#but she still feels so torn about leaving them

[rosachae]

deja vu | manon x reader

⁍ song: myth - beach house ⁍ requested: yes-- thank you anon! ⁍ genre: AU! angsty, bittersweet ending. grief and acceptance in different fonts. ⁍ a/n: i hope this is what you were looking for, anon. sorry for delay in getting this out! ⁍ wc: 9.9k ⁍ warnings: heavy depictions of grief and death. mentions of mental illness, sickness, surgery, medication, etc. please read with discretion. ⁍ synopsis:

y/n, for as long as she can remember, has always dreaded falling asleep. her dreams are plagued by memories of a girl. each and every time, she lives a life with her. each and every time, it ends in heartbreak.

the idea of soulmates isn't wrapped in myth or fantasy. there's no magic thread tying fates together, no divine hand deciding who belongs to whom. but still, it feels real in its own quiet, mysterious way. people speak of it in hushed tones, describing sudden connections that strike like lightning. strangers lock eyes and feel as if they've known each other for centuries. some are shaken by deja vu so intense it leaves them breathless. others dream the same dreams on the same nights, caught in a strange, shared familiarity. science has no name for it. the world just accepts that sometimes, two souls find each other and remember.

for y/n, remembering isn't tender. it's not some miracle to chase or cherish. it's a cycle of sorrow that follows her into sleep, again and again. she dreams in sharp, vivid color, trapped in lives she can’t recall by day but can’t escape by night. and always, at the center of it all, there’s the same woman. a fierce, beautiful stranger who feels more like a missing limb than a memory. y/n meets her over and over, in different centuries, different bodies, different lives. they find each other and lose each other, always torn apart by something cruel and unseen. like their story was carved in stone long before they ever lived it.

the dreams aren't fragments or fading whispers. they're entire worlds. she lives them fully, loves fiercely, and dies a little each time she wakes. in one life, the woman bleeds out in her arms on a battlefield turned to ash. in another, she disappears into a storm that swallows the sea. always, it's loss. always, it's heartbreak.

the weight of it bleeds into her waking life. she carries grief in her bones, hollow in places she can't explain. she's learned to build her life around absence. to keep her distance. to avoid anything that might stir that old, aching recognition. people think she's cold, guarded, maybe afraid of love. they don't understand that she's loved a hundred times and lost a hundred more, all in the span of sleep.

she doesn’t walk alone. she walks with the echoes of a hundred endings. haunted not by a ghost, but by a soul she keeps finding and losing. and deep down, more than anything, she's terrified it’ll happen again.

the psychiatrists office sits on the top floor of an old building downtown, the kind with creaking stairs and an elevator that groans like it’s doing you a favor. it’s not the kind of place that promises peace or healing. the walls are painted in muted shades that aimed for calming but landed closer to worn out. a soft, sagging armchair waits under a crooked floor lamp that hums faintly when it’s on. there are no framed quotes about growth or resilience, no carefully placed succulents in trendy pots. just shelves crowded with books that have been read too many times and the faint, lingering smell of mint tea mixed with dust.

y/n sits cross legged on the couch, her shoulders tight, fingers tangled in her lap. her posture is practiced stillness, but tension hums beneath it. outside the window, the city murmurs. traffic lights blink in steady rhythm, a car horn groans in the distance, tires hiss over wet pavement. the world moves on, indifferent.

inside, the room is quiet. the air conditioner hums softly, and every now and then, there’s the sound of a pen scratching across paper. taeyeon sits across from her, steady and composed, taking notes with a kind of quiet precision that makes y/n feel exposed.

taeyeon is a psychiatrist. her presence is gentle, but clinical. her voice is low and even, each word measured, careful not to press too hard. she never rushes, never interrupts. she has the kind of calm that makes y/n ache with something sharp and shapeless, part envy, part resentment. taeyeon was calm in a way that y/n could only dream of.

“how many nights this week?” taeyeon asked, clicking her pen once before jotting something down.

“five,” y/n said, her voice barely more than a breath. “same woman. different place.”

taeyeon nodded slowly. “can you tell me about the most recent one?”

y/n exhaled through her nose, like the memory hurt to touch. “a desert. sand everywhere. in the air, in my mouth, in my lungs. we were running. hiding. i don’t know from what. she had a scar along her jaw and a cloth wrapped around her wrist, like she was bleeding. but she smiled at me like everything was fine.”

“and did you recognize her again?” taeyeon’s voice was calm, careful. not dismissive, not probing too hard. she had learned how to ask without denying. not with y/n.

“always,” y/n whispered. “it’s always her. different bodies, different voices, but the same eyes. i just know.”

taeyeon tapped the tip of her pen against the paper, thoughtful. “how did it end?”

“same as always,” y/n said. “i lost her. the world started falling apart or she just vanished. sometimes she dies. sometimes i do. and then i wake up crying, and i can’t breathe, and it takes a while before i remember where i am. before i feel real again.”

there was a pause. taeyeon leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees.

“we’ve talked about dissociation,” she said gently. “how powerful dreams like this can sometimes be the mind’s way of processing trauma. especially when they’re this vivid, this consistent. it can feel like you’re living two lives. like your brain is carrying something too heavy to face all at once, so it breaks it into pieces you only see when you’re sleeping.”

y/n couldn’t help the quiet scoff that slipped out. dissociation. of course.

they always said the same things. dissociative episodes. unresolved trauma. recurrent nightmares. some leaned toward ptsd, others floated terms like delusional attachment or maladaptive daydreaming. one suggested a rare sleep disorder. they circled her like they were mapping a storm they couldn’t predict, naming symptoms like they were anchors, like labels could keep her from drifting too far.

but none of it touched the truth of it. none of it explained how it felt like her soul kept getting dragged through time, tethered to a stranger who never stayed.

y/n nodded regardless, but her expression was distant. “but what if it’s not just trauma? what if it is real? what if i’m not broken? what if my soul just… remembers?”

taeyeon didn’t answer right away. instead, she let the question hover between them like smoke.

“i believe your pain is real,” she said carefully. “your grief, your connection, your fear of losing her. all of it. i’m not here to tell you what’s real and what isn’t. i’m here to help you stay anchored, no matter what the answer turns out to be.”

y/n laughed, but there was no humor in it. “anchored. i feel like i’m drowning in someone else’s life. like i’ve already lived and died a thousand times, and i don’t have any of the good parts to show for it. just the endings.”

taeyeon softened. “that sounds exhausting.”

“it is.” y/n’s voice cracked. “and the worst part? i feel like i’m grieving someone i’ve never even met. and no one gets it. no one sees it as real grief. not even me, most of the time. it just… hurts.”

taeyeon nodded slowly. “grief doesn’t need permission. it doesn’t need logic. your mind, your body, your heart—they’re all carrying something. whether it’s memory or metaphor, it deserves to be processed.”

“but what if i never stop dreaming of her?” y/n whispered. “what if i’m meant to keep losing her forever?”

“then we figure out how to live in between the dreams,” taeyeon said. “how to find meaning in the spaces where you’re awake. how to hold on to yourself. you’re not here to solve every life you’ve lived. you’re here to live this one.”

the silence that followed wasn’t heavy. it was necessary. y/n stared out the window, watching the sky shift from steel to amber. somewhere below, a siren wailed. the city moved on, uncaring. but in this room, in this breath, she felt just the smallest flicker of stillness.

taeyeon didn’t speak again right away, and y/n was grateful for it. sometimes silence was the most honest part of these sessions. not everything needed a tidy response, a plan, a labeled diagnosis. sometimes it was just about making it to the next breath without sinking.

“do you think i’m delusional?” y/n asked at last, her eyes fixed on the window. her voice was flat, but her fingers tightened around the edge of her sleeve.

“no,” taeyeon said, calm and certain. “i think your mind is telling a story your body hasn’t finished understanding. maybe it’s rooted in trauma. maybe it’s memory. maybe it’s something we don’t have language for yet. but that doesn’t make it delusion.”

y/n turned her head slowly. “but no one else dreams like this. no one else wakes up with bruises shaped like hands they’ve never touched. or with songs on their lips they’ve never heard before. i speak languages i’ve never learned. i wake up missing her like she just walked out of the room.”

taeyeon wrote something down, but her eyes never left y/n. “have you ever told anyone that part?”

“no.” she paused, her voice low. “i stopped trying. people look at me like i’m breakable. or lying. or worse... like i’m something to be afraid of.”

there was a long pause.

“can i ask you something?” taeyeon said.

y/n gave a small nod.

“if it’s real—your dreams, the woman, the loss—what do you think you’re meant to do with it in this life?”

the question landed between them like a stone dropped into water. not heavy, but deep. it sank fast, and y/n felt the ripple of it in her chest, behind her ribs where the grief always settled.

“i don’t know,” she said quietly. “i think… i’m afraid i’ll never find her here. or worse, that i will, and i won’t recognize her until it’s too late.”

taeyeon’s voice stayed soft, steady. “what if it’s not about finding her at all? what if it’s about becoming the version of you who can survive losing her? or maybe… the one who doesn’t lose her at all?”

the thought felt like an open wound and a balm all at once. y/n looked down at her hands, her thumbs rubbing together in slow circles, a nervous ritual she barely noticed anymore.

“that version of me would have to be a lot stronger than this,” she said quietly.

“maybe,” taeyeon replied. “or maybe she’s already here, underneath the grief.”

the clock ticked softly in the corner, marking the end of the session, but neither of them moved. the city outside had shifted again. a wind stirred through the alley below, carrying the distant sound of footsteps and voices and life.

“same time next week?” taeyeon asked eventually, her voice light, as if the conversation hadn’t just opened a door that couldn’t be closed again.

y/n stood slowly, wrapping her coat around her like armor. “yeah,” she said, though she wasn’t sure what next week would bring. maybe another dream. maybe another ending.

the hallway outside taeyeon’s office was dim and narrow, lit by flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed just enough to feel wrong. the carpet was a tired gray, worn thin in spots, and the air smelled faintly of old coffee and overused cleaning spray. y/n took the stairs instead of the elevator, her steps slow and careful. she didn’t like the sound of her own breath in tight spaces, not after sessions like this. everything inside her felt too exposed, like her skin didn’t fit quite right.

by the time she stepped outside, the sky had settled into dusk. cars moved past in quiet waves, headlights blinking on one by one. the breeze carried the damp scent of distant rain and exhaust. she pulled her collar up and slipped the folded prescription into her coat pocket like it was something she didn’t want anyone to see.

quetiapine.

low dose. for sleep, taeyeon had said. for the emotions. for the edges. something to soften the line between the dreams and waking life.

“just something to ground you,” she’d added, voice gentle.

y/n hadn’t argued. but she hadn’t said yes either. 

at the corner, she paused beneath a flickering streetlamp. the script crinkled in her pocket like a secret. the words felt heavy. antipsychotic. sedative. off-label.

none of them felt like they belonged to her.

she didn’t feel sick. not in the way they meant. she didn’t feel like her mind was broken. if anything, the dreams were the only things that felt consistent, real, even if they tore her apart. it was the waking world that felt fragmented. like a life half-lived. like her body was here but her soul had its bags half-packed, always waiting for a call back to somewhere else.

she crossed the street without looking, cars slowing around her like she wasn’t really there. the pharmacy on 9th street glowed too brightly, its glass doors sliding open with a sterile hiss. she stood just inside, the cold air conditioning raising goosebumps on her arms, and stared down at the slip of paper in her hand.

her name. her date of birth. the drug. the dosage. instructions in bold print. take one at bedtime. do not operate heavy machinery. may cause drowsiness.

none of it said what she really wanted.

may stop you from dying over and over again in your sleep.may dull the face of the woman who keeps saying “found you.”may silence the only part of your life that feels like truth.

“can i help you?” the pharmacist asked, polite, rehearsed, unaware of the war playing out behind her eyes.

y/n hesitated. then handed the paper over.

when she left twenty minutes later, a small white bag folded shut in her hand, she felt no relief. no sense of control. only a deeper kind of uncertainty.

because she knew what was waiting for her when she closed her eyes.

and she didn’t know what scared her more. seeing the woman again or the possibility that this time, she wouldn’t at all.

she moved on instinct, letting her feet carry her forward while her mind drifted somewhere else entirely. head bowed low, shoulders curled inward like she could shrink out of existence if she tried hard enough. around her, the city pulsed with people who had places to be and lives to live, all of them tethered to their own distractions. she kept walking, each step a blur, vision unfocused as thoughts piled on top of each other in a fog she couldn’t cut through. then, as she turned a corner sharply without thinking, her body moving faster than her awareness could catch up, she slammed shoulder first into someone heading the opposite direction. the sudden jolt snapped her out of her spiral like a slap to the face. she almost dropped her bag.

the impact wasn’t hard, but it knocked her a step back. the other girl stumbled too, letting out a soft, surprised gasp. y/n opened her mouth to apologize, her reflex already halfway formed. sorry, i didn’t see you— the words were on the tip of her tongue. but the moment their eyes met, everything stopped. her words fell to a muted breath. time didn’t slow. it fractured.

she hadn’t meant to look up. it was just a reflex, a flicker of attention at the sudden jolt of impact. 

the girl was tall. braids framed her face, a few loose strands curling at her cheekbone like they belonged there. she was pretty in a way that made you look twice without meaning to. golden skin, soft curls pulled back just enough to show the shape of her face, and eyes that held something quiet but certain. everything about her was put together without trying too hard, like beauty had always just come naturally to her.

but her eyes. her eyes were the thing that undid y/n.

they were wide and deep, dark enough to drown in, and so achingly familiar that y/n’s breath caught in her throat. it wasn’t recognition in the normal sense. it was older than that, buried in the marrow. it was the kind of knowing you don’t earn in one lifetime.

those eyes had looked at her through fire. through battlefield smoke. across oceans. in dreams. in death.

she knew them. and for a second, the girl looked like she knew her too.

“are you—” the girl started, voice quiet, edged with a question she hadn’t figured out how to ask.

y/n’s heart slammed against her ribs. and then, she turned. her footsteps had never before in her life felt so heavy as she walked away. it was the only thing she could do. if she didn’t, she’d say her name without ever having heard it. if she stayed, she’d never be able to leave again.

behind her, the girl stood still, watching. not following. not calling out. but something had shifted.

deja vu had never felt more tangible. 

__

manon wouldn’t call herself a hopeless romantic. not exactly. she liked the idea of love, sure, the kind that made your chest ache and your world tilt on its axis. but more than that, she liked the promise of it. the cinematic kind, drenched in golden light and dramatic pauses, the kind where someone looks at you like they already know the ending and still want to live every second of the story anyway.

she wasn’t naive, not really. she knew love wasn’t always soft or beautiful. she just liked to believe it could be.

she watched movies like twilight not because she believed in vampires, but because she believed in the way edward looked at bella like the sun finally had a rival. she cried at the end of 10 things i hate about you. she read books like scripture. she fell in love at least twice a week, usually with strangers on the train or characters in a playlist.

her friends orbited her like moons around some untamable sun. they filled her life with noise and comfort, and manon loved them for it. loved the way they let her be loud and messy. 

she danced with her headphones in, full volume, hips swaying as she folded laundry or cooked or waited for her nail polish to dry. sometimes she danced in public, in line at the bodega or waiting for the light. 

she was so, unashamedly herself. 

so when she turned the corner that evening and bumped into someone—really bumped, hard enough that her shoulder throbbed for a second—she barely blinked. she started to apologize, hand halfway raised in that instinctive, easy way she’d always had. but then the girl looked at her, and manon forgot the rest of the sentence. 

there was something in that stare. something raw and terrified, like manon had reached out and touched a memory that didn’t belong to her. her smile faltered. her heart stuttered in a way it never had before, not even during all the silly crushes or movie moments.

the girl’s eyes were wide and wild, and she looked at manon like she might fall apart just from being seen.

“are you—” manon started, unsure what the hell she was even asking.

but the girl was already backing away. already turning. already gone. just like that.

manon stood there for a long time after. cars passed, the light changed, people moved around her. the city didn’t pause. but she did. her chest felt hollow in a way that wasn’t unpleasant, just unfamiliar. like she’d missed something important. 

she didn’t know who that girl was, but the skin on her shoulder was still buzzing where they touched. deep in her gut, something whispered to her.

you’ve met before.

somehow, she knew that wasn’t the last time she’d see her.

when manon stepped back into the apartment ten minutes later, the scent of leftover incense and vanilla candles wrapped around her like a hug that didn’t quite reach. megan was the first thing she saw, curled up on the couch with her legs tucked under her, fully absorbed in her nintendo switch. she didn’t even look up. not until sophia passed behind her and plucked the console clean from her hands.

“hey!” megan gasped, reaching for it, but stopped when sophia gave her a sharp look.

“you’ve been on this all damn day. come eat something before you fuse with the couch.”

megan blinked, then lit up like a light switch. “is it the thai place with the crab rangoon?” she was already halfway to the kitchen before anyone answered.

manon followed slowly, takeout bag rustling against her leg. she’d been starving when she left to pick it up, had practically been fantasizing about curry puffs and sticky rice all day since she finished moving furniture into her new room. but now, her appetite sat buried beneath the weight of a face she couldn’t shake. that stare. those eyes.

she dropped the bag on the counter and started unpacking containers, only half listening as megan pulled open drawers for chopsticks and plates.

“you okay?” sophia asked, not looking up as she peeled the lid off the tom yum soup. “you’re quiet. which is creepy.”

manon hesitated. then, after a moment, she sighed. “i ran into someone.”

sophia’s face morphed into something equal parts teasing and inquisitive. “do we mean ran into, or ran into?”

“shut up,” manon said, but her voice was distant, almost dazed. she leaned her hip against the counter. “no, i mean… literally. this girl just came out of nowhere. we bumped into each other, and i looked at her and…”

“and?” megan asked around a mouthful of noodles.

manon exhaled, rubbing her fingers along the edge of the countertop. “and i don’t know. it was weird. like… my whole body stopped. like i knew her. or maybe… used to know her?”

megan raised a brow, but sophia only rolled her eyes.

“great. you’ve been here a week and you’re already writing yourself into a romance novel” she said, grabbing a spring roll. “listen. you just moved. you’re tired. your brain is bored and lonely and doing that thing where it makes random people feel cosmic.”

“i’m not lonely,” manon said quickly.

sophia gave her a look. “you just left your whole life behind. you miss your favorite boba spot. it’s fine. just don’t start chasing strangers in the street.”

“i’m not gonna chase her,” manon muttered, tugging open a container of rice halfheartedly.

“good,” sophia said, dipping a spring roll in sauce. “focus on getting your bearings. we still haven’t shown you the lake. and the bookstore downtown. or that cursed karaoke bar megan keeps trying to get us kicked out of.”

“hey,” megan said, mouth full. “i stand by my avril lavigne medley.”

sophia ignored her. “new town, new start. the last thing you need is a mysterious stranger who makes your stomach do weird things.”

manon didn’t respond right away. her fingers drummed quietly against the countertop. she was trying to believe sophia. it would’ve been easier to just agree, to let the moment fade into one of those random, unexplainable blips you forget after a few days.

but the girl’s eyes were still there when she closed her own, and something in her gut whispered that forgetting wasn’t going to be an option. still, she nodded.

“yeah,” she said. “you’re right. it was nothing.”

she didn’t believe it for one second.

the next day, manon wandered through town with no real destination, letting the late morning sun soak into her skin and ease the tightness in her chest. the streets were still unfamiliar enough to feel like a story she hadn’t read yet, every corner turning into something new. sophia and megan had spent the morning walking her through the local spots and pointing out cafes with the kind of casual pride that only came from living somewhere long enough to love it. even so, they could tell she needed space, and she hadn’t argued when they gently peeled away after brunch. between their constant presence and the easy chatter of their friends—daniela, lara, and yoonchae— the thing manon needed most now was to decompress.

she still took her time, pausing now and then to glance through coffee shop windows or let the scent of warm bread drifting from nearby bakeries pull a faint smile to her lips. her steps were slow, unhurried, more about the wandering than the destination. when she turned the next corner, she found herself standing in front of a narrow storefront tucked between a flower shop overflowing with soft blooms and a stationery store lined with pastel journals in its window. the sign above the door read second story books, the words hand painted in faded cursive that looked like it had weathered more than one season. sophia had scribbled directions onto a torn sheet of notebook paper before brunch, a little map paired with a single warning written beneath it in blocky letters. don’t let the book clerk scare you too much. she’s always in a bad mood.

despite the warning, nothing could’ve prepared manon for the surprise waiting inside.  the bell above the door chimed softly as she pushed in.

it smelled like old pages and lavender, the air heavy and still like the inside of a dream. narrow shelves wound through the space in lazy, looping rows, creating little pockets of quiet. sunlight filtered in through high windows, cutting gold lines across the hardwood floor.

and then there she was.

manon froze.

behind the counter, half-shadowed beneath a hanging fern, stood the girl from yesterday. the one who’d looked at her like she was a ghost. the one who had vanished without a word.

it was enough to make manon’s stomach swoop. her heart picked up, irrational and bright.

she grabbed a book off the closest table without looking at the title. anything. she didn’t care. she just needed a reason to speak.

the girl didn’t look up until manon was right in front of the counter.

“hey,” manon said, almost too soft. she cleared her throat and held out the book like a peace offering. “i, um, figured i’d stop by. didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

y/n’s hands stilled on the register. she looked up slowly, and for a moment, she didn’t say anything.

her blood turned to ice the moment manon stepped through the door. it was immediate, visceral, like the air itself had shifted around her. the bookstore, her sanctuary, the one place that had always felt untouched by the chaos of the world, now felt exposed. like someone had cracked it open and let something in that wasn’t meant to be there.

 no. no, not again. 

she could feel it in her chest, in her fingertips, that creeping sense of inevitability pressing against her like a warning. the weight of something old and painful, something she had buried and begged not to unearth again. this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. not here. not now. not in this life.

“you’re following me?” y/n asked flatly, her voice low and smooth.

manon blinked, caught off guard. “what? no, i just—i didn’t know you worked here. i came in for a book.”

“what book?”

manon glanced down. the cover was upside down. something about sea mythology. she tried not to laugh. “uh… i’ve always liked mermaids?”

y/n didn’t smile. her eyes, so striking yesterday, were unreadable now. cool and distant.

manon tried again. “i’m manon, by the way.”

y/n’s fingers tapped the edge of the counter once, then slid the book across the scanner. the beep sounded far too loud in the quiet.

“okay.”

manon hesitated. “you don’t want to tell me your name?”

“not particularly.” y/n bagged the book and handed it over without looking her in the eye. “it’s twelve seventy-six.”

manon dug out her card, suddenly cold despite the warmth in the room. she looked at y/n, really looked. she tried to find something in her expression that might explain the coldness, the distance. she came up empty.

“did i… do something wrong?” she asked, quieter now.

y/n didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, but her jaw tightened, her eyes fixed somewhere just past manon’s shoulder like looking directly at her might make something break loose. when she finally spoke, her voice was low and measured, almost gentle if not for the edge she forced into it.

“you should go,” she said. “whatever you’re looking for, it’s not here. i don’t have time to entertain strangers who think they belong in places they don’t.”

she didn’t mean it. not really. she just wanted to make her go away. to save herself from the inevitable pain of loss. because what’s there to lose, when you didn’t have it to begin with?

manon stared at her, the silence thick. her face twisted up in confusion. nonetheless, she shakes her head.

“right,” she said finally, voice clipped. “thanks for the book.”

she didn’t look back as she left, the door chime sounding harsher this time.

y/n stood still for a long while, the weight of the moment pressing on her ribs. her hands shook. she didn’t like hurting people—but she had to.

she couldn’t let her in.

not again.

__

the office was quiet again, that familiar kind of stillness taeyeon always kept like a blanket draped over every session. but today it settled over y/n like a weight instead of a comfort. the air felt too clean, too measured, and it only made the anger in her chest simmer hotter. not loud, not explosive, but persistent, like a slow burn that wouldn’t ease up. for as long as she could remember—since she was fourteen and her parents could no longer ignore the way she woke up gasping and sobbing into her pillow—she had been told that something was wrong with her. maybe not always in words, not in the one word that would ruin her completely, but in every glance, every hushed conversation, every carefully scripted therapy session where people tried to convince her she was just confused. they put her on medications, changed the doses, swapped one diagnosis for another as if her mind was a puzzle they could never quite solve. therapist after psychiatrist after specialist all trying to convince her that what she saw every night wasn’t real. that the girl in her dreams, the lives they lived, the endings that shattered her, were just symptoms of something broken. and now here she was, after all those years, sitting in this overly warm office with the sun pouring through the blinds like nothing had changed. 

she was real. 

she had walked into y/n’s world like the universe had run out of ways to keep them apart. and all y/n could think was how fucking cruel it was that no one had believed her. how all this time she had been drowning in something no one else could see, only to have it show up in the middle of a bookstore like it hadn’t ruined her already.

y/n sat in the same place she always did, one leg tucked under the other, shoulders curled slightly in like she’d been bracing for a storm that hadn’t passed yet. taeyeon was across from her, notebook open but untouched. her eyes, lined with quiet concern, never strayed.

“you saw her again,” taeyeon said, not asking. just… knowing.

y/n stared at the floor between them. “at the bookstore.”

“how did it feel?”

“like waking up and remembering she died,” she said softly. “again.”

taeyeon’s lips pressed into a thin line. “and what did you do?”

“i made her go away.”

taeyeon tilted her head. “did you want her to go away?”

y/n’s silence answered for her.

“have you been taking your medication?” taeyeon asked gently.

“yes.” a beat. “sometimes.”

taeyeon didn’t scold. she just nodded, thumb tapping lightly against the cover of her notebook. “you told me the dreams stopped being dreams a long time ago. that they feel like memories. full lives. love. loss. over and over. and now—”

“now she’s here,” y/n finished. “not in a dream. not in a memory. she’s here. in this city, walking into the places i go, smiling like i haven’t watched her die a hundred times.”

“and what makes you so certain she’s the same person?”

y/n laughed, but it cracked in the middle. “it’s in her eyes. i could barely breathe when she looked at me. like my body remembered before my mind could catch up.”

taeyeon leaned forward slightly. “let’s say you’re right. let’s say this is fate. a thread between lives, tangled and pulled tight. then maybe the question isn’t whether it was supposed to happen. maybe the question is—who are you to keep it from happening?”

“i’m someone who’s tired of losing her,” y/n said. “every time. every time i get her, the world takes her back. sometimes it’s war. sometimes it’s illness. sometimes it’s something as stupid as a car crash. and every time, i break. i don’t want to do it again.”

taeyeon nodded slowly, her expression unreadable but not unkind, like she was choosing each word with care. “i believe you,” she said finally, her voice quiet but firm. “i believe the grief is real. i believe the loss feels real too. and whether or not these dreams are memories or symbols or something in between, the pain they leave behind isn’t something we can ignore.”

y/n looked down at her hands, fingers loosely clasped in her lap. her throat felt tight, like the wrong word might split her open.

“but what you’re describing,” taeyeon continued, “it doesn’t sound like fear anymore. it sounds like a kind of punishment. you’re bracing for something you think you can’t change. and in doing that, you’re trying to protect yourself, maybe even her, from something that hasn’t happened yet.”

y/n didn’t answer, didn’t move. the silence stretched, but taeyeon didn’t fill it with pity or false comfort. instead, she leaned back slightly, letting her words settle.

“so let’s talk about free will,” she said. “maybe the endings in your dreams were never up to you. maybe they always happened no matter what. but how you meet them… that part is yours. you get to choose how you exist in this moment, in this life. do you want to keep running from something you haven’t fully understood? or are you willing to let yourself stay still long enough to figure out what this really is?”

y/n turned her face toward the tall window, watching a single leaf trace a slow arc down the glass before catching at the bottom. it stayed there, still and weightless, like it hadn’t made the long fall at all.

“what if the pain outweighs the good?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

taeyeon didn’t respond right away. when she finally spoke, it was quiet, like she was offering something fragile.

“what if it doesn’t?”

the question lingered in the air between them, thin and delicate like a thread stretched just short of breaking. after a long moment, taeyeon leaned forward, her tone still soft but edged with something firmer.

“this girl you met. whether she truly is the girl from your dreams or not, maybe it’s time to confront what her presence brings up in you. maybe it’s not about proving anything. maybe it’s about facing the fear that has kept you running in circles.”

y/n didn’t speak. she stared down at her hands where they sat curled in her lap, her nails pressing small crescents into her skin.

“the grief you feel is valid,” taeyeon said. “but so is the joy. so is whatever connection has followed you across years and versions of yourself. maybe it’s love. maybe it’s something quieter. maybe it’s just the feeling of being seen. but if all you do is brace for the ending, you’ll miss everything in between. the mornings you wake up and forget the fear for a moment. the small ways she makes you laugh when you least expect it. the sound of your name in her mouth when she says it like she already knows you and is just waiting for you to know her back.”

y/n’s throat tightened. she blinked hard against the sting rising behind her eyes and clenched her hands a little tighter, like that alone could keep her grounded.

“start small,” taeyeon said. “don’t fall. don’t run. don’t promise anything to the stars. just… say hello.”

it sounded impossibly simple.

and impossibly hard.

__

y/n hadn’t expected to see her again. after the way she had dismissed her, voice sharp and cold, words chosen with the precision of someone who had spent years learning how to keep others out, she had thought that would be the end of it. clean. final. she had intended it that way. it was safer to draw the line before anything familiar could bloom into something harder to let go of.

but two days later, just after noon, the bell above the door gave its soft chime, and when y/n looked up, manon was standing there again.

outside, rain was falling in that quiet, steady way that softened the edges of everything. her curls were damp at the ends, looser from the moisture, and her jacket clung slightly to her arms, darkened with water. she looked hesitant, but not unsure. in her arms was a paper bag, folded carefully with a receipt tucked under the twine, pressed close to her chest like she needed both hands to hold whatever it was.

y/n’s heart tightened in her chest, an involuntary pull she hated herself for.

she didn’t speak. her fingers stayed frozen above the keyboard as she watched manon approach the counter, slow but steady. without a word, manon set the book between them, her fingers brushing once against the wood before she let go.

“i think this belongs back here,” she said.

there was no smile, no attempt to smooth things over. only the return of something that hadn’t been opened. the book’s spine was still unbroken. untouched. it wasn’t just a return. it was a question. maybe even a challenge. and y/n wasn’t sure yet if she was ready to answer.

y/n’s fingers hovered hesitantly over the register just as she reached for the book, then she froze. despite the weight of her worries, the relentless nightmares, and every shadow of doubt whispering what could go wrong, her mind kept returning to taeyeon’s words, steady and calm. after a moment that stretched quietly between them, she finally lifted her gaze and met the girls’ eyes. 

“hello,” y/n said softly.

the word was small. sincere. it tasted unfamiliar in her mouth. but she meant it. she didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or not that she took taeyeon’s advice so literally.

manon blinked like she hadn’t expected it. her expression cracked open, just slightly. not quite a smile, but something warmer. less guarded.

“hi,” she said. then, after a pause, “you remembered me.”

a silence passed, but it was lighter than before. manon’s hands stayed at her sides. she didn’t move to leave.

“can i ask your name now?” she tried again.

y/n hesitated. she thought of taeyeon. of choices. of pain. of joy. of letting herself be a little braver.

“y/n.”

manon said it back like she was trying it on her tongue for the first time. like she was memorizing it.

that was the beginning.

what followed after didn’t unravel in a neat, cinematic montage. but it came close. they started seeing each other in fragments. a shared coffee break on y/n’s lunch. manon dropping by just to “browse” but staying until close. conversations that began at the register and ended on the curb outside as the sky turned lavender.

they learned each other in quiet ways.

manon talked with her hands, her whole body involved when she was excited. she had a habit of singing along under her breath when music played over the bookstore speakers, sometimes even when she didn’t know the words.

y/n was quieter, but not closed. she listened with the kind of attention that made you feel like the only person in the room. she underlined books she read and sometimes shared passages out loud, voice barely above a whisper.

they traded stories. half-truths, memories, confessions. manon talked about her old apartment, her sister, the playlist she made for every mood. y/n talked about dreams, sometimes. the ones that lingered. the ones she couldn’t quite name yet. still, she never told manon about those ones. the ones that ended in death, in pain, and suffering. 

there were days they walked the long way through town, hands brushing but never quite holding. they shared desserts at cafés, drank tea on manon’s balcony under cheap string lights, and sat side by side without needing to fill the quiet.

and somewhere in the middle of all of that, y/n felt something dangerous creeping in. something gentle. something like hope.

a year passed. 

it started as nothing. a headache here. a little fatigue. manon brushed it off, the way anyone her age would. blamed it on late nights, caffeine, maybe stress. she was always in motion, always vibrating at a higher frequency than anyone else in the room. too many playlists to make, too many open tabs in her brain. so when the tiredness lingered, she didn’t say anything.

but y/n noticed.

she noticed when manon started showing up to the bookstore a little later each time. when she leaned heavier against the counter, smiled a little less brightly. when she stopped finishing her coffee, when she sat instead of danced.

the cough came next. dry, quiet at first. but persistent.

“allergies,” manon had said with a shrug, waving it off. “probably dust or whatever.”

y/n wanted to believe her. she tried. but the weight loss didn’t stop. manon’s skin dulled. her eyes dimmed. and there were days—quiet, terrifying days—when she seemed like she was just barely holding herself upright.

they weren’t dating. not exactly. not yet. but they shared pieces of each other now. manon lingered at the bookstore until close just to walk y/n to the bus. y/n had started bringing her herbal teas and cough drops, slipping them into her bag without comment. they exchanged playlists. secrets. names of books that made them cry.

so when y/n got a text saying can you come over? she didn’t ask why. she just went.

the apartment was dim. manon’s room smelled faintly of lavender and laundry detergent. she was sitting on the edge of her bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, phone face down beside her. she looked up when y/n entered, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

y/n sat beside her without touching her.

“what’s wrong?”

manon stared at the floor. swallowed.

“i went to get bloodwork done,” she said finally. “more tests. the clinic called today.”

y/n felt her stomach turn.

“they… it’s cancer.”

y/n didn’t move. couldn’t.

“lymphoma,” manon added, too calm. “they caught it early, they think. but it’s real. it’s happening.”

the air felt suddenly too thick to breathe.

“i don’t know how to do this,” manon said softly, voice cracking. “i just moved here. i was starting to feel like i was finding my footing. i met you. and now… now everything feels like it’s slipping.”

neither of them cried right away. it wasn’t that kind of moment. it was colder. quieter. like something ancient in the body remembering grief before it arrives.

and for y/n, it did arrive.

“say something.” manon practically begged, quiet. 

it bloomed in her chest like a warning. not again, it screamed. her blood went cold. this was why she hadn’t wanted to open herself. why she’d kept people at arms’ length for so long. because something always came to take them.

“i need to go,” y/n said, and the words tasted like rust.

she stood too quickly. the chair scraped against the wood, sharp and sudden, and manon flinched like it had cut through her. y/n didn’t look back. couldn’t. her legs moved on instinct, carrying her out of manon’s room, past the soft light of the kitchen, past the coat rack with manon’s jacket still hanging from it. the apartment felt too full, too quiet, too warm for what had just been said.

behind her, manon didn’t follow.

the hallway outside was dim. some overhead light flickered, buzzing faintly like it was shorting out. y/n didn’t stop walking until she was out of the building. she didn’t stop even then. just kept moving, down cracked sidewalks and across wet intersections, her chest burning. she didn’t know where she was going, only that she couldn’t stay.

not there. not near her.

her hands were shaking. she shoved them in her coat pockets. her throat ached from trying not to scream.

why now?

why did the universe keep handing her beauty just to rip it away?

manon had smiled like sunlight. she had filled y/n’s once empty days with noise and color and chaos. and now—now that brightness had an expiration date.

no, y/n thought. no no no no.

but her feet kept walking.

when she got home, she didn’t turn the lights on. she sat on the edge of her bed in the dark, still wearing her coat, arms wrapped tight around herself. she didn’t cry. not yet. something in her had already started to shut down. like a door closing. a lock turning. like a heart bracing for the next goodbye. she wanted so badly to reach for her phone, to google all the symptoms, treatments, life expectancy, anything. yet, she didn’t.

no amount of statistics were stronger than the gut wrenching pull in her chest that told her what she already knew.

this was it.

__

the room was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the radiator kicking on. taeyeon didn’t speak right away. she’d grown used to the way y/n sat when she didn’t know how to begin. hands clenched together, gaze locked on some faraway point on the carpet, like if she focused hard enough, she could will herself invisible.

“i assume you’re not here just to sit in silence,” taeyeon said eventually.

y/n didn’t look up. “she’s dying,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

taeyeon’s tone didn’t shift. no shock, no gasp, just a steady presence. “you mean manon?”

a nod.

“when did you find out?”

“three nights ago.”

“and what did you do?”

y/n blinked. “i left. she told me and i didn’t say anything. i just walked out.”

taeyeon let the admission hang in the air, like a confession cracked wide open. “why?”

y/n’s throat felt tight. she hated this part. the dissection. the honesty. “i was afraid. it was happening again. i felt it in my chest like deja vu. like loss was already blooming there. like something ancient.”

“so you ran before it could happen.”

“yes.” her voice cracked. “and now it’s already happened.”

taeyeon wrote something down, briefly. “tell me what ‘it’ is.”

“the goodbye. even if she doesn’t die for months or years. i’ve already lost her.”

taeyeon leaned back in her chair. “you’ve spent so long fearing the endings, you’ve convinced yourself they’re inevitable. but that’s not fate. that’s avoidance.”

“what if the ending is inevitable?” y/n asked, desperate now. “what if she’s supposed to die, and i’m supposed to watch it happen again? what if this is just another life i have to lose her in?”

“then what?” taeyeon asked. “you let her die alone?”

y/n looked up, stung.

“you believe in past lives. in soulmates. in stories repeating themselves,” taeyeon continued, gently now. “so tell me—if you really believe this was written, then who are you to think you can stop it by not showing up?”

“because it hurts less if i’m not there.”

“does it?” taeyeon asked. “because from where i’m sitting, it doesn’t look like it hurts any less. it just hurts differently.”

y/n swallowed, hard. “i don’t know what to do.”

“you don’t need to do anything heroic,” taeyeon said. “you just need to show up. she’s still here. she’s still alive. she still needs someone who doesn’t disappear when things get hard.”

silence stretched again, but this time it didn’t feel empty.

“so go to her,” taeyeon said. “not because you can fix her. not because you can save her. but because she’s someone you love. and that matters. it always has.”

y/n nodded, eyes burning. this time, she didn’t argue.

one moment y/n was leaving taeyeon’s office, the next she was sitting behind the counter at the bookstore. she’d closed early. her afternoon was spent between books and various medical webpages. and then, she was leaving. 

she had to make things right.

within ten minutes, y/n stood in the hallway outside manon’s apartment, heart pounding in a way that felt like it might tear her apart from the inside. the door cracked open a little, and sophia’s sharp eyes met hers immediately. no welcome in the gaze, just that familiar protective glare, the kind that said don’t mess this up or don’t come back at all. yet, without a word, sophia stepped aside and let y/n in.

the apartment smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale air, a quiet heaviness pressing down on everything. manon was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a threadbare blanket, her face pale but defiant. the kind of defiance that felt like it could crumble at any moment. her eyes, sharp and wet with hurt, locked onto y/n’s the second she stepped inside. there was so much pain in those eyes, the kind of pain y/n had never wanted to be the cause of again.

“you shouldn’t be here,” manon said, voice brittle but steady, like she was trying to protect herself before she even spoke.

y/n swallowed the lump in her throat, stepping closer, holding out a small box wrapped in soft paper. “i did research,” she said quietly, voice shaking just a little. “there are treatments, options i found. i know it’s not perfect. but i want to try. i want to be here for you.”

manon’s eyes flickered, a storm of emotions crashing behind them. anger, pain, desperation, and then something softer, almost like hope. it was fleeting, but it was there.

“you really think you can fix this?” manon whispered, but the edge had softened.

“maybe not fix,” y/n answered, kneeling down so she was at eye level. “but fight. with you. if you want.”

manon’s breath hitched, and then she nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. the weight between them shifted just a bit.

the months that followed unfolded in waves. sharp, brutal, unrelenting. they began with cautious hope, with treatment plans mapped out across sterile tables and doctors who spoke in a language y/n had to learn one desperate phrase at a time. words like metastasis and prognosis became part of her daily vocabulary. she kept a notebook with scribbled margins and highlighted passages, trying to make sense of the labyrinth they’d been thrown into.

chemotherapy came first. the poison meant to heal. manon took it like a warrior, but even warriors break. she tried to joke at first, brushing off the nausea, the sudden exhaustion that followed each round like a shadow. but the hair came out in clumps by week three, and the day she sat in the bathroom with y/n, silently handing over the scissors, something in the air cracked.

they cried together. not loudly, not dramatically—just quietly, as y/n guided the clippers over her scalp, kissing her bare shoulder every time manon’s breath hitched.

radiation followed, and with it came a different kind of hollowing. manon grew smaller. not just physically, though the weight dropped quickly, but in presence. her fire dimmed, her voice thinner. there were days she didn’t speak at all, days when she lay curled on the couch, trembling from pain, eyes unfocused, distant. but y/n never left. not once. she was there to hold the bucket when manon vomited until there was nothing left to give, there to rub lotion into paper-thin skin, to whisper comfort into the silence.

she learned the landscape of manon’s pain. the patterns in her breathing, the quiet signals of a day turned worse. she memorized med schedules, drove her to every appointment, and sat through every long hour in waiting rooms that smelled like antiseptic and fear.

and somewhere along the way, she grew closer to sophia and megan. what started as an uneasy truce slowly deepened into something like kinship. they saw her there, always there, even when manon lashed out in frustration, even when she was too tired to speak. they saw y/n carry her through the darkest nights without complaint. sophia started leaving coffee out in the mornings when y/n stayed over. megan offered to pick up groceries when she noticed y/n hadn’t eaten properly in days.

they became a unit. scarred, sleep-deprived, fiercely protective of the girl they all loved.

and manon… manon began to soften again. even in the midst of the storm, even as her body grew weaker, there were moments of clarity, of fierce affection. her hand would find y/n’s in the quiet, her thumb brushing over her knuckles. she would press a kiss to y/n’s temple on the rare nights when she had enough strength to pull her close. she stopped asking why are you still here? and started whispering thank you instead.

everything changed. everything hurt. but y/n stayed. through the sickness, the fragility, the fear, the slow unraveling of the woman she had loved in every life before this one.

because this was the promise she had made.

and she would keep it.

on the eve of another surgery—the riskiest yet—manon asked for a moment alone with y/n. the hospital room was dim, painted in the soft gold light of early evening, machines humming low around them like a lullaby with no melody. y/n sat beside her, heart heavy, hands trembling. manon reached out, her fingers lacing through y/n’s like they belonged there.

her touch was weaker now, but her eyes burned with the same fire y/n had always known. fierce. raw. unrelenting even in the face of fear.

“there’s something i need to tell you,” manon said, voice barely above a whisper. “i had this dream. or maybe it wasn’t a dream—it felt too real. like memories layered over each other. a montage of us. every lifetime. every version of us. and every time, i lost you first.”

y/n’s breath stilled in her chest.

“but this time,” manon continued, her grip tightening, “this time it’s me. and even though that breaks my heart, i’m still glad. because we met again. and that has to mean something. that has to count for more than just another ending.”

her eyes glistened, her voice catching. “at least one of our meetings has to end happy. and if it’s not this one, then maybe the next. or the one after that.”

she paused. then, quieter, almost pleading, “promise me you’ll find me again. no matter how long it takes.”

y/n blinked, tears spilling freely now. she brought manon’s hand to her lips, pressed a kiss against her knuckles like a vow.

“i promise,” she whispered, voice cracking around the words. “always.”

the surgery came too soon, a cruel thief dressed in white scrubs and quiet reassurances. things unraveled fast. complications, fevers, numbers dropping on machines that had once felt hopeful. no miracle came. no sudden turn. just the slow, irreversible fading of someone who had fought too hard for too long.

manon slipped away quietly. not in violence or chaos, but like a candle guttering out at the end of its wick. soft. final.

at the wake, y/n sat between sophia and megan, their hands linked in silent grief. the room was thick with sorrow, the kind that settled into bones and stayed there. photographs surrounded them, snapshots of a life that had been hard-won, deeply lived. none of it felt like enough.

y/n felt hollow. like the best parts of her had been buried, too. and yet… something still burned inside her. not anger. not hope. something older. fiercer.

a promise.

no sickness, no death, no cruel twist of fate could sever what they were. what they had always been.

she would find manon again. in another time, another skin, another life. maybe it would take years. centuries. maybe it already had. but she would keep looking.

because this was just one version of their story.

and one day—whether next time or the one after that—they would get it right. they would find their forever.

and y/n would keep her promise.

__

and she did.

in the next life, perhaps the best one they got, y/n found her again.

there was no certainty, no divine answer to whether this life would be the last of them, the one that finally broke the loop or merely paused it. but maybe it didn’t matter anymore. maybe it was enough that they’d had this—this quiet, sun-drenched life carved out of stubborn hope and years that had taught them how to hold on.

they were older now. softer in the way people get when they’ve fought too long and finally let themselves rest. manon’s hair had gone silver at the temples. y/n still kissed the corners of her eyes every morning, where time had left its delicate marks.

outside, the countryside stretched in golden stillness, summer wind weaving through the tall grass. the old dog dozed nearby, belly rising and falling in slow, steady rhythm. the porch creaked beneath y/n’s weight as she sat beside manon, her arm tucked gently around her wife’s frail shoulders. their children were inside, making tea, trying not to cry too loud.

manon’s breathing was thin now. shallow, labored. she’d chosen this. chosen to leave the hospital behind, chosen to be surrounded by the life they’d built together. the one they’d clawed out of fate’s grip with both hands.

y/n held her hand, memorizing the shape of it all over again. she didn’t need to speak. manon’s eyes met hers, and in them, there was peace. not because death didn’t hurt. not because it didn’t still feel unfair. but because they had found each other. again.

and this time, they’d been allowed to stay.

manon’s last breath slipped out like a sigh, the softest goodbye. the breeze carried it, warm and gentle.

y/n didn’t cry right away. she just leaned her head against manon’s and whispered something only the wind would hear.

because she knew.

in any timeline, in any world, in every version of forever— she would find her.

always.

[msfantasy-comics]

The Pre-Teen Three’s First Mission

Platonic!Damian Wayne x WonderGirl!Reader x Platonic!Jon Kent

Summary: Your first mission together ends horribly.

Warning: Descriptions of death

Part III

“Turn around Robin!” Batman growls authoritatively over the radio.

The commands alone shoots fear down your spine. The unspoken threat forcing every cell in your body to comply. Yet despite what you want, you stare at Robins solid back, still running ahead of you without so much as a wavering hint of submission.

“Trust me Batman- I can do it! I grew up here! I know what I’m doing.” Robin reassures.

“It’s not about trust Robin- abort the mission now!”The radio runs silent. Robins reassurance falling on deaf ears.

Feeling torn between supporting your leader, your best friend, something in your gut was telling you to turn around and high tail it out. “Stop Robin, we should abort the mission.”

“No I can do it.” He waived you off without a second to spare. Suddenly, his sense of self-assurance has you doubting your reluctance.

Jon frowns, also torn between obeying his father and being a trusting team member. “We know you can do it Robin, but we shouldn’t. Let’s just go and reassess later.” Jon coax’s unsuccessfully.

“There’s no time, I can do it.” Robin voice cracks down on both of you like a whip. His tone commanding you both to shut up and put your trust in him.

“WonderGirl, return to base now!” Wonder Woman commands, the angry voice of a mother talking to a defiant child.

“I’m sorry- I can’t just abandon him.” You say, reaching for your communications. tearing the ear piece from its place.

“Yes you can sweetie- listen to M-“ You hear the end of your mother’s pleading, less like a super hero and more like a desperate mother trying to reach her daughter.

“Superboy come back to base now!” Superman yells uncharacteristically, you expect Jon to be quaking in his boots, but Jon continues to stare forward, certainty and trust in Damian, clouding his better judgement.

“I can’t just leave them.” He says, also reaching for his comms and turning it off.

“Son-“

You three reach the end of the hall. Throwing open the doors an ultrasonic sound reverberates, a green sparking flash, bangs, instantly killing all vision.

Two hands slap against Damnians back with a brutal shove, Robin, smacks hard into the floor, the speed knocking the speed knocking the wind out of him.

One moment the world was black. The next he was crawling to Jon’s side, who continuously groans in pain. Unable to fathom the onslaught of questions falling from Damian’s mouth.

Jon continues to groan as he shakily lifts a crocked finger to point at your body laying unnaturally limp on the floor.

Your hair sprayed in strands.

One eye sealed shut whilst the other eye is left open, pupil remaining unchanging to the shifting lights. Your arm sits twisted behind your back as your unrising chest seems to release a loud sigh before you remain unmoving.

“No!” Robin screams scrambling to your devastating state. He reaches to pull you in his arms, to safety. But the mangled state of your appearance makes his arms wrench away. Terrified that the slightest movement could kill you.

‘Analysing…’ the AI voice says ‘WonderGirl: ECG is 0. SP0C is 78% and rapidly declining. Pulse is undetected. Temperature is 34 degrees Celsius and declining. Injuries sustained are significant.’

The blood rushes to Damian’s head. The roars of rushing blood drowns out any and all sound.

‘Analysis complete. Sending a black alert to headquarters. WonderGirl is deceased.’

Without uttering another word, Damian picks up your body and pulls Jon at his tattered sleeve as he sobs. “Come Superboy, we’re going to the Lazarus Pit.”

Damian stands in the Lazarus Pit, cradling you with sincere regret. Your sorry state burning permanently into his broken mind.

“Why isn’t she coming back?! She should be back right now right?” Jon says, flailing in panic behind Damian.

“Calm down Jon- sometimes it takes time.” He reassures, but Damian’s shaky hands breaks the facade of his confidence.

“Calm down?! She’s dead! You-“

“Knew you would save me Short Stuff.” You mutter weakly. Cutting Jon off from uttering any words of regret he’ll be unable to take back.

Damian pulls you into a crushing hug. Needing to feel your liveliness himself. Jon leaps into the pit, throwing his arms around you both. His teary face pressing into you.

“Jeez, if I knew I would get this kind of treatment, I should’ve kicked the bucket earlier.” You chuckle, weakly returning the hug to these two lugs.

“Yeah well don’t get use to it freak.” He whispers with a wobbly lip. “… don’t ever do that again.” He says, pulling you even closer than before.

“Idiot,” You wheeze, slight pain shooting up your spine at how tight Damian was holding you. “you would’ve been obliterated on the walls. I have no regrets and I’ll do it again if I have too.” You reassure which only makes Damian pull away with a crooked brow.

“Moron! No you won’t.” He reprimands. Making you gasp.

“You absolute brat! Don’t tell me what to do!” You lecture back, shoving a pointed finger into Damian’s chest.

“Stop trying to sacrifice yourself you masocist.” He yells back, throwing you onto the floor with a loud thud.

Still weak from revival, you remain limp on the floor. “You ungrateful brat! I died for you-“

“Oh great, how long are you going to hold this over me.” He cuts you off, turning his back once again and walking off.

Jon sighs in resignation, scooping up your weak form and carrying you right out with him. “A lifetime.”

“A lifetime? You-“ Damian’s sentence cut-off by Jon as he rips him into a group hug again, a large smile plastered across his face.

[just-zy]

She who fell in silence (l)

pairing: Wednesday Addams x FemReader!

summary: After the bitter loss for Crackstone and ultimate triumph for Nevermore. Wednesday felt so out of place, and she failed to recognize the reasoning behind it—but in the end, she awakened to reasons to stay.

A/N: been a while.. change of aesthetic?? y'all likeyy?? ooc wednesday, (weds pov, buttt the half bit's on thirdpov, js a little mix if y'all don't mind).

Warnings!: literally nothing other than my writing, per usual, again ooc wednesday.. (y'all can tell me if there are warnings I should put up!) inaccurate versions of fallen angels, keep in mind that idk what the heck im doing, js use ur imaginations its fine!

wc: 2.6k

part 2 || Masterlist

Ever since Nevermore, ever since I've been held captive here it's all been nothing but a nuisance.

My cello wasn't helping me relieve tension as much as it did then, Thing and Enid were becoming unbearable with every passing second, I had no objection since, but change is inevitable.

I heavily sighed as I combed my bangs with my fingers, inhaling deeply as I felt my fingers soak in sweat, but the wind was further from being warm enough for me to be drenching so much.

Decompressing was all I've done this weekend, and it wasn't working, not a shred was. A trip to Jericho didn't suffice, nor did aiding Eugene with his bees, even with Enid's banters—it all ended with a bittersweet taste on the tip of my tongue.

These things didn't always feel so critical to me, not after defeating Crackstone. This extends beyond that, that I required a departure, for no more than a single night. It was all too ineffable, too complex.

I took ahold of my sweater, not sparing any glances on the confused looks thrown at me. All sensations merged into a formless mist, I didn't care what they'd told me before I had closed the door, about my safety, was it?

Death trembles in my presence.

Somehow, a part of me was torn away from me the night I defeated Crackstone. And it eludes my grasp that missing piece that's slowly killing me.

It unsettled me profoundly, vague and smudged, uncertain, like an aspect of my being was divided—slowly succumbing to the depths of hell.

I wasn't aware of my surroundings as I should've been, which resulted in me being in this peculiar encounter.

"What's a girl like you doing here, out in the cold?"

What seemed to be a girl my age—too nosy for her own good, stood tall and mighty by the tree's branch, clothing all in pitch black. It peaked my interest on how out of the ordinary this interaction is. It's uncanny, as though this experience echoes a distant reverie. But, that interest didn't linger much further, the girl looked harmless after all. I scoffed and turned to leave to take another route away from this girl, not one bit was I threatened nor invested by some lunatic perched atop a tree's log.

"Hey, I asked you a question."

"My presence here is entirely unrelated to you." Letting out an annoyed huff, I exhaled sharply in irritation. "At least share your name with me?" I don't need to double-take, her voice was devoid of warmth, at that I almost pitied her.

Almost.

So much for a night stroll.

_

"Wednesday, where have you been?! We were worried sick!"

I hum, not daring to spare them even just an ounce of an empathetic glance. "You could've been really hurt back there." Enid presses while trying to make eye contact with me, failing miserably. "I don't need you mothering me, Sinclair. I possess the ability to manage independently."

I huffed in annoyance, how come I've defeated Crackstone and still have worried remarks thrown my way? I am an Addams.

"We're just looking out for you. You haven't been yourself lately, you've been brooding and grumpy at everything, every time! And that's a bad thing, for me and Thing, at least.. As your roomie slash bestie, I'll be on edge. Let me care for you, Wednesday."

Exhausting, each day mirrored the one before, an endless repetition. I thrived for the thrill of mystery and gore, now I rot in my room thinking I could solve everything all in one night, it's so blood curling as I appear unable to make any meaningful advancements.

Now all I want to do is leave this wretched town and never come back, ever again.

"If you'd thought of caring for me for a minute, I would prefer if you stopped reiterating the same concerns, it's infuriating me." Stepping away from Enid, I took off my sweater and placed it somewhere on my bed that I didn't care enough to look, then groggily made my way to my desk.

"Wed—!"

"It's my writing time, silence would much be preferred at the moment." I still devoted myself into my writing time, even when I've had my time today, I still had this itch to write more, to express everything all over again.

I heard Enid huff and puff while fixing herself to her bed, I quietly sighed as I began typing away from the essence of existence, onto the vision I've created.

_

Time seemed to be keen on agitating me every passing second, it was like watching paint dry and my patience were gnawing thin.

I wasn't always favourable of learning something in class that I already knew the answers to, what I needed was to explore myself more, every inch and ounce of emotion radiating off of me was becoming unbearable.

Whilst the forest became some place I tend to visit often, I can't help but feel a sense that I was being watched every time I step foot in that godforsaken woodland. I was too guarded not to notice, but why was it that I felt wary when in results I'd see nothing out of the ordinary.

Each night afforded me the opportunity for reflection, it was all in the grasp of my hands, however tonight, I was unable to fully analyse my thoughts, something was pulling me back. Perhaps it was the lack of emotion on putting up with the people that shows that they care about me. That somehow, they hoped in someway, I changed.

Tonight, is different. The moon's gleaming light, the wind's embrace, all seen and felt in one night. While the wolves howled and growled, with the owls coos and the leaves' soft rustling.

I felt indifferent, but that didn't last, an unsettling emotion inside of me growing at a pace I can't keep up with.

Werewolves.

Unfortunately, I failed to register it sooner. Tonight's full moon.

However, before I could turn and break into a sprint, a werewolf twice my size gallops right in front of me, its razor-sharp teeth glossing, waiting to gnaw at something.

Not a minute to waste, the howler lunged itself towards me, but before it could've marked it's territory with mauling me to death, a figure appeared right at the last second, then I felt myself being lifted up from the scene unfolding.

The scent of my saviour, the caress of their hair down to my neck. My eyes sealed shut as I felt a soft impact with the ground, which, not at all felt like the ground.

"You can open your eyes now." Their voice sounds... familiar?

I made a sharp sudden glance, tilting my head lightly, it was that girl. And, against all odds, we were lodged high in the branches of a tree. I stepped to the side and held on the tree with my right hand for support.

She lets go of me and cheekily smiles at me, she was taller than I anticipated. "You're welcome."

"I had no intention of inquiring about your rescue." I say with a huff. And suddenly, the realization finally struck. "You. You've been the one stalking me like some madman, weren't you?"

She hummed with amusement and enthusiasm, "Mhm! And I'm glad I did, you should be glad too—"

"Get me down. Now." Initially, I would've been curious to how we got into such a position, but it died down quickly realising how childish this psycho actually is.

She took ahold of both my wrist and led them to grab onto her shoulders, her hands finding it's way onto my hips, but before I could protest, I felt a gush of wind suddenly making me hold onto her tighter.

Perhaps it was the dark that really blinded me to who or what was in front of me.

She looked...

"You're surprisingly weightless.. You.. can let go now."

I cleared my throat and jolted away from the feathered girl, she had gloves on—almost seemed as if she didn't plan on having much contact with anybody.

She looked rather divine under the moon's gaze if you'd really give the time to view such-

"Do you, uhm... want me to accompany you back?"

I lightly huffed, seeing how nervous she seemed, says so much.

How coy, with what seemed like a winged beast however, only merely a voice soft as a whisper, like a shadow that invites the chase.

But I showed no interest, I spun my heel, quietly but quickly making my way back in the school grounds.

I hear soft crunches of leaves trailing behind me. "You know, it's impolite to have a girl ask questions and not be answered a second time."

"I've been made aware." I shiver from the cold breeze, gritting my teeth as I shove my hands into my hoodie's pockets. I feel a presence, or rather a wing luming over me. I furrowed my brows as I turned my head towards the girl.

"You're cold, are you not? The heat of my wings can help you." She lightly says, with her hands tucked away from behind her.

"I'm Y/N by the way."

I wanted to be cautious and guarded, I did. But, maybe this was something, for a moment that could help me feel at ease, that didn't immediately send me spiraling.

I felt my lips, faintly upturn. And this time, I didn't try to stop it.

. . .

Much to my demise, I find myself intrigued and rather impatient. That I had the need to get into that woodland again. To see that dreadwing.

But to my dismay, I didn't feel any eyes luming over me. A possibility, she may have finally found the forest depressing and uninteresting.

I decided to walk around the woods, to seek out answers and to loosen up. Yet, in the past hour, I have been reduced to nothing but unease and clammy hands.

Whatever parasite that's crawling in my skin right now is, I'm finding it unpleasant. I express this with the utmost conviction.

The walk back to the school grounds felt heavy, and wet, considering the weather wasn't too favourable of me tonight. I huffed as I felt my soggy socks up to my core, to my teeth.

I feel agitated, about everything. And my clothes sticking too much into me isn't helping.

It only took a mere sharp turn for me to start erupting, an obnoxious outcast is in my way.

I let out a grunt, as I was taken aback.

"I urge you to move, you imbecile." I grumbled out and heaved while I shut my eyes, I couldn't grasp what was tormenting me. It's too cold out, thus I couldn't think with precision. I scoffed, ready to snark out petty remarks, but..

There Y/N was, in a black and white nevermore uniform much like mine with her black silked gloves on, her brows furrowed, her black flowy wings twitching subtly, as if dumbfounded she'd met me this way.

Why is she in a nevermore uniform?

"You attend Nevermore?"

I stood, stunned. Mistakenly asking without the intention of actually knowing if she does or not.

Like a child who just got offered candy, her eyes lit up, seemingly excited somebody's finally asked her.

She hummed and nodded in agreement. "I just enrolled, someone showed me around, and! while I wore my uniform! looks good doesn't it?"

"Morbid."

"You say that like we aren't wearing the same ones."

Rolling my eyes, I sighed and continued my walk to my dormitory, leaving the dumbfounded girl alone, while my chest caved in as my heart wrenched itself free.

I am experiencing heightened emotions, perhaps it was the weather with its frivolity, and these obnoxious clothes embedding itself on me.

_

The next day didn't guarantee that undying pleased emotion that bugged me the moment my eyes opened. If anything, it's intolerably provoking.

There that walking bird was, walting through the door whilst the class was just about to start, the way these misfits didn't dare miss a second to gawk. As if, profane and profuse envy.

Perhaps resentment, with the way her wings perfectly harmonise every aspect of her being, who wouldn't envy such wings? Desires dressed in bitterness.

"Is this seat taken?"

I lightly tilted my head towards her, a piercing look staring right at her. But, she didn't seem fazed, I scoffed and turned my attention back to my textbook, hearing the girl softly titter, and the chair beside me scraping.

Throughout the lesson, I couldn't help but inspect her further from my visual periphery, with the sound of her feathers lightly ruffling, how her finger taps impatiently on the desk, how her eyes roam through every bit and particle in the room, how her skin looked so fascinatingly soft and smooth-

"Hey, can you teach me more about botany after class ends?"

I subtly shook my head, my wandering mind leaving a shiver to my nape.

I readjust on my seat, while I feel eyes lingering on me.

"No."

My brows twitched in amusement, and my lips itching to let out a sigh. On my peripheral vision, she wore the expression of a puppy caught mid-mischief, scolded but still stubborn.

Class ended, but this bird didn't seem to take the hint.

"Come on, please? You're the only person I know here! And I-"

"Would you just still your tongue." I grumbled out such displeasure. I always take into account of the times I've been in a moment of dissatisfaction, but this was breaking my sanity, too much.

_

Things were a little under the weather for Wednesday, it had been a week since you had asked her for botany notes and such.

After you asked, you didn't bother asking again, instead, you began asking Bianca Barclay herself, asked if she had extra time for tutoring you. And that's what set Wednesday ablaze.

She disliked every passing second she'd seen you with Bianca, laughing and giggling, walking to class together. She didn't understand how one mere tutor could lead to that. She loathed it.

"Howdy Roomie!" Enid skips and squeaks while calling out for Wednesday, the raven haired girl only letting out a grumble.

"Well someone here woke up on the wrong side of the bed, what's got your mind tied up in a knot?" She snickers while already knowing the answer. "Hmm, maybe a certain black winged beaut can help you out?—"

"You clearly don't know what you're saying. I'm fine, and I don't need anybody's help."

No. She didn't take a tolerable liking towards you, not ever.

"Fine, just don't say I didn't tell you so!"

Before Wednesday quipped a remark, Enid's already strutted herself away from her. She scoffed and began turning to leave, but abruptly halts when she hears you laughing just inches away from her, she glances up and sees you with that loathsome siren. Again.

The ache in her heart couldn't find the reason why. Why every time you pass by her with your welcoming grin would send her knees to buckle, why each time you tear your lingering gaze away from her and towards that siren, the smug look she receives from Barclay without fail, makes her blood curl. The way Bianca swiftly hooks her hand to your forearm, taunting her, ridiculously excruciating—due to the fact that you didn't give enough effort to push her away.

Well that was what Wednesday felt, yet she didn't dare speak a word.

Yet, your concerned gaze goes unnoticed by the Addams. Too busy understanding something much more complex, some thing she wants to annihilate to bits.

______+______

A/N: not proofread idk im too lazy and its too long, deleting ts if i can't get a second or even a third part out LMAOO ts hs been in my drafts for MONTHS.

[jamesdeanbby]

Omgg can we get more of Cade!reader if you're not busy?? xx

────۶ৎ "that's my sister!"

Johnny is not thrilled that his best mate is trying to get in his sister's pants..

warnings : dallas being a feral flirt.

ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: AHHH I LOVE THIS TROPEE

The screen door creaks open like it’s mourning, and then bang—there’s a body slumped in the frame. Leather jacket torn. Jeans streaked with blood. Dally Winston, all swagger and smoke and sporting a busted lip, staggers in like the devil got kicked outta Hell and landed on your porch.

Johnny’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, flipping through some battered comic, and he jumps to his feet the second he sees that familiar silhouette. “Dal?!”

But Dally just groans, dragging himself into the hallway. “Hey, Johnnycake...”

Then he sees you.

Your hair’s tied up, loose strands falling into your face. You’re barefoot in soft shorts and an old t-shirt that says “cowgirl” in cracked red letters across the chest. You pause, wide-eyed in the kitchen doorway.

“Jesus,” you mutter, rushing to him. “What the hell happened to you?”

Dallas leans on the wall, smirking despite the split in his lip. “Nothin’ a kiss from you wouldn’t fix, sweetheart.”

Johnny groans behind you. “Oh my god.”

You ignore them both and help Dally onto the couch, careful not to jostle the shoulder that’s turning blue. He lets you touch him without flinching, watching you with those stormy eyes like he’s trying to burn you into his memory.

You go to get the first-aid kit, and when you come back, he’s slouched with his legs spread wide, arms thrown along the couch back, watching you like you’re his favorite sin.

“Take your shirt off,” you say simply, setting down gauze and alcohol.

Dallas whistles low. “If I had a nickel every time a pretty girl said that…”

You slap the alcohol bottle against his knee, hard enough to make him flinch. “Shirt. Off.”

He grins like it’s Christmas and peels off the bloodied leather, then his t-shirt, revealing bruises and gashes all over his chest. Johnny folds his arms and leans against the wall, trying not to gag from the pure horn-dog energy radiating off his best friend.

You start dabbing at the wounds, focused and gentle.

Dally hisses. “Mmm—thought you’d be rougher with me, sweetheart.”

“She’s patching you up, not seducing you, jackass,” Johnny mutters, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, I dunno,” Dallas purrs, eyes on your lips as you bite them in concentration. “Feels real intimate.”

You glance at Johnny over your shoulder. “You want me to kick him out?”

Johnny shrugs. “Nah, let him bleed out.”

Dally grins, teeth all stained red, and grabs your wrist as you wipe his collarbone.

His voice drops, almost quiet. “You always this good with your hands, babe?”

You freeze for a second, your cheeks heating, and Johnny groans audibly. “DAL. That’s my SISTER.”

“So?” Dally smirks. “She ain’t complainin’.”

You rip your wrist out of his grip with a glare. “Try that again, and I’ll pour the alcohol in your mouth instead.”

“Ooh, kinky,” he says with a wink.

Johnny throws a pillow at his head. “Get OUT, man. Go die in the alley or somethin’.”

But Dally won’t leave. He watches you work like he’s found religion. You wrap his ribs, tape his shoulder, wipe the blood from under his nose. Every now and then, he shifts closer than necessary: his knee bumps yours, his fingers graze your thigh, his eyes never leave your face.

“You're a real angel, y’know that?” he murmurs, low and hoarse.

You sigh. “You're not even bleeding that bad. Just drunk and full of yourself.”

He smiles, slow and sleepy. “Still thinkin’ about that kiss, doll.”

Johnny lets out a noise like a dying animal. “DAL!”

Dallas laughs, tossing his head back against the couch, and smirks at Johnny from under half-lidded eyes. “What? She’s legal.”

You slap a bandage across his chest extra hard.

He hisses—then moans. “God, I love her.”

Johnny looks to the ceiling. “I swear to god, I'm gonna drown you in peroxide.”

You finish bandaging him, shaking your head with a half-laugh, half-sigh. “You’re impossible.”

Dally tilts his head, voice low and dirty: “Baby, you have no idea.”

And Johnny, poor Johnny, just grabs a soda from the fridge and mutters, “I hate my life.”

[voxmilia]

Thinking about mash au Grazi, barely in her 20s, unofficial guardian of her three younger siblings, adamantly anti war. But then her best friend and her twin brother are drafted and she has to follow them, she has to.

Only the boys are sent to the front lines as soldiers and Grazi enlists as a nurse and they're sent to three different units, nowhere near each other. So she spends half her time sewing up patients and worried her boys are being sewed up just like this at some aid station that she wont know about for weeks until they can send a letter her way.

[arolesbianism]

I Really need to properly draw Christopher at some point but everytime I want to I just look at her in game sprite and weep for her truest form has already been achieved. What's even the point. This is her in the flesh.

[kitteninabunker]

dork!reader fucking the entire football team in the locker room after they win their big game!

"can you take dick, pretty girl?" quarterback!gojo asked as his thumb traced the curve of your bottom lip. you looked up at all 5 of them—gojo, toji, sukuna, choso, geto—standing above you in their tall, towering frames over your smaller body which made your cunt clench pathetically around nothing. you still wore glasses with lenses that made your actual eyes twice as big, your teeth are covered in oversized braces which earned you the nickname "metal mouth" throughout the school, you still haven't gotten that acne under control from your earlier years, so what exactly made you special enough to get split open by the hottest guys in school?

their popular cheerleader girlfriends would totally want you dead for this, but you can't think about that once your bra is torn off of you, your skirt hiked up and your panties pushed to the side, and each of your holes are being filled with a throbbing cock. being athletes, they had an insane stamina that your school-lunch-fueled body couldn't keep up with, the locker room filled with the sound of gojo's hip snapping roughly against your plush ass as his cock fills your asshole, sukuna suckling your boob as you lay on top of him so he can fuck that wet little cunt, and the icky choking noises spilling from your throat as choso shoves his entire cock into your tight mouth. you can feel both of their dicks rubbing against each other as they fucked you violently—your perineum is only so thick :(

you can feel tears burning in your eyes as you struggle to fit choso’s dick into your mouth as your nose is buried into his thick patch of pubic hair, your cheek bulges out in a cock shape as his fat, leaking tip hits the back of your throat. "mmmph!" you yelp around choso's pulsing shaft, feeling the burn in your skin from gojo curling his fingernails into the flesh of your ass, sukuna's tip kissing your cervix with each upward thrust. the others beat their dicks as they stand around you, leaking precum into your hair and onto your bare skin. sukuna's large, tattooed arms hug your lower back as he presses you down against him, making you feel so stuffed with his twitching cock, threatening to spill an entire load of his cum inside of you.

choso pulls out of your mouth with a wet pop, his stiff cock flinging up and slapping his abdomen as a line of spit connects your plump lips to his swollen tip. you cough, barely having time to catch your breath before toji's rough hand grips your face and forces it still so he can shove his own dick between your parted lips. you feel gojo pulling out as your tightest hole contracts, leaving sukuna's greedy dick all alone inside of you before geto takes his place, pressing the fat head of his cock into your abused anus before sinking in with a low groan—using gojo's precum to slip inside of you easier. he sinks his cock deep into your ass, his groan vibrating against your sweat-slick skin as he stretches you open even further.

sukuna, still buried inside of your slit, clicks his tongue as he feels your cunt fluttering around him. "tch. greedy little thing." he sneers, his fingers digging bruises into your cheeks as he slams harder up into you, forcing you to take him even deeper. choso watches, pumping his cock in slow, lazy strokes, your spit glistening along his length as his dark eyes drink in the depravity before him. "fuck, she looks good like this," he murmurs, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. "completely fucking used."

your body tightens at his words, pleasure sparking deep in your core as you feel sukuna's pace grow erratic. he's close, you can feel it in the way his thrusts lose rhythm, his cock throbbing inside your soaked cunt. "aaah, fuck." sukuna groans, moving one arm to press your head into the curve of his neck and shoulder. your body is a wreck, throat raw, holes stretched, your clit throbbing violently and neglected. toji keeps fucking your mouth without mercy, his thick cock bullying past the tight clutch of your throat, groaning as your gagging only makes him harder. tears spill down your cheeks, mixing with the spit dribbling down your chin—but he doesn't care, none of them do.

toji grips your hair, forcing you down until your nose is pressed against his pelvis, and with a deep, guttural groan, he cums. thick, hot spurts shoot down your throat, and you swallow instinctively, choking around his length as he holds you there, making sure you take every drop. sukuna isn't far behind. his grip on your hips tightens, a sharp growl escaping his lips as he buries himself to the hilt, filling you with his release. you shudder, walls fluttering around him, and that's all it takes for geto to snap-his hands grip your ass, slamming in deep before spilling his own load inside your tightest hole, groaning as he feels your body milk him dry.

choso strokes himself faster, watching your fucked-out body trembling, and with a deep grunt, he lets go-ropes of cum splattering across your face, dripping down your cheeks, your lips, your chin. you barely have time to breathe before sukuna pulls out, watching the way his cum leaks from your swollen pussy. "messy little slut," he hums, smirking as he drags two fingers through the sticky mix, pushing it back inside you just to watch you squirm. toji chuckles, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "think she can go again?"

gojo's still catching his breath as he grins lazily. "oh, she will."

[moonstruckme]

hi!! can u write a fic with poly maurauders x shy reader where she looses like her comfort stuffed animal and freaks out? thanks!

Thanks for requesting @whotfisgiana <3

poly!marauders x shy!reader ♡ 1.4k words

You don’t think your bedroom has ever been so messy. Pillows on the floor, sheets and comforter all askew, most everything you own moved this way or that so you could see around or behind or underneath it. You’re halfway to a panic when a knock sounds on your door. 

You ignore it. It’s likely a postman leaving a package or someone who will leave a flyer taped to the door, and you have more pressing concerns to deal with. But the knock comes again, louder this time. 

You push out a sigh as you stand from where you’d been peering under your bed, trying to shake some of your unease out of your fingertips as you go to answer it. On the other side you find your roguishly handsome boyfriend, looking expectant. 

“Hey, beautiful,” says Sirius, grinning as he leans in. He takes your waist in hand, and you kiss him back somewhat slowly, caught offguard by his easy affection at the best of times but even more so when you weren’t anticipating it. 

“Hey,” you echo as he pulls back. 

“You look surprised to see me,” he observes. “Did you not remember our date?” 

You blink. Oh. Oh. God, you’re the worst. You’re supposed to be going to see a film with your boyfriends at noon—but in your frenzy, you’d completely forgotten. Is it really that late already?

“It’s alright.” Sirius seems to sense your nerves, giving you a kind squeeze. “We’ve got time, lovely, James is picking up Remus from across town and I told them we’d take the bus, is that alright? Do you need to do anything before we go?” 

Your first thought is that you can’t go—but that’s not very fair, is it? You had plans, you can’t just abandon your boyfriends because something else has come up. Something completely non-urgent, too. It will still be just as lost whether you’re at the cinema or not. You can keep looking when you get home. 

“Yeah,” you say, stepping back from the door. Sirius comes in, and you shut it behind him. “Sorry, I’m still in my pajamas. I can change fast.” 

“Don’t hurry,” he says easily. “You know how James drives. We’ll beat them there no matter what.” 

“Thanks.” You hurry into your room, Sirius trailing casually behind. “Sorry, just a second.” 

He tsks, teasing. “Stop that.” 

“Sorry,” you say instinctively, then feel your face heat when he shoots you a mock stern look. You grab some clothes and go into your bathroom, shutting the door to change. 

“Whoa,” says Sirius as he enters your room. “What happened in here?” 

You forcibly stifle another apology, laughing at yourself. “I know, it’s so bad.”

“Are you redecorating or something?” 

“No, just looking for something.” 

You step out of the bathroom in jeans and a jumper, and Sirius grins at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. You’re ready for him this time. When he steps forward, you let him put his hands on your face and kiss him back sweetly. 

“What’s the matter?” he asks. 

“Hm?” 

“You seem upset. What is it?” 

“I’m not upset.” You want for it to be true. You wish this wasn’t something that rattled you so badly. 

“Liar.” Sirius says it in the same way he calls James pest, with a fond bent to his voice. He puts a couple of inches between you, keeping your face in his hands as he traps you beneath his stare. “What is it?” 

Your shoulders climb up towards your ears. “I’m okay,” you say meekly. Sirius only looks at you, as if to say go on. “I just can’t find my rabbit.” 

His brow furrows. “Your rabbit.” 

“My stuffed rabbit,” you clarify.

“Oh.” Sirius glances to your bed, the covers half torn off from where you’ve disheveled them in your search and now trailing onto the floor. He lets his grip slip down your arms. “How did I not know about this? Seems rather important to you.” 

“I don’t need to sleep with him every night or anything,” you say, embarrassed. “I’ve just always had him, so he’s sort of…sentimental. Anyway, it’s fine. I’ll find it later.” 

“I’m not going to drag you to the cinema when you’re upset about your rabbit,” Sirius says, like the mere idea is offensive. 

“You’re not dragging me,” you argue feebly, “and I’m not upset.” 

“I’m not escorting you while you’re worried, then.” He rolls his eyes, taking out his phone. 

“Sirius,” you plead, but he only shushes you. 

“Hi,” he says a moment later. “Hey, has James gotten to you yet?” 

Remus’ voice, too quiet to make out, crackles through the line. 

Sirius hums. “Well, I’m impressed by him. Actually, though, we may have a change of plans.” 

You cover your face with your hands, mortified. Sirius puts an arm around you, rubbing your shoulder like there, there. 

“It seems our girl has misplaced her stuffed rabbit.” 

You’re close enough now to hear James say, genuine alarm in his tone, “Moo Moo?” 

There’s a pause, and you peek through your fingers to find Sirius looking at you. You nod in confirmation. 

“It’s called Moo Moo?” he asks. 

You hum quietly. 

“Why would you name your rabbit after a sound a cow makes?” 

“I don’t know,” you say sheepishly. “I was a baby.” 

Sirius rolls his eyes, kissing you on your head. “You’re fucking precious, do you know that?” 

It’s decided quickly after that. James and Remus change course, heading for your apartment while you and Sirius recommence the search. None of them will hear your protests, least of all Sirius, who threatens to decommission you from the rescue party if you continue to spend your energy arguing rather than looking. 

With two of you, you clear the bedroom quickly, moving into the formerly unconsidered parts of your home. Sirius asks you questions like a police interrogator: Where did you last see him? How big is he? How many nights has it been since you’re sure you slept with him? Did he go on holiday with you last weekend?

Your laundry bin is upturned, couch cushions removed, mementos you’ve not seen for years discovered and then quickly lost again in the rubble. 

When your boyfriends arrive, Remus takes one look at you and shepherds you away while James joins the search. He makes you tea and gives you enough of his soft, compassionate looks to melt you down to the bone. 

“I didn’t mean to make us all miss the film,” you tell him, steam warming your chin as you sit on the kitchen counter. “I was going to go, but Sirius…” 

You realize you sound like you’re tattling and stop. Remus only smiles at you indulgently, his brown eyes flickering with humor. 

“We didn’t think it was you who made that call,” he says. “But, sweetheart, no one is upset that we’re here. We wouldn’t want you to have to sit through a film while you’re upset.” 

“I’m not upset.” Your voice has the quiet weariness of a broken record. 

Remus studies you. You sip your tea to avoid it, trying not to squirm under his gaze. “You seem like you might be upset,” he says, an almost missable hint of teasing in his tone. 

“It’s stupid,” you admit. “I know he has to be here somewhere, there’s no point in worrying.” 

“I’m sure he is.” Remus rubs your leg, soothing. “You’re right, lovely, he’s probably just somewhere we haven’t—” 

“Found him!” James cries. 

You gasp, and Remus grins at your reaction. 

“Where?” Sirius bounds in from the sitting room. 

James comes from the opposite direction, holding your rabbit above his head like a trophy. He passes it to you with a flourish as you hop down from the counter. “Angel, your Moo Moo.” 

“So this is Moo Moo,” Sirius says, grinning. 

You feel suddenly defensive, bringing the grayed, ratty plushie close to your chest. “Yes.” 

“I love him.” 

“I think he’s handsome,” says Remus, also looking at him interestedly. 

“Caused a lot of trouble today, though,” Sirius tuts, “hasn’t he?” 

“Where’d you find him?” you ask James, eager to be out of the spotlight.

“He was wedged between your mattress and the wall.” Your boyfriend pouts. “Poor thing.” 

You frown. “I looked there.” 

“He was sort of in the corner.” James shrugs. “Rather easy to miss, I’m sure Sirius checked there too.” 

“Well, thank you,” you say shyly. Still holding the toy to your chest. “I might not have looked there again on my own.” 

“Seems a good thing we came over, hm?” Remus asks complacently. 

Your face heats. “Yeah.” 

“One more time, sweetness?” Sirius cocks his ear. “Not sure I heard you there.” 

“Yes,” you say again, fighting a smile. “Thank you for coming.” 

He grins at you, wrestling you into his side. “I don’t ever want to hear you arguing one of my ideas again.” 

“That seems a bit premature—” James starts to say. 

“Nope! Never again.”

[evieelyzabethh]

"taste"

☆"you're wonderin' why half his clothes went missin', my body's where they're at"☆ Wearing Arcane characters clothes {fem reader}

cast ✧ Vi, Ekko, Jayce, Viktor, Mel

cw☞ slightly pervy jayce, a bit of fluff, Viktor calls reader a whore, a bit suggestive for all of them

an: this is the case for all my titles, but I feel I should clarify; the songs are not meant to accompany the headcanons, I just get lazy when naming things so I cherry pick song lyrics then use the title lol.

♞Vi♞

♞Vi never thought she would have to worry about her clothes going missing. They're all tattered and torn, holey from all the times she's been cut or stabbed, blood stained from all her injuries throughout the years, and absolutely falling apart at the seams. Hell, her own shirts are so ruined she usually just walks around in chest binding bandages. Granted, stealing Vi's clothes started from an accident of convenience.

You didn't think anything of it as you slipped on the old thing, the writing so faded you could no longer make out the outlines of the letters and the color so sun-bleached it just looked a dull beige. There were holes along the shoulder blade, rib cage, and chest, the hems had long since unraveled, and the neckline had been cut. It Vi wasn't so averse to throwing things out, it's home would've been the garbage can ages ago. But still, it was comfy and clean and something of hers, so you pulled it over your head and carried on into the laundry room where you sat on top of your washing unit, vibrating along with the clunky machine beneath you. You decided to read as you wait, eventually become so engrossed with your book, you miss the sounds of Vi trudging her heavy feet across the floor as she returns from her most recent bout of getting her ass kicked. She hums her way around the space, painfully shrugging her jacket over her aching shoulders, enroute to the laundry room where she finds you, ankles crossed with some old mystery book in your hands. She gawks at you for a moment, not quite knowing what to say at the sight of you in her clothing. It looked good on you. Well, everything looked good on you, but this looked right. "Did you get all dressed up for me, pretty? You jump a bit at the sudden intrusion of her slightly gravelly voice, but eventually relax into her warm, musky presence. She knows how you feel about her smearing her bloody lips across your freshly showered skin, so she bites her lip to swallow her urges. "Depends, did you get yourself all battered just so I could patch you up?" She snickers, wiping the remnants of dried blood from her top lip. "Will my honest earn me a pre-shower kiss?" Of course, you nod your head. You have a very hard time denying her, not even bothered by the feeling of her gauze bound hands grip on your thighs and your skin beneath her shirt. She whimpers, leaning heavily onto the washer, her fingers likely leaving marks from how desperately she grabs at you for stability and her own sanity. She doesn't realize until the adrenaline wears off how much tonight did a toll on her, pulling away from the kiss to rest her head on your shoulder. "You need help to the shower?" "Yeah", she murmurs, hardly louder than a whisper, holding onto your waist as you hop down and sling your arm over her shoulder. "No more pit fighting for a while?", you question lightly, to which she responds by pulling a hefty bag of coins from her pants pocket. "Not for a few months."

★Ekko★

★Ekko has a commune, he is absolutely no stranger to sharing, especially when it comes to clothes. As many times as you have snuck a few of his jackets over the years, he has taken his fair share of your tops, liking the way they constrict and show the definition of his biceps and show off his sculpted lower abdomen. You swap rings, hair ties, and all sorts of accessories, it's another way that you two are visually all over each other. I also wouldn't be surprised if he was the type to buy things knowing they would eventually end up in your closet.

★This being said, you would have better luck getting a reaction out of him showing up wearing nothing rather than in his clothes, at least clothes that aren't important to him. He's so desensitized to the idea of sharing; a regular hoodie wouldn't get him going. Wearing something of his though, his jacket, his mask, replicating how he does his face paint, that would certainly get him. It's the explicit connection to him that gets him, it's you proudly wearing an echo of Ekko.

It was cold and wet and dreary. The sky was grey, and murky puddles formed in the innumerable cracks and crevasses in the dirty floor of the Undercity that the ground began to look like a muddy sea of water. It was the perfect day to be inside, maybe make some warm soup, put on a vinyl and pretend the crackley sound bites are early lightning bolts, and bundle up beside Ekko and call it a day before the sun went down. This was not the case as Ekko was out covering the gardens so they wouldn't be flooded by impure water and preparing for any potential storm surge, leaving you home alone, wrapped in his favorite jacket. You doubted it would be a big deal, it's not like he's ever been upset about borrowing his clothes without asking before, but his reaction when he returns home scares you for a moment. His eyes are closed as he walks through the door, carelessly toeing off his shoes, lifting up his already soaked shirt to wipe the running face paint before it gets into his eyes. From your place on the couch, you look out the window for the first time in hours to see it pouring down, the droplets pelting on your windows and the wind sending the occasional pebble flying at the glass. "I'm telling Scar to do this shit next time, it's too damn w- oh." He freezes, midway through yanking off his raincoat, eye's slightly irritated as they stare at you. oh? "Is that my jacket?" You falter a bit. "Yeah...is that ok?" You had no plans of going out in it, wearing only some old cotton shorts whose elastic waistband snapped years ago and a thin tank top. You didn't even have a bra on. He collects himself though, smirking as he looks you up and down, how good the color compliments your complexion, drinking in the slivers of skin, the sight of your nipples through your top. Of course it's ok, in what fucking world would it not be? "Yea, baby, it's fine." His mumbles, his voice lower and his eyes a bit wide. "You look good in it, too. C'mere, do a spin for me."

❂Jayce❂

❂This man is 6'7 and built like a brick shithouse, his clothes absolutely swallow you and he thinks it's adorable. He gets a fit of cuteness aggression, he just wants to squeeze and hug and kiss you until you pop. It speaks to that part of him that is quite aware of his sheer size, his biceps are the size of your head, you have to look up just to make eye contact with him, his clothes practically fall right off you. He's just so...big.

He awakes slightly startled and feeling empty, immediately feeling your lack of warmth in his arms and slightly panicking. It's too early in the morning to be rational and his frequent nightmares are doing him no favors. He hates waking up alone and cold, he feels like he's waking up in that cave again. His senses calm his rapidly beating heart, the comforting smell of coffee and something syrupy sweet, the sound of something sizzling on the stove. He throws the comforter off him, cringing at the feel of the cold floor on his feet before he throws on some socks and sweatpants to wander around half-asleep in. His brain short circuits when he sees you, his large shirt practically hanging off your shoulders, flowing around your bruised and kiss-bitten thighs. You moved lithely around the kitchen, going back from chopping strawberries for the waffles, stirring the eggs, flipping the bacon, and he's man enough to admit he's blushing a bit. You made breakfast for him! That's so cute. He slides behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, bending down to plant kisses on your neck. "My shirt looks really good on you, gorgeous." You giggle, turning around to face the big man behind you who picks you up by your hips to set you on the countertop, settling in between your thighs. "You think?" He hums. "Maybe a few sizes too big, but it's endearing. You look like a little fairy, like I could carry you around in my pocket all day." And his eyes are big and out of focus, that charming gap-toothed smile on display as his hands rub over your smooth skin, pushing his shirt higher and higher. Too big is certainly a familiar sentiment, how desperately you were crying that out just last night is still looping in his brain as he says it. "Maybe I'm normal sized, and you're just a giant. Have you ever thought of it that way?" He chuckles. More times than you can imagine.

☽Viktor☾

☽Hard immediately, next question. His work outfits look completely normal on him, but the buttons pop at your chest and the vests accentuate them in a way that's pornographic. Even his ties only serve to enhance the fantasy, even though they are the exact garments he wears to his lab every day. There is nothing innately sexual about it at all, but that's the fun of it. The fact thar you chose to wear that black lacy bra that you knew would show through the top, the way you wear his reading glasses low on your nose, the red bottom heels that you wear, which in any other context could be seen as perfectly appropriate work attire. It's the performance of it that he appreciates.

He knows exactly what game you are trying to play with him, no matter how hard you try and play coy. There is no way that you accidently shrunk your blouse in the wash, hell, he knows that's not your blouse because the buttons are on the wrong side for it to be female attire. He knows that's his tie, he is one thousand percent sure that if he was to yank you by it and check the underside, he would see his initials embroidered. He knows you left it loose on purpose, you have requested for the entire relationship to pick out and tie his ties for him, he knows you can make it tighter. Everything is utterly loose, for lack of a better word. The top button is undone, the tie isn't completely tucked under the collar, the slit of your skirt is not where it should be. It's a play at looking professional that you and him both know is just a test to see how long it takes for him to crack and rush you both home. At first, he's willing to play ball because you always crack first, but today, however, you decided to be serious about your productivity. He tries to focus, he really does, but after a while the clicking of your heels becomes too hypnotic, the fake attempts at adjusting your tie begin to pile onto the sexual frustration, and you lean over one too many times, giving him a good whiff of your perfume and oh you went with a red bra to match his red tie. He waits for Jayce to leave the room, slamming the book he was 'reading' shut as he lets out a very aggravated breath. "I want my shirt back." Cut and dry, his hand flipping the tie you're wearing to confirm that is indeed his. You smirk, and he would feel the need to wipe it off your face had it not been for the fact that he swallowed his pride hours ago after his hard on became too much to ignore. "You want it back now? Right here." And you're already slipping off the other buttons and he contemplates whether it's worth it to barricade the door with the table to buy you more time or be rational and tell you to stop. "Had I known you planned on being a whore today, I wouldn't have invited you over." You pout as he pulls the knot of his tie, grabbing your hands to bind your hands. "But don't I look pretty, Vik?" He rolls his eyes. "You look magnificent, love."

☼Mel☼

☼Like Ekko, she isn't a stranger to sharing clothes with you. Even if it's not hers, she has an exact replica tailored just for you. This being said, she loves playing dress up with you with her clothes. Anytime she needs to clear out her closet or has an article of clothing she doesn't know how to feel about or just gets bored, she'll call you to wherever she is and request you be her doll for a little bit.

Though you had been in Mel's closet for what had to have been hours at this point, you couldn't really complain. Never had you felt more pampered in your life, tens of gowns, trousers, and blouses gracing your skin as you twirled on the platform in Mel's closet as she analyzed the garment from every angle. Now you stood in something white and flowy, the sleeves long, the bodice double lined for winter weather, the hemline off the shoulders and trimmed with fur, the bottom thick and heavy. "What do you think lovey? Do you think it's too on the nose, you know I've never been the biggest fan of fur." Her hand feels across your chest, dusting off where some of the fluff had fallen and rubbing the soft material in her hands. "I don't see you in fur, it's too much of your mother's thing, but I do think it's nice. The lining is really nice on the skin, sorta has a fleece feel to it." She nods, moving her hands along your waist to connect with the silver zipper. She clucks her tongue. "Would I be silly to not wear it because the zipper isn't gold. I know it's a miniscule detail, but I really don't do silver." You chuckle as you look around her closet, a room larger than the bedroom you grew up in filled with racks of clothes that had some sort of golden sheen, be it from the color of the fabric, some sort of metallic accent, or a reflection from the general vibe of the room. "My love, you have so many clothes in here I doubt you would wear it regardless." She smiles. "Are you getting tired of this." You hesitate, which is plenty answer enough for her. You had been standing for hours at this point, and your back was starting to ache from how straight your back had been. "Do you have it in you for just one more. I promise, it'll be quick." She already has it out of the box, a very small party dress that you had never seen her wear before. "I bought it months ago but have been going back and forth between whether or not it would look better on me or you." Of course, you oblige, and she giggles as she zips you out of the dress, carefully sliding it off until the fabric pools around your nearly naked body. Her tunnel vision is briefly abandoned as her movements slow, lingering over the curves of her body, her fingernail tracing tiny hearts on the skin of your chest. "I know I say this every time, but you truly do look beautiful out of everything. Undressing you may be my favorite part of this." You playfully roll your eyes. "Stop being a flirt and just zip me into the dress, I want lunch."

[seospicybin]

COCKY.

FINAL CHAPTER

Bangchan x reader. (s,f)

Chapters: Chapter I / Chapter II / Chapter III

Synopsis: As a researcher developing a specialized condom in extra large sizes, you never expected the company’s product manager, Chris, to volunteer as a test subject—let alone for things to get this complicated. Balancing professionalism with undeniable chemistry, you must navigate a partnership that’s strictly business… or so you keep telling yourself. (16,4k words)

Author's note: Thank you for patiently waiting and for following Cocky series. Hope you enjoy this one too and don't forget to share your thoughts on it ♡

As the morning sun kisses your bare skin, you slowly stir awake, feeling oddly disoriented. Your body feels heavy, sore in places that make last night come rushing back in vivid detail.

Blinking, you turn your head to the side—and there he is. Chris, lying beside you, his bare chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths. His face is relaxed in sleep, hair slightly tousled, lips parted just slightly.

Your eyes drift to the bedside table, where the evidence of the night lingers—torn condom wrappers scattered messily across the surface. Heat creeps up your neck as memories flood in. How Jane had slipped Chris that damn pill. How you got him home. And how you… passed out. During sex.

You groan internally, mortified. Of all the things that could’ve happened, that had to be the way the night ended? You can’t even begin to imagine what Chris must have thought.

Heart hammering, you slowly shift in bed, careful not to disturb him. The last thing you want is to wake up to his teasing or—worse—his concern. You can’t face that right now.

Holding your breath, you slip the covers off and carefully climb out of bed, moving as silently as possible. Your clothes are scattered around the room, but you grab the nearest things, pulling them on hastily. You just need to get out before he wakes up. You take one last glance at him—still fast asleep—and then, as quietly as possible, you head for the door.

-

Despite the late start to your morning, you make it to the office just in time. Your heart is pounding, anxiety creeping up your spine. After sneaking out of Chris’s apartment that morning, all you could think about was avoiding Jane. There’s no way she wouldn’t interrogate you about last night, and you are not ready for that conversation.

However, the moment you step into the lab, Jane comes rushing toward you. You brace yourself, expecting the worst.

“You’re finally here!” she exclaims, gripping your arm.

“I—” you start, but she cuts you off.

“Check your email. Now.”

She’s not asking about last night? You blink at her, confused. “Wait, what?”

Jane huffs impatiently and practically drags you to your desk. “The company sent out an announcement this morning. Your product? It’s officially launching.”

Your breath catches. Already?

“Go on,” she urges, gesturing at your laptop.

Hands slightly trembling, you open your inbox. Sure enough, the company-wide email is sitting at the top, bold and unread. When you click on it, the subject line says it all:

Official Product Launch Announcement – New Innovations in Health & Wellness

And there, among the listed products, is yours.

Jane claps her hands together, grinning. “This is huge! Congratulations, genius!” She doesn't shy away from placing a kiss on your cheek, leaving a red lipstick mark on it.

You force a smile, but your stomach churns. The launch means more than just success—it means presenting your product to a lot of people at the expo. Investors, media, potential buyers… all eyes on you.

Jane notices your expression and narrows her eyes. “Wait. Why do you look like someone just told you your dog ran away?”

You sigh, slumping in your chair. “Because this means I have to present at the expo.”

“So?” Jane tilts her head. “You’re brilliant. You worked so hard on this. You’re the best person to introduce it.”

You groan. “But I hate public speaking.”

Jane scoffs. “Oh, please. You literally had to interview men about their dick sizes for this research. If you survived that, you can survive anything.”

You open your mouth to argue but—okay, fair point.

Jane smirks in triumph and pats your shoulder. “You got this. Just picture everyone in their underwear or something.” Then, she glances at her watch. “Alright, gotta go back to my lab before someone notices I ditched work.”

She turns to leave but pauses. Her eyes zero in on your neck, and her smirk deepens. “By the way,” she says sweetly, “nice hickey.”

Your blood runs cold. “What?”

Jane bursts out laughing when she sees how horrified you look. “Oh my god! You didn’t even notice?!”

You slap a hand over your neck, face burning. “JANE!”

She cackles as she heads for the door. “Good luck explaining that on your presentation.” Then, with one last wicked grin, she disappears, leaving you in utter mortification.

-

You gather in the meeting room with your team, everyone chatting excitedly about the upcoming expo. The atmosphere is buzzing with energy, but you sit stiffly in your chair, gripping your pen like it’s a lifeline.

“Alright,” you start, clearing your throat. “Let’s go over our presentation plan for the expo.”

Your lead assistant, Mark, grins. “We’re finally getting the recognition we deserve. This is huge.”

“It is,” you agree, forcing a smile. “Which is why we need to make sure everything runs smoothly.”

You run through the details—booth setup, product demonstrations, key talking points—but the whole time, one thought lingers in the back of your mind: Chris will be there. He has to be. As the product manager, he’ll be involved in the official launch. And after what happened last night… well, you’re not sure how to face him yet.

“Will you be handling the main presentation yourself?” another team member asks.

You hesitate. “I’ll be leading it, yes. But I’ll need all of you to help with different parts of the demonstration.”

Mark nods and gives you a reassuring smile. “You’ll do fine. Just be confident.”

“Right,” you mutter. Easier said than done.

The meeting continues, and you do your best to focus. But no matter how much you plan, one thing is clear—there’s no avoiding Chris at the expo.

And there's no way of avoiding him in the office no matter how big this building is. As you head back to your lab, still lost in thought from the meeting, you turn a corner and collide with someone. Strong hands catch your arms before you can stumble, and when you look up, air caught in your throat.

Chris. He smiles down at you, his expression easy, like nothing is out of the ordinary. “Hey.”

You force an awkward smile back, hyper-aware of the people moving past you in the hallway. Good. An open space. He can’t bring it up here.

“Congrats on the launch,” he says, his voice warm. “You really did it.”

“Thank you,” you reply, gripping the tablet in your hands a little tighter.

Chris nods, but then, to your surprise, he takes a step closer. The shift is subtle, but the space between you suddenly feels smaller. Your breath catches, nerves prickling as you stare up at him.

He opens his mouth, and for a second, you’re sure he’s about to mention last night. But instead, he says, “Good luck with everything.”

You get taken aback. But the way he looks at you—like he wants to say something else entirely—keeps you frozen in place. Your heart pounds. You don’t trust yourself to respond properly, so you quickly mumble, “Thanks,” before stepping back. “I should, um—get back to work.”

Chris watches you for a beat, unreadable, but he doesn’t stop you. As you walk away, you exhale slowly, feeling like you just dodged a bullet. For now.

-

The expo is in full swing, the grand hall filled with a hum of conversations, the occasional burst of laughter, and the constant shuffle of people moving between booths. Bright banners and LED screens flash promotional videos, showcasing the latest products and innovations. The air carries a mix of fresh coffee from a nearby vendor and the faint scent of brand-new packaging materials.

Despite the excitement buzzing around you, a tight knot of nerves sits heavy in your stomach. Today is a big day—your product is being introduced to the public, and soon, you’ll have to engage with potential clients, answer questions, and confidently present everything you’ve worked so hard for. You exhale, trying to push aside the anxiety.

Jane, walking beside you, nudges your arm playfully. “Relax, you’re going to do great.”

You give her a small, unsure smile, but before you can say anything, she suddenly stops in her tracks and tugs at your sleeve. “Oh, look who’s here,” she sing-songs, pointing toward a booth a few meters away.

Your eyes follow her gesture, and sure enough, there’s Chris. He’s casually checking out a product display, dressed sharp as ever, dark navy with suit with silk tie, exuding that effortless confidence that always makes him stand out.

Jane smirks. “So... about that night. You took him home, right?” She gives you a knowing look. “Did anything happen?”

You quickly shake your head, keeping your tone light. “Nothing happened.”

Jane raises a brow. “Nothing?”

“Nothing,” you insist, glancing away.

You sigh, but before you can say anything else, Jane shifts gears. “Well, whatever. I just hope you’re not looking for a thing with him.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

She shrugs, hands in her pockets. “I mean, Chris would be a lot to handle. He’s not just—” she gestures vaguely, “—big in that way, but he’s also charming, super friendly, and he just knows his way around girls.” She gives you a look. “And you know what they say with guys with big dicks, they're fucking insatiable and I'm talking about him not getting it enough with just one girl.”

You don’t respond right away, but your gaze flickers toward Chris again. There are a few girls gathered around him, clearly drawn in by whatever he’s saying. He’s smiling, laughing at something, effortlessly charismatic. You watch as one of them leans in a little closer, her eyes bright with interest.

Jane turns back to you, tilting her head with a knowing smile. “Do you like him?”

You immediately shake your head. “No.”

Her smirk deepens. “You sure?”

You exhale, rolling your shoulders back. “Chris is just the product manager. That’s all he is to me.”

Jane gives you a long, doubtful look, as if waiting for you to crack under pressure. But you meet her gaze with firm resolve. “What happened between us was strictly professional,” you say, keeping your voice steady. “And even that has ended.”

For a moment, she studies you, as if weighing your words. Then, to your relief, she shrugs. “If you say so.”

Before she can push the conversation any further, her eyes catch on something across the expo hall. “Oh! That looks interesting—come on.” She grabs your wrist, tugging you toward a display booth showcasing the latest advancements in health supplements.

You let her pull you along, glad for the distraction. But even as Jane chatters away about the product, your mind drifts back to Chris. The way he smiled at those girls. The way Jane’s words linger in your head.

He would be a lot to handle. You shake the thought away, forcing yourself to focus. This expo is about your work, not him.

-

You step off the stage, your heart still pounding from the adrenaline rush of your presentation. The applause is still ringing in your ears, and you let out a breath, feeling a mix of excitement and relief. Months of work, endless testing, late nights—it all led to this moment, and seeing the positive reception fills you with a deep sense of accomplishment.

As you make your way backstage, a familiar voice calls out, “Hey, great job up there.”

You turn to see Chris walking toward you, his expression warm with approval.

“You really killed it,” he praises, his eyes shining with genuine admiration. “I knew you’d do great, but you exceeded expectations.”

You offer him a small smile, still catching your breath. “Thanks… I appreciate that. And, well, thanks for everything. I wouldn’t have gotten here without your help.”

Chris chuckles, shaking his head. “Don’t sell yourself short. This was all you.”

Before you can respond, a voice calls out from behind him. “Chris!”

You glance past him to see a woman waving him over, her expression expectant. Chris turns his head, then looks back at you with an apologetic smile. “I gotta go, but I’ll see you later at the party, yeah?”

You nod, keeping your expression neutral. “Yeah. See you.”

He gives you one last smile before heading off, leaving you standing there, still buzzing with adrenaline—but now with something else stirring inside you.

Just as you’re collecting yourself, Jane comes barging in, her energy overwhelming as she practically throws herself at you in a hug. “You did it!” she exclaims, squeezing you tight. “That was amazing! You looked so confident up there, and the way you handled the Q&A—ugh, I’m so proud of you!”

You laugh, hugging her back. “Thanks, Jane. Seriously.”

She pulls away, grinning. “So, are you ready for the party?”

You hesitate, exhaling slowly. “I don’t know… I’m exhausted. I kinda just want to go home and sleep.”

Jane gasps dramatically, grabbing your shoulders. “Absolutely not. You worked your ass off for this, and now it’s time to celebrate!”

You sigh, knowing there’s no way she’s letting you out of this. “You’re really not giving me a choice, are you?”

“Not at all,” she says smugly. “Now, come on! We’re getting you a drink, and you’re going to have fun whether you like it or not.”

In the restroom, you step out of the stall wearing the dress Jane brought for you, adjusting the hem as you take in your reflection. The fabric hugs you in all the right places with a plunging neckline, a little more daring than what you’d usually pick, but Jane insisted on something fun.

Jane grins when she sees you. “Damn, you clean up nice,” she teases. “Now, stand still.”

She spins you toward the mirror, pulling out her makeup bag. You sigh but let her get to work, tilting your chin up as she starts applying foundation.

“So,” she says casually, dabbing at your face, “did you invite Han to the party?”

You blink. “No. Why would I?”

Jane scoffs. “Because he’s totally into you.”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t want to lead him on.”

“That’s exactly why you should be dating him,” she argues, moving on to your eyeliner. “Han is fun, he’s hot, and he likes you. If you’re looking for someone, it should be him.”

You chuckle. “I think you just want to live vicariously through me.”

“I know I’m right,” Jane insists, finishing up and stepping back to admire her work. “Now, let’s check ourselves out.”

The two of you stand in front of the mirror, adjusting your hair and outfits. Jane rummages through her bag, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Oh, I picked up some fun things from the expo,” she says, pulling out a small bottle and casually dropping it into your purse.

You frown, reaching in to inspect it. “Jane—”

She smirks. “It's edible lube. Watermelon flavor. You’re very welcome.”

-

The company truly knows how to throw a party and it's im full swing by the time you arrive, the venue buzzing with chatter, laughter, and music. Your team is already a few drinks in, celebrating the success of the launch, and Jane wastes no time in dragging you to the bar for a drink.

“To your big night!” she toasts, clinking her glass against yours. You take a sip, letting the burn of the alcohol settle some of your lingering nerves from the day.

As the night progresses, you weave through conversations, occasionally laughing at Jane’s antics as she flirts with someone from another department. The atmosphere is lively, but you can’t shake the slight unease bubbling in your chest.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a familiar figure—Chris. He’s standing across the room, engaged in conversation with a group of people. He’s relaxed, holding a drink in one hand, his smile easy and charming. There’s a girl next to him, leaning in a little too closely, whispering something in his ear. He chuckles at whatever she says, tilting his head toward her.

Despite your efforts to steer clear of him, you feel his gaze on you from across the room. When you glance up, just for a second, you catch him watching you—his eyes dark and unreadable. The moment your gazes meet, your breath catches, and you quickly look away, pretending to be engrossed in whatever Jane is saying.

You turn toward the bar, ordering another drink just to keep yourself occupied. When you risk another glance, Chris is still there, but this time, he takes a step forward, as if he’s about to come over.

Panic flutters in your chest, and before he can get any closer, you spin around and slip into the crowd, weaving between groups of people, keeping yourself moving.

For the rest of the night, you make a conscious effort to avoid him. Every time you sense him nearby, you casually shift in the opposite direction, always staying just out of reach. You laugh a little too loudly at Jane’s jokes, engage in meaningless conversations with your coworkers, and keep your attention anywhere but on him. But even as you try to act normal, you can’t shake the feeling that Chris notices exactly what you’re doing.

-

The noise of the party fades behind you as you slip out of the building, the cool night air washing over your skin. You let out a slow breath, relieved to finally be away from the crowd—and more importantly, away from Chris.

Pulling out your phone, you open the ride-hailing app and quickly request a taxi. As you wait, you cross your arms, tapping your fingers against your sleeve, your mind still racing from the night's events.

Just as you exhale and glance down at your phone, you feel a firm hand on your shoulder. Your breath catches, and you spin around, startled.

Chris stands there, his eyes immediately locked onto yours. The streetlights cast a soft glow over his face, highlighting the slight furrow in his brows. "I'm assuming you were avoiding me all night," he says, his tone light but eyes sharp.

You shake your head a little too quickly. "No, I wasn’t."

He chuckles at your poor attempt at denial, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Right. So it’s just a coincidence that every time I looked your way, you turned and disappeared?"

You press your lips together, feeling caught but unwilling to admit it. Instead, you sigh and change the subject. "Why are you out here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be inside celebrating?"

Chris tilts his head slightly. "I could ask you the same thing. The product launch was a huge success for you—you should be celebrating, not sneaking off like this."

You shrug, keeping your tone casual. "I'm just exhausted."

His smirk softens into something more thoughtful. "Then let me give you a ride home."

You open your mouth to refuse, grasping for an excuse. "You’ve probably had a few drinks. You should stay and enjoy the party."

Chris shakes his head. "I only had one drink." Then, with a small smile, he adds, "I was too busy looking for you all night."

Getting no answer from you, he tries again, his smile never faltering. “Come on, just let me drive you home.”

You hesitate, shifting on your feet. “Chris, it’s fine. I can just take a taxi.”

He exhales, tilting his head. “You’re really gonna make me go back to the party alone after I spent all night looking for you?” His tone is teasing, but there’s an underlying sincerity in his voice.

You cross your arms. “You don’t have to leave just because I am.”

“But I want to.” He takes a step closer, his voice softer now. “Let me take you home.”

You sigh, knowing he won’t drop it. And truthfully, you’re too tired to argue. “Fine,” you mumble.

The car ride is quiet, the city lights flashing by as Chris drives steadily through the streets. You’re still processing everything—the party, the launch, the exhaustion weighing down on you—when Chris suddenly speaks.

"Are you free next weekend?"

You blink, caught off guard. "Huh?" You turn to look at him, your voice coming out in a stammer. "Why?"

Chris keeps his eyes on the road, his fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel. "You’ve been exhausted and stressed these past few weeks. I figured you could use a break, so I want to take you somewhere to relax."

Your brows knit together. "You don’t have to do that."

"But I want to," he says simply, glancing at you with a small smile. "Besides, as a product manager, I have to take care of my hardworking employee."

You narrow your eyes at him. "That’s a lame excuse."

Chris chuckles. "Maybe. But it’s still valid." Then, as if sensing your hesitation, he quickly adds, "And don’t worry—there’ll be no more tests." His voice dips into something teasing, but the reassurance is clear.

When he finally pulls the car to a stop in front of your apartment building, you reach for the door handle, pausing only to turn to him. “Thanks for the ride home,” you say softly.

Chris doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, his eyes find yours in the dim light of the dashboard, holding your gaze with an intensity that makes you hold your breath. There’s something in his expression, something that makes your stomach twist in a way you’re not sure how to interpret.

"Goodnight," he finally says, his voice quieter, deeper.

You inhale sharply, steadying yourself before replying, “Goodnight.” Then, without another word, you step out of the car, shutting the door behind you.

As you stand there, you watch as Chris’s car pulls away, the red taillights glowing in the darkness before disappearing around the corner. Only then do you let out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, turning to head inside, your thoughts a tangled mess.

-

The idea of expanding the line has been on your mind ever since the expo, and now that the product is officially launching, it's the perfect time to start thinking ahead. You're deep in your work, staring intently at your computer screen as you run through potential formulas for new product variants.

Just as you’re making notes on potential ingredients, Jane suddenly appears beside you, leaning over your shoulder. “What are you working on now?” she asks, her voice laced with curiosity.

Before you can answer, she gasps, her eyes widening as she spots your screen. “Wait a second—flavored condoms?” She immediately claps her hands together, practically vibrating with excitement. “You should totally make a chocolate-strawberry one!”

You turn to give her a judging look without saying a word.

“Come on!” she cuts in, grinning. “Think about it. It’s classic, it’s romantic, it’s delicious.” She waggles her eyebrows at you. “And I bet Chris would love it.”

Your face heats up instantly. “Jane!”

She chuckles as she leans against your desk, watching you type away. “You know,” she starts, crossing her arms, “most people take a break after successfully launching a product. Maybe go on a vacation, treat themselves, do something fun.”

You keep your eyes on the screen. “I am doing something fun,” you say dryly, adjusting some of your notes.

Jane scoffs. “Oh yeah, I can totally see the excitement radiating off you. You should allow yourself to slack off once in a while.”

You roll your eyes. “Slacking off isn’t going to help me develop new product variants.”

She rolls her eyes at you and then she slams her hands on the table. “I’m suggesting that we take a trip this weekend. We can go to the beach, a spa, or even a nice hotel with a rooftop pool. You need a break.”

Her suggestion actually sounds nice. You could use a weekend away, just relaxing with Jane, free from all the stress of work. But then you remember Chris and his just as tempting offer.

You hesitate, torn between the two options. You don’t want to say no to Chris—especially after the way he looked at you that night, like he genuinely wanted to take care of you. But at the same time, you don’t want to reject Jane either.

As if the thought summons him, Chris walks into the elevator. You tense slightly, caught off guard by his sudden presence. Of all places and times, you didn’t expect to run into him here.

He stands beside you, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable as the doors slide shut. The air in the elevator feels thick with unspoken words, but neither of you say anything at first.

Then, Chris finally breaks the silence. “You don’t need to pack a lot of things for tomorrow.”

You blink, turning to him in confusion. “Tomorrow?”

Chris finally looks at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. I’ll pick you up in the morning.”

Your mouth parts slightly, realization hitting you. So he just decided that you’re going with him? No further discussion? Before you can even think of what to say, the elevator dings, reaching the parking basement.

Chris steps out first, turning back just slightly to say, “See you tomorrow.”

-

Saturday morning arrives, and your bag sits neatly packed by the door. You stand a few feet away, staring at it, arms crossed, deep in thought. You haven’t really accepted either Jane’s or Chris’s offer, yet here you are, packed and ready for something. The indecision gnaws at you. If you go with Jane, you’ll get a fun, carefree trip, but if you go with Chris…

You sigh, pressing your fingers against your temples. You don’t even know why you’re hesitating so much. It’s just a trip, right? Just a short getaway to relax, exactly what Jane has been telling you to do. But Chris is the one who planned this. He wants to take you somewhere to relax.

Your phone buzzes on the table, snapping you out of your thoughts. You hesitate before walking over and picking it up. It's a message from Chris.

I’m on my way.

Your stomach flips. So that’s it—he’s already coming. You can still change your mind. You can still text Jane and tell her to meet up instead. But as you stare at your phone screen, you realize you’re not typing. You’re just waiting.

A few minutes later, your phone rings, the sound cutting through the quiet of your apartment. You glance at the screen—Chris. You hesitate before answering. “Hello?”

“I’m outside,” he says smoothly. “Take your time, but I just wanted to let you know I’m here.”

Your heart does an odd little flip at his voice. You walk toward the window, peeking through the curtains. And there he is—standing by his car, dressed casually in a plain t-shirt and jeans, yet somehow still managing to look effortlessly good. He leans against the side of the car, one hand in his pocket, his gaze occasionally flickering toward the building entrance as he waits for you.

You swallow. This is really happening. “…Okay. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Chris hums in approval. “See you soon.”

The call ends, and you exhale, glancing back at your packed bag. There’s no turning back now.

-

After two hours of driving, Chris finally pulls into the grand entrance of a luxurious hotel, nestled away from the city’s chaos. The moment you step out of the car, you take in the stunning surroundings—the peaceful scenery, the fresh air, and the sheer elegance of the place.

“You brought me here?” you ask, looking up at the towering hotel.

Chris smirks as he hands his keys to the valet. “Yeah. This is where you can fully relax.”

You follow him inside, still in awe. The lobby is just as grand as the exterior—high ceilings, warm lighting, and a sense of tranquility that makes you realize just how tense you’ve been lately.

At the check-in counter, Chris handles everything smoothly, and before you know it, the two of you are in the elevator, heading up to your suite.

When you enter, your breath catches. The place is massive—spacious living area, floor-to-ceiling windows with a breathtaking view, and elegant decor that makes it feel like something out of a travel magazine.

Chris sets his bag down and stretches. “Nice, huh?”

“Nice?” you echo. “This is… way too much.”

He shrugs casually. “Hey, it's okay to spoil yourself once in a while.”

Before you can overthink it, Chris gestures toward the rooms. “Oh, and before you start panicking, I booked a suite with two bedrooms.” He smirks when he glances back at you. “What? Did you think I was gonna make you share a bed with me?”

You huff, crossing your arms. “I wasn’t panicking.”

He chuckles, clearly amused. “Sure you weren’t.”

You grab your bag and head straight for your bedroom, needing a moment to yourself. The suite is spacious, luxurious even, but all you can focus on is the fact that you and Chris are here alone. No Jane, no work, no distractions—just the two of you.

As you unzip your bag and start unpacking, the realization settles in your stomach. You haven't spent this much uninterrupted time with Chris before, not without some work-related excuse to keep things professional. And now, here you are, in a beautiful hotel, just the two of you—

“Hey.”

You jump slightly at the sound of his voice. Turning around, you see Chris leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with an easy smile.

“What do you want to do first?” he asks.

You quickly look away, busying yourself with your bag. “I don’t know. What did you have in mind?”

He hums, as if considering his options. “We could check out the pool, go to the spa, take a walk around… or we could just stay in and order room service.”

The way he says it, with that teasing lilt in his voice, makes you glance at him suspiciously. He chuckles at your reaction but doesn’t push.

After some deliberation, you and Chris end up choosing the spa. A little relaxation doesn’t sound too bad after the past few stressful weeks.

The spa receptionist greets you both warmly, checking the reservation. “Ah, here it is! A couple’s spa package for Mr. and Mrs. Bang.”

Your head snaps toward Chris, eyes narrowing in suspicion. He only grins, utterly unbothered, and shrugs innocently. “Must’ve been a mix-up,” he says, feigning cluelessness.

You don’t buy it for a second, you tilt your head and narrow your eyes suspiciously at him.

He laughs, placing a hand over his chest. “What? It’s just easier to book that way.”

You roll your eyes but don’t push it. The receptionist leads you both to the spa room, explaining the treatments you’ll be getting.

After a relaxing and rejuvenating massage session, the next thing is to soak your bodies in the hot tub. The water is warm, wrapping around you like a soft embrace, steam rising in delicate wisps around the edges of the tub. Your body feels weightless, your muscles still loose from the earlier massage, but your mind is anything but relaxed. Because right next to you, Chris is lounging, his bare shoulders glistening with moisture, his skin slightly reddened from the heat.

You’re sitting close—so close that your legs occasionally brush under the water, sending small ripples between you. The scent of essential oils lingers in the air, mixing with the faint traces of Chris’s cologne, now softened by the steam. His body, partially submerged, is strong and toned, his chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm. The water laps at his skin, highlighting the definition of his collarbones, the faint flush of heat trailing down his neck and over his chest.

Chris tilts his head back slightly, eyes half-lidded as he exhales a deep sigh. “This isn’t so bad, huh?” he muses, voice low and lazy, like he’s savoring the moment.

You nod, though you’re barely paying attention to his words. The atmosphere is thick—something about the closeness, the warmth, the way the steam clings to both of you, makes it hard to breathe.

Then, he shifts. Just slightly, but enough that your arms brush, and you swear you feel the heat of his skin even through the water. Your heart stumbles in your chest, but you force yourself to stay composed.

Chris glances at you from the side, his lips curling into a teasing smirk. “You’re quiet.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “I’m just enjoying the peace.”

His smirk widens, and he leans in just a fraction. “So, do I make a good husband?”

You scoff, flicking a small splash of water his way. “I knew you put ‘Mr. and Mrs. Bang’ on purpose.”

Instead of coming up with another of his witty remarks, his hand reaches up. His fingertips graze your cheek as he tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

The steam swirls around you, the water lapping softly as you lock eyes with him. And suddenly, it’s there—that pull, that tension that’s been simmering beneath the surface for so long.

Chris’s lips part slightly, as if he’s about to say something. But then, just as quickly as it came, he exhales, leans back, and lets the moment slip away. The warmth remains, though—not just from the water, but from the ghost of his touch on your skin.

-

The hotel room is quiet except for the TV faintly playing from the living area, but your mind is anything but still. The warmth from the spa still lingers on your skin, but there’s also something else—something unspoken that settled between you and Chris in that hot tub.

You stand in front of the mirror, adjusting your dress and smoothing out the fabric. A knock on the door startles you and before you can answer, the door creaks open, and Chris steps inside, leaning against the doorframe. His casual stance contrasts with the way his gaze lingers on you, like he’s momentarily forgotten why he came here in the first place.

You shift under his stare. “What?”

His lips parting slightly before he huffs a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Nothing. I just—” He pauses, finally pulling his eyes away to clear his throat. “I was gonna ask if Mexican food sounds good for dinner.”

You nod. “Mexican food sounds great.”

A small smile tugs at his lips, and then there it is again—that look. Soft, lingering, like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t but can’t help himself.

The air thickens between you. But just as quickly as it comes, he straightens, pushing off the doorframe. “Alright.”

You barely get a word out before he turns and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him. You exhale, staring at the door for a moment before turning back to the mirror. Your reflection looks just as confused as you feel.

It only takes a ten minutes of walk to get to the restaurant. It is lively, filled with chatter, laughter, and upbeat music playing in the background. The casual, fun atmosphere helps ease some of the tension sitting in your chest since earlier, and you’re grateful for it. It feels like a normal dinner—just two colleagues unwinding after a stressful few weeks.

Chris sits across from you, his elbows resting on the table as he scans the menu. Then, out of nowhere, he glances up at you and smirks.

“You look really nice tonight,” he says, voice low but clear over the music.

Your fingers pause on the menu, heat creeping up your neck. “Thanks, Chris,” you murmur, trying to focus on the list of dishes instead of the way he’s looking at you.

The waiter comes with the drinks first and Chris wastes no time to initiate a toast. He lifts his glass, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "To a well-deserved break," he says, eyes locked on yours.

You mirror his action, tapping your glass lightly against his. "To a well-deserved break," you echo, feeling the warmth of the moment settle between you.

Just as you're about to take a sip, a voice interrupts.

"Now, this is a sight I wasn't expecting."

You freeze, lowering your glass as you turn toward the voice.

Han Jisung stands beside your table, hands in his pockets, wearing that signature playful smirk. His gaze flickers between you and Chris before settling on you, amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Fancy running into you here," Han says, tilting his head. "And with such fine company, too."

You slowly set your glass down, eyebrows raising in mild surprise. "Han?"

Han grins. "What, no warm welcome?" He pulls out a chair from the empty table beside you and plops down like he belongs there. "I mean, I know you’re glad to see me.”

You exhale a shaky, awkward laugh. "What are you doing here?"

Han nonchalantly shrugs. "My favorite musicians are doing this coaching clinic but now..." He looks back at you, eyes gleaming with mischief. "I believe love brought me here."

Han stays exactly where he is, making himself comfortable as if he was invited. The waiter comes by, and without missing a beat, Han orders a drink for himself before turning his full attention back to you.

“So,” he starts, leaning his elbows on the table. “Are you two dating?”

You almost choke on your sip of water. “No!”

Chris raises an eyebrow at your immediate denial but says nothing.

Han hums, tilting his head. “Really? You’re having a private dinner, in a fancy hotel, after spending the whole day together.” He taps his chin, pretending to think. “Sounds very date-like to me.”

You shake your head, trying to keep your voice even. “Chris is the product manager. I’m just an employee.”

Han leans back in his chair, grinning. “That so?” He flicks his gaze to Chris, then back to you. “Then I guess that means I still have a chance.”

Chris exhales a small laugh, shaking his head as he picks up his drink. "You're really saying that in front of me?"

Han just smirks, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “What? I’d rather be upfront than sneak around.”

You don’t respond, feeling the weight of both their gazes on you. Instead, you take a slow sip of your drink, pretending you didn’t hear the question at all.

Chris doesn’t say anything, but you can tell he’s watching your reaction closely. The energy at the table shifts, tension weaving itself into the playful conversation. This dinner is turning out to be far more complicated than you expected.

-

After dinner, Han stretches his arms above his head and flashes you both an easy grin. “Alright, since I crashed your dinner, how about another round of drinks? My treat.”

You open your mouth to decline, but Han quickly raises a hand. “Ah, ah. No excuses. I insist.”

Chris exhales through his nose, glancing at you before shrugging. “Guess we don’t have a choice, huh?”

Han smirks. “Exactly.”

And that’s how you find yourself nursing another drink while Han chatters away, switching between teasing you and throwing light jabs at Chris. The atmosphere is playful, but there's an underlying tension—one you can’t quite put your finger on.

After a while, Han glances toward the back of the bar where a pool table sits unoccupied. “Hey, Chris,” he says, nudging his shoulder. “How about a round of billiards?”

Chris barely looks up from his glass. “Nah, I’m good.”

Han clicks his tongue. “Come on, what’s the matter? Scared I’ll wipe the floor with you?”

Chris scoffs, finally looking up. “I just don’t feel like playing.”

Han leans in, grinning. “Or maybe you don’t want to play in front of her because you’re bad at it.”

Chris rolls his eyes, but you can see the challenge sinking in. He takes a slow sip of his drink before setting the glass down. “Alright, fine. One round.”

Han’s grin widens. “That’s the spirit.”

And just like that, they both get up, leaving you caught between them. You sit there, unsure whether you should follow or stay put. But then Han turns and gives you a wink. “Come on, you should watch. It'll be fun.”

You stand near the pool table, watching as Han and Chris take their turns. It’s hard not to admire them, each in their own way. Han plays with an easy confidence, spinning the cue in his hand between shots, throwing playful smirks in your direction every time he sinks a ball. He knows you’re watching—thrives on it, even—and winks at you whenever your eyes linger on him for too long. Chris, on the other hand, is completely focused. He lines up each shot with precise calculation, his movements fluid and controlled. He doesn’t notice the way you stare as he leans over the table, one hand bracing against the felt, the other guiding the cue through the gap of his thumb and index finger. His execution is flawless, the sharp crack of the cue ball meeting its target reverberating through the air before the ball rolls cleanly into the pocket.

Your gaze lingers a little too long on the way his shirt stretches across his back as he moves, the flex of his forearms, the quiet concentration etched into his face.

The game becomes more intense as it nears its end, the atmosphere thick with unspoken competition. Chris is leading—by a lot—but Han remains unfazed, leaning casually against the pool table as he watches Chris line up his next shot, stretching his shoulder before finally taking it.

“You’re scarily good at this,” you comment, watching as Chris smoothly sinks another ball.

Chris smirks, straightening up as he twirls the cue stick in his hand. “Just lucky.”

Han chuckles at that, shaking his head. “Bullshit. You knew exactly how that shot was going to play out.”

Chris only shrugs, his smirk widening. “Guess I’m just built different.”

You stifle a laugh, but Han only grins, completely unfazed by his impending loss. He rests his hip against the edge of the table, spinning his cue between his fingers as he glances at you. “Don’t you think Chris should’ve warned me that he’s a pro before I agreed to this game?”

You glance between them, lips twitching. “I mean… you were the one who challenged him.”

Chris hums in agreement as he leans down for his next shot, his muscles flexing subtly beneath his shirt. “Exactly. I was just minding my own business.”

Han tilts his head, smirking. “And yet, here we are.”

Chris doesn’t respond, only focusing on his final shot. The cue ball strikes cleanly, sending the last striped ball into the pocket with ease. The eight-ball is next, and Han watches, unfazed, as Chris lines up the winning shot.

“Make it quick, champ,” Han drawls, stepping back. “Put me out of my misery.”

Chris exhales a quiet chuckle before smoothly sinking the eight-ball. The moment the ball drops into the pocket, he straightens up, placing the cue stick on the table with a victorious smirk.

“Well,” Han sighs dramatically, “I suppose I should’ve known better than to challenge the product manager.”

Chris grins, holding out a hand. “Good game.”

Han eyes it for a moment before shaking it with a smirk. “Yeah, yeah. You got me this time.” Then he turns to you, flashing that familiar playful glint in his eyes. “Now, how about a consolation drink?”

Chris holds up a hand at him. “No, thank you. We're heading back to our room.”

Han raises a brow at Chris’s refusal, but the glint in his eyes shows his amusement. “Calling it a night already?”

Chris shrugs, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. We’ve got an early morning.”

Han hums knowingly, then glances at you. “What about you? No celebratory drink with the loser?”

Before you can answer, Chris smoothly cuts in, “She’s had enough for tonight.” Then, without missing a beat, he tilts his head at Han. “Are you covering the drinks?”

Han exhales a laugh, shaking his head at the sudden change in subject. “Yeah, yeah. I got it.”

Chris grins. “Appreciate it, man.” He gives Han a pat on the back before stepping beside you, placing a hand on the small of your back in an easy, natural motion. “We’ll see you around.”

You barely have time to react before Chris is guiding you toward the exit, the warmth of his hand lingering against your spine. You glance over your shoulder to see Han still smirking, watching the two of you leave as if he just lost a game bigger than billiards.

You look over your shoulder at Han and softly mutters, “Goodnight, Han.”

Chris doesn’t look back. If anything, he carries himself like a champion walking away with his prize.

-

Back in the hotel suite, you kick off your shoes with a sigh, feeling the exhaustion from the night settle in. Chris locks the door behind him, rolling his shoulders as he stretches.

Just as you’re about to head to your bedroom, you pause and turn to him. “Why did you tell Han we have an early morning tomorrow?”

Chris leans against the back of the couch, looking completely at ease. “Because we do.”

You narrow your eyes. “Since when?”

“Since I decided I’m taking you to look around the town tomorrow,” he replies smoothly.

You blink at him. “You just made that up on the spot, didn’t you?”

Chris grins. “Maybe. But it’s a good idea, isn’t it?”

You exhale, crossing your arms as you study him. He doesn’t seem the least bit guilty about throwing you into plans you didn’t even know existed. Instead, he just watches you expectantly, waiting for your reaction.

After a moment, you shake your head with a small laugh. “Fine.”

Just as you turn toward your bedroom, Chris’s voice stops you. “You couldn’t stop staring at me back there.”

You freeze, then slowly turn to see him smirking, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the couch. “I—what?” you stammer.

“At the pool table,” he continues, tilting his head slightly. “You were watching me the whole time. Were you impressed?” His smirk deepens, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Heat rushes to your face. “I—I was just watching the game,” you sputter, trying to sound nonchalant, but you know you’re failing miserably.

He chuckles, clearly enjoying your flustered state. “Mmm-hmm. Sure.”

You scowl at him, determined to regain control of the situation. “Goodnight, Chris.”

Then, before he can say anything else, you spin around and march into your bedroom, shutting the door a little too quickly behind you. On the other side of the door, you swear you can hear him chuckling to himself.

-

You must admit that you had one of the nicest sleep last night and you wake up feeling so refreshed. You step out of your bedroom, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, only to freeze mid-step.

Chris’s door swings open a moment later, and he walks out, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn. His shirtless torso is on full display—his toned abs, the defined lines of his muscles, the way his sweatpants hang low on his hips. And then… there’s the very obvious outline beneath them. Your eyes widen before you can stop yourself.

Chris catches your stare almost instantly, and instead of covering up or acting embarrassed, he grins. “Morning.” His voice is still rough with sleep, lazy and amused.

You snap your gaze up to his face, your cheeks heating instantly. “Morning,” you mutter, pretending you didn’t just get caught blatantly looking.

Chris smirks as he leans against the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest. “You okay?”

“I—yeah, of course.” You clear your throat, quickly moving toward where the phone is to distract yourself. “I'll order breakfast.”

Chris chuckles under his breath as he walks past you, clearly enjoying how flustered you are. “Sure. But take your time.” His voice drops a little. “Seems like you need a moment.”

You don’t dare look at him as you pick up the phone to call room service, but you can feel his gaze lingering on you, his amusement practically radiating through the air.

-

The town is lively, filled with the buzz of locals and tourists alike. Cobblestone streets wind between charming shops and cafés, and the air carries the scent of freshly baked bread and roasted coffee.

You and Chris walk side by side through the bustling streets, taking in the sights. He’s dressed casually in a thin black sweater and jeans, hands tucked into the pockets, his sunglasses perched on his nose. Every so often, he glances at you, making sure you’re keeping up, and when the crowd gets too thick, his hand brushes against the small of your back, guiding you through.

“This place is nice,” you comment, taking a deep breath of the fresh air. “It’s got that old-town charm.”

Chris nods in agreement and then he tilts his head toward the main plaza. “Come on. There’s a really good café around the corner.”

The café is small yet cozy, the kind of place that feels warm and welcoming the moment you step inside. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and buttery pastries lingers in the air as you and Chris settle into a corner table. He orders for both of you—croissants, a slice of cake to share, and two lattes.

“Try this,” Chris says, pushing a forkful of cake toward you. You roll your eyes but take a bite, the sweetness melting on your tongue.

Just as you’re about to comment on how good it is, your phone buzzes in your pocket. When you pull it out, Jane’s name flashes on the screen.

“I’ll be right back,” you tell Chris, grabbing your phone and stepping outside to take the call.

The cool air greets you as you press the phone to your ear. “Hey.”

“You’re such a bad liar,” Jane says immediately, skipping the pleasantries. “You’re not sick.”

You let out a sigh, you should have keep your phone turned off after sending a text to her that you couldn't go on a trip with her because you don’t feel well. “Okay, fine. You caught me.”

“So? Where are you?”

You hesitate before admitting, “I’m… on a trip. With Chris.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then— “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. So, you and Chris are dating?”

“What? No!” You shake your head, glancing over your shoulder through the café window where Chris is stirring his coffee, completely unaware of your conversation. “It’s just... a trip. That’s all.”

Jane hums, unconvinced. “Right.”

“It is,” you insist.

“Mm-hmm,” Jane drags out the sound, then casually adds, “Don’t say I didn't warn you.”

You frown. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Jane snickers. “I’m just saying, be careful.”

Before you can demand further clarification, she hangs up, leaving you standing there with a million thoughts running through your head.

When you return to the table, Chris raises a brow. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, sinking into your seat. You take a sip of your latte, but your mind is elsewhere, Jane’s words echoing in your head.

Chris is watching you closely, like he can tell something’s off. “You sure?”

You nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah.”

The next stop on your sightseeing trip leads you to a bustling street lined with small vendors, each stall displaying an array of handcrafted trinkets, souvenirs, and snacks. The soft jingle of wind chimes mixes with the hum of conversation, and your eyes wander over the colorful selection of charm keychains at one of the stalls.

Chris reaches for a pair of matching ones—tiny silver pendants shaped like crescent moons. “What do you think?” he asks, turning to you with a small smile. “Should we get matching ones?”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Why?”

Chris tilts his head slightly, looking genuinely confused. “I don’t know. Just thought it’d be nice.”

You let out a sigh, the question that’s been gnawing at you finally slipping out. “Chris… why are you doing this?”

His brows furrow. “Doing what?”

“This,” you say, motioning vaguely between the two of you. “Taking me on this trip, buying matching keychains—acting like we’re…” You trail off, shaking your head.

Chris doesn’t answer immediately, his fingers still loosely holding the keychains.

“I mean, I’m thankful for everything,” you continue, your voice softer now. “You helped me with the product, you were there for the launch, and I really appreciate it. But I just… I don’t understand why you’re doing all of this.”

Still, he doesn’t say anything. His lips part slightly as if he’s about to speak, but no words come out.

You sigh, feeling a sudden wave of frustration—not just at him, but at yourself, at the situation, at the uncertainty pressing against your chest. “I don’t— I don’t even know why I’m here,” you mumble before turning on your heel and walking away, leaving Chris standing there in front of the vendor, still holding the matching charms.

“I don’t need you anymore, Chris,” you blurt out and it's coming out harsher than you intended to.

Before you know it, you walk away, your steps quick and uneven, as the inexplicable anger coils tighter in your chest. You don’t understand why you feel this way—why the warmth of the day suddenly feels suffocating, why Chris’s kindness is making you uneasy instead of flattered.

You weave through the crowd, barely registering the faces passing by. Your pulse pounds in your ears, and your thoughts race in circles. Maybe it’s because Jane’s words are still ringing in your mind. Maybe it’s because you don’t know what Chris wants from you. Or maybe it’s because a part of you is scared to admit that you want something from him, too.

Before you can overthink it any further, you spot a taxi idling by the curb. Without hesitation, you flag it down and slip into the backseat, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

As the taxi pulls away, you rest your head against the window, watching the streets blur past. You try to shake off the tight feeling in your chest, but it lingers, stubborn and heavy.

-

When you finally arrive at the hotel, you step out of the taxi with a heavy breath, your emotions still tangled. You don’t want to go back to the suite—not yet. The idea of facing Chris again, of sitting in the silence of your thoughts, feels unbearable.

So, instead of heading toward the elevators, you make a sharp turn down the hallway, following the soft hum of music and conversation until you reach the hotel bar.

The dim lighting casts a warm glow over the space, the air thick with the scent of aged liquor and citrus. A few patrons are scattered around, some in quiet conversations, others lost in their own world with a drink in hand. You slide onto a stool at the bar, exhaling as you prop your elbows against the counter.

The bartender approaches, offering a polite smile. “What can I get you?”

You hesitate for only a second. “Whiskey, neat.”

The bartender nods before turning away, and you press your lips together, trying to push down the lingering frustration in your chest. You tell yourself you just need a moment to breathe, to clear your head. But deep down, you know you’re avoiding more than just Chris.

The warmth of the whiskey spreads through your body, making everything feel a little too soft, a little too slow. You don’t know how many drinks you’ve had by now—just that when you finally stand up from the bar, the room tilts slightly, and your legs feel like they belong to someone else.

You blink, trying to steady yourself, but before you can take another step, a firm hand catches your arm.

"Whoa there," a familiar voice drawls, amused. "Didn't think I'd see you like this tonight."

You look up through the haze, and for a moment, you think—Chris? But no, there’s something off. The grip is steady but playful, the warmth of the body against yours more teasing than concerned.

Your brows furrow as you sway slightly, and he easily shifts to support your weight, slipping an arm around your waist. "Let's get you somewhere before you pass out on me."

You want to protest, but everything is too heavy, and your tongue feels slow. So you just let him guide you, his body pressed close as he half-carries you toward the elevator.

By the time you reach a room, he’s lowering you onto the sofa, his hands lingering just a second longer than necessary before he steps back. You blink blearily up at him, the alcohol making your thoughts sluggish.

"About earlier, I—" you murmur, your words slurred. "I'm sorry, Chris."

You blink a few times, trying to clear the haze in your mind, and when you finally focus on the man in front of you, you realize it’s not Chris—it’s Han.

Han tilts his head, watching your reaction with amusement. “Wow,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest dramatically. “I save you from stumbling around drunk, and you call me by another guy’s name? That hurts, babe.”

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but nothing comes out. You’re too disoriented, too embarrassed.

Han just chuckles, shaking his head. “Come on, let’s get you back to your room before the product manager turns over this place,” he jokingly says, reaching out to help you up from the sofa. His grip is firm but careful as he leans down slightly.

Just as he’s about to pull you up, there’s a knock on the door. Han pauses. You barely register it before he’s already walking over, pulling the door open with his usual ease. And then—

Chris. He stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his gaze shifting from Han to you slumped on the sofa. His eyes narrow slightly, taking in the situation.

Han leans against the doorframe, an easy smirk playing on his lips. “You’re bothering us, man,” he says, tilting his head slightly toward you as if the two of you had been in the middle of something.

Chris, unimpressed, ignores him completely and looks at you. “Let’s go back to our room,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind.

Han, however, steps forward, blocking the doorway before Chris can step inside. “What, you think you’re the only one with a big dick?” he taunts, arching a brow. "I can satisfy her just fine."

You fumble, shaking your head, trying to deny whatever this conversation is turning into—but your words come out slurred, incoherent.

Han laughs at your attempt. “See? She can’t even say it properly. Must be overwhelmed.” He turns back to you, lowering his voice slightly, his tone teasing. “Mine is better, right babe?”

Chris scoffs, his jaw ticking. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Han’s smirk widens, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You know what? Let’s ask her,” he says, looking at you expectantly.

You open your mouth, struggling to string together a sentence, but the alcohol has made your thoughts sluggish. Your gaze bounces between the two men, their contrasting expressions—Chris, standing tall and tense, and Han, relaxed and enjoying every second of this.

Then Han grins down at you. “We both know you like mine better.”

And that’s when it just bursts out of you—louder than you intended, words tumbling before you can stop them.

“I like Chris!”

Silence.

Both men freeze, their gazes snapping to you. Your brain catches up a second too late, and your eyes widen in horror as you quickly scramble to correct yourself.

“I—I mean, I like Chris’s dick better!”

Chris exhales sharply, a sound dangerously close to a laugh, and when you dare glance up at him, you can see it—he’s trying not to smile. His lips twitch, amusement flickering in his eyes despite the situation.

Han, on the other hand, whistles lowly. “Damn. Didn’t even have to try that hard.” He shakes his head, feigning disappointment. “I guess that settles it, then.”

Chris doesn’t waste another second. He steps forward, taking you by the hand—not rough, but firm enough to leave no room for argument. “Come on,” he murmurs, guiding you carefully toward the door.

As he leads you out, Han calls after you with a cheeky grin. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me!”

-

You step out of the bathroom, damp hair clinging to the sides of your face, the cold shower having done its job in sobering you up. As you tighten the belt around your bathrobe, you notice Chris already waiting for you in the suite’s dimly lit living area, a glass of water in his hand.

His gaze lifts the second he hears you, scanning you briefly before he holds the glass out. “Feel better now?” His voice is quiet, careful.

You nod, stepping forward to take the water from him. As you drink, Chris gestures for you to sit on the sofa, and he takes the spot beside you. The room is still, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning, and for a moment, neither of you speak.

Then Chris exhales, breaking the silence. “I’m sorry.”

You put the glass down and hold your hands up at him. “No—I should be the one apologizing. I—”

But Chris shakes his head. “I’m not talking about earlier. Well, not just earlier.” He pauses, shifting slightly so that he’s facing you. “I should’ve been honest with you from the start.”

Your breath catches, sensing the weight in his words. He watches you carefully, he licks his before saying, “I like you.”

The words are soft but firm, spoken as if he’s been holding them in for too long. Chris lets out a quiet, almost self-deprecating chuckle. “I liked you before all of this,” he continues, his fingers rubbing against his knee. “But you never noticed me. And I thought... maybe that meant you weren’t interested.” He hesitates, then sighs. “That’s why I took this whole condom thing as an excuse. Just so I could be close to you.”

Inside your chest, your heart stutters and your lips part slightly, but no words come out. You completely taken aback by his confession.

His eyes search yours, waiting, wanting. Then, with more certainty, he says it again—clearer, deeper. “I like you.”

The room feels smaller, like the air has thickened around you, pressing in with the weight of everything unsaid between you.

“I’m sorry it took me this long to tell you,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, almost hesitant.

Chris doesn’t break eye contact, and in the soft glow of the lamp, you see it—the quiet sincerity, the vulnerability he rarely ever lets show. He’s been waiting for this moment. For you.

Your heart is pounding. You don’t know if it’s from the weight of his confession or the way Chris is looking at you—hopeful, expectant, like he’s holding his breath for your answer. So you kiss him. You lean in without thinking, without hesitating, pressing your lips against his.

Chris responds instantly, a quiet sound of surprise escaping him before he kisses you back, his hand instinctively coming up to cup your cheek. The warmth of his lips, the way he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, the way he pulls you just a little closer—it’s overwhelming, dizzying, and you don’t realize how much you’ve wanted this until now.

When you finally pull away, your breaths are uneven, your hands trembling slightly against him. Chris watches you, his eyes dark and laced with something unreadable—until a slow, teasing smirk spreads across his face.

“So,” he drawls, voice lower now, “does this mean you like me? Or just my extra large dick?”

Your stomach flips, and you immediately fumble for a response. “I—I like you! Of course, I like you—”

Chris raises an eyebrow, still smirking, enjoying how he can easily tease you.

You groan, realizing your mistake. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t like your dick—”

Chris bites back a laugh while you sigh in frustration and run a hand through your hair before forcing yourself to take a deep breath. You look at him, trying to keep your voice steady. “What I mean is... your dick is a part of you. And I like you—all of you. As a whole person.”

Then you realize what you just said, and your face heats up instantly.

Chris grins, clearly enjoying your flustered state. He leans in, closing the distance between you again. “I really like when you get flustered like this,” he murmurs against your lips before kissing you again.

This time, he kisses you slower, deeper, savoring the moment. And when he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin as he whispers, “I like you whole too.”

-

You never thought this was how things would turn out. What started as a professional arrangement—just testing a product, just a temporary thing—became something else entirely. Somewhere between the teasing, the lingering glances, the way Chris always found a way to pull you into his orbit, you fell. Hard.

And now, lying beside him in bed, as you hover over him, your fingers brushing against his jaw before leaning in to kiss him again, you wonder how you ever thought you could keep things casual.

Slowly, his fingers work at the tie of your bathrobe, loosening it with quiet precision. You feel the fabric slacken around you, but he doesn’t push it off just yet. Instead, he looks up at you, his gaze heavy, filled with something you can’t quite put into words.

You pull back just enough to take him in—the way his lips are slightly parted, his hair mussed from your hands, the way his chest rises and falls steadily beneath you.

Chris catches your lingering stare, and a slow grin tugs at his lips. “What are you thinking?” His voice is warm, teasing, but there’s an underlying softness to it.

You hesitate before speaking. “I was just thinking… I never expected this.”

He chuckles as he runs his hand through your hair. “What? That you’d fall for me?”

You briefly look away before shyly denying it. “I didn’t say that.”

He grins, brushing his nose against yours. “You didn’t have to.”

You don’t answer—not with words, at least. Instead, you kiss him again, slower this time, letting yourself sink into the feeling of his lips, the way he responds to you so effortlessly.

As your mouths move together, you feel him shift beneath you, his hands finally sliding the bathrobe off your shoulders, letting it slip from your body. The cool air kisses your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his hands, the way they roam over you with quiet reverence.

Chris hums against your lips, his fingers tracing slow, circular patterns along your back. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper.

You shiver—not from the cold, but from the way he says it. From the way he looks at you, as if you’re something out of this world, ethereal. And then he’s pulling you down again, kissing you deeper, holding you against him like he has no intention of letting go.

The tension in the room only intensifies as your fingers trail down his front, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your touch. Chris exhales softly as your hand moves lower, calmly working open the button of his jeans before tugging down the zipper. He lowly groans when you push the fabric aside, his arousal springing free into your waiting hand.

You wrap your fingers around his cock, feeling the heat of him pulse beneath your touch as you start to lightly stroke him. He groans in response, his head tilting back against the pillows, his hands gripping the nape of your neck as he exhales a shaky breath.

“You’re really not gonna take it slow, huh?” he murmurs, his voice roughened by want, but there’s amusement laced in his words.

You glance up at him, a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips before you lower yourself further, trailing soft kisses down the ridges of his abs. His muscles tense beneath your touch, his breath uneven as you take your time.

Chris watches you with darkened eyes, his lips parted as you move lower still. Your head is hanging only inches from where he wants you the most and you're looking at him with mischievous glints in your eyes. His hand moves to your hair, not guiding, just resting, as if grounding himself in the feeling of you.

Keeping your eyes locked with his, your tongue glides slowly along his length, tracing every ridge and vein as you take your time tasting him. He growls low in his throat, the sound reverberating through the room, his grip tightening in your hair for just a second before he forces himself to relax.

When you finally take him into your mouth, inch by inch, he exhales sharply, his abs flexing beneath your hands. You try to take more of him, but his sheer size makes it difficult, and he notices immediately.

"Take it slow," he murmurs, his voice thick with restraint. His hand cradles the back of your head, not pushing, just guiding. "You're doing so well."

You pull away, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the tip of his cock and you lick your lips before you try again, taking him slower this time. You let out a soft, breathy sound against him, sending vibrations through his body. He props himself up on one elbow, glancing down to watch you, his gaze dark and filled with something deeper than just desire. The way your lips stretch around him, the warmth of your mouth enveloping him—he can’t tear his eyes away.

"Look at you," he mutters, slipping his fingers through your hair, brushing it back so he can see you better. His thumb grazes your cheek, his touch almost reverent. "Making me feel so good."

You feel the heat of his gaze searing into you, the way his muscles tense beneath your touch, the way his breath shudders out in ragged exhales. Every sound he makes, every soft praise he gives, spurs you on, making you want to push his control to the edge.

“Damn,” he breathes out, voice strained. His fingers thread through your hair, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. “You’re really trying to ruin me, huh?”

Your hand moves in perfect sync with your mouth, gliding along the rest of his length as you work him over with slow, gentle strokes. You can feel him losing his restraint, his fingers gripping your hair a little too tightly as he fights against the pleasure building inside him.

"Shit," he groans, his voice raw, his control slipping fast. You glance up at him through your lashes, meeting his dark, hooded gaze, and that alone seems to push him to the edge.

Before he can warn you, his body shudders, and he spills into your mouth with a sharp, choked sound. The warmth floods your tongue too quickly for you to take it all, and some dribbles past your lips, running down your chin.

Chris curses under his breath, quickly sitting up, his hand cupping your cheek. "I'm sorry—I didn’t mean to—" he starts, his thumb swiping at the mess on your chin, but you just softly smile at him in response. Then, without breaking eye contact, you tilt your head back slightly and swallow.

He watches, his chest rising and falling heavily, his lips parting in awe before he exhales a rough chuckle. His eyes darken with something deeper than just satisfaction.

"That was so fucking hot," he roughly murmurs before pulling you close and kissing you hard.

Chris pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his dark eyes filled with something intense, something hungry. Before you can react, he tilts your chin up and swipes his tongue along your skin, cleaning up the remnants of his release with slow, little licks. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, and before you can even catch your breath, his lips crash into yours again, deep and consuming.

Then, just as quickly, he pulls away and slides off the bed. You watch, dazed, as he strides across the room toward your bag perched on the chair.

Your stomach twists when you realize what he’s doing. "Chris—"

He ignores your protest, rummaging through your belongings with zero shame. "I know you keep them in here," he says, amusement laced in his tone.

You bury your face in your hands, mortified, as he finally retrieves a condom. But instead of returning right away, his fingers pause, and when you peek through your fingers, you see him holding something else. Something small. Something very, very familiar.

Chris turns around, holding up a tiny bottle and you slightly panic remembering the edible lube Jane slipped into your bag after the expo. His smirk deepens as he examines the label. "How did you know I like watermelon?" He quirks a brow at you.

Your face burns, completely flustered and a little mortified. "I—I didn’t!"

He hums, clearly enjoying your embarrassment, before tossing the bottle onto the bed beside you. Then he leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. "Guess we’ll have to put it to good use, then."

Chris pops the cap open with a soft click, and the sweet, fruity scent of watermelon fills the space between you. His gaze flickers up to yours, dark and amused, before he tips the bottle over your skin.

The cool gel dribbles onto your chest, your stomach, the sensitive curves of your breasts. You gasp at the sensation, your body tensing as he smears it over your skin with his broad hands, rubbing slow, teasing circles.

"Sensitive, huh?" His voice is warm with amusement as he smooths the lube over your skin, making sure to spread it evenly. "I’ll be gentle."

You barely have time to process his words before he leans in, his mouth pressing against your collarbone. His tongue swipes against your skin, slow and deliberate, tasting the sticky sweetness. The heat of his mouth contrasts with the cool gel, making you shiver as he works his way down, following the trail he created with his hands.

Chris hums as he licks a stripe up your chest, the vibration sending a fresh wave of tingles down your spine. "Not bad," he murmurs against your skin before he kisses the skin under your navel.

The next thing you know, his lips latch onto your hardening nipple, tugging it between his teeth, sucking at it so hard before finally letting go, leaving your nipple wet and swollen. He does the same with the other one but this time, his hand massaging your ample flesh in reverence, the lube makes his hand glides smoothly across the two mounds before he brings them to the middle, allowing him to take both nipples into his mouth.

You arch under his touch, hands gripping the sheets as he takes his time, licking, tasting, teasing. He’s thorough—almost too thorough—as if savoring every inch of you, dragging the moment out until you’re squirming beneath him, breathless and overstimulated.

Chris finally pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his lips glistening. He grins, voice husky when he says, "I think I might like watermelon even more now."

He watches you with a teasing glint in his eyes as he puts more lube on your most sensitive spot, his fingers moving with deliberate slowness as he smears it all over your pulsating sex. The cool sensation makes you gasp, your body instinctively arching against his touch. His smirk deepens at your reaction, and he dips his head, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh before looking up at you.

“You know,” he muses, dragging his fingers lazily through the slickness between your folds, “this might just be my new favorite flavor.”

Before you can respond, he leans in, his warm mouth pressing against your wetness, his tongue gliding through the sweetness he just applied. The contrast between the cool lube and the heat of his tongue sends a shudder through your body. His hands settle on your hips, holding you steady as he takes his time, savoring every movement.

Chris hums against you, the vibration making you gasp again, and he chuckles at your response. He flicks his tongue over your clit before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, his lips glistening. “You taste even sweeter now,” he says, his voice low and playful.

He doesn’t stop until he feels you tremble beneath him, his grip firm yet reassuring as he holds you in place. The tension coiling deep inside you finally unravels, and a soft cry escapes your lips as waves of pleasure crash over you. He doesn’t pull away immediately, instead, his tongue moving gently to prolong your high until you’re left gasping, your body still humming from the aftershocks.

When he finally lifts his head, his mouth is glistening with your essence, his eyes dark with satisfaction. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand before crawling up your body, settling between your legs as he hovers over you. There’s a teasing smirk on his lips as he leans in, brushing his mouth over yours.

“Told you,” he murmurs against your lips, the heat of his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

You don’t need to ask what he means—you can taste it for yourself as he deepens the kiss, letting you chase the sweetness lingering on his tongue. It’s intoxicating, the mix of his warmth and the remnants of your release making your head spin. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, slow and indulgent, and when he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breathing just as uneven as yours. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your hip, his touch gentle in contrast to everything that just happened.

“You good?” he asks softly, his voice laced with something deeper—something tender.

You nod, still catching your breath, and he smiles before pressing another kiss to your lips, softer this time. “Good,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

-

Instead of rushing right into it, Chris takes his time. His lips press gentle kisses along your collarbone, your shoulders, down your arms—anywhere he can reach. His hands follow the same path, fingertips tracing every inch of your skin, sending warmth through your entire body.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice filled with awe. His gaze sweeps over you, and there’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you, as if he can’t quite believe this is real.

His hands find your waist, thumbs brushing over your skin, his touch so delicate yet so certain. “I still can’t believe I get to touch you like this,” he admits, his voice hushed, almost as if he’s speaking to himself. “That I’m the only one who gets to see you like this, to admire you like this.”

The possessiveness in his words makes your heart stutter, but it’s not suffocating—it’s something deeper, something real. He presses a kiss to your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, before finally capturing your lips in a kiss that’s slow, unhurried, and filled with so much emotion that it makes your chest ache. “And I get to kiss you like this, as many times as I want.”

He shifts slightly, reaching between you both, and you hear the soft crinkle of the condom wrapper before he rolls it on. When he hovers over you again, his hands slide along your thighs, spreading them wider as he settles between them. But instead of rushing, he just looks at you, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours.

“I want you to remember this,” he whispers, his thumb brushing along your hip. “I want you to know how much I want you—how much I care about you.”

There’s nothing hurried about the way he touches you, nothing rushed in the way he moves. It’s a moment he’s savoring just as much as you are. And when he finally kisses you again, it’s deep and unspoken in its meaning, telling you everything he doesn’t need to say out loud.

Chris intertwines his fingers with yours as he aligns himself with you. His movements are filled with the same tenderness that lingers in his gaze. When he finally presses his cockto your entrance, he does so with utmost care, inching inside you with a patience that makes you hold your breath.

He pauses once he’s settled deep enough within you, not wanting to hurt you. He drops his head, his forehead pressing against yours as both of you take a moment to adjust—to the feeling, to the closeness, to everything unspoken between you. His thumb brushes soothing circles over the back of your hand, a silent reassurance as he waits for you.

When you finally whisper, "More," your voice is breathy, laced with need, he nods. With another slow, measured push, he eases himself deeper, filling you completely. A low groan escapes his lips, his grip on your hands tightening just slightly.

“God... you feel so good,” he murmurs, his voice husky with restraint. His praise sends warmth through you, making your body tense in the best way. He draws back just enough before sinking into you again, his movements fluid and controlled.

A sharp gasp leaves your lips as pleasure courses through you, and before you can stop yourself, your body clenches around him, the intensity overwhelming. Chris stills for a moment before chuckling softly, his breath warm against your cheek.

“Already?” he teases, his voice dripping with amusement. His thumb brushes over your cheek as he smiles down at you, his expression both affectionate and playful. “Guess you really are getting used to me.”

Even as heat floods your face, you can’t help but melt at the way he looks at you—like he’s reveling every second of this moment with you.

Chris stills for a moment, his forehead resting lightly against yours as he breathes you in. His voice is gentle when he asks, “Do you need a moment?”

You shake your head almost immediately, fingers tightening around his. “No,” you whisper, your breath warm against his lips. “Keep going.”

His lips curve into the softest smile before he obeys, rolling his hips with slow, deliberate movements, never breaking eye contact. There’s something about the way he looks at you—like you’re the only thing that matters in this moment, like he wants to memorize every breath, every sigh, every quiet gasp that escapes your lips.

Your hands remain intertwined, his grip firm yet reassuring, grounding you in the moment. Each measured thrust is unrushed, filled with something deeper than just desire. It’s as if he’s pouring every unspoken feeling into the way he moves, into the way he holds you, into the way he kisses your knuckles between each lingering gaze.

The world outside fades, leaving only the quiet creak of the mattress, the mingling of breaths, and the warmth of his body pressed against yours. You feel everything—his touch, his presence, the emotions lingering between you.

Chris leans in, his lips brushing against your cheek before trailing down to your jaw. “You’re perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with something tender.

And as he continues, keeping that slow, steady rhythm, you realize that this—being here with him, feeling this close—feels like something you never expected but something you never want to end.

This overwhelming feeling is taking over you. Your fingers tighten around Chris’s as you let out a soft, desperate whine. “Chris… I-I’m close.”

He hastily kisses you, his breath warm, his voice nothing but a soothing murmur. “It’s okay, baby,” he reassures you, his movements steady and unhurried. “Just let go.”

His words wash over you like a gentle tide, grounding you as you feel yourself unravel beneath him. But just as you’re about to fall apart, his pace never faltering, his gaze shifts—turning impossibly tender, reverent even. He looks at you as if you’re something sacred, something he never wants to let go of. His fingers squeeze yours as his lips part, his voice barely above a whisper. “You were made just for me.”

The words settle deep inside you, hitting somewhere beyond the physical, beyond the moment. And as you break apart beneath him, as he holds you through it, you realize—you’ve never felt more cherished than you do in this very moment.

Chris keeps moving, his rhythm growing more erratic as he chases his own release. His breaths turn ragged, his grip on your intertwined hands tightening as he buries his face against your neck. The warmth of his body, the way he clings to you, makes everything feel even more intimate.

And then, with a deep, shuddering groan, he finally lets go. His body tenses for a moment before he sinks into you completely, his weight pressing you into the bed as he collapses on top of you.

You wrap your arms around him instinctively, your fingers running soothingly down his back as he relishes the aftershocks of his climax. His chest rises and falls against yours, his breath warm on your skin, and for a long moment, neither of you say anything. There’s no need to—because right now, in this quiet, tangled-up moment, everything is exactly as it should be.

-

The slivers of sunlight shine through the cracks between the curtains. You stir awake, warmth surrounding you, and it takes you a moment to register the steady rise and fall of Chris’s breathing behind you. His strong arm is wrapped around your waist, holding you close, his body pressed flush against yours.

A slow, lazy kiss lands on your shoulder, then another, trailing up to the curve of your neck. His lips are warm, lingering, as if he’s enjoying the feel of you. His hand moves too—palming your breast with a gentle squeeze, your nipple is caught between his fingers.

You shift slightly, turning your head toward him, but before you can even murmur a good morning, he captures your lips in a deep, unhurried kiss. It’s soft at first, teasing, but then he deepens it, his fingers tightening around you as he pulls you impossibly closer. There’s a tenderness to the way he kisses you, like he’s been waiting all night for this.

As Chris finally pulls away from the kiss, his lips hover over yours, reluctant to part completely. You smile softly, your voice still laced with sleep as you murmur, “Good morning.”

He grins, pressing another quick peck to your lips before whispering, “Morning.”

For a moment, the two of you simply lay there, tangled up in each other, until a thought crosses your mind. “Should we be working today?” you ask, half-expecting him to remind you of responsibilities.

But he shakes his head, his fingers absentmindedly drawing patterns on your bare skin. “Let’s take another day off,” he suggests, his tone light, as if it’s the easiest decision in the world.

You hum in agreement, feeling no urge to argue. Just as he leans in for another kiss, you stop him with a playful, “Breakfast?”

Chris sighs dramatically, his lips curling into a smirk. “We can order it later.”

Before you can protest, his hand slips under the duvet, sliding along your thigh before gently lifting it, just enough to allow him access. A quiet giggle escapes you as you feel his morning wood nestled between your legs, his growing arousal pressing against your core.

“How did that get there?” you tease, your voice laced with amusement.

Chris chuckles, his lips brushing over yours. “It's your fault that I can't get enough of you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with affection and something more.

He kisses you again, deep and unhurried, stealing your breath and any lingering thoughts of breakfast. When he breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, he grins and says, “Maybe we should take one week off instead of just one day.”

You laugh softly at his suggestion, shaking your head at his playful grin. “One week?” you echo, arching a brow.

Chris hums, nuzzling against your neck. “Mm-hmm. One whole week. Just you and me.” His voice is warm, coaxing, tempting you into believing that reality can wait just a little longer.

And maybe it can.

Because right now, wrapped up in Chris’s arms, feeling the gentle way he touches you, the lazy kisses he presses to your skin, the way his body molds so perfectly against yours—it’s a moment you don’t want to end. A feeling you don’t want to slip away.

So instead of responding, you just sigh and pull him closer, pressing your lips to his once more, hoping that if you hold on tight enough, you can make this moment last forever.

-

You're in the middle of typing your report when the sharp scent of nail polish fills the air. You glance to the side and see Jane casually lounging next to you, legs crossed, meticulously painting her nails a deep red.

“You know this isn’t your personal salon, right?” you say, arching a brow.

Jane smirks, blowing lightly on her freshly painted nails. “Please, I work hard. I deserve some self-care during office hours.”

Before you can argue, your phone buzzes. You pick it up, and a message from Chris flashes on the screen.

Come to my office.

You swallow, already feeling the anticipation stir in your stomach. “I have to go,” you say, standing up.

Jane doesn't even look up as she caps her nail polish bottle. “Oh, I know where you're going.” She gives you a sly smile. “And yes, please take as much time as you want.”

Heat creeps up your neck, but you don’t dignify her with a response. Instead, you roll your eyes and make your way to Chris’s office, trying not to let your mind wander about why exactly he wants to see you.

After knocking on his door, you let yourself into Chris’s office and close the door behind you. He’s at his desk, leaning back in his chair with one hand resting on the armrest, the other scrolling through something on his screen. At the sound of your footsteps, he looks up and gives you a small, knowing smile.

“Come in,” he says, motioning for you to step closer.

You do, stopping in front of his desk, hands clasped in front of you. “You called?”

Chris leans forward, elbows on the desk. “How’s the development going?”

It takes you a second to register that he’s actually asking about work. You clear your throat. “Good. We’re finalizing the flavored variants for the extra-large line.”

Chris hums, pushing back his chair and standing up. “Flavored, huh?” He takes slow steps toward the door, locking it with a quiet click before turning back to you. “Like what flavors?”

“Strawberry, vanilla, chocolate—”

Your words cut off when he suddenly closes the distance between you, his hands finding your waist, pulling you flush against him. The warmth of his body, the way his fingers press into your lower back, sends a shiver down your spine.

“You’ve been working hard,” Chris murmurs, his breath fanning over your lips. “Think you deserve a little break.”

Before you can say anything, he tilts his head down and presses his lips to yours, soft yet firm, coaxing, as if he’s been waiting all day to do this. The moment you melt into the kiss, he deepens it, one hand moving up to cup the back of your head and the other hand cupping your clothed ass cheek. The locked door, the office setting, the way he holds you like he can’t get enough—it all makes your head spin.

Chris doesn’t break the kiss as he lifts you effortlessly, placing you on the edge of his desk. His hands settle on your thighs, keeping you close as he kisses you again—slow and deep, like he has all the time in the world.

Against his lips, you murmur, “Chris… we’re in the middle of work.”

He pulls back just enough to smirk at you, his eyes dark with amusement. “You can continue. I’m listening.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but the way he looks at you—completely enamored—makes it impossible to push him away. So, despite everything, you attempt to continue.

“The flavored variants… we’re still testing… different formulas,” you say, your voice slightly uneven as Chris leans in, pressing soft kisses along your jaw.

“Mhm,” he hums as he trails down to your neck, his lips warm against your skin.

“We need to make sure… the taste is pleasant without affecting…” You gasp slightly when he finds a sensitive spot on your neck and nips at it. “…the integrity of the material.”

Chris chuckles, the sound low and teasing. “Sounds like important work.”

His lips find yours again, and this time, you don’t even attempt to finish your sentence. You sigh against him, tilting your head as he deepens the kiss, his fingers gripping your hips.

At this point, work is the last thing on your mind so you wrap your arms around Chris, pulling him closer as his lips move against yours, slow and unhurried. His hands explore your waist, your back, his fingers pressing into you like he never wants to let go.

But then, the sharp ring of his landline cuts through the moment. Chris groans in frustration, ignoring it in favor of deepening the kiss, but you pull back just enough to reach for the receiver, pressing it into his hand.

He glares at the phone like it personally offended him but sighs before answering. “Chris speaking.”

Even as he listens to the voice on the other end, his hands remain on you. One slides up your thigh, slipping beneath your skirt, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin. Your breath hitches when he teasingly brushes where you want him the most, his fingers graze the lacey fabric of your underwear and you grip his shoulders, trying to stay composed.

Chris smirks at your reaction but lets out another sigh before responding into the phone. “Yeah. I’ll be there in ten.”

With clear reluctance, he hangs up, his fingers still tracing circles on your thigh. “I guess work wins this round,” he mutters, his gaze flickering back to your lips.

You try to catch your breath, trying to ignore the way your body still aches for his touch. “You should go.”

Chris leans in one last time, stealing a lingering kiss before finally stepping back. “I’ll make it up to you later.”

And with the way he’s looking at you, you have no doubt that he will.

You smooth down your skirt, still trying to collect yourself as you slide off his desk. "And I should get back to work," you mumble, your voice not as steady as you'd like.

Chris watches you with an amused glint in his eyes, arms crossed over his chest like he’s enjoying the effect he has on you. As you turn toward the door, he calls out, “Oh, and by the way—”

You stop on your track and glance back at him.

His smirk deepens. “We’re testing the vanilla-flavored one tonight.”

Your breath catches, heat creeping up your neck at the implication. Chris simply grins, his gaze unwavering, and you quickly turn on your heel. As you walk out of his office, you swear you can still feel his smirk lingering in the air behind you.

-

The workday drags on longer than usual, but eventually, it’s time to leave. As you step into the elevator, exhausted yet content, the doors begin to close—until a hand slips between them at the last second.

Chris steps inside with his usual confidence, his presence filling the small space effortlessly. Dressed in his button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, he looks every bit the professional and the man who has spent countless nights unraveling you.

He glances at you, a smirk playing at his lips. “So,” he starts, leaning against the elevator wall, “are you ready to test the vanilla-flavored one tonight?”

He then eyes your bag and grins, his dimples sunken into his cheeks. “I know the condom is there. In your bag.”

Your body betrays you before you can even form a response—cheeks heating, heart skipping, breath catching. You hate how easily he can do this to you.

Chris tilts his head, clearly enjoying your reaction. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

You look away. “No.”

He chuckles. “Liar.”

Before you can defend yourself, he moves closer, his body inches from yours. His fingers brush against your wrist, then trail up your arm, setting every nerve alight. “You know,” he murmurs, his voice dropping lower, “I really like it when you get flustered.”

And then his lips are on yours—warm, slow, and deliberate. The kind of kiss that makes time irrelevant, that makes you forget you’re still in the office elevator. You sigh into it, your body melting against him as his hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer.

The soft ding of the elevator chime startles you both. The doors glide open, revealing the lobby, and Chris pulls back just enough to look at you. His hand finds yours, fingers threading together, and with a knowing smile, he simply says—

“Let’s go home.”

-

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[moonchildstyles]

cloudburst

y/n and harry broke up. he goes on a date, and y/n drives in the rain.

wordcount: 8.5k+

—————

(Y/N) knew it was hypocritical to be feeling jealous at the moment—pathetic, even. She was there that night, she knew she was the one that ended her relationship with Harry. He was single, and there was nothing wrong with him going out with another girl; he could take her to whatever restaurant he wanted, including the one that they had found together last month. 

It had only been a couple of weeks, though. And, he had been the one that wanted to try and work things out with her. Harry had been the one that was insistent that they could work through this—the miscommunications, the lack of time together, the passive aggressive arguments—, but now he was the one moving on nearly immediately. She wanted to cry that it wasn't fair, that he was supposed to still be torn up about it the same as she was. 

It wasn't as if she didn't love him anymore or was itching to get out and meet other people, she was just finding herself more unhappy than she was happy when she thought about him. He had told her that he loved her, that he wanted her—needed her—when she had sat him down, she thought neither of them would be moving on this quickly. 

But, it's fine. It's whatever. Good for him. 

Locking her phone, she placed it face down on her kitchen counter with a startling slam. She didn't double check to see if she had cracked her screen, instead stepping away from the device all together as if it wanted to sulk just as back as she. If her phone was a good friend, it would delete the Instagram app as soon as possible; there was no reason to see any more pictures of Harry and his new friend at dinner. 

Forcing her head to clear, (Y/N) padded through her apartment with the intention of cleaning up. The last weeks had left her with heartbreak brain, chores having been pushed to the wayside as she recovered. When was the last time she went grocery shopping? Had she really run out of tissues or did she have an extra stash in some closet she'd been too lazy to check? 

She shook her head, taking the pile of dirty socks to her washing machine while her mind raced with distractions. It was late, but she could go grocery shopping, at least to pick up a few essentials so she didn't order in again for the next couple of days. Seeing the world for another reason instead of work would be good for her, she thought. Even if the thought of putting on shoes that weren't slippers made her want to tear up. 

After starting up the washing machine, she trudged up the stairs towards her room. The cloudy night called for something warmer than the ratted t-shirt and frayed shorts she had on, leaving her to rifle through the collection of sweats she had tucked in her dresser. No matter the garment she pulled out of the drawer, didn't seem to be enough; not thick enough, soft enough, warm enough. Leaving the pieces in a mess in the drawer, she didn't let herself think before she was drifting to her closet where there was a too familiar hoodie hanging up. 

The smell wasn't quite as strong as it had been weeks ago, but there was still a faint scent of Harry's cologne embedded in the fibers. It was truly nothing more than a plain black hoodie, the material showing wear in the way the strings were tied into a bow at the neck with frays at the end, holes lining the sleeve hems, and a lipstick stain smeared on the back shoulder in a shade she had on her bathroom counter. Though it was his hoodie, she had stolen it enough times that it lived at her home with Harry taking it back every now and then, imprinting himself on it for her to revel in once he gave it back. 

Taking her bottom lip between her teeth, she knew it was a bad idea. There was no reason for her to wear that hoodie. Really, it was surprising that he hadn't asked for it back yet—especially if he was going out with other girls. 

It would be crazy for her to wear it, right? It was not normal to be mourning a relationship she ended. That was not her hoodie.

She slipped it on, anyway. 

As much as (Y/N) was crazy, and hypocritical, and jealous, and insensitive—she missed him. 

This whole thing would be a lot easier if she wasn't still in love with him. If he had just broken her heart and ruined those feelings for him, she wouldn't be feeling insane as she pulled the sleeves over her hands and pretended as if she wasn't breathing in his scent. 

Going out didn't seem so bad when she had this on, though.

Collecting her bag and keys, she made a point to rush through the final steps of readying herself before she was going out the door. If she waited too long, she might end up crying in this hoodie instead. 

Outside, it was raining much harder than she had initially thought. Pulling up her hood, she attempted to protect her hair from the droplets though there were casualties that were immediately pasted to her face. By the time she made it to her car, the hoodie was beginning to grow heavy against her back, rain streaked down her bare legs (in the interest of getting out of the house, she didn't change from her shorts like she'd wanted), and her lashes made heavy with mist. 

Once safe inside her car, she pulled in a heavy breath. 

She could do this. While Harry was out at dinner on a date, she'd go pick up some spaghetti noodles and more cheese than she should eat in a week.

Because she wasn't upset. She wanted to be broken up. She's fine.

With a forceful turn of the key in the ignition, (Y/N) gladly focused on the mechanics of driving through the rain as opposed to everything else on her mind. The clean scent in the air filtered through the cab, comforting her more than she realized. 

No doubt, she could do this. 

Pulling onto the main road, she turned up her music to be heard over the sound of the rain beating against the windscreen. The pavement was slick, dyed a slate black with the help of the droplets, puddles growing in every small divot in the road. The streetlamp twinkled off of the gathered water, rippling with each added drop. Everything was just a bit bleary through the windshield, even with the reach of her wipers going in overtime to wipe away the streaks. 

While she was never a huge fan of driving in less than perfect conditions, especially at night, the scene out here tonight was a perfect match to the pit in her stomach. It made sense for the weather to act this way, she thought; she was too torn up for the world to be given a cloudless, warm night. 

The music playing sifted through a playlist she'd found the other day, her search having been nothing more than for "breakup music". While she didn't know every song, or if she was even allowed to be moping to the tunes considering she was the one that cut things off, the lyrics she could catch were felt in her chest with a weight on her lungs. The ones about the other party moving on before the singer was ready stung particularly sharp tonight.

Especially when an all too familiar song started up, a voice she'd heard thousands of times before pleading with his ex lover to keep from calling her new flame "baby". 

This song had come out long before (Y/N) had met Harry, written with another in mind, but she remembered listening to it back then. She remembered wondering just how heartbroken one would have to be to write stanzas just as these, how hurtful it would be to see your love finding someone else to take your place. 

(Y/N) automatically reached out to skip the song, not even knowing it was on the playlist despite it being an obvious pick, but her hand stopped short. 

It'd been weeks since she heard his voice, even longer since he sang around her. Even if this was through speakers, mastered and fit to music, it was something she'd been missing despite pretending she didn't. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, dropping her and back to the steering wheel as if she hadn't just submitted to self-torture. 

As the tune went on, (Y/N) no longer had to wonder what kind of heartbreak went into poetry like this. She was right where Harry used to be, wishing he would give her just a bit longer of pretending to be his baby before he chose another. 

She hadn't realized she was tearing up until her wipers were unable to keep her view from being blurry. The rain outside now paled in comparison to pools glimmering at her waterline. Her skin felt hot, resistant to the chill seeping through her vents. She didn't even make it through the full of the outro before she repeated the song once more, knowing it would only spur her tears on that much more. 

Before she knew it, her bottom lip was quivering before a broken sob puffed from her lips. She sniffled with tears racing down her cheeks, searing over her warmed skin. 

It wasn't her business, but did he share the same bite of sushi with this new girl that he'd also given to (Y/N) a month ago? Did he order the same bottle of rosé? Did he reach across the table to push her hair out of her face just as he did for (Y/N)? Was tonight going to be the first date they would relay to friends and family when asked how they had found someone so special? She had no right to ask any of these questions, but was Harry going to fall in love with this new girl? 

Did he think of (Y/N) at all tonight, like she was thinking of him? 

The idea of being on Harry's mind at all was enough to have her hands tensing around the wheel, but the thought of not crossing it at all had them shaking instead. Her eyes were flooded, hands wavering on the steering wheel, skin warm and nose wet. The rain beat down against the hood of her car with as much force as her heartbeat, riding the tempo as if she couldn't hear it well enough in her ears. 

She shouldn't've left the house tonight. It would be way easier to sob like this if she wasn't having to also keep track of the road in front of her and the slick pavement beginning to flood with more water than the drains lining the sidewalks could handle. At least she seemed to be the only one out on the road at the moment. 

Scrubbing her hand over her eyes, she attempted to clear them in hopes of regaining her focus. The song was over now and she planned on wiping that song and subsequent album from her vicinity as soon as she made it to the grocery store. 

By the time she blinked her eyes open, lashes sticking to one another under the weight of her tears, she was only a few hundred feet away from the vague outline of a stoplight. She hadn't even seen the light shift from green to yellow, let alone to the blazing red that shone overhead. 

Of course, now would be the time she saw one other person on the road, already creeping out into the intersection to use their own green light. 

In a knee-jerk reaction, (Y/N) stomped on her brakes. Her breath caught when she felt that tell-tale give under her tires, the feel of the back of her car shifting out of sync with the steering wheel. 

The broken rattling of her heart was replaced by the pounding of the beats against her ribs as she realized there was no way she was going to stop. She was currently gliding over the road, her tires unable to grip onto anything underneath them through the layer of rain on the pavement. All she could do was turn the steering wheel and hope that her car followed, hopefully missing the poor bystander who would learn that she wasn't paying as much attention as she should have been when coming to the intersection. 

Every thought in her head seemed to happen in slow motion, but the world around her raced by in a second. She could feel her mouth moving, her voice muttering curses that made no sense, but there wasn't a single sound she heard over her heartbeat. Beyond her windows, the rain blurred every moving shape, her foot still heavy on the brake despite it being a fruitless effort. 

Headlights shone against her face for a brief second before she cranked the wheel, spinning just in time as she hit the middle of the intersection. Her new bleary view showed off the vague outline of the pole of the stoplight for a brief moment before spinning out even further until she was facing the direction she'd come in, her car turning in a complete one-eighty in her lane until everything suddenly stopped with a metallic crunch. 

She heard the impact before she felt it. Her driver's side door whammed into the pole of the stoplight, denting through the layers of metal with the window cracking and breaking. Prisms of glass rained over her, grazing her face and tops of her thighs with prickling shards. Her dented door threaded to push in on her before stopping, leaving a pressure against the side of her body and a complicated way to get out of the vehicle once she found her head. Her dashboard was lit up with every caution insignia as if she had no idea of what had just happened. Through the broken window, rain began to stream in, seeping into the cuts on her face and legs. She shivered though she couldn't feel a single chill from the air, her body beginning to reel from the accident she had just found herself in. 

In the back of her mind, over the pelting rain and pounding heartbeat, she heard her breakup playlist filtering through the remaining speakers. 

A wretchedly familiar voice singing about fine lines and being alright. 

"Hon? Are you okay?" 

Turning to face the nice woman who'd come to check on her after witnessing her blunder, (Y/N) opened her mouth to respond. 

She burst into tears.

—————

Harry really needed to stop wearing this necklace. 

He'd known that for the last few weeks, and, yet, every time he'd thought to unclasp it and put it at the bottom of a jewelry box to never be seen again, he never had the strength to. Instead, he continued to wear it every day, absently playing with the single pearl sitting at the base of his throat. 

Natalie watched as he fiddled with the pendant, but he still couldn't get himself to stop his idle hands. 

He hadn't even wanted to be here tonight, anyway—he had to self-soothe somehow, even if that meant playing with the necklace his ex-girlfriend gifted to him. 

Natalie was nice enough, a friend of a friend of a friend who'd been around to some parties here and there, but she wasn't (Y/N). Harry had only agreed to come out tonight in hopes of giving him a reason to wash his hair and eat something that wasn't bread or coffee while sitting on the kitchen floor. Even with clean hair and an order of his favorite sushi cleared from his plate, he still felt slices of guilt; one for going out with someone while still being very hung up on his ex, and for going out at all with someone who wasn't (Y/N). 

Harry wasn't stupid, he'd caught the cell phones pointed in his direction when he and his date had been seated. If it wasn't up already, it was only a matter of time before those photos would be circulating on all of the socials and appearing on timelines. He could already picture the headlines for tomorrow morning, detailing the mystery woman on this dinner date while questions about his previous flame were posed. He just hoped (Y/N) would somehow be able to dodge these flecks of news—even for only a couple of days. 

Hopefully, he'd have a chance to talk to her before she knew. If she was open to hearing from him, he'd explain where he was coming from in even agreeing to this date, and maybe she'd take him back. If she knew he was still in love with her, willing to change his schedule, relearn how to communicate, start going to therapy weekly again, would it be enough to salvage their relationship? 

"But, what about you?" 

Being pulled from his head, Harry had to face Natalie with a blink of his eyes. She had been talking about a movie or something—or was it her last holiday?—, but he hadn't heard a single word. Another pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach. 

He thumbed over the pearl at his throat. "Um... I'm so sorry, wh—" 

Divine intervention came in the form of his phone vibrating in his pocket. He shot an apologetic smile at Natalie before slipping the device out of his pocket, eager to pick up for whoever was on the other side. 

Until he saw the contact name, anyway. 

(Y/N)'s mother. She was calling him. 

"Who is it?" Natalie asked, canting her head at Harry's startled expression. 

"Um... Jus'—uh—someone I haven't heard from in a while. I have to take this, 'm sorry." 

He didn't catch Natalie's reaction before he was rising from his seat and heading towards the front door with the phone pressed to his ear. Rain sprinkled over his head while thunder cracked in the distance. A darker storm was moving in. 

"Hello?" 

"Harry?! Harry, are you there?" 

"'M here, yeah. Is everything alright?" He'd never heard her voice in such a frantic state, especially not over the phone like this. Was she that upset over the breakup? 

"(Y/N)—It's (Y/N). She's been in an accident, and I—we—Her father and I, we're—She's alone. I-I know you two broke up, but she's in the hospital by herself and the nurse said she's not doing okay, she's—I don't know, I don't want her to be alone but I can't get on a flight until tomorrow morning and there's—" 

Frantic chattering continued on through the receiver, but there wasn't a single syllable that was able to breach his thoughts. 

(Y/N) was in the hospital. She'd been in an accident and was now at the hospital. Alone. She wasn't doing well while she was in the hospital after being in an accident, all alone. 

His stomach turned. 

"Wha—Where's the hospital? What hospital is it?" 

Was he having a heart attack? Every beat of the organ fluttered at the base of his throat, the chambers squeezed tight. 

He needed to find her. She couldn't be alone. She had to be okay and he needed to be there. 

Her mother shakily relayed the name of the hospital and room number, stumbling over the syllables until Harry had them seared into his memory.

"I-I'm so sorry to ask you, I know what—" 

"No, no," he shook off her words, "Th-Thank you for telling me. 'M going to her right now, I'll let you know how she's doing." 

Shaky goodbyes were shared with quiet sobs sounding on the end of the other line. Harry felt breathless as he stowed his phone away, hands shaking with fumbling fingers. His head was a mess. 

All he wanted to do was go—get in his car and go, be with (Y/N). But, there was Natalie sitting at their table, a dessert ordered to the table with their check of sushi and wine waiting with their server. There were people around them who would no doubt post about any kind of commotion he sounded tonight, perhaps even leak his location if hearing he was on the way to a hospital in the city. (He usually liked to see the best in others, but it'd happened before, these wild invasions of privacy). 

Despite every instinct pushing him towards the parking lot and abandoning the night, Harry forced himself to walk back into the restaurant. He held a thin grip on his control, but it was enough to get him back to his table with Natalie so he could quietly speak with her. 

"Is everything okay?" she asked before he'd even taken his seat. 

Swallowing, his throat bobbed as he shook his head. "No, actually. I—'m really sorry, Natalie, but I have to go. My, um, a friend of mine—they're in the hospital. I need to go." 

Natalie's features were marred with surprise, mouth dropped open with her lashes in a glimmering flutter up at him. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. That's so scary. No worries, go ahead I'll take care of everything. Call me when you can, okay?" 

Meeting the blue shimmer of her gaze, Harry felt his features tighten. She was much too nice for him. 

He wasn't going to call. 

Harry didn't say anything before he was rushing out of sight, only stopping at the hostess station for a slick second to tell the staff to charge the card attached to the reservation. Natalie was open to order whatever she wanted for the rest of the night, but she wasn't paying for a single cent. This would be his apology for never calling. 

It was with shaky fingers that he typed in the name of the hospital (Y/N) was at—all alone—as soon as he was in his car. Though his heartbeat didn't settle much, his head felt a bit clearer knowing that with every mile he was cruising down the street, he was growing closer to (Y/N). His hands couldn't stay idle for very long, consistently reaching up to the necklace around his throat. 

(Y/N) was going to be alright, right? 

The question warmed the backs of his eyes, flushing his skin. As much as he wanted—needed—to be at her side, Harry realized he wasn't sure what he was walking into. Her mother had said she wasn't doing okay—whatever that meant. What kind of scene was he going to walk into? 

Stop lights and brake lights passing in a blur through the growing rain, Harry made it to the hospital in record time. The pavement was slick, reflecting the glow of the streetlamps and the many car lights bumbling through the carpark. He didn't think before he was pulling into the first spot he found, parking at a sloppy angle before he was rushing out. 

With the rain coming down, his hair fell across his forehead, slicking to his skin. The droplets acted as the tears he was unwilling to shed until he saw (Y/N) in person. 

He marched his way into reception, shoes squeaking over the linoleum. Behind the desk, a woman perked up, spotting him with bored eyes before she perked up with recognition he knew too well. 

"Hi, um, how can I help you?" she sputtered. 

Unable to muster a greeting smile, he kept his eyes low. "I—um—I need to see someone, please?" 

The rest of the checkin passed in a daze, Harry only barely able to keep himself from begging to see (Y/N). He relayed as much information as he could, showing any kind of identification needed. He was more than thankful to hear that her parents had approved his visit during their initial phone call, something he filed away for later so he could thank them when he had a clear mind. 

The best thing he heard, the one that stuck glaringly in his mind, was the fact that she wasn't housed anywhere to be treated for critical pain. She was being held somewhere safe and hopefully comfortable. 

Following the given directions, Harry felt like a ghost as he floated through the different doors and elevators. He moved restlessly while he dinged through the floors, feet shuffling while his eyes were trained on the rising numbers. 

Was this the slowest elevator on earth? Or were they always like this? 

Once set free on the correct floor, Harry floated through the halls, sweaty palms pressed into the pockets of his pants. All he could focus clearly on was the room numbers pinned beside the doors, the thumps of his heart bubbling in his ears. 

After going down what felt like endless miles of hallways, the correct room number finally appeared before him. The door was shut, the lights inside dim. His hand hesitated on the door handle.

He had been so consumed with making it to her, to make himself feel better with the sight of her, that he hadn't really considered if she would even want to see him. If she wasn't asleep at the moment, would she just kick him out? She had been the one to break up with him, anyway. 

Before he could doubt himself any more, he pushed through, keeping his steps light over the linoleum. 

Just as he thought, the room was quiet and dark, rain streaking down the window. There was a warm glow coming from the standing lamp at the corner of the room, machines beeping along with the television with a made-for-tv movie playing. A whiteboard marked with her name was pinned to the wall, filled with stats and jargon Harry didn't have the mind to decipher. 

Amongst it all, (Y/N) was laid in the hospital bed with the thin covers pulled to her middle. Her eyes were shuttered, showing off the bruising underneath alongside the myriad of cuts over her skin. As peaceful as she appeared, sleeping away under the crumpled sheets, Harry couldn't help the tears that touched his eyes. 

With the door closing behind him, he drew closer to her bed. It didn't take much examination to spot the tear tracks glimmering on her cheeks, the swollen puff of her lips. It was the same way she'd looked when she had told him she didn't want to be with him any longer. 

Harry wasn't sure what broke his heart more: the obvious evidence of weeping on her features, or the fact that her tears would have skated over every cut and scratch marring her cheeks? 

He shuffled over the floor. He wanted to be at her side, hold her hand and let her know she wasn't alone anymore, but he didn't want to wake her. There was a reason that she wasn't allowed to head home after being checked out by the hospital team, the more rest she received the better. 

Instead, he gingerly made his way to her bedside, taking a spot in the uncomfortable chair seemingly waiting for him in the lamplight. With the way she was laid up in the bed, he had an unobstructed view of her relaxed features, some of the more notable injuries on her face bandaged up while others were left treated with nothing more than a glistening salve. She didn't look particularly comfortable, especially knowing how she usually liked to curl up with her hands to her cheek and legs to her chest, but this was better than nothing. 

Better than being in a wrecked car somewhere. 

The thought was sobering, enough to have those tears he had been urging away to resurface on his waterline once more. 

She was here. (Y/N) was okay—hurt, but well enough to be left to sleep on her own. She was no longer alone. 

He hung his head in his hands. He didn't want to think about what kind of accident would have put her here, blood on her face with machines monitoring every vital in her body. 

With those tears in his eyes, peeking up at her between his lashes, she looked like a watercolor painting. The edges were blurred, leaving the general outline of the person that filled his dreams and became his muse for the better part of the last year and a half. 

He couldn't believe the last month of his life. He'd lost her. And for what? Because he didn't think it was important enough to send her a text when he was going to be out later than initially thought? Because it was easier to let his schedule happen to him, as opposed to shaping his life around making enough time to spend time with her? Because why would he talk to her, tell her where he was coming from, when he could be passive aggressive and sweep everything under the rug instead?

The beeping of the heart monitor was the pitched baseline that anchored him to the room. Every dotted sound kept him from being swept away in the rivers of tears dripping down his heated cheeks. 

He could have lost her today. In the worst case scenario of this day, he would have received a very different phone call. He wouldn't have had the chance to sit at her side right now. He wouldn't have seen these healing injuries on her, instead having only old photographs to remember what life looked like on her. 

As cracked as his heart was at the moment, he would take these cuts and scrapes, this uncomfortable chair, the stiff set of her bedding, over any other ending this night could have had. 

The rain pelted against the window as Harry fixed his gaze to the love of his life. 

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, if it had been nothing more than a few minutes or if it had been hours at her side, until there was the soft click of the doorknob twisting with the door pushed open. Entering was a nurse in soft purple scrubs, hair pulled back and a clipboard in her hands. She had her eyes trained down before looking up to catch Harry wiping his eyes and (Y/N) unstirring in her bed. 

"Oh, hello," she murmured, voice soft as they were both aware of the patient in bed, "I didn't know she was having any visitors tonight." 

A barely there smile curled Harry's cheeks, his skin smooth of dimples. "Yeah, got here as fast as I could. Have you been helping her?" 

The nurse shook her head, "A little, but she's been asleep for most of it. Poor thing cried herself into exhaustion, so I doubt she really remembers meeting me." 

Her statement had his bottom lip quivering. Harry had to remind himself to be grateful she was even here to cry. 

"She's doing alright, though?" 

With a quick glance at the clipboard, the nurse nodded her head. "Yeah, she's doing much better—now that she's calmed down a little. We've just gotta keep an eye on her for tonight. She got a good crack to her head, so I want to make sure she doesn't sleep for too long tonight." 

Harry gave her a nod, a moment from offering to wake (Y/N) for her before the nurse stepped forward. In gentle tones with a hand to her shoulder, she woke (Y/N). 

Unlike her, she had been sleeping rather lightly, jumping awake after only a single call of her name. (Y/N) fluttered her eyes open, lashes sticking together from the dried crust of her tears, enough so that she reached her scratched hands up to rub the mess away. 

"Hi," (Y/N) greeted, her voice in a croak as she got her bearings. 

"Hello," the nurse responded with a gentle smile, "Sorry to wake you, hon. I just wanted to check on you, then you're good to go to sleep, again." 

"Okay," (Y/N) breathed, struggling to sit up. 

Without thinking, Harry surged forward, helping her as much as he could. The second he put his hands on her, (Y/N) jumped, having not seen him prior.

It was clear she was more than surprised to see him with the way her eyes widened, blanching at the sight of him. 

"Harry?"

He offered a quiet, thin smile, sitting back in his spot once she was stable, sitting up for the nurse. "Hi." 

Before much else could be shared between them, the nurse began running her tests. Small talk was shared between the two, (Y/N) glancing more than once in Harry's direction. His hands were a fiddling mess in his lap, watching with rapt attention as every evaluation was run. 

"Everything's looking okay—what I expected we'd be seeing," the nurse mused, writing down her information on the clipboard in hand, "But, how are you feeling? Any extra pain, anything you want me to take a look at or mention to the doctor?" 

"I'm fine," (Y/N) smiled, the expression less than convincing, "Nothing hurts any more than earlier." 

"Okay, okay," the nurse nodded, "That's good, let me know if that changes. I'll be back to check on you in a few hours, so get in your rest while you can." 

A pointed look was placed in Harry's direction at her last statement, a teasing curl to the corner of her lips. (Y/N) gave a sheepish nod. 

"Right, thank you." 

The nurse departed with a couple of well wishes and a reminder that she'd be back in a few hours. Once the door clicked behind her, a stiff silence settled between them. The only sound came in the form of the mechanical beeping of the machines around her and the ending of the television movie playing. 

(Y/N) had her eyes facing ahead, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth. Harry stared at her. 

"(Y/N)—" 

"You're here." 

His throat bobbed as he heavily swallowed. "I am," he nodded, dropping his gaze to his picked cuticles in his lap, "Your mum called me." 

A furrow had her brow pinched. "Her and my dad are on vacation right now." 

Another nod, a strand of hair touching over his forehead. "They'll be back tomorrow morning, but she wanted someone to be with you tonight." 

Maybe it was the way her shoulders tensed, the glassy look that took over her gaze, or the pinch to her features, but something brittle settled in the air between them. Every breath felt delicate as he waited for any kind of response. 

"I'm sorry." 

It was his turn for his brows to knit together. "For what?" 

That fragile tension between them cracked. 

"You were on a date." 

Harry hung his head, lips thinning. He thought he would have more time to explain this. 

"'S not what it looks like, (Y/N)." 

She shook her head, voice quiet under her breath. "So it wasn't a date?" 

Sucking in a breath, his lungs squeezed. "I mean—It—Yes, it was a date, but—" 

The beeping of her heart monitor heightened, the pitch seemingly hitting higher than a moment before with the pace quickening. "So it is what it looks like." 

"(Y/N), 's more—there's more to it than that." 

(Y/N) only shrugged at his half-hearted response, her head hanging between her shoulders. 

Harry felt just as defeated as she looked now. This wasn't how he wanted to reunite with her, but he guessed beggars couldn't be choosers. This was the opportunity he had, and he wasn't going to turn it away. 

"What happened tonight?" he murmured, shifting the conversation away from his own blunders. Unfortunately, this avenue would be an easier section to stomach than anything she would want to know about his date. 

"I got into an accident." 

"I know," Harry gently prodded, "But, what happened? Y'usually only hit curbs, not anything else." 

His shoulders loosened when his teasing was enough to draw a huffed laugh from her, a slight smile softening her features. 

As much as they may have deteriorated recently, he did know her. He knew her better than he knew himself. 

"It was just raining really hard, and—I don't know—I wasn't able to stop like I thought. I slid and hit a pole, and... yeah." 

As much as he did like teasing her about her more precarious driving habits, he knew more than anything that she was cautious. It wasn't like her to settle into accidents like this—she rarely ever drove in weather like this anyway, let alone at night. 

"Y'never drive in the rain," he pressed, an unaired question bookending his words. 

"I know." 

Harry looked at her, waiting for more than those two syllables. It was fruitless, he knew. 

He hung his head, running an absent hand through his hair before his fingers found the pearl at his throat. Eyes on the floor between his feet, he couldn't look at her as he spoke once more. 

"(Y/N). What happened tonight?" This isn't like you. Why did this happen? 

The air in the room seemingly went still. 

When he chanced a look up once more, he saw her sitting in her hospital bed with sparkling tears in her eyes. His chest panged at the sight. He knotted his fingers tighter together, forcing himself to see from reaching out. 

"(Y/N)...," he started, voice decidedly more gentle than a moment before. 

She shook her head. "I didn't want to be home—and I was crying, and I wasn't paying attention and the rain was heavier than I thought—and just... Everything happened." 

What was worse? Hearing that she had cried more than once tonight, before she'd even got in her accident, or seeing her recount it with another set of tears racing down her cheeks? 

This time he couldn't help himself; Harry reached out to touch her wrist. Her skin was warm under the chill of goosebumps on her skin. While she didn't move to hold his hand like she used to, she didn't flinch away. That was enough, he thought. 

"Why were y'crying, lo—(Y/N)?" He internally cringed at his slip up. He had no place calling her anything but her name. "What happened?" 

Another shake of her head. "It's stupid," she sniffled, fluttering her eyes closed with the tears clinging to the tips of her lashes. 

"Not if it made y'so upset that y'ended up here tonight," he crooned, words a quiet lilt only for her to hear, "What happened?" 

"I—It's..." she cut herself off more than once, throat bobbing, "I don't... I was the one that broke up with you, I-I'm not supposed to be upset. It-It's not fair." 

Her voice was barely a whisper by the time she finished speaking. His hand on her wrist tightened, a snug warmth against her skin. He ran his thumb over the bone, pretending he didn't feel the cut just on the underside. 

He waited. 

Another made-for-tv movie started on her television. 

He waited. 

She took a deep breath. Her eyes still closed.

"You went on a date tonight." 

Harry's shoulders deflated. 

"(Y/N)—"

"No," she peeped, shaking her head with her arm stiffening under his hold, "No. You were on a date, and I'm crazy and I'm not supposed to be upset, but I couldn't handle it—I didn't want to be home alone an-anymore. I didn't think you'd be over it already since I'm not, but you-you can do whatever you want an-and I need to be okay with that. And, then you—your music, it started playing while I was driving and I-I—Harry, I couldn't stop crying and then I crashed." Her voice was clogged in her throat, muddy and thick. Her tone came in waves, ebbing and flowing until it gave out. "I'm sorry." 

There was no chance Harry had of keeping his own tears at bay as he listened. It was too much—all of it; hearing her beginning to sob over the thought of him being over their relationship, how just the sound of his voice over her speakers brought her to tears while driving, the fact that she'd seen photos of him out on a date had driven her from her home to get away from herself. 

He felt his skin flush, the warmth heading down his neck the same way his tears did. He sniffled his nose, his lips rolled between his teeth to keep himself from blurting out each thought he couldn't help but to have. 

He doubted telling her how much he loved her was going to be much help when she was so dedicated to the thought of him already finding someone new to replace her. 

"You—" he cut himself off when his voice came a croak, clearing his throat with his hand on her wrist. "Y'don't have to be sorry, (Y/N). You're not crazy, either—I don't know what I would do if I'd seen y'go out with someone else, either. Y—'M jus' sorry, I never—I didn't mean to—" 

"It's okay, it's okay," she murmured, shaking her head as she slid her arm out from under his hand, curling into herself while she refused to open her eyes. "It's not your fault—you—I ended our relationship, you can do whatever you want." A shuddering breath had her shoulders shaking, lungs rattling. "I-I'm sorry you're here instead of with her." 

Just short of climbing up on the bed beside her, Harry pulled his chair as close to her side as he could. There wasn't anything he could say—nothing that he could imagine would shift her mind on what she'd seen and decided was the truth. All he could do, even if it involved uncomfortable bending of his joints, was collect her into his arms and hold her. It was only then that the slow roll of her tears were let loose into full weeps, her face buried into his neck. 

She burrowed against him, sinking into him as if the last month hadn't occurred. His hands spanned over her form, familiar with every plane and curve. His fingers caught on the raised abrasions that could be felt through her thin gown, but Harry could only be grateful that those were the only evidence of her accident. The mechanical beeping of her pulse skittered high, enough so he worried that the nurse could be alerted of the disturbance. Nonetheless, he held her tighter. 

"There's nowhere else I want to be," he murmured into her hair, his voice watery like the tears running down his cheeks. 

Reaching towards him, (Y/N) wrapped her hands in the wool of his jacket, fingers clawing into the fabric in a tighter grip than he'd expected from her state. "E-Even tonight?" 

Her cry was thin and pathetic, causing Harry to pulse his arms around her once more. "Tonight—every night. As long as 'm with you." 

He could feel the flutter of her lashes as she cinched her eyes shut tighter. Her voice was barely a whisper when she spoke again, just audible given how closely he had her wrapped around him, "Wh-What about her?" 

He shook his head against her hair, his nose skating over her crown. There would be a time to really unpack why he found himself at a candlelit table with Natalie, including everything that was going through his head every time she spoke to him, but that wasn't tonight. She needed him, and all of the reassurance he could give more than he needed to clear his conscience and monologue over his feelings. 

"She's not you and that's all that matters to me," he told her, sincerity dripping in his tone, "All I want is you." 

(Y/N) cried in a blubbering sob, "I didn't think you loved me anymore." 

Harry's own eyes had to be shuttered closed then, a fruitless attempt in hopes of stemming the tears falling out of his eyes and into (Y/N)'s hair. "I didn't think y'loved me anymore, darling." 

"I-I do, I do," she countered, shaking her head in his neck with her grip tightening on him, "We-We just never saw ea-each other anymore, and I-I thought you were mad at me all th-the time and I thought we'd be happier apart—b-but I was wrong and—" 

"It's okay, it's okay," he soothed her, starting a circuit of his palm over her back, "I-I understand. But now we know—you're all I want, an-and I'll do anything to make it work with you." 

"You're all I want," she whimpered, voice tight, "Don't leave me." 

While a part of him was soaring knowing that she was still in love with him, that this wasn't over the way he'd thought, he was still more than heartbroken to hear that she was so torn up and broken herself. She thought she had no choice but to end the relationship in hopes of making both of them happier elsewhere. He never imagined himself making someone he loved feel that way. 

"I won't." 

—————

Rubbing the lack of sleep out of his eye, Harry stood back as (Y/N) checked out of the hospital. Her mother was twined to her side with her father looking just as distraught, though he was better at giving his daughter space. They'd come straight here as soon as they landed only a couple of hours prior, walking in on Harry who had stayed far longer than the originally carved out visiting hours with (Y/N) still in his arms. 

Gratitude was exchanged between them—Harry for coming to (Y/N)'s side at a moment's notice, and her parents for telling him at all and letting him be there for her—with a thread of stiffness lingering afterwards. Harry couldn't blame them; the last they'd heard about him was the fact that he'd been dumped by their daughter along with all the reasons why. They didn't know what had come of the night before, yet, only seeing the aftermath of their tear puffed faces and his arms wrapped around her.

Truthfully, Harry wasn't even sure where he stood with (Y/N) at the moment. Promises uttered through sobs after a traumatic event wasn't something he was going to hold her to. Even if he wanted to believe she was still in love with him and wanted to be with him like she'd said last night. 

Armed with paperwork and parents at her side, (Y/N) nodded to the nurse at the checkout with a plastered smile. Though they were still clear on her skin, the cuts and scrapes she'd earned in her accident didn't look so bad when she smiled with light in the eyes. 

Though he was still a bit too far away, he could hear the mumblings of a quiet conversation happening between (Y/N) and her parents. He was sure she was going to go home with them, and sort out everything else that couldn't be helped with a night at the hospital, but he'd wait until he knew she was safe before he'd leave himself. 

He watched from the corner of his eye, giving them privacy, though he could see (Y/N) waving off her parents before stepping towards him. It was a lingering departure, her mother refusing to let go too readily, though she eventually resigned herself to head down the hallway towards the bank of elevators with her husband and her daughter's paperwork. 

(Y/N) took shy steps towards Harry, empty hands a fiddling mess. 

"You're still here," she said, voice quiet to match the waiting room. 

He shrugged, a small smile having curled the corner of his lips. Was he supposed to remind her that she had asked him to stay, or keep that ex-boyfriend barrier in place? (If it was even still standing, given the way she'd fallen asleep in his arms just hours before).

"You're doing alright?" he asked instead, scanning over the planes of her face as if he didn't have them memorized already. 

She nodded. "Just sore, but I think I'm just going to feel that way for a little while. My head's doing better, though—I still have a headache, but I don't think it's because of the accident." 

Though she ended with a laugh, Harry figured she wasn't sure what to make of last night anymore than he did. 

"'M happy you're alright," he told her, sincerity weaved through his words, "Are your mum and dad taking y'home?" 

"Yeah," she nodded, looking over her shoulder to the couple waiting at the elevators, "I think my mom wants me to stay at their house tonight, but we'll see." 

"Oh, y'don't want to spend hours watching soap opera reruns tonight?" Harry teased, a sly smile touching his lips. The curl only stretched when (Y/N) laughed. 

"Not particularly, but who knows," she said, sparing another glance over her shoulder to see the audience waiting on her, "Um, we talked a lot last night." 

"We did, yeah," he nodded, throat bobbing as swallowed, eyes dropping from her own, "But, we don't—'m not—If y'don't feel the same way as y'did last night, 'm not going to ma—" 

"I do," she cut him off, a bright chirp that matched the spark in Harry's chest. "I do feel the same, I mean. We should probably talk a little more, though, right?" 

A dimple dented Harry's cheek, suddenly feeling incredibly more alive than just a heartbeat before. "Probably." 

"Are you busy tomorrow? In the morning?" 

It didn't take a second thought before Harry was moving his schedule around to keep his morning stark open tomorrow. Those meetings could be moved—maybe even made into an email or a quick phone call. 

"Not for you." 

The blooming smile she gave him was reminiscent of the first time he pulled that flirtation on her. 

"Good," she quipped, "I'll call you tonight or something, then. Maybe we could get breakfast tomorrow?" 

"I'll be there," he cemented, "Jus' tell me when." 

The rewarding light in her eyes made it easy for Harry to forget the last month of his light (except for the night he'd just spent with her, of course). 

"I will," she told him, "Bye, Harry." 

Maybe it was the way she hesitantly stepped towards him, or the shy way she had her lips rolled between her teeth with a budding smile, or the memory of her warmth against his chest, but Harry didn't think before he was collecting her into his arms. (Y/N) melted into his chest on instinct, wrapping her arms around his middle. He could feel the mush of her cheek against the cuff of his shoulder. Despite the sterile scent of the hospital clinging to her, underneath it all was the familiar fragrance of her shampoo and sweet body lotion she somehow never ran out of. 

Drawing away first, (Y/N) only put enough space between them to get a look up at Harry. Though her eyes were bloodshot, bags darkening underneath, and the shadow of her tears lingering in the corners, he'd never seen anything more beautiful than (Y/N)'s eyes. 

"I'll see y'tomorrow." 

"See you tomorrow." 

Long after she untangled herself from his hold, Harry still felt (Y/N)'s warmth long enough to carry him home and keep him company until his phone rang a familiar tone later that night. 

—————

ahhhhhh I never write angst so I hope this turned out all right! thank you sm for reading, and sorry for any mistakes! if you have any ideas or anything at all send them in!

[apppletea]

die your daughter.

act one.

sipnosis: Your own desires were alien to your family, to the point where you are determined to commit an atrocious act but suddenly everything is 7 years ago when you were only 13 years old. Something has changed and you're not sure what it is.

w ; suicide, self-harm.

Your whole life was in her hands, in the hands of that woman and now in the hands of this family who didn't give a shit about you! So how should you react when you returned to your fresh 13 years? Should you have just been happy and cried? No, never.

Your room had become a mess, a mess worse than that family, the furniture thrown over next to the books, the posters you once loved torn and ripped, the trophies you earned with great effort lying near some wall due to the blows you gave them.

How? HOW THE FUCK?!

Soon you felt tears of pure helplessness fall on your cheeks, you looked at the plushies on your bed, they were all obligatory gifts, nothing was genuine, nothing at all! So what? Now what? What should you do? It was probably a horrible, terrible nightmare. No, it shouldn't have happened. You brought your hands to your neck hoping to finish again, hoping to choke on your saliva, you pushed harder and harder until the sudden click of the door sounded.

Alfred entered, worried or not really due to the commotion that sounded in your walls, his gaze fixed on your suicide attempt and quickly sprang into action, approaching you and holding your hands, while you caught your breath and tears wet everything.

‘young master...!!’ The adult's worried voice brought you to your senses for a moment. This was really real. It wasn't a lie, it wasn't a cruel nightmare. You had returned to that prison.

You sobbed, moans of pain leaving your mouth as you still struggled to catch your breath, Alfred stayed by your side, holding your hands to prevent you from trying again, He'd never seen you like this before, never thought you were capable of doing something like that, and the more he thought about it, the more terrified he became. What if you had a gun? A knife? Oh, He would never forgive himself for that.

Your eyes were too watery to see clearly, your gaze fixed on the now open door, the whole mansion was silent, but to you, they were like whispers, whispers that never left.

‘ugh—!... i feel sick.’ You murmured softly, abruptly removing your hands and seeking comfort within yourself, hugging yourself and hoping nothing more would happen but it didn't last, really nothing. You felt a gaze, a gaze that you could recognize from a distance, it was him, you looked up to find him watching the scene you created.

Alfred looked at him and simply looked away for a moment before greeting him properly. ‘master Damian.’ He said with a calm voice, the situation was serious but he... He was he.

You felt your body tremble and you could feel the anger that you had held in for 7 years, you didn't know what you were doing and you couldn't think clearly either, you only knew one thing, you hit Damian.

Alfred stood still like a statue, he knew you were in a vulnerable state but he didn't recognize that you could easily break at the sight of your family or at least, your brother.

‘wha— what's wrong with you?!’ He screamed but that scream you hated to hear because you knew he was ready to despise you, you grabbed another trophy to throw it at him but Alfred intervened, this time he took your side, he never did.

‘master damian! Please, stop. She's in serious condition.’ Alfred quickly justified it, Damian remained silent and looked at you again, this time realizing how you were and how the room was a mess. ‘So what? She thinks can throw a tantrum? Definitely not.’

‘shut up—!’

‘what?’

‘SHUT UP! I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU!!’

‘You—? oh.’

He remained completely silent as you writhed in the shadows that embraced you, shadows that never left you alone and perhaps you should have been grateful to them for not going completely crazy.

Alfred sighed, his eyebrows furrowed and he gave Damian a little push to leave the room, he left, still looking at you with an expression of confusion and deep pain that tried to disguise. Your words echoed completely in his vivid memory, his hands buried themselves in his hair as he gripped it with great force while his back slid against the wall next to your door. ‘UGH!—’

How can you hate him? How?— Aren't you that little girl who entered the mansion and tried everything to get close to him? Your older brother? What changed? What happened? What, what?! He couldn't allow himself to fall apart just because of that, he shouldn't let your words get to him, maybe you only said it because you were angry, yes, surely. He shouldn't have broken just because of that, he's... a well-trained boy, Talia al Ghul's son, he can't, no... So why does frustration fill every part of his being?

You felt like your eyes were exploding, they hurt, and so was your head, or rather, your whole body hurt, even your arms with scratches and cuts, your cheek with a scar that you got without thinking. All of this was real, it was real that Alfred took your side for the first time, it was real how Damian reacted quickly to your pitch, It was real like your room was the same, the pain was real, everything was real, so so real that you still couldn't believe it.

Alfred carefully pressed the wounds, slowly wrapping your arms with bandages. You weren't someone sensitive, not after what you went through in what is now your old life. You had had an insensitivity to pain, with all the wounds you got through your life, all your skin couldn't feel it properly and maybe it was an advantage, you never felt each wound again.

Still, you felt less human. If you couldn't feel pain, what were you then? A punching bag for those kids at your school? For your family? Maybe.

The older man's voice brought you out of your thoughts and you looked at him momentarily before looking down and losing yourself in the ocean of feelings you felt. He sighs again and leaves the room without being able to say anything, how could he anyway? They had neglected you so much that you were about to end your own life, he should tell the lord of the mansion but he can't, he doesn't know why but no, he can't.

Night had finally arrived, you knew everyone would leave, where to? You couldn't say, it was always a mystery but it was an opportunity not to escape, but to study the mansion and everyone, although in your old life you had allowed yourself to remember everything about each other, now they were just distant memories that were no longer in your head.

You didn't know where Alfred had gone but you didn't care, that didn't matter anymore so you barely heard the last one of them leave, You opened the door to your room and walked out silently. You were already dressed in your pajamas, ready to sleep, but today wasn't the time to sleep when everyone was awake too.

You looked around and walked carefully, going down to the main room and looking around again until you noticed something strange, maybe the mansion wasn't completely empty. Your gaze focused on the feet dangling from the armrests, large feet. ‘damn...’ You murmured as you noticed who it surely was, you approached trying not to be so noticeable but perhaps you knew that wouldn't work at all.

The figure was larger, of an adult, Jason.

The oldest brother, The resurrected one, the Robin, or whatever, you also temporarily sought his attention and affection but like everyone else, he was too busy to think about you. He was clearer with you, he made it clear that he didn't want you around even when you were determined to read all the books someone recommended just to keep you quiet.

Sigh... You looked closer and he was just sleeping with a book on his damn face, maybe it was a trick, you couldn't tell, you must have walked past and not paid attention but the air was cold or at least for you. You noticed that he was in his usual clothes,, you looked at him a little longer and simply placed a blanket over him and left, following your mission.

...

Silence, that was all, you had passed through a corridor so long that you felt it would never end. You had realized why, it was a corridor or hallway with all the family portraits, from the first Robin to the last, except you were the last and you had given up on the idea of being Robin. That's why yours was different, not with the idea of being special, it was the idea of seeing yourself as cool as all your siblings, so intimidating but at the same time with an aura of calm.

You loved your portrait, even as the years passed, you always admired yourself as a child, for your love of weapons even though one almost killed you. You, being the little 8-year-old with one of those long guns posing and holding it at the same time, loved your past self, brave, strong, and capable of doing anything. You are now a shadow of what you once were, and you didn't dislike it at all now.

And now, in that moment, it was just you and the shadows hiding in the darkness of this mansion.

new chapter yayy, excuse my inactivity !

I tried to focus a lot on the reader's reaction to having returned to that life again, it's like, I feel like she has to have some kind of anger because she ended her life because she didn't want to LIVE in that house and now shes back.

I have also seen in many fanfics that the reader first wanted the attention of the oldest brother, Dick, and wanted to change that because this reader is the youngest in the family and she wanted the attention and affection of Damian, her older brother.

and thats all... btw I'll be making the taglist soon, if you want to be added, please comment and make sure your settings allow it!

have a good day (⁠*⁠´⁠ω⁠｀⁠*⁠).

[strwberri-milk]

Could you do a drabble with Rafayel and Sylus individually where MC Reader has an accident during a mission and forgot everyone and everything BUT them

To explain better, she's forgotten everyone in her life and doesn't remember her coworkers, where she is, who she is, what happened during that mission. But when she sees them, she immediately recognizes them.

Like imagine the worry they'd feel getting the call that their beloved is in the hospital and doesn't remember anything and perhaps worry that she has forgotten them again but this time, they're the only thing she remembers. Sorry if this sounds odd or weird!

Rafayel is relieved, honestly. The second he hears that you've got amnesia he's freaking out and trying to figure out if he can somehow convince you to fall in love with him one more time. His heart is torn and he can't think of anything but what sort of state he'll find you in.

He sees how afraid you look, the nerves as you try to comprehend what all the medical staff are telling you. He practically rushes into the hospital room much to the chagrin of all the staff. They try to stop him, worried that a strange man coming into your room would make you panic but when you call out his name he's by your side, holding you tightly as he soothes you.

The staff see how settled you are with him and decide that it's better to keep Rafayel by your side, even if he's crying a bit, totally emotional over the fact that you somehow still remember him despite losing memory of everything else. He'll take you back home with him the second you're discharged and not a moment sooner, wanting to make sure you feel safe.

He'll pamper you and do everything he can to try and help you while you recover. He gently tries to help you remember things about your own life, knowing that to see you thrive is another way to feel the love that you have. He does sort of love the fact that you know nothing but him right now which makes you almost depend on him, but he also wants you to be able to have a sense of independence from him, which is why he'll work with you at your own pace to help rebuild a life that's also your own.

Sylus is almost afraid to see you again. He stands outside your room, waiting for the staff to let him in as he tries to figure out what he'll do if it turns out that you've forgotten him once again. He already had a hard time dealing with it when he first saw you after so long but now he thinks he might be crushed if he sees that lack of recognition mixed in with a slight fear.

The staff introduce him to you when he's finally allowed in and he's a little taken aback by how distraught you look when you see him. His heart clenches and he's prepared to leave to avoid worsening your condition but he sees you reach out to him, saying his name in such a broken voice he knows that you recognise him.

He's right by your side, speaking to you softly as he reassures you he's right there with you. He takes your hand in both of his, dwarfing your bedside as he leans over and kisses your knuckles reverentially. He watches you as you rest, refusing to leave your bedside until you can come home with him.

He doesn't want to remold your life but he wants to make you comfortable. He'll ask you what you want, and assist either way. If you decide just knowing him is enough then the two of you will take the approach of remembering your previous life slower as you build a new one together - that's, if you even want to remember before him at all. If you want to remember everything before him as well then he's there all the way, making sure you don't over do it while supporting you in every way.

[lazy-ahh]

I want to thank you for writing male reader!! It’s so, so hard finding them in this fandom, so it really makes me happy to read yours. 🥺🥺🥺🥺 can I make a request? Male reader x Shiesty Mark with reader who gets severely injured and tries to hide it.

TIS' BUT A SCRATCH

pairing shiesty! mark grayson x male reader

you’re bleeding out. you’re definitely bleeding out. but hey—if you play it cool, maybe mark won’t notice? (keyword: maybe.) turns out, hiding a gaping wound from your superpowered, hyper-observant boyfriend isn’t exactly your best idea. especially when said boyfriend is the kind of guy who swears like a sailor, fights like a berserker, and somehow still manages to be the most overprotective idiot alive.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure

you hiss through your teeth, fingers pressing hard against your side—warm, wet blood seeps through the torn fabric of your suit, sticking to your skin. every breath is a sharp, stinging drag, like fire licking at your ribs from the inside. you can’t let him see this. not now, not when he’s already pissed off, still buzzing with leftover adrenaline from the fight, his muscles coiled tight under that damn suit of his.

speaking of.

you glance up, and fuck, even hurt and half-delirious, you can’t help but notice the way the setting sun hits him—golden light catching on the sweat-slick curve of his shoulders, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath, the way his thighs tense as he hovers effortlessly above you. his mask tilts, that ragged veil shifting just enough for you to catch the sharp line of his jaw, the faintest hint of his scowl.

"the hell’s takin’ you so long?" mark calls down, voice rough with impatience. his arms are crossed, biceps flexing under the tight yellow and blue fabric, and you can practically feel the heat rolling off him even from here. "we gotta get movin’ before more of those freaks show up."

"i’m coming, i’m coming," you mutter, forcing your legs to move despite the way your vision blurs at the edges. you bite back another groan, swallowing the metallic taste in your mouth. shit. this is worse than you thought. your head spins, but you can’t stop staring—the way his suit clings to every dip and ridge of his abs, the way his hips taper just right, the way his thighs could probably crush you in seconds and you’d thank him for it.

god, you’re so fucked. in every sense of the word.

"hah, that's what she said."

you roll your eyes at the dumb joke, a witty remark of your own about to leave your lips when your knees buckle slightly, and you catch yourself just in time, but not before mark’s sharp eyes zero in on the stumble. his posture shifts instantly, shoulders squaring, that protective edge creeping into his stance. you know that look. it’s the same one he gets right before he tears someone apart for looking at you wrong.

and fuck if that doesn’t do things to you.

he drops down beside you with a soft thud, boots kicking up a small cloud of dust. his arms are crossed, shoulders tense, but his head tilts just slightly as he studies you. "you good? you’re walkin’ like a damn zombie." his voice is rough, but there’s an edge of concern under the sarcasm.

you swallow hard, forcing your steps to steady even as your side throbs. "just tired," you lie, waving him off with a weak flick of your wrist. your fingers tremble, but you curl them into a fist before he can notice. "those things were annoying as hell."

mark snorts, rolling his eyes before nudging you with his elbow—too hard, like always, and the sudden jolt sends a sharp spike of pain through your ribs. you sway, barely catching yourself before your knees give out. "yeah, well," he says, not noticing your stumble at first, "next time, maybe don’t try to play hero when you ain’t bulletproof, dumbass."

you force a laugh, but it comes out weak, more of a breathless exhale than anything. your free hand presses against your side, hidden by the torn fabric of your suit. "since when do you care?"

"since always, dumbass." he rolls his eyes again, but the usual bite in his tone is missing, replaced by something softer, something almost fond. then his gaze drops, catching on the dark stain seeping through your fingers. his body goes rigid. the air between you shifts, tension snapping tight like a wire. "...you’re bleedin'."

your stomach drops like a stone. "what? no, i’m not," you say, voice pitching higher than intended. you take a half-step back, but your legs wobble, betraying you.

"the fuck you mean 'no, i’m not'?" his hand snaps out, fingers skimming your side—just a brush, but it’s enough. when he pulls back, his gloves are streaked crimson. his breath hitches, just for a second, before his voice drops into something rough and furious. "you’re fucking hurt."

you force a grin, even as your pulse kicks into overdrive. "tis’ but a scratch," you jest, throwing in a terrible british accent for good measure. your fingers twitch at your side, sticky with blood. "just a flesh wound, really. very knight’s tale of me. very—ow, fuck—" you hiss as your own movement jostles the injury.

"a scratch?" his hand clamps around your wrist before you can retreat, fingers tight but careful as he lifts your arm. the second he sees the mess underneath—torn suit, dark blood, the ugly gash that’s definitely not surface-level—his whole body locks up. the air around him practically crackles. "this ain’t a scratch. this is a goddamn hole."

you swallow hard, but the bravado doesn’t fade. "i’ve had worse."

"not with me around, you haven’t." his grip tightens—not enough to hurt, but enough that you feel the barely-leashed tension in his fingers. his other hand hovers near your side like he’s afraid to touch. when he speaks again, his voice is low, almost too calm. "why the fuck didn’t you say anything?"

your throat clicks as you swallow, the coppery tang of blood thick on your tongue. "didn't wanna slow you down," you mumble, avoiding his gaze by studying a very interesting crack in the pavement near your boot.

"slow me—?" his voice does this thing where it jumps an octave before he chokes it back into a growl, gloved fingers dragging down his mask like he's physically restraining himself from shaking you. the fabric wrinkles under his grip. "christ. you're such a dumbass. you know that, right? like, clinically. should be studied."

"yeah, yeah," you wave him off, attempting a casual shrug that immediately backfires. white-hot pain erupts from your side, forcing a punched-out gasp between your teeth. your fingers spasm against the wound, coming away slick. "fuck—okay, new rule: no more cool guy poses when i'm busy leaking everywhere. noted."

mark goes statue-still. for one terrifying heartbeat, you're certain he's about to scream loud enough to shatter windows. then—with zero warning—he ducks down, one arm sliding behind your knees while the other braces against your back, lifting you like some kind of disgruntled fairytale protagonist. your stomach lurches as the ground disappears. "what the hell—?!" you squawk, scrambling to fist your hands in his suit fabric like a startled cat clinging to a curtain.

"shut up," he grumbles, but his arms tighten just enough to press you closer to his chest. you can feel his heartbeat hammering through the layers of fabric—fast and furious. "if you're gonna pull this self-sacrificing bullshit, i'm gonna haul your dumbass home like groceries. consider it your fucking consequence."

you gasp, free hand fluttering to your forehead in your best damsel impression. "consequence? this feels suspiciously like premium boyfriend treatment. very five-star service. do you do this for all the dumbasses, or am i special? this feels awfully sweet and gentle for a punishment."

"title of your fucking sextape," he deadpans immediately, voice so flat you'd think he was reading a grocery list.

you choke on a laugh that quickly morphs into a pained wheeze. "oh my god—was that—did you just brooklyn nine-nine me while i'm actively—"

"don't." his boots leave the ground with a quiet crunch of asphalt. "just. don't fucking finish that sentence. i don't even fucking know why i said that." the wind kicks up around you both, ruffling his stupid perfect dark locks.

you mean to fire back something clever, but the second you're airborne, the adrenaline finally sputters out. your head lolls against his shoulder without permission, eyelids suddenly heavy. the steady thrum of his flight vibrations feels weirdly soothing against your aching ribs.

"...you better not pass out on me," he mutters, but his voice has gone all rough around the edges. his grip shifts, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head like he's afraid you'll slip away. "seriously. i'll drop your ass."

"wouldn't dream of it," you slur, nosing unconsciously into the warm space between his collarbone and jaw. his stupid veil tickles your forehead.

he huffs, but you feel the way his throat works against your temple. "next time you pull this shit, i'm grounding you for a month. no flights. no rooftop hangs. just you, your busted ass, and public fuckin' transportation."

your lips curl despite everything. "worth it."

"fuck you."

“love you too, drama queen,” you sigh, your voice already slurring a little as exhaustion drags at you. before he can snipe back, you tug at the edge of his veil—just enough to sneak your fingers under it—and press a quick, smirking kiss to his lips. then, because you’re extra and bleeding and maybe a little delirious, you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, breathing him in: sweat, the sharp ozone-tang of spent energy, that stupid cologne he insists he doesn’t wear but definitely does. your nose brushes his pulse point, and for a second, you let yourself pretend this is the last time. (it never is. it won’t be. not if he has anything to say about it.)

he doesn’t answer. but his arms tighten around you, just a fraction, and his thumb starts tracing slow, absent circles against your thigh—gentle, reverent, like you’re something fragile. like you’re something his. and yeah. that’s answer enough.

1.6k words full of shiesty mark and his ADORABLE ASS AHHHHHHHH i never really like, thought of him as often as my top three favourite invincible variants BUT HE IS SLOWLY CRAWLING UP THERE BECAUSE OF SOMEONE'S HEADCANONS OF SHIESTY MARK AND I JUST LOVE HIM I JUST LOVE HIM NOW LIKE AHHBOFAUBWOUDSHAWOUSHOU

[ilium-ilia]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Thirteen: shadows

tw: violence

Sleep does not come easy. 

Not even the comfort of a plush mattress can make the weight of slumber pull you beneath brackish waves, deep enough for the dreams to fester and swirl like poison in your mind. You lay flat on your back, eyes glued to the ceiling. It is dark, but nothing shines. The stars do not comfort you tonight. 

You spend the late hours of the night listening to muffled conversations that bleed through the walls as people mill about outside. Drunkards attempting to stumble back home. Theatre goers and prostitutes dragging men back behind closed doors. You hear their debauched moans in the room above yours, the way the headboard beats against the wall—there is no God in Heaven above, just a cruel, sacrilegious man. 

While the heat inside of you tells you that you ought to be scandalized, you can only feel rage. It boils over, still upset from dinner. John’s easy smiles can only placate you for so long before you’re brutally reminded about the blood that soaks his hands. Innocent men. Families torn to shreds. 

How long until your blood joins them? 

In the morning, breakfast is served downstairs in a private room. Soap and Riley smell strongly of lingering alcohol and sweat—Soap’s face turns so green you worry he might spew all over the skirt of your dress. Kyle yawns so often that you’re surprised he doesn’t fall asleep at the table, but those wide open sighs fade into a cheeky grin when John asks him how late he was out with some woman named Sofia. 

John. 

You do not look or speak to him for the entire meal.

He scarcely seems to believe you’re even at the table. 

It isn’t long before you’re put to work. Laswell returns to the hotel to give you a more in depth tour of the rooms while John vanishes into the mess of a city that is Grand Hollow. The building is bigger on the inside than it appears on the out, with endless corridors for housing and closets and kitchens that appear out of thin air. When your mind seems to swirl too much from the mass amount of information being shoved into your head, Laswell decides on a job that’s better fitting for a woman of your nature. 

Laundry. 

In a courtyard behind the hotel that sits next to a fetid alley, there is a small building dedicated to cleaning the linens. Inside, you find large wooden buckets that seem to be ten times larger than the bath you used  full to the brim with bedding. They soak in lye, breeding an aroma that smells peculiarly like roses, freshly cut from flowering bushes.

Several women work in other sections of the building, each wiping sweat from their brows as they beat the cloth into submission. Copper pots over fat fires boil water where women poke at them with sticks. Long washboards are used to scrub deeper stains from the bedding before they’re wrung out through a strange metal contraption that presses the water from the linens through two rollers. 

“It’s called a wringer,” Laswell explains upon seeing your narrowed brows. “It’ll be your best friend. Trust me.” 

For two weeks, you spend your days in this blistering building. It only takes one day for your hands to begin to dry and crack from the scalding water and unforgiving soap. Worsening around your knuckles, you find it difficult to grip your cutlery at dinner as your skin feels as if it’s stretching with each bend of your finger. 

When you begin to bleed into the cleaning water, a woman who you’ve only heard been referred to as Nonna sighs and shakes a bony finger at you. Thinking she’s mad, you do not argue or fight her as she drags you away from the water and sits you in a rickety wooden chair. 

She leaves for ten whole minutes before she returns with a small jar. Wordlessly, she slathers a pale yellow, fatty substance across your hands. It seeps into every crack that’s burrowed in your skin with a strong flowery aroma. Lavender, you realize. 

“Lanolin,” Nonna says. 

You hum. “How ironic.” 

On Sundays, you rest. It’s something Laswell forces you to do, but it’s not something that seems to be upheld by the other women. Still working throughout the day, spines curved over buckets and boiling water, she says it’s so that you may still go to church and enjoy your day of rest. 

It is—you realize—one of the few things that is familiar about Grand Hollow. Though it is a baronial building clad in pearl-white paint, and full to the brim of rooms that could fit the entirety of your small church back in Penmosa, it is still A House of God. You still feel His presence in the very marrow of the walls that creak like old bones that hum with the choir as they sing praise. 

So you sit in the pews with your Sunday best on, head lowered and fingers intertwined as the preacher teaches his lesson. Reciting scriptures. Raising his hands to the congregation. He’s dressed better than your father usually does. His voice is softer, too. A true shepherd caring for a flock. 

On the first day that you spent in that unfamiliar house of worship, you had to fight the terror that plagued you as you meandered out of the church. Each heavy step behind you felt like your father’s. Waiting, and impatiently so, with his hand grasping a stick and his tongue sharpened enough to draw blood. But there is no ichor to soak the floorboards that you can smell, and the only time the preacher looks at you is to smile. 

You didn’t think they could. 

Today is different. Your confidence and love soar like whiskey in your veins as your lips part to sing with the choir. There is comfort to be found in the fact that the hymns you grew up loving have followed you all the way out here in this strange, unfamiliar land. Closing your eyes, you sway to the angelic voices and the sonorous clinking of the piano, shoulders nearly knocking with the strangers seated on either side of you. 

When you were a child, your mother used to sing like this. Lost in the tune, melody carrying her away to some far off land. Sometimes you would get worried that she would float away—that feathered wings would sprout from her back and carry her upwards, too far for you to reach. To prevent it, you’d always hold her hand when you sang. Even now your fingers twitch with bitter yearning. 

The very moment she felt your little fingers poke her hand, she’d smile. It’s how you knew she was still there with you. Still within reach. 

But when she opened her eyes, everything would vanish. Even her smile. 

On the way back to The Twin Rose Hotel, you still find yourself humming old tunes that have long since been engraved in your mind. A self soothing habit of yours that you’ve cultivated for many years behind closed doors, forehead pressed against the wall behind your bed, knuckles tapping on the worn wood waiting for an answer. 

It isn’t long before someone is joining you in your humming. Curious bleating from the sheep mother and her lamb cut through the streets, snagging your attention as you cross through an intersection. Surprised to see them still here, you pause on the corner as the lamb butts heads against the lamp post. Their wool is greying—no longer the stark white that they were once before, now muddied with the grime of the city, and what you think might be blood or rust. 

After spending so much time here, both the ewe and lamb have grown more courageous around humans. The mother tenderly nips and licks at a woman’s hand as she crouches to pet her, rubbing the nub on the top of her head. The lamb chews on the hem of her dress, making her chuckle before weaning the creature off of the fabric. 

You smile. It is comforting to know that you are not the only wild thing here. 

Your sore feet welcome the sight of the hotel as you wipe the sweat on your palms off on the skirt of your dress. Though you’ve spent a few weeks here in Grand Hollow, you are not yet used to the rigid stone beneath your soles. In Penmosa, there are only patches of grass, slimy stretches of mud, and long packed dirt, leaving nothing but a mess of trails to follow until you’ve done enough circles to rival the rotations of the moon around the earth. 

What little reprieve you find in the open mouth of the hotel’s beckoning doors dissipates like fine mist the moment your eyes settle on the sparse inhabitants of the pseudo-restaurant on the main floor. There are familiar faces—Laswell, her wife, and unfortunately, John Price. 

It’s difficult to look at him without seeing the bounty that hangs over his head, held by the very same rope he ought to be hung with. He stares at you, cerulean eyes cutting across the room with the same sharpness as a speeding bullet. Fear strikes through your chest, then frustration. A bitter culmination of rage and confusion festers in your stomach, and though your tongue darts out as if to speak, your throat closes before you can make a fool of yourself. 

“Oh, Lamb!” 

Luckily, you are temporarily saved from John’s biting gaze as Lottie rushes away from the table, feet quickly tapping along the floor like a dog with too-long claws. The scent of rose washes over you, thick as if you’re in the midst of a garden. Wordlessly, she pulls you in for a hug, arms surprisingly tight around you as she clutches you to her chest. 

“Oh, Lamb. Tell me! Tell me!” Releasing you, Lottie quickly does a little spin with her arms held out against her sides like a doll. She stops, gaze back on you, grin wide enough to nearly slice across her face. “What do you think?”

“What do I think?” you repeat, stunned. 

“About the dress, of course!” 

Blinking, you give her outfit a quick once over as you fold your hands in front of you. Truly, her dress is a marvelous work of art, one you don’t even want to attempt to put a price on. A thick petticoat sits beneath swathes of blush pink fabric trimmed with delicate white lace and full pockets. Her bodice is embellished with tiny, handsewn roses and stitched stems to match with it. It’s as if a garden had died and was reincarnated into a human being. 

“That’s a mighty fine dress,” you say, astonished. “Real fine, Miss Lottie.” 

“Oh, thank you!” she squeals. She takes your hand into her own as her feet excitedly stomp against the ground, unable to keep still. “Katie bought it for me! Isn’t that so sweet of her? We ought to get you one, too. A nice, proper dress. Doesn’t that sound fun?” 

You’re only able to talk about the prospect of dress shopping with Lottie for a short while before Laswell approaches and steals her away, chuckling as she mentions something about work upstairs. Feet following after them, you only make it halfway to the stairs. John Price, the inconvenient beast that he is, creates a bottleneck before you, blocking your path. 

“Afternoon, Lamb,” he greets. Though you’ve avoided him for the past two weeks, he doesn’t look much different. Still cleanly cropped, still holding himself with the same self-importance he always has. 

“Mr. Price,” you say bluntly. 

A fork in the road—that’s all you try to see him as. Something to sidestep. An obstacle to ignore. Yet the moment you move to go around him and up the stairs, you find him in front of you again, always in your way. 

“Do you have a moment, Lamb?” he asks. His voice is low, wary of listening ears. 

“I’m very busy on Sundays,” you say, half sarcastic.

John’s chuckle is crass, and it sends a shiver down your spine as he reaches for your arm, fingers digging into your bicep. “I’m sure your god won’t mind a break from your kvetching for one moment.” 

He doesn’t bother to wait for your response before his thumb presses against your artery, guiding you away from the stairs and toward the back of the room where the bar lays. You do nothing but huff and puff like an annoyed dog as he drags and seats you on a stool. Though there is no one to tend to the bar, John takes the liberty upon himself as he stalks to the line of liquor and beer bottles that line the shelves. It’s hardly lunch time, but he’s not at all ashamed of pouring himself a glass of whiskey. 

“I have a proposition for you.” He’s got the glass in his hand, pinched between his middle finger and thumb, pinky supporting the bottom. 

You stare at him, blunt and dull, hands folded in your lap and back straight as if this conversation is below you. “What is it?” 

As John’s lips wrap around the rim of the glass, he raises his eyebrows at your tone. Whatever malicious words he wishes to spew at you gets swallowed down with his whiskey. “The boys and I need a little help with an errand.” 

His words stoke the fiery coals pulsing in your chest, sending waves of unbridled heat searing through your veins. You wouldn’t be caught dead helping someone like John Price—the butcher of the Blackpeak Coal Mine workers. 

“Why can’t Laswell help you? I thought we were parting ways after you brought me here. Really, I’m surprised you’re still lurking around Grand Hollow at all.” It’s a true feat keeping your teeth from snapping, but it’s an honor you can hardly claim as your eyes burn through the bar before you. 

“Trust me, Lamb, you were not my first choice,” John chuckles sourly. “Blackpeak is a bit further than she’s willing to travel, and the task is simple enough for you to handle.”

“If it’s so simple then why don’t you just do it yourself?” you spit. 

Cocking his head to the side, John places his glass down on the counter with a dull thud, obscuring your vision with the amber liquid. You’re already very much aware of where this conversation is headed—Blackpeak, bank, a robbery, a desecration of graves; something you want no part in. 

“You know, I’m still not a fan of this attitude of yours, sweetheart,” John says, jaw tense and words smothered between clenched teeth. 

“Then why are you dragging this out, Mr. Price?” you quip. “Weren’t you supposed to dump me here and move on? Go do whatever it is a scoundrel like you does?” 

Something is wrong with his chuckle. It gets caught in his throat as he shakes his head, gaze falling low as he places his hands on the counter. It sounds like a wolf’s laugh—or a coyote squealing in the night. Predators surrounding you, closing in, maw glistening with want. 

“You know, maybe that bastard who raised you got something right,” John muses. “Is that what you need? Huh, sweetheart? Need Daddy to bend you over his knee for a good spank?”

Your eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t dare,” you challenge. 

“You and I both know I’m not above doing it right here in front of all these strangers, Lamb.” 

This is the moment where your father’s daughter rears her ugly head. Nothing but suffocating skin desperate for a loving touch but teeth and tongue too sharp to properly ask for it. Palms flat on the counter, you place them dangerously close to John’s as you lean forward, rump rising off of the stool, face inching closer to his. 

“Fine. Do it then. But there is nothing on God’s green earth that will ever get me to help you, John Price,” you seethe. “Not after what you did to those poor people in Blackpeak.” 

There is a brief moment of indignation that overwhelms John’s face as he looks at you with sharp eyes, but it fades into guilt when the true meaning of your words snake around his throat. His gaze softens, knuckles no longer blanching against the counter as he leans back. 

You’ve never seen a wolf cower before, but somehow it’s worse than watching one growl. 

“Is that what all this is about?” he questions. His voice is soft now, laced with curiosity and a deep self loathing that’s almost hidden too far within him to sniff out. “Lamb, that stuff in Blackpeak, it’s-” 

Metallic clattering interrupts John’s explanation as a man slams his hand down on the counter, coins rolling with the movement. It’s so sudden that you jump, shoulders curling as you glance to your right to spot a man dressed in a dark duster coat and black gloves. John’s misty eyes tear off of yours for a short moment before they narrow. Heat rises in his face in the form of red cheeks and a clenched jaw before he springs into action. 

The moment his hand reaches for the revolver on his hip, the stranger has his arm around you. Chest pressed into your back, arm crossing over your front, digging into your collarbones—you squeal like a pig as he nearly drags you off the stool. Your hands grip the man’s forearm, fingers curling into the taut muscle that holds you still, but you’re silenced by the unmistakable bite of iron against your ribs. 

“Howdy,” the stranger says bluntly. “I’ll take a glass of your finest brandy.” 

Wide eyed, you stare at John with a trembling bottom lip, question dying on your tongue. He’s looking at where the barrel of the stranger’s gun kisses your flank. Open mouth. Hungry bullet. His own hand caresses the handle of his revolver, but the way the arm presses against your throat gets him to pause. 

“No, this can’t be. John Price?” the man asks facetiously. “Funny running into you here.” 

“What the fuck do you want, Vance?” John spits. 

“Heard you were in town. Thought I’d pay you a visit,” Vance says flippantly. “The Sheriff of Blackpeak sends his regards, by the way.” 

Something within you attempts to feel relief at the words this stranger speaks, but there is a contradiction of actions and words. An unsettling antilogy. If Blackpeak’s sheriff is being brought up, then this ought to be a good thing—John Price will be brought to justice, you won’t ever have to see him again, and you’ll be able to live out your life quietly. Just the way you always wanted to. 

But this man—be he bounty hunter or otherwise—is no better than John Price himself if he’d so willingly press a weapon to you. 

“Let her go, Vance.” John’s words are stern and leave no room for argument. His jaw is clenching worse than his fingers, fist curling around nothing, skin dreaming of a tender throat to squeeze. 

Vance laughs—something short, like the squeaking of wood—before patting your shoulder. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.” 

“This is neutral ground,” John spits.

“Reckon you should come quietly, then.” 

There is a brief moment when your hearing fades and you close your eyes, and in that moment the vague attar of lilies washes over you. It is the closest to your mother you have felt in years. The veil thins. It shears. Cotton and wispy—enough to be torn apart by the softest zephyr. You can almost feel her hands reaching for you; then, there is the bite. Iron in your ribs, digging, burrowing until it’s enough to meet something tender. 

Something to make you wince. 

No sooner than your pule leaves your mouth does the firing of a bullet ring through the air. Something warm and thick coats you—a fine mist settling over your skin and the side of your skull. Your eyes open just in time to feel Vance’s arm fall from you and John reach forward, fingers curling inside of your blouse. 

“Up!” he orders. 

Quivering legs force you to follow John’s barking, and with his aid, you’re scrambling over the top of the bar, cloth ripping on the corner as you’re dragged to the floor. More gunshots ring out in a terrible cacophony that leaves your ears pulsing with each crack. You squeal as John fires back. Wood splinters as bullets rip through the walls, ceiling, floors—everything. There’s not a single inch of this building that feels safe as people bark and shout at one another. 

Gore is heavy in the air. The redolence of rose is quickly smothered by offals and meat—it reminds you of the butcher’s shop back home. Fresh kill. Venison. Tendons holding bodies together as they’re hung up on hooks for display. God’s creatures, here for your bidding. For sustenance. But you know that with each cry that fills the room, a life is snuffed out, and with it, every thought, desire, and love that made it human. 

When it gets too much, you cover your ears with the palm of your hands, and you fill the song of violence with a tune of your own. A quiet melody. Something muttered beneath shaky breath. 

“I am a poor wayfaring stranger.” 

It’s not enough to drown out the gunshots, nor does it quell the terror rising in your throat, but it’s all you have. Even as the ringing quiets, and there’s nothing but thudding feet on the floor next to you, you hold it. Clutch it close. Keep it safe. 

“I’m going there… to see my… my mother…” 

“Lamb?”

“I’m going there… n-no more to… roam…” 

“Love, look at me.” 

Hands. Warm. Over yours. Pulling. Music fades out and the present snaps back into focus. Too sharp. Too tangible. When your eyes open, you see John. There’s blood. It soaks his shirt. His vest. A hole through his arm. Scraping through the flesh. Still, he chooses to hold you instead of himself. Cradling your face in his palms. Thumbs wiping the tears from your cheeks. 

His touch ought to disgust you. Violent man. Violent hands. Instead, you lean into it. How he tethers you to the earth. You sniff, bottom lip still quivering. John’s head tilts to the side, chest deflating with a sigh. 

“Oh, Lamb,” he breathes. 

You don’t fight him when he helps you to your feet—that flame has been snuffed out of you. Smothered beneath blood and anxious bile. With a hand on your back, he leads you around the counter, and though he takes care to avoid the several fallen bodies on the floor, it’s impossible for him to hide them from your sight. They’re all men, clad in black, some with bandanas covering their faces, others with them blown clean off, leaving behind nothing but gnarly bone skewered flesh. 

There are more voices. More bodies. Fresh and alive. Still drawing breath. You see Laswell. Her usually tight bun is askew, locks spilling from the band, fringe awkwardly stuck to the sweat on her forehead. Then, there’s Lottie. The front of her dress is soaked in blood, and the cotton clings awkwardly to her petticoat. Her hands are clenched, fingers curling into the skirt, babbling about the stain, and how she’ll never be able to wash it out, how the dress is brand new and now it’s ruined because of these men. Riley is the last of the familiar faces you recognize. Towering over the small crowd left over from the fight and the concerned citizens, he cuts across the floor, muttering something to John that your fuzzy ears can’t make sense of. 

“Oh, Katie, it’s ruined! This is just awful,” Lottie babbles as she paces. “I don’t know what to do! Just awful! What a rotten group of people! What are we gonna do?” 

“Breathe, Charlotte,” Laswell attempts to console. 

“I can’t! I’m just so- so angry!” 

“Umbra catervae.”

Riley’s blunt voice bleeds through the conversation, silencing it, and forcing all heads—including yours—to turn to him. He’s standing by the counter, fingers tracing over the coins Vance slammed on the table. Huffing, he picks one up and holds it between his forefinger and thumb, displaying it for John to see. 

“Fuckin’ bounty hunters,” Riley snaps, tossing the coin back onto the bartop. 

There is only a single beat of silence that follows. Then, there is movement. 

“Lottie, why don’t you take Lamb up to the bath?” Laswell quietly suggests. 

Her wild, untamed eyes land on you where you can see the makings of a fit begin to wind up in her gaze, but it quickly vanishes when she fully drinks you in. The shellshock. The blood. Her hands unclench as she floats across the room, taking you out of John’s grasp with a smile. 

“Yes, a bath would be nice. Doesn’t that sound nice, Lamb?” Her voice is softer now. Tender. Like the petals of a flower. 

When you don’t answer, she guides you towards the staircase anyway. She talks about nothing. Meaningless small conversation that’s enough to fill the empty space in your skull. As your feet trudge up the steps, your fingers begin to twitch—but when you reach for your mother’s necklace, you find a terrible absence around your throat instead.

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[that-weird-thing-in-the-woods]

~{ Heyyyy, So just watched a horror movie so expect some of that vibe in the story lol anyway to the story! }~

•Living Doll•

The old Drake manner has been moved into.

The house was bought by a man wearing a black suit and a purple hat that covered his face and for the life of anyone who talked with him they can’t remember his name or face but they could remember why he was buying the house, it was for his niece and nephew and as he has to travel around a lot for work they would live alone for the most part.

So when they heard this Bruce and Dick went over to say hello spy on the niece and nephew.

Who opens the door is a tall messy red haired woman who looks like she wants nothing more than to shut the door and pass the fuck out so Bruce puts on “Brucie” and starts talking to her about how he so happy to have a new neighbor and stuff while Dick looks around from where he is standing.

And that’s when he sees it a porcelain face and arm peeking out from behind a wall, the arm has light blue detailing on it and Dick couldn’t get a good look before the figure sees him looking at them and moving behind the wall the rest of the way and it seems the woman hear the figure and saw where Dick was looking and immediately shut the door in Bruce’s and Dicks faces.

This is definitely something for the Bats.

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

•Background•

Jack and Maddie caught Danny changing back from Phantom, they hit him in the back of the head with a Fenton-bat and brought him down to the lab and they started to see what they could do..

Jazz had just came home from the school and looking for colleges to go to when she heard her parents in the basement and she thought nothing of it.

But when she didn’t hear or see Danny when Jazz knew that he was home that’s when she can tell something’s up so Jazz goes up to his room and that’s when she sees it the bloody bat with specks of a so familiar green.

That when Jazz feels her blood go cold and she books it down the stairs to the basement but the door is locked and she can hear Jacks and Maddie s tools cutting into something and Jazz knows what that something is. She starts trying to break down the door until she remembers the bat in the kitchen so she runs to the kitchen.

And thank all of the Ancients that it is still there so she grabs it and runs back and breaks down the door and that’s when she sees it.

Arms cut off and torn to shreds, legs broken beyond repair, muscles and organs removed and put in jars and the dead eyed look in her baby brothers eyes and his core in mother Maddies hand everything gets foggy.

The next time Jazz is presented she is sitting on the bathroom floor covered in blood with Danny’s light blue almost white glowing core in her hands and a very bloody bat next to her.

That’s when she hears it the sound of a string being pulled and Clockwork shows up in front of her and explains that now with Danny original body being torn apart (Which gets a death glare from Jazz) and how with his core still intact Jazz can make a new body for him but how they would need to leave this world as if they don’t this will happen again.

And Jazz immediately agrees.

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

•Little Facts•

•Jazz a lot less sane than in the show

•Jazz is protective as hell of Danny 

•If you put a ghost core in an object to that is vaguely human they can take over it and over time the objects start to look like the ghost until it has turned into the ghost body!

•In the manner there all the books Jazz could need to make a new body for Danny and really anything Jazz or Danny could want

•Jazz is supposed to have a Fog Core while Danny has a Ice Core

•Jazz always has a gun of her making on her at all times, ALWAYS

•when Clockwork shows up randomly you can hear the sound of a string pulled

•The DCU side of this is inspired by This Au of mine

•Jazz found all of hers and Danny’s clothes already in the manner and she doesn’t want to leave Danny’s core alone so she doesn’t really care about it all to much

•Cores kinda work like the kids ghost eyes from Coraline

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

•Appearances•

Danny-

Jazz-

And here’s what Danny’s new body looks like

~{and that’s it! Sorry if the story part is short I am very tired lol so if any of you gremlins want to take it feel free to anyway until next time byeeeeee}~