finished leaving his lips—yes, Daddy, of course, Daddy, brats don’t deserve to be filled by Daddy’s cock—desperate to be good for him, to be the best for him.

Because you know he isn’t fucking around; Mikey’s threats are never empty threats, each and every word plucked from his brain with superlative care, heavy and infused with meaning.

It’s terrifying and tantilizing, how easily and instantly he can switch from one mode to the other: from playful to imposing, from Daddy to Leader, a pleasant shiver skittering up your spine, your hole clenching and pulsing as your stomach plummets, gut weighted with a tingling pressure.

It’s a bit of a task, freeing his cock and manoeuvring yourself as you try to inconspicuously sink down on it, but you both manage, your fluffy petticoat of crinoline and tulle providing a decent amount of privacy.

A hiss slips through the gaps of your gritted teeth as it begins to tear you in two, cute little hole stinging as it strains around his cock, struggling to accommodate his girth, delicate skin splitting itself open for him.

“That’s it, that’s it,” he breathes lowly, voice vibrating against your ear. “There you go, good girl.”

An airy little moan spills from your lips as he bottoms out, cockhead pressed snug to your cervix, and you melt back into him, skull knocking against his shoulder, eyes slipped shut.

“Feel better, princess?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you mumble out dreamily. “S’good, S’right.”

“It feels right, huh?” he chuckles a little, thumbs rubbing fond circles into your hips, his hands all the way up your skirt, slipped beneath the frills and fluff, forearms buried in your dress. “You like it when Daddy fills you up?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod. “Stretches me out real good, makes me feel all stuffed ‘n full.”

Whole, complete, one. Like everything feels as it’s supposed to again.

And it hurts, because it always hurts, because he’s too thick and you’re never prepped enough, never patient enough, core split open on his cock and little hole aching as it attempts to adjust to him, but it’s so fucking perfect, too. Your cunt spasms around him, hips twitching a little in desperation—like you’re trying to suck him in further, like you’re trying to bury him deeper—and he groans, fingers flexing as he holds you still, nails gorging on your flesh.

“Eager, are we?”

“S’not my fault,” you mewl, back arching a little as you attempt to push your hips back, squirming a bit in his strong grip. “Need you, Daddy.”

“Is that so?”

Grasp tightening, his hips thrust up, grinding the head of his cock into your cervix in slow, hard motions—back and forth, back and forth, inspiring a dull pang throbbing in your gut.

Gasping sharply, your hips jerk back in response, automatic and instinctual, pulling a hoarse groan from his chest.

His clutch turns to near bone crushing, a fractured little cry sticking in your throat, and he forces you to hold still for a moment, muscles in his thighs gone rigid and stiff as his hips press up further and tug you down, frozen, revelling in the way your cunt pulses around him, as if it’s whining for him.

“M-Mikey,” you echo its sentiments, his name a sulky plead on your tongue, brows knit together and lips jutted in a pout.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

“You know,” you huff out, wriggling a little in his palms, feebly trying to fuck yourself on him.

“Tell me anyway,” he demands.

Scalding embarrassment pricks your cheeks and you whimper, fidgeting in his grasp again, head shaking in defiance.

“Come on,” he chides, but there are notes of amusement infusing his tone. “Daddy can’t give you what you want if you don’t ask for it.”

Sharp teeth sink into your shoulder suddenly, your half-formed response strangled by a gasp, Mikey’s jaw tensing as he burrows his teeth further into your flesh, piercing through tissues and snapping capillaries until copper explodes in his mouth.

He holds it for a moment, all thirty-two of his teeth latched in your skin, ensuring he leaves a full, detailed outline of his mouth etched into you—a signature of sorts—before his tongue flattens against the wound, dragging over it in a single wide lick and sealing it with blood-tinged saliva. A gentle exhale wafts over the bite, cool against the searing pain, and you shudder, chills erupting across your flesh.

“You’re a big girl,” he coaxes over your whimpering, the encouragement steeped in condescension. “I know you can do it. Use your big girl words and tell Daddy what you want.”

Your eyes squeeze shut against the burn of humiliation, lids crinkling at the corners, the softest hiccup catching in your throat, and you feel his cock twitch inside of you.

“I—I wanna ride your cock, Daddy,” you push the stubborn words from your tongue, trembling and breathy.

“Yeah?” he asks, bloodied tongue tracing along the shell of your ear. “How bad?”

“So bad,” you bleat out, striving to bounce on his cock under the firm restraint of his hands, dewdrops of annoyance clinging to your lashes, glittering in the beams of magenta and teal as you blink rapidly.

“Hm,” he muses to himself, nonchalant as he readjusts his grip, hands constringing, completely halting your pathetic little movements. “It doesn’t seem like you want it all that badly.”

“Daddy,” the word leaves your lips in a whine, scrunched and petulant through your pout, body thrashing beneath his strong grip. “Come on—”

“Are you sure you wanna be such a naughty little whore in front of all of these people?”

Your body stops its writhing, his words like a slap to the face.

It’s a bit of a shock, to hear it spoken aloud so bluntly, cut and dry and honest, and it sends a torrent of sparks fizzing through your chest to collect dense and tight in your tummy.

Shame and revulsion sets your skin aflame, the cinders in your gut flaring in response, an intoxicating combination.

“Yes—”

“Huh? What was that?” he shouts theatrically in your ear. “I couldn’t really hear you over the music.”

“Y-Yes,” you repeat, trying to steady your hiccuping voice, to be stern and resolute, even as tears begin to stream down your cheeks.

“Really?” he breathes, and he sounds astonished, he sounds appalled. “You’re so fucking sleazy, baby. I wonder what all these people would think, if they knew how truly filthy my little girl is...”

“Manjirou,” you weep out his birth name, whole face saturated in frustration.

“Oh-ho-ho,” he chuckles out the word, and it’s vicious. “Graduated to using my full name, now, have you?” he licks at the steadily oozing bite, mopping up more blood with his tongue. “Christ, you do really want it.”

“I do!” you cry out, struggling against his grasp again, hips bucking in wild, erratic motions. “I do, I do, please, let me ride your cock, please.”

“What if I made you sit, still and straight like the good little girl I know you want to be, on my hard cock for the rest of the night? Do you think you’d be able to handle it?”

You know he won’t, know he’d never be able to, because he’s just as addicted to you as you are to him, just as desperate, just as eager, just as needy; because even as he holds you motionless, he can’t quite halt the delicate jerk of his hips, rolling up into your core; because you know he wants this just as badly as you do, gets off on the depravity just as much as you do.

Even so, the mere thought of being teased like this, of being forced to hold such a degrading position, is still enough to inspire a rush of agitated tears to flood your eyes, vision gone bleary with despairing desire and rendering the club a bleary haze of glowing neons.

“No, Daddy, no, I—I just want to ride you, please, Daddy, I c-can’t—”

You’re nearly wailing now, head thrown back dramatically as your neck twists into an uncomfortable knot, anguished as you try to bury your face in his throat, looking for solace. Your chest stutters as you stammer out half-finished pleads, gone garbled with spit, and Mikey smiles.

You’re starting to cause a scene.

It’s exactly what he wanted.

“Okay, baby, okay, okay,” he’s pacifying as he feels hot tears soak into his neck, a choked sob catching painfully in your chest. “Daddy’s here, Daddy’s gonna make it all better.”

And finally, finally his grasp loosens, stiff fingers gone lax, massaging lopsided circles into the rapidly developing bruises left in the shape of their prints.

“Go ahead, angel,” he urges, nuzzling into the junction of your shoulder, pressing a chaste kiss to the congealing bite. “Ride Daddy’s cock.”

Then he’s slumping back, settling into the couch cushions and spreading his thighs a little wider, pressing the soles of his boots into the waxed floor for stability and leverage.

His hands stay on your waist, a gentle guidance, but he allows you to set the pace—a rare occurrence—patient as your hips work up a steady rhythm of quick, shallow gyrations, each swivel dragging his cock against your favourite spot.

And God, you’re so cute when you use his cock to make yourself feel good. It’s a shame that he can’t see your face in this position, can’t see the way your lashes flutter and frame the rolling whites of your eyes or the way your features scrunch so delicately; a shame he can’t hear your gorgeous noises, all your sweet little gasps and pitiful little whines consumed by the blaring music.

But he can see how your back is bowing, spine forced into a near perfect arc by your building pleasure, bending just a hint more with each brush of his cock; he can feel your palms clutching his knees, nails digging little crescents into his shins and using them for support as your movements accelerate, as you fuck yourself harder, faster, better.

And he lets you have your fun for a little, lays back all languid and lazy and watches through lidded eyes as you play with yourself and use his cock like it’s your favourite toy—because, well, it is—but eventually it just isn’t enough and you need Daddy’s help.

Just like he knew it wouldn’t be. Just like you always do.

Not that he minds one bit.

Yes, it isn’t enough, because it never is, because you can never manage anything more than teasing yourself when left entirely to your own devices, spritzing kerosene on the dull smouldering in the pit of your stomach as the head of his cock brushes up against that engorged spot inside of you, not nearly hard enough or fast enough to have you anywhere close to creaming on him, merely enough to have your clit throbbing, swollen and neglected.

He knows you’re beginning to get restless when your hips turn sloppy, tempo starting to falter as your motions stutter, and then you’re looking over your shoulder at him with a beseeching pout, glazed eyes begging him to do something!

So he does.

He’s straightening up in a split second, hands around your waist tightening as he yanks you back toward his chest, chin hooking over your clavicle again and grinding the sharp bone into your skin.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs against your jaw, mocking and mean. “Can’t even get herself off without her Daddy’s help.”

“I can’t, I can’t,” you wail over the roar of EDM, head shaking in accentuation. “Need you, need you to do it for me.”

“Of course you do, angel,” he says, as if it’s obvious, as if it’s common knowledge. “But that’s okay—Daddy will make it feel good.”

That’s the only warning you’re given before his hips are ramming up, rapid and rough and downright ruthless, the abrupt motion slamming a high-pitched yelp from your throat, so pure and genuine and full of lust that it rises above the music, breaks through the heavy bass beat, gathering a handful of glances from a few nearby party-goers.

So much for being inconspicuous.

You should’ve known that that just isn’t Mikey’s style.

They lose interest just as quickly as they gained it, though, going back to their drinks and their drugs, unconcerned. What the Boss does at his own club is none of their business, even if it is on display for the whole venue to see.

Still, it’s enough for Mikey.

“Everyone can see you, you know,” voracious black eyes scan the balcony space. “Everyone can see you being such a good little whore for your Daddy.”

The thought of being watched, of being caught, inspires a whole flock of butterflies to flit around in your tummy, another surge of heat gushing between your thighs, and Mikey laughs. Oh, he felt that.

Because he’s right; if anyone dared to look a little closer, a little longer, cared to paid a smidge of more attention to the two of you, hidden on one of the velvet couches wedged in the corner of the VIP section with your hips rocking and Mikey’s hands buried in the lace and tulle of your skirt, they’d know exactly what the two of you are doing.

But it doesn’t matter; you don’t care. Neither does he. Why should either of you?

“Do you—Do you think they like it?” you question, and Christ, it’s so precious, that pathetic hope ringing high and clear in your voice. “Do you think they like watching me bounce on their Boss’s cock?”

“Fuck,” the curse fragments in his throat, sharp and pitchy, and he coughs on the shards. “I know they do, sweetheart.”

“Do you think they’re g-gonna go home and touch themselves to the thought of me—of us?”

“Aw,” Mikey coos out in a chuckle, breathless and condescending. “It’s cute that you think they aren’t already jerking off to you on a regular basis.”

Of course they are, you silly little stupid thing; how could they not be? With all the sweet, short little dresses he buys you to prance and twirl around in—the ones with the sweetheart necklines that dip just a hint too low, teasing the swell of your breasts with each of your gentle inhales; the ones with the rippling hems that end just a touch too high, swishing and swaying and flashing with each of your movements, riding up and fanning out to gift them with teasing little glimpses of the lace and satin underneath.

“You think I don’t know what my—ah, Christ—what my men think of you? How my men think of you?” He tongues a little at the bite, using his front teeth to scrape off a few half-formed scabs, blood rushing to pool in their place. “You think I don’t see the way they look at you?”

A whine stammers in your throat, your back arching a little more as your cunt quivers around his cock, that drove of butterflies sending your stomach swooping, the organ tensing, tying itself into thick knots pulled tight and taut with each plunge of his cock.

Mikey laughs again, the sound nothing more than a deep, dense vibration rumbling within his ribs, seeping into your back and sending tingles up your spine.

“Would you like to see the way they look at you?”

“H-Huh?”

Oh, how adorably fucked out you already are, mind gone dumb and numb to everything but him, but his voice and his touch and his steadily driving cock; oh, how adorably easy it is to make you this fucking idiotic.

“Look over there,” he presses his cheek into yours, forcing your head to turn and follow his gaze.

Across the club, Rindou sits with an elbow resting on the edge of the bar, a glass dangling from his fingertips. His eyes are cavernous, carnivorous, a smirk smearing across his face as your stare meets his, heavy lids framing a leering look.

Using a shoulder, he nudges his brother’s stomach, jutting his chin toward you and his Boss in indication when Ran looks down in question, redirecting his attention.

Now they’re both watching you, with doped up violet eyes and identical sleazy smiles, toothless and worming.

It makes you want to scrub and scratch at your skin, their gazes painting you in a thick coat of grime, body soiled by their lust and left feeling dirty, feeling gross, a strong shiver crawling across your flesh.

Your head jerks reflexively, desperate to hide from their lechery, skull knocking against Mikey’s hard enough to send thorns of pain searing through your temple.

A yelp cracks in your throat, and Mikey snorts, seemingly unfazed.

“Aw,” Mikey tuts in false admonishment. “Don’t get shy now. Look at them. Look at them while you ride my cock.”

“M-Mikey—” your eyes shut tightly, a pitiful attempt to escape their invasive eyes, head shaking in little judders.

“C’mon,” he goads, forcing you to face their stare. “You want them all to see, right? How good my little girl is? How pretty my little girl is?”

Peeking through your lashes, you squint at the Haitanis, features teetering on the verge of a wince, as if you’re expecting them to physically strike you.

They’re still looking at you, wide and unblinking, speaking out of the side of their mouths in laughs and murmurs to one another.

Dressed in matching pin-striped suits and thick suspenders, Rindou has discarded his jacket, shirtsleeves rolled haphazardly up his forearms to his elbows, first few buttons of his shirt popped undone, revealing a defined collarbone.

Predictably, Ran is still the perfect picture of poise and elegance, not a single hair out of place, suit jacket square on his shoulders and flawlessly tailored to his body, each stitch outlining his edges.

Tweedledum and Tweedledee respectively, and just as treacherous.

Whatever it is they’re saying to each other, they’re clearly enjoying themselves, amusement playing in glassy irises as Ran rests a hand around Rindou’s neck, slim fingers pressing into plush muscle. His younger brother instantly relaxes into his touch, mollifying back against his stomach and hooking an arm around his thigh, hugging it to his ribs.

And it’s the way they’re looking at you, as if they’re peeling the clothes from your body and the skin from your bones and peering into the depths of your soul to dance with your demons and devour your secrets; as if they’re singeing your expression into their minds, the sight of your features saturated in perturbation and pleasure branded into the tissues of their brains, carved into the walls of their skulls, ensuring they’ll never forget.

Everything feels overexposed as they pry you apart bit by bit, heady mix of hedonism and humiliation hazing over your brain.

Mikey’s hips slow to a drag, thighs tensing and soles of his boots skidding across marble as he expertly angles his hips and presses up, rubbing the head of his cock over your g-spot in slow, controlled motions—back and forth, back and forth, over and over and over again.

And the moan that claws at your throat is almost obnoxious, is definitely embarrassing, which means Mikey needs to fuck at least three more from your chest, grunting a little with the effort as his cockhead jabs against that plush spot, hard and precise.

A whine that sounds suspiciously like his title, tangled in spit and weighted with shame, spills from your lips, and you nestle your face against his own even as your hips jolt, desperate for comfort, desperate for cover.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” he nuzzles your damp cheek. “I know you do. I can feel it.”

It’s true, he can—you’re sure he can, with the way your straining little hole keeps pulsing around his length, another stream of heat cascading down his shaft, viscous and wet and so, so much, to pool in the folds of his balls, to stain the waistband of his pants and the velvet of the couch.

But you know he likes it just as much as you do.

Because you’re both so fucking naughty, so fucking nasty, but the depravity just works to heighten it all, makes it that much better, amplifying every touch and brush and tease and fondle and making it all feel so fucking good, even as Mikey’s pace eases into something unhurried, his thrusts turned languid but powerful.

So you join in, you rise to his challenge, a sick little game the two of you play, a sick little game you force others to participate in—because you’re fucking untouchable.

“Do you think their cocks are hard, Daddy?” you ask, the question dripping with syrup as you roll your hips backwards, slow and purposeful, returning the Haitanis’ smouldering stare through fanned lashes, unblinking and tenacious.

“Ah, f-fuck,” Mikey’s cock jolts, rhythm stammering for a moment before he regains his composure. “Yeah, baby, I bet they’re wishing they were me right now.”

You bet they are, too, mouths stopped moving and gazes gleaming with want, lips parted with uneven exhales pushed from their heaving chests, entirely enchanted by your movements.

It’s the most affected and authentic you’ve ever seen them before, and it sends a thrill of power shooting through your body, blood left fizzing in its wake.

One of them reaches into their pocket, groping around blindly for their phone, not daring to spare a second of their attention away from you, and Mikey snarls, nose scrunched in disgust and lip curled in a sneer, baring gritted teeth.

Because that’s too much, that’s crossing a line, and Mikey swiftly redirects your face, effectively hiding your expression from the Haitanis’ hungry eyes.

Mikey’s always liked to show off. Mikey’s never liked to share.

He swaps shoulders quickly, the defined hinges of his jaw clasped firmly over your collarbone, and smushes his face flush to yours again, skin clammy with sweat.

“And look over there,” he steers your gaze toward the other side of the club, where Kokonoi sits with a smattering of men surrounding a tall cocktail table, littered with crystal glasses and white lines.

The men around the table are laughing about something, sloshing liquor and cutting powder into thick, fat stripes, but Kokonoi isn’t paying attention to any of it.

No. Kokonoi is looking at you.

His eyes snap away when they meet your own, head whipping forward with such speed and such force it’s a marvel he doesn’t instantly give himself whiplash. A deep laugh rumbles in Mikey’s throat in response, something dark, something decadent.

“He’s gonna go home and touch himself to you, too,” he says. “He might not even make it before he goes home; might end up jerking his cock in a bathroom stall or the front seat of his car.”

“How can you tell?”

“Well, look at him,” Mikey snorts. “He’s so hard he’s about to burst outta his pants.”

Following the line of Kokonoi’s body, your gaze travels downward, to the straining lump in his white pants. His hips shift a little uncomfortably as his thighs tense, hands curled into fists on his knees as he steadily trains his stare forward at the wall opposite of him, throat bobbing with a thick swallow.

Mikey’s right—Koko’s about to burst.

The thought of Koko rushing to his car to collapse in the driver’s seat, head tipped back against the headrest and hand shoved down his pants as his palm rubs frantically at his hard cock, or hastening to the washroom to lock himself in a stall, forehead pressed tightly to the rickety door and panting out stuttered, half-stifled whimpers hotly against his upper lip as he hurriedly relieves the problem you’ve created, is almost too much to bear, stomach clenching in time with the throbbing of your cunt, a torrid pressure building and burning in your gut.

The sudden acceleration of Mikey’s thrusts snaps you out of that tangle of thoughts, effectively drawing every ounce of your attention back to him.

A mewl pries past your lips, sharp and high and cracking at the end, whole spine arching as Mikey resumes his assault on your favourite spot, cockhead driving hard and fast against plush flesh.

“They can look all they want, but you’re mine.” His fingers tighten, his grasp rigid and unbreakable, the words nothing more than a snarl spit in your ear, wet and harsh. “I won’t fuckin’ share.”

“Never, never, never,” you babble in time with the bouncing on his lap, head nodding in sloppy motions with each repetition of the word.

“Never,” he growls, teeth sinking into the flesh of your shoulder sloppily, excess spit dribbling from the corners of his mouth as he breaks the skin for the second time tonight and sucks hard, drawing blood from the string of tiny wounds.

It has another cry escaping your throat, whole face crinkling in a sordid mixture of pleasure and pain, head instinctually thrown back against your Daddy, automatically giving him more room to work. Drops of watered down blood drool down your back and Mikey takes a moment to admire them, mesmerised by the way they shimmer in the strobing lights of the club, before he licks at them with the tip of his tongue, leaving crude strokes of fresh spit in their wake.

He’s the motherfucking Boss.

And the Boss gets what he wants, where he wants, when he wants, always.

He’s really fucking you now, vicious and vigorous, your entire body juddering in his lap as his hips piston up, cockhead pounding against that sensitive mound of tissue buried deep within you.

Each thrust shoves another shattered sound from your tongue, splintered moans of his name and his title pouring past your lips in a jagged stream.

The knot your stomach has twisted itself into strains under the building pressure, growing heavier and heavier with each jackhammer into you, stretched taut and stiff and ready to snap.

It’s all so much, the ogling eyes and the ramming of his cock and the tightening in your belly, every muscle in your body coiled and aching for the ecstasy that comes with release. Your breath mangles with the mewls shoved from your lips with every slam up, sticking to your throat and you cough, wheezing past the splinters. It’s all too much, and—!

“M’gonna, m’gonna cum, Daddy!” you gasp, tears dotting the corners of your eyes, sparkling in spidery lashes.

“Yeah, baby?” he breathes, voice dropping to a ragged rasp. “You gonna cream all over Daddy’s cock? Huh? Make a mess on my cock surrounded by all of Daddy’s closest and most esteemed colleagues?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you nearly sob out, palms curling over his wrists, nails clawing at the delicate skin, desperate for an anchor.

“My dirty fucking girl,” he hisses out, sharp breath stinging your cheek. “Such a good—Ah—good little slut for me, aren’t you?”

You can no longer respond, rendered stupid from the ardor, potent pleasure corroding your brain and gnawing through your synapses. It’s downright intoxicating, it’s fucking insatiable, it’s simultaneously immense and insufficient, way too much yet not nearly enough, because you need more, you need more, unintelligible pleads shattering on your tongue.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, baby, gush all over Daddy, make a pretty mess on his lap for him. Show everyone in this Goddamn club how gorgeous you look cumming for me.”

And so you do, ever your Daddy’s best girl, body eager to obey its owner as your cunt convulses around him, copious amounts of slick cascading down his shaft to drench his thighs, sticky and sharp and so fucking sick as he continues to bounce you in his lap.

The spasming of your cute little hole draws the sweetest whine from the back of his throat, panted out against the curve of your ear, and another bout of warmth rushes to the apex of your thighs, earning you a shuddered little curse, the exhale sweltering against your sweaty skin.

You sound so pretty right before you cum, Daddy.

Three more pumps of his hips and he’s following, thrusts stuttering as he fucks up messily into you, cock throbbing almost violently and stuffing you to the brim with thick, hot cum. Strong hands hold you firmly in place, cockhead pressed flush to your cervix as he spills himself into you, as he forces you to take every fucking ounce of what he’s giving you.

And you love it, you love it, you love it, you’re telling him, sentiments pouring from your mouth in a jumbled stream, singular and continuous until your lungs run out of air, voice cutting off with a squeak.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Mikey’s murmuring into your skin in response, lips leaving smears of sugary saliva just below your earlobe.

He allows you to sit on him for a moment, chest heaving against your back with ragged breaths, sweaty forehead pressed tightly to your shoulder. Tilting your head, your rest your cheek on the back of his skull, eyes slipping shut as your own heart begins to calm, cunt still pulsating irregularly around his shaft, almost as if it’s attempting to squeeze a few more drops out of him, his cock acting as a crude plug, keeping most of his cum buried inside of you.

Finally, his head lifts, pressing a tender kiss to the blood-encrusted bite glittering on your shoulder.

“Go get cleaned up in the washroom,” he mutters gently, pressing another string of kisses along your jaw. “Don’t wipe away any of Daddy’s cum; let it soak into your panties real nice and good, let them get really wet, and then snap a few pictures and send them to me. Can you do that for me, angel?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you slur out, nodding in loose, liquid movements.

“Good,” he pats your thigh twice. “Now, go.”

A small noise of affirmation sounds in your throat, head still nodding as Mikey helps you stand between his spread thighs, hands on your waist keeping you upright while you wobble on unsteady legs.

And the noise that you make as his cum and your slick surges out of you—something caught somewhere between a mewl and a whine, turned on and disappointed simultaneously—is the cutest thing he’s ever heard, a muted coo slipping from his own lips as your hands wrap around his, using them to further stable yourself.

He holds you for a moment or two longer, making sure you’re sturdy and your knees won’t suddenly give out, before giving you one final squeeze and releasing you, smirking a little as he watches you teeter away on rickety feet.

Initially, his plan was to have you capture a few naughty photos for him—pretty little things to stash away in his phone for later use, during the nights he’s forced to spend away from you, sitting in expensive cars or laying in lush hotel beds—and force you to wear the gluey, cum-drenched undies for the remainder of the party.

But then his phone is buzzing, and he’s unlocking it to find your cunt perfectly outlined by thin silk as it sticks to your folds, little clit and hole contoured and accentuated by the slick, shining fabric, soiled by a large, irregular patch of wetness, and oh, there’s no way he’ll be able to wait until you arrive home to fuck you again.

No, he needs to fuck you now, a sudden burst of adrenaline buzzing through his veins, little sparks and minuscule explosions that have him up and moving in under a second, cock already beginning to fill with life again.

Sheer, potent power permeates the atmosphere around him, trembling off his body in sharp bolts; dense, heavy, cracking with electricity.

The way the crowd instantly parts for him is awe-inspiring, their gleaming eyes full of terror and worship, hastily tripping over their own toes and ankles to move from his path as he strides toward the washroom, desperate to not be stung by his brilliance, desperate to get as close to the currents as possible without being scathed.

You’re just exiting the restroom by the time he reaches you, breath punched from your lungs as he backs you into a tiled corner, trapped between the cold wall and his scorching form, his hands splayed wide on either side of your shoulders.

“We gotta go,” he’s nearly panting out as he shoves his forehead against yours, eyes closed and noses nudging, straining cock grinding unceremoniously into your hip. “We gotta go, now.”

And, well, Daddy always gets what Daddy wants.

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